The king and I - The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny

Excerpted from
You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again : The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny
By Suzanne Hansen

Not being a follower of the life and loves of Hugh Hefner, I was unacquainted with the claim to fame of Barbi Benton, the name the nanny agency gave me when they called bright and early the next morning. But with a name like Barbi, I could guess what she looked like.

"Oh yes. Yes, of course. You are the one from Oregon," said the house manager, Ms. Chambers, when I called. "When would you like to come up?"

"I'm available today, if that's all right."

"Good. How about elevenish."

"Uh ... elevenish would be great," I replied. "Could I please have your address?"

"Just come to the block of Welby in Pasadena, near the Rose Bowl," Ms. Chambers said.

Okay, but what was the address? It sounded like she lived in a shopping center. The block of Welby. I didn't get it.

"Uh, Ms. Chambers, could you give me the street number? Is it Welby Street?"

"Yes. It's the block of Welby," she replied, sounding a little agitated. I didn't want to push it. I wasn't worried; I'd figure it out.

As we wheeled through the streets of Pasadena, it all began to make sense. The Barbi dollhouse took up an entire city block. There was no need for a number because there were no other homes. An ornate wrought-iron fence nearly fifteen feet tall surrounded the vast estate, with an entry gate straight out of Buckingham Palace. I half-expected to see a fur-hatted guard standing in the small brick house near the gate, but there was only an intercom. When I pushed the button, a woman's voice said, "Hello. Who's there?"

Entry granted. The heavy gates creaked and magically opened. The mansion in front of me was larger than any building in Cottage Grove, by far-bigger even than the Rainbow Motel. I hoped I wouldn't get lost. A uniformed maid ushered me through a lovely rose garden, past the house, and up the stairs of a small outbuilding-Ms. Benton's husband's office, as it turned out. Ms. Chambers was waiting. Only if she thought I had potential would I meet the family.

Before the interview began, we were interrupted by a pinch-faced, sack-bosomed woman with teeth like rows of Chiclets. She was probably sixty-five years old, her face seamed with wrinkles like an old soccer ball. She walked into the office, complaining under her breath about the swelling in her ankles Without acknowledging me, she retrieved a white envelope from Ms. Chambers and then hobbled out. Ms. Chambers, noticing the confused look on my face, informed me that she was the current nanny and would be leaving in a couple of weeks.

"You're attractive. That will bother her," Ms. Chambers began. So Barbi was indeed a doll. I wondered what Mr. Benton looked like. Ms. Chambers sat looking at some papers on the desk in front of her. I assumed she was waiting for me to respond.

I paused a moment, then said, "Thank you I hope that won't be a problem." If I lived here, I could ugly myself up a little. Maybe not wear any makeup; just wash my hair once a week. I guessed she hadn't had to cover this part of the interview process with the current Grandma Moses.

After I had given this woman the short version of the story I'd told Mrs. Foshay the day before, she began to rattle off a litany of rules and quirks that I would have to deal with. Standard-issue stuff. Except it wasn't.

For one, there was the refrigerator. It had a lock on it. All the goodies that Barbi and Ken did not have the willpower to resist were locked safely inside the colossal chrome Sub-Zero.

"Who has the key?" I inquired. Two intelligent adults kept their own food in solitary confinement?

"The chef does," she explained helpfully "The only time he opens it is to prepare their meals. They are both very strict about their diet."

"Does she ever beg the staff to open it in the middle of the night?" I had to know.

The question got me a stern dip of her eyebrows.

"Of course not. What kind of people do you think they are?"

The kind of people WHO LOCK THEIR REFRIGERATOR! Why not just stock up on lettuce and bottled water and forget about security?

"Now, back to the issue of your looks," she continued. "You will, of course, be required to wear a uniform. Actually, it's quite lovely," she added, as if forestalling my protest that I would not be caught dead in a nanny habit. She pulled out a dress that looked like it belonged to Mary Poppins and displayed it to me proudly. Apparently, every member of the household was expected to work in costume.

With that out of the way, she proceeded to tell me about the family. I would potentially be caring for one baby boy, their first child. "She will rely on you a great deal," Ms. Chambers said delicately. "The month after Barbi had the baby, she and her husband left for a long vacation. You've had a lot of experience with infants, I'm sure?" I was still digesting the news of the parents' sabbatical when I heard a man's voice over the intercom. "I am done with my coffee," he announced abruptly. Ms. Chambers immediately buzzed the staff to remove the offending coffee cup. She rang into several rooms of the mansion, broadcasting the urgent situation until she found someone to take care of it.

A little more background on this family would have been helpful.

"Now, when you travel with the family in the convertible Rolls-Royce, you will always ride in the front seat with the driver and be in uniform. It is very important to them that when they are out for a drive, it is clear to onlookers that you are the help. Are there any questions so far?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"Good. By the way, how is your health?" she asked.

What? I was not even nineteen years old, for God's sake. How bad off could I be? Did she want to know about my menstrual cramps once a month and the fact that I dislocated my knee trying out for the track team in the eighth grade? The current nanny looked like she just emerged from an all-night bingo parlor with her portable oxygen in tow, and she managed to work here. How hard could it be?

We wrapped up the interview, and I was politely escorted out past the huge mansion. I never did see the inside, or Barbi or Ken for that matter. Clearly I was not going to be Skipper.