I love my yoga instructor. She's wise, energetic, funny, and real. I've been attending her classes for almost eleven years. The coolest thing about her is that she's still learning; she's the rare teacher who is always evolving, updating, and bursting with enthusiasm to share her latest discoveries.
I'm sort of a crappy yoga student in that I pick and chose which lessons to embrace. Sometimes I don't give it my all. Sometimes I resist. I'm easily distracted. Sometimes I go through the motions while trapped in my own thoughts. Speaking of easily distracted, the pre-schoolers across the street are playing Duck, Duck, Goose on the front lawn. Their high pitched excited voices are so sweet. Did you know that Minnesotans call this game Duck, Duck, Grey Duck? ANYWAY...
Last week I did something for which I'm not proud; I responded to a hateful, destructive blog comment. I'm constantly urging my son to resist the urge to take the bait cast out by haters, and yet I did just that. I tell him that the best way to get to someone with bad intentions is to ignore them because responding only fuels their dark flame. In responding, they know they've got you where they want you. I'm not sure why on that day I failed to act with dignity in the face of desperation, but sometimes I let down my guard. I don't brim over with self confidence and admittedly, my skin is not nearly as thick as it needs to be. It's hard not to be pissed off at someone who projects all sorts of bad intentions and bad vibes onto your attempts to be open and connected. I know that the blogosphere is made for open debate and disparaging points of view. I know that anonymity bolsters ones courage to lash out.
But I'm still disappointed in myself that I jumped off the high road. This desperate soul doesn't even know me, yet clearly she's invested a lot of time and energy into hating me. That makes me sad, makes me feel less safe, gives me a bad feeling in my stomach. But these types of people are not new to me; it comes with the territory in which I have chosen to live. Silence and disconnection can make me prostrate with depression, so on occasion, I take a big gulp and take the chance of sharing. I know that there are more good people than there are bad out there. But still, I didn't need to dignify those misguided comments that were meant to hurt me. Folks can hate my writing all they want; it would probably do them good to avoid it at all costs if it gives them a violent reaction or a borderline personality disorder. But to have a complete stranger speculate that my child was not conceived with love, them's fightin' words. I would say something about mama bear, Sarah Palin sort of ruined that image for a lot of us.
Recently, our yoga instructor's daily theme was "don't steal." Sure, we all know that it's wrong to steal, that it's one of the commandments, duh. She patiently smiled at our patronizing nods. She continued, "Yes, we all learned not to steal back when we helped ourselves to gum at the grocery store and our mothers marched us back in and made us return our loot to the cashier with an apology." We all chuckled and nodded back knowingly. She continued, "But how about this; don't steal other people's confidence." Eureka. Think of how much better everything and everyone would be if we all consciously tried to abide by that idea. Desperately flawed as I am, I'm going to try to work harder on that one.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
As Heard in the Emergency Room on Saturday Evening
Nondescript woman on the phone behind the front desk in the ER: "Hello, this is Shelley, I did not know that I was scheduled to work tonight, therefore I didn't come in but I'm here now. I didn't make it til the end of the shift that I didn't know I had and they told me to just go home. Please call me and let me know if I'm still employed." Slam. Stomp off and out the automatic doors in a huff. Quite a show for the huddled groups of sick, injured, or faking-it patrons. And oh so very professional.
When did the ER turn into Super America? I wonder to myself.
Middle-aged husband injured playing a child's game. I don't blame him a bit. Sometimes you've got to push back against time.
"You look familiar, have we met?" says the orderly wheeling he and his very swollen foot into a holding area.
"Nah," my husband says.
I peek behind the curtain to assess our surroundings.
A baby is crying inconsolably behind the curtain in the next cubicle. Screeching. Sobbing. My nipples tighten.
Can you spontaneously lactate after a decade of inactivity? Is anyone with that baby? He/she can't stop crying.
Somebody do something.
"Someone save the baby," sings a very heavy ER worker walking down the hallway with a white styrofoam cup in her hand.
She's walking away from the baby's cubicle.
We sit and wait. And wait. A physician that oddly resembles the guitarist from Soul Asylum steps in, looks at my spouse's swollen block of a foot, and says, "We'll need an x-ray."
The baby's still crying. A doctor or nurse or employee in hospital scrubs, is talking loudly and condescendingly to a short silent man with copper bronze hair who's standing in the hallway trying to read the eye chart. "Can you read any of these letters?" shouts the employee to the paying customer. Maybe the silent man is mute. He shakes his head, and gestures wildly towards his eyes shaking his head and pleading. "You're a diabetic," the examiner discovers glancing at a chart, "when did you last have insulin?"
The baby ramps up into blood curdling shrieks. All this time, I've not heard a comforting adult voice behind that curtain. I envision a baby alone strapped into its car seat bucket, I want to do something.
Twenty minutes pass, a pretty woman with royal blue hair extensions wheels my husband in to X-ray.
Moaning, groaning, pure sounds of agony emitting from a suffering young woman who's hunched over, no doubled over. Breathless gasps, tears, breathing, ouch, oh, ouch, ohhhhhhh. I think she o.d.ed though I have no reason to assume this except that she looks like the girl I went to middle school with who o.d.ed on speed in the girls bathroom during the seventh grade dance.
She disappears behind the cloth wall sanctioning the next waiting station. "Someone please help me," she whimpers.
"I'm from Triage," says a woman in street clothes to another woman in hospital garb, "she has a long family history of severe hypochondria." The baby is till wailing on the other side and I'm starting to become de-sensitized to his/her pleas.
When did the ER turn into Super America? I wonder to myself.
Middle-aged husband injured playing a child's game. I don't blame him a bit. Sometimes you've got to push back against time.
"You look familiar, have we met?" says the orderly wheeling he and his very swollen foot into a holding area.
"Nah," my husband says.
I peek behind the curtain to assess our surroundings.
A baby is crying inconsolably behind the curtain in the next cubicle. Screeching. Sobbing. My nipples tighten.
Can you spontaneously lactate after a decade of inactivity? Is anyone with that baby? He/she can't stop crying.
Somebody do something.
"Someone save the baby," sings a very heavy ER worker walking down the hallway with a white styrofoam cup in her hand.
She's walking away from the baby's cubicle.
We sit and wait. And wait. A physician that oddly resembles the guitarist from Soul Asylum steps in, looks at my spouse's swollen block of a foot, and says, "We'll need an x-ray."
The baby's still crying. A doctor or nurse or employee in hospital scrubs, is talking loudly and condescendingly to a short silent man with copper bronze hair who's standing in the hallway trying to read the eye chart. "Can you read any of these letters?" shouts the employee to the paying customer. Maybe the silent man is mute. He shakes his head, and gestures wildly towards his eyes shaking his head and pleading. "You're a diabetic," the examiner discovers glancing at a chart, "when did you last have insulin?"
The baby ramps up into blood curdling shrieks. All this time, I've not heard a comforting adult voice behind that curtain. I envision a baby alone strapped into its car seat bucket, I want to do something.
Twenty minutes pass, a pretty woman with royal blue hair extensions wheels my husband in to X-ray.
Moaning, groaning, pure sounds of agony emitting from a suffering young woman who's hunched over, no doubled over. Breathless gasps, tears, breathing, ouch, oh, ouch, ohhhhhhh. I think she o.d.ed though I have no reason to assume this except that she looks like the girl I went to middle school with who o.d.ed on speed in the girls bathroom during the seventh grade dance.
She disappears behind the cloth wall sanctioning the next waiting station. "Someone please help me," she whimpers.
"I'm from Triage," says a woman in street clothes to another woman in hospital garb, "she has a long family history of severe hypochondria." The baby is till wailing on the other side and I'm starting to become de-sensitized to his/her pleas.
Friday, April 3, 2009
CONSIGNMENT REJECTION
I was so proud of myself yesterday for finally taking in the loads of clean, gently used clothes to consign at the neighborhood thrift shop.
I had two shopping bags full of cool boys' clothes that my son refused to wear because they didn't say RAMONES or GOPHERS or TWINS.
"Uh, we only take clothing on hangers," she snapped through her wad of Juicy Fruit.
I wasn't in the most charming of moods as it was the end of the day, and I had accomplished very little, and now this whole undertaking was going sour.
"Oh, sorry, I'll take them home and put them on hangers," I flatly responded Roseanne-style, hoping passive-aggressively that she would see the folly in her controlling statement. "The last time I was here, you gave me back all of the hangers." Their process makes no sense, it's just a ploy to stand superior over we, the lowly consigners.
She didn't take all of my stuff. Not by a long shot. In fact she didn't take some of the stuff that a MUCH BETTER consignment shop had already taken (but had since gone out of business) -- and this particular shop is, most definitely, the last stop in consigning before donating to Goodwill.
"So you don't have any interest in boys' dress shirts?" I wondered, blushing, while gathering my jilted items.
"We do if they're IRONED," she spat with icy malice, "No one wants to iron."
I resisted the energy it would take for a bitch-on-bitch show down.
No kidding no one wants to iron, but I most certainly don't want to iron something I was hoping to get rid of that was slightly ruffled from the car ride from my house to her crappy store. Is it worth the fifty-cents? Well, philosophically somehow, yes.
Ridiculed, I slunk out and placed my not-good-enough fashion finds in the back seat. The sense of rejection washing over me was inconsistent with the situation, and the way I was letting it blacken my mood was silly. Why, I wonder, is it such an awful feeling when your clothing gets rejected by a consignment shop? Probably because you experience buyer's remorse all over again, or maybe it's the realization that something you know damn well to be very cool is not seen as such by someone with bland taste. I know thrift shoppers, and believe you me lady, you passed off some treasures. Oh well, your loss. I'll just never get back that chunk of time I wasted trying to procure the stuff for re-sale, and I never should've bought more stuff than we possibly have time/occasion to wear to begin with, which boils down to my Shopping Problem glaring smugly back at me. Oh well, Goodwill's much cooler anyway. Right?
I had two shopping bags full of cool boys' clothes that my son refused to wear because they didn't say RAMONES or GOPHERS or TWINS.
"Uh, we only take clothing on hangers," she snapped through her wad of Juicy Fruit.
I wasn't in the most charming of moods as it was the end of the day, and I had accomplished very little, and now this whole undertaking was going sour.
"Oh, sorry, I'll take them home and put them on hangers," I flatly responded Roseanne-style, hoping passive-aggressively that she would see the folly in her controlling statement. "The last time I was here, you gave me back all of the hangers." Their process makes no sense, it's just a ploy to stand superior over we, the lowly consigners.
She didn't take all of my stuff. Not by a long shot. In fact she didn't take some of the stuff that a MUCH BETTER consignment shop had already taken (but had since gone out of business) -- and this particular shop is, most definitely, the last stop in consigning before donating to Goodwill.
"So you don't have any interest in boys' dress shirts?" I wondered, blushing, while gathering my jilted items.
"We do if they're IRONED," she spat with icy malice, "No one wants to iron."
I resisted the energy it would take for a bitch-on-bitch show down.
No kidding no one wants to iron, but I most certainly don't want to iron something I was hoping to get rid of that was slightly ruffled from the car ride from my house to her crappy store. Is it worth the fifty-cents? Well, philosophically somehow, yes.
Ridiculed, I slunk out and placed my not-good-enough fashion finds in the back seat. The sense of rejection washing over me was inconsistent with the situation, and the way I was letting it blacken my mood was silly. Why, I wonder, is it such an awful feeling when your clothing gets rejected by a consignment shop? Probably because you experience buyer's remorse all over again, or maybe it's the realization that something you know damn well to be very cool is not seen as such by someone with bland taste. I know thrift shoppers, and believe you me lady, you passed off some treasures. Oh well, your loss. I'll just never get back that chunk of time I wasted trying to procure the stuff for re-sale, and I never should've bought more stuff than we possibly have time/occasion to wear to begin with, which boils down to my Shopping Problem glaring smugly back at me. Oh well, Goodwill's much cooler anyway. Right?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Confessions of a Facebook Slut
I'll forever refer to the winter of 2009 as "my lost winter". I gave it alway on facebook. I have no logical explanation. It's really not my style. I guess I can be obsessive about things. I do so enjoy avoiding the unfinished work on my desktop. "Are you on facebook?" "Oh, you've just gotta sign up for facebook!" "You can really do a lot of networking and marketing on facebook." After having every person who needed to take the time to let me know they hated me publicly share their disdain on myspace, I was gun shy. "But you control who gets to see your page," they assured me. "None of the scary people can get on without your permission." I think I gave in to techno peer pressure around Thanksgiving, and signed on -- though I had to have someone else figure it out for me.
And then, there all of you were...long lost step siblings, high school friends, college crushes, drinking buddies, old boyfriends, writers, musicians, executives, all of my ladies. As many of you know, it's quite a rush unearthing someone long lost and even more fun to have day-long rambling joke-offs with your funnier friends. To become reacquainted with charming people you've met but don't really know -- how oddly satisfying even though it doesn't mean anything. It is sort of like being slutty, no, it's totally slutty. Then there's all those people you don't really know but admire. Trying to friend those folks can take weeks. Once you start collecting notches of infamy on your laptop bed post, you consider irony. I spent entire days thinking of friending people no one in my crowd had thought of friending like say Ernest Borgnine ("Love you as Mermaidman") or the greatly under-appreciated Alicia Silverstone. It's like being a groupie, pop. culture obsessed weirdo, and social commentator all in one. Or so I told myself as the days, weeks, and months peeled away while the snow fell and the sub-zero winds blew. I wanted to be the first amongst my friends to "get" Pat Benatar. I learned which friends' friends lists to cherry pick in order to make my friend population grow.
Then my son's math grades started to fall, my husband gave himself a startling haircut, my cat threw up on a daily basis, my novel was ditched. I had to pull myself together, so I gave up facebook for Lent...not like a big "I joined the "I gave up facebook for Lent" Catholic statement group, more like, I like to utilize the opportunity Lent provides to shed something that's bad for me. I lasted maybe two weeks, making every excuse in the book ("Oh, I need to see if I have any messages from the colleges I'm speaking at, the friends with sick kids, that hip rock icon who relishes turning down my friend requests.....) Then!
Facebook took care of the problem for me by changing their format and layout and sucking the life and enjoyment out of their product. Thanks facebook.
And then, there all of you were...long lost step siblings, high school friends, college crushes, drinking buddies, old boyfriends, writers, musicians, executives, all of my ladies. As many of you know, it's quite a rush unearthing someone long lost and even more fun to have day-long rambling joke-offs with your funnier friends. To become reacquainted with charming people you've met but don't really know -- how oddly satisfying even though it doesn't mean anything. It is sort of like being slutty, no, it's totally slutty. Then there's all those people you don't really know but admire. Trying to friend those folks can take weeks. Once you start collecting notches of infamy on your laptop bed post, you consider irony. I spent entire days thinking of friending people no one in my crowd had thought of friending like say Ernest Borgnine ("Love you as Mermaidman") or the greatly under-appreciated Alicia Silverstone. It's like being a groupie, pop. culture obsessed weirdo, and social commentator all in one. Or so I told myself as the days, weeks, and months peeled away while the snow fell and the sub-zero winds blew. I wanted to be the first amongst my friends to "get" Pat Benatar. I learned which friends' friends lists to cherry pick in order to make my friend population grow.
Then my son's math grades started to fall, my husband gave himself a startling haircut, my cat threw up on a daily basis, my novel was ditched. I had to pull myself together, so I gave up facebook for Lent...not like a big "I joined the "I gave up facebook for Lent" Catholic statement group, more like, I like to utilize the opportunity Lent provides to shed something that's bad for me. I lasted maybe two weeks, making every excuse in the book ("Oh, I need to see if I have any messages from the colleges I'm speaking at, the friends with sick kids, that hip rock icon who relishes turning down my friend requests.....) Then!
Facebook took care of the problem for me by changing their format and layout and sucking the life and enjoyment out of their product. Thanks facebook.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Things Not to Say to Women Over 40
Approximately once every four calendar months (though I guess it's happened twice so far this winter -- I'd better watch it), I go out with the girls, drink beer, stand in front whooping it up while watching a band, and sneak a smoke or two. I did it a couple of Saturdays ago to see one of my favorite cover bands. In between sets I stepped out into the tundra to smoke that forbidden cigarette.
I get overly excited on these occasions because I love to go out and whoop it up, so much so that I have to keep a tight reign on myself because I have lots of Responsibilities. ANYWAY, I was out having said forbidden fruit, the coveted American Spirit, when a sweet young thang addressed me directly with a smile, "Are you pregnant?"
Wa-Waaah. "No," I hissed, "I'm over forty."
Maybe because I was wearing a top gathered under my hard-working false advertising brassiere that billowed slightly every time the doors opened and closed. Maybe it's because I have a terrible habit of standing with my knees hyperextended backwards thus exaggerating my front side. Maybe it's because I've always had a --- gasp! -- tummy. But still.
Of course she felt like crap and started apologizing like crazy which made me feel bad for two reasons; one because I looked like a geriatric pregnant woman that was publicly smoking, and two because my pointed response was so, so, honest. But ladies, please, never, ever comment on another woman's mid-section (especially when she works out more than she cares to and avoids carbs more than she cares to). It's just a bad idea all around.
I get overly excited on these occasions because I love to go out and whoop it up, so much so that I have to keep a tight reign on myself because I have lots of Responsibilities. ANYWAY, I was out having said forbidden fruit, the coveted American Spirit, when a sweet young thang addressed me directly with a smile, "Are you pregnant?"
Wa-Waaah. "No," I hissed, "I'm over forty."
Maybe because I was wearing a top gathered under my hard-working false advertising brassiere that billowed slightly every time the doors opened and closed. Maybe it's because I have a terrible habit of standing with my knees hyperextended backwards thus exaggerating my front side. Maybe it's because I've always had a --- gasp! -- tummy. But still.
Of course she felt like crap and started apologizing like crazy which made me feel bad for two reasons; one because I looked like a geriatric pregnant woman that was publicly smoking, and two because my pointed response was so, so, honest. But ladies, please, never, ever comment on another woman's mid-section (especially when she works out more than she cares to and avoids carbs more than she cares to). It's just a bad idea all around.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Hey Slacker Nannies; The Nanny Narc is Watching You!
It's summertime in Minnesota (a miracle in itself this year) and like it or not, one of my summertime mom duties is to take my son and his friends to a public pool. Public pools have changed a lot since my day when there was nothing more than a pool and a diving board, and, if you went to the more affluent communities, a high dive. Today's public pool isn't complete without a tube slide and a body slide, and in the more affluent communities a zip line. Oh, I don't like the overcrowding or the chlorine and urine smells, but it's one of those things You Just Have to Do. I do like the fact that my son is now a proficient swimmer and he can run about the place autonomously with his pack of Lord of the Flies buddies (I'm joking, they're all very nice boys).
The sun poses a problem; my family's collective pallor is Addams Family white; we spend a small fortune on sunscreen. Oh, I used to be of the lay-on-the-mylar- towel-coated-in-baby-oil type of teen, and believe me, it shows in the form of brown spots that are not cute like freckles. And I'm not wild about throwing my fluorescent flesh out in the open air for public consumption for reasons having to do with pooching, puckering, and dimpling. Getting older at the public pool sucks.
With my newfound independence from watching my child like a hawk at the public pool, I was really looking forward to a little reading time. But next to me was an eleven-year-old boy with scarlet cheeks of hot embarrassment with his forehead in his hands. Poor fella I was thinking to myself because he was clearly too old to have a strange pasty mom ask if he was okay. Then she walked up and stood over him; this college age hot nanny with bronze skin, skeins of dark wavy hair, a pierced navel, and a string bikini. Her bangs were cut at an angle framing her flawless face that was punctuated by icy blue eyes. She was perfection.
"And don't move a muscle until I say you can," she hissed at this child with cool detachment. She is the reason that some kids grow up to be bullies and creeps I was thinking to myself aware that I might be guilty of envying her supple youth.
Clearly the kid had a lump in his throat and the redness of his cheeks developed a white circle in the middle. A sign of humilation. All he could do in self-defense was rake the heel of his foot down the stretched plastic loops that held his lounge chair together.
"That's it," she said with unchecked rage. She then went on to yank two very young children very hard by their wrists and throw them into the fray.
"We're leaving," she announced glaring at the mortified boy.
"But we just got here," one child wailed.
"Tough," she said with a mocking sing-song voice, "Your brother decided to ruin pool privileges for everyone."
The younger kids started to cry while the nanny crammed towels and sunscreen into her oversized beach bag.
"I'm sorry," the older boy whispered trying not to reveal the fact that he was on the verge of tears. "I didn't know I was supposed to ask permission to go on the slide. My mom and dad let me do it all the time."
Uh oh, that did it. She kicked the side of his beach chair and narrowed her eyes. "Get up. You're spending the whole day inside no TV, no video games."
This clearly scared the crap out of all of her charges because they all surrendered to her unnecessary cruelty and put on their t-shirts in unison.
I couldn't stand it another minute; really I couldn't.
"Um, excuse me?" I said unable to hold back.
She stopped mid bag stuff and looked me up and down with narrowed eyes that clearly noted my various flaws. After sizing me up, she smirked off of one side of her mouth with an expression that said "What could you possibly have to say to me old woman?"
"I'm pretty sure that their parents aren't paying you to be a monster to their kids," I stated, now fearing that I had worsened their collective fate.
I'm not sure what I thought this would achieve as she ignored me while rounding up her victims and stomping off with huffy claps on the pavement made by her Adidas flipflops.
With a lump in my stomach, I no longer felt like reading so I got up to walk around on the concrete slabs edging the main attraction. I took in moms, dads, kids, nannies, cell phones, People magazines, lots of cocoanut scented laughter. My son and his pals were standing in a long line laughing and talking too loud while trying to balance a three-person innertube. I waved to them and they responded by making goofy contortionist faces.
Feeling again like the world was right, I returned to my chair. A new nanny, a nanny of kids I knew and loved, plopped down next to me. I'd been introduced to her a week earlier at baseball camp drop-off.
"Hi Carrie," I said with a smile.
"Oh hi," she said plopping into the vacated chair next to me.
She then proceeded to pull out her cell and commence into a frenzy of mad texting. I ignored her and thought nothing of it, though I noted that I might want to learn how to text before my son is a teen.
Fifteen minutes lapsed and I notice that the first-grader in her charge had wandered out too deep.
"Uh, Oscar isn't a good enough swimmer to be off on his own in the deep end," I noted out loud.
Annoyed, she looked up from her phone and sighed and said impatiently, "I know, I've had him out here a couple of times already."
Making sure he wasn't going under, I said, "Well, two more steps and he might be in trouble."
"I told Josh to keep an eye on him," she tossed off without stopping her texting spree.
"Uh, Josh is in line at the tube slide," I announced.
"Damn him!" she said not exactly under her breath.
I snapped. "You know what? Josh is on summer vacation. School is hard for these boys, he should be able to have fun with his friends. I believe you are being paid to keep an eye on Oscar who is seconds away from drowning." I then leaped from my chair, jumped in the pool, and reeled an unfazed Oscar in to safer waters.
Hey all you nannies out there, I've been watching you. I'm the nanny narc and if I see you being disproportionately unkind or uncaring, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you in.
If you hate kids, I'd suggest another line of work. If you resent the fact that you have to work to earn spending money now that you're old enough to work, don't take it out on the kids. If you can't tear yourself away from the drama of your social life – I don't know, I had the same problem.
When I was your age (I can't believe I'm beginning a sentence with this phrase), I was left in charge of my siblings. They referred to me as The Meanest Babysitter in the World. But hey, they were siblings; that's to be expected right? There were lots of inner familial tensions that needed to be worked out in unsavory, borderline violent ways in our parents' absence. But we were in the privacy of our own house, and nobody got too hurt. Okay, so rabbit pellets aren't Cocoa Puffs. I got grounded for my cruelties
Later that evening at the baseball diamond, I broached the subject to my friend Jocelyn, Carrie's employer.
"New nanny's a dud," I said, kind of joking, kind of not.
Jocelyn looked on the verge of tears at my breezy assessment, her jaw set hard, her voice lowering, "What did she do. I need to know this stuff."
I recounted the day's events, aware of Jocelyn's pained and stressed expression. I even left out the part where Carrie left for what she said would be half an hour to switch cars with her mom. Carrie didn't return for an hour and a half, I watched the kids, and by the time she returned my son and I were delirious with sun exposure.
I felt like a jerk. I'm lucky that I don't have to miss out on summer days with my kid. I can write any time of the day or night (assuming I'm disciplined enough to actually do it every day or night). How awful Jocelyn felt upon hearing that the person she entrusted her kids to while she worked at a job she loved was sub par. It's not like I'm some perfect mom, but when I'm cranky or feel like yelling, going out in public with the kids in tow forces me to be civil and appropriately behaved in spite of a foul mood. These nannies didn't care who bore witness to their sloth and cruelty. I've certainly scowled at mean slapping or snarling parents at Target; I know life is filled with multiple stresses. So far I've never confronted a cruel parent for fear that they'll kick my ass.
But look at it this way; these kids are going to be the generation that's supposed to take care of us when we're old. If we treat them with disrespect and ennui, imagine what our twilight years could look like? Wait a minute, it's going to be the bad nannies' generation that will be stuck with the burden of caring for us. I can see it now, hot nanny#1 now middle aged and hating her job at an assisted living condo complex, "I told you to eat your damn pudding. Stop whining; there's not a thing I can do about your bed sores!" We might be screwed.
The sun poses a problem; my family's collective pallor is Addams Family white; we spend a small fortune on sunscreen. Oh, I used to be of the lay-on-the-mylar- towel-coated-in-baby-oil type of teen, and believe me, it shows in the form of brown spots that are not cute like freckles. And I'm not wild about throwing my fluorescent flesh out in the open air for public consumption for reasons having to do with pooching, puckering, and dimpling. Getting older at the public pool sucks.
With my newfound independence from watching my child like a hawk at the public pool, I was really looking forward to a little reading time. But next to me was an eleven-year-old boy with scarlet cheeks of hot embarrassment with his forehead in his hands. Poor fella I was thinking to myself because he was clearly too old to have a strange pasty mom ask if he was okay. Then she walked up and stood over him; this college age hot nanny with bronze skin, skeins of dark wavy hair, a pierced navel, and a string bikini. Her bangs were cut at an angle framing her flawless face that was punctuated by icy blue eyes. She was perfection.
"And don't move a muscle until I say you can," she hissed at this child with cool detachment. She is the reason that some kids grow up to be bullies and creeps I was thinking to myself aware that I might be guilty of envying her supple youth.
Clearly the kid had a lump in his throat and the redness of his cheeks developed a white circle in the middle. A sign of humilation. All he could do in self-defense was rake the heel of his foot down the stretched plastic loops that held his lounge chair together.
"That's it," she said with unchecked rage. She then went on to yank two very young children very hard by their wrists and throw them into the fray.
"We're leaving," she announced glaring at the mortified boy.
"But we just got here," one child wailed.
"Tough," she said with a mocking sing-song voice, "Your brother decided to ruin pool privileges for everyone."
The younger kids started to cry while the nanny crammed towels and sunscreen into her oversized beach bag.
"I'm sorry," the older boy whispered trying not to reveal the fact that he was on the verge of tears. "I didn't know I was supposed to ask permission to go on the slide. My mom and dad let me do it all the time."
Uh oh, that did it. She kicked the side of his beach chair and narrowed her eyes. "Get up. You're spending the whole day inside no TV, no video games."
This clearly scared the crap out of all of her charges because they all surrendered to her unnecessary cruelty and put on their t-shirts in unison.
I couldn't stand it another minute; really I couldn't.
"Um, excuse me?" I said unable to hold back.
She stopped mid bag stuff and looked me up and down with narrowed eyes that clearly noted my various flaws. After sizing me up, she smirked off of one side of her mouth with an expression that said "What could you possibly have to say to me old woman?"
"I'm pretty sure that their parents aren't paying you to be a monster to their kids," I stated, now fearing that I had worsened their collective fate.
I'm not sure what I thought this would achieve as she ignored me while rounding up her victims and stomping off with huffy claps on the pavement made by her Adidas flipflops.
With a lump in my stomach, I no longer felt like reading so I got up to walk around on the concrete slabs edging the main attraction. I took in moms, dads, kids, nannies, cell phones, People magazines, lots of cocoanut scented laughter. My son and his pals were standing in a long line laughing and talking too loud while trying to balance a three-person innertube. I waved to them and they responded by making goofy contortionist faces.
Feeling again like the world was right, I returned to my chair. A new nanny, a nanny of kids I knew and loved, plopped down next to me. I'd been introduced to her a week earlier at baseball camp drop-off.
"Hi Carrie," I said with a smile.
"Oh hi," she said plopping into the vacated chair next to me.
She then proceeded to pull out her cell and commence into a frenzy of mad texting. I ignored her and thought nothing of it, though I noted that I might want to learn how to text before my son is a teen.
Fifteen minutes lapsed and I notice that the first-grader in her charge had wandered out too deep.
"Uh, Oscar isn't a good enough swimmer to be off on his own in the deep end," I noted out loud.
Annoyed, she looked up from her phone and sighed and said impatiently, "I know, I've had him out here a couple of times already."
Making sure he wasn't going under, I said, "Well, two more steps and he might be in trouble."
"I told Josh to keep an eye on him," she tossed off without stopping her texting spree.
"Uh, Josh is in line at the tube slide," I announced.
"Damn him!" she said not exactly under her breath.
I snapped. "You know what? Josh is on summer vacation. School is hard for these boys, he should be able to have fun with his friends. I believe you are being paid to keep an eye on Oscar who is seconds away from drowning." I then leaped from my chair, jumped in the pool, and reeled an unfazed Oscar in to safer waters.
Hey all you nannies out there, I've been watching you. I'm the nanny narc and if I see you being disproportionately unkind or uncaring, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you in.
If you hate kids, I'd suggest another line of work. If you resent the fact that you have to work to earn spending money now that you're old enough to work, don't take it out on the kids. If you can't tear yourself away from the drama of your social life – I don't know, I had the same problem.
When I was your age (I can't believe I'm beginning a sentence with this phrase), I was left in charge of my siblings. They referred to me as The Meanest Babysitter in the World. But hey, they were siblings; that's to be expected right? There were lots of inner familial tensions that needed to be worked out in unsavory, borderline violent ways in our parents' absence. But we were in the privacy of our own house, and nobody got too hurt. Okay, so rabbit pellets aren't Cocoa Puffs. I got grounded for my cruelties
Later that evening at the baseball diamond, I broached the subject to my friend Jocelyn, Carrie's employer.
"New nanny's a dud," I said, kind of joking, kind of not.
Jocelyn looked on the verge of tears at my breezy assessment, her jaw set hard, her voice lowering, "What did she do. I need to know this stuff."
I recounted the day's events, aware of Jocelyn's pained and stressed expression. I even left out the part where Carrie left for what she said would be half an hour to switch cars with her mom. Carrie didn't return for an hour and a half, I watched the kids, and by the time she returned my son and I were delirious with sun exposure.
I felt like a jerk. I'm lucky that I don't have to miss out on summer days with my kid. I can write any time of the day or night (assuming I'm disciplined enough to actually do it every day or night). How awful Jocelyn felt upon hearing that the person she entrusted her kids to while she worked at a job she loved was sub par. It's not like I'm some perfect mom, but when I'm cranky or feel like yelling, going out in public with the kids in tow forces me to be civil and appropriately behaved in spite of a foul mood. These nannies didn't care who bore witness to their sloth and cruelty. I've certainly scowled at mean slapping or snarling parents at Target; I know life is filled with multiple stresses. So far I've never confronted a cruel parent for fear that they'll kick my ass.
But look at it this way; these kids are going to be the generation that's supposed to take care of us when we're old. If we treat them with disrespect and ennui, imagine what our twilight years could look like? Wait a minute, it's going to be the bad nannies' generation that will be stuck with the burden of caring for us. I can see it now, hot nanny#1 now middle aged and hating her job at an assisted living condo complex, "I told you to eat your damn pudding. Stop whining; there's not a thing I can do about your bed sores!" We might be screwed.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Kicking Our Own Asses, The Best of Zuzu's Petals CD...
Kicking Our Own Asses, The Best of Zuzu's Petals on Rhino Handmade is now available for orderingTRACKLISTING:
01. Babblin' Mules
02. Poor Little Rich Girl *
03. Categories
04. Cinderella’s Daydream
05. God Cries
06. White Trash Love
07. Psycho Tavern
08. Dork Magnet
09. Johanne
10. Jackals
11. Madrid
12. Brand New Key
13. Standing By The Sea
14. Do Not
15. Love Bullet
16. Remembering Why
17. Chatty Catty
18. Come True
19. Happy
20. Star Baby
* Previously unreleased
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