I recently returned from a trip to New York City for my childhood best friend's bridal shower and bachelorette party. I hadn't been to New York since I visited this same friend almost a year ago as a pit stop on my way to Israel and I couldn't wait to be reunited with the big city. I was ready for everything New York had offered me last year: the energizing hustle and bustle, the intoxicating freedom of public transportation and the sunshine! Oh, the sunshine! Really. Last year I was lucky enough to catch a weekend of golden skies and mild temperatures so the grey, cold misery everyone describes as New York's early spring was a myth to me. In fact, the energy, weather and ease of subways left me spending my flight back to California wracking my brain for one positive of LA and one negative of NY. That is how good the weather was.
I could not wait to rekindle my fascination with New York but alas, much like a lover who has overstayed their welcome, everything I once found endearing was truly the worst thing ever.
I took a red eye flight and after a long, smelly, sleepless flight, the last thing I was expecting to be/wanted to be welcomed by at 5am was a hustling and bustling sea of people, chit-chatting and gabbing over coffee like the sun was up. This was not energizing, it was offensive. Even later that morning when I tried to find a coffee shop in down town Brooklyn the number of people on the streets was so intimidating and confusing that I couldn't even make out basic landmarks or reference points for my walk. I had to stick to the 2 block by 1 block grid I had mentally made for myself, which unforuntaly only yielded one coffee shop result. A convenience store where the coffee was dispensed through what looked like a fountain soda machine and where the sugar had been dumped into a large party punch bowl with an oversized laddel for serving. So I left and did what any girl who was two blocks from her hotel but terrified to stray much further would do. I sat on a bus bench and used my Google map app to search directions from my current location to “food.”
I mentioned in my last New York City post that I hate to look like a tourist. So I would have preferred to spend hours pretending that walking up and down this two block stretch in downtown Brooklyn was my daily routine than ask anyone for help or directions and risk exposing myself as a visitor. I was not prepared for the number of people.
I was also not prepared for the weather. It was cold and dry, so, so dry. Either it was seriously dry or I was at the level of dehydration reserved for people who hadn't had water or fluids in their body in their lifetime. Not only was my leather jacket/sweatshirt combo not enough to weather these temperatures, the pockets of both the jacket and my jeans were too small to fit my large but TRULY elegant hands. The dryness, the coldness, my general attraction to the non-chalant look of hands in pockets, had me forcing my hands inside these teeny spaces. Which, if it did not look like shoving a wad of sandpaper into a small cashmere sock, it's what it felt like. I was lucky enough that my friend had an spare long, puffy winter jacket that I could borrow and just as I was coming around to how great – and I do mean GREAT – I looked in a long winter jacket, the temperature spiked to 80 degrees. I could barely walk around the city because my jeans were on my thighs with wetsuit-like tightness. So I did not luck out with the weather.
New York trip 2013 already had two strikes against it, but I was still totally onboard with the public transportation. Sure, I routinely swiped my subway pass incorrectly and would walk full force into an unmoving turnstyle. But I was not going to let that deter me, I was determined to love public transportation. That was until I had to carry a bag full of decorations for a bridal shower and bachelorette (that's right, that means penises) from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Taking this bag on the subway and through the busy city streets was not an option. But a cab was. As was a cab for the next 4 out of 5 trips between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Cabs are public transportation, right?
I did have the opportunity to prove to myself and others that I could handle a solo subway trip, which was nothing short of a complete disaster. After being lead to the wrong platform, and being left completely alone after watching everyone pile into one train (not the train I was specifically told to take) I got suspicious. I called my friend who had, up until this point, been coaching me through this adventure through text message. Between the mix of her not knowing where I was and me not knowing my cardinal directions (where is west without the ocean??) she could not tell me where to find a correct platform. She, her mother and my own mother who were all hunkered down in Brooklyn awaiting my Manhattan arrival, all agreed I should give up and take a cab. I resisted for a moment but agreed. Once in the cab I considered asking him to drop me off at a platform where I could catch the F train but it had started to drizzle and I've already addressed my fear of being a known tourist so NO THANK YOU!
By my last day I had successfully turned against the three aspects of New York I had obsessed about, dreamed about, pointed to as examples of why New York is a viable place for me to live. I don't know, call me spoiled but I just need constant sunshine, warm temperatures, weather that allows me to wear flip flops 80% of the year, chill vibes, my own space, a coffee shop that has sugar packets or shakers and a car. Lord knows I need a car.
Realizing New York and I might not be the best fit was an unforunate side note to an amazing weekend celebrating my oldest friend and her engagement to a pretty cool dude. Bridal showers are so silly, they're like birthdays on steroids. But instead of congraulating someone on NOT dying we congratulate them on not dying ALONE and pretend it's not awkward and weird for older relatives to gift lingerie.
But in all seriousness, the bridal shower was beautiful and it was very special to see all the people from various points in my friend's life come together to celebrate the happiness she has found. And she's my best friend, a truly great person and she and her future husband deserve nothing but the best and lucky them because that's exactly what they are getting.
In other news, I have been studying for my personal training certification. I have not studied for anything in years and I forgot how much more appealing EVERYTHING else seems when you have studying to do. I'll sit down to at my kitchen table, ready to crack open the ol' book and instead decide to clean the kitchen sink cuz that drain isn't going to unclog itself. I'll cut my studying short for things I would never usually care about. Like The MTV Movie Awards. And I'll think even the easiest tasks require double the amount of time, I'll give myself five minutes to walk to the kitchen from my bedroom to make lunch.
I also have had at least two dreams in which I sneak into the house of the family I used to nanny for to take care of their kid without their knowledge. I'm not sure what those subconscious thoughts mean but...
Speaking of my nanny life – I'll leave you with a sketch I made about my left over nanny tendencies surfacing in my daily interactions with my roommate:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=4feuVexBj9o
Monday, April 22, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Game Changer
My new years resolution for 2013 was to make big life changes. Changes that could put me on a new path, changes that could alter how I view the world, changes that would let me grow on a spiritual and emotional level. And last week I took the first step to following through on my big and scary 2013 plans. I got bangs.
This is HUGE for someone who has had roughly the same hairstyle at varying lengths since introduced to the (then very up-and-coming and trendy) side-part in high school. I've seen the side-part gain rapid popularity and then fall to a surge in the middle-part style, all the while remaining loyal and true. My hairstyle has been my rock. It has stuck with me through thick and thin. Everything has been easy with my side-part and I've never had to challenge myself with it. A simple five-minute run through with a blow dryer and my hair is, not runway ready, but nanny ready which has been pretty alright with me.
I wish I could say getting bangs was an independent, awesome and empowering 'life is too short to not have bangs!' kind of decision, but the truth is I realized my hair was becoming a metaphor for my life. Easy, stable, comfortable, adorable and always clean, but predictable. So I quit my job. This could be the beginning of a great new style and so much more OR the early indications of an emotional breakdown... only time will tell.
Yup, you heard it here, folks. I am throwing in the nannying towel again; retiring at an early age, while people will still remember me as the awesome, able-bodied, young, hip nanny who always ran around with the kids and molded sarcasm into their clay-like brains at an impressionable age. And NOT as the elderly woman in velcro shoes and an oversized bonnet who carries hard candies in her purse - which I'm terrified will happen if I don't get out soon.
It's been wonderful nannying this child, Mitsy, as I've referred to him in past posts. He is trendier and cooler than anyone I've ever met in my life. He is the only kid I've ever downloaded music to impress (he introduced me to Gotye's “Somebody That I Used to Know.”) And he prompted me to call a tank top I found in my closet while getting ready for my nannying day a “game-changer.” Looking back it's hard to remember if I was hoping he'd love the tank top or if it truly was a game-changer; a top that would alter my outlook on the nannying wardrobe forever. I was confused as his mother more times than not, which I think was only because we had the same haircut and both wore skinny jeans but I dunno, I don't know how DNA works. He is the sweetest little kid in the world and I'm sure when he does something big and important with his life he will thank me in his acceptance speech just like Quvenzhané Wallis from “Beasts of a Southern Wild” did with her nanny.
So what does this mean for me? It means no longer sitting at the park and deciding, based on looks and attitude alone, which 4-year-olds are going to grow up to be sluts, jocks and nerds in high school. It means the indentation on my car's backseat from constant pressure of a securely attached carseat can resurface to an even level. And it means not being demanded to look into someone's eyes as they poop. Yeah. Like I said, big changes.
But really this means that I will be actively supporting my writing in a new way. I'm getting my personal training certification! For those of you who didn't know, I was an all around athlete in high school. And by that I would say I was a mid-level basketball player who played with the enthusiasm and swagger (chest bumps in the middle of games) of an Olympic gold medal athlete. So athleticism, fitness and all around health have always been an important part of my life (except my freshman year of college when I apparently decided it didn't count as gaining weight if I could still make out my jawline when tilting my head back at unnatural angles.)
I'm really excited about the new change and to see what this world of fitness holds for me. This will bring so many new people and experiences into my life and therefore into this blog and therefore into all of your lives, which I am sure you then share with everyone you meet, which in return will lead to my eventual superstardom.
But right now I can't even focus on all the new things that will be brought into my life because I can't stop thinking of the return of one: I can finally swear again on a normal, uncensored basis and I could not be happier. Cuz god dammit. I've missed the shit out of swearing.
This is HUGE for someone who has had roughly the same hairstyle at varying lengths since introduced to the (then very up-and-coming and trendy) side-part in high school. I've seen the side-part gain rapid popularity and then fall to a surge in the middle-part style, all the while remaining loyal and true. My hairstyle has been my rock. It has stuck with me through thick and thin. Everything has been easy with my side-part and I've never had to challenge myself with it. A simple five-minute run through with a blow dryer and my hair is, not runway ready, but nanny ready which has been pretty alright with me.
I wish I could say getting bangs was an independent, awesome and empowering 'life is too short to not have bangs!' kind of decision, but the truth is I realized my hair was becoming a metaphor for my life. Easy, stable, comfortable, adorable and always clean, but predictable. So I quit my job. This could be the beginning of a great new style and so much more OR the early indications of an emotional breakdown... only time will tell.
Yup, you heard it here, folks. I am throwing in the nannying towel again; retiring at an early age, while people will still remember me as the awesome, able-bodied, young, hip nanny who always ran around with the kids and molded sarcasm into their clay-like brains at an impressionable age. And NOT as the elderly woman in velcro shoes and an oversized bonnet who carries hard candies in her purse - which I'm terrified will happen if I don't get out soon.
It's been wonderful nannying this child, Mitsy, as I've referred to him in past posts. He is trendier and cooler than anyone I've ever met in my life. He is the only kid I've ever downloaded music to impress (he introduced me to Gotye's “Somebody That I Used to Know.”) And he prompted me to call a tank top I found in my closet while getting ready for my nannying day a “game-changer.” Looking back it's hard to remember if I was hoping he'd love the tank top or if it truly was a game-changer; a top that would alter my outlook on the nannying wardrobe forever. I was confused as his mother more times than not, which I think was only because we had the same haircut and both wore skinny jeans but I dunno, I don't know how DNA works. He is the sweetest little kid in the world and I'm sure when he does something big and important with his life he will thank me in his acceptance speech just like Quvenzhané Wallis from “Beasts of a Southern Wild” did with her nanny.
So what does this mean for me? It means no longer sitting at the park and deciding, based on looks and attitude alone, which 4-year-olds are going to grow up to be sluts, jocks and nerds in high school. It means the indentation on my car's backseat from constant pressure of a securely attached carseat can resurface to an even level. And it means not being demanded to look into someone's eyes as they poop. Yeah. Like I said, big changes.
But really this means that I will be actively supporting my writing in a new way. I'm getting my personal training certification! For those of you who didn't know, I was an all around athlete in high school. And by that I would say I was a mid-level basketball player who played with the enthusiasm and swagger (chest bumps in the middle of games) of an Olympic gold medal athlete. So athleticism, fitness and all around health have always been an important part of my life (except my freshman year of college when I apparently decided it didn't count as gaining weight if I could still make out my jawline when tilting my head back at unnatural angles.)
I'm really excited about the new change and to see what this world of fitness holds for me. This will bring so many new people and experiences into my life and therefore into this blog and therefore into all of your lives, which I am sure you then share with everyone you meet, which in return will lead to my eventual superstardom.
But right now I can't even focus on all the new things that will be brought into my life because I can't stop thinking of the return of one: I can finally swear again on a normal, uncensored basis and I could not be happier. Cuz god dammit. I've missed the shit out of swearing.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Quinceañera-Rock is in the HOUSE TONIGHT!
I was again invited to experience another nanny's hugely personal life moment this weekend when I saw her daughter say ¡adiós! to childhood and ¡hola! to womanhood at her Quinceañera. This was not nearly as uncomfortable or confusing as the baby shower and my daily park life; partly because it wasn't a very intimate venue, (over 400 people!) and also partly because I brought my male roommate, Alex, as a companion/witness.
I thought I was going to have to be constantly explaining that Alex was not my husband because very young marriage and piercing a newborn's ears are two things my nannies and I have never seen eye to eye on, but in one of many surprises of the evening, no one asked. The second surprise was realizing we were not the whitest people there. That goes to the young man with a platinum blonde, spiked mohawk, checkered tie and vest whom we sought out and sat with all night.
While I was happy to be able to talk to someone besides my girl-crazy roommate who was desperately trying to figure out which pretty, elegantly dressed hispanic girls were 15 and which were age appropriate, I couldn't help but feel territorial. Being the white person who doesn't speak Spanish but is beloved anyway is MY thing.
Of course the language barrier caused some confusion: was the DJ dismissing everyone to make their way through the buffet style dinner line or just close family? Dunno, but we went. Was it an open bar or cash only? Dunno, but we didn't pay. Was there espresso in the frappuccinos being made? Dunno, but I gave one to a kid. But the confusion and silliness of not speaking Spanish is not the topic of this post, my newly developed, misplaced emotional attachment is.
When the Quinceañera girl took the stage to perform a choreographed dance with her “court” (similar to a wedding party) I was hit by a sudden parent-like sense of pride. While my roommate was narrowing down his “babe-pool” by checking which girls had alcoholic drinks in their hands, I was trying to force back tears and suppress the urge to say things like, “She's turned into such a beautiful woman. It seems like only yesterday she was in diapers!” As if I were her grandmother or had known her any amount of time before that night.
This mix of parental pride and nostalgic happiness is a very confusing emotion for someone who has never had children. I thought maybe it was the setting; maybe everyone has this experience at their first Quinceañera. But then I remembered a few recent conversations and realized this feeling has been conquering a lot of my social interactions.
The other day, a mother I sometimes talk to at the park asked me how my writing was going, I brushed her off and chose to focus, for several minutes, on how her son was riding a bike. My writing? My writing? Who cares about my hopes and dreams when your son is RIDING a BIKE. Your 4-year-old is riding a two-wheeler without any help and the kid I nanny regularly trips over the dishwasher door when it's open. I imagined that this woman must be living a life of constantly suppressed glee that her child can ride a bike. I mean how could she not? I was basically living a life of unsuppressed glee and I had little to not investment in his growth.
It's not that weird when my parent-like pride is directed to a 4-year-old because it is cool to see a kid develop new skills and abilities. It is very weird, however, when it is directed to someone my own age. When a man mentioned his daughter goes to law school at Berkley, it would have been normal for me to say, “oh cool” and to move on. It was less normal, but still okay, for me to say, “wow, you must be so proud” but it was not normal at all to follow his humble nod with a stone faced, wide-eyed, stare into his eyes, “No. You must be SO proud.”
Who am I to talk to these parents? I don't have kids. I can't relate or share similar stories. I'm just this over sensitive, childless woman whose intense reactions to common accomplishments make the parents' reactions to their own children seem cold and lacking love. I'm concerned this will only intensify with age and when I have my own kids I'll burst into tears when my 15-year-old ties his shoes.
But should it go in the opposite direction and my parental pride fizzles out before I actually become a parent, I can count on another Quinceañera to get my emotions back. Because I'm 100% sure I'm on that Quinceañera circuit now.
I drafted this post before the tragic elementary school shooting in Connecticut, and now feel that my parent-like pride is less weird and more just a characteristic of a decent human being. I'm less concerned that I'll make parents blush when I tell them their kid is amazing and more concerned that being a parent means living everyday worried that your child is going to die. This is LITERALLY an insane time we live in and regardless of your views on gun control, mental health accessibility, etc, I think we can all agree that something has GOT TO CHANGE. Sorry to end this post on a sad note - not really my style, but yesterday's news hit me much harder than little Ryan riding his two-wheeler did. So to get back to the funniness, re-read this post minus the last 140 words.
I thought I was going to have to be constantly explaining that Alex was not my husband because very young marriage and piercing a newborn's ears are two things my nannies and I have never seen eye to eye on, but in one of many surprises of the evening, no one asked. The second surprise was realizing we were not the whitest people there. That goes to the young man with a platinum blonde, spiked mohawk, checkered tie and vest whom we sought out and sat with all night.
While I was happy to be able to talk to someone besides my girl-crazy roommate who was desperately trying to figure out which pretty, elegantly dressed hispanic girls were 15 and which were age appropriate, I couldn't help but feel territorial. Being the white person who doesn't speak Spanish but is beloved anyway is MY thing.
Of course the language barrier caused some confusion: was the DJ dismissing everyone to make their way through the buffet style dinner line or just close family? Dunno, but we went. Was it an open bar or cash only? Dunno, but we didn't pay. Was there espresso in the frappuccinos being made? Dunno, but I gave one to a kid. But the confusion and silliness of not speaking Spanish is not the topic of this post, my newly developed, misplaced emotional attachment is.
When the Quinceañera girl took the stage to perform a choreographed dance with her “court” (similar to a wedding party) I was hit by a sudden parent-like sense of pride. While my roommate was narrowing down his “babe-pool” by checking which girls had alcoholic drinks in their hands, I was trying to force back tears and suppress the urge to say things like, “She's turned into such a beautiful woman. It seems like only yesterday she was in diapers!” As if I were her grandmother or had known her any amount of time before that night.
This mix of parental pride and nostalgic happiness is a very confusing emotion for someone who has never had children. I thought maybe it was the setting; maybe everyone has this experience at their first Quinceañera. But then I remembered a few recent conversations and realized this feeling has been conquering a lot of my social interactions.
The other day, a mother I sometimes talk to at the park asked me how my writing was going, I brushed her off and chose to focus, for several minutes, on how her son was riding a bike. My writing? My writing? Who cares about my hopes and dreams when your son is RIDING a BIKE. Your 4-year-old is riding a two-wheeler without any help and the kid I nanny regularly trips over the dishwasher door when it's open. I imagined that this woman must be living a life of constantly suppressed glee that her child can ride a bike. I mean how could she not? I was basically living a life of unsuppressed glee and I had little to not investment in his growth.
It's not that weird when my parent-like pride is directed to a 4-year-old because it is cool to see a kid develop new skills and abilities. It is very weird, however, when it is directed to someone my own age. When a man mentioned his daughter goes to law school at Berkley, it would have been normal for me to say, “oh cool” and to move on. It was less normal, but still okay, for me to say, “wow, you must be so proud” but it was not normal at all to follow his humble nod with a stone faced, wide-eyed, stare into his eyes, “No. You must be SO proud.”
Who am I to talk to these parents? I don't have kids. I can't relate or share similar stories. I'm just this over sensitive, childless woman whose intense reactions to common accomplishments make the parents' reactions to their own children seem cold and lacking love. I'm concerned this will only intensify with age and when I have my own kids I'll burst into tears when my 15-year-old ties his shoes.
But should it go in the opposite direction and my parental pride fizzles out before I actually become a parent, I can count on another Quinceañera to get my emotions back. Because I'm 100% sure I'm on that Quinceañera circuit now.
I drafted this post before the tragic elementary school shooting in Connecticut, and now feel that my parent-like pride is less weird and more just a characteristic of a decent human being. I'm less concerned that I'll make parents blush when I tell them their kid is amazing and more concerned that being a parent means living everyday worried that your child is going to die. This is LITERALLY an insane time we live in and regardless of your views on gun control, mental health accessibility, etc, I think we can all agree that something has GOT TO CHANGE. Sorry to end this post on a sad note - not really my style, but yesterday's news hit me much harder than little Ryan riding his two-wheeler did. So to get back to the funniness, re-read this post minus the last 140 words.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Gather Round the Water Cooler
In my line of work, the closest thing I have to co-workers is the group of nannies I see at the park everyday. And while I love seeing their friendly faces, there is one thing holding us back from developing long lasting friendships: the fact that I speak zero Spanish.
This language barrier has never affected me negatively; the ladies love me. They will wave me over to enjoy the impromptu park party they've set up, (this could not be impromptu at all, and instead planned for months and discussed extensively at the park, but I wouldn't know.) They will text me to see if I want to bring the kid I nanny to a fun outing they've organized. And they keep their ears open for the occasional babysitting job because they know I love my extra cerveza money. I thought we were all silently accepting of the reality that our relationship would never extend outside of the park, but then I was invited to one of their baby showers and all confines of our friendship were off!
I've never been to a baby shower in my adult(ish) life; I'm just barely getting used to the fact that people my age are getting pregnant on purpose. I think we can all agree that pregnancy is weird, it makes a lot of unacceptable behavior, acceptable. People do the strangest things around pregnant women; it's like body-talk surges to the forefront and personal privacy and space go out the window. I feared that this would be invited, even required at a baby shower. I had no idea what to expect.
Do I randomly just grab the woman's belly? Do I ask her weird questions about her boobs? Do I get the ins and outs of her upcoming C-Section? Do I harass her about baby names? Are baby showers like those birthday parties where everyone goes out of their way to shift all conversations to be about the birthday girl, only now all conversational shifts to be to her body and its changes and functions? I had a lot of concerns and questions, and clearly no idea what goes on at a baby shower, so deciding to attend one held in Spanish added an extra special stress level.
Would the cliché pregnancy phrases I had stored in my mind translate? When I said 'bun in the oven' would everyone turn to check the kitchen to see if its smoking? Would 'you're glowing,' lead to an anxious run to the bathroom to check the mirror? The only reason I ponder is because, about a year ago, when I explained to one of the nannies that my first day at work was easy, consisting mostly of the mom “showing me the ropes” she responded with a confused, “ropes??” The terror on her face said a dark, unfinished, torture basement full of ropes hanging from the ceiling flashed into her mind. Seeing as that common phrase most certainly did not translate, I had some worries.
As it turned out finding baby or pregnant body things to talk about was not an issue. I forgot that I could slip into my park persona, which is hanging out just outside of the conversations taking place with a non-stop, goofy grin on my face. Call me an optimist, but when you have no idea what's happening the best thing to do is smile. Forever. Regardless of the tone change in the conversation. No wonder these women love me, who wouldn't love the girl who is constantly smiling in such wonder like there is nothing more beautiful and fleeting in this world than the sunshine all around us?
I'm like an exchange student, which is actually pretty great because I never studied abroad in college. This is my real life immersion program. I'd be lying if I said some Spanish hasn't seeped into this English loving (literally studied English in college – a piece of information that got a huge laugh when I shared it with the nannies) brain. I know, zappatos, bano, hombre, agua, comida, puerco, cochino, sombrero. Which, unfortunately, when strung together sound like a mental patient recounting his last human interaction outside of the institution.
“shoes, bathroom, man, water, food, help, pig, nasty, hat”
Despite the language barrier, we shared a few hearty laughs, like when Gladys suggested I wear a sign that says “I don't speak Spanish.” The baby shower as a whole was equal parts wonderful, delicious (homemade tortillas... yum) and awkward. Which is fine with me because that is the balance I strive for in all of my interactions. I truly am grateful for these women, their kindness and it was genuinely very nice to be included in such an important life celebration. I left with a deeper connection to these women, a better understanding of baby showers, and an invitation to a Quinceañera for next weekend.
This language barrier has never affected me negatively; the ladies love me. They will wave me over to enjoy the impromptu park party they've set up, (this could not be impromptu at all, and instead planned for months and discussed extensively at the park, but I wouldn't know.) They will text me to see if I want to bring the kid I nanny to a fun outing they've organized. And they keep their ears open for the occasional babysitting job because they know I love my extra cerveza money. I thought we were all silently accepting of the reality that our relationship would never extend outside of the park, but then I was invited to one of their baby showers and all confines of our friendship were off!
I've never been to a baby shower in my adult(ish) life; I'm just barely getting used to the fact that people my age are getting pregnant on purpose. I think we can all agree that pregnancy is weird, it makes a lot of unacceptable behavior, acceptable. People do the strangest things around pregnant women; it's like body-talk surges to the forefront and personal privacy and space go out the window. I feared that this would be invited, even required at a baby shower. I had no idea what to expect.
Do I randomly just grab the woman's belly? Do I ask her weird questions about her boobs? Do I get the ins and outs of her upcoming C-Section? Do I harass her about baby names? Are baby showers like those birthday parties where everyone goes out of their way to shift all conversations to be about the birthday girl, only now all conversational shifts to be to her body and its changes and functions? I had a lot of concerns and questions, and clearly no idea what goes on at a baby shower, so deciding to attend one held in Spanish added an extra special stress level.
Would the cliché pregnancy phrases I had stored in my mind translate? When I said 'bun in the oven' would everyone turn to check the kitchen to see if its smoking? Would 'you're glowing,' lead to an anxious run to the bathroom to check the mirror? The only reason I ponder is because, about a year ago, when I explained to one of the nannies that my first day at work was easy, consisting mostly of the mom “showing me the ropes” she responded with a confused, “ropes??” The terror on her face said a dark, unfinished, torture basement full of ropes hanging from the ceiling flashed into her mind. Seeing as that common phrase most certainly did not translate, I had some worries.
As it turned out finding baby or pregnant body things to talk about was not an issue. I forgot that I could slip into my park persona, which is hanging out just outside of the conversations taking place with a non-stop, goofy grin on my face. Call me an optimist, but when you have no idea what's happening the best thing to do is smile. Forever. Regardless of the tone change in the conversation. No wonder these women love me, who wouldn't love the girl who is constantly smiling in such wonder like there is nothing more beautiful and fleeting in this world than the sunshine all around us?
I'm like an exchange student, which is actually pretty great because I never studied abroad in college. This is my real life immersion program. I'd be lying if I said some Spanish hasn't seeped into this English loving (literally studied English in college – a piece of information that got a huge laugh when I shared it with the nannies) brain. I know, zappatos, bano, hombre, agua, comida, puerco, cochino, sombrero. Which, unfortunately, when strung together sound like a mental patient recounting his last human interaction outside of the institution.
“shoes, bathroom, man, water, food, help, pig, nasty, hat”
Despite the language barrier, we shared a few hearty laughs, like when Gladys suggested I wear a sign that says “I don't speak Spanish.” The baby shower as a whole was equal parts wonderful, delicious (homemade tortillas... yum) and awkward. Which is fine with me because that is the balance I strive for in all of my interactions. I truly am grateful for these women, their kindness and it was genuinely very nice to be included in such an important life celebration. I left with a deeper connection to these women, a better understanding of baby showers, and an invitation to a Quinceañera for next weekend.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Cold Calling My Best Friends
I have come into a wealth of time. My nanny hours have been cut but hours in the day have not. To fill my days with activity and fill my soul with pride, I've been volunteering with the Obama campaign. When you are the occasional volunteer you are put in charge of cold-calling potential voters which combines my two least favorite things: phone calls and strangers.
Successful conversations between myself and strangers hinge on multiple variables. The environment has to be casual, open to witty banter and by no means confrontational. The interaction also has to be face to face. Not because eye contact is key; eye contact is terrifying, but because my hand gestures work as visual aides. For me. I like to think that my moving arms distract people from my uncomfortableness. It sounds like I have social anxiety. I don't. But I think we can all agree that talking to strangers about anything is terrifying.
So obviously phone calls rule out all of my preferred variables. I hate cold calling; it's never been my thing. When I was younger, my dad, in an effort to either mold me into an independent woman or sway me to stop spending his money on clothes from Land's End, would force me to call in when I wanted to order something from a catalogue. That's my first real memory of hating phone conversations. But thanks to modern technology, the internet made having to talk to those nosy and pesky Land's End employees a thing of the past! That was until now. Until I sacrificed my own personal comfort and happiness to cold-call for Obama.
Of course I encountered the classic phone quandaries; ear sweat, unintentional interruptions and awkwardly long silences, I was expecting that. But what I was not expecting was the glimpse I got into these people's personal lives. You can tell a lot about a person from even the most short and basic conversation. It does help that I have a real knack for understanding someone based on their tone and general vibe.
For example, I knew the man skeptically and urgently answering questions was hiding a criminal past. If “none of your business” isn't the answer of a felon on the run then I don't know what is.
I recognized the trembling voice, barely able to hold back tears while explaining the woman I was trying to reach had moved to Arizona, clearly belonged to a heartbroken man recently left at the altar.
The young man who happily ran through the entire survey with me only to have his friend jump on the line at the end, and scream “JK we love Romney!” beginning a loud and confusing exchange between the two of them of “Obama!”, “No, Romney!” “Gobama!” “Romney, Ryan!” was clearly drunk in the afternoon and having the time of his life.
Honestly, knowing more about these people made our conversations much easier. It humanized them. Of course, none of this information was actually verbalized and I had to use my active imagination to fill in the gaps around the bones of story their tones of voice and, to be generous, basic answers gave me. Is it possible that the felon was actually just a private man who doesn't believe his voting tendencies are anyone's business? Sure. Will I entertain the idea that the heartbroken man was not trembling with loneliness but was actually just out of breath? Maybe. Could the young drunk have been... no, he was definitely drunk and definitely having the time of his life.
As we all know, all of my (none of my) posts have a deep-seeded life lesson and this life lesson is calling strangers is much more manageable when you manipulate their lives into a tangled web of emotions for your enjoyment. I just wish I had learned this trick for the people working the phone lines Land's End.
Successful conversations between myself and strangers hinge on multiple variables. The environment has to be casual, open to witty banter and by no means confrontational. The interaction also has to be face to face. Not because eye contact is key; eye contact is terrifying, but because my hand gestures work as visual aides. For me. I like to think that my moving arms distract people from my uncomfortableness. It sounds like I have social anxiety. I don't. But I think we can all agree that talking to strangers about anything is terrifying.
So obviously phone calls rule out all of my preferred variables. I hate cold calling; it's never been my thing. When I was younger, my dad, in an effort to either mold me into an independent woman or sway me to stop spending his money on clothes from Land's End, would force me to call in when I wanted to order something from a catalogue. That's my first real memory of hating phone conversations. But thanks to modern technology, the internet made having to talk to those nosy and pesky Land's End employees a thing of the past! That was until now. Until I sacrificed my own personal comfort and happiness to cold-call for Obama.
Of course I encountered the classic phone quandaries; ear sweat, unintentional interruptions and awkwardly long silences, I was expecting that. But what I was not expecting was the glimpse I got into these people's personal lives. You can tell a lot about a person from even the most short and basic conversation. It does help that I have a real knack for understanding someone based on their tone and general vibe.
For example, I knew the man skeptically and urgently answering questions was hiding a criminal past. If “none of your business” isn't the answer of a felon on the run then I don't know what is.
I recognized the trembling voice, barely able to hold back tears while explaining the woman I was trying to reach had moved to Arizona, clearly belonged to a heartbroken man recently left at the altar.
The young man who happily ran through the entire survey with me only to have his friend jump on the line at the end, and scream “JK we love Romney!” beginning a loud and confusing exchange between the two of them of “Obama!”, “No, Romney!” “Gobama!” “Romney, Ryan!” was clearly drunk in the afternoon and having the time of his life.
Honestly, knowing more about these people made our conversations much easier. It humanized them. Of course, none of this information was actually verbalized and I had to use my active imagination to fill in the gaps around the bones of story their tones of voice and, to be generous, basic answers gave me. Is it possible that the felon was actually just a private man who doesn't believe his voting tendencies are anyone's business? Sure. Will I entertain the idea that the heartbroken man was not trembling with loneliness but was actually just out of breath? Maybe. Could the young drunk have been... no, he was definitely drunk and definitely having the time of his life.
As we all know, all of my (none of my) posts have a deep-seeded life lesson and this life lesson is calling strangers is much more manageable when you manipulate their lives into a tangled web of emotions for your enjoyment. I just wish I had learned this trick for the people working the phone lines Land's End.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Giving Me The Eye
As a person who hates telling people “how it is” and prefers telling “nothing at all” I would have pegged myself as a big fan of letting facial expressions do all the talking, but a recent interaction proved otherwise. Of course we all communicate with our eyes, eyebrows, smiles, and when the situation is not important, I have no problem with that. But the stranger involved in this situation was playing a small but incredibly lasting role on my life. And the facial expressions were just not saying enough.
On a recent flight, I sat next to a priest, which sometimes can soothe me because they are very calming people, but can also freak me out because who is more welcoming to their own death than someone who is close with God? I wasn't aware of this man praying quietly to himself the entire time we were airborne but when the plane settled smoothly on the ground, he looked me right in the eyes, nostrils slightly flared, lips gently pursed and bible tightly clutched in hand. His look was a sassy and sarcastic mix of “you're welcome” and “thanks for nothing.”
It was as if he knew I hadn't been praying like he was, as if this whole “safe flying” thing is a team effort and I had really let him down. He tried to cover it with his look of irritated disappointment, but I could tell he was secretly basking in his accomplishment of landing this plane with his prayers and his prayers alone. I could tell he wanted attention and applause for his work but instead he settled for freaking me the fuck out.
Was it all true? Is flying a team sport? Were we one “Hail Mary” off of sure death? Was there a prayer quota that has to be met in order to land safely? I have always thought of myself as a team player and I couldn't bear to be thought of as anything less. I also couldn't bear to board another plane without his man. That is the curse that comes with giving an ominous, but also incredibly revealing, stare to an over thinker with a fear of flying. Had I tricked death and was only able to live another chunk of my life until boarding another plane because of this man, because of his prayers?
I needed to know! But instead of asking him to clarify I stared at him, mouth agape, and mechanically reached for my backpack stowed under the seat in front of me. Because, turns out, I don't speak with words or facial expressions when they end in confrontation.
On a recent flight, I sat next to a priest, which sometimes can soothe me because they are very calming people, but can also freak me out because who is more welcoming to their own death than someone who is close with God? I wasn't aware of this man praying quietly to himself the entire time we were airborne but when the plane settled smoothly on the ground, he looked me right in the eyes, nostrils slightly flared, lips gently pursed and bible tightly clutched in hand. His look was a sassy and sarcastic mix of “you're welcome” and “thanks for nothing.”
It was as if he knew I hadn't been praying like he was, as if this whole “safe flying” thing is a team effort and I had really let him down. He tried to cover it with his look of irritated disappointment, but I could tell he was secretly basking in his accomplishment of landing this plane with his prayers and his prayers alone. I could tell he wanted attention and applause for his work but instead he settled for freaking me the fuck out.
Was it all true? Is flying a team sport? Were we one “Hail Mary” off of sure death? Was there a prayer quota that has to be met in order to land safely? I have always thought of myself as a team player and I couldn't bear to be thought of as anything less. I also couldn't bear to board another plane without his man. That is the curse that comes with giving an ominous, but also incredibly revealing, stare to an over thinker with a fear of flying. Had I tricked death and was only able to live another chunk of my life until boarding another plane because of this man, because of his prayers?
I needed to know! But instead of asking him to clarify I stared at him, mouth agape, and mechanically reached for my backpack stowed under the seat in front of me. Because, turns out, I don't speak with words or facial expressions when they end in confrontation.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Creep Vision
There are a lot of talents that go into being a nanny; the ability to make a gooey but unburned grilled cheese, the quick wits to change a game, mid-play, knowing it is soon to turn into a lot of effort on your part, the ability to stop a hand full of sand from ending up in someone's face before it was even an idea in the child's mind. But of all the skills, I pride myself on my dedication and concentration to spotting creepers. With the exception of people walking dogs, there is no reason for an adult to ever be at a park without a kid. Even if you are walking your dog, do so quickly; don't linger. Lingering is creepy. Lingering is alarming. Lingering is what PEDOPHILES do. I'm sorry if that seems extreme, but I don't have time to beat around the bush here, I'm mid-blog post.
While the kid I nanny is safely playing, I'm on the look out for predators around the park. When I lock in on what I believe to be a potential threat, I stare them down until they do something that proves their harmlessness, which can be any of the following:
-An adult passing through the park, talking on his cell phone (note: bluetooth is even better.) These people are distracted with business and are most likely using the outdoors to cool themselves down, clear their minds and think rationally. Who knows how many people would be fired, or how many businesses would go under if this businessman/woman did not take that call in the park? I don't like to think about it so I let them pass through freely.
-A person who does not ask the kids if they want to pet their dog, but instead waits for the kids to initiate interest. This is pretty clear. DON'T LINGER, DON'T BE A CREEPER.
-Calling “their” child by a nickname. Ie: Cam for Cameron, TyTy for Tyler, even Gracie for Grace will suffice. God help those parents who did not name their child something that is easily shortened. I will question you forever.
That last one is tricky because while I fancy myself an undercover creep specialist, monitoring the park and ridding it of suspicious patrons, in reality I am the childless woman, sitting in the shadows of trees, staring at true family moments and soaking them in like a weirdo.
It is unfortunate that my constant lookout for creepy behavior does not prevent me from doing creepy things myself. Nor does it put an end to my creepy behavior that has already begun. Instead I am much more aware of it, making me sweat and lie and question why I ever allow myself to interact with anyone, ever.
Being one of the only non-Latina nannies, I am constantly confused for the mother of the kid I nanny. While I think I am too young and young looking to have a three-year-old, and would prefer if people assumed I was an older sister or young aunt, under certain circumstances, I politely accept the assumption of mother. But the circumstances are key! I can't go around claiming to be a mother because that's weird and the reputation of 'young mother' in a beach community would really damper my chances with the professional male volleyball players prowling the area.
I have been able to categorize which situations call for me to politely accept the assumption of mother and which call for me to be honest. If the conversation is not going to extend past a one-line comment, I'm the mom. If we are going to run into each other again or have an actual conversation, I'm the nanny. For example I'm the mom when a passerby says, “your son's hair is so cute” or “your daughter's hair is so cute” (the kid I nanny has long, beach-y, golden locks and is confused for a girl just as often as I am confused for his mother.) But I'm the nanny when someone says, “I think our kids are in the same class” or “is he your only child?” or “water birth?” I let them know I am the nanny because these initiations are leading to a longer interaction or are directly personal.
I'm pretty good at recognizing early on in the interaction if I am going to give Mom responses or Nanny responses, but the one misread I had lead to a confusing, stressful, hour-long disaster.
For purposes of this post and to keep his identity a fun mystery, we'll call the kid I currently nanny 'Mitsy' because I think that's a fun name – and Mitsy is tons of fun – and because he is often confused for a girl.
Anyway, Mitsy and I were at the park in the late afternoon, which if you are familiar with my blog post (girlfight), you know to be my favorite time to be at the park. A man, probably late 60s or early 70s, walked by us with his dog and said, “he's a real climber!” referring to the fact that the Mitsy was shimmying up a random telephone pole (Hey, you gotta entertain these kids with whatever you can) Then added, “give your mom a break!” turned to me, laughed and gave me a 'boys are a real handful' head shake that suggested we were comrades of some child rearing army. In retrospect, I should have taken that look to mean we would be chatting for awhile but I didn't, my Mom response came out and the terror began.
After identifying myself as Mitsy's mother, there was no turning back. That means when he asked where Mitsy got his blonde hair and noted that it “must be from his dad” I had to find a logical origin for the golden locks because I instinctively and truthfully said that his dad had brown hair. “His grandparents,” I blurted. Then added, “I also used to have really blonde hair but grew out of it,” which is true. Maybe it was to make this facade easier on myself or make me feel better about it all, but I was seamlessly inserting truths into a HUGE lie, a convenience that did not last long.
When he started asking me about where I went to school, when I moved to LA, and what I planned on doing with my life we got dangerously close to the actuality that I could not possibly be Mitsy's mother. When I told him that yes, Mitsy was my only child, he said I “looked good for having a three-year-old” which....my body BETTER look good for having a three-year-old because I don't have a three-year-old. I couldn't take it as an insult because it was meant as a compliment; for god's sake, this guy thought I had a three-year-old! So my body must just look semi-okay for having never had kids.
I'm not totally oblivious to good choice. I'm fully aware a good choice at this point in the story would be to end the conversation and leave the park. But Mitsy would not stop playing with this dog! And unlike the power a real mother's stern voice has, mine was powerless to lure Mitsy away from this (god dammit) friendly and adorable pup.
As time passed it became more difficult to pepper my lies with truths. The whole situation was taking a mental toll on me and I could sense myself getting sloppy with my answers but I was at 100% anxiety at this point. Half of that anxiety was being focused on trying to get Mitsy to stop playing with this guy's dog so we could leave, while the other half of my anxiety was being focused on the fear that one of my bosses would show up at the park and the most uncomfortable situation imaginable would arise.
If the dad showed up, I imagined the guy saying something like, “I've been talking with your wife and your son loves my dog” or “your wife is so kind” or “your wife and I have been talking and we agree, boys are a real handful.” It would be even worse if the mom showed up. I imagined Mitsy running to her, yelling, “mommy! Mommy!” At which point I would just run the opposite way, never talk to anyone involved ever again and let them all sort out the kinks of the psychological damage I had done to Mitsy and this old man on their own.
The sun was setting, it was time to go but I was trapped in a deep and (almost) completely false conversation. I wish this man could take a HINT! The “hints” being me nervously laughing, carrying on a conversation about raising kids while internally punching him in the face. I know I should be internally punching myself in the face but I'm pretty sure this man was drinking red wine out of a thermos and was kind of weird and creepy. And as we all know, I can spot a creeper from a mile away.
While the kid I nanny is safely playing, I'm on the look out for predators around the park. When I lock in on what I believe to be a potential threat, I stare them down until they do something that proves their harmlessness, which can be any of the following:
-An adult passing through the park, talking on his cell phone (note: bluetooth is even better.) These people are distracted with business and are most likely using the outdoors to cool themselves down, clear their minds and think rationally. Who knows how many people would be fired, or how many businesses would go under if this businessman/woman did not take that call in the park? I don't like to think about it so I let them pass through freely.
-A person who does not ask the kids if they want to pet their dog, but instead waits for the kids to initiate interest. This is pretty clear. DON'T LINGER, DON'T BE A CREEPER.
-Calling “their” child by a nickname. Ie: Cam for Cameron, TyTy for Tyler, even Gracie for Grace will suffice. God help those parents who did not name their child something that is easily shortened. I will question you forever.
That last one is tricky because while I fancy myself an undercover creep specialist, monitoring the park and ridding it of suspicious patrons, in reality I am the childless woman, sitting in the shadows of trees, staring at true family moments and soaking them in like a weirdo.
It is unfortunate that my constant lookout for creepy behavior does not prevent me from doing creepy things myself. Nor does it put an end to my creepy behavior that has already begun. Instead I am much more aware of it, making me sweat and lie and question why I ever allow myself to interact with anyone, ever.
Being one of the only non-Latina nannies, I am constantly confused for the mother of the kid I nanny. While I think I am too young and young looking to have a three-year-old, and would prefer if people assumed I was an older sister or young aunt, under certain circumstances, I politely accept the assumption of mother. But the circumstances are key! I can't go around claiming to be a mother because that's weird and the reputation of 'young mother' in a beach community would really damper my chances with the professional male volleyball players prowling the area.
I have been able to categorize which situations call for me to politely accept the assumption of mother and which call for me to be honest. If the conversation is not going to extend past a one-line comment, I'm the mom. If we are going to run into each other again or have an actual conversation, I'm the nanny. For example I'm the mom when a passerby says, “your son's hair is so cute” or “your daughter's hair is so cute” (the kid I nanny has long, beach-y, golden locks and is confused for a girl just as often as I am confused for his mother.) But I'm the nanny when someone says, “I think our kids are in the same class” or “is he your only child?” or “water birth?” I let them know I am the nanny because these initiations are leading to a longer interaction or are directly personal.
I'm pretty good at recognizing early on in the interaction if I am going to give Mom responses or Nanny responses, but the one misread I had lead to a confusing, stressful, hour-long disaster.
For purposes of this post and to keep his identity a fun mystery, we'll call the kid I currently nanny 'Mitsy' because I think that's a fun name – and Mitsy is tons of fun – and because he is often confused for a girl.
Anyway, Mitsy and I were at the park in the late afternoon, which if you are familiar with my blog post (girlfight), you know to be my favorite time to be at the park. A man, probably late 60s or early 70s, walked by us with his dog and said, “he's a real climber!” referring to the fact that the Mitsy was shimmying up a random telephone pole (Hey, you gotta entertain these kids with whatever you can) Then added, “give your mom a break!” turned to me, laughed and gave me a 'boys are a real handful' head shake that suggested we were comrades of some child rearing army. In retrospect, I should have taken that look to mean we would be chatting for awhile but I didn't, my Mom response came out and the terror began.
After identifying myself as Mitsy's mother, there was no turning back. That means when he asked where Mitsy got his blonde hair and noted that it “must be from his dad” I had to find a logical origin for the golden locks because I instinctively and truthfully said that his dad had brown hair. “His grandparents,” I blurted. Then added, “I also used to have really blonde hair but grew out of it,” which is true. Maybe it was to make this facade easier on myself or make me feel better about it all, but I was seamlessly inserting truths into a HUGE lie, a convenience that did not last long.
When he started asking me about where I went to school, when I moved to LA, and what I planned on doing with my life we got dangerously close to the actuality that I could not possibly be Mitsy's mother. When I told him that yes, Mitsy was my only child, he said I “looked good for having a three-year-old” which....my body BETTER look good for having a three-year-old because I don't have a three-year-old. I couldn't take it as an insult because it was meant as a compliment; for god's sake, this guy thought I had a three-year-old! So my body must just look semi-okay for having never had kids.
I'm not totally oblivious to good choice. I'm fully aware a good choice at this point in the story would be to end the conversation and leave the park. But Mitsy would not stop playing with this dog! And unlike the power a real mother's stern voice has, mine was powerless to lure Mitsy away from this (god dammit) friendly and adorable pup.
As time passed it became more difficult to pepper my lies with truths. The whole situation was taking a mental toll on me and I could sense myself getting sloppy with my answers but I was at 100% anxiety at this point. Half of that anxiety was being focused on trying to get Mitsy to stop playing with this guy's dog so we could leave, while the other half of my anxiety was being focused on the fear that one of my bosses would show up at the park and the most uncomfortable situation imaginable would arise.
If the dad showed up, I imagined the guy saying something like, “I've been talking with your wife and your son loves my dog” or “your wife is so kind” or “your wife and I have been talking and we agree, boys are a real handful.” It would be even worse if the mom showed up. I imagined Mitsy running to her, yelling, “mommy! Mommy!” At which point I would just run the opposite way, never talk to anyone involved ever again and let them all sort out the kinks of the psychological damage I had done to Mitsy and this old man on their own.
The sun was setting, it was time to go but I was trapped in a deep and (almost) completely false conversation. I wish this man could take a HINT! The “hints” being me nervously laughing, carrying on a conversation about raising kids while internally punching him in the face. I know I should be internally punching myself in the face but I'm pretty sure this man was drinking red wine out of a thermos and was kind of weird and creepy. And as we all know, I can spot a creeper from a mile away.
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