Right now Chuck and I are interviewing nannies to replace Oven Girl. Oven Girl gave us one week’s notice (she had to go back to school and forgot the start date??), so we’ve been scrambling. I found a great site that put me in touch with local nannies and, quite frankly, it’s been a lifesaver (no, they’re not paying me to write that…although they certainly could…hint, hint). We’ve narrowed it down to one woman and, depending on how our kiddies mesh, she’ll be the lucky lady. (She is lucky, dammit!)
In the meantime, my mother has been doing overtime at our house. And of course, having someone—especially your mother—in your house four days in a row means she is privy to aspects of your household you’d rather not get into.
Especially at work.
Like: “Your bed repair guy just left. Guess you and Charles really did a number on the brackets. Snicker, snicker. He said the screws were all loose.”
(I could lie and say we broke our bed in multiple fits of animalistic passion but, sadly, the only thing we’ve done too much is move the bed around the room.)
Or: “There’s a strange jar of green gel in the fridge. Is it…some kind of…lubricant?”
(It’s chile verde sauce. Our friends made it and left in our fridge. It’s been in there for a few, um, months and it’s solidified. If someone can tell us what to do with chile verde sauce, we’d be happy to liberate it from the jar.)
Even better: “Junior really likes to hump his stuffed toys. He must be imitating someone!”
(As far as I know, the only pumping action Junior has witnessed is canine love on “The Dog Whisperer.” Could he have watched the “Young and the Restless” with Oven Girl? I don’t doubt it.)
The best: “I didn’t know Charles had leopard print underwear!”
(I have to own up to this. We bought it when we were in Paris. It’s European, so that makes it okay. Chuck, the next time Linda does laundry, I promise I’ll make sure it’s M.I.A.)
After this week, I find myself wishing I could ask our potential nanny the questions that are really on my mind. Like, does she promise not to buy my husband a piggy bank in the shape of a sperm as a hint that she’d like us to procreate again? Does she promise not to rub her hands through my husband’s bountiful chest hair at the beach and tell him he takes her back to her “Magnum P.I.” days?
Most importantly, will she accept my family—and me—for the nutcase freaks we really are?
We come in peace, I promise.