Dear Aunt Helen,
I recently hired a lovely woman from Panama to take care of my two children, a 5-year-old named Philippe, and his 6-month-old sister Marcheline. She has been an excellent caregiver to our children but the other day I had some time between spa treatments and went home to find Philippe eating McDonalds!! MCDONALDS! He was clutching a trans-fat laced fry in this precious little fist and only by hurling myself across the room and knocking him off his chair was I able to intercept the fry before it reached his mouth.
Our caregiver said that she routinely takes the kids to McDonalds as Philippe enjoys the toys that come with the meal. My husband and I only serve our children organic, locally grown food with the most natural ingredients, however I don’t want to offend my employee by telling her “No McDonalds” as I am sure that this is what she feeds her own kids when she has time to see them in between her three jobs.
Should I confront her?
Bewildered in Brentwood
Do you know the way to San Jose? I believe it was in Monterey; we had a cabana boy at our vacation home named Diego during the sun-bleached white and water blue days of my youth. He was a strapping dark, brown man with a posterior on which you could bounce a farthing! My personal indentured servant, Ling Ling, warned me to stay away from him, telling me that he would make me nothing but loco. But I couldn’t resist his caliente advances and a torso that appeared like a nice, juicy piece of carne asada. He set my heart en fuego!
My good friend, Barbara Hernandez (mind you to pronounce her name with emphasis on the last “e”!) was staying with us at the time. She had taken on the surname in honor of the Spanish Conquistador Felipe Costa Rica Ecuador Hernandez…who also happened to be her gardener.
Having immersed herself in the cultura of Mexico, she encouraged the miscegenatious tryst. I’m fairly certain by eating enough of those edible contraptions made out of a kind of flat bread, rice, beans, huakkamole, and pork, you officially become an honorary citizen of Mexico, anyway. Sadly, just as Ling Ling warned, Diego proved to be a treacherous rake of the very worst kind. The Mexicans are at once a savage and lazy race of people, and one must watch what one does around them, lest that dashing salsa partner you are tangoing with steal your wallet…or your heart.
I’ll never forget the moment I saw Diego leaving my sister’s bedroom, with only a washcloth wrapped around his still pulsating manhood.
I hope dear Bewildered, that your dalliances with your Mexican prove less heart-wrenching. But when all else fails, though, a conveniently placed call to the Immigration authorities may be the only recourse.