Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Death Doesn't Become Her Pt. 2
(Continued from DEATH DOESN'T BECOME HER)
It is said there are only two things to which we can all count in life - death and taxes.
In my rarefied and entitled world, I have learned to count on three. Death, taxes and psychotic nannies who either threaten to kill me or themselves. I have absolutely NO Mazel with nannies.
When my husband George and I are asked to join our well-heeled friends for an intimate evening of cocktails, dinner and sparkling conversation, we covet not the sumptuous and 'daring' decor, magnificent food, or enchanting, immaculate children 'presented' to us, we stare hungrily at the beaming, underpaid nanny whose tireless efforts make such displays possible. Raised since birth on a diet of near-perfect TV nannies and mannies such as the ever-present, never-takes-a-day-off Mrs. Livingston from THE COURTSHIP OF EDDIE'S FATHER, perky, true-blue Alice from THE BRADY BUNCH, the kindly Mr. French from FAMILY AFFAIR, and even Florence from THE JEFFERSONS whose lackadaisical attitude toward work and abusive, codependent relationship with her employer were charmingly 'colorful' (no pun intended), George and I were convinced that if we looked really hard, interviewed scores of legal (and quite a few illegal) immigrants, and ran enough criminal background checks - we too would find our wisecracking, heart-of-gold nanny, who despite being ridiculously underpaid would raise our son, clean our house, cook our meals and still find time to toss out some outrageous zingers to our studio audience. Cue to the laugh track.
What we got was Maria.
Sung to the Lyrics 'Maria' from WESTSIDE STORY
The most hateful sound I've ever heard:
Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria . . .
My outrageous needs and demands go unheard
Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria . . .
I hired a girl named Maria,
And suddenly the blame
for her Zoloft-induced shame
falls To me.
I'm fucking pissed off at Maria,
For tonight I had a plan
and the bitch up and ran
away from me!
Say it loud and your blood will boil
trapped here with my son I must toil
I'll never stop loathing Maria!
The most hateful sound I ever heard.
What could poor, manically depressed Maria have done that would engender such feelings of rage, you ask? What act of underhanded treachery and unmitigated selfishness could this woman commit that would cause me to completely lose my shit? That traitorous, self-absorbed little vixen had the nerve to blow me off so that she could visit her supposedly 'sick' mother in the hospital.
"Bullshit!" I screamed into my cell phone, "Don't you know that I have reservations at Osteria Mozza - it took me two months to get that table! If you don't appear in 20 minutes NOT ONLY WILL I FIRE YOU, I WILL FUCKING RIP YOUR HEART OUT!" Maria blubbered incoherently into the phone, choked out a few incoherent Spanish words and hung up. I angrily threw my cell phone across the room and watched it disintegrate against the tile wall of the butler's pantry.
Clad in my expensive Brioni suit, I sat down on the cork floor of my tastefully decorated kitchen and burst into uncontrollable tears. I was yet again denied an evening of adult conversation and enjoyment so that I could have the pleasure of defrosting chicken nuggets for my son. As I sorrowfully sat on the hard floor, the tears coursing down my cheeks and my head between my legs, I suddenly felt a small hand on my shoulder. I glanced up to see my son looking down at me - horrified and ashamed I knew he had seen everything.
(To Be Continued)