Overheard at the doctor’s office last week:
Random medical-type person walking through the lobby, stopping to goo-goo at Peeper: So, are you Grandma?
She also thought Peeper was a boy (Okay, so she was wearing yellow and wrapped in a yellow blankie, but there was also a pink blankie underneath it.), so I’m going to attribute her comments to poor eyesight.
She did try to save herself, mumbling something about, “Oh, now I see the pink in the hat.” (She was wearing her pink and blue striped hospital hat – the only one that fits.) and “Oh, yes, now that I get a look at you. . . .”
Nice try. Bitch.
Although, I suppose I also have to admit that there are probably at least as many forty-year-old grandmothers of newborns as there are forty-year-old mothers of newborns.
And, I probably am looking pretty rough these days.
I did feel better yesterday when the lab lady was looking at Peeper’s record in the computer, and said, “Are you Shrike?”
I said, “No, I’m Whozat.”
“Oh, well we’ve got Shrike as ‘mother’ and Whozat as ‘grandmother.'”
“No, we’re both her mothers. She has two mothers. But thank you for assuming I was not her grandmother. Let me tell you what happened last week . . . .”