Well the magical season that is Christmas-time is coming to a close. I find this to be the most wonderful time of the year because it’s the only time that we openly accept the idea of a stranger entering our homes while we sleep. I’m talking about the most dangerous, ballsy criminal known to mankind, Santa Claus. It’s the only time of year that every creak made in the house prompts a child to shut their eyes tighter so that Santa continues to stuff their stockings as opposed to running to their parents' bedside at the sound of a potential break in. At what point do you tell your children that they still need to be aware of such sounds on Christmas Eve? Because turns out, that might still be a break in. At what point do you spoil the illusion of Santa Claus for your own safety?
I remember when I first stopped believing in Santa Claus. I was in 3rd grade. I had my suspicions the previous Christmas, but I wanted to hold on tight to this childhood tradition. I was on the phone with my mom’s friend the day after Christmas and was rattling off all the presents I had received without specifying which were from Santa (a lava lamp) and which were from family. When I told her I got a lava lamp, she said, “oh yeah I was with your mom when she picked that out.” And just like that all my suspicions were confirmed in one nonchalant sentence. My jaw dropped. I wanted to stop her and ask if she was aware that she had destroyed a young girl’s belief in Santa Claus with such ease. But I didn’t. Instead, I succumbed to the reality of the post Santa Claus world with the same unhappy reluctance one experiences when being forced to continue with a shower after realizing there is no hot water.
Breaking the illusion of Santa Claus, and thus destroying someone’s youth, is a very touchy subject. With older siblings, the internet and plain common sense kids these days stop believing in Santa Claus at varying ages. One must proceed with caution on the topic of anything Christmas related. You should make sure to include Santa Claus when talking about the holiday season; to open it up to any still-believers to make their delusions (ahem) attachment known. This tactic is especially important when talking to children, but because I’d rather be safe than sorry, I use it when interacting with all ages. That is why I asked the kid I nanny, AS WELL as the woman I intern for, what they asked for from Santa.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the boy a nanny would look through toy magazines and tell me what he wanted. I took the Christmas tree and stockings in their house to be proof that they weren’t Jewish so I decided to bring some holiday spirit into the mix. Whenever he would tell me he wanted something I would tell him he should ask Santa Claus.
I must mention that this child always uses the word “okay” where most people would say “yes”. For example, we were looking through the Toys R Us magazine, he pointed at a train set and said, “I want this” to which I responded, “oh yeah?” as in, how interesting that you would want the 15th train set we have come across in the first three pages of this magazine. Then he said, “okay”, as if to say, “great idea, Anna.” He gives me far too much credit in our conversations, really.
A few days after I instructed the child to direct his toy desires towards Santa, I was in the kitchen with his mother before she went to work. The boy said he wanted a lollipop (really a frozen yogurt) and the mom told him not now. He said hopefully, “maybe for Christmas.” She turned to me and said, “it’s so funny he has been saying he wants things for Christmas a lot lately, I guess you really can’t escape the commercial side of Christmas.” No you cannot. And it doesn’t help when your nanny makes sure he knows Santa is the only thing to care about during the holidays. She didn’t seem upset that I had dragged her son into the deep, darkness that is commercialized Christmas, but it also did not sound like emphasizing presents for Christmas was really part of their parenting plan. I had spent so much time nurturing and protecting the belief in Santa Claus that it never occurred to me that my preservation of youth would be interpreted as commercial capitalist propaganda.
The good news was she seemed to think this idea had magically appeared in her son’s head. I shrugged an “I have no idea where that came from” shrug convincing my innocence, but also insinuating that if he tells you it was my idea to get those train tracks he’s lying!
Merry Christmas to all!! I purposely made this blog post 3 days late so that you could feel a resurgence of the holiday spirit just as it was fading away...
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Weirdos Need Fitness Too
Going to the gym never fails to leave me in an awkward situation that I would rather not be in. I always leave shaking my head in confusion over an encounter some weirdo or another. Like, those who wear flip flops to the gym. Or those who sing along to their iPod while on the stationary bike. Or those who strike up a conversation with you while you’re lifting weights, notice your Colorado t-shirt and begin quizzing you on the Ivy league schools you CLEARLY didn't get into and their locations.
But my absolutely least favorite kind of people to encounter at the gym is anyone, male or female (although it's almost always women), wearing an insufficient amount of clothing for their less than bangin' body. It’s not even appropriate when you do have a bangin’ body because you just look conceited. There’s a whole lot of movement at the gym so I find it better for everyone if you ditch the crop top if it doesn’t cover your beer belly. Or ditch it if you have rock hard abs because it just reminds me of my beer belly. This has taken such a toll on my mind that I have created a new rhyme, loosely based on this popular, and also annoying, reminder you can often find scribbled in bathroom stalls:
If you sprinkle when you tinkle
Be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.
To all sports bra and spandex short combo wearers, I say:
If you jiggle when you wiggle
Be a normal person and put a shirt on.
But my absolutely least favorite kind of people to encounter at the gym is anyone, male or female (although it's almost always women), wearing an insufficient amount of clothing for their less than bangin' body. It’s not even appropriate when you do have a bangin’ body because you just look conceited. There’s a whole lot of movement at the gym so I find it better for everyone if you ditch the crop top if it doesn’t cover your beer belly. Or ditch it if you have rock hard abs because it just reminds me of my beer belly. This has taken such a toll on my mind that I have created a new rhyme, loosely based on this popular, and also annoying, reminder you can often find scribbled in bathroom stalls:
If you sprinkle when you tinkle
Be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.
To all sports bra and spandex short combo wearers, I say:
If you jiggle when you wiggle
Be a normal person and put a shirt on.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Babysitter's Club (Club De Las Niñeras)
Right now I am working as a nanny to support my real career that is currently not making any money. It’s a pretty sweet deal I’ve got going on here, I get to eat a lot of organic snacks and have ample time to write. I have successfully transitioned from being stuck in a home office and speaking to no one, to being outside a lot and speaking to only two year olds and/or Spanish-only speaking nannies. Moving on up! While the kid I take care of now is very well behaved and actually pretty funny to be around, I have had some not so pleasant nannying experiences.
One time in college I went to a woman’s house for a meet and greet with the family to see if it would be a good match, a sort of speed dating for nannies. She started by telling me that her son was a sweet heart but that her six-year-old daughter had ‘behavioral issues’. I assumed that meant that her daughter didn’t share well or preferred to play alone. But when her daughter entered growling, a distinct ‘don’t fuck with me’ look piercing past her furrowed brow, not sharing well with others was small potatoes. Her mother assured me that she wouldn’t actually bite me, but I wasn’t as confident. Needless to say that meet and greet did not extend to a second date. I mean, what good is a writer without fingers? I had my future to think about here.
I also once nannied for a five-year-old boy who, when I told him he couldn’t have anymore cookies, cried so long and so hard that he all of a sudden face planted on the table into a deep REM sleep. I approached with caution to make sure it wasn’t some sort of act and when I successfully deducted that he was fast asleep, I surfed the internet until he woke up. I quickly brushed the cookie crumbs from his face so as not spark a memory of his meltdown and experience another fit, then I built him a fort and I became his favorite nanny once again.
At another juncture in my life, I was a head coach of a middle school girl’s basketball team. And while I wasn’t their nanny, I was in charge of keeping track of them, an added bonus of this job being to keep track of their threats to opposing teams. There were several outbursts, but when one of my players threatened to shank an opponent, I decided I would not be back to defend our win-less season the following year.
Yes, I have had my fair share of challenging kids, but I really lucked out with the kid I am nannying right now. He’s really cute, never cries and usually listens to me. He did throw a stick at my face the other day but I’m pretty sure it’s just because he has poor aim. Which I can’t fault him for, that is for the mean, judgemental hallways of middle school to point out to him. But no matter how easy the kids are to get along with, my years of nannying have driven me to come up with…‘lies’ is too strong, so we’ll go with ‘tricks’ to make sure the child and I both have a mutually enjoyable time together.
Yes, this means telling the child that we will come back and get the oversized, muddy stick after lunch, then throwing that stick as far as I can when his back is turned. Silently cursing it for adding 45 minutes to our walk home by making it exciting to poke every speck of mud along the way.
Yes, this means only reading every 3rd page of “Cars and Trucks and Things That Go” right before nap time because we’ve read if for 3 weeks straight and Anna needs to catch Gangland on cable upstairs. Damn you Richard Scarry for writing a 74 page long children’s book.
And yes, this means asking him if he wants a snack so as to distract him from the steep hill that he is capable of climbing due to his age but I am incapable of climbing due to my laziness.
These tricks aside, I am a pretty damn good nanny. I know what kids like. They like me blowing bubbles with my gum, they like forts, they like reallllly high high-fives. And I give that to them. I'm getting things out of this job besides money... really toned arms from lifting the kid up and down and I'm picking up a lot of Spanish from my peers.
One time in college I went to a woman’s house for a meet and greet with the family to see if it would be a good match, a sort of speed dating for nannies. She started by telling me that her son was a sweet heart but that her six-year-old daughter had ‘behavioral issues’. I assumed that meant that her daughter didn’t share well or preferred to play alone. But when her daughter entered growling, a distinct ‘don’t fuck with me’ look piercing past her furrowed brow, not sharing well with others was small potatoes. Her mother assured me that she wouldn’t actually bite me, but I wasn’t as confident. Needless to say that meet and greet did not extend to a second date. I mean, what good is a writer without fingers? I had my future to think about here.
I also once nannied for a five-year-old boy who, when I told him he couldn’t have anymore cookies, cried so long and so hard that he all of a sudden face planted on the table into a deep REM sleep. I approached with caution to make sure it wasn’t some sort of act and when I successfully deducted that he was fast asleep, I surfed the internet until he woke up. I quickly brushed the cookie crumbs from his face so as not spark a memory of his meltdown and experience another fit, then I built him a fort and I became his favorite nanny once again.
At another juncture in my life, I was a head coach of a middle school girl’s basketball team. And while I wasn’t their nanny, I was in charge of keeping track of them, an added bonus of this job being to keep track of their threats to opposing teams. There were several outbursts, but when one of my players threatened to shank an opponent, I decided I would not be back to defend our win-less season the following year.
Yes, I have had my fair share of challenging kids, but I really lucked out with the kid I am nannying right now. He’s really cute, never cries and usually listens to me. He did throw a stick at my face the other day but I’m pretty sure it’s just because he has poor aim. Which I can’t fault him for, that is for the mean, judgemental hallways of middle school to point out to him. But no matter how easy the kids are to get along with, my years of nannying have driven me to come up with…‘lies’ is too strong, so we’ll go with ‘tricks’ to make sure the child and I both have a mutually enjoyable time together.
Yes, this means telling the child that we will come back and get the oversized, muddy stick after lunch, then throwing that stick as far as I can when his back is turned. Silently cursing it for adding 45 minutes to our walk home by making it exciting to poke every speck of mud along the way.
Yes, this means only reading every 3rd page of “Cars and Trucks and Things That Go” right before nap time because we’ve read if for 3 weeks straight and Anna needs to catch Gangland on cable upstairs. Damn you Richard Scarry for writing a 74 page long children’s book.
And yes, this means asking him if he wants a snack so as to distract him from the steep hill that he is capable of climbing due to his age but I am incapable of climbing due to my laziness.
These tricks aside, I am a pretty damn good nanny. I know what kids like. They like me blowing bubbles with my gum, they like forts, they like reallllly high high-fives. And I give that to them. I'm getting things out of this job besides money... really toned arms from lifting the kid up and down and I'm picking up a lot of Spanish from my peers.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Gimme Dat Technology
This blog post comes to you with overwhelming joy. I have been without a computer for over a week and finally got it back. It’s a dark, dark world out there without technology and our separation revealed how attached I am to my laptop. I was lost without having the option of going online. I began convincing myself I had to google things, things that I would have never cared about if the information were easily accessible. But the inconvenience of not having it at my fingertips made the need of google-ing seem that much more pressing. My daily life was thrown off, how on earth was I going to know what to wear for the day without checking the weather? How was I going to know which celebrity marriage was over without the gossip websites? And how was I expected to go ANYWHERE if I couldn’t google map directions?
My week-long break from my most dependable companion was not pretty. I had to take up recreational activities that I’m not proud of. Reading being the main one, but handwriting notes to myself a close second. I forgot how empowering it was to feel the weight of the pages in a book fall to the left, knowing you’ve accomplished something. But just as quickly as I took up reading, I turned my back on it and burned all the books within reach, a way of destroying evidence of my unfaithfulness to technology before my computer’s return. While writing reminders to myself on sticky notes I realized I had forgotten what my handwriting looked like. Several years ago I had adopted Times Roman as my official handwriting font, so why did it look so dangerously close to Marker Felt?
As strong as my attachment to technology is, my relationship with it is turbulent to say the least. I do not understand pretty much anything about computers, cell phones, and don’t get me started on fax machines—seriously, how do those things work? I am a traitor to my technology savvy generation. When I was at my last internship, I was always put in charge of finding out why an iPad wasn’t sending emails, why the computer’s screen was pink, why the Blackberry wouldn’t hold a charge, and the like. I would be on the phone with tech support as they talked me through every step, starting with holding the device right side up. But I would no doubt fall behind, but instead of admitting defeat and asking the representative on the other line to repeat the step, I would pretend as if I was moving right along with them. I would quickly fall several steps behind and become completely lost. But in the end I would lie; say it was fixed, hang up and call again, crossing my fingers for a different representative. With the second call I would be ahead of the game because I would be starting mid-solution, but always fell behind again. Redial became a good friend of mine.
I encounter similar problems with technology in my home life. I can’t program a universal remote, which has made home entertainment a struggle. The other day I decided to watch a movie, the perfect way to enjoy a relaxing evening. Or so I thought. I had to hunch over the DVD player waiting for the previews to end so that I could press play and finally kick back. But there were far too many previews and when I glanced back at my meal sitting pretty on the coffee table I could see the steam slowing down. I knew that I could not wait for these previews to end and risk my food being cold. I urgently pressed the “skip” button to speed up the process. A small hand appeared in the corner of the screen as if to say, “stop that right now. I call the shots around here”. And it was true. I am no match for technology. We have a very abusive and unfair relationship. I am lost without technology, and am willing to spend hundreds of dollars to bring it back in my life.
With my love/hate/obsession with technology aside, our movie has been postponed until after the first of the year. So it will not be so much a wonderful Christmas present for us all, but more a Ground Hog Day present for us all. And isn't that really the whole purpose of Ground Hog Day anyway?
My week-long break from my most dependable companion was not pretty. I had to take up recreational activities that I’m not proud of. Reading being the main one, but handwriting notes to myself a close second. I forgot how empowering it was to feel the weight of the pages in a book fall to the left, knowing you’ve accomplished something. But just as quickly as I took up reading, I turned my back on it and burned all the books within reach, a way of destroying evidence of my unfaithfulness to technology before my computer’s return. While writing reminders to myself on sticky notes I realized I had forgotten what my handwriting looked like. Several years ago I had adopted Times Roman as my official handwriting font, so why did it look so dangerously close to Marker Felt?
As strong as my attachment to technology is, my relationship with it is turbulent to say the least. I do not understand pretty much anything about computers, cell phones, and don’t get me started on fax machines—seriously, how do those things work? I am a traitor to my technology savvy generation. When I was at my last internship, I was always put in charge of finding out why an iPad wasn’t sending emails, why the computer’s screen was pink, why the Blackberry wouldn’t hold a charge, and the like. I would be on the phone with tech support as they talked me through every step, starting with holding the device right side up. But I would no doubt fall behind, but instead of admitting defeat and asking the representative on the other line to repeat the step, I would pretend as if I was moving right along with them. I would quickly fall several steps behind and become completely lost. But in the end I would lie; say it was fixed, hang up and call again, crossing my fingers for a different representative. With the second call I would be ahead of the game because I would be starting mid-solution, but always fell behind again. Redial became a good friend of mine.
I encounter similar problems with technology in my home life. I can’t program a universal remote, which has made home entertainment a struggle. The other day I decided to watch a movie, the perfect way to enjoy a relaxing evening. Or so I thought. I had to hunch over the DVD player waiting for the previews to end so that I could press play and finally kick back. But there were far too many previews and when I glanced back at my meal sitting pretty on the coffee table I could see the steam slowing down. I knew that I could not wait for these previews to end and risk my food being cold. I urgently pressed the “skip” button to speed up the process. A small hand appeared in the corner of the screen as if to say, “stop that right now. I call the shots around here”. And it was true. I am no match for technology. We have a very abusive and unfair relationship. I am lost without technology, and am willing to spend hundreds of dollars to bring it back in my life.
With my love/hate/obsession with technology aside, our movie has been postponed until after the first of the year. So it will not be so much a wonderful Christmas present for us all, but more a Ground Hog Day present for us all. And isn't that really the whole purpose of Ground Hog Day anyway?
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