Pumped Up Kids

In case you were unsure, there is a big difference between being an underwriting specialist and babysitting kids. I haven't been an underwriting specialist in a little over a month, so obviously I've probably lost a bit of my edge, but I was a damn insurance samurai with a steel blade compared to what these little devils put me through yesterday. A & L (protecting the names of the guilty, ratcheted devils is the most I can do right now) absolutely ran over my ass as no one has in 5 plus years of working.

I met Satan's imps last week when I interviewed with their mother, so of course they were on their best behavior and were excited by the thought of having a new "nunu" (babysitter). Sure, they were rambunctious, but as their playful antics went on, I told myself I could handle it. I have two younger brothers, I was totally prepared, right? Wrong. Wrong as fuck. Me thinking 'what could be so hard about watching a 4 and 6 year-old?' was my first mistake. Number one rule of war: never underestimate your enemy. I broke that rule and I paid.

First thing I did with the ticking time bombs was take them to a nearby park, of course they would love me for providing fresh air and exercise. Oh, and they did, they loved me so much for it the 4 year-old RAN OVER a toddler on his bicycle. KER-POW! And then, to the credit of his inner freak, started to undress in front of everyone while on the jungle gym. Like that child was King of the Naked Mountain. I can take a hint, time to take them home, lord knows how many laws we broke already.

We got home for bath time and dinner. Bath time was easy, I suspect because there was nudity involved for the little exhibitionist, but dinner was another matter; they screamed and cried the entire time. THE ENTIRE TIME. What. The. Fuck. So, as I stared longingly at the bottles of whiskey their mom and dad stash in the closet (uh-huh, I know why now), I decided to abandon dinner and initiate another round of playtime. This proved brilliant, as the moment they had toys in front of them the tears ceased to flow, I recognized their pattern and I catered to it for the sake of quiet time. But the little hellians could not resist the urge to declare war once more and for the last ten minutes there was kicking, screaming and hair pulling: it was Housewives of Paris. That's when their father walked in and saved my ass. The moment he entered the room he commanded respect, and I followed him like a sailor follows the north star, if he told them to jump I probably would have joined in. But, if there's one thing that this babysitting gig taught me is that while American kids may get a bad wrap for being spoiled, egotistical monsters, French kids are no exception; in fact, I think they're their own special brand of evil.

The moment I was in the cool Parisian air I sighed a sigh of relief and began to lick my wounds. I had survived, but would I be so lucky next time? Maybe the next time papa comes home I'll be dead and they'll be feasting on my bones, as he looks down at them exasperated and says "Again!?" I wouldn't put it past them. So while I was lost in my reverie, wondering what the french translation is of "surely there is someone more suicidal for this job" in my resignation letter to their mother, Serendipity found me.

SMACK. I collided into another person. My first reaction is to cuss this dude out, but I curtailed that and managed to say "Sorry" as he was saying "Désolé". Normally, that's the end of it, but when he had heard my English he echoed back "Sorry?" and as I looked up I saw the quintessential American boy looking back at me. You could see he was a little surprised to here an American accent in the underground passageway for Line Six. Even though I was still fuming about obvious offspring of Jekyll and Hyde, I can spot a cute guy and managed to smile at him and repeated, "Yeah, sorry."

"Where are you from?"

"Boston, you?"

"Jersey."

I was smiling the entire time, looking at his tan, full head of dark brown hair and his straight white teeth. He asked me out for drinks right then and there, but I declined. Though I did give him my new phone number and asked him to call me sometime. It seems strange picking up American boys here in Paris, but it was beyond refreshing to have a small conversation with someone who I understand perfectly. No conjugating verbs, no using one word because you don't know how to say the other, just a straight forward conversation. It really is the simple things now.

Jersey was the little bit of luck I needed that day. As he walked away from me to catch his train, he said "See you around Boston, you're a long way from home." A little part of me cringed to be reminded of that fact, but another part of me smiled. Yes I am Jersey, but so are you, and maybe we can both be the little part of home we're both looking for here.