I used to be a Nanny (aka, paid mother) in Santa Barbara, CA. As difficult (emotional, stressful, crazy, weird, etc) as the job could be, I loved those kids to death and felt like they were family. They went to a very exclusive private school in the area and were part of that very small percentage of the world that has all the money in the world. Almost every single day I would pick them up from the lower campus and say my hello’s to the other nannies, maids, drivers and babysitters that also picked up ‘the kids’ each day.
One day I had a few errands to run before the 3 O’clock pick up. One of them was to pick up some $100 t-shirts for the 2 year old of the family at a kid’s store on Coast Village Road in Montecito. I pulled up to the parking spot and started to open my door when I heard this deafening ruckus coming from behind. It was a man, in his 50’s, racing his 199-something, 8 Series BMW, towards the back of my nanny-mobile. (A 2006 Toyota Land Cruiser. Extremely safe, but not so sure what might happen when hit from behind, at a standstill, by a crazed man in his sports car, easily going 55mph in a 10mph zone.)
I cringed and braced for the impact of “Mid Life Crisis Man” to crash into the ass of my car. The blaring “Margaritaville”/ Jimmy Buffet-type music sounded like it was coming at me from all sides! (There is no song in the world I hate more than, “Margaritaville”. It is the epitome of white trash with money, fat men in Hawaiian shirts smoking cigars and talking about some bullshit or other. I COULD NOT die to that song!!!! I’d fucking come back from the dead and haunt this man his whole life if the soundtrack of my life ended to that piece of crap!!)
I heard a screeching and a loud thump. I slowly opened first my right eye, then my left and relaxed my body slightly.MLC Man had missed me (by the grace of God) and had re-routed himself into the parking spot to my right. I honestly have no idea how he missed me. However, he did go slamming into the curb and crunched the front of his beautiful car into the concrete. I put on my best, “You FUCKING asshole” face and looked right at him. He looked dazed. But he didn’t even notice me. Or anything else. He made this huge, over exaggerated motion as he pushed open his car door and clumsily hauled himself out of the driver’s seat. As he turned, full circle, so that he was holding on to the side of the car, he finally looked at me. But it was more like he was looking past me. Two things hit me at once. First, this was Mr. X, the powerful CEO and EXTREMELY rich father of 5 beautiful girls who all attended the same school as my “charges”. Second, he was piss fucking drunk.
Then a lot of other things started to hit me. “Who the HELL did this man think he was? What the HELL did he think he was doing driving around like that on a busy street? What if he HAD hit me (because, believe me, it was merely an accident that he DIDNT hit me) and I had the children in the car??” I was seething with hatred for this man who obviously didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. I watched him closely. As much as I hated him, I was also terribly intrigued to be watching this situation. What WAS he doing? With one hand on the car at all times he staggered to the trunk of his car. I quickly exited my car and ran around the other side of the car (so he couldn’t see me, although I really shouldn’t have been too worried about it since he was oblivious) and watched him. He pulled up the trunk and reached into it. With his left hand he pulled out a Gatorade bottle that was maybe ¼ filled with blue Gatorade. With his right hand he pulled out a large bottle of Skyy Vodka. He sloshed the vodka, as best he could, into the Gatorade bottle. It ran down the sides and into his trunk but he didn’t care. He got the bottle about another ¼ full of just Skyy. He hastily screwed the Skyy cap back on and threw the bottle to the back of the trunk. Then he threw his head back and DOWNED half of the disgusting concoction he had just poured. Not for one second did he look around to see if anyone was watching. But you bet your ass I was. I was in total disbelief. Because now I knew what he was up to. He was on his way to pick up his daughters at school.
Many afternoons I had seen him come cruising through the lower campus parking lot, winking at nannies and young teachers as he paraded by in his MLC Man car. He was totally disgusting. Red faced and over confident. Then the music teacher-slash-car patrol girl (whose job after music class was merely to lift the smaller kids into the cars, buckle them up and then hand them their backpacks so their moms/ nannies/ maids/ drivers didn't have to) would load his girls into his car and off they’d go. Who knows how many times they had barely made it home before today.
Call me a bitch or call me a Good Samaritan (or call me fucking retarded for trying this again- See “Sometimes It’s Better Just To Shut Your Mouth” from my first posting ever) but I was going to fix this fucker’s wagon. I ran back around my car and jumped in the driver’s seat. “Who do I call? Who do I call?” The cops? Nah, they’d never get there in time and when they did, they would see that it was Mr. X and they would probably quietly take his keys and get him home, afraid of his power and friendship with numerous city council officials, judges, etc. The school? Hmmm...He needed to be stopped from driving his girls but he also needed to be stopped from moving out of this parking spot he was in for the moment. He might run over another kid on his way to the school and, to be honest, for the girls’ sake, I didn’t want the rumor mill starting. Finally I thought of it. I had to call his wife. I knew she didn’t work so there was a good chance she would be available at home or by cell. She seemed nice enough, kind of prickly, like most of the mom’s of the kids at that school, but decent enough. I reached into the center console and grabbed the School Directory. I found her number quickly and dialed. 2 rings...3 rings...4 rings...”Hello?” Shit. It was her.
“Um, Mrs. X?”
“Yes?” she sounded tense.
“Um, hi, I know this sounds really weird but I need to let you know that I am sitting next to your husband, Mr. X, he drives that 8 series BMW? The maroon one? And he is...he’s drunk. Really drunk. I’m just worried he’s on his way to pick up your girls...Isn’t he?
There was a terribly long pause where I thought she had hung up on me out of anger or disbelief or both.
“Hello? Mrs. X??”
“Who is this please? Will you please tell me who this is?”
I thought about it for a second, but I was just the messenger here, not the perpetrator AND I had learned my lesson (again,see first posting).
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. X, but I don’t want to tell you who I am because I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable around me when you see me from now on because I know we will run into each other and I know you know who I am because I’m one of the nannies at the school. But I just want you to know that I will NEVER tell anyone about this, but you have to stop him and come get your girls or send someone else to get them. He just drank out of his trunk m’ am.
“Oh my God... Okay, thank you...are you sure you won’t tell me who you are? I won’t be mad.”
“I’ m really sorry, but I just can’t. You’ve got to call your husband and stop him from going anywhere. He’s here in front of the Liquor store and he’s about to go in. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
And I hung up. There wasn’t anything else I could do really.
I got the household credit card and walked into the kid’s store to pick up the t-shirts. When I was coming out I saw Mr. X on his cell phone having a rather heated argument so I avoided eye contact at all costs and got in my car. He seemed like the kind of drunk that would get physical when confronted. He wasn’t a nice man in any way.
Somehow his wife convinced him to keep his ass in his car until she or a member of the household help could come pick him up. I don’t know who picked up the girls but I saw them running around the playground later than they would normally be there...but, hey, they were alive.
I grabbed my charges and got them home as soon as I could. I wanted them off the road and safe from all afternoon drunks.
One day I had a few errands to run before the 3 O’clock pick up. One of them was to pick up some $100 t-shirts for the 2 year old of the family at a kid’s store on Coast Village Road in Montecito. I pulled up to the parking spot and started to open my door when I heard this deafening ruckus coming from behind. It was a man, in his 50’s, racing his 199-something, 8 Series BMW, towards the back of my nanny-mobile. (A 2006 Toyota Land Cruiser. Extremely safe, but not so sure what might happen when hit from behind, at a standstill, by a crazed man in his sports car, easily going 55mph in a 10mph zone.)
I cringed and braced for the impact of “Mid Life Crisis Man” to crash into the ass of my car. The blaring “Margaritaville”/ Jimmy Buffet-type music sounded like it was coming at me from all sides! (There is no song in the world I hate more than, “Margaritaville”. It is the epitome of white trash with money, fat men in Hawaiian shirts smoking cigars and talking about some bullshit or other. I COULD NOT die to that song!!!! I’d fucking come back from the dead and haunt this man his whole life if the soundtrack of my life ended to that piece of crap!!)
I heard a screeching and a loud thump. I slowly opened first my right eye, then my left and relaxed my body slightly.MLC Man had missed me (by the grace of God) and had re-routed himself into the parking spot to my right. I honestly have no idea how he missed me. However, he did go slamming into the curb and crunched the front of his beautiful car into the concrete. I put on my best, “You FUCKING asshole” face and looked right at him. He looked dazed. But he didn’t even notice me. Or anything else. He made this huge, over exaggerated motion as he pushed open his car door and clumsily hauled himself out of the driver’s seat. As he turned, full circle, so that he was holding on to the side of the car, he finally looked at me. But it was more like he was looking past me. Two things hit me at once. First, this was Mr. X, the powerful CEO and EXTREMELY rich father of 5 beautiful girls who all attended the same school as my “charges”. Second, he was piss fucking drunk.
Then a lot of other things started to hit me. “Who the HELL did this man think he was? What the HELL did he think he was doing driving around like that on a busy street? What if he HAD hit me (because, believe me, it was merely an accident that he DIDNT hit me) and I had the children in the car??” I was seething with hatred for this man who obviously didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. I watched him closely. As much as I hated him, I was also terribly intrigued to be watching this situation. What WAS he doing? With one hand on the car at all times he staggered to the trunk of his car. I quickly exited my car and ran around the other side of the car (so he couldn’t see me, although I really shouldn’t have been too worried about it since he was oblivious) and watched him. He pulled up the trunk and reached into it. With his left hand he pulled out a Gatorade bottle that was maybe ¼ filled with blue Gatorade. With his right hand he pulled out a large bottle of Skyy Vodka. He sloshed the vodka, as best he could, into the Gatorade bottle. It ran down the sides and into his trunk but he didn’t care. He got the bottle about another ¼ full of just Skyy. He hastily screwed the Skyy cap back on and threw the bottle to the back of the trunk. Then he threw his head back and DOWNED half of the disgusting concoction he had just poured. Not for one second did he look around to see if anyone was watching. But you bet your ass I was. I was in total disbelief. Because now I knew what he was up to. He was on his way to pick up his daughters at school.
Many afternoons I had seen him come cruising through the lower campus parking lot, winking at nannies and young teachers as he paraded by in his MLC Man car. He was totally disgusting. Red faced and over confident. Then the music teacher-slash-car patrol girl (whose job after music class was merely to lift the smaller kids into the cars, buckle them up and then hand them their backpacks so their moms/ nannies/ maids/ drivers didn't have to) would load his girls into his car and off they’d go. Who knows how many times they had barely made it home before today.
Call me a bitch or call me a Good Samaritan (or call me fucking retarded for trying this again- See “Sometimes It’s Better Just To Shut Your Mouth” from my first posting ever) but I was going to fix this fucker’s wagon. I ran back around my car and jumped in the driver’s seat. “Who do I call? Who do I call?” The cops? Nah, they’d never get there in time and when they did, they would see that it was Mr. X and they would probably quietly take his keys and get him home, afraid of his power and friendship with numerous city council officials, judges, etc. The school? Hmmm...He needed to be stopped from driving his girls but he also needed to be stopped from moving out of this parking spot he was in for the moment. He might run over another kid on his way to the school and, to be honest, for the girls’ sake, I didn’t want the rumor mill starting. Finally I thought of it. I had to call his wife. I knew she didn’t work so there was a good chance she would be available at home or by cell. She seemed nice enough, kind of prickly, like most of the mom’s of the kids at that school, but decent enough. I reached into the center console and grabbed the School Directory. I found her number quickly and dialed. 2 rings...3 rings...4 rings...”Hello?” Shit. It was her.
“Um, Mrs. X?”
“Yes?” she sounded tense.
“Um, hi, I know this sounds really weird but I need to let you know that I am sitting next to your husband, Mr. X, he drives that 8 series BMW? The maroon one? And he is...he’s drunk. Really drunk. I’m just worried he’s on his way to pick up your girls...Isn’t he?
There was a terribly long pause where I thought she had hung up on me out of anger or disbelief or both.
“Hello? Mrs. X??”
“Who is this please? Will you please tell me who this is?”
I thought about it for a second, but I was just the messenger here, not the perpetrator AND I had learned my lesson (again,see first posting).
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. X, but I don’t want to tell you who I am because I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable around me when you see me from now on because I know we will run into each other and I know you know who I am because I’m one of the nannies at the school. But I just want you to know that I will NEVER tell anyone about this, but you have to stop him and come get your girls or send someone else to get them. He just drank out of his trunk m’ am.
“Oh my God... Okay, thank you...are you sure you won’t tell me who you are? I won’t be mad.”
“I’ m really sorry, but I just can’t. You’ve got to call your husband and stop him from going anywhere. He’s here in front of the Liquor store and he’s about to go in. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
And I hung up. There wasn’t anything else I could do really.
I got the household credit card and walked into the kid’s store to pick up the t-shirts. When I was coming out I saw Mr. X on his cell phone having a rather heated argument so I avoided eye contact at all costs and got in my car. He seemed like the kind of drunk that would get physical when confronted. He wasn’t a nice man in any way.
Somehow his wife convinced him to keep his ass in his car until she or a member of the household help could come pick him up. I don’t know who picked up the girls but I saw them running around the playground later than they would normally be there...but, hey, they were alive.
I grabbed my charges and got them home as soon as I could. I wanted them off the road and safe from all afternoon drunks.
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