Multitasking

Nanny,
      While you're on your play date with Alex today, please ask Alex's mother who catered her last dinner - tell her I thought  Cajun - infused Asian was a stroke of genius.
 Just to let you know, the parents are DIVORCING.  So sad.  Please make sure Grayer doesn't say anything awkward.  I'll swing by Alex's at 4:30 to take Grayer to his orthodist.
 See you then...

"Nanny? Nanny?!" Mrs. X's disembodied voice calls out to me as I jog up the block toward the nursery school courtyard.

"Yes?" I say, spinning around.

"This way." The door of a Lincoln town car pops open and Mrs. X's manicured hand flags me over.

"I'm so glad you're here," I say, leaning down to where she's

seated amid her shopping bags in the plush darkness. "Because I need to ask you-"

"Nanny, I just want to reiterate that I'd like you to always get here ten minutes early."

"Of course."

"Well, it's eleven fifty-five."

"I'm really sorry-I was trying to find Grayer's class list. I'm not sure which Alex-"

But she's already busy rooting around in her purse. She pulls a small leather-bound notepad out of her hobo bag. "I want to talk with you briefly about a party I'm throwing at the end of the month for the Chicago branch of Mr. X's company." She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the lavender Prada shoes making an arc of bright color against the dark interior of the town car. "All the top executives will be there-it's a very important evening and I want it to be perfect for my husband."

"Sounds lovely," I say, unsure why I'm being apprised of this fete.

She lowers her sunglasses to make sure that I have taken in every word.

Should I bring my formal wear to the dry cleaner's?

"So, I may need you to run a few errands for me this month. It's just that I'm so overwhelmed with the preparations and Connie's absolutely no help. So if there's anything I need I'll just leave you a note-it really shouldn't be much."

We both hear the heavy clank of the double doors opening behind me followed by the growing swell of children's laughter.

"I better run, if he sees me he'll just get all upset. Let's go, Ricardo!" she calls to the driver and he pulls out before she's even got her door closed.

"Wait, Mrs. X, I needed to ask you a question-" I call after the retreating taillights.

There are four Alexanders and three Alexandras in Grayer's class.

I know. I checked. And now that Mrs. X has sped off I'm still at a complete loss as to which one is supposed to be our escort for the afternoon.

Grayer, however, seems to know exactly who our date is.

"It's her. I have a play date with her," he says, pointing across the courtyard at a little girl hunkered down over something intriguing at ground level. I grab Grayer and make our way over.

"Hi, Alex. We have a play date with you this afternoon!" I enthusiastically inform her.

"My name's Cristabelle. Alex is wearing a shirt," she says, pointing over at thirty shirt-wearing children. Grayer looks up at me blankly.

"Grayer, Mommy said you have a play date with Alex," I say.

He shrugs. "How about Cristabelle? Cristabelle, want to have a play date?" Apparently, one play date's as good as another.

"Grover, it's not Cristabelle, sweetie. But we can have a play date with Cristabelle another day. Would you like that?" The little girl huffs off. At the age of four she seems already to know that if the date has to be postponed it probably isn't going to happen.

"Okay, Grayer, think. Didn't your mom say anything to you this morning?"

"She said I have to use more toothpaste."

"Alex Brandi, does that ring any bells?" I ask, trying to rattle off the names I remember from the class list.

"He picks his nose."

"Alex Kushman?"

"She spits Kool-Aid." He cracks himself up.

I sigh, looking out across the crowded courtyard. Somewhere in this chaos is another pair who shares our plan. I get a flash of us- airport-reception style-me in a chauffeur's cap, Grayer on my shoulders, holding a big sign that says "ALEX."

"Hi, I'm Murnel." An older, uniformed woman appears before us. "This is Alex. Sorry, we had a bit of trouble tearing ourselves away from the blue goop." I notice some of it still clinging to her nylon jacket. "Alex, say hello to Grayer," she says in a thick West Indian accent.

After proper introductions we push our charges over to Fifth Avenue. Like little old men in wheelchairs, they relax back in their seats, look about and occasionally converse. "My Power Ranger has a subatomic machine gun and can cut your Power Ranger's head off."

Murnel and I are comparatively quiet. Despite the fact that we share the same job title, in her eyes I probably have more in common with Grayer, as there are at least fifteen years and a long subway ride from the Bronx between us.

"How long you been taking care of him?" She nods down in the direction of Grayer's stroller.

"A month. How about you?"

"Oh, nearly three years now. My daughter looks after Alex's cousin, Benson, up on Seventy-second. You know Benson?" she inquires.

"I don't think so. Is he is in their class?"

"Benson's a girl." We both laugh. "And she goes to school across the park. How old are you?"

"Just turned twenty-one in August." I smile.

"Ooh, you're my son's age. I should introduce you. He's real smart, just opened his own diner out by LaGuardia. You got a boyfriend?"

"Nope, haven't met one lately who isn't more trouble than he's worth," I say. She nods in agreement. "That must not be an easy thing to do-open a restaurant, I mean."

"Well, he's a real hard worker. Gets it from his mother," she says proudly, bending over to pick up the drained juice box Alex has tossed into the street. "My grandson's hard working, too, and he's only seven. He's doing real well in his classes."

"That's great."

"My neighbor always says he's so good about doing his homework-she stays with him in the afternoons till my daughter can get home from Benson, round nine, usually."

"Nanny! I want more juice!"

"Please," I say, reaching into the stroller bag.

"Please," Grayer mumbles as I pass him a second juice box.

"Thank you," I correct him and Murnel and I exchange smiles.

I'm the last of our crew to walk through Alex's front door. There is very little in this neighborhood that I haven't seen, but I'm completely unprepared for the large strip of duct tape running down the middle of the front hall.

According to New York State law, if one spouse moves out the other can claim abandonment and will most likely get the apartment. Some of these places go for fifteen to twenty million, forcing years of bitter cohabitation while each spouse tries to wear down the other by, for example, bringing in their half-naked exercise instructor/lover to live.

"Okay, now you boys can play anywhere on that side," she says, gesturing to the left side of the apartment.

"Nanny, why is there a stripe-" I fix Grayer with a quick Look of Death as I unbuckle his stroller and then wait until Alex is behind me to raise my finger to my lips and point to the tape.

"Alex's mommy and daddy are playing a game," I whisper. "We'll talk about it at home."

"My dad's not sharing," Alex announces.

"Now who wants grilled cheese? Alex, go show Grayer your new photon gun," Murnel says as the boys run off. She turns toward the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," she says, rolling her eyes at the tape.

I wander into the living room, which is faux Louis XIV meets Jackie Collins, with a nice, wide stripe of electrical tape down the middle to give it that certain je ne sais quoi. I sit down on what I hope is the Switzerland area of the couch and instantly recognize the work of Antonio. He's the assistant to one of the most popular decorators and will, for a minor consideration, pop by frequently to "plump" your pillows. He is, in essence, a professional pillow plumper.

I try to heave the twenty-pound copy of Tuscan Homes, the current coffee table book of choice, into my lap without bruising myself. After a few minutes of flipping through pictures of villas, I become aware of a little nose resting on the arm of the couch. "Hey," I quietly acknowledge the nose.

"Hey," he replies, coming around the couch to slump face-first onto the cushion next to me, his arms outstretched.

"What's the story?" I ask, looking down at his back, so small against the wide black velvet stripes.

"I was supposed to bring my toys."

"Huh."

He climbs up into my lap, snuggling under Tuscan Homes, and helps me turn pages. I feel the softness of his hair under my chin and give his ankle a gentle squeeze. I'm not feeling incredibly motivated to get this play date back on track.

"Lunch!" we hear called from behind us. "What are you all doing in there? Alex!" Murnel calls off toward his room. We stand up.

"I forgot to bring my toys," Grayer offers. Murnel puts her hands on her hips.

"That boy. Come on, Grayer, we'll get this straightened out." Grayer and I follow her past the kitchen where something is buzzing loudly. "Hold on, hold on," she says with a sigh. She goes directly to the intercom, a small box above a tray laden with grilled-cheese sandwiches and sliced fruit.

She presses the button. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Has the motherfucker called?" a woman's voice crackles out of the wall.

"No, ma'am."

"Goddammit! Ever since he froze my fucking cards I'm supposed to get a fucking check. How hard is that? I mean, how am I supposed to feed Alex? Fucker. Did you pick up my La Mer?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Murnel picks up the tray and we follow her silently down to Alex's room. I am the last one in. Half the room is completely bare, a line of model cars down the middle serving as impromptu duct tape, and Alex, shirtless and shoeless, paces in front of a stockpile of all his earthly possessions. He halts and looks up at us.

"I told the fucker he has to bring his own toys."

Nanny,
      Please call the caterers and double-check what kind of utensils and linens they'll be bringing for Mr X party.  Please see that they drop off all the linens in advance so Connie can rewash them.
 Grayer has his St David's interview today, after which I'll be running to a meeting with the florist.  So Mr X will drive by and drop Grayer off to you at precisely 1:45 on the North-West corner of Ninety-fifth and Park.
 Please be sure to be standing as close to the curb as possible so that the driver can see you.  Please get there by 1:30 just in case they're early.  I'm sure this goes without saying, but Mr X should not have to get out of the car.
 In the meantime, I'll need you to start assemblying the following items for the gift bags.
 Except for the champagne, you should be able to find most of these at Gracious Home.
 Annick Goutal Soap
 Piper Heidsieck, small bottle
 Morrocco leathter travel picture frame, red or green
 Mont Blanc pen - small
 LAVENDeR WATER
 See you at 6!

 

I reread the note, wondering if I'm supposed to pull out my magic decoder ring to figure out how many of each item she wants me to buy.

She doesn't answer her cell, so I decide to call Mr. X's office after getting his number off the phone list posted inside the pantry door.

"What?" he answers after one ring.

"Urn, Mr. X, it's Nanny-"

"Who? How did you get this number?"

"Nanny. I look after Grayer-"

"Who?"

Unsure how to clarify without seeming impertinent, I barrel on. "Your wife wants me to pick up the stuff for the gift baskets for the party-"

"What party? What the hell are you talking about? Who is this?"

"On the twenty-eighth? For the Chicago people?"

"My wife told you to call me?" He sounds angry.

"No. I just needed to know how many people are coming and I couldn't-"

"Oh, for crissake."

My ear fills with dial tone.

Right.

I walk over to Third, trying to figure out how many of each thing I'm I supposed to buy, as if it were a logic puzzle. It's a sit-down dinner, so it ) can't be a ton of people, but it must be more than, say, eight, or so, if| she's having caterers and renting tables. I think she's renting three tables j and they probably seat six or eight each, so that'll be eighteen or twenty-four, either I show up empty-handed tonight or I pick a number.

Twelve.

I stop in front of the liquor store. Twelve. That feels right.

I put twelve bottles of Piper Heidsieck to Gracious Home, a housewares store, whose two initial branches are bizarrely right across Third Avenue  from each other. They carry everything from luxury  items at luxury prices to everyday household items at luxury prices.  All so a woman can walk in, buy a ten-dollar bottle of cleanser, and walk out with a cute shopping bag, feeling as if she's had some fun.

I start pulling out picture frames and clearing out all their soap, but I have no idea what or where lavender water is. I look down at the list.

. Like the other women I've worked for, I'm sure she used all caps without thinking, threw the underline in as an afterthought but, to me, she's screaming. It's as if, suddenly, her life de-pends on LAVENDER WATER or MILK or EDAMAME. I'm tempted to put my hands up to my ears as their heads rise out of the notepaper, like something from Terminator 2, screaming, "CLOROX.'"

I comence combing the shelves in pursuit of lavender water and find that Caswell-Massey only makes freesia water, but she definitely wanted lavender. Crabtree and Evelyn have lavender drawer liners, but that's clearly not it. Roger and Gallet make a lavender soap and Rigaud, I'm informed, "doesn't do lavender." Then finally, on the very bottom shelf of another wall, with Grayer scheduled to drop and roll out of the town car in exactly five minutes, I see The Thymes Limited Lavender Home Fragrance Mist, Parfum d' Ambiance. This has got to be it; it's the only watery-type lavendery thing here. I'll take it. Make that twelve.

Nanny,
 I'm not sure where I gave you the impression that it was appropriate for you to bother my husband.
 I spoke with him and we're setting you up with a cell phone, so the net time you're in doubt we'd appreciate it if you just call me.
 Justine at Mr X's office will give you the correct head count.  But it will definitely be closer to thirty than twelve.
 Also, please find a moment today to exchange whatever you bought yesterday for Lavender Linen Water by L'Occitane.  (We only need one bottle as it's a cleaning tool, not a party favor)

 

"Hi, Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm talking to you on a cell phone. Know why?"

" 'Cause you're one of them now?"

"No. Because I'm so not one of them I can't be trusted to perform even the simplest task, say, pick out lavender water."

"Lavender what?"

"You pour it in your iron and it makes your rented tablecloths smell like the south of France."

"Useful."

"And I am being made to feel incompetent over this wh - "

"Bud?"

"Yeah?"

"No complaining from the cute-girl-with-her-own-cell-phone."

"Fiiine."

"Love ya. Bye."

The girl with her own cell phone calls her best friend, Sarah, at Wesleyan. "Hi, you've reached Sarah, impress me. Beep-"

"Hey, it's me. At this very moment I am walking down the street and talking to you. Just like I could on a train, a boat, or even from the makeup floor at Barneys, because ... I got a cell phone. She gave me a cell phone! See, that's not a perk you get as a professor's assistant. Bye!"

Then I ring Grandma. "Sorry I'm not here to chat, but tell me something fabulous anyway. Beep-"

"Hi, Gran, c'est moi. I'm out on the street talking to you on my brand-new cell phone. Now all I need is a Donna Karan bikini and we can hit the Hamptons. Woohoo! Talk to you later! Bye!" And then home to check my messages. "Hello?" my roommate's voice answers. "Charlene?" I ask. "Yes?"

"Oh, I was just calling to check my messages." "You don't have any."

"Oh, okay, thanks. Guess what? I'm on my new cell phone! She gave me a cell phone!"

"Did she tell you what kind of calling plan she got you?" Charlene asks flatly.

"No, why?" I scramble to check Mrs. X's notes. "Because nonplan calls cost seventy-five cents a minute and cell phone bills are itemized, incoming and outgoing, so she'll know exactly who you've been talking to and what it cost her-"

"Gottagobye-" And thus my brief love affair with my cell is brought to a screeching halt.

Mrs. X starts ringing constantly with new requests for the dinner party. In rapid succession I buy the wrong-colored gift bags for the presents, the wrong ribbon to tie the bags closed, and the wrong shade of lilac tissue paper to stuff them with. Then, in a stunning crescendo, I buy the wrong-sized place cards.

Usually when she calls she refuses to talk to Grayer, despite his desperate pleadings from the stroller, because "it would just confuse him." And then he cries. Sometimes she calls just to talk to Grayer. Then I push the stroller as he listens earnestly to the cell phone, as if he were getting a stock report.

Wednesday afternoon:

Ring. ". . . the impact on the cerebellum . . ." Ring. ". . . can be charted here in . . ." Ring.

"Hello?" I whisper, crouching down with my head beneath the desk.

"Nanny?"

"Yes?"

"It's Mrs. X."

"Um, yeah, I'm in class."

"Oh! Oh. Well, the thing is, Nanny, the paper hand towels you picked out for the guest bathroom aren't the right shade of toile . . ."

Nanny,
 I'll be coming by at three with the car to pick up Grayer for his portrait.  Please bathe him, brush his teeth, and dress him in the outfit I've left on the bed, but be careful not to let him wrinkle it.  Give yourself enough time to get him ready, but not so much that he has a chance to get messy.  Maybe you should start at 1:30.
 Also, here are some handouts from last night's Parents League meeting: "Mommy, Are You Listening? - Communication and Your Preschooler."  I've highlighted applicable passages - let's discuss!
 After the portrait we'll be going to Tiffany's to pick out a gift for Grayer's father.

One would think that the customer service mezzanine at Tiffany's would have enough chairs to accommodate all of us, their adoring public. However, soft lighting and fresh flowers do little to offset the fact that it's more crowded in here than JFK on Christmas Eve.

"O, you're making marks on the wall with your sneakers. Stop it," I say. We've been waiting for Mrs. X's name to be called so she can get the gold watch engraved that she'll be presenting to Mr. X at the party. It's been over half an hour and Grayer is really starting to get antsy.

She grabbed a seat when we came in, but suggested that I "keep an eye on Grayer," who, she insisted, should remain "where he'll be more comfortable"-in the lounge chair that is his stroller. I tried standing against the wall for a while, but as soon as the blonde with the Fendi handbag plopped herself on the floor to study her Town and Country I slid down.

Mrs. X has been perma-attached to her cell phone, so I'm keeping the aforementioned eye, and hand, on Grayer. The very same Grayer who has taken to using his saddle shoes to push off from the cream paisley wallpaper in order to see how far back he can roll before hitting someone. "Nanny, let gooo."

"Grover, I've asked you three times to stop. Hey, let's play I Spy. I spy something green-" I spy cheek implants.

He struggles to reach down to where my hand is now serving as a brake on the right stroller wheel. His face is getting red and I can see he is nearly ready to explode. She took him to pose for portraits after school let out and we've been stuck running errands for the party ever since. After being in school all morning, frozen in smiles all afternoon, and then literally strapped in, he can't be blamed for hitting his limit.

"Come on, this one is hard. I spy something green. Betcha can't find it." I tighten my grip on the stroller wheel as he hurls himself over the front bar, then gets snapped back by the straps, his resolve to free himself hardening. People standing near us shuffle away as much as the crowd will allow. I keep a smile on my face as my fingers get pinched into the carpet. Starting to feel a little like James Bond holding the ticking bomb, I assess potential escape routes to a less public venue for his impending tantrum. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two -

"I. WANT. TO. GET. OUT!" He thrusts himself forward to emphasize each word.

"X!  Mrs. X, we'll see you now at desk eight." A girl my age (with whom, at this moment, I would trade positions in an absolute heartbeat) motions for Mrs. X to follow her to the long row of mahogany desks around the corner.

"LET GO. I want to get out! I don't want to play! I don't want the stroller!"

Mrs. X pauses as she rounds the corner to place her right hand over the speaker of her cell. She turns to me, beaming, and whispers as she points to Grayer. "Emoting. He's emoting to communicate his boundaries!"

"Right," I mouth back as I reach to loosen the stroller straps before he hurts himself. She disappears down the dark blue hall as I wheel our Emoting Grayer to the stairwell where he will be able to communicate those boundaries while his father's new watch gets the attention it deserves.

Nanny,
 The caterers will be setting up the tables this afternoon, so please keep Grayer out of their way.  The head of the Chicago office will be coming by to do the seating arrangement.
 I was wondering if you could throw something together for Grayer's dinner, since I won't be home till eight.  He loves Coquilles St. Jacques.  And I think we have some beets in the fridge.  That should be simple.  See you at 8.
 Also don't forget to do his flashcards.
 Thanks a bunch!

 

Coquilles say what?! Whatever happened to mac and cheese with a side of broccoli?

In desperate search of a cookbook I pull open the teak cupboard doors, trying not to mark the trompe d'oeil walls, but there isn't a single cookbook to be found, not even the token joy of Cooking or Silver Palate.

She owns what I estimate, based on a Christmas stint at Williams-Sonoma, to be over $40,000 in appliances, yet everything continually looks as though it's just been unpacked. From the La Cornue Le Chateau custom color stove with electric and gas ovens that start at $15,000, to the full set of Bourgeat copper cookware for $1,912, everything is of the best quality. But the only appliance that looks broken in is the Capresso C3000 espresso machine that retails for $2,400. And, no, for that price, it does not find you a man. I asked.

I open all the cabinets and the drawers, trying to familiarize myself with the equipment, as if holding each Wusthof knife might tell me the secret to the St. Something I'm supposed to be preparing.

My search for a recipe leads me out to her office where I find nothing but a marked-up Neiman Marcus catalog and Connie, the Xes' housekeeper, on her knees scrubbing the doorknob with a toothbrush.

"Hi, do you know where Mrs. X keeps her cookbooks?" I ask.

"Mrs. X don't eat and she don't cook." She redips the toothbrush in a jar of polish. "She got you cookin' for the party?"

"No - just dinner for Grayer - "

"Can't see what's so special about this party. She hates having people here. We had, maybe, three dinners since she been here." She nods her head as she deftly scrubs around the keyhole. "There's a bunch of books in the second guest room-try there."

"Thanks."

I continue roaming from room to cavernous room until I get to the guest suite. I skim the titles in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase:

Why Should You Have the Baby? Stress and the Fertility Myth

They'reYour Breasts Too: The New Wet Nurse Guide

Sooner or Later We All Sleep Alone: Getting Your Infant Through the Night

Taking the Bite Out of Teething

The Zen of Walking-Every Journey Begins with a First Step

The Idiot's Guide to Potty Training

The Benefits of the Suzuki Method on Your Child's Left Brain Development

The Body Ecology Diet forYour Toddler

 Making the Most ofYour Four-Year-Old- How to PackageYour Child;The Preschool Interview Make it or Break it: Navigating Preschool Admissions

.. . And everything else you could possibly imagine in this genre to fill up four bookshelves right up through:

City Kids Need Trees; The Benefits of a Boarding School Education The SATs-Setting the Scene for the Rest ofYour Child's Life

I stand in silence with my mouth open, forgetting, for a full moment, the coquilles and beets. Huh.

"I'm really concerned that you're going to fail out of school and be making other people dinner for the rest of your life! This is a red flag here, Nan. Now, if memory serves, you signed on to provide child care for this woman. That's all, right? Is she paying you any more for this extra service?"

"No. Mom, this is not a good time to be having-"

"I mean, you should spend a day down here at the shelter kitchen. Get some perspective."

"Okay, this is not a good time to be having-"

"At least you'd be helping people who really need it. Maybe you should just pause for a second, look inside yourself, check in-"

"MOM!" I tighten my chin to keep the phone from slipping out from under one ear as I grip a boiling pot of beets in my hands. "I can't really look inside myself right now, because I am just calling to find how to prepare coquilles say what, for the love of Christ!"

"I'm helping," Grayer says, a small hand coming up over the edge of the counter, groping for the paring knife I've just put down.

"Gotta go."

I lunge for the knife, sending twenty coquilles flying onto the floor.

"Cool! It's just like the beach, Nanny! Don't pick 'em up, leave 'em. I'm gonna go get my bucket." He scampers out of the kitchen as I drop the knife in the sink and crouch to collect the mollusks. I pick up one, then another, but as I grab for the third the first slides out of my hand, across the floor, and directly into a gray snakeskin high heel. I jerk up to see a redheaded woman in a gray suit standing squarely in the doorway.

Grayer comes skipping around the corner holding his sand bucket, but freezes behind her when he sees my face.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" I stand, motioning for Grayer to come to me.

"Yes," she says, "I'm here to do the seating arrangement." She saunters past me into the kitchen, pulling off her Hermes scarf and tying it around the handle of her slate-gray Gucci briefcase.

She kneels to retrieve a coquille and turns to hand it to Grayer. "Did you lose this?" she asks.

He looks up at me. "It's okay, Grove," I say, reaching out and taking it from her. "Hi, I'm Nanny."

"Lisa Chenowith, general manager of the Chicago office. And you must be Grayer," she says, setting her briefcase down.

"I'm helping," he says, using his bucket to scoop up the remaining seafood.

"I could use a helper." She smiles down at him. "Are you looking for a new job?"

"Sure," he mumbles into his bucket.

I dump the shells in the colander and turn off the stove. "If you just give me a minute, I'll show you to the dining room."

"Are you cooking for the party?" she asks, gesturing to the sink overflowing with pans.

"No-it's his dinner," I say, scraping burned beets out of the pot.

"What ever happened to peanut butter and jelly?" she laughs, putting her briefcase down on the table.

"Nanny, I want peanut butter and jelly."

"Sorry, didn't mean to start a revolution," she says. "Grayer, I'm sure whatever Nanny is making you will be delicious."

"Actually, pb & j sounds perfect," I say, pulling out the peanut butter from the fridge. Once I've seated Grayer in his booster seat at the banquette I lead her to the dining room, where the long walnut table has been replaced by three round ones.

"Well, well," she murmurs as she steps in behind me. "She had them set up a whole day early-that must have cost thousands." We both look down at the lavender-scented tables, festooned with shining silverware, sparkling crystal, and gilt-edged charger plates. "I'm sorry I won't be here."

"You won't?"

"Mr. X wants me back in Chicago." She smiles at me, then turns her attention to the rest of the room, admiring the Picasso over the mantel and the Rothko above the sideboard.

I follow her to the living room and then the library. She takes in each jewel-toned room as if appraising it for auction. "Beautiful," she says, fingering the raw silk drapes, "but a little overdone, don't you think?"

Unaccustomed as I am to being asked my opinion in this household, I reach for the right words. "Um ... Mrs. X has very definite tastes. Actually, since you're here, would you mind telling me if this looks okay?" I ask, bending behind Mr. X's desk to retrieve a gift bag.

"What is it?" she asks, pulling her hair over her shoulder to peer inside.

"It's a gift bag for the guests. I wrapped them this morning, but I'm not sure if I did it right, because I couldn't find the right tissue paper and the ribbon Mrs. X wanted was out of stock-"

"Nanny?" She cuts me off. "Is anyone on fire?"

"Sorry?" I say, taken aback.

"They're just gift bags. For a bunch of old geezers," she laughs, "I'm sure they're perfect-relax."

"Thanks, it just seemed like it was pretty important." She glances over my shoulder at the shelf of family pictures behind me. "I'm just going to check in with the office and then I'll do the place cards. Is Mrs. X coming back soon?"

"Not till eight."

She picks up the phone and bends over the mahogany desk to peer at a framed picture of Mr. X with Grayer atop his shoulders at the foot of a ski slope.

"NAN-NY, I'M FIIII-NISHED!"

"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything else," I say from the doorway as she slips off her black pearl earring and dials. "Thank you!" she mouths, giving me a thumbs-up.

Nanny,
 As a rule I don't like Grayer to have too many carbohydrates before bed.  Tonight I've left all his food already measured out on the counter.  If you could just put the beets, the kale, and the kohlrabi in the steamer for twelve minutes that should be perfect, but please try to stay out of the caterers' way.
 You should probably give Grayer his dinner in his room.  Actually, I might need to bring my dinner guests through when I give the tour.  So it's probably best for you both to take your plates into his bathroom while you eat - in case of spills.
 
p.s. I'm counting on you to stay until Grayer is asleep and make sure that he doesn't intrude on the meal.
p.p.s. I'll need you to pick up Grayer's Halloween costume tomorrow.

"Martini, straight up-no olive." Having steamed Grayer's dinner into an unrecognizable mush, burned my hand in the process, and nearly scalded Grayer several times, then having to dine atop his toilet seat, I am truly ready to "take the edge off." I shift on the bar stool, wondering if, perhaps, I could work for that redhead from Chicago -move to Illinois, try on investment banking, and spend my days preparing her pb & j.

I reach into my bag for my pay envelope and fish out a twenty for the bartender. It's thicker this week and I count over three hundred in cash. I realize that while I'm exhausted and probably on my way to some sort of substance-abuse problem, the upside of working three times as many hours as I'd agreed to is that I'm making three times as much money. It's only the second week of the month and the rent is already covered. And there is that pair of black leather pants I've had my eye on ...

I just need half an hour of quiet before I can go home to Charlene and her hairy pilot boyfriend. I don't want to talk, I don't want to listen, and I most definitely do not want to cook. I mean, good God, having your hairy boyfriend sleep over when you share a studio apartment. Not okay. Not okay at all. I am counting the days until she's slotted for the Asia route.

"Yo, yo, check this out!" The blond homeboy in the Brooks Brothers ensemble motions for his "posse" to check out his Palm Pilot at the corner table. Classic.

Normally, I avoid Dorrian's and its preppy clientele like the clap. But it was directly on my path home and the bartender makes a terrific martini. And I did have to "take my edge off." Besides, off-season is usually pretty safe, once they all return to school.

I count five white baseball hats huddled over their friend's new toy. Despite only being in college, they all have portable cellular devices of some kind or another hanging off their yuppy utility belts. The years change, the corduroy jackets of the seventies giving way to the flipped-up collars of the eighties, the plaid shirts of the nineties, and the Gore-Tex of the new millennium, but their mentality is as ageless as the red-checked tablecloths.

I am so riveted that I automatically follow their gaze when they turn to the door. In keeping with the tenor of my day, who should walk in but my very own Harvard Hottie, sans chapeau blanc. And he knows them. Ugh. I take a long swig as the vision I'd been savoring of him healing children in Tibet morphs into one of him in a suit on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange.

"Is that good? You like that?" Oh God, there's one standing right next to me. Roll 'em up, kids, roll 'em up.

"What?" I ask, noting his South Carolina baseball hat, which proudly proclaims COCKS across the front in three-inch crimson letters.

"Maaar-tiii-niiis. Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" he says a little too close to my face and then screams over my head, "Yo! Get off your asses and give me a hand with these drinks, you lazy bitches!" H. H. comes over to assist with the beer transport.

"Hey, Grayer's girlfriend, right?" He smiles broadly.

He remembered! No, bad Nanny. Stock exchange, stock exchange. Yet I can't help noting a comparative lack of gadgets adorning his Levi's.

"I'm happy to report that he's out for the count after one reading of Goodnight Moon." I smile back in spite of myself.

"I hope Jones here isn't giving you a hard time." Jones cracks up at the unintended double entendre. "He can be a bit much," he says, glaring over my shoulder at Jones. "Hey, you should join us."

"Yeah, I'm kind of tired."

"Please, just for a quick drink." I eye the group skeptically, but I'm swayed as his hair falls in his eyes when he picks up the pitchers.

I follow him over and they make room for me to sit down. A round of boisterous introductions ensue in which I am compelled to shake every clammy hand at the table.

"How do you know our boy, here?" one hat asks.

" 'Cause we all go way back-"

"Back in the day." They bob their heads like chickens, repeating "back in the day" about a thousand times.

"They think there was a day," H. H. says quietly, turning his head to me. "So how's work going?"

"Work!" The ears of a hat prick up. "Where do you work?"

"Are you in an analyst program?"

"No-"

"Are you a model?"

"No, I'm a nanny." There's an audible stir.

"Dude!" one guy says, punching H. H. on the shoulder.

"Dude, you never told us you knew a nanneehhh."

I realize from their glazed smiles that they've just cast me in every nanny-themed porn film ever screened in their frat house basements.

"So," the drunkest begins, "is the dad hot?"

"Has he hit on you?"

"Urn, no. I haven't met him yet."

"Is the Mom hot?" another one asks.

"Well, I don't think so-"

"What about the kid? Is the kid hot? Has he ever made a pass at you?" They all speak at once.

"Well, he's four, so-" There is a hardness to their tone that dispels any illusion of good-natured fun. I turn to the gentleman who brought me over here, but he seems frozen, blushing deeply with his brown eyes downcast.

"Are any of the dads hot?"

"Right. If you'll excuse me-" I stand up.

"Come on"-Jones stares me down-"you're trying to tell us you never fucked any of the dads?" My last nerve snaps.

"How original of you. You want to know who the dads are? They're you in about two more years. And they're not fucking the nanny. They're not fucking their wives. They're not fucking anyone. Because they get fat, they go bald, they lose their appetites and drink, a lot, because they have to, not because they want to. So enjoy yourselves, boyz. 'Cause back in the day is gonna be lookin' real good. Now please don't get up." My heart pounds as I pull on my sweater, grab my bag, and walk out the door.

"Hey, hold on!" H. H. catches up to me as I storm across the street. I turn, waiting for him to tell me that they all have terminal cancer and a reign of terror was their last request. "Look, they didn't mean anything by that." Which he doesn't.

"Oh." I nod at him. "So they talk to every girl like that? Or just the ones who work in their buildings?"

He crosses his bare arms and hunches up against the cold. "Look, they're just friends from high school. I mean, I barely hang out with them any-"

The Bad Witch comes flying out. "Shame on you."

He stammers, "They're just really drunk-"

"No. They're just really assholes."

We stare at each other and I wait for him to say something, but he seems paralyzed.

"Well," I finally say, "it's been a long day." I'm suddenly utterly exhausted and keenly aware of pulsing pain from the burn on my hand.

I force myself not to look back as I walk away.

Nanny,
 The party was a great success.  Thank you so much for your help.
 These shoes really are too much for me and Mr X doesn't care for the color.  If they're your size you're welcome to them, otherwise please take them to Encore resale shop on Madison and 84th.  I have an account.
 By the way, have you seen the Lalique frame that was sitting on Mr X's desk?  The one with the picture of Grayer with his father from Aspen?  It seems to be missing.  Can you call the caterers and see if they took it home by accident?
 I'll be recuperating at Bliss, so my phone will be off for the rest of the afternoon.

PRADA! P-R-A-D-A. As in Madonna. As in Vogue. As in, watch me walk off in style, you khaki-wearing, pager-carrying, golf-playing, Wall Street Joumai-toting, Gangsta-Hip-Hop-listening, Howard Stern- worshiping, white-hat-backward-sporting, arrogant jerk-offs!

Nana also troubled Mr. Darling in another way. He had some' times a feeling that she did not admire him.

-PETER PAN