Okay, I know this is on the SuckMonkey, but I needed something to fill the space here…new blog, because the old one was tired and didn’t want to work anymore, plus, I figured it isn’t fair to have any of my “mommy” stuff on the SuckMonkey. So, here it is again–but better! The original came from an email that I sent Anna…who is still shocked that I hired a girl like that (as are most people, come to think of it). The email legacy that started the day I interviewed Lauren began with the subject line, “Oh my God!”
Actual Conversation about Lauren between Andrew (Anna’s husband) and Anna, when I snooped around on Lauren’s myspace page:
>
> Anna: Do you think those are hers?
>
> Andrew: They’re hers now. And black is supposed to be slimming.
>
> Long pause, some giggling (she made Andrew giggle…)
>
> Andrew: Look, she has two hearts by her name.
>
> Anna: (Singing) Two hearts beat as one.
>
> Andrew: I can’t believe Jennifer hired her. I am a dirty old man.
>
> Anna: Oh no–she’s legal. On the way to illegal maybe… Would you like to
> send the link to her page to your friend Ran and claim that she’s our new
> babysitter?
>
> Andrew: That would be so mean. (Long pause) Yes, please. Oh, yes.
>
> Anna: You can say that she doesn’t drive and yo u get to drive her home.
>
> Andrew: I can’t believe Jennifer hired her. You wouldn’t hire her. I can’t
> believe it.
Male and female alike, the response has been a resounding, “don’t you know to hire the ugly ones?!”
Prosti-sitter redone:
If you happen to be looking for employment as a nanny or a babysitter for anyone but a lonely husband (the people who don’t do any of the leg-work–no pun intended–to hire you, I might add), I have some very helpful advice to offer…
No mother in their right mind is going to hire someone (even from Nannies4Hire, etc), with the user name, “swtcherrylips” or “Southernluv,” and photos of your heaving bosoms do not foster within those perusing your profile, a great sense of trust.
Having said that, I will admit to having hired a neighborhood girl to watch the boys while I sit here and write. Just like the photos on the “reputable” child-care resource sites, she arrived (for an interview) in her Catholic School outfit, a vision of lust for any straight male. Large breasts, knee-high socks on legs that shot out of a short plaid skirt, and HUGE breasts trying to escape from an otherwise modest white cotton blouse. She’s a pair of boobs with blond hair and legs! Of course, the boys were enthralled with her. Liam coyly made his way from the far end of the couch, making eyes at her, and saying, “ahhhhhhhhh” (he wants someone to pat their hand over his mouth so he can do his little “war-cry”–she was not amused).
I was exceedingly intimidated the moment I opened the door, felt five times as short and slovenly as I am lately, was sure I smelled like sour milk and dirty diapers, and I immediately made the decision that Will could not be within 50-yards of the house while she was here. Totally beyond ridiculous! She’s 18, for crying out loud! Of course her butt is higher than mine, but it still makes me jealous.
When I enquired about her outfit, I was informed that it was a regular school day, not a “cheer” day…which, I imagine, means that otherwise we would all have been treated to a burlesque?
When the time came for the real job to begin, she arrived in her cheerleading “warm-ups.” Well, they warmed some people up, I am certain, but probably not her. Sweet Potato Pie, those shorts were short! Two hours later, I feel vaguely what it must feel like to have hired a prostitute… She arrived with scarcely a thread on her, there was lots of crying, some work got done really fast and really badly, it was over way too quickly, and now I feel guilty. Go figure! Maybe you gals are advertising yourselves correctly.
Lauren will be coming over again on Monday afternoon…why? Because I have the need to prove that I am a confident, competent adult working toward many degrees behind my name, and that I don’t really care that my butt doesn’t/will never look like that no matter how far I run.
