I have a confession to make -- and no, I am not about to explain my irrational fear of fire, my unpaid parking tickets or why I left a pair of crutches (so random, I know) in my apartment instead of taking them when I moved out. Knowing me, I should've taken them -- I haven't had a catastrophic fall in about a month and am due for one any day now.
My confession is that as much as I love the University, at the end of the year I couldn't wait to get back to little ol' Niceville, Fla. and start what I like to call "The Superbly Scandalous Summer of 2005." Wait ... no one else names their summers? Damn. Just forget it.
Daydreams about my perfect summer included a great many components: time at the beach, partying with friends, delicious fruity drinks with umbrellas, blonder hair and a Matthew McConaughey look-alike with a rebellious edge and a heart of gold to sweep me off my feet.
What my perfect summer plans did not include was a job. It's not that I am opposed to working, mind you. It's just that my recent employment history has been a little dodgy at best. I "left" (read: euphemism for getting fired) last summer's hostess job at a swanky restaurant on the beach because of a dispute about my clothes. The manager, a woman whose old-money, Alabama background oozed out of her every pore, informed me that my Polo halter dresses were putting the "ho" in hostess (clever, I'll admit). My parents did not so much care that I had lost the job over a dress (which my mom bought me, thank you), but were heartbroken that they no longer got to partake in my employee discount at the restaurant.
Sensing that I might be better served working somewhere other than a restaurant this summer, I sought other employment opportunities. I checked the local want ads and saw that there were many jobs available for the taking. I was somewhat disheartened, however, by the fact that most of the ads mentioned the word "topless" at least once.
It was my 71-year-old grandmother who finally got me a job. She had signed on as a babysitter for hire at an agency and thought -- despite my total lack of experience and desire to work with children -- that this would be a good job for me as well. The deal was that I would charge obscene hourly rates (as specified by the agency) and keep part of them. The other part went to my boss who "coordinated" my jobs. I explained this to my older brother who responded, "So she's like a babysitting pimp and you and Granny are like her hoes." Why my summer jobs always lead back to the word "ho," I know not.
My first job (or first "trick" as my brother would say) came the day after I got back from a week in Mexico with my two best friends from home. Still sunburned and no doubt reeking of tequila, I drove to a colorful, airy house situated on the Gulf of Mexico. The family seemed thrilled to meet me and their excitement only grew when I told them I attend U.Va.
"Wow! You must be quite a student and VERY responsible!" they exclaimed.
At first, I was unsure whether they were being sarcastic, especially about the responsible bit. I soon realized these people were dead serious. I wondered what they would think of us Wahoos if they actually saw some in their natural habitat -- like $2 pitcher night at Biltmore. If they had, they probably would have screamed and thrown me out of their adorable house as soon as I uttered the word "Rotunda." My encounter with this family opened my eyes to something I had never known: Families love college students.
Speaking from experience, however, college students do not always enjoy children. I babysat one particular four-year-old for a week who almost led me to get my tubes tied. She always made me color with the "boy colors," meaning I never got to color with anything except brown and black. To a mature, patient adult, I'm sure this wouldn't have mattered. But because I still have a bit of four-year-old in me, I started trying to find ways to steal the light blue marker from her grasp.
"Caleigh, look! A dolphin in your pool!" I would shout. The minute she looked for a dorsal fin, I swiped the marker. If you're wondering, I will go ahead and clarify that yes, outsmarting a four-year-old does make me feel pretty awesome.
The little girl also continually made comments about my appearance including but not limited to: "Why do you have a silly flower right there?" (about my ultra-badass henna tattoo on my hipbone I got in Mexico), "Why is your hair black and blonde?" (about my highlights which yes, need some touching up but by no means justify her calling my hair "black"), and my favorite, "You shouldn't wear shirts without sleeves. I might see your breast-is." Maybe I should've just gone into topless dancing where there was no question as to who would see my breast-is.
I know that summer school can be rough and that occasionally you probably wish you had gone home and lived out your dream summer. Just be warned: Your dream summer might turn out to include not McConaughey look-alikes but heckling from a child who cannot yet effectively wipe herself. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to get my highlights re-done and scrub off my henna tattoo.
Erin Gaetz can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com
Read More
On embodying ‘Hey There Delilah’
By Mai Hukuoka | 2 days agoA long-distance relationship – in which the hurdle of communication and staying connected doubles in size – was the bane of my existence, something that I wanted to shy away from for as long as possible
Sbrocco’s serves breakfast classics with rich flavors
By Ingrid Gay | 6 days agoSbrocco's lures in customers with their Pinterest-worthy decor and high-quality baked goods, ranging from their brioche-based donuts to New Jersey crumb buns to refreshing cold brew
The value of shoveling chicken poop
By Rosie Strickland | August 14, 2025Unlike most of my resume-oriented peers navigating corporate internships, I’m spending my summer sweating through outdoor manual labor as a farmhand, making lattés and selling shampoo bars at a local shop in my hometown
