"Rolled in from another town. Hit some gold, too hot to settle down."*

I worked for a famous person one time.

He is a musician and he actually isn’t that bad of a dude really, but his wife is THE DEVIL. He's not that great, either, to be honest.

I wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, but I was once again reading through some old Doogie Howser-style computer journal entries and this hideous, angry bile must come pouring out of me now.

I’m somewhat convinced that leaving the entries as they were originally written is the best plan. But first, I must give some background.

I was hurting for work and had spent nearly a year babysitting my good friends’ Rebecca and Marty’s children. They couldn't keep me on. So, in order to keep my ship afloat, I applied at a nanny agency (more of that later).

Long story short, the agency hooked me up with a famous musician. His much-younger wife and two (new) young children needed a nanny, and I got the job. He had a three-year-old son named Conor and a 9-month-old daughter named Sophie. (Not their real names, okay?)

During the interview, his charming wife Beth asked me if I’d be willing to travel with them when her husband went on tour. I said “Of course!”

Who doesn’t want to travel?

So there I was, one month later, all set to fly to New York with the family. First class tickets, even. But just so we're all on the same page with what went down: Lacey had her period.

The following is excerpted from my computer diary of 2009:

• All of the baggage arrives, except for mine. The man at the lost baggage counter says it got delayed during search at LAX and he will have it at JFK by the 9:15 p.m. flight. We ask him to deliver it to the Essex Hotel, Central Park South.

• In the Escalade that takes us to the hotel, Beth asks the driver to stop at Duane Reade so we can pick up some essentials. (She knows about the period situation, FYI. I told her. Twice.) They all go in, but tell me to wait in the car. I guess I’m expected to fight the driver if he decides to drive off and leave them there.

• He and I have a nice talk. I tell him I saw Shirley MacLaine on the airplane. He thinks that’s cool and tells me about some of the celebrities he’s driven. We should've taken off into the sunset together. But we didn't.
  

• When everyone files back into the car (I was hoping she'd hooked me up with some tampons; she hadn't), I help fasten Sophie, the baby, into her car seat. Apparently I buckled the seat belt wrong, because in no time, Beth is yelling at me. When I apologize, she says next time, if I don’t know what I’m doing, for god sake, ask. I don’t cry, but probably just because I’m too tired to cry.

• In the hotel room, we eat tiny little cucumber, chicken, and crab sandwiches, which were provided by the hotel, along with a butt-load of garbage (chips, pretzels, popcorn) that Beth got at Duane Reade. This is the first time Lucia (the other nanny) and I have eaten since the morning.

• My bag hasn’t arrived by 11 p.m., and we’re all going to sleep. I call the front desk and ask them if they could bring the bag the next day if it comes any later. I don't want to "disturb" anyone (Beth).

The Essex House at Central Park South.
I liken it to The Dakota in Rosemary's Baby.

• I go to sleep in the shirt I’m wearing and my underwear. Then I think better of it (it was my only pair!) and clean my underwear as best I can in the sink and hang it to dry (my Mom taught me that). I luckily remembered to pack a couple tampons in my carry on, so I’m able to change at least that.

• Sophie (who is bunking with me--god forbid Beth have to parent during the night) wakes up every single hour starting at 12:45 a.m. Oh, except for once she slept for 2.5 hours (1.45-4:15). She is up for good at 8:30 a.m. I want to die, just so I can get a little extra sleep. At one point I bang my head against the bars of her crib.

A crying baby. Not Sophie.
Sophie was actually much cuter than this.

• Beth lets me sleep until 11:30 and is mad I’m not awake earlier.

• I put on yesterday’s jeans and unfortunately, the filthy, blood-drenched underwear that I attempted to clean is not dry yet. So I stick my last panty liner right on the crotch of my jeans and cross my fingers.

• We get the kids in the double stroller and go to Central Park Zoo—I am impressed by the fact that the women’s restroom smells worse than any of the animal cages—and the animals are pretty lame, too. The most impressive sight we saw was a polar bear taking a leisurely swim.
  

• While there, I attempt to buy a tampon or pad, but the machine in the bathroom is just for show—there’s nothing in it. It looks like an abandoned building.

This is too much. If you’ve made it this far, I applaud you. And I apologize.

I will fill you in on a later post.

*ELO lyrics from "Evil Woman."

Read Evil Woman Parts II, III, IV, and V.