Burned Nipples

“Do you smell something?” my employer wrinkled his nose and looked around the house suspiciously as he set down his briefcase. He was a doctor, as was his wife. I was the nanny. It was the summer of 1987. Whitney Houston wanted to dance with somebody, a gallon of gas cost $.89, the FDA approved… Continue reading Burned Nipples

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My Year as a Nanny: Tending Mary Jane

“Looks like they had a good time last night,” I thought to myself, pushing the pipe, bag of buds, and lighter behind a lamp in an effort to conceal them from the children’s view. The last thing I needed in my job as a nanny was the task of explaining to my charges, “When Mommy… Continue reading My Year as a Nanny: Tending Mary Jane

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