Page 3 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
It’s not that I mind eating alone.
I mean, sure, it’s a little weird when the server keeps giving me those pitying smiles like I just got stood up, but hey, pizza is pizza. And Pizza Girls is quickly becoming my favorite place in the city.
I scroll absently through the want ads on my tablet, taking a bite of my margherita slice as I skim past nanny listings, part-time teaching gigs, and one very suspicious:
Live-In Companion Needed for Elderly Cat Enthusiast—Must Love Tuna.
Hard pass.
“Nope,” I mutter around a sip of iced tea, wiping my fingers on a napkin before swiping again.
Most of the listings are the usual desperation-in-disguise. You know the ones. They’re asking for underpaid, overworked, family values required, compensation optional kind of deals.
Another hard pass. I mean, who works for free?
But it’s not all terrible. I mean, I do keep circling back to one:
LIVE-IN NANNY NEEDED FOR RAMBUNCTIOUS FIVE-YEAR-OLD.
MUST HAVE EARLY CHILDHOOD DEGREE.
MUST BE PROFESSIONAL.
MUST BE WILLING TO FOLLOW RULES.
The ad is all bold caps and zero personality. It screams control freak. I can practically hear the guy clenching his jaw as he typed it.
I mean, rambunctious?
That’s nanny code for demon child with a fondness for firecrackers.
And don’t get me started on the whole “must be willing to follow rules” thing.
I mean, uh, thanks, Dad. Should I wear a chastity belt and report to you for inspection at dawn?
But still, I sigh, rereading it again because, unfortunately, Mr. Dane Alistair, probable robot or emotionally constipated single father, has something I need.
Namely, a paying job.
And also, potentially, a place to live.
Because right now, my living situation is one long, cringey sitcom episode waiting to happen.
Picture it.
Me. A chubby, single thirty year old, sleeping on the world’s lumpiest couch in my older brother Kyle’s living room.
I’m surrounded by half-packed boxes, a cranky rescue pug named Sophie, and the endless PDA of Kyle and his boyfriend, Jeff.
They are both lovely, don’t get me wrong—but there’s only so many times a girl can pretend to be asleep while two grown men reenact a Nicholas Sparks movie on top of the throw blanket she’s currently using.
So yeah.
A nanny job with live-in perks doesn’t sound entirely awful.
Especially if it means I get to shower without tripping over a minefield of bath bombs and beard oil—and I won’t even mention the toy I accidentally knocked off the shelf and screamed at like it was a cursed artifact from an ancient temple.
There are just some things a girl never needs to know about her brother and his boyfriend.
