Well here I am folks. It’s been, months. And I’m sorry (not really!). I have no excuse. Well I do, but it’s a terrible one. I’m incredibly lazy. There, I said it! And since no one’s paying me to write about how much people and things annoy the shit out of me, the motivation train hits the skids quite often. 

So with no logical segue, I give you, the Nanny Diaries: my study in child terrorism and poor parenting Fall 2003.  

Without giving too much away, I went to a private college in a gorgeous beach town about an hour outside of LA (go ahead, Google it now) that cost about 1/16 of Mark Zuckerberg’s net worth to attend. I was awarded scholarship and signed my firstborn over to Lord Voldemort by taking out several student loans, but this wasn’t enough to cover what became an environmentally-sustained spending problem and the loans I was granted certainly were not adjusted to the cost of living in said fancy beach town.  

To support my spending habits, I had options of on-campus work (registrar’s office assistant, looking up academic files of the water polo team which were just as disappointing as I’d imagined) or off-campus options. I dabbled in both, but the gig that gave me the most flexibility with decent pay was being a nanny. There are only two places in the continental US where nanny is a legit job: LA and New York. There is only one place in the continental US where it’s a legit profession: fancy beach town where I went to college. 

It was during this time in my life that I convinced myself that I liked children.  This denial was in the name of a paycheck which begat grocery money, lots of C&C tank tops and a first name basis relationship with the sales team at Sephora. My campus was a breeding ground for future nannies and ripe with stars of future episodes of Nanny 911 or whatever they’re calling the “my offspring is so bad I have to hire a stranger to handle this situation instead of using the God given right of corporal punishment” show.  

What a lousy bitch this one is, you say to yourself. How can you not like children? Do we really want to go there right now? I do, but I’m way too tired to prove some very valid points.

Of all the families I nannied for or screened to nanny for (yes, there was a screening process and they thought they were screening me but really I was screening them), only two were on the balanced side of sanity. I walked away from those families with peace that those kids were not going to face parental-induced substance abuse problems and praying that if I were to ever procreate my kids would turn out half as smart and for the most part well-behaved as them.  

Two of the families, and I use the term family loosely, I worked for served as a warning for the value of birth control and corporal punishment. It also confirmed my belief that I had a wonderful gift for attracting and identifying weirdos. I’m not good at a lot of things, but I’m very good at pinpointing a fucking weirdo. It goes beyond being socially awkward-it’s about identifying someone who has something intrinsically wrong with the core of their being. I may not be able to identify what that something wrong is (because who are we  kidding, do I want to stick around and find out?), but all I know is that there is something repulsive about this person that everyone else doesn’t see until he’s caught peeing on cars in broad daylight. One of those fucking weirdos was Val. 

My school had an online service in which nannies could find families and vice versa. I took my cue from the actual Nanny Diairies book and wrote what I found to be a very charming listing for myself-not too many exclamation points, not too many personal details about myself-just enough for a parent to look at my listing and say “Yes, this girl can string together a sentence and her sentence structure does not indicate that she is a serial killer. Sold!” 

During my freshman year, the first family I worked for lived in what I believe they believed was technically in Malibu (whoops, just outed myself!), but was likely unclaimed land in the general vicinity of Malibu for which they did not have to pay taxes on. After playing an extensive game of phone tag, I connected with the mother, Val, and we set up an initial meet and greet. She gave me equally extensive directions to her “home in Malibu” that “isn’t far from the Country Mart” which isn’t a country mart at all. The Malibu Country mart is a luxury shopping center that is host to an expensive bakery/breakfast spot with so-so food and inundated with celebrities who liked being photographed by TMZ photogs, a Banana Republic where one of my friends once saw Halle Berry and a Mexican food joint where another friend saw Brandon Boyd from Incubus (who is one of the top two reasons, I chose fancy seaside resort/college). Her estimate of being 15 minutes from the Country Mart was one of many fibs this woman told me to con me into being under her employ. 

Following her instructions that led me through one of the less utilized canyons, I coached my 1991 Toyota Corolla up several winding one-way hills, with switchbacks that rival those on the scenic tour of Hana in Maui. Want to test the limits of your motion-sickness? Take that tour and try not losing your cheese Danish and coffee breakfast.

After 15 minutes of climbing up this mystery canyon, screaming at my car not to strand me on an unpaved and unmarked road and hoping a skilled Malibu driver (see: person who can drive through any canyon within a 10 mile radius of town with their eyes closed during mudslide season) in a Range Rover would not come roaring around one of those switchbacks and send my car flying off a cliff like an afterthought, I nearly passed my exit. My exit was a small unpaved driveway (what’s with rich people and unpaved roads? A burglar is not going to let a little gravel stop him, folks) to which I had to make a sharp right into and climb up another hill at what felt like a 30-degree angle. No wonder my car quit on me several months later. That thing was just waiting to take a dump on my sanity after forcing it through the auto-equivalent of a jaunt up Mt. Everest more than once. I’d be mad too.

After parking my car behind what appeared to be an abandoned shed, I got out and started searching for the entrance to the house. Had I made a wrong turn? There didn’t appear to be any other buildings besides the shed and beyond it was a large grassy area with the Rolls Royce of playhouses.  Made of wood, not that cheap ass Playskool plastic, two stories, a slide, swings. Probably bigger than my dorm room, which I had to share with someone (not at the time, but I had to share before!). Probably built by the hands of day laborers picked up at a Home Depot on a Monday afternoon.

I walked past the shed and saw nothing but foliage and the potential to get mauled by a wild animal. Was this one of those houses that you see on “The Fabulous Life of….” hidden behind expensive designer shrubbery with a front door controlled by a remote that opened up to an expansive mansion carved out of the side of this death cliff? No rock walls disguised as doors were motoring open, so I doubled back to my car to see if I could get a signal on my cell (as if) to call this goofy bitch and find out if I was at the right house or about to get rifled in the head for trespassing.

Before I made it to my trunk, I heard Val calling “Helloooooo! In heeeeeere!” I turned to see the outline of a human being in one of the dirty windows of the shed I’d parked behind. She was waving wildly and through the dirt-crusted window I could sense she was thrilled to see me.

This had to be some kind of prank. Had this woman really lured me into her shed off the beaten path of some obscure canyon trail to watch her offspring? She was waving and pointing around the front of the shed to what I assumed was the door. I followed her arm motions and sure enough a door to the shed opened up and there she stood, with a child on her hip with the body shape of a lollipop. Large, bobble head and small toddler body. I already did not like this child based on looks alone.

“How could you say that?” one might ask. I don’t know, but I just did. I don’t have to justify not liking a child based on looks just like you don’t have to justify secretly hating the obese person on the scooter who’s not doing anything but sweeping Funyuns off the shelf at a Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market with one arm.

Val waved me into her humiliating abode and I was formally introduced to my match in slobbery. The shed was essentially a studio apartment without the luxury of being anywhere near a Target or possibly running water. There was stuff. Everywhere. Baby stuff. Leftover breakfast stuff. Baby stuff. Husband’s work stuff. Clothes stuff. Shoes stuff. Everything stuff. Every. Where.

My roommate and I didn’t let anyone but our suitemates into our rooms (only to watch The OC really) for fear of getting the same disgusted look that I was giving Val’s canyon chic studio apartment. She offered me a seat on her stuff covered couch and as I lowered myself cautiously down onto a couch I was afraid to sit on, a cat appeared out of nowhere (from under the stuff) and flew across the room, claws out with a kamikaze-like “meow”. I screamed and tripped over one of those baby scooter things-you know the things you put babies in who are learning to walk, but really you’re just kind of lazy and know the baby can’t follow you as fast in that thing as they would trying to crawl. Plus it has built in entertainment, so by the time you put the baby in there, it’s already forgotten that you’ve abandoned it to go brush your teeth and savor the three minutes of sanity you need to get you through the rest of the day. I’m not a parent. But I imagine parenthood is just that: savoring sanity minutes throughout the day so that you can go back to taking care of your child in such a way that they will not want to put you in a home in 40 years.

Val scooped up the cat with her other free arm and said “Oh that’s just Fatty. You just scared him. Go away Fatty.” And away Fatty went into one of the stuff-filled rooms. I scared him? Aren’t you supposed to tell me there’s a homicidal cat hiding in the never-ending quilt on your couch?

We sat down and while Val thought she was interviewing me, I was interviewing her. She was your typical Malibu mom-a former executive-type who moved out to “the country” to get away from it all and stopped ignoring her biological clock just long enough to pop out a child who would have to grow up in a house full of stuff. She was early 40s and based on the short time I’d spent with them, her child, a 26-month old named Kay was giving her more of a challenge than her corporate life had ever given her. Why don’t parents just say their kids are one-and-a-half years old or two years old? Why the months? Do you want to know how many minutes I was on my period this month? Probably not. 

When I say Val was your typical Malibu mom, I mean that she fit the basic profile-almost old (practically facelift age), educated, had worked at some point at her life. She was a mom in Malibu but she was no Malibu mom. She was nothing to look at and I don’t even think she had a Rachel Leigh Cook in She’s All That appeal to her. Val was old and tired looking, which I guess comes with being the mother of a toddler in your early 40s. She wore large glasses that made her look like an owl with glasses and her hair was an unfortunate dull shade of brown in terrible need of a wash and cut. In fact, I’d say her hair looked much like her house. Full of…..stuff. For our meeting she wore a pair of store brand sweats and a ratty sweater that she likely got in a clearance bin at a Dress Barn some years ago. Not to say she should’ve busted out her Academy Awards standby dress to meet me (don’t you know every mom in Malibu has one of those?), but she could’ve dressed with some dignity upon meeting a complete stranger. She was the only Malibu mom I met who did not seem to care one iota about her physical appearance. There’s a difference between taking pride in your appearance and being vain about it. She practiced neither and the former would’ve done her schlubby appearance some good.

Nothing about Val said that she knew anything about interviewing nannies in Malibu however I don’t believe I was the first nanny to cross the threshold of her home.

After she gave me her background, I gave her mine, all the while trying not to concentrate on spotting any large spiders crawling up the walls of her one car garage turned three bedroom house. “Grew up in ____, blah blah….I picked _____University because blah blah…I love kids! Blah blah. I’m telling you everything you want to hear! Blah blah!”

After this initial meet, Val determined I was not only not a serial killer but possibly insane enough to come to her house weekly and watch Kay. While she had determined I was not a raving lunatic, I was not so sure about her. Something about Val was off. The executive background. The granola lifestyle. The house that in retrospect should have been reported to CPS and a producer from A&E. I mean imagine if I had a hand in co-creating Hoarders!

Something was not ok here. But I needed to cut my teeth in this market and take my nanny skills to the next level before I moved onto what I perceived to be less crazy families, the CEO of Warner Brothers’ family for instance. Ok not really, but I did drop another one of the kids I looked after off at his house. I imagine it’s like what most people feel like when they arrive at Epcot center-magical!

As she started to lay out the terms of my nannyployment, I started to estimate how many weeks I’d have to work for her without spending any of my pay before I could bounce with a decent chunk of change and a good reference. Every family expects something different of the nanny they hire. Some just want you to watch their kids once or twice a week so they can grocery shop in peace or go to yoga. Some need you to pick up their kids from school and take them to their after school activities. Some insist that you live in the guesthouse and become interweaved in the innerworkings of their family and give you fat holiday bonuses. Some just need someone to do the cooking and cleaning while they’re recovering from a trip to the “spa” (see: rehab, cosmetic procedures). Every family has different needs and your perception of these needs is irrelevant because you’re on the receiving end of the check. 

Val wanted to hire me for the sole purpose of having “me time”. She would not be going anywhere while I was there monitoring her child. She would just be “hanging out” (i.e. wallowing in her own filth and occasionally brushing her greasy, brown, granola hair) and teaching Kay how to “be away from me”. She wanted me and Kay to be seen and not heard so that she could have “me time”. I get it, as a parent you need that. As a human being you NEED that. But if you’re paying someone to come over to your home and watch your child who is clearly suffering severe-separation anxiety issues with the intention of teaching her to be separated from you, wouldn’t it be in the best interest of both of you to head down the mountain into town to the Coffee Bean and go make friends with John Cusack?

I don’t think Kay had been unleashed out into the world away from her mom when I met them. I believed that she literally hadn’t spent a moment away from her mother since falling out of her uterus unceremoniously. Her social skills for a toddler, even a spoiled one, were subpar and the defining action of her social retardation came when Kay announced in her incoherent toddler speak (only understandable by Val of course) that she was famished. Without blinking an eye or making an announcement to translate what Kay had just requested, Val whipped out a boob that had seen better days.  Faster than you could say “come and get it” Kay had planted her face into Val’s chest and created the most awkward interview I’ve had to date. The action was so fluid that I don’t doubt she not only had done this in other interviews but likely did it in places more public than her Deliverance house.

I couldn’t stop staring. This child had teeth. Goddamn teeth. And she knew that part of her daily nourishment came from one of the saddlebags hanging off of her mother’s chest. She did not opt for Cheerios or blueberries or other toddler-friendly snacks. She went for the single-handedly most polarizing snack amongst the toddler community: the boob. When it comes to parenting you belong to one of three schools: 1. Breastfeeding is ok…until there are teeth. 2. Breastfeeding is ok….always. 3. Breastfeeding? Fuck that. That’s what formula’s for!

Val was a proponent for school number 2 and I was simply horrified that our interviewed had been marked with the appearance of a very sad and tired looking breast. As you can understand, I don’t remember much of the rest of the interview. We took a quick tour of the compound she lived on-there was more land than there was house- and agreed I’d come back the following week for my first day.

I made my way back down Malibu’s Mt. Everest with a cool $20 in my pocket for gas money and I would never, ever say it was the easiest money I ever made-I was unwillingly exposed to the Frankenstein of breasts! I considered calling Val a little later to tell her I’d been diagnosed with Legionnaire’s disease and probably shouldn’t be watching her kid who had not been exposed to basic elements since birth, but I wanted that money. I wanted that reference. I needed a pair of $90 sweatpants with an obscene word tagged on the ass for God’s sake! Priorities!

I remember calling my mom that day and telling her that I had been tricked into being interviewed in someone’s garage.

“What do you mean it was a garage?” She asked
“She said it was her house. But it definitely used to be a garage. Or an outhouse.”
I could hear snickering on the other end of the line. So glad my mom thought my efforts to make an honest living in the world were so hilarious.

For nearly two months, on and off depending on my level of tolerance that week, I pep talked my car into a treacherous white-knuckle drive to the shed in the canyon, to a job that easily could’ve become a summer blockbuster horror movie that gives Michael Bay a run for his money. In that time, I “monitored” Kay per Val’s instructions, never disciplining her because this was a “naked house”-literally (snack time) and figuratively (naked house=no rules house). Of course she didn’t call it a naked house, but I know what a naked house is when I see one. I was never allowed to tell Kay to do anything or give her any kind of directive because Val was a granola mom in a naked house. A mom who doesn’t want to make her kids mad and wants them to flourish in an “open” environment. A mom who doesn’t say no. A mom who sets no boundaries. A mom who overlooks the bag of coke in the shoebox. The kids of these parents are the kids that put those parents in a home in 40 years and don’t feel bad about it.

“Just see where the day takes you!” Val told me once when I hinted that I didn’t quite understand what I was doing there to begin with. She insisted I take Kay on “nature walks” on their expansive property and suggested I let the child roam free on the property because she “likes to explore”. There was no need to tell Kay to do something because if she was going to fall out of that tree and crack her skull open then goddamnit it was going to be a learning experience!

Kay never warmed up to me probably because she sensed I thought she was such an ugly child to begin with and because she had no interest in hanging out with anyone who was not her mom. When I would arrive, Kay would cry and scream because she knew that Val would go to her room, lock the door and nap or pick her nose or breastfeed Fatty while I attempted in vain to entertain her.

Nothing I did could stop her crying or curb the bratty attitude and after week two, I was resolved to the fact that me and this bulbous-headed toddler were never going to get along. Val, out of desperation I think, would not resolve herself to the fact that this wasn’t working. It was obvious I did not want to be there-I showed up late, sat on the grass in the shade of the playhouse while Kay screamed herself hoarse and snatched my pay out of her hands so fast when it was time to go that I nearly gave her a papercut.

While I was present, Val would wave Kay away like she was a fly trying to land in her coffee and this would infuriate Kay to no end. The more she screamed, the less Val seemed to hear her. If Val was trying to read a paper in the kitchen/living room/dining room and Kay attempted to make physical contact that didn’t involve breastfeeding, Val would go to her room and lock the door leaving Kay a sobbing mess on the floor. I’d given up on trying to comfort her after she tried to bite me. I just let her cry. In the house. Within earshot of Val and her LA Times. Val slowly started to become aware of how this situation was unraveling as she increasingly became just as excited to see me when I arrived as I was when she handed her screaming snot-faced child to me. I wanted my time there to be an intensified source of stress for her for the simple fact that she had no logical reason for me being there.

Towards the end of my time there, I met Val’s husband, who until that time was a phantom who I was starting to believe Val had made up. Meeting him was the second to last nail on the coffin of my stint there as he was incredibly rude, screamed at Val and Kay for the majority of the time I was there and walked around in his bathroom Tony Soprano style, exposing a chest that made me want to poke my eyes out with dull pencils. He had a job somewhere in the city and had taken time out of his busy schedule to stay at home and terrorize his family.

By the time, I had decided enough was enough and $10/hour wasn’t worth it, Val had either pow-wowed with other moms in the Malibu community or read a chapter out of the Nanny Diaries for perspective. On my last trip up there, I was halfway down the major road that led to Death Canyon when she called me and asked if I had left my dorm yet. Of course I had, I was supposed to be at her house in 30 seconds.

“Well I called your dorm and left you a message. I need you to get me a coffee, black and a dozen low-calorie, banana bran soy muffins from the Country Mart.” What? Since when did we agree that I’d be stopping to get you breakfast?

“I’m already on PCH-“ I began.

“Well I could really use some coffee. I’ll see you when you get here.”

It wasn’t a question or a request. It was a demand. She could give me directives, but couldn’t pay the same courtesy to her own offspring. I angrily made an illegal u-turn in the middle of a road already slicked with monsoon rain and headed back towards town for her coffee and bran muffins. When I arrived, she barely thanked me and per the usual, practically threw Kay at me and disappeared into her room.

When it was time to leave, I remember knowing that it would be my last visit to Granola Manor and I think that Val knew too. When I didn’t show up the following week, she didn’t call and I provided no explanation. It was a nice, unspoken understanding that this was no longer working and no one had to say why.

Naturally, I gained no reference due to our abrupt but mutual separation, but fortunately had received a few hits on my listing on the university’s craigslist. Unfortunately, my car took a shit on me as I headed back to school for spring semester of my freshman year and I was confined to a campus job that allowed me to rifle through the academic files of my peers.

One of the women I later babysat for, Lindsay, who lived in a beautiful custom Spanish style home in one of the fancier canyons, cancelled on me once because her baby fell out of her carrier that was perched on the kitchen counter onto the expensive tile of their kitchen floor. The baby had to be taken to the hospital for obvious reasons. Val never physically hurt Kay, intentionally or unintentionally, that I knew of, but if I had to draw an opinion based solely on Lindsay’s accident and an instance of Val picking the LA Times over Kay, I’d still say Lindsay was the better parent. And this woman dropped her baby. On its head.