2004-07-08 @ 4:56 p.m.
|I had always thought I was a free-wheeling, high flying artsy fly by the seat of my pants Aquarian until I was thrown into true Chaos. My new nanny location. This place is like the aftermath of a stage 5 tornado. I guess I should have known when I was waiting for the original e-mail from Sir G. regarding the rules and guidelines I would be following as Nanny Witty. I waited and waited. And nothing ever arrived and now I know why.
There are no rules.
And me, the wacky Aquarian, is so missing them. These kids are running wild. They go to bed whenever they want, they get up whenever they want, they watch R rated movies, they eat whatever they want (they mostly subsist on spaghetti-Oís and microwave popcorn), bathe when and if they want (I finally had to intercede because the youngest was so incredibly filthy you could have scraped E Coli off his toes), they wear the same clothes for days on end. This morning, they listened in on a private phone conversation of a sleepover house guest and didnít think anything was wrong with that. Yesterday the oldest boy brought me a graphic drawing of a naked woman complete with breast and pubic hair.
Iís also extremely nervous in any of the bathrooms here, because they are unfinished and have 1/2-3/4Ē spaces around the edges of the doors, where prying eyes can look in through. I have tried stuffing things in there, but ya know....I shouldnít have to worry about this stuff should I? My bedroom has the same problem. Spaces around the edges, plus its made of glass. The freaking door is completely made of glass. I have a blanket covering most of it, but for prepubescent boys with an interest in the female body, whatís a little blankie?
I just canít seem to get over the feeling that Iím being spied on. Call me paranoid. Wouldnít be the first time, would it ďAĒ? But there is definitely a flow of sexuality in this house. Its all boys and me. The little girl who lives here is still not here. Sheís been staying at someone elseís house this whole week. I think at this point I would almost welcome a little girl to help cut the testosterone.
And it appears that Sir ďGĒ is the King of testosterone. Yesterday he got home about 5:50. I was very uptight, because I had wanted to go to my figure drawing class and had to leave by 6 in order to drive the almost 20 miles to get there. And his son, right at the last minute had asked me to cook some macaroni and cheese. Two boxes. Why two? Because Iíve been babysitting not only my own charges but this ever changing parade of pre-teen boys who have been spending the night this whole week.
Everytime I walk down the hall, there seems to be a new downy-chinned boy, with an X-Box under his arm walking in towards the kitchen. When I ask one of the boys who that is, theyíll say, oh its a friend, Dad said it was ok.
Well Dad, I think you forgot to send me the memo. How did I go from caring for two boys to suddenly caring for FOUR BOYS? Do you really think that is fair? I am nanny with training wheels after all. I havenít even learned how to say no to a ten year old yet, and suddenly I have four pre-teen boys eating a bunch of shit and playing video games at top volume until midnight right outside my bedroom door with the convenient peephole.
Last night I went out after over an hour of yelling at them to shut the fucking videos off to find them in sleeping bags lined up next to my bedroom door. After much consternation I was finally able to do my best imitation of Attila The Bitch and tell them to get the hell back to their bedroom, because camping next to Witty National Park was not an option.
That actually felt kinda cool. ROOOOOARRRRRRR! (children running in fear...heh, heh).
So, where was I? Oh, Sir G. returning home at the last minute. First of all, I donít think he realizes what a nanny does...I mean other than the ones in porn films. I donít think he knows we have hours, like say 8-5, and then we have a life of our own. Heís just showing up whenever with no calls. Heís not telling his kid to take baths. Weíre not even eating together.
So he gets home pretty close to late. Heís soaking wet. He told me he had seen an accident during a heavy downpour and had gotten out to help the woman..thus his soaked clothes. Ok, weíll call Pulitzer Prize Peace Committee for an application. He probably thought she was single and needed mouth to mouth rescusitation. So I was standing there cooking up my GourMET mac and cheese, and there is a bathroom right next to this stove. So heís telling me of his heroic deeds and suddenly he started taking off his clothes. And I mean all. And Iím like WTF, stirring the mac and cheese rather angrily. Why is he taking his clothes off in front of me? I think I should divert my eyes. Yes, I definitely think I should divert my eyes immediately. Or else throw this fucking heavy iron colander at his fuzzy, misshapen head.
Ya know, somehow I just donít think youíll be finding this in the Nanny Duties Manual...watch your employer strip naked in front of you while stirring mac and cheese. To be honest Iím not sure if he was totally naked because I sort of blanked out for a second and then moved so I wasnít facing him. But this morning when I took a shower, his pile of clothes from last night included some gray underwear so Iím guessing I saw what I thought I saw.
So this is all making me increasingly uncomfortable. And in case youíre wondering, Amazing Joe, Iím not getting all breathless in your presence. Only increasingly fearful, and fretful and happy that Friday is tomorrow, and that Iíll be out of here.
But I did get to my art class last night, and let me tell you, even driving up the hill away from this place made me feel so free. I felt like a weight was being lifted for each mile I put between myself and Testosterone Manor. And I was so happy to get to my art class and see people I know and to have people say Hi Witty, instead of being referred to as ďSheĒ and ďHerĒ like here.
And it was soooo fucking hard driving back here last night. I really didnít want to come. I cried most of the way back and if my cat and computer wasnít here, it would have been tempting to just blow it off, although I wouldnít have because Iím so freakiní responsible. But fuck....I hate this gig. I feel sorry for the kids. The older boy asked me if I was coming back next week, and I had to fudge a little and tell him I was still thinking about it.
But unfortunately the answer is a resounding no. I hate the dad. I hate all the cameras. I feel very isolated. And to be honest I feel that my safety is an issue. My sexual safety. I feel like the man here hasnít had sex in a long time, and he somehow thinks Iím AVAILABLE because Iím on the payroll so to speak. And Iím truly fearful. And my safety is more important than $150/wk.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty