The cabinet guy came by the other day to fix a few cabinet doors. Since the owners (my employers) were asleep, I answered the door, baby in arm. The guy does his little spiel about how he tried calling, etc., and I said, “c’mon in. I know they’ll be glad you’re here.” He looks at me and asks, “are you Grandma?”
I don’t have that much gray hair. And I’m freakin’ three years younger than the homeowner. Granted, had my life been different, had my children’s lives been different, I could be a grandmother. But I’m not. I think, too, it’s just a shitty question to ask someone. Especially a woman.
I told him, “No, I’m the nanny.”
Him: “Same thing.”
Oh, dude. You are so wrong. So very, very wrong. So totally, horribly, terribly wrong.
His words cut me. Deeply. I wanted to hurt him.
This was worse than the first time someone called me ma’am.
Am I Grandma? What kinda shit is that?
I don’t care how old a woman is…never ask her that. Let her offer the info. Otherwise, she may be offering to cut off the family jewels.