#THE NANNY DIARIES PROFESSIONAL#
This is the only part of the Interview that resembles a professional exchange. "So,"shebeginsbrightly, "how didyou come totheParentsLeague?" She is clearly reeling with pleasure at my sheer Caucasianness. I awkwardly place my sweating glass of water carefully on a coaster that looks as if it could use a coaster. Shelooms above me, ramrod straightin a very uncomfortable-looking chair,legscrossed,tightsmile. She gestures me to the couch, where I promptly sink three feet into the cushions, transformed into a five-year-old dwarfed by mountainsof chintz. I am then invited into the living room, which varies from baronial splendor to EthanAlien interchangeable, depending on how "old" the money is.
She offers to take my cardigan, stares disdainfully at the hair my cat seems to have rubbed on it for goodluck,andoffersme a drink.I'm supposedto say, "Waterwouldbelovely,"butam oftentemptedto ask for a Scotch, just to see what she'd do. Even the lone finger painting I will later find taped to the fridge looks as if it were ordered from a catalog.(Sub-Zeros with acustom-colored panelaren't magnetized.) This is my first impression of the Apartment and it strikes me like a hotel suite. In themiddle is a roundtablewith a vase of flowers thatlookas if they mightdie, but never dare wilt. She ushers me into the front hall, an open space with a gleaming marble floor and mushroom-gray walls. I haven't even opened my mouth and already I'm behind. Her eyes go directly to the splot on my skirt. And it is simply impossible to imagine her doing anything so undignified as what was required to get her pregnant in thefirstplace. In seven years and umpteen interviews the I'm-mom!casual-in-my-khakis-but-intimidating-in-my-$400'shoes outfit never changes. Her hair is always straight and thin she always seems to be inhaling and never exhaling.Sheisalways wearing expensivekhaki pants, Chanelballet flats, a FrenchstripedT-shirt, and a white cardigan. win set,floralskirt,andsomeGucci-knockoffsandalsI boughtintheVillage. I seem tohavegrownstains onmyskirtduring thetrainridefrom school,butotherwise I'm pulledtogether. The dark vestibule, wallpapered in some gloomy Colefax and Fowler floral, always contains a brass umbrella stand, a horse print, and a mirror, wherein I do one last swift check of my appearance. May, in fact, have been standing there sincewe spokeonthetelephonethreedays ago. Nanny Fact: she always waits for me to ring the doorbell, even though she was buzzed by maximum security downstairs to warn of my imminent arrival and is probably standing on the other side of the door. Thewalnut-paneledcar slowlypulls me up,like a bucketin a well, toward potential solvency.As I near the appointed floor I take a deep breath the door slides open onto a small vestibule which is the portal to, at most, two apartments. No other event epitomized the job as perfectly, and it always began and ended in an elevator nicer than most NewYorkers'apartments. This initial encounter became as repetitive as religious ritual, tempting me, in the moment before the frontdoor swungopen,either tokneelandgenuflector say, "Hit it!"
#THE NANNY DIARIES MANUAL#
Подробная информация для ознакомления по текущему запросу представлена ниже:Įvery season of my nanny career kicked off with a round of interviews so surreally similar that I'd often wonder if the mothers were slipped a secret manual at the Parents League to guide them through.
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