Every season of my nanny career kicked off with a round of interviews so surreally similar that I'd often wonder if the mothers were slipped a secret manual at the Parents League to guide them through. This initial encounter became as repetitive as religious ritual, tempting1 me, in the moment before the front door swung open, either to kneel and genuflect2 or say, "Hit it!"
No other event epitomized the job as perfectly3, and it always began and ended in an elevator nicer than most New Yorkers' apartments.
The walnut4-paneled car slowly pulls me up, like a bucket in a well, toward potential solvency5. As I near the appointed floor I take a deep breath; the door slides open onto a small vestibule which is the portal to, at most, two apartments. I press the doorbell. Nanny Fact: she always waits for me to ring the doorbell, even though she was buzzed by maximum security downstairs to warn of my imminent6 arrival and is probably standing7 on the other side of the door. May, in fact, have been standing there since we spoke8 on the telephone three days ago.
The dark vestibule, wallpapered in some gloomy Colefax and Fowler floral, always contains a brass9 umbrella stand, a horse print, and a mirror, wherein I do one last swift check of my appearance. I seem to have grown stains on my skirt during the train ride from school, but otherwise I'm pulled together-twin set, floral skirt, and some Gucci-knockoff sandals I bought in the Village.
She is always tiny. Her hair is always straight and thin; she always seems to be inhaling10 and never exhaling11. She is always wearing expensive khaki pants, Chanel ballet flats, a French striped T-shirt, and a white cardigan. Possibly some discreet12 pearls. In seven years and umpteen13 interviews the I'm-mom-casual-in-my-khakis-but-intimidating-in-my-$400'shoes outfit14 never changes. And it is simply impossible to imagine her doing anything so undignified as what was required to get her pregnant in the first place.
Her eyes go directly to the splot on my skirt. I blush. I haven't even opened my mouth and already I'm behind.
She ushers15 me into the front hall, an open space with a gleaming marble floor and mushroom-gray walls. In the middle is a round table with a vase of flowers that look as if they might die, but never dare wilt16.
This is my first impression of the Apartment and it strikes me like a hotel suite-immaculate, but impersonal17. Even the lone18 finger painting I will later find taped to the fridge looks as if it were ordered from a catalog. (Sub-Zeros with a custom-colored panel aren't magnetized.)
She offers to take my cardigan, stares disdainfully at the hair my cat seems to have rubbed on it for good luck, and offers me a drink. I'm supposed to say, "Water would be lovely," but am often tempted19 to ask for a Scotch20, just to see what she'd do. I am then invited into the living room, which varies from baronial splendor21 to Ethan Alien interchangeable, depending on how "old" the money is. She gestures me to the couch, where I promptly22 sink three feet into the cushions, transformed into a five-year-old dwarfed23 by mountains of chintz. She looms24 above me, ramrod straight in a very uncomfortable-looking chair, legs crossed, tight smile.
Now we begin the actual Interview. I awkwardly place my sweating glass of water carefully on a coaster that looks as if it could use a coaster. She is clearly reeling with pleasure at my sheer Caucasianness.
"So," she begins brightly, "how did you come to the Parents League?"
This is the only part of the Interview that resembles a professional exchange. We will dance around certain words, such as "nanny" and "child care," because they would be distasteful and we will never, ever, actually acknowledge that we are talking about my working for her. This is the Holy Covenant25 of the Mother/Nanny relationship: this is a pleasure-not a job. We are merely "getting to know each other," much as how I imagine a John and a call girl must make the deal, while trying not to kill the mood.
The closest we get to the possibility that I might actually be doing this for money is the topic of my baby-sitting experience, which I describe as a passionate26 hobby, much like raising Seeing Eye dogs for the blind. As the conversation progresses I become a child-development expert-convincing both of us of my desire to fulfill28 my very soul by raising a child and taking part in all stages of his/her development; a simple trip to the park or museum becoming a precious journey of the heart. I cite amusing anecdotes29 from past gigs, referring to the children by name-"I still marvel30 at the cognitive31 growth of Constance with each hour we spent together in the sandbox." I feel my eyes twinkle and imagine twirling my umbrella a la Mary Poppins. We both sit in silence for a moment picturing my studio apartment crowded with framed finger paintings and my doctorates32 from Stanford.
She stares at me expectantly, ready for me to bring it on home. "I love children] I love little hands and little shoes and peanut butter sandwiches and peanut butter in my hair and Elmo-I love Elmo- and sand in my purse and the "Hokey Pokey"-can't get enough of it!-and soy milk and blankies and the endless barrage33 of questions no one knows the answers to, I mean why is the sky blue? And Disney! Disney is my second language!"
We can both hear "A Whole New World" slowly swelling34 in the background as I earnestly convey that it would be more than a privilege to take care of her child-it would be an adventure.
She is flushed, but still playing it close to the chest. Now she wants to know why, if I'm so fabulous35, I would want to take care of her child. I mean, she gave birth to it and she doesn't want to do it, so why would I? Am I trying to pay off an abortion36? Fund a leftist group? How did she get this lucky? She wants to know what I study, what I plan to do in the future, what I think of private schools in Manhattan, what my parents do. I answer with as much filigree37 and insouciance38 as I can muster39, trying to slightly cock my head like Snow White listening to the animals. She, in turn, is aiming for more of a Diane-Sawyer-pose, looking for answers which will confirm that I am not there to steal her husband, jewelry40, friends, or child. In that order.
Nanny Fact: in every one of my interviews, references are never checked. I am white. I speak French. My parents are college educated. I have no visible piercings and have been to Lincoln Center in the last two months. I'm hired.
She stands with newfound hope. "Let me show you around ..." Although we have already met, it's time for the Apartment to play its role to full effect. As we pass through each room it seems to fluff itself and shimmy to add shine to the already blinding surfaces. Touring is what this Apartment was born for. Each enormous room leads to the next with a few minihallways just big enough for a framed original so-and-so.
No matter if she has an infant or a teenager-there is never a trace of a child to be found on the Tour. In fact, there's never a trace of anyone-not a single family picture displayed. I'll find out later that these are all discreetly41 tucked into sterling42 Tiffany frames and clustered artfully in a corner of the den43.
Somehow the absence of a pair of strewn shoes or an opened envelope makes it hard to believe that the scene I am being led through is three-dimensional; it seems like a Potemkin apartment. I consequently feel ungainly and unsure of how to demonstrate the appropriate awe44 that is expected from me, without saying, "Yes'm, it's awl45 so awfly luverly, shore is," in a thick cockney accent and curtsying.
Luckily she is in perpetual motion and the opportunity does not present itself. She glides46 silently ahead of me and I am struck by how tiny her frame seems against the dense47 furnishings. I stare at her back as she moves from room to room, stopping only briefly48 in each to wave her hand around in a circle and say the room's name, to which I nod to confirm that this is, in fact, the dining room.
Two pieces of information are meant to be conveyed to me during the Tour: (1) I am out of my league, and (2) I will be policing at maximum security to ensure that her child, who is also out of his or her league, does not scuff49, snag, spill, or spoil a single element of this apartment. The coded script for this exchange goes as follows: she turns around to "mention" that there really is no housekeeping involved and that Hutchison really "prefers" to play in his room. If there were any justice in the world this is the point when all nannies should be given roadblocks and a stun50 gun. These rooms are destined51 to become the burden of my existence. From this point on, ninety-five percent of this apartment will be nothing more than a blurred52 background for chasing, enticing53, and point-blank pleading with the child to "Put the Delft milkmaid down!!" I am also about to become intimate with more types of cleaning fluid than I knew there were types of dirt. It will be in her pantry-stocked high above the washer-dryer-that I discover people actually import toilet bowl cleanser from Europe.
We arrive in the kitchen. It is enormous. With a few partitions it could easily house a family of four. She stops to rest one manicured hand on the counter, affecting a familiar pose, like a captain at the helm about to address the crew. However, I know if I asked her where she keeps the flour, a half hour of rummaging54 through unused baking utensils55 would ensue.
Nanny Fact: she may pour an awful lot of Perrier in this kitchen, but she never actually eats here. In fact, over the course of the job I never see her eat anything. While she can't tell me where to find the flour, she can probably locate the laxatives in her medicine cabinet blindfolded56.
The refrigerator is always bursting with tons of meticulously57 chopped fresh fruit separated into Tupperware bowls and at least two packs of fresh cheese tortellini that her child prefers without sauce. (Meaning there is never any in the house for me, either.) There is also the requisite58 organic milk, a deserted59 bottle of Lillet, and Sarabeth's jam, and lots of refrigerated ginkgo biloba ("for Daddy's memory"). The freezer is stocked with Mommy's dirty little secret: chicken nuggets and popsicles. As I peer into the fridge I see that food is for the child; condiments60 are for the grown-ups. One pictures a family meal in which parents meekly61 stick toothpicks into a jar of Grace's sundried tomatoes while child gorges63 on a feast of fresh fruit and frozen dinners.
"Brandford's meals are really quite simple," she says, gesturing to the frozen food as she closes the freezer door. Translation: they are able to feed him this crap in good conscience on the weekends because I will be cooking him four-course macrobiotic meals on the weeknights. There will be a day to come when I stare at the colorful packages in the freezer with raw envy as I resteam the wild rice from Costa Rica for the four-year-old's maximum digestive ease.
She swings open the pantry (which is big enough to be a summer home for the family of four who could live in the kitchen) to reveal an Armageddon-ready level of storage, as if the city were in perpetual danger of being looted by a roving band of insanely health-conscious five-year-olds. It is overflowing64 with every type of juice box, soy milk, rice milk, organic pretzel, organic granola bar, and organic raisin27 the consulted nutritionist could think up. The only item with additives65 is a shelf of Goldfish options, including low salt and the not-so-popular onion.
There isn't a single trace of food in the entire kitchen big enough to fill a grown-up hand. Despite the myth of "help yourself," it will take a few starving evenings of raisin dinners before I discover THE TOP SHELF, which appears to be trip wired and covered with dust, but contains the much-coveted gourmet66 house gifts that have been left for dead by women who see chocolate as a grenade in Pandora's box. Barneys' raisinettes, truffles from Saks, fudge from Martha's Vineyard, all of which I devour67 like crack-cocaine in the bathroom to avoid the crime being recorded by a possible security camera. I picture the footage being played on Hard Copy: "Nanny caught in the act-heady with delusions68 of entitlement-breaks cellophane wrapper on '92 Easter Godivas."
It is at this point that she begins the Rules. This is a very pleasing portion of the event for any mother because it is "a chance to demonstrate how much thought and effort has gone into bringing the child this far. She speaks with a rare mixture of animation69, confidence, and awesome70 conviction-she knows this much is true. I, in turn, adopt my most eager, yet compassionate71 expression as if to say "Yes, please tell me more-I'm fascinated" and "How awful it must be for you to have a child allergic72 to air." So begins the List:
Allergic to dairy.
Allergic to peanuts.
Allergic to strawberries.
Allergic to propane-based shellac.
Some kind of grain.
Won't eat blueberries.
Will only eat blueberries-sliced.
Sandwiches must be cut horizontally and have crusts.
Sandwiches must be cut in quarters and have NO crusts.
Sandwiches must be made facing east.
She loves rice milk!
He won't eat anything starting with the letter M.
All servings are to be pre-measured-NO additional food is permissible73.
All juice is to be watered down and drunk out of a sip74 glass over the sink or in the bathtub (preferably until the child is eighteen).
All food is to be served on a plastic place mat with paper towel beneath bowl, bib on at all times. Actually, "if you could get Lucien naked before eating and then hose her down afterward75, that would be perfect."
NO food or drink within two hours of bedtime. NO additives. NO preservatives76. NO pumpkin77 seeds. NO skins of any kind. NO raw food. NO cooked food. NO American food.
and . . . (voice drops to a pitch only whales can hear) NO FOOD OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN/
I am nodding gravely in agreement. This makes total sense. "Oh, my God, of course," I find myself saying.
This is Phase I of bringing me into the fold, of creating the illusion of collusion. "We're in this together! Little Elspeth is our joint78 project! And we're going to feed her nothing but mung beans!" I feel as if I am nine months pregnant and just finding out my husband plans to raise the child in a cult79. Yet I am somehow flattered that I am being chosen to participate in this project. Completion Phase II: I am succumbing80 to the allure81 of perfection.
The tour proceeds to the farthest possible room. The distance of the child's room from the parents' room always runs the gamut82 from far away to really, really far away. In fact, if there is another floor this room will be on it. One has the image of the poor three-year-old awakening83 from a nightmare and having to don a pith helmet and flashlight to go in search of her parents' room, armed only with a compass and fierce determination.
The other telltale sign that one is moving into the Child Zone is the change in the decor from muted, faux Asian to either a Mondrian scheme of primary colors or Bonpoint, Kennedy pastels. Either way Martha has been here-personally. But the effect is oddly disquieting84; it's so obviously an adult's conception of a child's room, as evidenced by the fact that all the signed first edition Babar prints are hung at least three feet above the child's head.
After having received the Rules I am braced85 to meet the boy in the bubble. I expect to see a full-out intensive care unit complete with a Louis Vuitton IV hookup. Imagine my shock at the ball of motion that comes hurtling across the room at us. If it's a boy the movement is reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil, while a girl tends toward a full-tilt Mouseketeers sequence, complete with two pirouettes and a grand jete. The child is sent into this routine by some Pavlovian response to the mother's perfume as she rounds the corner. The encounter proceeds as follows: (1) Child (groomed within an inch of his/her life) makes a beeline directly for mother's leg. (2) At the precise moment the child's hands wrap around her thigh86 the mother swiftly grabs the child's wrists. (3) And she simultaneously87 sidesteps out of the embrace, bringing the child's hands into a clapping position in front of the child's face, and bends down to say hello, turning the child's gaze to me. Voila. And thus the first of many performances of what I like to call the "Spatula88 Reflex." It has such timing89 and grace that I feel as if I should applaud, but instead move directly into my Pavlovian response set off by their expectant faces. I drop to my knees.
"Why don't you two get to know each other a little ..." This is the cue for the Play-With-Child portion of the audition90. Despite the fact that we all know the child's opinion is irrelevant91 I nevertheless become psychotically animated92. I play as if I'm Christmas and then some until the child has been whipped into a foaming93 frenzy94 of interaction, with the added stimulant95 of a rare audience with mother. The child has been trained in the Montessori approach to fun-only one toy is pulled from its walnut cubicle96 at a time. I over-compensate for the lack of normal childhood chaos97 by turning into a chorus of voices, dance steps, and an in-depth understanding of Pokemon. Within moments the child is asking me to go to the zoo, sleep over, and move in. This is the mother's cue to break in from where she has been sitting with her mental clipboard and Olympic score cards on the edge of the child's bed to announce that it is "Time to say goodbye to Nanny. Won't it be fun to play with Nanny again?"
The housekeeper98, who has been folded into a child-size rocking chair in the corner this entire time, offers up a dejected storybook, making a meek62 attempt to match my display of fireworks and delay the inevitable99 crash. Within seconds there is a replay of a slightly more sophisticated version of the Spatula Reflex, this time encompassing100 a maneuvering101 of both mother and myself outside the room, punctuated102 by a slammed door, all in one seamless motion. She runs her hands through her hair as she leads me back into the silence of the apartment with a long, breathy "Well..."
She hands me my purse and then I stand with her in the foyer for at least half an hour, waiting to be dismissed.
"So, do you have a boyfriend?" This is the cue for the Play-With-Mother portion of the audition. She is in for the night-there is no mention of a husband's imminent arrival or plans for dinner. I hear about her pregnancy103, Lotte Berk, the last Parents' Night meeting, the pain-in-the-ass housekeeper (left for dead in the Child Zone), the wily decorator, the string of nanny disasters before me, and the nursery school nightmare. Completion Phase III: I am actually excited that I am not only getting a delightful104 child to play with, I'm getting a new best friend!
Not to be outdone, I hear myself talking-trying to establish my status as a person of the world; I name-drop, brand-drop, place-drop. Then self-consciously deprecate myself with humor so as not to intimidate105 her. I become aware that I am talking way, way too much. I am babbling106 about why I left Brown, why I left my last relationship-not that I'm a leaver no, no, no! I pick something, I stick with it! Yessiree! Did I tell you about my thesis? I am revealing information that will be dragged up repeatedly for months in awkward attempts to make conversation. Soon I am just bobbing my head and saying "Okay-ay!" while blindly groping for the doorknob. Finally she thanks me for coming, opens the door, and lets me press for the elevator.
I am caught mid-sentence as the elevator door starts to close, forcing me to shove my bag in front of the electronic eye so I can finish a meaningful thought on my parents' marriage. We smile and nod at one another like animatrons until the door mercifully slides closed. I collapse107 against it, exhaling for the first time in an hour.
Minutes later the subway barrels down Lexington, propelling me toward school and back to the grind of my own life. I slump108 against the plastic seat, images from the pristine109 apartment swimming in my head. These snapshots are soon interrupted by a man or woman-sometimes both-shuffling through the car begging for change while gripping their worldly possessions in a shredded110 shopping bag. Pulling my backpack up onto my lap, my postperformance adrenaline leveling out, questions begin to percolate111.
Just how does an intelligent, adult woman become someone whose whole sterile112 kingdom has been reduced to alphabetized lingerie drawers and imported French dairy substitutes? Where is the child in this home? Where is the woman in this mother?
And how, exactly, am I to fit in?
Ultimately, there would come a turning point in every job when it seemed that the child and I were the only three-dimensional people running around on the black-and-white marble chessboards of those apartments. Making it inevitable that someone would get knocked down.
Looking back, it was a setup to begin with. They want you. You want the job.
But to do it well is to lose it.
Hit it.
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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genuflect
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| v.屈膝，跪拜（之态度） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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solvency
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| n.偿付能力，溶解力 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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umpteen
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| adj.多的，大量的；n.许许多多 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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raisin
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| n.葡萄干 | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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cognitive
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| adj.认知的，认识的，有感知的 | |
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doctorates
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| n.博士学位( doctorate的名词复数 ) | |
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barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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awl
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| n.尖钻 | |
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glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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47
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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48
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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49
scuff
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| v. 拖着脚走；磨损 | |
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50
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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53
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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54
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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55
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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56
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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57
meticulously
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| adv.过细地，异常细致地；无微不至；精心 | |
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58
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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59
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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condiments
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| n.调味品 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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62
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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63
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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64
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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65
additives
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| n.添加剂( additive的名词复数 ) | |
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66
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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69
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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allergic
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| adj.过敏的，变态的 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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74
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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preservatives
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| n.防腐剂( preservative的名词复数 ) | |
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pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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78
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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81
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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82
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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83
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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85
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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86
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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spatula
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| n.抹刀 | |
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89
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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90
audition
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| n.(对志愿艺人等的)面试(指试读、试唱等) | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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92
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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93
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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94
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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95
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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96
cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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98
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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99
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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100
encompassing
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| v.围绕( encompass的现在分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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101
maneuvering
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的现在分词 )；操纵 | |
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102
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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103
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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104
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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105
intimidate
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| vt.恐吓，威胁 | |
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106
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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107
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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108
slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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109
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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110
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
percolate
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| v.过滤，渗透 | |
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112
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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