So sorry I couldn't make it; I was weekending in St. Barth's.

There is something extremely satusfying about being able to truthfully say those words:

Random co-worker: "Hey there, good morning."
Me, sunnily: "Morning!"
RCW: "...are you ok? Your face is sort of red."
Me, nonchalantly: "What? Oh, that. It's sunburn."
RCW: "...from what? Were you outside a lot?"
Me, carelessly: "Hm, yeah, I spent the weekend in the Caribbean."
RCW: "..."
Me: "Well, I mean, I was working. But yeah, I guess I got a little sun."
RCW: "...What were you doing in the Caribbean?"
Me: "I was babysitting."
RCW: "In the Caribbean?"
Me: "In St. Barth's."
RCW: "What? How?"
Me: "This family I babysit for, they travel a lot and take their kids. They needed a travel nanny this weekend."
RCW: "Wow. So did you fly out of Reagan or what?"
Me: "No, they own a private jet. We flew out of Dulles."
RCW: "You flew their private jet to St. Barth's?"
Me: "Yeah, we landed in St. Martin and then took the boat to St. Barth's."
RCW: "So...three days in St. Barths, and you got paid?"
Me: "Six hundred bucks."
RCW: "...Nice work if you can get it."

And it's true, that's exactly what happened. I, the travel nanny, flew in the private jet to St. Martin, took the waiting van to the boat, which took us to the waiting van on St. Barth's, which took us directly to the resort hotel on the beach. The babies and I stayed in our own villa, and the parents stayed in their own villa. It was three days of putting sunscreen on babies on the beach, feeding them pain au chocolat, dressing them in a multitude of pink sundresses, changing diapers, and putting on and taking off various swimsuits. It involved occasionally dog-sitting, nap-supervising, and snack-making, but this all dressed in nothing but flip flops, wet hair, and un maillot in the airy, 85 degree, white-linen-and-dark-wood St. Barths, , where Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban were, incidentally, also weekending. It was a 24/7 job. But it was in St. Barth's.

I mean, really. Nice work if you can get it.