I wake up in utter confusion—horrid music is not only blaring in my dreams but apparently in real life as well. I’m in a huge, soft bed, in a huge, weird, house, and I can not figure out what happened to my life. I sit up. Blink. Stare out the large window and remember: oh yes. I’m house/teenager-sitting for the Kinda Crazies. And the Mister's radio alarm just went off.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m under the assumption everyone is crazy (especially me) and so is their family (this way we’re all connected…la la la…). And I love these people, actually. Probably too much. But after two years of engaging with them in unusual capacities, I’ve started to tender name-call.

“Yeah sorry I didn’t get back to you last night—I was really drunk pretty early on in the evening and wasn’t really good for anything after that…” Crazy Dad said on the phone the morning after he forgot to meet me to go over any “instructions” for watching the house and his fifteen year old son, today called “Jacob”, whom I used to tutor and who has appeared quite frequently in this blog.

His “instructions” turned out to be a fifteen minute discussion on the air conditioning.

Okaaaayyyy….

So today I get ready in a bathroom with an Emmy in it and dressers covered in all kinds of other TV awards and can’t find an iron for my easily-wrinkly pants. With only a few minutes left before I take Jacob to summer school I come up with a brilliant plan:

The shower is extra large so I put my clothes on, turn on the water as hot as I can get it, and then step inside-- but against the door so as not to get soaked.

I look like I’ve been dry cleaned in my clothes. Yeah, baby. Genius.