Time

There's a lot one can do in the course of three hours. I've ismed with an Autistic child while being filmed for three hours. I've marched in a parade playing the tenor sax, down the boardwalk in Virginia Beach for three hours. I've tended to my (Mum's) world famous briscuit for more then three hours. I've patiently waited for a cocaine addict to achieve orgasm in three hours.

After time with the child, he hugged me. After the parade, I won an award. After the briscuit, my father was pleased with my ability to cook. And yes, that guy finally came. My point it, it doesn't matter how long something I do takes. The outcome will almost always be positive. And one has to admire my dedication, and hidden talents.

Off to the Toys R Us in friggan Times Square to buy a birthday present. Ugh. But join us tonight; it's "Hello Dolly Roustabout Night."

I'm lucky, you're lucky, we're all lucky!

Dear me, whose the unstable one now? I've never been "put" in a cab before. Then again, I've never finished an entire pint of beer before. That fact that it was light beer is inconsiquential. I couldn't remember my address. When I drink, my personality & demeanor go one of two ways - I become loud(er) and start insulting people (usually they don't mind, and they allow me to make out with them in a broom closet in Scotland, then they loose their job, because you can't make out with a hotel guest while serving drinks), or I become real quiet, and somewhat catetonic. I've met a catetonic person before, so I know what I'm talking about.

I suppose I prefer the latter of my drunk personas, simply because it keeps me out of trouble.

Damn you Idiots of the Idiotarod! CBS might be onto something.

So, I came home, and to my surprise was the last one in - that rarely happens. I sleeply pulled on my new polka-dot pajamas, fed my Rabbit, and called my Agorophobic best friend to relay the events of the night to him. No matter time of day, I always call him when I get home from being out with friends. If one must live vicariously through someone, it might as well be me!

These are the people in my neighborhood

Most are confused by the amount of families I'm currently caring for. What amazes me most, I've kept it straight and together this long. We know of the overweight Nudist on the UWS, with the twins, one having Autisim. He hasn't put his head in the toilet lately. His sister is my most favorite child in all of New York. She's the best. I succeeded in royally pissing this mother off, over the holidays. After she insisted I return my key, she back tracked, and took me back. Why? Because I'm the only Nanny you'll ever meet, that'll run 8 blocks to the Radio Shack, 10 min. before it closes, to buy an adapter for a laptop, and in turn, saving the freaking day.

Then we have the crazy 3-fingered ticket lady, also on the UWS, with the daughter whose charm grew on my overnight. Such a talented little girl, she taught me to ice-skate in the Hamptons, during Christmas. I almost forgot to mention, we ice skated with Tim Robbins at Chelsea Piers last week. Sadly, her mother is balls-out crazy, treats her daughter horribly, and doesn't pay me nearly enough. So, I'm happily tossing this gig towards my delightful roommate. She can use the bread, and it'll give her the exposure she needs. See, a relationship with me, is a symbiotic one!

Finally, we have the Autistic teenager who adores me. And I him. He's 18, and speaks of nothing but trains, forms of transportation, fast food, and women's legs. We went to the Central Park Zoo last weekend, and two weeks earlier we walked accross the Brooklyn Bridge all the way to my old apartment in Tribeca.

All of these families are great, in their own way. And amazingly, I've been able to support myself since leaving my last position. But I really, really need a stable, "normal" job. Once I have that, I won't have to schedule going to the movies, out to dinner, or hanging at UCB several days in advance. And I really need to get back to improv. I miss it so much.

Where's the Mousey?

Dead. Wedged between the front door, and the frame. In the fetal position. Her name was Andromeda, and I'm sure she lived a good life, feeding off my roommates scraps. She's currently draped in Bounty, awaiting a peaceful swim towards Staten Island. It's quite amusing, because the mega-crazy roommate has barefooted quite close to the "body", completely unaware of a cold, dead creature imediatly to her right.

In startling similar news, my roommate loaned me a copy of the Bell Jar. Imagine zany me, reading a book such as that? Some were concerned it would deeply affect me, due to the familiar subject matter. Of course it did not. There were no revelations to be had, with the Bell Jar. If anything it really jogged my clouded memories about the past, which will be extremely useful come memoir time.

Fuzzy Feelings

What a long, long day it's been - and it's only 5pm! When I go home, I do the majority of my shopping. Bizarre, perhaps. Savvy, yes sir! For those unfamiliar with my obsession, I LOVE Target. I would move in, like Jennefer Connely in Career Opportunities. If you see a lovely women carrying two huge packs of Bounty on a New Jersey Transit train, it's probably me.

But I not only scoured Target today. I chauffered my father to several medical appointments, drove through the snow (!), and rocked out to Night Ranger and Meatloaf on the radio of my Mum's Pontiac. I love Meatloaf, like I love Target - except I'm not as vocal about my love of the Loaf. He's just a brilliant singer, and a delightful showman. And his backup singer has a voice similar to mine, so it all works out in the shower. Paradise By the Dashboard Light? Come On! The best song about making whoopee in a car since Expressway to Your Heart! This man is a perfect example of what I find most attractive in a fella - as long as your passionate about your craft, and are damn good at it, appearances don't faze me.

While driving through the snow, the power of advertising got the best of me. The velvet tones of John Goodman spouting the wonders of Dunkin Donuts new White Hot Chocolate consumed me. I love White Chocolate more than Meatloaf, but not as much as Target. Oh, it was like John Goodman gave me a hug, and almost choked me - it was that good!

I just can't help myself!

It sure has been quiet in my head, since my involuntary sabatical. I forgot how therapeutic blogging can be. I'm going to be honest - I've been rather sad as of late, due to numerous factors. Nothing a good hug, and some money can't cure. And I promised those around me, I wouldn't delve into this particular factor/madness, but this is what I excell at. My bread and butter, if you will. I'll be vague, but only because I'm sheilding those I love from your stupidity.

Here goes.

Hey Jack-Ass - you're a Jack -Ass. Find someone else that'll do what I did. For three hours. And live to tell about it. Good luck.

might as well start off with a bang, yes yes?

What you will expect

-a high level of sophistication
-passion-fulled anicdotes
-wit!
-Anglophilia
-more open letters to strangers
-"concept" pieces
-photos! That's right, Mr. Eastman!
-excitement only Manhattan (ok fine, some parts of Brooklyn and suburban Philadelphia) can drum up
-Rabbits
-drama
-breasts, and lots of 'em
-high quality muckracking
-my sterling opinion
-comments only from the highest echelon of posters
-Musicals!
-bullet-filled posts, such as this one
-for $100 bucks, nudity
-just enough intrigue to get you through your day

Yes I, The Infamous Smirking Valet solemly swear to uphold the extreme fabulosity left by the previous incarnation. I will continue to not censor myself, spread the word of my deleriously humourous conterparts, and try to shock - just a smidge. If I've learned one thing from this experience...I'm certainly not going to tell to you, am I? Grab the handcuffs, the subpeonas, hold onto your pride, and step away from the ledge - let the hubris overflow commence.