The Nanny Diaries. (wydanie anglojęzyczne)

The Nanny Diaries’ heroine is aptly named Nan, and she works for Mr. and Mrs. X., caring for their only child Grayer. Grayer is the average four year-old. His day includes but is not limited to music, swimming, karate, piano and French lessons, in addition to school, play-dates and naptime. Mrs. X’s calendar is equally full, thrusting Nan into the full-time job of managing not one, but two lives. The Nanny Diaries follows Nan’s outrageous, shocking and hilariously funny life as she tries to work, study and chase men in a post-nuclear family world. A poignant satire, The Nanny Diaries wickedly captures the lives of the real Manhattan elite. A contemporary Mary Poppins story with attitude. * The film rights to The Nanny Diaries have been sold to Miramax for a six figure sum. * Julia Roberts has been signed to read for the audio book. Chapter One: Nanny for Sale ‘Hi, this is Alexis at The Parents' League. I'm just calling to follow up on the uniform guidelines we sent over . . .’ The blonde woman volunteering behind the reception desk holds up a bejewelled finger, signalling me to wait while she continues on the phone, ‘Yes, well, this year we'd really like to see all your girls in longer skirts, at least twenty inches. We're still getting complaints from the mothers at the boys' schools in the vicinity . . . Great. Good to hear it. Bye.’ With a grand gesture she crosses the word 'Spence' off her list of three items. She returns her attention to me. ‘I'm sorry to keep you waiting. With the school year starting we're just crazed. She draws a big circle around the second item on her list, Paper Towels. ‘Can I help you?’ ‘I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin board seems to have moved,’ I say, slightly confused as I've been advertising here since I was thirteen. ‘We had to take it down while the foyer was being painted and never got round to moving it back. Here, let me show you.’ She leads me past her desk to the central room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding inquiries about the Private Schools. Before me sits the full range of Upper East Side diversity - half of the women are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half are in six hundred dollar barn jackets, looking as if they might be asked to pitch an Aqua Scutum tent at any moment. Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a Mary Cassatt propped against the wall. ‘It's all a bit disorganised at the moment,’ she says as another woman looks up from the floral arrangement she's rear- ranging nearby ‘But don't worry Tons of lovely girls come here to look for employment, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding someone.’ She raises her hand to her pearls. ‘Don't you have a son at Buckley ? You look so familiar. I'm Alexis - ’ ‘Hi,’ I say ‘I'm Nan. Actually, I took care of the Gleason girls. I think they lived next door to you.’ She arches an eyebrow to give me a once over. ‘Oh ... Oh, Nanny, that's right,’ she says, before retreating back to her desk. I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women behind me to read the postings put up by other nannies also in search of employment. ‘Babysitter need children Very like kids Vacuums ‘ ’I look your kids Many years work You call me’ The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking my ad over someone else's pink paper festooned with crayon flowers, but spend a few minutes ensuring that I'm only covering daisies and none of her pertinent information. I wish I could tell these women that the secret to nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation - it's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a minimalist 3x5 card, without so much as a smiley face on it, I liberally sprinkle my advertisement with exclamations, ending each of my desirable traits with the promise of a beaming smile and unflagging positivity. Nanny at the Ready!!! Chapin School alumna available weekdays part-time!!! Excellent references!!! Child Development Major at NYU!!! The only thing I don't have is an umbrella that makes me fly. I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bid Alexis adieu and jog down the marble steps out into the sweltering heat. As I walk down Park Avenue the August sun is still low enough in the sky that the stroller parade is in full throttle. I pass many hot little people, looking resignedly uncomfortable in their sticky seats. They are too hot even to hold onto any of their usual travelling companions - blankies and bears are tucked into back stroller pockets. I chuckle to myself at the child who waves away the offer of a juice box with a flick of the hand and a toss of the head that says, ‘I couldn't possibly be bothered with juice right now.’ Waiting at a red light, I look up at the large glass windows that are the eyes of Park Avenue. From a population-density point of view, this is the Midwest of Manhattan. Towering above me are rooms - rooms and rooms and rooms. And they are empty. There are powder rooms and dressing rooms and piano rooms and guest rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where, a rabbit named Arthur has sixteen square feet all to himself. I cut across 72nd Street, passing under the shade of the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, and turn into Central Park. Pausing in front of the playground, where a few tenacious children are trying their best despite the heat, I reach in my backpack for a small bottle of water - just as something crashes into my legs. I look down and steady the offending object, an old-fashioned wooden hoop. ‘Hey, that's mine!’ A small boy of about four or so careens down the hill from where I see he's been posing for a portrait with his parents. His sailor hat topples off into the patchy grass as he runs. ‘That's my hoop,’ he announces. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. He looks perplexed. ‘It could be a wagon wheel.’ I hold it sideways. ‘Or a halo?’ I hold it above his blonde head. ‘Or a really large pizza?’ I hold it out to him, gesturing that he can take it. He's smiling broadly at me as he grasps it in his hands. ‘You, silly!’ He drags it back up the hill, passing his mother as she strolls down to retrieve the hat. ‘I'm sorry,’ she says, brushing dust off the striped brim as she approaches me. ‘I hope he didn't bother you.’ She holds her hand out to block the sun from her pale blue eyes. ‘No, not at all.’ ‘Oh, your skirt - ’ she glances down. ‘No big deal,’ I laugh, dusting off the mark the hoop left on the fabric. ‘I work with kids, so I'm used to being banged up.’ ‘Oh, you do?’ She angles her body so her back is to her husband and a blonde woman who stands off to the side of the photographer holding a juice box for the boy. His nanny, I presume. ‘Around here?’ ‘Actually the family moved to London over the summer, so - ’ ‘We're ready!’ the father calls impatiently. ‘Coming!’ she calls back brightly. She turns to me, tilting her delicately featured face away from him. She lowers her voice, ‘Well, we're actually looking for someone who might want to help us out part-time.’ ‘Really? Part-time would be great, because I have a full coarse load this semester - ’ ‘What's the best way to reach you?’ I rummage through my backpack for a pen and a scrap of notebook on which I can scribble down my information. ‘Here you go.’ I pass her the paper and she discreetly slips it in the pocket of her shift, before adjusting the headband in her chestnut hair. ‘Wonderful.’ She smiles graciously. ‘Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch.’ She takes a few steps back up the hill and then turns around. ‘Oh, how silly of me - I'm Mrs. X.’ I smile at her as she goes back to take her place in the contrived tableau. The sun filters though the leaves, creating dappled sunshine on the three figures. Her husband, in a white seersucker suit, stands squarely in the middle, his hand on the boys head, as she slides in beside them, smiling. The blonde woman steps forward with a comb and the little boy waves to me, causing her to turn and follow his gaze. As she shields her eyes to get a better look at me I turn and continue on my way across the Park. My Grandmother greets me in her entryway in a linen Mao Tse Tung outfit and pearls. ‘Darling! Come in. I was just finishing my tai-chi.’ She gives me a kiss on both cheeks and a solid hug for good measure, ‘Honey, you're damp. Would you like to shower?’ There is nothing better than being offered Grandma's buffet of amenities. ‘Maybe just a cold washcloth?’ ‘I know just what you need.’ She takes my hand, weaving her fingers through mine, and leads me to her guest powder room. I've always adored how the small lights of the antique crystal chandelier illume the rich, peach chintz. But my favourite part is the framed French paper dolls. When I was little I would set up a salon under the sink, for which Grandma would provide real tea and topics for the discussions I would lead with all of my lovely French guests. She places my hands under the faucet and runs cool water over my wrists. ‘Pressure points for distributing fire,’ she says as she sits down on the toilet seat, crossing her legs. She's right; I begin to cool down immediately. Seen Mary Poppins a hundred times? Fancy yourself as the classic 'governess'? You may change your mind after reading The Nanny Diaries! We get some insider information on the real world of nannying from the authors, plus, find out their top 10 rules of nannying here. Q: How did you two meet? Nicola & Emma: We became friends while taking a gender-in-performance class our senior year at NYU. We soon realized that we had actually both interviewed for the same job and ended up passing a four-year-old back and forth like a baton. Q: Did you find it exceptionally difficult or easy to write as a team? N& E: We loved it! Why would anyone write by themselves? Who would you talk to at four in the morning? Who would tell you how to spell “egregious”? Who would bring the coffee? No fun at all. Q: Should nannying be added as an Olympic sport? If so, how would the judges score the event? N&E: Yes, right along with prostitution—both should be judged on grace, form and believability. Q: If there is one thing anyone should be told before becoming a nanny, what is it? N&E: It will never be just taking care of a child. You are entering a complex family dynamic and expected to navigate everybody’s behind-closed-doors neuroses, without making a ripple. Q: What do you miss most and least about being nannies now that you’ve found your calling as a writing team? N&E: Well, it’s been a good number of years since we tied our last small shoe in Central Park, but we’d both have to say what we miss most is the pleasure of being able to solve a little person’s problems so easily (i.e. making the world a better place because we were able to find blankie). The snuggles. And just spending a half-hour on a sunny afternoon being enraptured by a cement mixer on Lexington. What we miss least? Everything else. Q: What are the chances that either one of you will ever employ a nanny in the future? N&E: If we have children, we’ll have childcare. We’re not so naïve to deny that being an active, participating member in the professional world necessitates some form of support on the home front. It’s unfortunate that there remains a stigma in this country around daycare and the hiring of childcare. Until working women are no longer made to feel ashamed about having to share the mothering responsibilities with a paid employee, the relationship will continue to be approached as a familial one. We suggest that if the relationship between the mother and the nanny is professionalized, and much is involved in such a vision, including legal regulation—then a nanny can be enabled to love the child—which is really the crucial cornerstone of the job. Given that the world has a long way to go on this front, we can only hope that any woman that either of us might someday entrust with the care of our children will receive from us the professional respect she deserves. Q: What’s next for Emma and Nicola? N&E: A sequel, a world tour, a cookbook and a clothing line. Oooh, and a lipstick. The Top 10 Rules of Nannying as defined by Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlin 10. You’re only a nanny - and not a babysitter - if your annual salary is commensurate with your employer’s facial budget. 9. Dress down. Dress wayyyyyy down. The Weather Channel is your best friend. Always plan for the worst-case scenario - because that’s where you’ll be. To nanny is to be stuck on an endless outward bound in the playground. 8. Lie. Lie. Lie. When asked how long you’re willing to commit to the job, say, ‘I plan to work here forever. I’ll raise my own kids here and they can watch your grand kids. That’s my plan. It’ll be great!’ 7. Validate. Validate. Validate - i.e. ‘That new Birken bag was so worth the wait.’ ‘The new drapes were so worth all you put up with.’ ‘Oh, no, you were right, there was absolutely no need for you to come to the school play.’ 6. Try to see your employer as a small woodland creature, a la Bambi, wandering through the apartment and treat her accordingly. Should you find her aimlessly circling the study, lovingly shepherd her back to her room. 5. Even if you are a lesbian, especially if you are a lesbian, you MUST have a boyfriend. He is the same religion as your employer and goes to a good, conservative school out of state. You will be marrying him as soon as he graduates and moving into their guestroom, because once again, you have signed on for life. And you’re fine with that. You and your imaginary boyfriend. 4. Avoid being left alone with the husband at all costs. Not because he’ll hit on you, but because he won’t know who you are and may wonder if he married you when he wasn’t looking. 3. No matter what they tempt you with, DO NOT GO ON ‘VACATION’ WITH THEM! Put the Arc de Triomphe over it, put the Caribbean under it, stick a palm tree in it - it’s still twenty-four/seven slave labor - no breaks, no control and no boundaries. 2. Get it through your head - ten dollars an hour DOES buy your privacy. Read: get used to peeing with an audience. 1. Love the kid. Because you’re going to hate everyone else.