You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (35 page)

Peggy, the house manager, mainly assisted Rhea. She handled everything that civilian people would take care of in their homes, such as packing school lunches, servicing the cars, picking up the dry cleaning, and grocery shopping. Everyone helped out with the kids, making lunch when necessary or picking them up from ballet lessons. They had lots of vehicles, and everyone seemed to take turns driving whatever was available. The newest automobile was at least five years old. While I was there, though, they did buy a new Land Cruiser to haul the kids around in. I’m pretty sure it was the first new car they’d bought in a long time.

Peggy told me that she had sometimes given one of Danny and Rhea’s employees a ride home from work. One day she had noticed that inside the employee’s modest apartment some things seemed out
of place—like her expensive organic toilet paper and fancy food. It appeared that the employee was helping herself to the contents of Rhea’s home. As a test, Peggy left $80 lying out to see if the employee would turn it in or pocket it. She kept the cash, and Peggy triumphantly told Rhea. Rhea was really unhappy, mainly with Peggy. “That wasn’t fair to set her up like that. If she needs the money or toilet paper that badly, let her have it!” she said.

I knew Mandie would not believe me if I told her about a day in the life of this rich and famous and
generous
.

Danny’s mother and sister Angie did come from New Jersey for a visit. During the day, there were thirteen of us running around making a cozy and crazy house. I grew to love Angie. She and I spent many evenings together, playing cards and sharing stories. Angie told me about when Danny had first come to Hollywood and only had two bus tokens to rub together; he would ride the bus all night just to get some sleep. When things got really bad, he would call Angie and ask for a few bucks to tide him over. She would always send money to him when she could. It seemed odd to hear about Danny’s former life, given his fame now.

I loved hearing about how Danny used to cut hair in her salon for extra money. In fact, he still cut Audrey and Lexie’s hair. I guess like many so-called overnight success stories, his had actually been years in the making.

It was obvious that both Danny and his sister dearly loved their elderly mother. Angie told me that with her love and care, and Danny’s financial support, they were grateful that they would always be able to take good care of her. She looked like she needed taking care of; she was so tiny. Probably about four foot nine. And Angie was shorter than her brother, too. At five foot three, the same height as Rhea, I was actually taller than most of the family.

I fit in well, though. They were a true family in every way I think of families. I was so grateful when they would ask me to join them for dinner each night; it really made me feel like part of the family, not just an employee.

Mandie was thrilled for me that I had found such a great situation. We continued to chat, though I didn’t have many stories to share. But she still had plenty, including some I identified with all too well. She called me one night cracking up. “Wait till you see my new look, Suzy!”

Mrs. Goldberg had stopped Mandie in the hall one day: “You’re thinking of getting your hair cut, aren’t you?”

“Um, no, not really. I just grew it out.”

“You might want to consider going to my stylist. He can work miracles … on anyone’s hair.”

Mandie ignored her boss’s suggestion. But later that day, Mrs. Goldberg stopped her again. “I had to pull a lot of strings, but I got you into my salon for tomorrow at one.” After two suggestive conversations, Mandie felt self-conscious about her hair and kept the appointment. Walking into the salon and seeing all the glamorous people there, she felt like a real Montana hick.

Mrs. Goldberg’s hairdresser seemed very nice. Mandie asked him if he cut a lot of movie stars’ hair. He said yes, he had a lot of famous clients, but he couldn’t say who they were. For a hairdresser, he was pretty closed-lipped. She didn’t ask anything after that but listened to all the conversations swirling around her as the stylists next to them gossiped with their clients.

One hour and much eavesdropping later, Mandie was out of there. She had to admit that her hair looked great, but she nearly started crying when she realized she had to shell out $100 for her new look. It killed her to think that in Montana she could get her hair cut for $12 at Sir Cuts-a-Lot.

But there’s no doubt she paid for a high-profile stylist. Years later, when Air Force One held up runway traffic at LAX for two hours because President Clinton was getting his hair cut, Mandie had to laugh. Mrs. Goldberg’s hairdresser, Christophe, was the one clipping the presidential mane.

I still hadn’t given up on my spa fantasies. Despite my horrible previous experiences, I did live in the glamour and beauty capital of the country. I knew the magical, relaxing treatment that would make me feel like a star was out there, and I was still determined to find it. This time I booked a facial and waxing appointment at a Rodeo Drive salon that Peggy recommended. Deliciously overpriced and indulgent. And I gave myself plenty of time. What could go wrong?

A large Russian woman with a mustache greeted me at the door, speaking in an accent so heavy I could barely understand her.

“We start with the arms,” sounded like
“Vee start vis zee arms.”
She looked like one of those Soviet weight lifters in the Olympics, and I’m not talking about the female ones.

I nodded weakly. Working for Debra had boosted my assertiveness, but I knew I was still too timid. And until right now I hadn’t realized just how easily intimidated I still was.

I’d been having my eyebrows waxed since I was about twelve, because it was the only way I could prevent a unibrow. I had never waxed my legs, though, and I thought it would be a treat not to have to shave for weeks, maybe even months. And why not do my underarms as
well? Then I wouldn’t have to worry about shaving, since the kids and I were out in the pool practically every day. I envisioned a fairly simple procedure, the kind of waxing where they douse your legs with warm wax and then peel it off. I knew it wouldn’t be painless, but the eyebrow thing never hurt too much. And after some minor discomfort, I would have silky-smooth legs, and then I would be treated to a soothing facial. “You sit there,” the Russian matron grunted, pointing to a long padded recliner, not unlike a dentist’s chair. “Here, put on this. I will be right back.” She handed me a tank top.

In about three minutes, the woman returned with her sidekick, another large Russian woman. Together they looked like a WWF tag team. Why exactly did we need two people for my waxing and facial?

“Raise de arms, please.”

I hesitated. I didn’t really want to expose my European-style pits, even to Andrea the Giant here. I hadn’t shaved for about a month; I figured that I needed to grow the hair out somewhat or the wax wouldn’t have anything to attach to.

“Come, come. We don’t have all day. Raise arms, please.” Okay, okay. I raised my arms, exposing my extremely hairy underarms. “Owweeee, you shaved! Tisk tisk!” What did
not shaving
look like to her?

She then slathered a heaping spatula full of hot wax on to one underarm, then the other. “Ah-ghuu-u-u-!!!!” I wailed.

The wax congealed immediately and gripped my skin. My arms froze into a permanent two-fisted declaration, as if I’d just crossed the marathon finish line in world-record time. The pain was excruciating. My eyebrow waxings had never been remotely close to this. I imagined hot bacon grease might feel similar if anyone was stupid enough to pour it into an open wound. I started hyperventilating in fear of removal.

When she finally did yank off the wax, I cried out like a wounded animal and nearly passed out. I swear she ripped off three layers of my skin.

Another woman came charging into the room looking quite confused and dismayed. I could hardly understand her, either.

“What is going on here?”

The large Russian woman shrugged. “She shaved,” she said nonchalantly, as if to say,
She made her bed, now she has to die in it
. The newcomer
looked down at my bleeding armpits and shook her head with thinly veiled disgust.

“Oh, well yes, she shaved.”

“Come on, let’s go. There is nothing we can do for her.” And with that, she grabbed the assistant’s arm, and they left the room.

“Now we do the legs,” the lone torturer said in a suspiciously gleeful tone as she applied thin rows of something that looked awfully close to those fly-catching strips that you hang in a horse barn. I squirmed on the lounge, splayed out like a fish that was about to get filleted. I started groaning even before she began slowly pulling off each strip, my fists still clenched high in the air, armpits still decorated with Kleenex to stop the bleeding. As she pulled a particularly clingy strip off my shin-bone, I vowed right then and there never to give birth if there was any chance it could be this painful. When she told me to turn over so she could do the backs of my legs, I refused.

“No, thank you,” I gasped. “I just need the front done. No one really sees the back.”

Thank God I hadn’t come in for a bikini wax. I never did get the facial; I was in too much pain, and besides, I suddenly couldn’t afford it. The Russian charged me $125—a hefty cut above the standard waxing price—because she said I had taken twice as long as a “ragular clieent,” and she had great difficulty working with coarse hair that had been previously shaved.

I limped out. Another example of how I never seemed to fit in Hollywood. I just wanted a little piece of glamour, to have the same flawless complexion as the actresses I admired. Obviously, I was going about it all wrong. I wondered what Debra would say about my karma. Did I deserve this torture because I laughed at the need for a class on grooming in nanny school? That was the only plausible explanation I could come up with.

I wasn’t even trying to deny it—I was very willing to admit that my appearance could use a boost. Unlike many stars. I couldn’t get over the lengths some celebrities would go to in pretending their beauty was genetic. A friend of mine, who was looking for a
clerical
job, was offered a position looking after an award-winning star—well known for taming her legendary heartbreaker of a husband into a blissful spouse—who
was recovering from a face-lift. The job required helping her change her bandages for several days while she recovered. Apparently, she thought it would be safer to hire a no-name “temp” to provide her with medical care instead of risking the paparazzi finding her on the way to the usual chichi aftercare center. This, of course, might have exposed her surgically enhanced “natural beauty.” Although she and her husband were worth millions, they wanted to pay my friend only $100 a day. We were not clear if they were too tight to pay a qualified RN to come assist or they didn’t want the nursing service to know her secret, either. Maybe a little of both. Although my friend was tempted to take the job just to meet the husband, she—who is scared at the sight of her own blood, mind you—passed on it.

After a couple of months, the excitement of watching the
Cheers
set had worn off. In fact, I was a little bored. There were no other kids or babies around, and it got monotonous watching the same scenes played out over and over again. I thought of my friend Katy, who often went on location with the wife and three young kids of a wholesome young blond television star. Katy spent her days cooped up in a trailer far away from the set, with three hyper kids and very few of the toys and games they loved. She was supposed to keep the kids happy and in a good mood for when the star had some downtime to “play” with them (downtime being quite unpredictable, as shooting schedules changed by the hour). My job came nowhere close to that impossible situation, but life on the set became quite dull in a very short time.

I found myself frequenting the buffet table that was set up every Friday for the crew that came in for that night’s taping. I think they chose the cuisine with the requirement that it have the highest fat and calorie content possible. Ruffles potato chips with ranch dip, every kind of donut imaginable, cheese rolls, Cheetos, and my personal favorite, an assortment of mini candy bars. I grazed all day.

At one point, I had returned to the buffet so many times that one of the production assistants asked how many maple bars I’d scarfed down. (All of them, actually.) I was humiliated. The next time, I made sure that the idiot who had nothing better to do than monitor my excessive food intake wasn’t looking. And I took a plain cake donut. Jerk.

He had a point, though. All my life I had been able to eat exactly what I wanted, and in no way would I deprive myself of something that tasted good. Of course, a 110-pound teenager hatched this theory. Now I was twenty, and I’d somehow avoided noticing that I’d gone from a respectable 114 to an inflated 139.

On my small frame, that was a lot of weight. And here I’d been thinking that the evil dryer had been shrinking all my clothes. No such luck. I hadn’t even gone to college yet, so I couldn’t blame it on the “freshman fifteen.” Especially since it was actually twenty-five. Ouch.

One afternoon, shortly after this unwelcome discovery, I went into the kitchen when no one was around. There on the counter sat a very beguiling bag of freshly baked Mrs. Fields cookies. This was extremely unusual because Danny and Rhea always ate well, avoided red meat, and didn’t keep much sugar in the house. I took a peek around the corner.

“Danny?” I called, loudly enough for anyone to hear. No answer. The coast was clear. I opened the bag quickly, my eyes still darting about the room. Inside lay six large, thick, sugary cookies—two chocolate chip, two peanut butter, and two snickerdoodle. Ooooh. I grabbed one blindly, closed the bag snugly, and ran upstairs to my room. It was the snickerdoodle, the largest of the six, and it tasted like heaven. I decided I’d indulge in just one more. I ran back downstairs, listening for footsteps on the way, and opened the bag. I took another one and retreated once again to my room. I repeated this scene three times until there was only one cookie in the bag. You’d think I would have just eaten that one, too, and then had enough sense to throw away all the evidence.