As in, I would kill to have lashes as long and luscious as these…

He gets them from his father. Somehow that just doesn’t seem fair.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I’m not even sure how it went down exactly…

We had just had this awesome day in the gorgeous California sun- a nice lunch, window shopping, listening to live music… Ready to head home, we cut through a parking garage to get to our car.

Mr. D, pushing a napping Scout in the stroller, stopped short to allow an older woman to get into a car from the walkway.

In no particular hurry, we were happy to wait while she inched and fumbled with the door, mumbling to herself the whole time. First her leg got stuck in the door. Then she couldn’t quite fit in the seat.. Who knows? We weren’t exactly watching very closely.

She finally gave up and motioned for us to go ahead, which we did as quickly as possible. Mr. D went first. I followed behind and heard the driver yell at Mr. D  from inside the car, “Hey, thanks alot, A–HOLE!”

Turns out, she was trying to get OUT of the car, not in and apparently our mere presence was making her feel flustered or self-conscious. (And we were supposed to know that, how…)

The whole thing happened in a matter of seconds. It was barely a memorable encounter, but it bugged me the rest of the day.

As anyone who has ever met my husband knows, he is the farthest things from being an “a–hole”. In fact, he’s the nicest, most considerate, generous man I’ve ever encountered.

He’s the kind of guy who lovingly offers to push the stroller and carry the shopping bags, then suggests taking the shortcut through the parking garage because his pregnant wife stupidly decided to wear high heels that day. He holds doors open and makes way for others, whereas I probably wouldn’t noticed in the first place.

If anything, I AM THE A–HOLE.

I drive aggressively (“offensively”, as my dad calls it) and lay into the horn to claim my right of way. I send food back to the kitchen. I demand to speak to the manager and routinely lecture staff members on customer service.

As you can imagine, I’ve been called all sort of names… I once witnessed a woman almost hit a lamppost because her two hands were busy giving me the finger instead of being at 10 and 2. (I think I accidentally cut her off… oh well.)

None of it has ever phased me, but someone starts talkin’ smack about my sweet hubby (or my baby) and I begin to wonder what it’d be like to hit an old lady.

When his declares to you in all seriousness…

Mommy, these are my FRIENDS and I LOVE them so much!

It’s about time we made some people friends, too… BOTH of us.

Scout and I were engaged in yet another thoroughly stimulating debate. The kind you can only have with your brilliant preschooler going on pre-law about a hundred and forty times a day…

I declared that the sun is beginning to set. Therefore, it’s time for us to head home from the park.

He countered that the sun is NOT setting. In fact, it’s just coming up. Ergo, we still have to plenty of time to play!

“Oh really?” I laughed.

“Mm-Hmm,” he closed with a definitive nod.

This went on a bit longer until a miserable, wretched hag… er, another mom at the park, upon eavesdropping, informed us that (cough, cough) we were BOTH incorrect as the sun doesn’t actually move. The Earth does.

Well…. Excuuuuuuuuuuuse me if we haven’t quite gotten around to “Riding Foucault’s Pendulum with Elmo”, but we’re still trying to master the art of wiping one’s own tiny ass.

As a kid, did you ever have that experience of grabbing your mom’s leg only to realize that it wasn’t her leg? In fact, it was actually some other lady’s leg and now she (and your mom) are laughing at you…

Well, this has been happening to me constantly lately, except in reverse and not at all in the same way.

You see, I’m Filipino by ancestry. (American by birth. White by assimilation.)

I’m short, brown, young(…ish), and usually dress down when I’m out and about… and because of this I’m commonly mistaken for the NANNY.

I’ll be spotting my son on the monkey bars when suddenly random children will run  up to me demanding a snack… or to tattle… or to ask permission to go down the slide…

I just smile and point them in the direction of their real nanny, who is usually sitting on her rear at the faaaaaaar side of the playground chatting on her cell phone and totally oblivious to the fact that I could have sold her little meal tickets into child slavery by now.

(A bit dark, I know but seriously… Mom and Dad? Did you even bother to check her references?)

I get it. I get it. Mommy is blond and goes to work. Nanny is… umm, ethnic and goes to the park, but I sometimes I just want to say…

“Hey Kid, just because I’m BROWN, doesn’t mean I’m here to do something for YOU…”

(Stupid UPS)

At least, no one has tried to lure me with a promise of a fat salary, room and board, and a greencard  in exchange for “jumping ship”, but I know it’s coming any day now…

(By the way, that picture looks remarkably like me doesn’t it? I found it by Goggling “nanny”. I am NOT amused…)