More levels than Super Mario

This story has things wrong with it on so many levels…I was babysitting last night (level 1 – 26 year old babysitter in the hizee!) and some 15 year old girls who are friends of the family were staying at the apartment. So my reason for babysitting (evaluating the merits and flaws of Huff and The Comeback On-Demand while eating as many fun-size, unnaturally colored snack foods as possible) was hindered by their presence. The next level of wrongness might have been the conversation I was having with 15-year old blonde about how it’s fun to watch TV in other people’s houses, or the fact that I resented both blonde and brunette 15-year old because they both were like 75 lbs and looked like DeLiaS models. But no, the next level was the phrasing of the following question asked of me by blonde 15 year old: “Hey, have you seen my scar?”

Um.

A scar is not like, say, a commercial or a new haircut or a billboard in Times Square. It’s not something you see haphazardly or unintentionally. So when blonde 15 year old pulls her shirt up and reveals a 6 inch long scar that runs the entire length of her stomach, I think, yeah I definitely have not seen this and I’m not sure when she thinks I might have.

When pressed, all she really said was “Oh this lady that like, I sorta know but not really, hit me with her car”, so as eager as she was to show it, I have no real scar backstory to relay… except this warning: watch out for drivers you maybe kind of know.

The other levels to this story are more about how the six year old I was babysitting not only said “I love you because you’re made of love. And candy.” but also that he and his best friend Dean (their names are Jess and Dean, Gilmore Girl fans) are in a rock band called the Mini-Beatles and write their own songs. Sure they’re songs about Scooby Doo and Yu-Gi-Oh but they have a video and girls with scars partying at their house.

Yes I still babysit. And no, the rest of the club is on vacation but we’ll resume regular meetings on Monday, Wednesday and Fridays in September. (Takin’ it to the Babysitters Club level, friends. Because I’;m a 26 year old who still cares about the empire that Ann M. Martin built).

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