“Amanda, it probably makes Suzy feel good to have you say that,” Judy said.
I almost fell off my chair.
This from the woman who treated me like an irritating pest. Her difficulty setting limits for the kids had led me to believe that she was simply lacking in parenting knowledge, but just when I stopped expecting anything from her, she would respond to her children or me in such a wise and caring way that I got my hopes up all over again.
But Joshua still wasn’t taking kindly to me, and he continued to be suspicious of my ability to actually care for him. I wished he would let down his guard and see that I was on his side. There were flashes of hope; our best times seemed to happen each day just after he got out of kindergarten. We quickly worked out an understanding that I would not tolerate hearing him describe his classmates as stupid, mean, or ugly. Instead, we agreed to call them “characters,” with much lifting of the eyebrows, as in, “Suzy, Chantel was a real character today. She broke the wheel in the hamster’s cage.” Or, “Tayla dropped my project. What a character!” The way he’d ham it up was hilarious, and he loved being in on a joke.
He was an extremely bright child and a tightly wound perfectionist, very much like his father. When we sat down together to go over his homework, which he undertook with great concentration, he would get extremely frustrated over little mistakes, rubbing holes through the paper with his eraser. It couldn’t be easy living that way.
And Joshua was just old enough to begin emulating some of his father’s behavior, something he was doing more and more. When Michael wasn’t home, Joshua seemed to think he could control everyone in the house. I could see that his actions turned off all the employees—no wonder, considering that he threatened to have the staff fired, me included, on a weekly basis. It was hard to deal with his outwardly difficult and hostile behavior, even though I understood that he was just a six-year-old boy determined not to let anyone new into his life. Underneath the obnoxious protective layers, he was a loving child. That was obvious, given his devotion to Michael’s mother, “Nana.”
When we talked about her, Joshua corrected me regularly, telling me that I was not saying her name correctly. “It is ‘Non-uh,’ not ‘Nann-uh,’ ” he would say, rolling his eyes, asking why I couldn’t get it right. When this happened, I was more interested than irritated. At least he felt unreserved love for someone in his life other than his parents. I wished he would trust me, but I didn’t know how to make that happen. I tried to show him that I cared about him every day, especially because I knew the rest of the staff just tolerated him.
More than once when he was going off on one of his tirades, calling everyone on the staff “morons,” I remember Carmen saying to him in Spanish something that sounded like, “Como say chingas.” When Judy asked Delma what that meant, Delma told her, “Go in peace, little one.” The actual translation was, to put it mildly, a little harsher. But Judy was never the wiser, and Carmen used it often, always with a peaceful smile on her face. This was her private little act of revenge for all the times Josh said she was stupid and a moron or that he didn’t have to listen to what she said.
He didn’t like listening to any of us, really. One day, when I was helping Joshua get dressed, he threw a fit because he couldn’t find his blue socks. He started his usual rant—calling Delma a stupid idiot moron and saying it was all her fault. I told him that it was not okay to call people names. Just then Judy walked into the bedroom, “Well, where are his socks? Those girls are always losing things and costing me money.” So much for trying to give a lesson on being respectful of adults.
But my lessons continued.
One morning I stepped out the front door as Judy was getting ready to take him to school. He was peeing on a tree. Peeing on a tree. Waiting until he’d finished his business, I approached him and reprimanded him for his behavior. I didn’t think twice about it. After all, he was in full public view in the front yard, which faced the street. “Mom said it’s okay!” he yelled back at me while trying to wipe the stray drops of urine from his loafers.
“I doubt your mother would want to see you peeing in the front yard,” I replied.
“Oh yeah, you don’t know anything! My mom said I could, and my mom is in charge of you,” he shrieked emphatically. “Annnnnddddddd … I can have my daddy fire you if I want to!” Again with the firing.
Judy entered the conversation as she glided toward us. “Oh yes, Suzy. I told him it was okay. We’re in a hurry, and I didn’t want him to go all the way back into the house.”
Joshua silently stuck out his tongue at me and walked away.
I gave up. I would add this to my list of rules. Make this #42, article 12, section 6 of the house bylaws: it is okay for the children to relieve themselves in the front yard if we’re running late.
After the peeing incident today, I doubt whether I’ll ever fit in. One day I feel as though I’m doing a great job and the next, something like this happens. Me working here is like trying to mix Metamucil in water—I never fully blend. I can’t get the kids to trust or like me. Carmen says it’s best to say, “Okay, Judy.” Maybe I should make that my new mantra. Okay, Judy.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I need some friends here! Getting the mail is the high point of my long day. I love to get funny cards with news on the latest happenings at home.
Cottage Grove updates:
Football stadium condemned—finally!
Got our second fast-food restaurant—Taco Time. In a grocery store parking lot, of all things.
Amy’s dad, Bob, won a new barbeque at Bi-Mart’s lucky number Tuesday. No more lighter fluid and briquettes for him.
Note to self: You’re living in the entertainment capital of the world, and the highlight of your week is hearing about your friend’s dad’s new grill. Get a social life. Actually, a life of any kind would be an improvement.
A couple of nights later, Mandie called and announced that she wanted to come and work in Los Angeles. It had become quite clear that most people in her home state of Montana didn’t have nannies. I was thrilled. Finally, a way out of this loneliness. I told Judy about her, giving a glowing account of her abilities and personality and asking her to think about recommending Mandie the next time someone she knew needed a nanny. Of course, I didn’t mention the “count to ten before you speak” rule of conduct Mandie’s father had offered her.
Judy said that their good friends the Goldbergs happened to be looking for a nanny. Leo Goldberg was the head of a studio, a real bigwig. I called Mandie about the job, and within two weeks she came to LA with her mother, just as I had, to interview with them and with a few other families the local placement agency had found for her.
After she completed her interviews, Mandie called me for advice. She had just returned from the San Fernando Valley, where she met a very nice woman with sweet children who said her husband was an actor. By this time, however, I thought I knew how Hollywood worked. I clued Mandie in to a basic principle: a lot of people say they’re actors when, in reality, they’re just trying to break into the business. I told her the woman was probably exaggerating about her husband’s “film career.” For all we knew, he could have been a caterer on the set. This seemed plausible, especially since Mandie reported that the family was remodeling their home and currently had only one bathroom.
Exactly my point! What big Hollywood star could get by with only one bathroom? Or would consider sharing a bathroom with the nanny? And besides, I was confident that no one who’s really important lived in the Valley.
Mandie kept insisting that she clicked with the mom and kids, and she really wanted to take the position, but in my infinite wisdom I convinced her to take the job with the Goldbergs so we could live close together. “Just call the placement agency and tell them you decline the offer from this Costner guy, whoever he is.”
(Yes, Mandie and I are still friends. Years later we still laugh about that, but she stopped asking for my advice on her career choices a long time ago.)<
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The Goldbergs lived in Bel Air, not far from Brentwood. I was already planning how often we could see each other. The best part was that Ellie, the youngest child she would be caring for, was only a couple of months older than Brandon. Their moms had commented on how great it would be if we got the babies together for playdates. Yippee! Adult conversation! With a friend who understood the challenges of the job.
From the very first day Mandie moved to LA, we started sharing nanny tales almost nightly over the phone. The first time she called, she was in dire straits. She’d only been with the Goldbergs for three days. “Suzy, can I ask you something?” She sounded so hesitant.
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“How do you eat at your house?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, where do you do it? Can you just do it when you want? Can you just take what you want?”
Was this another family that put a padlock on the Frigidaire?
“Don’t they let you eat? You sound like a starving refugee. When did you last eat?”
“Well, actually, it’s really been three days,” Mandie confessed. “Nobody’s said anything about it. They have a maid who also does the cooking, but I haven’t really talked to her. So far, they’ve just eaten out all the time. It’s not like your house, where you have Carmen and Delma to talk to and eat with. It’s more formal here. My first hint was when she told me not to call her Margaret; it was Mrs. Goldberg to me. I didn’t exactly get the message that it would be okay to make myself at home in her kitchen after that.”
I cut her off to give her a serious pep talk, which would become the template for most of our calls. “Stop right there! You haven’t eaten in three days? March yourself into the kitchen, open the Sub-Zero, and make yourself a big fat sandwich!”
“Nobody’s shown me around the kitchen. I feel so uncomfortable going in there. What if I take something they’re saving for something special?”
“Right, better you just stay in your place, hiding in the servants’ quarters. Maybe someone will take pity and throw you a crumb.”
After I hung up, my brain started spinning. I had to sign that girl up for some take-charge-of-your-life classes. Then again, I’ve always been much better at giving advice about what people should do with their lives instead of minding my own. I was the one hiding out in my room for forty-eight straight hours each weekend.
In addition to baby Ellie, Mandie also cared for the Goldbergs’ eight-year-old daughter, who we would soon learn had a mantra similar to Josh’s “I hate you; you’re an idiot.” Lucky Mandie got to hear a more customized version with: “You’re fat and ugly.”
What could we do? Mandie and I laughed about how our daily predicaments would probably sound a bit odd to other people outside of our gated homes.
“Okay, here’s one for you,” I said the next night. “Judy came into the kitchen and saw me loading the leftovers from the children’s plates into a green plastic trash bag, and she was aghast. I’m telling you, it actually took her a moment to catch her breath. I thought something was terribly wrong. I ask her if she is okay, and she says, ‘Suzy, never, never use those bags for the trash can. They’re heavy-duty and only to be used for the trash compactor. They’re too expensive to put in the garbage can.’ Then she walks into the pantry and comes back out with a box of thinner bags and puts those into my hand.”
I started giggling, and then Mandie started in.
“That’s nothing. The other night I was cooking my dinner with the housekeeper, and we got to talking, and before I knew it, the pan’s burning. It really stunk up the place.”
“Wait, stop,” I interrupted. “Whoa, you’re eating now?”
“Oh yeah, the housekeeper told me that Mrs. Goldberg asked her if she had ever seen me eat, so I got that straightened out. But the best part about being a spineless jellyfish is that I lost five pounds.”
“Woo-hoo! That’s great,” I said, wondering if we could start the “nanny diet” craze. Living in a house where you feel like you’re always just visiting does have its advantages. “Okay, go on with your story; sorry I interrupted.”
“While I’m scrubbing to get the tar off the bottom of the old stained pan, Mrs. Goldberg comes in and goes ballistic. ‘My God, what have you done?’ she shrieks at me. Then she runs over and grabs the pan out of my hand and says, ‘You’ve ruined this pan.’ Then she tells me I have to buy her a new pan.”
“Why didn’t you just clean the one you burned?” I asked.
“I was trying to, but she had declared it legally dead, and that was that.”
“So what happened?”
“Yesterday I had to go down to the May Company and buy a whole set of pans. It cost me half a week’s paycheck.”
“Why a whole set—I thought you only burned one of them?”
“I know, but she made me buy my own set to cook with. I can’t use hers anymore. So now there are four pans in the pantry with Post-it notes on them that say ‘Mandie’s pots and pans.’ It’s like they have cooties. When I think about it, I shouldn’t be surprised. I should have seen it right away.”
“Seen what?” I asked.
“That she was tight. I didn’t tell you what happened with the agency yet?”
“No. What happened?”
“Well, it was a mess, and of course I ended up paying for it—or at least half.”
“Paying for what? Did you break something at the agency?”
“No, I didn’t. But get this, since you recommended me, Mrs. Goldberg didn’t use the agency she normally gets all her help from.”
“Yeah, so …”
“Okay, so Mrs. Goldberg was thrilled that she wouldn’t have to pay a fee to an agency. I didn’t think much about it, because I just wanted to go to work here closer to you.”
“So what was the problem?”
“The other nanny who was here before me told the agency the job was opening up because she was leaving. After I interviewed, the agency called. So when I was hired, I guess they figured they were entitled to the fee. Mrs. Goldberg was outraged that the agency had gotten her name. I ended up offering to pay half of the twelve-hundred-dollar placement fee because she was so upset about the mix-up.”
“Oh my God, half; that’s two weeks pay for you.” I gasped. “I can’t believe she let you pay half of the fee so she could save a few bucks.”
“At least she isn’t making me pay it all at once. She’s going to take a hundred dollars out of each paycheck until my half is paid.”
Had I heard her right?
“Unbelievable. Mandie, can you imagine what half a month’s pay is to them? If you broke down Mr. Goldberg’s earnings, he probably makes twelve hundred dollars an hour. Yet she thinks nothing of letting you give up two weeks of your income for something you had no responsibility for. Mandie, you have to get a backbone!”
I almost started to laugh again, but I could tell Mandie was taking it hard. So I offered my condolences.
“I gotta go,” I said, ending our conversation abruptly. “Brandon’s crying.” I told her I’d call her later in the week and ran to the baby.
It’s my usual ten o’clock lockdown time, and I double-checked the sleepwalk-proof door. But I can’t sleep, thinking about Mandie and the Goldbergs. Maybe I was a little hard on her tonight. I can tell she’s really frazzled and worn out. Can’t believe she agreed to get up with the baby seven nights a week, even on her days off, because Margaret—oops, Mrs. Goldberg—has a sleeping issue, and if she wakes up in the middle of the night with the baby, she can’t get back to sleep.
Maybe I ought to quit criticizing Mandie … Hello, Suzy, you’re on call twenty-four hours a day, too. Let’s see, that works out to about 99 cents an hour?
Man, we’re both such wimps. At least I have two nights a week that Delma covers for me. I’d better get to sleep. Brandon will be awake soon. With the cold he has, he’s been up every two or so hours for the last few nights.
One night I couldn’t wait to get
Mandie on the phone so I could relate my latest episode. Judy had been working out with her personal trainer, Jennifer, a gorgeous aspiring actress who was determined to make it on her own. Michael and Judy liked her and had offered to help, but apparently she didn’t believe in the adage “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” Even though the high point of her career thus far had only been an antiperspirant commercial. Today they were talking about hair. Jennifer mentioned her favorite salon in Westwood. I was sitting nearby with Brandon, and out of nowhere, Jennifer offered me the name of the salon and stylist who cuts her hair. I knew there were only two reasons a woman would suggest a hairdresser to another woman. One is if she was asked. Two, if she thought the woman needed a little help.
I got the picture. I decided to try the unsolicited recommendation. Judy agreed that I could take time off for an appointment the next Friday. I didn’t realize that in LA things always take longer than they are supposed to, and I certainly didn’t comprehend that appointment times are only made as starting points. In all the years that our family friend Diane had cut my hair, she was never more than fifteen minutes late. So I set aside precisely an hour and a half, for which I was given permission.
I had never been to a salon where so many different people attended to me. First, the receptionist confirmed my appointment. Then a greeter offered me a drink. Next I spent forty-five minutes reading Glamour and Vogue cover to cover. After that, another person escorted me to the sink, and then another attendant washed my hair. Then a girl put in my perm rods. I was told that after I was finished processing, then and only then, would I see the salon owner, Franck, who would actually cut my hair. At least this was a little closer to my spa fantasy than my ghetto nails and Scarface experiences.
But I was already starting to worry that I would be late getting back to the house. I was trying out a new thing called an air-dry perm, but after over an hour of sitting in a chair with my hair in curlers the size of sewer pipes, I realized it was going to be more than another hour before my perm would be “dried.” Judy relied on my help at dinnertime. I knew that she wouldn’t take it well if I got home late. I called the house with a report. Carmen answered, sounding frazzled. She said she couldn’t talk and was busy with dinner. She hung up abruptly after I apologized and told her I would be on my way. There was a knot gripping my stomach. I really couldn’t be late.
You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny Page 12