Nanny Cam

Remember at the end of The Nanny Diaries when Nanny tells off the nanny cam hidden in the teddy bear? Well, I'm about to go nanny cam on this blog.

Yesterday was my last day with Eloise for the summer. Tomorrow, they are leaving for New York, then on to Florida for July. In between, they will be home, but I will be in Costa Rica with Grayer. Of course, when I told Mrs. X this, she was not happy. "But that's when I need you most!" I'm sorry, but my commitment was until June 11. I'm not going to miss out on a travel opportunity because you are incapable of packing your own suitcases.

All this week, I was counting down the days until summer freedom. Yes, it meant living in poverty for the rest of the summer, but it was a trade-off I was willing to take. My excitement had nothing to do with Eloise; I was really going to miss her. It had everything to do with Mrs. X. (Sound familiar?) Over the last six months, I've been Mrs. X's personal assistant, only with a 5-year-old in tow. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to run all over town, going grocery shopping, picking up dry cleaning, going to the bank, running to clients' houses, er, mansions, picking up goods at fancy shmancy designer stores with a 5-year-old (and sometimes a dog) tagging along? Yeah, Mrs. X doesn't either.

The woman has no concept of reality, nor does she have any grasp on time management or how long it does indeed take to do anything, and never, ever factors city traffic into anything. I knew the job would require some errand running for her, but I never fathomed the things she can't seem to do for herself, including raising her own child.

This week was the last straw. First of all, I had to take her to the doctor. I also had to schedule the appointment. I scheduled all the appointments. I was expressly told to only schedule the doctor's appointment for a time when I could take her so Mrs. X "didn't have to." Previously, I had had to schedule a dentist appointment for the morning, when I wasn't able to take her, and the woman asked me at least 5 times if I was sure I couldn't schedule it another time. Seriously. So I took Eloise to the doctor. She needed to get a shot. The nurses had her sit on my lap and I had to hold her down while they gave her the shot. She figured out what was going on as they were about to give her the shot, so of course, she struggled to get away. Then, when it was all over, she was left in my lap, clinging onto me, big, fat crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. When I relayed the story to the cute neighbor, he shook his head and said, "I can't believe a non-parent is doing this."

He's right. It was starting to feel like blood money. Here I was, collecting paychecks every week so that this woman could continue to be a bad parent.

By Thursday morning, I knew I only had two days left, but I didn't think I could even make it through that. I knew I couldn't keep doing this any longer. I figured I would let Mrs. X know of my plans over the summer (while she was gone) so I could go about finding my own replacement without her breathing down my neck. On Friday, my main task was to pack Eloise's bag for them to go out of town for the next two weeks. Mrs. X had laid out all her clothes. It was my job to get it in the suitcase. Why can't she just put it in the suitcase herself, you ask? The world may never know. Instead of just letting me do my own thing, however, she kept giving me other things to do. I was getting incredibly irritated. I just wanted to scream, do you want me to pack or not?! I didn't, but she picked up on my irritation. I won't go into all the details of the conversation, but she went on and on and on (as she always does, she is constantly talking over people and never gives them a chance to speak. She even talks over Eloise's therapist- yes, Eloise has a therapist.) Finally, when I did get a chance to speak, I finally just flat out told her I didn't think I could work for her. I knew if I didn't tell her she was the problem, she would tell Eloise that Eloise was the problem, and I wouldn't be able to bear that. Luckily, she didn't stiff me in my final pay (She actually gave me a nifty $300 bonus. Severance package, I guess) and Eloise didn't have to run down the drive screaming for me. But there were a few tears, as I had to say goodbye to her. I feel like somehow I failed her and she was taken from me before my work was done.

And now I need a nanny came. Here goes...

Hey, Mrs. X. See this darling, adorable brown-eyed girl? She's your daughter. Not an accessory. Not something you can dress up in cute clothes and use to help you climb the social ladder. Maybe you should try coming home from work before 7pm a few nights a week (Eloise goes to bed at 7:30), or maybe skip the stylist (that I know you pay more than you pay me) so she can spend some time with you. You know those behavior problems she's been having? The ones that caused you to pay $170 per hour to the kiddie shrink? If you would just put down your iphone and give her a little attention, they might go away. Also, her dad would really like to be more a part of her life. Is there a reason you only allow him to have dinner with her once a week? Maybe, just maybe, if you let her stay at his house a weekend or two, those behavior problems might just go away. Girls need their fathers. Keeping him away will lead her to seek attention from men in other ways as she grows older. That therapist you pay so much money to knows all this, but she won't tell you, because she wants to keep taking your money.

Oh, and speaking of money, did you seriously just tell me that some weeks you struggled to pay me? SERIOUSLY? Did you seriously try to make me out to be ungrateful for that? Because let me count the ways you squandered hundreds of dollars a week just to keep up appearances. And I know because I whipped out your American Express card an awful lot in the last 6 months.
1. We can never, EVER, forget The Bookmark. Ludicrous.
2. I bought multiple photo albums for $125 a piece. Seriously? Have you ever heard of Target? You have at least 25 of those albums. Why? Who cares how much you paid for a PHOTO ALBUM?
3. Eloise has more clothes than I do. I've also seen the catalogs you order them from and therefore know that they are obscenely expensive. Kids play in dirt. They also grow very quickly. Why would you ever need to spend that much money on clothes? And then pay to have them DRY CLEANED? $75-$100 a week on dry cleaning is ridiculous.
4. I was instructed to cook dinner for Eloise on Wednesday. What did I cook? Filet mignon. Of course, I, being the simple person that I am, had no idea how to cook filet mignon. So I called the cute neighbor. When I explained what I had to do, he said, "Are you fucking kidding me? Give her a burger and bring the filet home to me. She'll enjoy that more." Seriously. She's five.
5. You have subscriptions to Vogue, Elle, Marie Claire, People, New York Journal, and at least a half dozen decorating magazines. Is that really necessary? By the way, when you throw them out (ever heard of recycling?) I took them out of the garbage for my own use. Thanks for that.

I could really keep going all day, so don't tell me that some weeks you struggled to pay me. In reality, you should have been paying me twice as much as you did, because I was the one taking care of the most important thing in the world: Your daughter. I guess we know where your priorities are.

Did you also just tell me that I was always in such a hurry to get out of there when you FINALLY came home and that some nights you were up until 2 in the morning doing what I didn't "get done"? Seriously? When I started this job, you told me 15 hours a week. 15! How many weeks did I only work 15? Once! And you were in California that week! Every other week I worked well over 20 hours. If you can't get all your shit done, then you need a lesson in time management. Or HIRE SOMEBODY ELSE.

I wish I would have cleaned your toilet with your toothbrush.

Whew.

Even babies love Hermes

I know this is a dating/relationships/singleton blog, but we singletons love nothing if not our chick-lit, and lately my life has been a Devil Wears Prada/The Nanny Diaries hybrid, only without the Harvard Hottie or the Adrian Grenier boyfriend. *sigh* That and the fact that my love life is still in winter hibernation mode, so I don't really have anything else to write about. Although even if I did, this story still needs to be shared with the world.

I was watching Eloise last Friday, as usual, when Ms. X (Eloise's mother) asked me to run an errand for her, as I also function as her personal assistant. She asked me to run to Hermes, to pick up a gift she had on hold for a friend's baby while Eloise was at her guitar lesson (like any normal 5-year-old). Very Devil Wears Prada. My first thought was: Hermes? For a baby? What are they going to do, diaper the kid with a $500 scarf? What on earth would you get a child, let alone a baby, at Hermes?

I pulled into the parking lot- I declined the complimentary valet parking, thank you very much- and immediately knew I didn't belong. My yellow ford focus didn't exactly fit in with the black Mercedes and Audis that were already there. Not to mention the fact that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, and this was a store with a guard at the door, and sales people who wear immaculate designer suits that cost more than my car. I was expecting a scene straight out of Pretty Woman, where the employees look at me with disdain because I wasn't dressed properly, and kind of wished I was wearing thigh-high boots and a halter top in the hopes that I would meet a Richard Gere-type sugar daddy.

Fortunately, the sales clerk was much nicer to me than the people of Beverly Hills were to Julia Roberts, and was very helpful and friendly, despite my attire. When I told him who I was picking up for, he thought for a moment, and said, "Oh yes, it was a bookmark!"

A bookmark? For a baby? He came back with what appeared to be a small, purple hippopotamus. Surely I could buy that at Barnes and Noble? I whipped out Ms. X's credit card, as he said, "That will be $178.60."

178 what? Dollars? Surely, he must have meant rupees? Or pesos? Or soles? But no, he meant one-hundred and seventy-eight American dollars.

For a bookmark? For a baby? Who can't even read? I don't spend any money on bookmarks. I use an old receipt. Or a brochure I don't need. Or a wad of paper I found lying on the ground. Or, if I'm feeling really fancy, I use a free bookmark from the check-out desk at the library.

A hundred and seventy-eight dollars? Good grief.

As soon as I got into the car, I called Grayer. Like I said, this is something that needs to be shared with the world. I mean, how many people know that $178 bookmarks exist? Because I sure as hell didn't.

First of all, if this woman can spend this much money on something that will probably never be used for a kid that isn't hers, then I am clearly underpaid. That's almost as much as I get paid for watching Eloise in a week. Depending on the week, it could be more. She just spent more on a
bookmark than she spends on a week of childcare. There is something fundamentally wrong with that. Second, if anyone gave my offspring a gift like that, I would return it to the sophisticated boutique from which it came, and use that money for something useful. Like starting a college fund.

$178. For a bookmark. For a baby. I will never, ever get over this.

Chivalry is not (quite) dead

My car will be the death of me. Financially, anyway.

I was on my way to pick up Eloise yesterday when, once again, my car started making ominous noises, which were a little too similar to last month. This time, I pulled into a gas station as soon as possible. Luckily, my spindle hadn't snapped again. No, my rear tire was merely ripped to shreds. On one hand, I was happy that's all it was, but on the other, it was blatantly obvious that I was going to need a new tire. This was no patch job, that was for sure. At this rate, I will need a third job just to pay for my car (which is paid off).

I've changed a tire all by myself before, so that's what I set up to do, thinking all the while about what Grayer said about the man of my dreams coming to my assistance. I jacked the car, and got out my wrench, and took off the first two lugnuts. But I was still sore from my kickboxing experiment on Monday, and was really struggling with the last two lugnuts. Throughout this process, two men were standing at a pump, waiting for their tank to fill up and watching. And watching me struggle. I am an independent woman, capable of changing my own tire, but I just kept thinking, really guys? Can't you help a girl out? Finally, when I straightened up from another failed attempt to loosen the stubborn lugnut, one of the guys was standing right next to me. It was kind of creepy. He didn't say anything, just took my wrench and started unscrewing. "Thanks," I said. He didn't say anything. His friend finished pumping his gas, helped the first guy take off my shredded tire, and put on the spare, not saying a word. As the first guy was tightening up the lugnuts, I once again said, "Thanks so much!" Finally, he spoke: "Make sure you don't drive over 45, 50 mph on these donuts." Right. And that was all.

For all the "luck" I am supposedly having, it's not translating into any other aspect of my life. I've sunk $1,000 into my car in the last month. I have not met a Harvard Hottie in Eloise's building, and I certainly can't meet men outside of her building, since everyone assumes the mini-me holding my hand is my daughter. Dogs are man-magnets. Children are not. Now I can't even find a man while being a damsel in distress on the side of the road. What is this world coming to?

The Nanny Diaries

I'm proud to say that I have found something that will help with my baby ache AND fulfill one of my New Year's Resolutions at the same time. No, I didn't get myself knocked up. But I did secure further employment that helps with that pesky ache: I'm now a nanny. (I have also apparently decided to try to add as many porn fantasy jobs as possible to my resume. Librarian? Check. Teacher? Check. Nanny? Check!)

In order to prepare for my newfound employment, I of course re-read The Nanny Diaries. My own real-life Mrs. X is a single parent, though, so no hiding of the mistress's panties or sitting in the middle of domestic disputes will be necessary.

With visions of meeting a hot manny (but not quite nearly as sensitive as Sandy and his recorder) on the playground or my own Harvard Hottie in the elevator dancing through my head, I set off on Monday for my new gig. I was a little worried about how Eloise would respond to me. I knew she would like me eventually, (as all kids d0) but her current nanny has been with her for a year. I was expecting a bit of the same reaction Nanny got from Grayer (X) on her first few days.

No need to worry. As soon as Eloise opened the car door when we picked her up from school, she said "Hi, Violet! Do you like me yet?"

You had me at hello, kid.

She's already been mistaken for mine. I knew it would happen, since she's kind of a mini-me, but the other day at the book store, a man said, "She looks just like you!" I politely informed him she wasn't mine, but I'm sure it will happen again and again. And as I'm already playing mommy, I'll just say thank you instead of explaining. I mean, today I took her to the doctor and had to hold the cup for her while she peed in it- and all over my hand. If that's not a mom thing to do, I don't know what is.

But is it a bad thing that everytime the elevator doors slide open, I wait with baited breath for a Harvard Hottie to walk on? Yeah, I thought so too.