"Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful"

I was not, am not, nor will I ever be a South American beauty queen. My husband married me anyway. But a nagging question remains in the back of my head: Did he chose to marry me? Or was it because the South American beauty queen wouldn't give him the time of day?

I'm not willing to risk it to find out the answer. I'm sticking with the belief that he made the right choice rather than court that kind of temptation.

Of course, George tells me he picked me above all others. Of course, he's going to say that! He's smart enough to know what to say. And he probably actually believes that he actually had a shot with the South American beauty queen (insert eye roll here).

A woman sparked the rant above. Her name is Gabriella Gabriella*. I saw her on Facebook. You know, she's the one who's so beautiful you're compelled to say her name TWICE. When you click on her profile, you notice the name that's double the fun first. Next, you contemplate another set of twins -- two round, buoyant, FAKE boobs.

There she is in her cover photo taunting me…all twenty-something, tanned and bootylicious in her bikini like a Sports Illustrated model on some exotic beach somewhere with a trucker hat on instead of the requisite crown.

Gabriella Gabriella. She's the one Frank Evans* recommended to my husband as a BABYSITTER!

Did your jaw just drop like mine? Was your next thought, "Yeah, that's not happening"? Funny! So was mine!

Why in the world would I hire her? Would IBM hire someone if they presented themselves at the interview in their underwear? How about an applicant without a last name? I picture a giant, red, corporate rubber stamp on the front of that resume that reads "NO!" Can anyone give me a "MOM VETO"?

No! She's NOT babysitting my daughter. Her look screams that babysitting is a back-up plan on the road to larger pursuits.

Yet...my rush to judgment is not lost on me. Really, I'm not worried about my husband and Gabriella Gabriella. He and I love each other til death do us part. My judgment is because of her appearance, plain and simple. I admit it. Didn't I just write a post about wanting women to support one another more? I really had every intention of including women who've had boob jobs in my post!

I'm a hypocrite, guilty of reverse discrimination. Possibly, I'm passing on the best babysitter ever, because I'm not willing to give her a chance.

Luckily, I won't have to engage any deeper with my hypocrisy. Gabriella Gabriella is looking for a full-time nanny position. Not something we need here at Chez Demas. If we were looking for a nanny, though, I'd prefer to click on a picture more akin to Nanny McPhee than Giselle Bunchen.

In my superficial defense, I will leave you with this image to ponder:

*Names changed to protect the innocent

Photo Source: Khanh Hoa newspaper's reporter, Wikipedia

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Separation Anxiety

The rare night when George and I go out alone often overflows with conversation about Claire. Funny how that happens. We say we need a break from her, when we really can't get enough.

It's usually warranted for us to start off an evening with a back and forth about our daughter. Upon our exit, Claire acts as if we are abandoning her to a slow, torturous death at the hands of an interloper, who is clearly more fit for the role of Medea than care of a defenseless, 18-month-old child.

Or at least, this is how Claire seems to see it. She almost sells me on this angle, too. Hence the need for conversation that helps me shake off the mommy guilt of separation from her:

"Claire's certainly got a flair for drama from me," George (my actor husband) says. "I could hear her crying a thousand yards away from the door."

"Did you see the look on her face?" I say. "I didn't know such a tiny mouth could open that wide."

"Kind of like the Greek tragedy mask," George says, while getting on his smart phone..."Was it like this?" he says.

"No, the sides of her mouth went in more. I don't know how she contorts her little face like that," I say.

"How about this?" George replies.

"Even more melodrama," I say. George counters with: "This?"

"That's it!" I say, as we both lean in over the phone and nod.

If we sound flip about our daughter's pain, it's because we know that she will look more akin to the comedy side of the mask, once she shakes it off:

Or maybe that's what we choose to believe, since we really do need a break.