Things You Eat By Yourself for that Whole Episode on Netflix

Ingredients

• 1 Facebook engagement announcement by the boy who took you on your first date 
• This conversation:
  Girl You Babysit: "Do you have a crush on anyone?"
  You: "No."
  Girl You Babysit: "No, no, like, right now. You don't have a crush on anyone, right at this second?"
  You: "Nope, not right now."
  Girl You Babysit: "Nobody?"
  You: "Really, no."
  Girl You Babysit: "Do you want to get married?" 
• Your adult twin-sized bed
• 1 friend response to your Halloween costume choices of Kit Kittredge v. Shari Lewis: "Last year you were a Beanie Baby. Right?"
• Supplies for Friday and Saturday Date Nights, Fall 2014: a bottle of red wine, a quart of sugar-free ice cream, and 3 episodes of “Parenthood”
• 100+ hours of “Parenthood” ruining your acceptance of your love life because Sarah Braverman goes on a date with a new man seriously every episode, it's insane— plus, some character said "He goes through women like cotton candy" and you have no idea what that means

Instructions
I'm not throwing a pity party. In order to feel sorry for myself, any one of the above ingredients would have to be a departure from what my life is typically like. This is simply recognition of my chaste, single life in an "I'm OK with the way I am, even though I'm not OK with the way things are going" way— a way that highlights the triumphs of adorable doll-involved Halloween costumes and single-sized umbrellas at every turn. 

When my ex gifted me his umbrella as he packed away his things, he said, "I'm sure you won't mind, but, just so you know, this is a single-sized umbrella." 

No response from me. He unnecessarily clarifies, "As in, it only covers one pers—" 

"No, I get it. I'm sure that won't be an issue."

I'm my best self-advocate. Last week, I had a babysitting interview with a beautiful Israeli family who was floored to hear I'd be not only willing and available but also be overjoyed to work evenings. After minutes of shock, the mother asks, "Are you sure? You don't have to go home and make dinner?"

No response from me.

She clarifies, "You don't have anyone waiting at home that you need to make dinner for—"

"Nooo. No, that won’t be an issue.”

Recently, I  my friends at a housewarming I was throwing that went a little something like this:

Friend A

You should totally hook up with #**@ tonight! 

Me

I... You know, I'd like to, but I really don't think... Hey, here, let's talk instead about people I'd hypothetically hook up with who aren't here!

Friend A

OH MY GOSH, YES, you HAVE to tell $!&!$ that you want to hook up with ^**^ and he will TOTALLY make that happen! You HAVE to. HE WILL DO IT.

Me

Well... Actually, that probably wouldn't work... I mean, ^**^ is so busy, and I haven't even seen him in, like... months, so...

Friend A

No, if ^**^ wanted to hook up with you last year and now he knows you're single and interested, then it doesn't matter how much time has passed, ^**^ will literally jump on that instantly. Any day.

Me

I'm not sure I'm comfortable with jumping?

Friend B

But what about this guy here, huh?

Friend A

Oh, YAAASSS. DO ITTT.

Me

Honestly, you have to tell me exactly every single move I must take to make that happen. Or else it won't.

Friend A

(Passes down life's deepest wisdoms)

Me

I'm not doing any of that.

Friend A leaves. 

Friend B

Sooo...?

Me

No.

Friend B

Yeah.

Me

I have morals. I have integrity. I don't have a Senator Wendy Davis banner on my Facebook, but I consider myself a feminist. You know?

Friend B

Totally. You're so strong.

Me

Thank you so much. I'm just not into—

Friend B

Playing games?

Me

YES. You get me. You GET ME.

Friend B

(Crying face) (Strong face) You just do you.

Me

I'd like to have fun and "be wild," but I'd just feel so uncomfortable, you know?

Friend B

Totally uncomfortable, absolutely, you just be yourself, act like yourself, truly, no need. No need. If you're not feelin' it, it's not you, you do you.

Me

Let's go get a cupcake.

Ah, simplicity: there’s nothing much left to say about my “evenings in,” every evening, now. I yam what I yam (subtle celebration of Thanksgiving, Happy Thanksgiving everyone) and I'm cool with school. Thus, I thought it'd be fun to look through my favorite website of all time, Pinterest (actually, dressupgames.com is technically my favorite website of all time), and see what self-aggrandizing memes or classic single-chick pics I can find that will make us all want to vomit.

Wow, I didn't even have to scroll down on the results for "Being single" to find this gem:

Let's talk about everything wrong with this. I'll go point by point:

1. I have a twin-sized bed.
2. What? Where?
3.  Sure, those are FUN. Also, I'd do that regardless of my relationship status.
4. OK, honestly, we're all fooling   ourselves if we don't admit that "what-if" is code for "unwanted and regretful rebound."
5. That's hilarious; you think I have money.
6. I won’t hang out with anyone I don't like ever.
7. I’m too lazy to refute the obvious.
8. About...?
9. ... Always?
10. OMG are you buying me a television?!
11. Hold on, what are you doing when you're not single?
12. Thanks. 
13. What.
14. Really.
15. Suck.

That was too easy. Let's find another!

Well, I'm not even going to click on this article, because what the hell does Miley have to do with this? Miley with no shirt on is the best part of being single? All I see is cleavage. Could that be one of the Best Things?

Oh my goodness! Here it is again! New picture, but SAME CLEAVAGE!

I don't know. 

It's funny when you think of the "single person" as a single person. Hah.

One last one, roundin' it out:

Yesss, that's a lot of judgement and unrealistic expectations for the win! Unrealistic because we can't ALL be doctors, Meghan Elizabeth. But if you're right, Meghan Elizabeth, I'm so desperately behind and you've finally let me know. So, thank you.

Listen, though, guys— we don't have to be behind. Like Friend B said, you don't gotta be anyone you don't wanna be, you special precious human. If you're single and you want to mingle, then jingle, babe! I wish I could, sometimes, I really do. But if you're single and you'd rather eat a Pringle than casually intermingle, eat that chip. Please remember, though, that once you pop, you can't stop. 

Additionally, in looking for the correct Pringles slogan wording, I came across THIS crazy fact: Fredric J. Baur, the inventor of the tubular Pringles can, asked his children to honor his request "to bury him in one of the cans by placing part of his cremated remains in a Pringles container in his grave." Now, if that doesn't make you feel just a little better about yourself, in no way offensive to Mr. Baur... 

Only the Red Juice Box iPad-Shaped Chicken Nuggets

Ingredients

• New York City
• Children
• $25/hour

Instructions

The rattle. The click. The turn. 

These are the sounds of intense relief or absolute fear. Sometimes both.

These are the sounds of surrender in war.

These are the sounds that straighten your spine and spines of those around you.

These are the sounds of parents entering the battlegrounds that are their homes. 

Nothing is quite like the sound of keys outside a closed New York City apartment door, especially when you've been on the opposite side of that door trying to get two kids to eat their dinner, do their homework, and bathe, all without killing each other, for the past two hours. No matter what has happened or what that parent is walking into when they cross that ever important battle line into their own home, you are happy to see them. Rather, you're happy to be leaving.

Don't get me wrong-- I love kids. I love babysitting. I choose to do this job because it pays well, it can be flexible, and I sincerely enjoy hanging out with kids. That doesn't mean it's always pleasant. It can be stressful. Frustrating. Like, gee, I don't know-- a job.

Nannies are employees. Employees of a grander, more powerful company than any investment banking or marketing firm. No, nannies are employed by the mothers and fathers who run those multi-million dollar companies, or at least work in a high level at them. How do you think they got so successful at making lots of money? Discipline. No messing around. High standards. Translate that into child rearing and you have quite the household. Busy parents can mean busy babysitters; it's good, we like to have jobs and be paid. However, babysitting in New York is not your grandma's movie night or ordering pizza. It's "screen time", Nick's authentic Italian wood-oven pizza and pasta, ice cream dates at Ciao Bella, money for a taxi to Central Park. It's a lifestyle. 

So, carrying around a large, basically diaper bag full of juice boxes, granola bars, Wet Wipes, a first aid kit, and coloring materials doesn't seem too much for you? OK, let's add in another kid, and let's put them 20 blocks apart for after-school pickup. Oh, and don't forget that Wednesdays are dance class but only every other Wednesday, and this week we switched the weekly religion class to Thursday at 3:05 pm, which means that you need to leave school, well, ideally before school ends. And you should know that the only palatable food for your child is specifically Darth Vader-shaped cheeseburgers-- but please start introducing vegetables into their diet, even though they never eat them. Remember that the school switched all homework entirely over to the iPad, so you're going to have to make sure they're avoiding all of the iPad's other capabilities. Also, let's schedule your audition for 2:45, just late enough for you to miss an entire day's pay. Tomorrow, can you also take little Gordon's friends Timon, Zacharia, and Raymond to ballroom dancing, and make sure they all eat their snacks along the way while not getting hit by cars? Additionally, don't eat a normal lunch or dinner at a normal lunch and dinner time. But, I mean, basically, at the end of the day, your job is "just" to get them to do their homework; that shouldn't be asking too much!

Wipe those smiles off your pretty faces; I know you're lying.

Of course it's never asking too much. You have a job that requires you to work 4 hours a day at $25/hour, making it enough to pay your rent, plus some. And you don't have to serve tables or dance with your clothes off. But the reason you know those smiles are fake is because, at the end of the work day, I don't feel like this:

And you know that once you walk out that door, those smiles turn into this:

Last week, my Pinterest was overcome with pins titled "Restitution Consequences", "25 Ways To Ask Your Kids 'So How Was School Today?' Without Asking Them 'So How Was School Today?', and "How a Glass of Water Helped My Child Understand His Emotions" instead of paleo pumpkin cookies and DIY Halloween costumes, as it should have been. I leave work every day wondering what I did wrong, what I could have done better, and why anyone would ever raise a child in New York City. Then, I call my parents and ask them for parenting advice, which is mostly me venting. Babysitting the same kids every day Monday through Friday-- picking them up from school, helping them with homework, organizing playdates, monitoring social interactions and public behavior, carting to and from activities on busses and subways, socializing with other nannies and moms, preparing and feeding dinner, and keeping up the bathing routine-- is much more of a job than outsiders suspect. I'm not "just" a babysitter. For 4 hours a day, 5 days a week, I'm responsible for helping to raise these kids. I'm part of a coalition of women, and the occasional man, who give up much of their mental sanity to ensure the mental sanity of parents. And it ain't easy.

There are easy-ish babysitting jobs, yes, they're out there. Last year, I was blessed to have an 11-year-old who, a few weeks ago, revealed to me that she "felt bad that [I] couldn't say no, so [she] just stopped asking for things." The hardest part of my job, and what it mainly consisted of, was working against the genius system of her private school to put all of her homework on an iPad, where she could access the Internet. Oh, but don't worry-- they could only add 2 game apps. Thanks so much for that help.

Then, there are the jobs that require you to put on your big girl panties and become the least fun babysitter ever: when your kids threaten, in more ways than one, to get their parents to fire you; when you're called "stupid" on a daily basis; when you're forced to spend 5 hours playing on the living room floor of a studio-sized apartment with an antagonistic 5-year-old who's just broken his leg and can't move. All of which you take, because you can't pass up that money. 

I'm not saying babysitting isn't hard elsewhere-- I've experienced it! But I've never experienced children like those here in NYC, because no other place is NYC. After one of my first sitting gigs in the city, for a very wealthy and successful family, I stayed an extra 40 minutes into the already late night talking with, or, rather, listening to the father who'd returned home. His 2nd-grade son had been one of the hardest nuts to crack ever; he was rude, arrogant, and bossy, and he'd refused to go to sleep. The father came in with a brown bag of $15 burger and fries, sat down at the massive dining table, and began chowing down fistfuls, speaking in the process of barreling greasy fries into his mouth. Never once did he offer me a seat at the table, or anything to eat, or even a glass of water. As I leaned awkwardly against the wall, he reacted to my praise of his beautiful, huge, double-french-door-ed three-bedroom apartment with dismissive critiques of the place and all of the changes he needs to make. For example, their country home has a movie theatre. He speaks of his days as a young actor, moving to LA to pursue film until he realized that he loved money and switched to finance. The climax of the most annoying yet fascinating conversation ever came at this: "Well, you know, she's always darting out of some town car here, and I'm always working or meeting with clients there, so, you know. We don't get to spend a lot of time with the kids, which stinks, but... [shrugs] You do what you gotta do." 

No, sir; I don't know. After those 40 minutes of utter shock were finished and I closed the apartment door behind me, I actually started to cry. Real tears formed in my real eyes! For the first time of many times to come, I was overcome with the urge to call my parents. It was past 11pm, so I couldn't do that, but I just wanted to thank them. The next day, I did call each of them, and I thanked them for... for what? For being there, for teaching me the value of a dollar, for raising me whatever way they did, for instilling respect, for sending me to public school? "For everything."

Thankfully, my long-term babysitting jobs have been for parents who are there for their children in so many ways. Yet, I wish-- and I wish for the parents-- that we could open the back door, let the kids out, and yell "dinner's at 6!" through the closing screen as they race to the trampoline for the afternoon. Maybe then I wouldn't have to fear keeping them out of my sight for longer than 2 minutes, as they'd probably not be tempted to kill each other with this newfound freedom. 

Know what we do. Respect the mouth behind the sentence "I'm a babysitter." There's no easy way to make rent money as an actor, so I might as well choose the one that comes with tests of my patience, hope for the next generation, and ability to resist an apartment full of child-friendly carbs. You gots ta do you, man, so choose the most money for the littlest time, interacting with the fewest people. There's no shame in shame, especially if the kids are cute.

(Let's be serious, they totally are, always. Their smiles melt my heart and every non-poop-related laugh is like hearing an iPhone update bug is fixed. I will sit at the toddler-sized table listening to a child pronounce Pokemon names til kingdom come!)

Castor Oil

Castor Oil

Main Use: Laxative

“A British bank is run with precision,

A British home requires nothing less.

Tradition, discipline, and rules

Must be the tools.

Without them: disorder, catastrophe, anarchy.

In short, you have a ghastly mess.” 

George Banks, of this crazy 'stache: 

What better to describe a month of homelessness & heartbreak on America’s most unforgiving island. 

I’m sorry; that’s being unfair. Let’s begin with, shall we say, an appetizer. One of happy tastes: 

• Costa Rica
• Homemade movie theatre
• New friends

Aw, look. That’s so pleasant. Now, have you had enough to tide you over? Great. Let’s move on.

Moving On: 4 Courses in Starting Over 

1. The Frantically Huge Apartment Search for Such a Little Girl
2. “Alaska” Is Always a Punchline
3. Living with Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend, & Other Sitcom Plots
4. 39 Dollars (and a bitch ain’t one)

Ingredients

1. The Frantically Huge Apartment Search for Such a Little Girl

• 1 lost roommate (not literally physically lost, feel the need to clarify)
• 5 days of homelessness
• 3 couches
• 2 Gypsy Housing bait-and-switch roommates
• 100 min. hours spent searching on Craigslist, Facebook, & random total rip-off sites
• 75 min. Facebook messages/emails sent to strangers, including a misogynistic meme-sender who tells you to "get a real job"
• 1 roommate lost again 
• 1 confusing but sultry-sweet Grandma renting rooms
• 1.5 hours spent talking to 1 crazy rock-'n-roll woman whom you immediately decide you can’t live with but who’s nonetheless the most interesting Ohioan in NYC
• 1 new potential roommate + her attached potential 19-year-old roommate who refuses to look outside of Brooklyn = only 1 new roommate
• Your first entirely Hassidic Brooklyn neighborhood
• The G train
• Brokers named Dino, Elvis, and Fazzi 
• Feeling more and more like the boy from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, in that you’re meeting more new, weird New Yorkers than you ever thought possible
  

2.  "Alaska" Is Always a Punchline

• In Boyhood’s plot 
• As The Proposal’s setting
  
• As The Simpsons Movie’s plot & setting
• Even in the recent Moth podcast you listen to, where it’s the farthest place the storyteller can travel without technically leaving the country
• In telling anyone where your boyfriend is moving for 9 months

3. Living with Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend, & Other Sitcom Plots

• 1 extra room in a railroad apartment 
• where you were staying with your ex-boyfriend before he moved to Alaska
• at $480 a month
• where much of your stuff currently is
• when you have nowhere else to go
• makes for a great story
• but prohibits you from doing that thing you saw in movies where you cry your eyes out and acceptably down a pint of ice cream that you’re almost 99% sure you’re entitled to do
• 2 quarts of ice cream

4. 39 Dollars (and a bitch ain’t one)

• (Please use the remains of that ‘5 days of homelessness’ from above)
• $4 left on your Starbucks card
• $0 left on your Metrocard
• Getting your debit card declined at the Metrocard machine
• Thus, $39 in your bank account
• $0.50 on-sale Nature Valley Granola Bars-- for days
• Yogurt parfaits are still $9 on the “Sides” section of a brunch menu, which is plain absurd
• No, I know, and I’m not joking: that’s $39 total in your name. 
• An $8 special for 24oz of beer + 1 shot... Note: this should be ILLEGAL. Note: this was in the East Village; you’ll find it.
• -- No, yes-- I’m aware that you just came back from a week’s vacation in Costa Rica--
• $160 acquired by taking a 11-year-old British kid to Coney Island for a day
• -- But you must remember that you fly for free and you were visiting someone who was staying in their own house, so the whole trip cost roughly $100--
• Unlocking the art of Venmo
• Canceling your upper endoscopy in fear of extra costs (which is fine with you)
• -- Which you’d probably spend in a week in New York City anyways!

Instructions

Castor oil is a nasty tasting vegetable oil most commonly known for its unpopularity among children and treatment of constipation. Thankfully, a spoon full of sugar can help me get through just about anything, and that’s exactly how Mary Poppins got this drug to go down. However, there are some things not even sugar can remedy; not all the on-sale ice cream quarts, Nature Valley clearance bars, and vegan post-hangover milkshakes in the world could have cured me from the extreme, gut-wrenching food poisoning of the above recipe.

I’m not one to lie when someone asks “how are you?” or “what’s new in your life?”; I don’t see a purpose in hiding life’s negativities. Obviously. When I’d tell friends at home that I was in Ohio doing absolutely nothing for a month because I’d broken my foot during a tour of a show while my other foot was still in physical therapy from a stress-fracture and thus wouldn’t be able to walk around New York City on crutches, especially since my boyfriend wasn’t there to carry me on his back anymore because he’d gone to work at a non-profit in Costa Rica before moving to Alaska for 9 months, and my apartment was on the 5th floor-- more often than not, they’d respond: “wow, Anna, your life is like a movie!” 

Now, I’m sorry, but exactly what type of movie is this? Not a single thing I said was remotely positive. This sounds like a horrible movie, but, apparently, they’d want to see it. In fact, some of them would also like me to write a book about it. The newest request is short stories. 

To which I concur: people love drama.

When I was in high school, and even a little in my first year of college, I yearned for drama. I was the president of my frickin’ high school drama club and I had no idea of the actual drama going on beneath me until well after I graduated. I was immune. Yet, I desperately wanted something exciting-- anything exciting-- to happen in my life. Well, lucky me.

No, I've never read them.

If I were given the choice to go back to that naive, innocent, idealistic optimist of a small-town Ohioan who’d never fought with anyone but her sister, or to stay in my drama-filled, tenuous, complicated mess of a jobless New Yorker going through her first break-up, I’d take the obvious choice: food poisoning. Because no matter how weird and crazy stupid our lives in New York City or grad school in Kansas or leaving your corporate job in DC are, they’re something. And they’re ours. As long as we’re moving forward, even at a snail’s pace, we’re progressing. That’s something. And it’s far from boring. I’m not going to spew that bullsh*$ of “everything happens for a reason,” but I do believe we learn. No kids likes to do homework, but how else will they learn? 

These last 2 months have been arguably the most difficult in my life. I felt like everything I’d built for myself in New York City-- relearning how to walk, settling into an apartment, falling in love, gaining community and money through my jobs-- was erased, all at once. Though I’ve learned a lot about myself and relationships and have come out stronger blah blah blah, I will not lie to you by saying “I’m glad it happened”; “I’m glad I learned that.” Hell, no, am I happy I couch-surfed for a week while eating only granola bars and oatmeal! However, I’ll be damned if I do not work as hard as I possibly can to prevent anything similar from ever happening again. I’m not cured, but I survived. And that’s what I’m proud of. (In addition to the homemade movie theatre mentioned above, of which I had no hand in making but all hands in enjoying. This was in the sitcom plot apartment. Unfortunately, ironically, no romantic comedies were allowed on the big screen. Sigh.)

So, no. I’m not the same person I was when I was bored of my uneventful, cushy high school life. And I think high school Anna would really, really like that.

What do you do with castor oil? Sip it. Spit it out. Sniff it. Find ways to make it flavorful. Take out some ingredients, maybe. Drink it with a friend. Have someone tell you to drink it. Refuse to drink it. Decide to drink it on your own. Go through the process of throwing it up and being hangover-ill to make you promise to yourself that you’ll never, ever drink it again. 

(Pshyeah, good luck with that.)

“Winds in the east, mist coming in, 

Like somethin’ is brewin’ and ‘bout to begin.

Can’t put me finger on what lies in store, 

But I fear what’s to happen all happened before.”

(Oh, man, can you tell what one of the movies we watched in the apartment movie theatre was.)

WRONG:

Saving Mr. Banks