Read You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny Online
Authors: Suzanne Hansen
“Why don’t you tell her, ‘Yes, I did. I
like
to have contact with the outside world’ ”? I asked. “Are you saying that she goes through your bill and highlights all your calls? Bet those 5 minute calls to Missoula really set the missus back. What does she say? There’s one for 43 cents.… Oops there is another one, Bozeman, Montana.… Oh, here’s a real whopper: $6.28 to Helena. Glad I caught that one.”
Mandie interrupted me. “I am not kidding.”
I couldn’t hold myself back. “All righty then, I’m glad your reimbursements to them are keeping them out of the welfare line. Have you guys had your government cheese delivered this week?”
It didn’t help that her employer just had a tiny stained-glass window installed in one of the downstairs bathrooms. Price: $15,000. But poor Mandie got more personal payroll deductions than legitimate IRS with-holdings.
I was happy to listen to the poor girl’s woes—and even happier that I was doing so on a phone line I paid for myself.
Besides, I needed to talk to her, too. I was dying to tell someone about the thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes that a personal shopper had brought to the house. I could not believe my eyes when the van pulled up and two men hustled in, rolling racks of couture creations for Judy’s consideration. A beautifully dressed saleswoman, wearing a suit that cost more than I earned in a year, went through each dress with her, writing down her selections in a tiny notebook with a Montblanc pen (who knew a pen could cost $500?). No wonder Judy didn’t shop much—the stores came to her!
By now I had spent so much time around the house that my world had narrowed, and these little scenes gained importance. I had no perspective. I was always on duty, and my workdays were endless. I knew I deserved at least half the blame, and that only made me angrier. I was furious at myself for never mentioning a contract and for never discussing how many hours I would work or what my responsibilities would be.
I’m learning that there is no “after work” for me. No dinner plans with friends, no movie nights. Isn’t there some employment statute that says you get two fifteen-minute breaks and an hour lunch during an eight-hour day? I guess it doesn’t apply to nannies. What is the rule for a 16-hour day? Maybe you get four fifteen-minute breaks and a two-hour lunch. Are there even any California labor laws for people who LIVE at their jobs?
Mandie and I thought we needed to end our pity party and expand our nanny world, so we signed the little ones up for a Gymboree class in Santa Monica. A little more interactive than the neighborhood park,
Gymboree brought together babies of a similar age to play, sing songs, and socialize. And then the parents—and nannies—could socialize, too.
Mandie and I listened, bemused, as one mother laughingly told a group of her friends how her nannies had to pass the “ugly” test.
“I go to Bob’s office for the very first interview to check them out.” She chortled. “The fatter and uglier, the better. You can’t be too careful these days, you know.”
I didn’t know then, but I do now. Robin Williams ended up divorcing his wife and marrying his nanny. And Steven Seagal named his daughter after a nanny he later had another child with. Maybe the paranoid wife had a point.
“Suzy,” Mandie said, keeping an eye on Ellie tumbling nearby, “you’ll never believe this, I finally met Mel Gibson
in person!”
I grinned. Mel was to Mandie what Tom Cruise was to me.
“And I was such a klutz, I can’t believe it!” she moaned.
Oh no. “What happened?”
“Well, I peeked at the invitation list for the Goldbergs’ anniversary party that was on Mrs. Goldberg’s desk. Talk about a who’s who. I mean, everybody was on it, from Dolly Parton to Quincy Jones, and right there in the middle was Mel Gibson. Oh boy, I thought, I’m finally going to meet him. So I volunteered to let people in, kind of like a doorman. You know, so I’d get to shake his hand or something.”
“So did ya?”
“I’m getting there. So, I’m standing there, saying hello to Shirley MacLaine, Kelly LeBrock, Don Johnson—I could barely catch my breath. I was wearing that blue dress you like. Finally, after I’d let about forty people in, there he was. My God, he’s good-looking, even better than in the movies.”
“So, what did you do, try to hug him or something?”
“No, no. I started to say, ‘Hello, Mr. Gibson,’ but nothing would come out but air. Suddenly I was breathing like a Thoroughbred that had just crossed the finish line. I started to turn away, not wanting him to see me like that, and I fell head over heels across a chair and landed on my back with my feet in the air, minus one shoe.”
“Oh my God.” I laughed.
“I know, I almost died.”
“Did he help you up?”
“Not exactly. He started to, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. Goldberg looking very irritated, so I just scrambled up by myself. I wondered what he thought—or do you think he gets that all the time?”
“I’m sure he’s used to it, Mandie,” I said consolingly. “Don’t worry about it. You handled looking like a starstruck moron the best you could. Thank goodness you didn’t inconvenience Mel. Margaret—oops, I mean Mrs. Goldberg—would have never forgiven you for that. And I hope you didn’t break the chair, because you know you would have had to pay for it!”
“Oh, everything that goes wrong is usually my fault,” Mandie said. “Mine or Graciella’s.” Graciella was their housekeeper.
“Yes, it’s good to have help to blame for every last little thing that happens,” I agreed. Mandie and I had already discussed many times the tendency within our respective families to blame the “help,” especially when anything was missing. Such minidramas occurred practically every other day.
“You should have heard Judy going on about the car seat yesterday,” I said. “No one could find it, and she was freaking out. Gloria and Rosa and I kept patiently asking her if she was sure it hadn’t been left in one of the other cars, and she snapped, ‘Of course I’m sure! I think the gardeners took it. These people are always stealing from me!’ As if a gardener needs a car seat. Of course, an hour and fifteen minutes later it was found in Carmen’s car. Imagine that,
in the car
. She had taken Amanda to the store with her.”
“Don’t get me started,” Mandie replied. “Graciella and I spent an hour looking for one of Ellie’s outfits the other day. Mrs. Goldberg was sure that
the construction workers
replacing the windows had taken it. ‘Leave it to
them
to steal from a baby!’ she told us. As if these guys would steal one little pink dress. It turned out to be in the diaper bag in the car.”
We broke into a fit of giggles, the kind that release the built-up tension of weeks. We were still laughing as we left the Gymboree class with our charges in tow. Mission accomplished: kids tuckered out, nannies through with therapy.
* * *
One day I overheard Judy saying my name over the phone. I listened as hard as I could. “Oh yes, you’ll definitely need a nanny,” she said agreeably. “Mine is a lifesaver. I don’t know what we’d do without her. She’s like my right arm.”
Her right arm???
My right arm about fell off.
“She does more than just take care of the kids. In fact, just the other day she saw I needed to make lunch reservations at the Ivy, and she took it upon herself to call for me since she knew I was busy.”
It was the kindest thing she had ever said about me. Our roller-coaster relationship had hit a new high. Now if only I could freeze it there, at the plateau. Later that night, Judy told me she’d spoken to Sally Field. She asked if I knew another nanny I could recommend—Sally was on bed rest, due to give birth in a few months.
None of my NNI classmates seemed quite right. But what about Tammy Munroe? She was a year ahead of me in high school, and I had always admired her. I knew she would be perfect. In truth, I thought Tammy was perfect at everything—blond, beautiful, nice, smart, kind to small animals, and went to church every Sunday. About the only thing missing was a great job. She was still in Cottage Grove, working at the local frozen yogurt shop with my younger sister Traci.
With Judy’s permission, I called Sally (addressing her as Mrs. Field, of course, just in case she had formality issues like Mrs. Goldberg) and told her all about Tammy. Her breezy manner made the conversation easy, and she sounded genuinely kind. Buzzing with excitement, I called Tammy and urged her to fly down and interview right away. She was on a plane to LA in less than a week to interview personally with Sally after a great phone call with her.
“Hurry, tell me, how did it go?” I demanded when she returned from Sally’s house. Tammy was staying in my room while she was in LA, and I’d been waiting with my fingers crossed, hoping the stars would align to bring my friend to me.
“Well, you know I was nervous before I left,” Tammy said, flopping onto a peach-colored bed, “and by the time I got there, it was so bad that I wanted to throw up. But I knew that I’d have to face you, so I forged ahead.”
“You were too chicken to chicken out!” I teased her.
“I buzzed the gate, and this incredibly gorgeous man came out. Suzy, I thought I was going to faint he was so good-looking.”
“Someone famous?” I smiled knowingly. She’d have to get used to the parade of celebrities.
“It was Sally’s husband, Alan, a real sweetheart. Sally was, too. But I have a feeling they think I’m not very street-smart,” Tammy said. “Alan asked me, ‘With our lifestyle, we need someone who’s going to be comfortable with us. How do you feel about that?’ I told him that I felt okay about them. I was comfortable enough. But I asked how they felt, if they were comfortable with me. And then Alan doubled over laughing.”
“Tammy, you’re a teenager from Mayberry, USA. Why should they be uncomfortable with you?”
“I know!” Tammy cringed. “What an idiotic question. Alan said he was sure I’d fit in just fine.”
The two of us spent most of that weekend holed up in my room, watching TV, reading magazines, and talking excitedly about Tammy’s future. I encouraged her to enroll in NNI in the months before Sally gave birth, which she thought was a great idea. As the night wore on, our stomachs started rumbling. We were starving, but Michael and Judy were home, and I didn’t want to go downstairs.
“I sure hope it won’t be like this for me if I get the job with Sally,” Tammy said uneasily. “I can’t believe you feel so awkward in the house where you live.”
Having Tammy visit made me realize how accustomed I’ve become to feeling uncomfortable most of the time. How could I have ignored the advice about contracts that I got at nanny school? I’m just kicking myself. It’s my own fault. I used to consider myself fairly bright, but I gotta admit I was a nitwit not to be more assertive about the hours I was expected to work. I need to get up the nerve to tell my employers that I would like to have a talk. It would be so much easier in a professional office to go knock on my boss’s door. But here, what can I do? Ask Judy if she could step into my bedroom so we could talk in private? I can see it now … Here, Judy, have a seat on my bed so I can
go over some job satisfaction issues with you. Oops, hold that thought … Brandon is crying, and now he has a poopy diaper. Just as soon as I am done, we can continue with my employee evaluation.
I’m always so quick to criticize Mandie for not standing up for herself. But it’s so much easier to berate her for being a doormat than to stop being walked on myself.
Note to self: Ask if I can meet Mandie next Friday night for dinner.
After Tammy left, I thought for at least the tenth time that I should call Carolyn or Linda for advice. But every time I came close, I realized I couldn’t handle the embarrassment. I’d never even entered into a verbal agreement about my working hours and responsibilities, the very thing that they must have drilled into us a hundred times in school. I didn’t have anyone to blame, and I didn’t know how to fix things. Depressed, I decided to call it a night. Time to lock myself in and try to sleep. My brain, however, wouldn’t cooperate; instead it frantically tried to find some sort of solace or solution. I picked up the monthly nanny newsletter I subscribed to. This issue featured a questionnaire that parents could use during a formal job evaluation. I decided to rate my own performance. Maybe I was overthinking everything and my situation was just fine. Better than average, even.
- Does nanny limit personal errands during work hours?
Doesn’t own a car, bicycle, or pogo stick, so that hasn’t been a big issue.
- Does nanny offer options for handling child’s behaviors when appropriate?
Could casually mention that Dr. T. Berry Brazelton does not recommend parents reason with a three-year-old as though she’s thirty. But what do I know? I am only nineteen and my entire net worth is less than $700.
- Does nanny take the initiative in planning activities for the children?
Yes. Then sits alone at the table with the art projects.
- Does nanny support parents’ discipline style?
Hmm. No discernible discipline style. But will support wholeheartedly once aware of it.
- Does nanny support parents’ TV restrictions?
Again, no discernible restrictions. Kids allowed to watch R-rated movies. But will implement restrictions posthaste once given them!
The next section left white space to evaluate the family on things like time off, supporting the nanny in discipline issues, and paying overtime as stated in the contract.
I closed my eyes.
I’d been trying to ignore my metastasizing dissatisfaction with my job, but it was becoming harder and harder to avoid. Would I be miserable the whole time I lived here? I had promised two years, and I had, oh, 578 days to go. The future stretched out in one never-ending loop of
Sesame Street
, dirty diapers, and squelched rage.