I’m at the gym. It’s 6 am and I’m wearing clothes I picked out in the dark. Not my best look but since my gym has a ratio of 99% gay men to 1% potentially straight it’s too hard to tell at 6 am women, I don’t really care.
Being that there are so few women, one tends to notice the others around. There’s the girl with the brand new boobs who hoists them like a shelf and the clog wearing perky trainer whose voice registers in an octave only heard by whales and dogs. There’s the heavy set lesbian (even at 6 am, there’s no hiding for her) who passes her cardio time with a complete set of tabloids and the girl in the short shorts who might want to wear longer shorts the next time she does squats.
And then there’s the girl with the pin. She’s easy to spot, hard to miss because she is wearing, as she has been for the past 6 days, a large pin on her shirt which reads:
“Sexy Women Vote For Obama.”
I don’t know if she’s gay or straight, but even at 6 am, one thing is fairly certain, this woman is a total and complete moron.
A pin worn to the gym is in and of itself stupid. The chances of being impaled by an Obama pin are not wasted on me and I spend my 37 minutes on the Precor picturing what happens when she drops a weight on her chest, the pin opens, jabs her in the heart, blood spouts out, and she dies; the headline reading, “Sexy Woman dies due to Obama stabbing.” But that’s not the real problem here.
Political views aside, it’s her choice of words that’s got me all wound up. “Sexy Women Vote for Obama.” Does that mean that non-sexy women vote for McCain? And who decides whose sexy enough to vote for Obama because I was gonna vote for Obama, but I’m wearing an outfit I picked out in the dark so I wouldn’t wake my husband as I snuck off the gym to work out for an hour before my kid wakes up and wants to play his new favorite game, “Lets throw food on Mommy” which makes me feel, to be honest, not so sexy. So can I still vote for Obama?
I don’t mind that the Pin Girl has an overly healthy opinion of her own sexuality, but I do mind that the very important decision of who should run the country comes down to how sexy you are. And I’m wondering how the Pin Girl would feel if she were to tell a man she was voting for Obama and he replied, “Well that’s because you’re sexy.” That guy would probably get a slap on the face and be accused of being a sexyist.
We live in an era where young girls look up to Paris Hilton over Hillary Clinton where Wall Street boasts the lowest number of female executives to date in a country with the fewest females holding public office in 30 years. Even Pakistan has had a female President and yet we are defining our voting habits by how sexy we are.
Since becoming a parent, I’m constantly reminded that two people, one of whom is me, will define my son’s view of the world. I’ll expose him to his favorite food and develop his love or hate of music. He’ll appreciate theatre if I do and have a strong sense of family if I encourage it. And his view of women will also be defined by one of two people, me. Personally, I want my son to learn that women are sexy but I’d also like him to learn that women are smart, whomever they vote for, as long as they vote.
I’m at the gym and there she is, the Pin Girl, bench-pressing a grueling 7 pounds. I decide I’m going to stand up for all women and tell her what I think. “Sexy Women Vote for Obama?” I’ll say. “How bout Smart Women Vote. Period.” Then I’ll walk away with my gym full of gays cheering me on. But before I can get over there, I hear a crash. She’s dropped her weights on her chest.
“Fucking pin!” she screams as she rubs her chest.
I turn around, head back to my workout. I take that back. While it’s smart to vote, it’s even smarter not to wear sharp metal objects to the gym.
And by the way, if you’re smart, you’ll vote Obama, no matter how sexy you are.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
NANNYGATE, PART DEUX
Claudia needs three weeks off every summer while Aida needs to bring her son to work. Laela isn’t actually a nanny, doesn’t know how to change a diaper, but “really likes kids.” And though Jennifer lives in a one-bedroom apartment with her son, her mother, and grandmother, she doesn’t want to work too many hours because she wants to stop working to become a nurse.
“Taking care of sick people is fun, “ she tells me. “It’s like taking care of a baby, but sick!”
Jennifer looks disappointed when I remind her that my son, while a baby, is perfectly healthy.
In my two-week immersion into Nanny Gate 2008, I have interviewed well over 20 candidates and have whittled the 20 down to 5 who have worked for me at least a day to see if they just might be the one. Each comes with her own file folder full of glowing recommendations from families claiming to have wept upon her absence, wishing their children didn’t have to go to school so they could keep her on.
Ann, a 50 year old nanny who took three years off from “the baby biz” to work at Curves is my first test. Looking at her resume, filled with perfect reviews from former bosses and nursery schools at which she’d been employed, I’m optimistic, even enthusiastic, until she starts work. Within five minutes, she asks me to hold the baby so she can “take a breather to wipe her brow.” It’s clear her time working for Curves was not spent on the gym floor.
Judith, a self -proclaimed “Super Nanny” with 25 years of credentials comes to her interview enthusiastic if ebullient. But that enthusiasm fades quickly into her workday when simple tasks like: following directions or folding a child’s laundry is required. “I don’t understand this, what is this?” she barks while pointing to my son’s pajamas. When I confirm that yes indeed my son’s pajamas are in fact pajamas, she seems perplexed. “I don’t understand. How do you want me to fold these? I don’t know what these are!” she says again as she throws them on the floor. Judith might be a Super Nanny, but she's also Super Angry.
And these are the ones that made it past the interview.
I remember the days when I, like these nannies, worked for an hourly wage. I remember counting my ten dollars or fifteen dollars per hour until my rent was made, my car was paid for, and hopefully my food. If my boss asked me to work extra hours, I was thrilled, knowing that I’d have a few more tens or fifteens toward covering my nut.
When I worked as a personal assistant, and met my boss for the first time she said, “I’m very particular, I like things done a certain way.” What I heard was that she was very particular and liked things done a certain way, which is what I did. I did things her way and we got along famously. But every nanny I’ve met comes with her list of demands, her career pre-nup if you will, listing the conditions, benefits, and payment required for her to do her job.
Jillian, a French nanny who charges $19 an hour, “But is willing to negotiate”, will work for $18 an hour as long as I am willing to pay for her gas to and from work. A simple request, but when was the last time a teacher got paid for his drive to work or a nurse for hers? People shouldn’t be treated poorly because they clean a house or take care of a child to make a living, but they shouldn't be treated better either. Adding up the expenses of Jillian’s requests and benefits, she’d make more than my husband and I combined. So needless to say, I said “au revoir” to Jillian, wishing her “bon chance” and remembered that a French nanny would be lovely if only she weren’t French.
I start another week immersed in Nanny Gate 2008 wondering if I’ll find a suitable candidate before my new job starts, a movie I’m writing, for which I’ll probably get paid less than my nanny. It’s my first big writing job, there’s not much room for negotiation, but I’m happy for the opportunity, happy to have a job. It's easy to "dignify" yourself out of a job, demand your way into the unemployment line. Somewhere out there is a nanny who wants to work and is happy for the opportunity and realizes there's not a lot of room for negotiation.
And if not, I hope my kid knows how to spell check and write jokes because he and I have got work to do.
“Taking care of sick people is fun, “ she tells me. “It’s like taking care of a baby, but sick!”
Jennifer looks disappointed when I remind her that my son, while a baby, is perfectly healthy.
In my two-week immersion into Nanny Gate 2008, I have interviewed well over 20 candidates and have whittled the 20 down to 5 who have worked for me at least a day to see if they just might be the one. Each comes with her own file folder full of glowing recommendations from families claiming to have wept upon her absence, wishing their children didn’t have to go to school so they could keep her on.
Ann, a 50 year old nanny who took three years off from “the baby biz” to work at Curves is my first test. Looking at her resume, filled with perfect reviews from former bosses and nursery schools at which she’d been employed, I’m optimistic, even enthusiastic, until she starts work. Within five minutes, she asks me to hold the baby so she can “take a breather to wipe her brow.” It’s clear her time working for Curves was not spent on the gym floor.
Judith, a self -proclaimed “Super Nanny” with 25 years of credentials comes to her interview enthusiastic if ebullient. But that enthusiasm fades quickly into her workday when simple tasks like: following directions or folding a child’s laundry is required. “I don’t understand this, what is this?” she barks while pointing to my son’s pajamas. When I confirm that yes indeed my son’s pajamas are in fact pajamas, she seems perplexed. “I don’t understand. How do you want me to fold these? I don’t know what these are!” she says again as she throws them on the floor. Judith might be a Super Nanny, but she's also Super Angry.
And these are the ones that made it past the interview.
I remember the days when I, like these nannies, worked for an hourly wage. I remember counting my ten dollars or fifteen dollars per hour until my rent was made, my car was paid for, and hopefully my food. If my boss asked me to work extra hours, I was thrilled, knowing that I’d have a few more tens or fifteens toward covering my nut.
When I worked as a personal assistant, and met my boss for the first time she said, “I’m very particular, I like things done a certain way.” What I heard was that she was very particular and liked things done a certain way, which is what I did. I did things her way and we got along famously. But every nanny I’ve met comes with her list of demands, her career pre-nup if you will, listing the conditions, benefits, and payment required for her to do her job.
Jillian, a French nanny who charges $19 an hour, “But is willing to negotiate”, will work for $18 an hour as long as I am willing to pay for her gas to and from work. A simple request, but when was the last time a teacher got paid for his drive to work or a nurse for hers? People shouldn’t be treated poorly because they clean a house or take care of a child to make a living, but they shouldn't be treated better either. Adding up the expenses of Jillian’s requests and benefits, she’d make more than my husband and I combined. So needless to say, I said “au revoir” to Jillian, wishing her “bon chance” and remembered that a French nanny would be lovely if only she weren’t French.
I start another week immersed in Nanny Gate 2008 wondering if I’ll find a suitable candidate before my new job starts, a movie I’m writing, for which I’ll probably get paid less than my nanny. It’s my first big writing job, there’s not much room for negotiation, but I’m happy for the opportunity, happy to have a job. It's easy to "dignify" yourself out of a job, demand your way into the unemployment line. Somewhere out there is a nanny who wants to work and is happy for the opportunity and realizes there's not a lot of room for negotiation.
And if not, I hope my kid knows how to spell check and write jokes because he and I have got work to do.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
NANNYGATE
If someone doesn’t show up for work is she quitting her job or just being an asshole?
Me, Wednesday Sept 3, 2008
One of my husband’s favorite theories is, “Hope is a terrible strategy.” He says things like this all the time as if repetition per theory justifies the exorbitant amount of money he spent to go to an Ivy League Business School to learn such things. A day doesn’t go by without him quoting some hero of wealth with a quick, tight theory that encapsulates a moment. Instead of admitting that I’m not listening or worse yet, that I have little interest in business, I nod and occasionally quote back to him some theory just to make him feel like he’s had an impact. But the notion that hope alone is nothing to bank on resonates with me, especially since becoming a Mom. Especially since deciding to hire a nanny.
I long ago stopped hoping my nanny would get my name right or that she’d show up when expected. So after spending 3 hours waiting for her to arrive on time to work on a Wednesday morning, after two weeks off with pay followed by a paid Labor Day Monday, it comes as no surprise to me when my phone finally does chirp the ring of doom.
“Hello, Merta? It’s me, Dalia. My Mother broke her leg.”
She pauses as if she’s given a complete and logical explanation for why she’s three hours late for work when she’s been given countless warnings about missed days of work, and hasn’t called until now.
Well did she break your phone, too? I ask not half or even a little bit kidding.
“Maybe Friday should be my last day,” she says with a decisiveness that betrays her lack of emotion on my behalf.
Recognizing that losing a nanny is a chaos inducing inconvenience rather than a life spent starving in Darfur, battling cancer, or finding out you’re related to one of the morons on MTV’s “The Hills, I try to keep it all in perspective. But since I’ve had more nannies than children, my patience has worn thin.
In one year of Motherhood, I’ve had two nannies; both excellent at the job as long as one doesn’t consider showing up for work a job requirement. There were always last minute illnesses, surprise children’s school conferences and the inevitable “mother with a broken leg” excuses. Each excuse requiring a day, two, four off from work, unpaid and unaccounted for. I’m left wondering if I’m the only person in America that actually needs to work. Because it seems like there’s an awful lot of people who don’t mind missing out on a day or seven of work and a day or seven of a paycheck.
Every Mom who hears my story feels my pain, even those who do have cancer and are related to morons on TV. But with every offering of sympathy also comes the inevitable, “Haven’t you been through this like…a lot?” Yes, I’m quick to respond. I give people too many chances. I guess I was just hoping…” my voice trailing off, me knowing that I sound about nannies like 20 year-old girls do about boyfriends, hoping it will all work out knowing that it’s a terrible strategy.
Others offer a more cynical opinion. “It’s just how they are. They live a flip flop kind of life, they’re not reliable,” one relative suggests not explaining if the “they” so politely referenced is Nannies or Hispanics in general. Another asks where our nanny was born, then seems confused, “But California has all those cheap Mexicans who will work for free. I didn’t know they were so uppity like the girls from the Islands. They’re very high maintenance.” Suddenly, it seems that a crap employee is no longer just that, they’re a representation of a whole race brought down in one fell swoop.
Instead of joining the cynics, I opt to get back on the horse, get back out there, and start interviewing others. Out of three appointments I make, two candidates don’t show up, one never calling to cancel, the other saying she’s “just too tired.” The third, a lovely girl from Pensacola, peaks my interest until she explains that she’s hoping to get into nannying “to get out of bartending” I feel like she just might not be the right fit as I imagine my son’s first word being “highball.”
I make three more appointments for the following day. Each potential Nanny from a varying country around the world; one Guatemalan, another Israeli, another Russian. One by one, before each woman’s appointment, my phone rings, each canceling her interview.
With each passing cancellation, I begin to miss my old Nanny more and more. Maybe I should call her, I think to myself, just to see if she really meant to quit. Sure she wasn’t reliable and was so forgetful she could forget her own name, but at least I knew her bad qualities. When your kids are involved, the devil you know is better than the nanny you don’t know.
But settling for someone who’s unreliable, uninterested, and quite frankly unavailable is not a solution. Maybe that’s what got me here in the first place, settling for someone sub par to take care of the person who matters most to me, my son. Sure we can’t do any better, women go from settling for bad boyfriends to bad nannies simply out of fear of the unknown. There’s no one race lazier or more unreliable than another, but you get what you settle for in any aspect of life. People are as reliable as you require them to be, as concerned as needed.
The truth is, my son is the most valued thing in my world, I shouldn’t settle for anything but the best, wherever the person is from. So until I find the right person, I guess it’s just he and I, napping, playing, trying to get our work done. I know I’ll find the right person; she’s out there somewhere, at least I hope so. Sure, it’s a terrible strategy, but sometimes hope is all you’ve got.
Me, Wednesday Sept 3, 2008
One of my husband’s favorite theories is, “Hope is a terrible strategy.” He says things like this all the time as if repetition per theory justifies the exorbitant amount of money he spent to go to an Ivy League Business School to learn such things. A day doesn’t go by without him quoting some hero of wealth with a quick, tight theory that encapsulates a moment. Instead of admitting that I’m not listening or worse yet, that I have little interest in business, I nod and occasionally quote back to him some theory just to make him feel like he’s had an impact. But the notion that hope alone is nothing to bank on resonates with me, especially since becoming a Mom. Especially since deciding to hire a nanny.
I long ago stopped hoping my nanny would get my name right or that she’d show up when expected. So after spending 3 hours waiting for her to arrive on time to work on a Wednesday morning, after two weeks off with pay followed by a paid Labor Day Monday, it comes as no surprise to me when my phone finally does chirp the ring of doom.
“Hello, Merta? It’s me, Dalia. My Mother broke her leg.”
She pauses as if she’s given a complete and logical explanation for why she’s three hours late for work when she’s been given countless warnings about missed days of work, and hasn’t called until now.
Well did she break your phone, too? I ask not half or even a little bit kidding.
“Maybe Friday should be my last day,” she says with a decisiveness that betrays her lack of emotion on my behalf.
Recognizing that losing a nanny is a chaos inducing inconvenience rather than a life spent starving in Darfur, battling cancer, or finding out you’re related to one of the morons on MTV’s “The Hills, I try to keep it all in perspective. But since I’ve had more nannies than children, my patience has worn thin.
In one year of Motherhood, I’ve had two nannies; both excellent at the job as long as one doesn’t consider showing up for work a job requirement. There were always last minute illnesses, surprise children’s school conferences and the inevitable “mother with a broken leg” excuses. Each excuse requiring a day, two, four off from work, unpaid and unaccounted for. I’m left wondering if I’m the only person in America that actually needs to work. Because it seems like there’s an awful lot of people who don’t mind missing out on a day or seven of work and a day or seven of a paycheck.
Every Mom who hears my story feels my pain, even those who do have cancer and are related to morons on TV. But with every offering of sympathy also comes the inevitable, “Haven’t you been through this like…a lot?” Yes, I’m quick to respond. I give people too many chances. I guess I was just hoping…” my voice trailing off, me knowing that I sound about nannies like 20 year-old girls do about boyfriends, hoping it will all work out knowing that it’s a terrible strategy.
Others offer a more cynical opinion. “It’s just how they are. They live a flip flop kind of life, they’re not reliable,” one relative suggests not explaining if the “they” so politely referenced is Nannies or Hispanics in general. Another asks where our nanny was born, then seems confused, “But California has all those cheap Mexicans who will work for free. I didn’t know they were so uppity like the girls from the Islands. They’re very high maintenance.” Suddenly, it seems that a crap employee is no longer just that, they’re a representation of a whole race brought down in one fell swoop.
Instead of joining the cynics, I opt to get back on the horse, get back out there, and start interviewing others. Out of three appointments I make, two candidates don’t show up, one never calling to cancel, the other saying she’s “just too tired.” The third, a lovely girl from Pensacola, peaks my interest until she explains that she’s hoping to get into nannying “to get out of bartending” I feel like she just might not be the right fit as I imagine my son’s first word being “highball.”
I make three more appointments for the following day. Each potential Nanny from a varying country around the world; one Guatemalan, another Israeli, another Russian. One by one, before each woman’s appointment, my phone rings, each canceling her interview.
With each passing cancellation, I begin to miss my old Nanny more and more. Maybe I should call her, I think to myself, just to see if she really meant to quit. Sure she wasn’t reliable and was so forgetful she could forget her own name, but at least I knew her bad qualities. When your kids are involved, the devil you know is better than the nanny you don’t know.
But settling for someone who’s unreliable, uninterested, and quite frankly unavailable is not a solution. Maybe that’s what got me here in the first place, settling for someone sub par to take care of the person who matters most to me, my son. Sure we can’t do any better, women go from settling for bad boyfriends to bad nannies simply out of fear of the unknown. There’s no one race lazier or more unreliable than another, but you get what you settle for in any aspect of life. People are as reliable as you require them to be, as concerned as needed.
The truth is, my son is the most valued thing in my world, I shouldn’t settle for anything but the best, wherever the person is from. So until I find the right person, I guess it’s just he and I, napping, playing, trying to get our work done. I know I’ll find the right person; she’s out there somewhere, at least I hope so. Sure, it’s a terrible strategy, but sometimes hope is all you’ve got.
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