You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny

From Publishers Weekly Misadventures in nannyhood" is how Hansen, an Oregon teen who'd trained at the Northwest Nannies Institute, characterizes her amusing account of several years as live-in drudge to the stars. Readers of James B. Stewart's DisneyWar are already acquainted with her first employer, Michael Ovitz, then still the superagent commander of the CAA talent agency, and parent, with his wife, of three children. Hansen isn't a flippant writer; she doesn't try to score easy shots; and she cites her own inexperience and shyness, but it becomes increasingly clear through her account (backed up by the diary she kept) that the portraits drawn by other writers—of a cold, shrewd, controlling man—are accurate. Still, there was glamour, which at first made up for the grueling 24/7 workload and a curious chintziness. However, Hansen lasted just over six months. She later found work with the charming Debra Winger and left only because it became clear that the doting Winger didn't really need a full-time nanny. Her next and last nanny job was with the wonderful and thoughtful Rhea Perlman and Danny DeVito and their three kids. Hardly backstabbing, this entertaining book possesses a sincerity other nannying tomes lack. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. "Filled with juicy little tidbits that will be enjoyed by anyone who loves to read about the bad behavior...of the rich and famous." — LA Times "[A] story that Hansen tells with real comic energy, sparing no unlibelous detail." — Boston Globe "After the publication of Hollywood nanny Suzanne Hansen's memoir, former employer and hardballing Uber-agent, Michael Ovitz might swear bitterly: You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again ." — Vanity Fair , January 2006 "Think The Nanny Diaries , but juicier—and it's all true! Suzanne Hansen's tell-all book about her real-life adventures in Tinseltown babysitting (she was the nanny to the kids of super-scary super-agent Michael Ovitz) will have you howling with laughter—and rage." — Marie Claire magazine "Veterans of the serving class ourselves, we thought we'd seen it all, but You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again offers an intriguing peek into the never-before-revealed family lives of Hollywood's elite. Hansen's memoir poignantly proves that truth can be more powerful than fiction." —Leanne Shear and Tracey Toomey, authors of The Perfect Manhattan "A funny, absorbing true tale that will once again leave readers wondering why anyone would want to work in the insane asylum that is Hollywood." —Robin Lynn Williams, author of The Assistants "Funny and engaging enough to be a novel, that You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again is true takes it to another level—a stunning exposé of our culture's impossible expectations of mothers." —Ariel Gore, author of The Hip Mama Survival Guide and The Mother Trip "A jolly holiday with Mary it most certainly was not. At 18 years old, long before Nanny 911, Suzanne Hansen left the WiIlamette Valley of Cottage Grove to pair her au with late-'80s Hollywood excess... Hansen's just-released tell-all You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again chronicles her caregiving escapades with Debra Winger, Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman, and especially the Ovitz clan." — Portland Monthly magazine“Veterans of the serving class ourselves, we thought we’d seen it all, but You’ll Never Nanny in This Town Again offers an intriguing peek into the never-before-revealed family lives of Hollywood’s elite. Hansen’s memoir poignantly proves that truth can be more powerful than fiction.” —Leanne Shear and Tracey Toomey, authors of The Perfect Manhattan “Just when you think you’ve heard everything about the behind-the-scenes world of celebrities, along comes You’ll Never Nanny in This Town Again, a humorous yet down-to-earth account of the vagaries of warped Hollywood parenting. Author Suzanne Hansen’s experiences as an L.A. nanny expose the absurd–and yet achingly funny–differences between the rich and famous and the rest of us.” —Andrew Breitbart and Mark Ebner, authors of Hollywood, Interrupted “A funny, absorbing true tale that will once again leave readers wondering why anyone would want to work in the insane asylum that is Hollywood.” —Robin Lynn Williams, author of The Assistants Suzanne Hansen has been a high-risk labor and delivery nurse, lactation consultant, and childbirth educator. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and two children. From The Washington Post Here are three words I never thought I'd write: Poor Michael Ovitz. Ovitz, of course, is the legendary Hollywood agent, founder of Creative Artists Agency, storied super-negotiator and, most recently as the deposed head of Disney, embodiment of all that is wrong in the obscenely overpaid and hubristic executive suites of the movie industry. A frequent subject of showbiz legend and lore, Ovitz has never come off as particularly sympathetic, with his ruthless tactics and preternaturally calculating demeanor. It's taken a young, presumably naive rube from the sticks to make Ovitz seem vulnerable. In You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again, first-time author Suzanne Hansen recounts the year she spent caring for Ovitz's three children, by her lights a miserable period spent working without a contract, cringing under the constant criticism of Ovitz's wife, Judy, and holing up in her room during her weekends off. A self-described rookie who traveled from her hometown of Cottage Grove, Ore., to Los Angeles right after graduating from a nanny training school, Hansen throws in an occasional dollop of self-criticism for allowing herself to be exploited and never negotiating a contract with her employers. But such asides are mere formalities in You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again, as bitter and nasty -- and finally unsatisfying -- a revenge narrative as has ever been penned. Clearly Hansen sold the idea to her publishers on the basis of all the dirt she had on the Ovitzes, once one of Hollywood's reigning power couples. But it's old dirt: She worked for them in the late '80s, when anecdotes about Michael eating chicken wings with a knife and fork, caring more about his art collection than his kids and handling a powerless nanny with the same bare knuckles he used for studio suits would have been delectable comeuppance. Instead, in this workmanlike chronicle that bristles with self-pity, rage and class resentment, the Ovitzes come across as rather sad creatures, who eagerly navigate the echelons of power and stardom but seem far less confident when it comes to intimacy. What's more, as Hansen gleefully judges their relationships with their children and with each other, they can never hope to measure up to the good, honest folk back in Cottage Grove. In one of the many self-serving journal entries that lard the book, Hansen fumes, "Why don't people with a great deal of money realize that their wealth is providing them with so many choices in life?" She continues, reminiscing about her friends' parents: "They would have given anything to never miss a Little League game or be able to volunteer each week in their child's classroom. It got me thinking about why Michael never drops by Josh's reading class or Amanda's ballet school. Why in the world would any parent miss that stuff voluntarily?" And why in the world would Hansen make so many knee-jerk assumptions in one short paragraph? As a candid, upstairs/downstairs look at the lives of the stratospherically wealthy, You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again provides a few frissons of Schadenfreude; we can never tire, can we, of hearing that the rich and famous are phonier, meaner and cheaper than we are. (Judy quibbles over the purchase of a new iron.) But Hansen's book seems hopelessly dated, not only because the Ovitzes are no longer such tempting targets but also because, in this era of "Nanny 911," she so egregiously leaves out her own child-minding advice. (Rule No. 1, for kids at least, would be: Don't choose to be born in Hollywood.) She makes vague, disparaging remarks about her bosses' discipline tactics -- or, more commonly, the lack thereof -- but she never shares her own philosophy: Is she a partisan of time outs? Chore Charts? Sleep training? This is the hot dish most readers will be craving as the author re-heats yet another 20-year-old story about Michael's temper or Judy's passive-aggressive hauteur. Hansen eventually, and quite precipitously, leaves the Ovitz household, leading Michael to blackball her among his friends and colleagues. (After all, as the author herself notes, his favorite book is The Art of War.) But she manages to land a gig with Debra Winger, a celebrity she finds much more down-to-earth and likable. (In addition to Winger, Hansen confirms that several other stars are as warm and genuine as their personae, including Goldie Hawn, Bill Murray, Sally Field, Rhea Perlman and Danny DeVito.) Winger, it turns out, has had her own run-ins with Ovitz, and she and Hansen become fast friends. But clearly Hansen has learned more from her former employer about the art of war than she admits. When she negotiates her new salary, she firmly states she wants to net $400 a week. "Why I threw in the net thing, I have no idea," Hansen writes with characteristic gee-whiz disingenuousness. Why, indeed. Reviewed by Ann Hornaday Copyright 2006, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PROLOGUE If you want your children to turn out well, spend twice as much time with them, and half as much money. —Abigail Van Buren When my boss told me that we were all going to Hawaii for Thanksgiving vacation, I tried not to panic. I was nineteen years old, and my vacation experience up to that point pretty much consisted of ten-hour trips in my family’s cramped station wagon to visit my cousins in Canada. You’d think I would have been turning cartwheels down Sunset Boulevard. But as enticing as an all-expenses-paid stay at a posh Hawaiian beachfront resort would sound to most people, I was realistic enough—after almost a year of nannying for one of the most powerful families in Hollywood—to know that I’d be on duty for 192 hours straight. I had counted.One hundred and ninety-two straight hours of running after three children under the age of seven, of sharing quarters a lot more cramped than the ten-thousand-square-foot home we normally occupied, where the air was already tense. Of no room to escape the kids or their parents for one minute.This “vacation” sounded worse every time I thought about it. Good thing I didn’t know about the other five kids.The night after I was informed of our upcoming adventure, I decided to be more positive. Come on, Suzy! You could never afford to travel to Hawaii on your own. This is a great opportunity to soak up some paradise. I tried not to think about our previous “vacations.” Surely this would have a whole different, relaxed, tropical vibe? I called my friend and fellow nanny Mandie to tell her my news. She listened intently while I borrowed scenes from postcards and spun my perfect vision of the eight-day trip.“I’ll be basking on white-sugar beaches, with cute cabana boys constantly serving me fruity drinks in coconut halves. After I distribute the beach toys and reapply sunscreen on the kids, I’ll soak up the Polynesian splendor. Just think, hula performances under torch-lit palms . . . leis draped around me . . . luaus . . . lanais . . .” In my dream-dappled mind, there would be grandparents, aunts, and uncles to lavish attention on the kids. The gentle spirit of the island would permeate our hearts and inner harmony would reign.But then Mandie started laughing so hard that I was actually afraid she’d lost control of her bladder.We both knew it was far more likely that the actual scenario would be similar to what a mutual nanny friend of ours had just undergone. Her employer, a well-known baseball player, had brought her along to the famous Pebble Beach golf course, where he was playing in a huge charity golf tournament. The event was star-studded, and she couldn’t wait to rub elbows with some celebrities. But when the other baseball players’ wives realized someone had brought a nanny, they all dumped their kids in her suite and headed off to the tournament unencumbered. She spent three days in a hotel room with nine—count ’em, nine— kids. She never saw one moment of golf, beach, or sunshine.I tried to be optimistic, but my spirits wavered when even getting out of the driveway became a massive undertaking. Our traveling caravan included me and my employers, Michael and Judy Ovitz; their three children (Joshua, Amanda, and Brandon); Michael’s parents; his brother, Mark, and Mark’s wife, Linda, and their six-year-old son; and Michael’s business partner, Ron Meyer, along with Ron’s date, Cyndi Garvey, and their four combined daughters. It took two stretch limos just to get the whole group to the airport. Altogether, the entourage totaled nine adults and eight children. In addition, Michael’s friend Al Checchi and his wife, three kids, and nanny would be meeting us at the resort.After we were greeted at LAX by a professional-looking woman waiting at passenger drop-off, the limo driver unloaded enough luggage to supply an army tank division. We were breezily escorted through security and down a long hall to a door marked THE CAPTAIN’S CLUB. Who knew that airlines provided these private little sanctuaries to their frequent fliers? And Creative Artists Agency, Michael’s company—with his partners, staff, and clients—had probably racked up millions of such miles on the corporate American Express card. Michael waved the whole troupe over to the Captain’s Club portal.A stone-faced young woman at the desk stopped us. Airline policy was to allow the frequent flier and one guest, and she was here to enforce the rules. She was firm and implacable with a perfunctory pleasantness that was so calm it was irritating. Michael started arguing his case, but she repeated patiently that this was company policy, with no exceptions. No exceptions? Michael’s face began to twitch as if a bug were trapped under his skin. The employee gave the impression of having weathered a few of these type A folks in her day. She repeated the policy clearly and identically several times. I recognized her “brokenrecord technique” from my childcare classes. But Michael wasn’t six.“I’m sorry,Mr. . . .” She paused, waiting for him to fill in the blank.He raised his eyebrows and lowered his face closer to hers. “Ovitz. Michael Ovitz,” he pronounced emphatically, as though there was not a soul alive who would not recognize his name.The woman didn’t respond. She calmly kept typing on her computer as she stared into the monitor. I already had learned in my tenure with “the most powerful man in Hollywood” that there were several things that invariably irritated or angered him. One of them was not being recognized for the influential man he was. This was a bit of a contradiction, since he hated seeing his name in the papers and went to great lengths to keep his picture from being published. Whatever. Today was definitely a day he wanted to be recognized.“Do you have any idea how many frequent-traveler miles my company has with this airline?” He smirked with the air of someone who always got his way. I thought about backing him up and rehearsed my part in my mind: Please, miss, lighten up. I have a chubby baby on one hip and a heavy diaper bag on the other, and I would like to sit down. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ovitz. I don’t know you, and it wouldn’t matter if I did, because the rules are the rules,” she replied with unsurpassed calm. “You can have only one guest come in with you.” Oh dear, poor thing.Maybe if I wriggled my eyebrows frantically, she’d relent. I tried desperately to make eye contact, wondering what kind of expression would let her know that she was teetering on the verge of unemployment.From my position just behind Michael, I could almost feel the steam start to rise off his neck. Why couldn’t the woman see his rage? It was absolutely clear there was no way he was going to allow this irritating little bureaucrat to keep him from bringing his entire party into the Captain’s Club.We had a full two hours before our flight left.Once again, I tried to communicate the situation telepathically. Girl, look at me. LOOK AT ME! Can’t you see this guy is used to people quaking at the mere mention of his name? There’s no way he is going to wait with his wife, parents, children, and friends with the riffraff at the gate! And now you’ve pissed him off, and the waiting is beside the point. You’re messing with his ego. Save yourself! Without saying another word to the woman, Michael turned to us. “Take the kids and go sit over there,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.” With that, he disappeared through the door. By the time he had returned ten minutes later, the woman behind the desk had already been plucked from the room by a large man in a business suit and replaced by another woman wearing a big smile. Upon Michael’s return, she personally ushered us into the elaborately decorated club and offered us lunch.Michael may have won, but the rest of us certainly hadn’t. It was beneath his dignity to use his sophisticated negotiation skills on such a nobody. His lips were tight and his upper body even stiffer than usual. I got the distinct impression that anyone who even dared to breathe too loudly around him would get a stinging tongue-lashing of their own. No, my boss was far from happy, and when Michael ain’t happy, ain’t nobody gonna be happy. I carefully avoided looking in his direction.The two hours passed excruciatingly slowly.Finally it was time to board the aircraft. And what an aircraft it was. Usually when we flew we took corporate jets—fancy but definitely cozy and compact.You could have put six of those on each wing of this plane.I had a hard time comprehending such massive bulk.We had first-class tickets, obviously, so we boarded first. Good thing they started early because it took fifteen minutes for the entire group to get into the cabin. Between all of us, we took up a good portion of the first-class seats. The tickets alone must have cost almost $20,000. As we all jockeyed for position, the flight attendants helped us stow the carry-ons and find our seats, and I could see the faces of the aristocracy already ensconced in their rows giving us looks of combined disgust and fear. I knew what they were thinking: How could anyone be so rude as to bring that many children, and so young, into first class? I paid a lot of money to sit here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with a bunch of screaming brats. The airline billed this as a six-hour flight, and several of the children, including ten-month-old Brandon, were already either crying or fighting. The poor couple seated just behind us was settling down for their first flight as man and wife. What could they possibly think ... Read more