On Cleaning A One Hundred Year Old Basement

     Page Seventeen.
     The Shapiros move to Cleveland in 1972. They moved into a large 1914 colonial with much architectural detail. (The Victorian, over-sized leaded glass windows on the landing between floors one and two are what sold Lena on the home.) They've been renovating ever since.
     Their basement has been cleaned, straightened, organized or prayed over three times since moving in: once in the '80's once in the '90's and once in the winter of 2012-13. I'll give you one guess who's done it all three times.
     The first two times it was lots of kid stuff, i.e. games and toys. Those first two times I also lived there. I spent days in the basement just cleaning and organizing. And of course, the moment I was done cleaning, there were all these boys rushing down excited about the prospect of messing it up again. Also, those two times I wasn't really allowed to throw too much stuff out. The general consensus was that old stuff could be sold or given away. Therefore, I really straightened up more than anything else. This time around it's primarily renovation materials. And I'm throwing crud out too!!!
     When I moved out in '93, I left some stuff in their basement because I saw my life as still being somewhat transitional and they didn't mind storing my extra furniture. Lena called me a couple of months ago, October, '12. "We're going to have the basement cleaned and emptied, Jeremy. Would you mind coming by and taking your things?" So, starting the following weekend, I went over and began some indoor archaeology. I took a little home and threw out a little. Within a couple of weeks my remaining pile was miniscule. Lena then informed me that the fellow who was supposed to clean the basement had hurt his back so the whole project was on hold anyhow. I have a little extra time right now so I volunteered for the job.
     Mr. Shapiro and I agreed that we could donate loads of stuff to Habitat for Humanity. I hired a friend to help me and the two of us tightly packed up a U-Haul and drove off to Habitat. They promptly turned us away, saying the stuff was too old. We then drove back home and emptied an entire 14' U-Haul onto the Shapiro tree lawn just to have the Cleveland Heights garbage men remove it all. I tell people that we drove from the Shapiro backyard to the Shapiro front yard via Lakewood, Ohio which is where Habitat is located. It was very frustrating. (If you ever want to donate anything to Habitat for Humanity, I'd suggest you call first and inquire as to whether or not they want it.)
     I'm still in the middle of this project. So far, I've found one mummified mouse. How he got mummified, I don't want to know. The basement is mostly emptied of junk, now it's primarily organizing and cleaning. But, I haven't yet tackled the work room. God help me with that one. Anything might be lurking in sawdust.
     I start my newest paid adventure in February (I'll be managing a beauty salon) so I better get a move on. 
          

Beef Stroganoff? Child's Play.

     Page Sixteen.
     I do have some kind of nerve. I'm this little pipsqueak hired to be the help and suddenly I'm destroying the party food. But I do know what I'm doing in the kitchen. Don't ask me to evaluate the food if you don't want me to answer with actions not words.
     Winter: early '83. A wonderful Salon: Alpha-Omega client who I was particularly fond of hired me to be the party help at her mother's birthday party. Jenny's husband picked me up at 5PM and they acquainted me with their beautiful Shaker Heights kitchen. (Sidebar: that home is right around the corner from where I've nannied and cooked the three little princes since February, 2011.) The Beef Stroganoff was simmering upon my arrival. I was introduced to Mom, the guest of honor, and then I was told of my duties. The party got started and I washed cups and prepared salad plates. It was a modest sit-down dinner, 20-25 or so.
     Prior to serving time is tasting time. So long about 8, the guests start filing into the kitchen to sample the Stroganoff. Everyone needs to make sure that it's just so. Everyone tastes. Everyone hems. Everyone haws. 
     "Hmm. It's good but... It just needs something. Do you know what it needs?"
     "No. I don't know what it needs. Maybe she knows what it needs."
     "No, I don't know what it needs. Could it need more of this?"
     "No. I don't think it needs more of this. I think it needs more of that."
     I'm sure that NASA didn't put as much thought into the Apollo flights as was going on in this Shaker Heights home over that Stroganoff. Finally, Jenny said "Jeremy, you know food. Will you sample this and tell us what it needs?"
     I sauntered over and tasted. You could have heard a pin drop. Didn't say a word; just took a couple of steps to my right and picked up a full but opened bottle of Robert Mandavi from the gleaming countertop. I proceeded to pour most of the bottle into the Stroganoff. I then tasted again. "It's done." I declared. Jenny was white as a ghost. She tasted again and said, "That's just what it needed. Thanks, Jeremy."
     The party proceeded, all the guests were well fed and Mom had a good time. I did a fine job and Jenny gave me a large tip. She'd hire me again and recommend me to others. I was a little pipsqueak, but I do know food.

Spanky

     Page Fifteen.
     The Shapiro twins, Scoot and Skedaddle, had a best friend, Spanky, who lived down the street. Spanky was a darling blonde boy who may as well have been a fourth son in our house for all the time he spent over. Spanky had an older brother whom I really didn't know but his parents and I were quite friendly.
     When Spanky and the twins were in about the tenth or eleventh grade I received a phone call from his mom. "Jeremy, would you consider staying with Spanky for a couple of weeks, next month, while we go away on a trip?" Seems that Stephanie had already called Lena Shapiro to make sure it would be okay to steal me for a couple of weeks. They'd agreed that I could sleep over Spanky's and tuck him into bed at night no problemo. The only complications on the Shapiro end would be when I had to do my usual things back at their ranch: the family laundry and light house-keeping, both of which they felt could be done anytime during the day; and feeding the boys on Mondays and Thursdays which I could do as usual and simply tow Spanky along.
     Stephanie further explained that I was the "compromise." Spanky didn't think he needed any old, stupid babysitter as he was 16 or 17 years old. Parents disagreed. Gee, I wonder why? So in the middle of the ensuing fight, my name somehow came up as being a possibility. I was a responsible adult(!?!?), which made Parents happy but yet I was somebody whom Spanky was quite fond of and whom he knew he could have fun with. After we made all the arrangements, I realized how much I'd enjoy the extra cash.
     It was a very pleasant two weeks. I'd never been in so many sections of their home before and marveled at their furnishings, art and decor. I also got paid to eat their food and watch their TV. Spanky and I had some quality time together which I still remember fondly. My only boo-boo was on a Sunday afternoon.
     We'd agreed that this particular Sunday would be date night and we planned to go out to a buffet place and chow down. Well, this would be when I'd learn that Mother's Day is the busiest restaurant day of the year. I simply didn't know. We went to a variety of joints only to be told of the 90 minute waits in each. Neither of us were up for that so I cooked and we went out another night before my stay was over.
     Actually, I'll guess we're talking spring of '91 here. So the boys would all have been finishing the tenth grade. I haven't seen Spanky since Scoot's wedding (2006?) But we're friends on Facebook. He's an elementary school teacher now and has a wife and a couple of kids. I think he's very happy. Stephanie and Mick sold the house after he graduated and built something new and contemporary way out east in Aurora, Ohio. I was invited there once for dinner and a tour. Then they sold that and retired to Nantucket. They'd always had a second home there for summertime. But they sold that and bought a compound where they now live year 'round. They were an exceedingly pleasant and charming family. 

Breast Cancer

     Page Fourteen.
     Late autumn of '08....
     My oldest sister spent a lot of time with the Stones when she was a teen. They lived a mile away, had a ton of kids and Mom was into dance. My sister, Louise*, was very good school friends with two of the daughters and had dance in common with Mom. So from the early 1960's, the Stone's home was one of Louise's homes as well. The Stone girls also spent a certain amount of time at our place. Which means that they saw me in diapers. (My diapers were always hanging somewhere around my knees according to EVERYBODY.)  
     Through word of mouth (which means it's a separate story) one of those daughters called me in autumn of '08 to help her and her family. Shawna had recently been diagnosed with Breast Cancer, was a full-time pediatrician, had three kids - two still at home, a non-emotional husband, a cat and a cluttered house. She felt that if she had some help with dinner and the girls it would give her a break so she could enjoy her life. She certainly knew my family and had been updated to my current resume. So, she called me and explained the situation.
     About two or three months after I started, she went in for her surgery. She'd decided to have a double mastectomy even though the ca wasn't that advanced. She felt that with her family history it was better to be safe than sorry so she took the radical step.
     Perhaps two days after arriving home, we were standing in the kitchen, talking about the procedure. Now, let me remind you, she had vivid memories of my naked two year old body Also, she was ten years older than me, so in her mind I was an old friend, regardless of the fact that I had no old memories of her. Additionally, anyone who has any number of conversations with me will eventually pick up on the fact that I have an aptitude for and high comfort level with medicine, simplistic and uneducated as it is. So midway through our conversation, she unbuttons her blouse to show me all her bandages.
     I've seen a lot over the years. I worked in the hospital and saw many bandages, wounds and various states of black & blue. But I simply wasn't prepared for her to show me what she showed me. And I guess my expression illustrated my discomfort. She immediately said, "I shouldn't have shown you my bandages, should I've, Jeremy?"
     "I just wasn't prepared."
     "I understand." With that, she buttoned back up and we continued our conversation.
     I've always felt bad that I was perhaps inappropriately uncomfortable. I certainly always try to be as supportive and empathetic as I can be to anyone who's having medical problems of any nature. It just took me by surprise. I'm positive that my discomfort was absolutely nothing compared to her discomfort, fear, anger anxiety, etc.
     It's now four years later. I saw her at temple recently and she's doing great. Just a couple more years 'till she retires. She said she's counting down the months. She wants to travel.


     *Incidentally, all names in these blogs are fake except my own. I do this to protect the guilty. Everyone knows my guilt so I don't need protecting. 

Fish Out Of Water

     Page Thirteen.
     Age nineteen saw me get my first job as a hairdresser. It was '81. Through connections I ended up working at a salon named Salon: Alpha-Omega. It was located in Rocky River, a far west side Cleveland suburb with a predominately well-to-do population. It's a very white, conservative and rigid community. It's also quite beautiful. I've always lived in Cleveland Heights, still do. CH is an inner ring east side community with a long history of Judaism and heavy racial integration. River has some stunning homes and property which juxtapose Lake Erie. CH has many neighborhoods with 5000 plus square foot homes, many reach 10,000. Both cities were developed during the Jazz Age. Culturally, they have nothing in common. Alpha-Omega was getting ready to open up a new east side salon in CH and hired me to work in the new location, once I was through with my apprenticeship, that is.
     I grew up in an old world home. My father came over on the boat and my mother had somewhat conservative beliefs. I grew up in a middle class environment but under no circumstances was it one which might be described as "Prosperous-Jewish-Consumerist," if you know what I mean. Retail therapy didn't exist, nor household bells and whistles. My particular Cleveland Heights neighborhood was very modest. It was just normal working people. Many of the upper-middle class Jewish families who settled in Cleveland Heights during the forties and fifties moved farther east to Beachwood in the sixties.
     Alpha-Omega catered to Cleveland's elite. The owners didn't care if it was rich west-siders or rich east-siders, just so long as they were in the social register. I started in July of '81 and the new salon opened in November of '81. (I took the bus to River everyday: two hours commute.) At the time of the new location's opening we were considered by Clairol International to be one of the three best salons in Cleveland with the other two in Beachwood. We were for the rich Wasps and Cleveland Heights and neighboring Shaker Heights had busloads of 'em.
     In spring of '82 I moved in with The Van Myms: ubber Wasps. Their family name is well known to American History buffs, general movers and shakers and various other blue bloods. I was the live-in nanny to people who were related to names which are American household words, in fact I met some of those people. Mrs. Van Mym, Amanda, told me that she recognized me from the salon when we first met. The VM's had one of those large houses in one of those extraordinary neighborhoods. Our next door neighbors had to have had 7000 square feet of 1925 ultra-luxury. We weren't far behind.
     I had to acclimate to living with and servicing great wealth. It was weird. Home and work were filled with people who I'd only read about. That's an element to both of those industries that receives far too little attention. Sociologically, I was fascinated. Talk about "Gorillas In The Mist?" This was the REAL DEAL. I truly was an outsider, but the level of kindness shown me, in both arenas was generally so great that I didn't feel as alienated as I realize today I was. They were saints actually. Admittedly, my basic personality is colorful enough and gracious enough that it carried me. Though I was so young and naive I could've made PeeWee Herman look like the host of Masterpiece Theater.
     As the years would progress, I would be grateful for so much of what I learned in those environments. Many of my vocational and avocational endeavors over the years have brought me into contact with people similar to those whom I met in the early-mid '80's. In fact, many people have mentioned to me that I behave like someone who's been around (and not in the bad way.) And they've been saying that since the '80's. They wouldn't believe how much of my apparently cultured background is really post-childhood.

Boys Or Girls: Who's Easier

     Page Twelve.
     I've Nannied eight boys and seven girls divided between six families during my adult years. Boys are easier. Now, off course, there are exceptions, but generally I've had closer relationships with the boys.
     When teenaged boys get angry and frustrated they say, "I HATE YOU!!! GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU DID THIS AND YOU DID THAT! JEREMY, WHY ARE YOU SUCH AN ASSHOLE?!?!?"
     When teenaged girls get angry and frustrated they say, "I'm busy."
     Boys are surprisingly more communicative than girls. At least that's been my experience anyhow. Again, there are exceptions, but generally this is what I've encountered. I know this goes against the stereotype of males being non-emotional and non-talkative. But I'm telling you that while boys are screaming and yelling they will in fact say why they are upset. Girls don't scream and yell in real life as much as they do in sit-coms either.
     It goes without saying, but I'll say it anyhow, that a male Nanny is going to throw a difficult to evaluate variable into the equation. How much of the childrens' reactions really is simply because I'm a guy? I'm also a non-traditional guy. These blogs are not being written by the Brady's Alice nor are they being written by "Chachi in Charge." I'm overly creative and overly nurturing, much more so than even the average person with a vagina, let alone one with a penis.
     Also, all of the moms of boys who I've worked for have told me that their boys are picky and emotional. The Shapiro boys took to me INSTANTLY and it wasn't 'till twenty years later that I found out they weren't like that with everybody. The two preteen boys who I recently watched for a few years had a long history of crying at the drop of a hat. And the three princes who I currently attempt to control would scare away Eliot Ness for all their emotional antics. (God help me when they hit puberty.)
     So clearly I'm given boys who are "special' but I'm "special." The six girls on the other hand were mostly very average. So perhaps I'm just seeing particularly nutty boys and they, by definition, will be more communicative. I can only speak from my experience.
     But then again, there are my nieces and nephews too. Of my six hundred nieces and nephews I've had close contact with four nephews and two nieces while they were growing up. And even there I'd say that the boys were mostly more communicative while raging than the girls. I still say that boys will say WHY they're upset more often than girls when in the middle of a tantrum. And if somebody actually listens, which I try to do, they'll be able to get into the brain more effectively.
     I've also primarily dealt with children from somewhat wealthier than average families, including my nieces and nephews. Additionally, the households I've worked for have mostly struck me as reasonably functional, sort of, somewhat, kind of, a little. Does this type of home produce a boy who's more sensitive and communicative? Or, really, is it me? You know, I could ponder these issues for pages. But I'm getting hungry so I'm going to stop and make my breakfast. Bye.

My First Caviar

     Page Eleven.
     I've been doing odd jobs since before I was born. I'm sure in one of my last lives I was a general contractor. In another past life I was a fix-it man like Emmett from the Andy Griffith Show. I also had to have been a bartender, a caterer, Doctor Doolittle, Florence Nightingale and Mary Poppins.
     The name Jeremy Gutow began floating around Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights by the early-mid 80's as a soul who'd do anything for money. One day in November of 1987, I think, I received a phone call from a couple who lived a few blocks away. I don't remember from whom they got my name, it could have been a bathroom wall for all I know. They were having a Christmas party in a few weeks and wanted to hire me to be the party help. I'd keep the place tidy, help with the bar, stock the chips, keep the fireplace going - all the usual things. Ho hum... what a challenge. "Sure," I said.
     The husband picked me up in his BMW at the scheduled time and we drove the 5-6 blocks to the very gracious home which was slightly modest by Cleveland Heights standards. I met his wife, both were youngish and attractive. I don't remember now what they did professionally. No children.
     Let me back up slightly, I over-scheduled myself that day. I didn't have time to eat dinner and went to the party starving to death. That's a no-no, especially when talking about my appetite. My appetite is a book unto itself, a simple blog could not do it justice. And my appetite during the '80's was just over the top. I've since learned to manage it to a certain degree, though it's still rough. I've never been heavy though. Only since about 2005 have I begun filling out. I was positively skinny for my first four and a half decades. But brother did I eat. So I go to this party, where I'm the "help," starving to death.
     As they were showing me around, I noticed a large bowl that had a black mountain in it. I kid you not, they shipped Mt. Everest into their dining room and placed it in a bowl. I inquired, (I couldn't help myself.) "That's our caviar for the party. Please try some."
     I PROMISE YOU, THEY TOLD ME I COULD HAVE SOME!!! really, they did. So I had some, and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more. But then, I stopped. By the time the party was over, I probably ate half the mountain. They otherwise seemed please with my job, paid me and drove me back home. But they never called me back to help them again. Don't know why, just can't imagine.
     That was my first time eating caviar. Boy does that stuff go down easy. Whew, it's good.
     I've only made that mistake once. Never again did I go to a party starving, even a party where I was a guest. I'll go hungry, but I avoid arriving ravenous. I'm too rude when I'm hungry. Oy!
     Nowadays, when I'm offered the occasional help job, I'm considered extremely good at being the help. (I better be good, it's about sixteen notches beneath my current professional level.) I will munch while working too. I know that's considered somewhat unprofessional, but I figure anybody who hires me has already heard about my work habits and appetite so they know what to expect. It's almost like I'd be disappointing them if I didn't munch. Plus the fact, everybody knows I'm a private chef, so they all want me to sample their wares anyhow. It works out. But I'll NEVER forget that mountain of caviar, really, I won't. It was sooooooo good. 

On Becoming An Activities Professional

     Page Ten.
     As somebody who gets bored easily, I tend to collect professions, and education.
     In the summer of 1998 I'd just finished school... again. This time with a B.A. (my second) in Art History. I enjoyed learning about Art History very much and found it a useful tool. With it, I imagined, I'd be the perfect party guest. With my first B.A. (Interpersonal Communications) I learned to speak with almost anyone. Now with this second degree I had something to speak about. After all, just about everybody likes art, right? So my two degrees prepared me to be a great dinner party conversationalist. I was thrilled.
     Dinner party conversationalists can get paid a lot of money too, if they attend the right parties. Therein lies the problem. I didn't attend the right parties. So I became a hairdresser.
     I've been a licensed hairdoer since 1981 and occasionally find myself actually doing hair. Such was the case in the summer of '98 after graduating. It was really a case of "nothing else to do, so I'll go do hair."
     That particular salon, the one where I worked from summer '98 to summer '99, is a separate story; but come spring of '99 I was getting antsy.I really wasn't looking to leave, but I was getting bored; I simply needed some additional incentive to wake up in the morning. In one of my "flashes of inspiration" I decided to go to a hospital near my home and start volunteering. Innocent enough, right?
     So I called University Hospitals of Cleveland which is four blocks closer to me than the Cleveland Clinic and asked to speak with their volunteer department. I introduced myself very politely and explained that I'd like to volunteer to do arts & crafts with the sick children at Rainbow Babies and Children's Hospital. The Nice Lady and I  talked for a little while and the Nice Lady explained that that wasn't a volunteer position. However as it happened, on the prior day there was a resignation in the Hanna House Activities Department. Hanna House was U. H.'s post-operative step down or recuperation hospital, she explained. It was primarily geriatric and had a very quick turnover of residents (patients). The average stay was 12-14 days 'cause most people were simply there after receiving their new knees or hips. Some residents were there for other various and sundry medical experiments; new heads, new souls, etc. but really it was a lot of hips and knees.
     Activities Professionals are the cruise directors of the hospital she explained. They're the people who provide the cherry smiles, the Bingo boards, the radios and the parties and by law they must be in every nursing facility. Hanna House's licensing was technically that of a nursing facility. She though I should apply for the job and transferred me over.
     I left a message on Miss Leigh's voice mail explaining my situation. She called me back and I went in for an interview the next week. The interview went pleasantly but she explained that the job wasn't even posted yet, so the situation needed to be handled with proper protocol. Before Miss Leigh could make any decision, the job availability needed to go out to all hospital staff and she had to interview anyone interested. About four or five weeks later, Miss Leigh called me back and offered me the part-time job. She explained that I would start the second week of July so I could be scheduled for the proper orientation. All in all, from my first innocent phone call to the volunteer department to my first day working at Hanna House it was about twelve weeks.  
      I was really quite nervous about working in that environment. During the twelve weeks of forced contemplation, I thought a lot about this potential career change. I certainly had experience with elderly, Lord knows, but not in a hospital - such an official capacity! Also, my professional experience was with people who primarily required companionship, not outright care. But I didn't let Miss Leigh know of my serious concerns. After all, I collect experiences and stories. I love to live on the edge and challenge myself.  I wasn't going to let a potential new boss know that I was scared to death to actually receive the job that I was applying for.
     So that's how I started in the activities field. It was totally out of left field. But basically the profession was a good fit. It took advantage of many of my strengths. I don't know that I'll ever go back into it, but I also know that if I ever try to predict and bet where my life's path will wind, I'm guaranteed to loose my investment.  

The O'Malleys

     Page Nine.
     While a teenager, I was not what I'd call a great baby-sitter. I must've done something right though, I sure got the jobs. There was one family in particular, the O'Malleys, who used me a lot, a REAL lot. I won't get into the entire story but I would like to talk about their dog, Irene.
     Irene was a black Labrador and an absolute dear as most Labs are. But she had a lot of nightmares. Very often I would see her start to quiver and gently shake while making soft whining noises when she was asleep. This would sometimes happen over and over in the same evening. I would then go over and as gently as possible wake her up. I'd wake her by softly whispering her name and gently stroking her back. After a moment or two she'd gradually open her eyes, see me, wag her tail and smile. She'd then be fine until the next one. I've always just assumed that they were nightmares, anyhow. She's the only dog I've ever known who did this. And, I've done a lot of dog-sitting over the years, you just don't know.
     The O'Malley home was one screwed up household. I knew it then and I know it today. If the dog was having nightmares just imagine how the four children felt. Two alcoholic parents can do a lot of damage.

Christmas Morning

     Page Eight.
     Only once in my life have I woken up and celebrated Christmas like a stereotypical Christian, as in: went downstairs wearing my pj's and opened up gifts with children.
     It must have been 1988. I was live-in Nanny to the Shapiros and usually they went out of town skiing for the holidays. For some reason though, that year they opted to stay home. It would be the only winter break in all the years I'd live with them that they would stay in Cleveland. (Side bar here: Dad was Jewish, hence the last name Shapiro, but Mom wasn't. The kids were not raised with any religion at all.)
     Every year they put up a beautiful Christmas tree by the fourth or fifth and I always helped them decorate, this year was no exception. We also bought each other gifts every year. But again, under normal circumstances I would exchange gifts with them after they got back from the slopes, typically around the first. And even this year, I was expecting nothing special on Christmas morning.
     I was going though a "Thing" at this point in my life. I attended midnight mass every year up at Saint Ann's Church over on Coventry Road. I must have done that every year for about a decade including '88 so I'm sure I was fast asleep by 2.AM by golly. Imagine my surprise when Scoot, one of the thirteen year old twins, appeared in my doorway at 7.AM the next day, woke me up and ordered me to get downstairs so he could open his presents. Now-a-days I could actually survive on five hours of sleep. In '88 I had to have AT LEAST nine or ten. I wasn't sure what he was talking about so he simply repeated himself, only louder and more obnoxiously, the way only a teenaged boy can do. I just wasn't expecting it.
     I ejected him from my room, equally obnoxiously I'm sure, but told him I'd be down in a few. He screamed at me to hurry. Once downstairs, coffee in hand, I gradually came to. I realized that as far as they were concerned, I was a member of the house-hold so I would, of course, join them in a traditional, old fashioned secular gift orgy. I really don't remember what I got them that year. But I do remember a couple things they got me: some rock 'n roll mags and some sunglasses with windshield wipers. I think my big gift was a gift certificate for rock concert tickets. (At the time I was one of those degenerate rock 'n roll whippersnappers.)  
     After gift exchange and breakfast, which I didn't have to make thank the baby Jesus, I went back to sleep and proceeded with my existence. But, I can always say that once in my life I actually contributed to a pre-breakfast, Christmas day legacy: creating mountains of gift wrap landfill. That memory is quite valuable to me.

Tater Tots

     Page Seven.
     What would the current world situation be if not for the invention of Tater Tots? I think that Tater Tots have much more to do with the current global economy, the split of the two Koreas and Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby" than we may realize.
     Taters were invented in the early 1950's and gradually gained in popularity until they became a pop culture staple by about the 70's or so. I ate my first one while in my twenties as my family did frozen french fries but not frozen tots. I prepared my first batch while being a live-in Nanny for the Shapiro boys, then I subsequently ate said Tot. They are one of the tastier imitation foods out there, I will admit. And as far as it goes, there isn't TOO much plastic involved in their production, it could be far worse.
     I first heard about the "Tot Casserole" in 2005 while at a convention for Activities Professionals. Some women at my table were talking about different versions of the casserole and I was stunned by the concept. Brown some ground beef and dump it in a casserole. Then pour on some Cream of Anything soup. Then pour on a bag of Tots. Finally, slice up some Velveeta and lay that on top. Shove the whole mess in the oven and bake till dead. This concept goes against everything I stand for as a private chef. Now honestly, I LOVE white trash food, I really do, and I recognize its necessary place in the world, but the Tot Casserole doesn't even sound good. Perhaps it's just me.
     While out with friends the other night, we ended up at a nice bar/restaurant here in Cleveland Heights, the rather sophisticated Cleveland suburb in which I reside. On the menu, this place has Tater Tots listed as their potato accompaniment instead of fries. They actually used the words Tater Tots which I'm positive are trademarked. I simply couldn't believe that. Upon research I discovered that some fast food joints also serve the Tot, but this was no fast food spot. So this place actually cooks a handful of real Tots and then charges five bucks for it; they make no false claims that these things are anything other than Tots which in the store are $3.59 a bag. What a fabulous way to get rich.
     We all know that Napoleon Dynamite is a fan of the tot. but he doesn't like them mashed.
     At a personal chef job I once had, I was occasionally asked to make real, home-made Tater Tots, as in: from scratch. They were the types of things my great grandmother might recognize as food, and they were pretty good too. They were a little bit of a hassle and slightly time consuming to prepare but they were quite tasty and well worth the time. (Actually, they were scrumpdelicious.) When I saw the restaurant menu the other day, I was expecting this to be the fare offered, but no. Real live honest to God Tots were on the plates. Whatever.
     So you see my friends, the evidence suggests that indeed Tater Tots are in fact partially responsible for Vanilla Ice's rise and fall. Nasa is still trying to discover if Tots have anything to do with Black Holes and Quasars.

I Was A Male Nanny!

     Page Six.
     Boy were they surprised! The Van Myms I mean. When they posted their room available in exchange for child-care I'm sure it didn't occur to them at all that a male would inquire.
     When I was very young and then again, during my teen years, my parents rented out spare bedrooms to get extra cash. We lived between two colleges, Case Western Reserve University and John Carroll University so we simply posted at the universities and subsequently had many students living with us. In the spring of 1982 when it was time for me to move out (age 20) I knew to check the colleges for off-campus living, a venue that most young people didn't know about. At Case I saw this posting for free living quarters and food in exchange for weekly Nanny care, once-a-week dinner prep and weekly laundry. I thought, "I can do that." And, I could. Trick was to convince this family in question. So, when she answered the phone and I explained who and what I was she said, "You? You're interested in being our live-in Nanny?"
     "Yes'm. Poor Little Ole' Me." As she recuperated from her initial shock and gave me the quick phone interview, she realized that I wasn't a novelty act. I'd been baby-sitting heavily since a young teen, I'd been cooking since age four and I'd been doing my own laundry since age seven. Nobody, but nobody, would make this stuff up. She explained that she and her husband both worked long hours, she was a pediatrician and he was an investment counselor and they had two daughters, ages three and six. The girls had a regular day-care but there were a couple of holes in the household that needed coverage: Friday night baby-sitting, family dinner on Wednesdays and never-ending laundry. The parents' work schedule simply couldn't maneuver around those chasms. "No problemo." I said. "Bring it on." 
     When I went to meet them some days later after they'd all gotten over their initial trepidation, she realized what a Jewish Mother I am. (She'd tell me that many months later.) Though the household was ultra-ULTRA-UUUUUULTRAAAAAA Protestant they knew the value of Jewish mothering. She also very quickly realized the value of non-traditional role models. (She'd tell me that many months later also.) So I moved in.
     About a month after moving in they took away my eating rights because they realized that my appetite would force them each to ask for raises. (Ahhhh... the Golden Days of my appetite. But that's a separate story.) At about the same time though, they let me start using their spare car on Saturday nights. So it was an even trade I thought. The situation would ultimately end up being mostly wonderful. It lasted until late summer of 1983 when they moved. When daughter #2 found out that I wouldn't be moving with them she cried and carried on. Also, a few times over the year and a half of my stay, daughters occasionally called me Daddy. That concerned the parents but they told me they preferred that response from their kids as opposed to the opposite. ("I don't have to listen to you. You're not my Daddy! I don't even like you!!!")
     Sadly, I haven't stayed in touch with them over the years. But Cleveland is a small town. I hear things. They'd eventually get divorced and Dad's now remarried with another child. Both daughters are well I think and Mom knows how to take care of herself. In fact, Mom is considered one of Cleveland's finest Pediatricians according to our local press. I'm incredibly grateful for the experience of being their live-in Nanny. It set me on a fantastic path.  

Denial

     Page Five.
     I've done a lot of elder care in addition to child care over the years. In 1998, I was hired to be a companion to a gentleman who wasn't old, only mid-sixties, but who had a bad form of Parkinson's. I forget the exact name of his type, but it really eats away at the brain and causes severe dementia as well as the typical shakiness. He was a retired psychologist and his wife was a geriatric researcher of some type. They were quite pleasant and hired me on as she realized more and more that she didn't want him home alone while she worked full time.
     After a couple of months though, I was getting nervous because whenever he and I went out, he drove. He turned in front of oncoming traffic and made other such boo-boos that I felt endangered our safety. These boo-boos happened a few times over the course of some weeks before I finally mentioned them to his wife. She told me that she would talk with him. The next day she called me back to say that he didn't know what I was talking about and that he was going to continue driving when we were together. She said further that she trusted him and I should just calm down. I was stunned that she would take that stand, but as I needed the money I decided to keep my mouth shut and pray deeply whenever we drove together. That job wouldn't last long, only a couple more months, this was just as well.
     Some years later, I'd be the Activities Coordinator for two dementia units in a fancy shmancy nursing home. I would come to realize where this wife was coming from. She came from a land called Denial. Denial is a wonderful and effective defense mechanism some people employ when they simply can't cope with reality.Whether it's the reality of a husband's dementia, a son's drug problem or a mother's terminal cancer it protects us from terrible pain. Problem is, in the long run it ends up causing more problems than it solves. It prevents healthy decision making and proper treatment plans from being introduced into the life of the loved one in question.
     In the nursing home we once had a family move their mom onto my unit and we were given the standard "Mom's forgetful" as the forms were being filled out. Turns out that Mom was so advanced in her dementia that she'd forgotten how to feed herself. Whom did this family think they were going to fool? (They were really trying to fool themselves.) At the end of the first day, Mom was transferred to a different unit where she could be cared for properly, and family had to endure a double trauma: placing Mom in a nursing home and then receiving a phone call saying Mom was much more advanced than they realized. I would implore anybody with a demented loved one to be as honest as they possibly can be about the situation, painful as it may be. In these situations, family denial really can make it worse.