No sooner had Chuck and I moved on from my residence in his ass than he finds out he’s not getting the pink slip—at least not this year. After.all.that. Of course, I came home from work and shared the good news with Diana, who got all teary and told me she’s so relieved because she’s never been happier nannying for someone, blah blah. She went on for a good 10 minutes. When she was done she said, “Now you know how much I like you guys. I hope you feel the same way?”
Fucking A. It hit me that in the three months she’s been in my home I have not once said, “Great job!” or “Thanks for liking my kid and my cats and my crumbling front walkway and my Mulletville neighborhood and my psychotic mother.” Not once.
The woman drives more than 45 minutes to come to my house. She brings educational toys and homemade hummus and an uncanny amount of cheese with her. She didn’t get angry when we brought her son’s gingerbread cookie man toy to Cape Cod and I accidentally spilled rum and Coke on it and changed its song from “Let’s make cookies!” to a sticky, creepy “whah smake wookieeeens.”
I like her. And I never even told her. I mean, I told her today but still, I feel like I should send her a card. Or flowers. Or a sweater made from my cat’s fur balls (it was Pablo Guero’s idea.)
Folks, if you have a nanny, put down your mouse and call the woman (or manny) and tell her how much you adore her in a nonsexual way. There should be a freaken nanny holiday. That way dipshits like me would stop for a minute and appreciate the sweet set-up they have.
I think I’ve covered my atonement for the month? Though there is that poor boy I devirginized back in ’92…oh God, and my gym teacher. And that Boy Scout.
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