Nannying or not nannying, that's the question

---

There’s a Swedish expression claiming that “Wonderful is brief”, and although I feel like I’ve just recently had a fair dose of that very lesson, Life seems to think it’s necessary to remind me again. So I now find myself in yet another pickle to deal with, and this time it’s my work as a nanny (and thus my accommodation) that’s being threatened.
Exactly how I might lose my sweet setup is a long story, but the bottom line is that Marnie’s mom - who’s on a caravan tour through Australia with her husband - caught on to the fact that her daughter and son in law had gotten themselves a nanny, and she felt this was proof that her daughter couldn’t handle Mom's absence. So now she’s talking about flying back home from their one year holiday to come rescue Marnie from the perils of having to depend on a Swedish nanny as opposed to your own Mom, your own flesh and blood for crying out loud!
Shane told me not to worry too much until we know for sure, but I’ve already started applying for jobs that would earn me enough to get my own place should I need to. There’s really no time to waste here. I need to have some job offers lined up should my place in this house fall through.
I already have one job interview booked for Tuesday; a part-time café job in the city that would jive well with the nanny-position. If I get it, and I don’t get kicked out of the house, I’ll buy a bike and get some exercise on my way to and from work, as it would be about 45 mins - 1 hour by pedals. The hours still leave me plenty of time to work out and do my chores without choking from the stress.
I also have a possible full-time position to look into next week, which would definitely be of interest if my current setup dissolves in the coming weeks.
But as for now, it’s almost Easter Holiday, and my little family are taking a trip to the country, leaving the whole house to me and Viet. No work, just loads of food and the gym and pool to my disposal. Hoo-frigging-ray, Easter is here!

Shane’s gym is by far my favorite place on the property. With a simple label-maker, he has pasted inspirational stickers on storage boxes and walls everywhere. It’s like a temple of encouragement to try harder, to be better, to not give up, and when he has me boxing and kicking pads non-stop for 5 endlessly long minutes, these advice come in handy.
Now that they’re away, I don’t have to worry about Shane needing the studio for his clients, so I can go crazy with the punch bag for 4 days.
The plan is to practice my roundhouse kicks along with my punches for one hour each day. There’s a stereo where I can plug in my mp3-player, and with the timer on the shelf, I can chop the 60 minutes into realistic sections and pace myself throughout the workout.
If I get to stay here for a year, I’ll be so fit you guys won’t even recognize me when I come back. I’m going for a proper six-pack and toned, muscular thighs - heck yeah! It’s just too good to pass up; a personal trainer several times a week for free. As long as Marnie’s parents don’t come back, that is.

In moments of distress, minor or major (being kicked out of a house vs a country, for example), I rely on friends to pick me up, and when none are present, I let music do what I believe it’s supposed to do; improve my mood.
It’s damn hard to be truly pissed when Stevie Wonder is blasting “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” into your eardrum, or feel out of sorts when Curtis Mayfield’s voice is nesting in your head, encouraging you to “Move On Up”. As I sit on the bus on my way to see Lorenzo for a cheap yet delightful Thai-lunch, I'm initially a bit bummed about the possible outcome of my conversation with Shane, but my earphones are like little dopamine triggers, making me feel better and better with every tune. What magical thing music is, when you think about it. Quite an amazing tool.
Even Carola’s “Fångad Av En Stormvind” perks me up a fair bit, which, America, you could never understand. Chances are not even my fellow Swedes can relate to this, and most of them probably wonder what the heck she’s doing on my mp3-player to begin with.
What can I say? I miss Sweden some times, and that’s evidence of exactly how much. Plus, there’s something endlessly energizing in her religious fanaticism that I want to tap in to, a force I want to feed off in moments of my own emotional fatigue.
And then there’s obviously Mitch Hedberg, the biggest mood-perker of them all, who must take residence in my player at all times. He and I would have been best buds had we just been given the opportunity to meet. I lament his death, and I grieve over it as if I’ve been robbed of some kindred spirit. We’re just as literal, and we both find amusing absurdity in the same type of mundane occurrences, but instead of waiting for me to find him, he had to go OD on me. Silly Mitch.

Appreciating the boundless power of my mp3-player has inspired me to make some life-altering decisions; no more melodramatic artists allowed. I need to take them off my player in order to prevent them from surprising me in an unexpected moment of vulnerability, at which point they could floor me.
The playlist randomizes songs from 4 gb of music, and it hits me like a tidal wave of deep rumination whenever one of their sad songs come on. The main culprit here is Stina Nordenstam and her mousy, fragile sound, but I also can’t permit Damien Rice to catch me off guard anymore. His trembling voice hijacks my thoughts and directs them straight in to the Garden of Futile Hopes and Pipe Dream Desires, which in my opinion is an area best left alone. Keep the gate locked at all times, with my two trusty guards Independence and Self-assurance protecting any attempt to enter. Whenever “9 Crimes” comes on, my brain inevitably floods with unleashed What If’s and Maybe’s that have no anchor in probability, and therefore should be granted no exercise, so this song together with all his other tunes are currently banned from the playlist.

Even though Shane and Marnie might not be my exact cup of tea, they’re definitely growing on me. Shane’s rough around the edges, and Marnie is hectic and still finishes my sentences for me, but they’re quite charming people after all. Yesterday I had to watch the kids by myself, and I’ve even connected with those little buggers by now. It’s sort of nice to be part of a family in this way.

This morning I for some reason thought I should try out the crap phone that I bought off that dopey girl one more time before chucking it, and low and behold, the thing worked just fine! The battery and charger are the exact same as for my shitty little flip-phone, so I swapped the batteries, and now have a working Sony Ericsson K800i instead. Yay! OK, it looks like absolute shite, but it works well, and this way I don't have to worry about scratching it, or spilling ink all over it, because it's all been done already! Perfect for someone like me, who never can keep things nice and unscathed for very long anyway.

Getting a driver's license turned out to be a bit more complicated than the first gentleman at the Aussie MVD claimed. Having the AZ department fax my record was not an option, said the lady I saw yesterday, oh no, we don't even accept faxes. "You have to get the record from them, then you have to personally have it notarized by an MVD agent, and then you have to bring that and one of our forms filled out back to us. We will then evaluate the information provided."
Go figure. The man the day before had been very sweet, but completely wrong, and I promptly decided it was my irresistible charm that caused him to blunder.
I wanted to ask the lady before me how I was expected to get an MVD agent's signature in person when being on the other side of the globe, but something about her general demeanor hinted that she wasn't very interested in helping me beyond giving me the information she already had provided, so I went back home and made a Skype call to the MVD in AZ, explaining my predicament. Could anyone else get it notarized for me? Of course not. You'll need to go to the consulate and have it signed there, explained the guy on the other end.
I googled the Sydney US Consulate web site and found their Appointment Calender, in which the next available day was May 26th, so I called them up to see if there was any way around waiting for more than a month to get this thing signed. The helpful lady at the Consulate Customer Service told me about a link to authorized notaries in Sydney and surrounding areas. I located the one nearest me, which was actually only a 15 minute bike ride away, and called him up. His secretary answered, and after explaining what I needed, I was informed that his signature would cost $80.
"Who is he? The pope?" I wanted to ask, but as his secretary most likely was not the one responsible for this extortionate price, there was little point in whining about it to her. I started calling around to other notaries instead, and got the same estimate everywhere, and eventually I was told that the price was set by the Consulate, and therefore the same all over. So I called up the closest notary again, and scheduled a time for Thursday at 3.30.

Today I was sitting in the notary's lobby in time, with $80 in hand, waiting for my papers to be inked by this godly creature whose signature was so cherished that he got to charge $80 for it. My turn came up, and the whole transaction took about 10 minutes, which got me calculating how much money this guy would make if
a) he had had a copy machine, envelopes and all other things required next to his desk so that he didn't have to waste time leaving the office, and
b) he had nothing but notarization appointments all day, as these surely must be the most efficient types of transactions.
An hour of notarizing, even at the slow pace he was going now, would make him $480 before tax per hour, and an 8-hour day would thus result in $3840, making a monthly gross income of $76,800.
Granted, he has to pay for the office space, his three secretaries and all other expenses, but there's no way he'd be collecting any less than 60 grand a month even after all that had been covered. He's most likely above the tax bracket for 29%!w(MISSING)ith that salary, so let's assume he has to pay 50%!,(MISSING) which still gives him $38,400 a month.
Considering all this, I first started meditating over exactly how one goes about to become a notary, but when realizing that this most likely was a painstakingly long career path, I thought it'd be smarter to just marry one of these fellows instead.
At this conclusion, I smiled brightly at John S. Zouroudis, and batted my eyelashes at him in what I hoped was a most enchanting manner. He smiled back, confirming my successful flirt, and I could've sworn there was a moment of deep connection between us before he stood up and held out his hand for me to shake. The magic spell had been broken by his sense of responsibility toward his waiting clients, and I could not help but revere him even more for his dignified character. We both knew this would have led somewhere very lucrative for me had we only given it a chance, but instead I simply gave him a firm handshake, looked deep into his eyes once more, and silently bid farewell, forever.
"Oh , my dearest John S., had we only tried harder...! Oh well, here we are, and I must leave you for good. Take good care, my love, and promise me you'll think of me often. " This and more was what my last look expressed before I, blinded by overpowering emotion, staggered out of his office, pressing my handkerchief to my wet cheeks in a futile attempt at suppressing my sobbing convulsions.

On a more truthful note; I have praised Sydney for its plenitude of cheap Thai-restaurants to both Jett and Lorenzo, but regretted the absolute lack of an Ethiopian place, as this is another favorite food of mine. After long research online I found that the closest one is located in Canberra, where I'm not about to go any time soon, but Jett's Swedish friend Martin claimed there was one right there in Bondi, and Jett has promised to take me to it. So hopefully eating injera and mushy lentil stew with my un-utensilized hands is in my near future.

And then there's this: I want to ask you all to send me pictures of yourself. Preferably you'll mail me hard copies along with the big, fun packages you're all busy wrapping up for me, but I will even settle for electronic shipping in shape of jpeg's, and then I'll try to print them somewhere myself. This way I can tack you all up on my bedroom wall and have you a wee bit closer to me, which I would greatly appreciate.
Ian, for instance... Stop hogging the pictures you've taken on various dinners, and share them with me. Don't you know I miss you guys? I post pictures of myself almost every time I write something here, and since fairness is something we should all strive for (but never actually achieve), it's only right that you reciprocate.
I'd really appreciate some photos of whoever reads this blog. Heck, even if we've never met (holler Sandra!), it'd be fun to see your face. So go ahead, my address is in one of the recent entries.



And a hat. I've decided I have to get a hat.

Happy Easter to all my little chickens!

---

Photos

Baxter as photographer
When I tried to take a picture of him, he refused and insisted I let him take one of me. For being 3 years old, I think this is pretty good, and I believe the thumb in the corner is there for effect.

Baxter as photographer 2
He's improving already.

Comments

[sandra]

as you wish
http://kalesco.wordpress.com/files/2008/03/singapur.jpg That would be me in Singapore, in the Botanical Garden(s). :) I hope everything turns out alright with the granny! Cheers

[annis]

isn't it funny how we imagine people in our heads before we have ever met them? i somehow decided you were blond, and short, i believe. thanks for setting my brain straight! :)