Friday, March 30, 2007

The LIST


Peeling off my long john’s after a long day of boarding, I walk into the kitchen (a disaster as usual after the weekend, God forbid they actually put their own dishes into the washer for once) and see the dreaded note. Illegibly written and especially difficult to decipher on the odd graph paper that is commonplace en Suisse, it contains any new information, errands, tasks, or sugar-coated reprimands that Michelle may have for me.

This list, I can tell, will be particularly difficult. Although I won’t know for sure until I talk to her tomorrow, I’ve become somewhat of an expert at understanding the written monosyllabic caveman language that nearly all her printed communications contain.

Lotion. Shirts. Press-on. Juice. Pumps; a tricky code, yet I think I have it mostly cracked.

Lotion. Every morning before Benji gets dressed, I have to dip my hands into slimy goo and slather it on his little body….and I mean everywhere (the best way to describe my feelings towards doing this is the shudder Homer makes when he sees Mr. Burns getting out of the bathtub…..EwhhhUUuhhhHH). While I have faithfully applied the cream every morning since the day when it first appeared on “the list,” she feels the need to constantly remind me that it is one of my duties. Either that or Benji has lied and said I haven’t been putting his moisturizer on him, as he has already done on several occasions.

Shirts. Simple. Every week like a good little au pair/servant girl, I drop off and pick up mounds of Marc and Michelle's dry cleaning at the local tenturerie et Pressing. Come on, gimme something a bit more challenging that that!

Press-on. Most definitely a tricky one. My immediate thought was press-on nails, but after reflecting for a minute, I realized that since Michelle is neither a Ghetto fabulous woman, nor a 13 year old girl, that this was probably not that case. Plus they wouldn’t go with her $500 dollar pants and designer shoes. So what then? Stickers for the kids, those press-on boob covers (I believe to be called “Pasties”) for when you are a backless prom dress? Totally stumped. Touché! [Later found out, after much confusion and gesturing, that this is what Australians call a snap.]

Juice. Hmmm. Do we need to buy more? Did I (*gasp*) accidentally get non-organic? Did a juice box explode in Benji’s backpack and she wants me to clean it out? Ohh how I wish any of the previous scenarios had been correct. But alas, no. Over the weekend in Chamonix, Michelle decided that “they [the boys] should have fresh orange juice in the morning” because “it’s just soooooo much nicer and fresher, and has all the vitamins they need.” So now, 2 to 3 times a week, I get to wake up 20 minutes earlier to slice, sqeeze and strain (because quelle horreur if her babies were to ingest any errant pulp) 6 or 7 oranges per morning. I was secretly rejoicing when the first time I juiced, Toby threw a shit fit and refused to drink it, screaming his despise for juice at the top of his lungs. But after much cajoling (read: bribing) from Michelle, he decided that he liked it too.

A seemingly simple task, yet so maddening, because it’s something that, if they didn’t have an au pair to do it for them, they would never think to do themselves, especially during the week. Without someone to do it for them, the 5 franc per bottle organic, vitamin infused juice that they buy would then surely suffice. To me the situation is unjust and them using me, and making me do it solely because I’m there. As if making oatmeal, unloading a dishwasher, packing lunches, and wrestling a toddler into multiple layers of clothing wasn’t enough to do in the 45 minutes between the kids waking up and them having to be at school. But here I am sentenced to juicing the majority of the week, the only outlet for my frustration being to bang the strainer and the juicing apparatus loudly against the metal sink, trying to let some of my anger go while neatly hiding the ruckus under the cloak of “de-pulping.”

Pumps. The last and by far most bizarre item on the list, I would rationally think she wanted me to take a pair of heels in to be fixed, or perhaps even buy an air pump for bicycle tires. But then, something in a bag on the floor catches my eye. A half dome mounted on a piece of foam, with a long plastic shaft attached to the bottom with an open hole at the opposite end.

Certainly not shoes, and I see no pins to connect to a bike tire. What other types of “pumps” exist in the world, and what kinds of things do you use them for?

Let your mind be creative with this one, and be thankful your life isn’t as strange as mine.