You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny

by Suzanne Hansen

  Cindy stood frozen, not knowing how to handle her predicament, when a young valet in a purple uniform approached her and asked for her receipt. She winced and handed it over. A succession of cars came and went for nearly ten minutes. Evidently her jalopy had been trundled to a far lot.

  Cindy soon realized Chevy had followed her and was now waiting for his car as well. She felt sick. What would he think about CAA if he saw that the accounting person entrusted with valuable, personal information drove an ancient Toyota with two bald tires and a “nonstock” baby blue paint job? She could only hope that somehow her car would be hidden on the other side of one of the limos.

  The valet was quite tall, so his arrival in the tiny rattletrap—in front of more than fifteen waiting businessmen and dignitaries—was even more ridiculous than it might have been. His legs were so long, he had tangled one of them between the steering wheel and gearshift knob. As if the appearance of the lovely blue Toyota had not been embarrassing enough, the sound of the horn blaring under the valet’s twisted knees certainly was. There might as well have been a contingent of marine honor guards firing a twenty-gun salute along with a loudspeaker announcement: “Will the very poor person with a very old foreign car please come to the valet station immediately and take this pile of trash off the premises before more of our important guests are further offended?”

  By the time she reached the car, my sister had managed to find a single dollar bill in her purse. She carefully folded it in fourths so that the numeral one wouldn’t show, not so much to hide the denomination, but to make it look like there was more than one bill.

  The valet opened her door and stood formally by as she climbed in. She then engaged the clutch, put the car in first gear, put her other foot on the accelerator, and tossed the tiny green square of paper at the valet. She careened down the driveway, knowing that by the time she cleared the hedge protecting the hotel from street view, he would just be unfolding his largesse, and she would be safely out of sight. Cindy’s first Hollywood lesson in Class Consciousness 101:

  It’s not who you are, it’s what you drive.

  Appearances really are everything.

  Fake it while you can, then bolt.

  After Chase, Cindy continued to work her way through the Cs. She came upon a name that seemed out of order: Mapother—a name she didn’t recognize. Certainly not a big star; perhaps a director? When she asked Mr. Mapother’s agent why his client was in the Cs, she was quickly ushered upstairs by two male employees.

  “Here, make a copy of this passport and be quick about it,” he said, tossing the paperwork at her.

  “Now listen to me,” the agent said while Cindy stood there, bewildered. “This Mapother guy is really Tom Cruise. That’s why he’s in with the Cs. You’re not to tell anyone else about this, ever. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand,” she replied, feeling as if she had been kidnapped momentarily by the Secret Service. She had just entered the secretive Society of the Keepers of the Name, and her lips were sealed. She wouldn’t betray it to a soul, not even to her own sister. And she knew how much I adored Tom Cruise. (I had to look up his real name to write this book.)

  It’s so refreshing to have Cindy’s perspective here in Glitter Land. None of the status stuff matters to her, and we can laugh at the craziness together. I also am excited to have a retreat, even if it is a sofa in her cramped apartment. Except that I am a wimp. It is currently 9:15 on a Friday night. I want to go stay at Cindy’s. But I am afraid to ask. I think I might get an ulcer, it’s so stressful pacing back and forth upstairs, contemplating in my head all the reasons I should get to leave, but unable to get up the nerve to go downstairs and announce that I am doing so.

  Here is what Ms. Doesn’t Have a Backbone has done the last three Fridays.

  7:50: Get Brandon ready for bed—pajamas, rocking, etc.

  8:00: Take him down for kisses and hugs from the family and then lay him down for the night.

  8:05: Get bottles on ice, and put in upstairs bathroom.

  8:08: Confirm with Delma that she will get up in the night with him.

  8:14: Pack my bag to stay Friday and Saturday night over at Cindy’s.

  8:32: Pace back and forth, attempting to get up the nerve to ask to leave.

  8:40: Go in the kitchen to get moral support from Carmen and Delma, hear that yes, I should be able to leave.

  8:46: Tell myself that I should be able to leave; it is Friday night, Saturday is my day off, I have put everything in order, Brandon is in bed, and I should be off duty now.

  8:51: Get a knot in my stomach thinking about what Judy will say.

  9:02: March into the dining room and announce, with as much confidence as I can muster (with my bag over my shoulder), “I am going to stay at my sister’s now!”

  9:02 AND 30 SECONDS: Michael says, “Great. See you later.” Judy says, “Huh, what? Where are you going? Is Brandon in bed? Did you tell Delma you were leaving? When are you coming back?”

  9:03: Hug kids, say good-bye. Michael says, “Thanks, Suzy.” Judy continues to look confused by the events that have just transpired.

  9:04: Get in my car and scream, “Yes, I am off work!” OR

  As is the case tonight at 9 p.m., I chicken out, come up to my room, and decide to wait and leave first thing in the morning, as soon as Michael shuts the alarm off. While silently steaming that I SHOULD be able to leave the house on Friday nights.

  Note to self: Stop by the bookstore tomorrow. There must be some self-help book out there called You and Your Boss: Working Together for a Mutually Satisfying Relationship.

  I decided to stop stewing about Judy not liking me and start stewing over baby food. I was so eager to try my new recipes for healthy veggie purees. One night I was feeding Brandon my carrot and squash medley, but he didn’t seem all that interested. Judy walked in right when he was craning his head as far away from me as possible.

  “What is that?” she asked in disgust.

  “Well, I don’t think he likes it,” I said.

  She looked down at the orange slush. “Well, look at it, of course he doesn’t!” she said. “Would you like to eat that?”

  Well, no, I have teeth.

  I needed my nightly conversations with Mandie more and more.

  As bad as I thought I had it, she had it worse. Mrs. Goldberg once sent Mandie on a routine errand to Rodeo Drive to pick up some clothes she’d ordered. Price: $700. Mandie only had $83 in her checking account, so she returned empty-handed and was promptly berated.

  “Mandie, where are my camisoles?” Mrs. Goldberg demanded. “Or did you forget to stop by the boutique?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Goldberg, I didn’t have the money in my checking account.”

  “But you know I always reimburse you for it on your next paycheck,” she responded.

  “I know and I appreciate that; it’s just that I didn’t have enough money in my account at the time I was writing the check, and my dad has always told me to—”

  “You always need to have enough money in your account to be able to run errands for me,” Mrs. Goldberg interrupted.

  Mandie said nothing. For her first six months of work—until she paid off her half of the agency fee—her bimonthly paycheck had been $428 after taxes. She was now making a whopping $478 every two weeks, but her next paycheck wouldn’t be coming until the following Friday. She didn’t want to bounce a check, but she didn’t want her boss berating her for only having $83 in available funds.

  Hearing the story worked me into a rage. “Then tell her to pay you more if she expects you to keep that kind of money in your checking account!” I screamed. “Or, for that matter, have her give you a credit card for her stuff. This is totally ludicrous.”

  Mandie seemed embarrassed, and I hung up quickly. But I kept stewing about the money thing. I got out my calculator and started figuring out how much money middle America generally has to spend on childcare. When I was finished, I figured out if our employers were pay
ing the same percentage of their income that a family earning $80,000 a year spends on childcare, a nanny to the wealthy would be paid a six-figure salary. Ridiculous. Well, not so ridiculous for a suburban family who is actually paying 14 percent of their gross income to their children’s caregiver.

  I know, I had to get a life.

  Why was I spending all this energy being angry when I could be working on changing my own situation? I had to stop criticizing Mandie all the time. Maybe my mother’s little saying about walking in other people’s shoes, washing their socks or whatever, had some validity.

  I guessed part of the reason was that I didn’t care that much anymore. I no longer wanted to be the perfect employee and I wasn’t at all interested in spending all my time and energy trying to please my bosses. My take on the world was a galaxy apart from theirs, so I figured I might as well enjoy myself as much as I could during the day, have fun with the staff, and engage the children in as many activities as they would tolerate. I ordered myself to stop worrying every morning about whether Judy was mad at me. She seemed to be unhappy most of the time, and I decided to stop automatically assuming that it was because of me. I was done being a stress case.

  But then I had a horrible suspicion. I rounded up Delma to help me test it out.

  “Delma, stand here, outside my door,” I directed, heart pounding, then closed the door and sat on my bed. I chatted to myself, in a normal tone, pretending that I was talking to Mandie on the phone. Finally I jumped up and opened the door.

  “Well, could you hear me?” I asked.

  Delma proceeded to recite, verbatim, my entire fictional conversation.

  Oh my God. The countless phone conversations I’d had with Mandie flew through my head. Who knows what I’d said while Judy was listening? No wonder she acted so strange around me. Maybe I should wrap a pillow around my head to muffle my voice from now on. Oh, it was probably too late. The damage was done.

  My mother called to tell me that my younger sister, Traci, and her best friend, Nancy, were taking a trip through California with Nancy’s family. “Of course they want to come and visit you when they’re in LA,” my mother said.

  “That’s great!” I said. “I’m dying to see some Oregonians.”

  “I’m very happy for you, honey, and Traci’s excited, too, but I think you should keep a couple of things in mind. Now, you know we love Nancy and her family, but let’s face it, they’re not exactly going to blend in down there. And you should keep in mind that the Ovitzes might be surprised that people take their road trips in an old truck and camper.”

  Great point. Nancy’s dad was the greatest guy you’d ever know, and he’d give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. But he was kind of like Jed Clampett without the millions, even though he did live close to an old gold mine near Cottage Grove. I started praying that Nancy’s uncle wouldn’t be traveling with them. He was a dead ringer for the kind of people Larry the Cable Guy likes to talk about. Even their dog, Blue, was a character. He could drink more beer than a human when he had a mind to.

  I thought about my employers’ lives and what they didn’t experience on a daily basis, insulated as they were by wealth and power. Little things like the signs I had seen all my life:

  NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE

  LOGGERS BREAKFAST SPECIAL $4.99

  BONANZA BURGERS: 3 HAMBURGERS FOR $2.99 (ONIONS 15 CENTS EXTRA)

  TEN-FAMILY GARAGE SALE OUT LORANE ROAD—LOTS OF GOOD STUFF

  RETURN BOTTLE AND POP CANS AT THE BACK OF THE STORE

  Several days later, the old Chevy pickup pulled up out front. There was Nancy’s dad, Gary, behind the wheel, his latest hunting trophy—a large pair of antlers—strapped to the grill. Suitcases and duffel bags piled up in the uncovered truck bed, and the Chevy was towing an ancient camper trailer that looked a little dented and rusty. I bolted downstairs as I heard the front gate buzzer ring. I found Judy staring openmouthed out the front door of the house.

  “What on earth is that out on the street?” she gasped.

  “Just a sec, it’s my sister,” I said, flying past her. I ran to the gate to meet them. Just as I approached, Blue jumped out and proceeded to relieve himself on a palm tree. At least he wasn’t lapping up Bud Light.

  “Sorry; he had to go real bad,” Gary said. “I ‘spect this neighborhood has some kind of rules about pets. It’s pretty upscale.” A wave of homesickness suddenly swept over me, hearing his familiar voice. I wanted to be with “regular” people again.

  I hugged everyone, holding Traci especially tight. Overjoyed barely came close to describing how happy I was to see them, but I also knew that my boss was still standing in the door zapping us with her disapproving radar. But I didn’t care. Today was Saturday, my day off. I could stand out here all day if I wanted to.

  I just hoped she wouldn’t come closer and say anything to embarrass them. She’d probably have a nervous breakdown if I opened the gate and let them pull in. Traci kept looking at me like, Okay, now what? Aren’t you going to invite us in?

  But I knew I couldn’t. We stood and chatted for about thirty minutes, and I grew more and more angry with myself. I was strong enough to stand there and withstand Judy’s stares, but I knew I couldn’t bring myself to show my sister and her best friend into the house where I lived.

  I was so afraid of what Judy might say to Traci and Nancy’s family that I didn’t even invite them in. I wanted to scream from the street, “Yes, Judy, there are people who go on vacation in an RV. And yes, that does require pulling over at rest stops to empty the contents of the toilet into a drain.” This is how a lot of America actually lives; it is this thing called “going camping” where you build a fire and roast marshmallows to make s’mores. It is actually quite enjoyable to be out in nature looking up at the stars with your family.

  Why am I beating my head against a brick wall, or in this case, a brick mansion? I knew my sister knew why I hadn’t given them a tour and that hurts even more than the realization that I am losing part of who I am because I’m afraid my boss will criticize me.

  Traci mentioned that she had seen Ryan and he was miserable without me and really wanted to come visit. I am really missing him now.

  And I am really homesick.

  Our sex life has been ruined since the arrival of our first baby … we can’t be so spontaneous, because we don’t want the nanny to hear us. We manage, but it is a big change—we can’t scream and yell like we used to.

  —Cindy Crawford

  chapter 15

  room service

  Fall rolled in, and Halloween passed without any fanfare. I’d been wondering how it would work. Would we buzz each gate and scream “Trick or treat” into every intercom in the neighborhood? I needn’t have worried; the kids didn’t dress up or go out at all that night. Guess their parents didn’t want them to collect bags full of artificial flavors and colors.

  Chin up, chin up; on to Thanksgiving in Hawaii. After six long hours on our ill-fated flight, we landed, thank God. Later our entourage met up with Al Checchi’s group: Al, his wife and three kids, plus their nanny, Jenna. She was a cute girl about my age with long, shiny black hair and a wide smile, but she was a lot bolder and wilder than me. I didn’t know much about Mr. Checchi other than that he was a bigwig with some airline, and Judy said he had more money than they did. (But after the first twenty million, did it really matter who had more?)

  While we were checking in at the Hilton on the Big Island, Jenna asked me if I’d join her that evening for a night on the town. I gaped at her.

  “You get to go out?” I inquired. “I mean, you really get to leave?

  “Of course. I’m off at six while we’re in Hawaii.”

  No way. The thought of being “off duty” on vacation had never even entered my mind. Because she watched three kids of similar ages, I had assumed that our situations were the same. I tried to breathe. Okay, don’t get angry. You did this to yourself. Just one more example of you not asserting yourself
.

  “Just ask Mrs. Ovitz if you can go out with me,” she said, carefree.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Never mind, I’ll do it,” she said, as if it was no big thing. My knees shook at the thought.

  She did it right then, all confident and direct. But Judy’s cold silence made it clear that she wasn’t exactly crazy about the idea. Later, when we were alone, I was told that Jenna’s request was impossible to accommodate, and I would not be going out that night or any other night. In short, Jenna had not gotten on Judy’s good side. The next day, Jenna raised Judy’s temperature a few more degrees when she started massaging Michael’s shoulders as he sat in a lounge chair. It wasn’t like she was coming on to him, but I thought it was quite strange and could see why his wife would be annoyed with her unwarranted familiarity. To top it off, after she assessed his rigid neck muscles, Jenna told Michael that he should lighten up a bit, just as casually as you please. For once Michael was too stunned to take control. Or maybe he was silently enjoying the rubdown. Judy didn’t say anything, either, but I can still picture the look on her face. I think the casual violation of personal body space had so shocked her sensibilities that she couldn’t even begin to formulate words. I didn’t think she, herself, would be comfortable enough to touch him like that without an invitation.