No, I'm Not That Old

     Two Hundred Sixty-Five.
     The other day, I was working in the museum when Harry and Sara walked by. I was their children's babysitter while in my late teens, prior to me being a live-in nanny. This was in the late '70's or early '80's. Sara was walking hand in hand with Jeffrey, her grandson. Mary and Christy are now how ever old they are, early 30's? When I worked with them, they were... well, Mary was a toddler and Christie was a newborn. And now Mary is a mommy herself.
     We all never completely lost track of each other through the years, but those are separate stories. I just looked at Sara and said, "No. This isn't possible."
     She replied, "Yes, it is". 
     I attempted to explain to little Jeffrey that when his mommy was his size, I was her babysitter. He kind of understood. I understand that I'm not that old.

Those Brilliant Case Students

     Page Seventy-Six.
     One of my favorite pans is an eight inch cast iron skillet. I use it a lot, for your typical variety of things. Wanna know where I got it? The garbage. It was in the dumpster behind my building about six or seven years ago.
     It was clearly new but already had some rust stains. I thought, "why is there a new, but rusty, cast iron skillet in the garbage"?  I'll tell you my theory, though it may very likely be incorrect.
     My building is filled with Case Western Reserve University students as CWRU is just a couple blocks away. CWRU isn't easy to get into. It specializes in engineering, medicine, law, business and other difficult type things. It isn't your average liberal arts school. So, my neighbors tend to be brainy. They're also a bunch of total idiots.
     This is to say that most people age 17-22 tend to teeter on that edge anyhow. They think they know everything and there's absolutely no reasoning with them.(If you've ever known anybody aged 17-22 you'll know just exactly what I'm talking about.) So, that age bracket knows everything in the first place, then you give some of them extra brain power. They're completely unreasonable. Welcome to my neighborhood.
     I've lived in this neighborhood since 1993, when I moved out of the Shapiro's home (the family where I was the live-in nanny for eight years.) I've had four different apartments in that time: all four within a two block range. I've always been surrounded by these students as it's a built in hazard around here. I'm really quite used to it and in fact I've become friendly with many of them over the years. But, after all this time, I'm still occasionally surprised by the behavior of some of these "geniuses".
     Getting back to my favorite frying pan, I'll bet you anything that it was a gift to some little boy Case student, from Grandma, on the occasion of his first apartment. Problem was: he didn't know how to take care of it. He didn't know that you can't let cast iron air dry. So he used it one day, (I'm theorizing) then washed it with nice, hot, soapy water, then put it in the dish rack to dry. It goes rusty overnight, he freaks out and viola! it ends up in the dumpster and subsequently, my greedy little hands. It's a good pan, too. Nowadays, it's nice and jet black and nothing would dare stick to it as I've seasoned it to within an inch of it's life.
     There you go. It's only my theory, but I'll bet anything that I'm close to the truth. You wanna know some of the other tricks these brainiacs have pulled over the years? I had a downstairs neighbor not too long ago who used to practice his electric guitar at 4.30AM. The first time I went down to admonish him he was shocked that I thought there was anything inappropriate about this. Then there was the time that one neighbor thought that if she put something outside her door, it would magically disappear. She thought that little, magic fairies would take her garbage to the dumpsters. Then there was the brilliant student who let her kitchen water run all day long so her cat would always have fresh water. (This little shenanigan actually forced the management company to change the water policy for ALL the tenants in ALL their properties. No more water included in the rent.) 
     I choose to believe that these stunts aren't just symptoms of the brilliant type. I think that they're symptoms of many young, contemporary Americans who haven't been trained properly in the fine art of "Living On Your Own For The Very First Time". If you know any parents of graduating high school seniors who will be sending their spawn off to college in the autumn, please encourage them to spend the summer training them to be good tenants and neighbors. (Please forgive my soapbox.)

Proof That I'm Getting Older

     Page Fifty.
     A couple of days ago, I was in the Cleveland Museum of Art, drinking some coffee and enjoying the new additions. Our museum is almost finished with their $350,000,000 addition, after ten long years, and it's beautiful. (That's right... $350,000,000, literally, just for an addition. Kind of amazing, huh?) The Cleveland art museum has had a great reputation for decades. Well now it's even better. The new inner courtyard is one of the largest public spaces in the state of Ohio. And now there's room in the galleries for all the Van Goghs.
     (Can you imagine not having enough wall space for all your Van Gogh paintings? While I was working toward my degree in Art History, fifteen years ago, I ended up in the basement of the museum because I was studying some items not out on display. I noticed two Van Goghs hanging on pegboards in a dimly lit room. My jaw dropped when they explained, "we don't have wall space for everything".) 
     So anyhow, I'm sitting there and who walks over but my former next door neighbor when I lived with the Van Myms. I lived with them from spring '82, until summer '83 and nannied their two little girls. She informed me that the older one, who was six when I moved in, is now married and living on the East coast. The younger girl, who was three upon my entrance, is living with her boyfriend in Chicago. How old do I now feel?
     It just isn't fair! Though I would never want to be twenty again, it seems unethical of God that I would ever have nannied someone who'd now be married. Of course, this feeling is nothing new. Of the three Shapiro boys, two are married. I lived with them from summer '83 'till summer '84, and then, again, from summer '86 'till summer '93. When I moved in with them in '83 the older one was eleven and the twins were eight. Both twins are now married with children of their own. The births of their kids over the last four years have REALLY done a job on my self-esteem. I simply can't be that old. Can I? Thankfully, those boys all turned out well and both Shapiro parents have pulled me aside at different times and given me much credit for how their kids developed. That helps ease the aging process.
     But, back to the museum... The covered inner courtyard is one acre in size. It's essentially the size of a football field. Then, there are two floors of galleries that surround the courtyard on all four sides. So basically, it's a museum the size of a sports stadium with art where the seats should be. It's that big, but with architecture more beautiful than any stadium. And most stadiums aren't filled with art by: Turner, Caravaggio, Warhol, Monet, Picasso, Rodin, O'Keefe, Faberge, Renoir, Durer, Rembrandt and yes, Van Gogh. If you ever find yourself in Cleveland, Ohio stop by the art museum. Closed on Mondays, always free entrance.    

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.

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.

My Blue Mohawk

Page four.
     I was in my twenties and early thirties while living with the Shapiros (the family with the three boys whom I lived with and nannied for eight non-consecutive years.) Besides being in college, I was also beginning to explore my creative side. One of the specific areas where my creativity was quite prolific was Halloween costuming. I'd go on to win six first prizes and one second prize over the course of a dozen years for various All Hallow's Eve get-ups. The second prize was a for a costume contest that I technically never entered so it's okay that I only got second - but that's another story. The year of this particular story is 1990.
     1990 was a pretty boring year all around. I was in school, probably a senior. I was a college senior a lot, actually, but that's besides the point. I was working toward a degree in Interpersonal Communications, a last minute change from Psychology, and had already begun the testings to determine whether or not I had learning disabilities. Bush the First was in the White House. Rosanne and Jerry ruled the TV screens and in another 90 minutes Pearl Jam and Nirvana would change the world - for better or worse.
       Halloween was a Saturday that year I think. I'd predetermined that I'd take this year off from costuming just to shake things up a bit. I already had quite a reputation for my costumes and sometimes it's good to keep them guessing by doing nothing (an artistic belief I still hold to be true.) It was a beautiful, bright sunny afternoon, I remember, and all of a sudden I had a flash. Many, many years later I'd determine that when I have a flash I need to just get out of the way and go with it. I no longer question or argue with my flashes. I simply say "Yes Dear or No Dear" and accept them. This flash dictated that I should give myself a blue Mohawk and just to balance it out, wear a tuxedo. This would be a perfect, understated, last minute costume.
     Now, at the time, Mohawks were between styles. Five years earlier or fifteen years later I'd have represented some statement, pick a statement, but at the time Mohawks simply raised eyebrows. And then, with my gorgeous, vintage 1966 tux, well... when I walked into the Halloween party it stopped and just stared. Didn't win anything that year... wasn't out to. Just wanted to have fun.
     The reason for this story though was the Shapiro's reaction. That was the closest, I think, they ever came to saying ENOUGH JEREMY, NO MORE!!! In fact, a couple days later after unwittingly answering the door and greeting one of Dad's business associates blue Mohawk uncovered, I was pulled aside and given a stern talking to about how I was teetering on the border of homelessness. Even the boys, who were normally among my greatest fans weren't sure how to take this newest style. Everybody in that house breathed a great sigh the following Saturday when I shaved it off.
     With my new shaved style, entitled "Concentration Camp Victim" I looked more acceptable. The shaved look was also between styles at the time but it was still less extremist than the poor, dear, blue Mohawk. I'd go on to reference that Mohawk in a few of my history, anthropology and sociology term papers as I was struck by how differently I was treated while having it. But really, the Shapiros still bring it up occasionally as an example of "That Darn Jeremy." Golly gosh gee, they just weren't thrilled at all. But we're still friends.