Those Pesky Bills

     Page Two Hundred Forty.
     So the new job at the museum is going well. The pay is quite questionable but the job is really great (3 weeks in anyhow). I feel valued and like I'm in my element. It's kind of weird how many people walk in whom I know. Probably 4-6 people per week appear and say, "Jeremy, what in the world are you doing here? When did you start working here?" And then we chat for a while. Or, I simply start talking with customers about absolutely nothing. Being on the sales staff at the museum store, I guess I'm fulfilling my job duties (but really, I'm just talking and talking and talking.) I feel good about it and think that down the road, there's the possibility of a move to another department with more hours, responsibility and money. Optimism is in the air on that front.
     (I know that retail has a bad reputation because customers are considered meanies by store clerks. But on my first day my boss pointed out that at the museum customers are happy because they're all on mini vacations. Really, our clientele appear to have all taken many anti-depressants prior to arriving in the store.)
     At the beauty salon however, things are unfortunate. In moving locations, February, '13, we lost about 60% of our clients. (I came on board as the salon manager the day we opened in the new location.) I'm afraid that we've continued to have a variety of other issues, i.e. staffing, marketing/advertising and so forth. I'm thinking that it won't be wise for me to stick around too much longer as the earlier someone got off the Titanic the safer they were. (If Jack and Rose had jumped into a lifeboat, they might still be alive today.) The owner of the salon is a long time friend. But really, sometimes you simply have to pay bills.
   Which brings up the question: okay.. so what now? I'm someone who's notorious for constantly throwing many darts at various boards and just through the law of averages some darts hit. I'm also better at juggling multiple part-time jobs than working one at 40 hours. Right now, I'm stoking the fires on 5 or 6 completely unrelated job opportunities, hoping that they'll net some income in a year or two. But in the meantime, gotta pay those bills somehow...
     I've decided to start listing myself on a national nanny service website (Care.com). I've always been hesitant to do that as "word of mouth" is my close friend. But I LOVE nannying and cooking for kids and their parents and the phone simply isn't ringing right now. That phone got my bills paid sufficiently from 2006 when I left the nursing home industry until 2013. But right now... nothing. Notta. So I guess I need to get aggressive and proactive.
     The reason I've always preferred word of mouth is because I'm a male and historically that does throw people, let's be honest. When I was a live-in nanny for the two different families from '82-'84 then again from '86-93 it positively shocked people. And the only job I went after initially was the first one in '82. But that family, who's blood was bluer than the Danube, by the way, were amused by this guy who responded to their ad and the rest is history*. There are many more male child-care workers nowadays which I find refreshing. But there is still a certain amount of eyebrow raising that goes on and subsequently I do feel a bit uncomfortable.
     I'm not a child molester, I promise.
     And that's really what it comes down to. I will corrupt, Lord knows. I'll teach a 6 year old poker, I'll show a 9 year old how to sneak candy into a movie theater, I'll tell many stories about diarrhea and I'll disregard bedtimes, but that's about the caliber of my naughtiness.Nothing worse.
     So... wish me luck as I attempt to find a new part-time nanny position. Unless the phone rings of it's own volition.
    

     *I met the first family in spring '82 through an ad I saw at the off-campus housing bureau of Case Western Reserve. Later that summer I distributed 400 flyers in local front doors advertising myself to do odd jobs. One job I received that autumn was babysitting a family with 3 boys on the next street over. They invited me to move in, an invitation I declined because I was already taken. In mid-'83, the first family told me they'd sold the house and were moving. I then called that second family and moved in with them, staying a year 'till August '84. I proceeded to live in another situation for two years while working full-time doing hair. When I decided to resume college in '86, I moved back in with the boys and stayed 'till the twins graduated and were off to college, a year after I graduated. (I had to have been the world's first live-in nanny.) The End. 

Feeding A Fifteen Year Old Update #4

     Page One Hundred Sixty-Eight.
     Well, the kid is back in my life.
     Just to get you all up to speed, last summer, June of 2013, I was hired for a short-term gig cooking for a 15 year old boy a couple of times per week. Shem lost both of his parents a couple years ago to drugs and alcohol. He was taken in by his mother's best friend and promptly began acting up. He's a particularly charming and kind-hearted kid but, predictably, very angry. The area where he consistently acted out the most was food. The Foster mom, Deb, is an older women and former hippie who's single, vegetarian and admittedly no kind of cook. All the kid's food would become take-out or frozen. To be sure, it was good quality, but no kind of home-cooking. And home cooking is what he really craved. When the parents were sober they were apparently good cooks, especially the dad. The kid has euphoric memories of that food and romanticizes it. So, of all the things for him to raise hell about with Deb, it's food. (For the complete back story on this situation, you can read my blog: pages 97; 98; 99; 106 and 125 if desired.)
     So last June, Deb called me. We're long-time acquaintances but she didn't realize until talking with some mutual friends that this type of job is right up my alley. I proceeded to cook for him a few times per week until he left for summer camp a month later. We had a shaky start but but then became good pals. After returning from camp, he moved in with one of his two older brothers. The oldest is in and out of jail; he's very much duplicating the pattern of their parents. Middle brother lives with his girlfriend one building away from Deb. He's in mostly good shape. He's in school studying pre-law and is reasonably stable. So the kid moved in with him long-term. Yeah, right.
     Older brother didn't put up with the kid's crap. Also, girlfriend's younger brother lived with them as well. (I don't know that story. Some things are just none of my business. But I'll probably eventually hear it anyhow.) So it was one crowded apartment, and filled with two teenage boys and two very young twenty-somethings to boot. Golly gosh gee, how homey and cozy! So the kid wanted to move back in with Deb which he did last month. But she put her foot down and changed some of the rules. He's mostly been abiding by the new constitution but still raises hell about the food. Deb never phoned me because she thought that I was busy with other gigs, particularly the family for whom I cooked and nannied during the last few years. She didn't realize that they didn't resume me after their boys got back from summer camp this last autumn.
     So I had a holiday gathering last weekend and invited Deb. We got to talking and so forth. Long story short, she phoned me this morning after speaking with the kid and wants to rehire me long-term, four days per week.
     This 15 year old kid is going to have his own personal chef making his dinners and school lunches. Must be nice.
     The fact is, It'll be good for him and me. I have EXTENSIVE experience working with troubled and at-risk youth and he did come to trust me and told me so. He consistently refuses counseling which the school and Deb are not happy about at all. Yet, he did tell me a certain amount of his business. The fact is, there are certain things I'm good at and kids are one of them. I have a former brother-in-law you used to refer to me as a child psychologist. Though I don't have the sheepskin to prove it, I am really good at dealing with those little monsters know as children. This blog isn't named How To Cook Children* for nothing.
     And it'll be good for me 'cause I need the cash. I'm busy looking for one full-time job right now as I'm getting sort of sick of the multiple part-time gigs. I've done that for a while and it's wearing thin. But a little extra money in the meantime is a happy thing. And who knows how long before I find a job anyhow. I'm trying to get into corporate event planning here in Cleveland. The jobs definitely exist but getting them is hard. So, anything to pay the rent in the meantime... (If you know anybody in corporate event planning here in Cleveland or anybody in a related field, please feel free to pass along my name. I'll be in your eternal debt. I'll mail you some homemade Chicken Paprikash.)

*Nutritious Food They'll Eat
   

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.

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.

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.   

The Test

     Page three.
     A couple of decades ago, while working somewhat full-time as a free-lance hairdresser, I went to a client's home early one cold Saturday morning to give a haircut. I'd been cutting Dune's hair for a few years and had also done his wife's hair for a while. In fact, I started first with her, Lorna, then I became his stylist as well, then she dropped me. But over the next many years while doing Dune's hair in the kitchen Lorna and I became better and better friends.
     The Saturday in question, I arrived with my scissors and comb and was sitting and chatting with them in the living room relaxing with a cup of coffee prior to cutting. (MANY of my hair clients invited me to sit and chat in the living room prior to cutting for some reason. Still not sure why.) So, I'm on the sofa and they're in the two Queen Anne chairs opposite. The fire is roaring in the fireplace as happens in Cleveland in January and Misty, the big dog, is nuzzling up to me to get an improved pet and snuggle. Suddenly, appearing at the bottom of the steps is Miss Gwendolyn, the beautiful three year old Princess come to survey her domain. In most universes there's nothing unusual here. In what universe DOESN'T a three year old Princess appear at the bottom of the steps on a Saturday morning to evaluate her domain? None... except that one little detail separates this occurrence from the norm. Princess Gwendolyn is stark naked.
     Now, I'm perfectly comfortable with nudity, it exists in God's world. How many diapers have I changed over the years? Only the Pope knows for sure. But I was still a little shocked by this simply 'cause it was out of context. I just wasn't expecting it was all. But I greeted her warmly as she saw me and smiled brightly. We were very good friends after all. In fact, she rushed over to me with barely a nod of "Hello" to her Mommy and Daddy. This was when the GRE/MCAT began.
     You see, she then jumped up on the sofa and replaced Misty to get a better pet and snuggle. Now I have a Naked-As-A-Jaybird little girl snuggling up against me and I'm scared to death to touch her in any places that are typically covered by a bathing suit for fear of doing any long-term psychological damage and meanwhile her Mommy and Daddy are facing me five feet away with enormous, huge grins each. Seems they find my nervous anguish funny. It was as if they were saying non-verbally, "Okay Jeremy, you're so cool? You can handle any kid event? Let's see how you handle this one. Show our daughter how much you love her while completely ignoring her nudity and put the awkwardness of this situation up on a shelf somewhere."
     I gingerly wrapped my right arm around Gwendolyn's shoulder and let it cup her right arm and squeezed her closely as she just told me all the important events of her life. Meanwhile Mommy and Daddy just smiled like there was no tomorrow, suppressing uproarious laughter, I'm sure. Modern parents just mystify me.
     She eventually finished her stories, I eventually did Dune's hair and eventually my day continued. No big whoop. This was just one more of those life stories that begins nowhere and ends nowhere. The thousands of days I'll walk this planet will primarily be comprised of stories just like this. But I remember it and I'm glad that little girl and her parents (cruel as they were) liked and trusted me as much as they clearly did. In fact, many years later, Lorna and Dune would hire me to nanny their kids and cook for the family while she would finish her M.A. and he would work long hours.
     Thankfully, as a high school student Gwendolyn would be much more appropriate. And we continued to have a special relationship I'm glad to say. (I'm sure she has no recollection of this story.)