You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny
Copyright © 2003, 2005 by Suzanne Hansen
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Originally published in different form by Ruby Sky Publishing, Beaverton, OR, in 2003.
Crown is a trademark and the Crown colophon is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hansen, Suzanne.
You’ll never nanny in this town again : the true adventures of a Hollywood nanny / Suzanne Hansen.—1st ed.
Originally published: Beaverton, OR: Ruby Sky Pub., c2003.
1. Hansen, Suzanne. 2. Nannies—California—Los Angeles—Biography. 3. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Social life and customs—Anecdotes. I. Title.
HQ778.67.L7H35 2005
649′.092—dc22 2005014810
eISBN: 978-0-307-33759-7
v3.1
To my sisters, Cindy and Traci,
two of the greatest blessings in my life
contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
author’s note
prologue
chapter 1 • hotel california
chapter 2 • the king and I
chapter 3 • small town girl
chapter 4 • hollywood or bust
chapter 5 • dazed and confused
chapter 6 • working girl
chapter 7 • crimes and misdemeanors
chapter 8 • doc hollywood
chapter 9 • beauty shop
chapter 10 • it’s a mad mad mad mad world
chapter 11 • LA confidential
chapter 12 • nothing but trouble
chapter 13 • house party
chapter 14 • the beverly hillbillies
chapter 15 • room service
chapter 16 • the nightmare before christmas
chapter 17 • the great escape
chapter 18 • searching for debra winger
chapter 19 • down and out in beverly hills
chapter 20 • get shorty
chapter 21 • irreconcilable differences
chapter 22 • the goodbye girl
chapter 23 • back to the future
chapter 24 • almost famous
epilogue
acknowledgments
About the Author
author’s note
The decision to write this book, essentially the memoirs of a Hollywood nanny, didn’t come easily. I agonized over whether this was my story to tell, especially since the children I loved and cared for are at the center of it. I began and ended this writing process with the clear intention of not divulging all that I observed. Carefully selecting the experiences was the balance and compromise that felt best in my heart.
Although this story is about my personal experiences, it is far from unique. Nannies don’t have a union, but we do chat. I know that situations similar to the ones I experienced continue to take place in the homes of the wealthy, powerful, and famous all across America.
Often during media interviews, celebrity moms fail to mention—or barely mention—the help they have that makes their glamorous lives possible. I don’t know whether I want to scream, laugh, or cry when they smile graciously, subtly implying that through their own superhuman efforts they are able to pull off an Oscar-winning role and still drive the daily carpool. Are they really talented enough to juggle the high-gloss career, the splendid home, and the busy family all by themselves? How do they have time to work such long hours, undergo a marathon of social obligations, and chair the PTA fund-raiser? Presumably, through superior multitasking genes! The reality is, when a member of the Hollywood elite explains that “we have a normal life just like everyone else,” there is a little more to the story: they are not doing it all alone. What they do have is one heck of a secret support system.
It is sad that these famous families don’t realize how hurtful it can be for a nanny to have her very existence denied while she labors endlessly to keep their world intact. In sharing my sometimes embarrassing tribulations as a nanny, I hope I provide a glimpse into the lives of the undervalued caregivers who wipe tears and devote their days to the love and comfort of children.
The amateur psychologist in me speculates that the reason Hollywood nannies are kept out of public view has much to do with society’s expectation that a mother “should” be able to do it all. Since my nanny days, I’ve become a mother myself, and I often struggle with the overwhelming responsibility of motherhood. I know that it can be a real morale-destroyer for those of us in the diaper trenches to measure ourselves against the media perception, encouraged by the rich and famous, that having it all is just a matter of better management. If the megastars can manage the onslaught of minutiae in their lives, then what’s keeping the rank-and-file mom from making time to sculpt the great body, pamper the flawless skin, mop the spotless floor, prepare nutritional meals, and bring home a paycheck? Oh, and don’t forget scheduling date night to keep the romance alive!
For myself, there are many days I can barely keep my head above water. A nanny, a cook, a 24-7 housekeeper, a gardener, a car-washer, even a clone of myself—any help would be a godsend. I doubt that I’m alone on those days when pressing errands take precedence over a shower. Out comes the baseball cap on my way to the grocery store to buy last week’s list of stuff, to the craft store for birthday invitations, and then to the bank to—oops, I’m already overdrawn. I can assure you that movie-star moms don’t sacrifice the shower for taking the SUV in for an overdue oil change. Nor do they discover the load of forgotten wet laundry that didn’t get to the dryer and has mildewed in the meantime.
I have shared my personal story in part to celebrate and commend the moms who really do “do it all” or attempt a reasonable facsimile thereof. If celebrity moms would acknowledge their personal limitations and their gratitude for their nannies’ constancy, it would speak volumes to moms without any support staff.
My two favorite supporters of motherhood are Oprah and Maria Shriver, who both continually encourage moms to be proud of their important work. These two women of influence save many a mom’s sanity by giving unwavering vocal support to the challenging job of motherhood, while continuing to remind us that motherhood is our highest calling.
Finally, I hope my misadventures in nannyhood will provide a little humor for all the mothers out there. After all, if you only have five minutes to sit and read, it’s nice if you can laugh. And just so you know, many of the embarrassing scenarios in which I found myself as a nanny have continued to crop up in my mothering life. But I can only suffer so much embarrassment in one book.
A note about names: For the most part I have tried to use real names, but some of the names have been changed. The following names are pseudonyms: Mandie, Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg, and Sarah. I have changed the names of all children mentioned in the book, as well as many of the minor characters.
If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money.
—Abigail Van Buren
prologue
When my boss told me that we were all going to Hawaii for Thanksgiving vacation, I tried not to panic. I was nineteen years old, and my vacation experience up to that point pretty much consisted of ten-hour trips in my family’s cramped station wagon to visit my cousins in Canada. You’d think I wo
uld have been turning cartwheels down Sunset Boulevard. But as enticing as an all-expenses-paid stay at a posh Hawaiian beachfront resort would sound to most people, I was realistic enough—after almost a year of nannying for one of the most powerful families in Hollywood—to know that I’d be on duty for 192 hours straight. I had counted.
One hundred and ninety-two straight hours of running after three children under the age of seven, of sharing quarters a lot more cramped than the ten-thousand-square-foot home we normally occupied, where the air was already tense. Of no room to escape the kids or their parents for one minute.
This “vacation” sounded worse every time I thought about it. Good thing I didn’t know about the other five kids.
The night after I was informed of our upcoming adventure, I decided to be more positive. Come on, Suzy! You could never afford to travel to Hawaii on your own. This is a great opportunity to soak up some paradise. I tried not to think about our previous “vacations.” Surely this would have a whole different, relaxed, tropical vibe? I called my friend and fellow nanny Mandie to tell her my news. She listened intently while I borrowed scenes from postcards and spun my perfect vision of the eight-day trip.
“I’ll be basking on white-sugar beaches, with cute cabana boys constantly serving me fruity drinks in coconut halves. After I distribute the beach toys and reapply sunscreen on the kids, I’ll soak up the Polynesian splendor. Just think, hula performances under torch-lit palms … leis draped around me … luaus … lanais …” In my dream-dappled mind, there would be grandparents, aunts, and uncles to lavish attention on the kids. The gentle spirit of the island would permeate our hearts and inner harmony would reign.
But then Mandie started laughing so hard that I was actually afraid she’d lost control of her bladder.
We both knew it was far more likely that the actual scenario would be similar to what a mutual nanny friend of ours had just undergone. Her employer, a well-known baseball player, had brought her along to the famous Pebble Beach golf course, where he was playing in a huge charity golf tournament. The event was star-studded, and she couldn’t wait to rub elbows with some celebrities. But when the other baseball players’ wives realized someone had brought a nanny, they all dumped their kids in her suite and headed off to the tournament unencumbered. She spent three days in a hotel room with nine—count ’em, nine—kids. She never saw one moment of golf, beach, or sunshine.
I tried to be optimistic, but my spirits wavered when even getting out of the driveway became a massive undertaking. Our traveling caravan included me and my employers, Michael and Judy Ovitz; their three children (Joshua, Amanda, and Brandon); Michael’s parents; his brother, Mark, and Mark’s wife, Linda, and their six-year-old son; and Michael’s business partner, Ron Meyer, along with Ron’s date, Cyndi Garvey, and their four combined daughters. It took two stretch limos just to get the whole group to the airport. Altogether, the entourage totaled nine adults and eight children. In addition, Michael’s friend Al Checchi and his wife, three kids, and nanny would be meeting us at the resort.
After we were greeted at LAX by a professional-looking woman waiting at passenger drop-off, the limo driver unloaded enough luggage to supply an army tank division. We were breezily escorted through security and down a long hall to a door marked THE CAPTAIN’S CLUB. Who knew that airlines provided these private little sanctuaries to their frequent fliers? And Creative Artists Agency, Michael’s company—with his partners, staff, and clients—had probably racked up millions of such miles on the corporate American Express card. Michael waved the whole troupe over to the Captain’s Club portal.
A stone-faced young woman at the desk stopped us. Airline policy was to allow the frequent flier and one guest, and she was here to enforce the rules. She was firm and implacable with a perfunctory pleasantness that was so calm it was irritating. Michael started arguing his case, but she repeated patiently that this was company policy, with no exceptions. No exceptions? Michael’s face began to twitch as if a bug were trapped under his skin. The employee gave the impression of having weathered a few of these type A folks in her day. She repeated the policy clearly and identically several times. I recognized her “broken-record technique” from my childcare classes. But Michael wasn’t six.
“I’m sorry, Mr.… ” She paused, waiting for him to fill in the blank.
He raised his eyebrows and lowered his face closer to hers. “Ovitz. Michael Ovitz,” he pronounced emphatically, as though there was not a soul alive who would not recognize his name.
The woman didn’t respond. She calmly kept typing on her computer as she stared into the monitor. I already had learned in my tenure with “the most powerful man in Hollywood” that there were several things that invariably irritated or angered him. One of them was not being recognized for the influential man he was. This was a bit of a contradiction, since he hated seeing his name in the papers and went to great lengths to keep his picture from being published. Whatever. Today was definitely a day he wanted to be recognized.
“Do you have any idea how many frequent-traveler miles my company has with this airline?” He smirked with the air of someone who always got his way. I thought about backing him up and rehearsed my part in my mind: Please, miss, lighten up. I have a chubby baby on one hip and a heavy diaper bag on the other, and I would like to sit down.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ovitz. I don’t know you, and it wouldn’t matter if I did, because the rules are the rules,” she replied with unsurpassed calm. “You can have only one guest come in with you.” Oh dear, poor thing. Maybe if I wriggled my eyebrows frantically, she’d relent. I tried desperately to make eye contact, wondering what kind of expression would let her know that she was teetering on the verge of unemployment.
From my position just behind Michael, I could almost feel the steam start to rise off his neck. Why couldn’t the woman see his rage? It was absolutely clear there was no way he was going to allow this irritating little bureaucrat to keep him from bringing his entire party into the Captain’s Club. We had a full two hours before our flight left.
Once again, I tried to communicate the situation telepathically. Girl, look at me. LOOK AT ME! Can’t you see this guy is used to people quaking at the mere mention of his name? There’s no way he is going to wait with his wife, parents, children, and friends with the riffraff at the gate! And now you’ve pissed him off, and the waiting is beside the point. You’re messing with his ego. Save yourself!
Without saying another word to the woman, Michael turned to us. “Take the kids and go sit over there,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.” With that, he disappeared through the door. By the time he had returned ten minutes later, the woman behind the desk had already been plucked from the room by a large man in a business suit and replaced by another woman wearing a big smile. Upon Michael’s return, she personally ushered us into the elaborately decorated club and offered us lunch.
Michael may have won, but the rest of us certainly hadn’t. It was beneath his dignity to use his sophisticated negotiation skills on such a nobody. His lips were tight and his upper body even stiffer than usual. I got the distinct impression that anyone who even dared to breathe too loudly around him would get a stinging tongue-lashing of their own. No, my boss was far from happy, and when Michael ain’t happy, ain’t nobody gonna be happy. I carefully avoided looking in his direction.
The two hours passed excruciatingly slowly.
Finally it was time to board the aircraft. And what an aircraft it was. Usually when we flew we took corporate jets—fancy but definitely cozy and compact. You could have put six of those on each wing of this plane. I had a hard time comprehending such massive bulk. We had first-class tickets, obviously, so we boarded first. Good thing they started early because it took fifteen minutes for the entire group to get into the cabin. Between all of us, we took up a good portion of the first-class seats. The tickets alone must have cost almost $20,000. As we all jockeyed for position, the flight attendants helped us stow the carry-ons and
find our seats, and I could see the faces of the aristocracy already ensconced in their rows giving us looks of combined disgust and fear. I knew what they were thinking: How could anyone be so rude as to bring that many children, and so young, into first class? I paid a lot of money to sit here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with a bunch of screaming brats.
The airline billed this as a six-hour flight, and several of the children, including ten-month-old Brandon, were already either crying or fighting. The poor couple seated just behind us was settling down for their first flight as man and wife. What could they possibly think about the equivalent of a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party invading their honeymoon bliss? They were probably horrified enough to put off having their own kids.
I tried to avoid eye contact with them.
I did have plenty of distractions. First class alone stretched for two stories, connected by a large circular staircase that led to a lounge for first-class passengers. Well, not that I ever saw it, but that’s what Grandpa Ovitz reported to me. It was like flying in a house; everybody had their own wing. Right after we got on, Michael, Judy, Ron, Cyndi, and all the rest of the adults dashed upstairs and left me with the various kids. When and how it had been decided that I would graciously govern all eight children, I didn’t know. Nobody told me, that’s for sure.