“You’ll be the nanny while we’re in Europe,” my sister said, while five children and enough luggage to evacuate a minor European monarchy appeared on my front porch.
“It’s only three weeks.”
My father, standing behind her like the least useful backup singer in human history, added, “Naomi, don’t be selfish.”
I looked at my sister.
I looked at Dad.
Then I looked at the children.
Then I looked at the seven suitcases, four backpacks, two booster seats, one stuffed giraffe the size of a French bulldog, and a plastic bag containing what appeared to be 87 individually wrapped fruit snacks.
My sister smiled.
Dad folded his arms.
And because I was raised in Louisiana, where we are taught from birth that there are moments when you either scream or become dangerously polite, I smiled back.
“Sure,” I said.
My sister actually clapped.
That was her first mistake.
Her second mistake was leaving before I finished the sentence.
Because what I meant was, “Sure, I’ll take care of this. Just not remotely in the way you think.”
My name is Naomi Spectre.
I’m 34.
I live outside Lafayette, Louisiana, and I make my living as an artist.
Mostly large mixed-media paintings, commissioned portraits, murals, and the occasional piece rich people describe as emotionally confrontational when what they really mean is, “I paid $6,000 for this, and now I need my friends to believe I understand it.”
I love my job.
I love my little house.
I love the old cypress tree behind my studio.
I love the fact that I can work barefoot while drinking chicory coffee strong enough to dissolve a misdemeanor.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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