I went to my friend’s daughter’s kindergarten graduation yesterday. They marched into the school gymnasium wearing paper graduation caps and waved at their families in the audience. It was utterly adorable. It was especially meaningful as I met my friend in kindergarten. It is hard to believe that 35 years ago we sat in a similar gymnasium together and were ever that short.

After the ceremony there was an announcement that juice and brownies were available for the children while the adults took photos. The kindergarten teacher began mingling and congratulating the parents. Suddenly she approached my friend and told her what a delight her daughter was. I was smiling in the background in full agreement when she turned to me and asked,

“Is this grandma?”

She was asking my childhood friend, who I went to kindergarten with, if I was her daughter’s grandmother. Which would make my friend, who I went to kindergarten with, my daughter. I did the math. It is possible to be a grandma to a six year old at forty-one. If I gave birth to my childhood friend at 16, and she in turn had her daughter at 16, I could in fact have a granddaughter. I don’t know which is worse, to be mistaken for being pregnant, which has happened to me, or to be mistaken for a grandma at forty-one. I guess the worst would have been if I was mistaken for a pregnant grandma.

I silently stepped aside to reveal the charming wizened lady behind me. My friend said, “This is grandma“. The real grandma is well into her seventies. She looks good, but she does not look like my contemporary.

I was speechless. Often in uncomfortable situations, people pleaser that I am, I try to help the idiot with her foot in her mouth feel less asinine. Instead, I turned silently to the table of brownies, mentally assessing that there were a few left and not that many children remaining. I was still assessing the brownies when the idiot teacher approached me again, flustered and babbling this time, tripping over herself, “Oh, I was hearing so much about grandma and how grandma was coming and that what was on my mind because I was expecting to see grandma.” I turned to the brownies again.

I am sure that children are expecting the Easter bunny at Easter but I have yet to be mistaken for the Easter bunny. The Queen is coming to Canada this week, and although some monarchists are anticipating seeing her, I doubt that I will be mistaken for the Queen.

Between the questions about my phantom pregnancy and now my rapid approach to playing canasta in a retirement home, I am developing a huge complex. The brownies that I shoved in my purse comforted me a little but I remain wounded. What is truly appalling is that this deranged lunatic who calls herself a teacher is allowed to teach. She is influencing the minds of the next generation. Luckily for me I won’t live to see it as my days are obviously numbered.

I had a Sunday that could not be saved. It wasn’t filled with any kind of calamity or catastrophe, just a steady stream of small annoyances and irritations.

I decided that the best way to put the irritating day behind me was to have a hot bath and a vodka tonic. I was happily reclining, frosty drink by my side, when The Sweetie came in to check on me.

Suddenly his voice became very serious and exaggeratedly calm.

“Listen, I want you to sit up very slowly.” he said with forced gentleness.

That could only mean one thing.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Spider? Is there a spider on me?!”

I began screaming as I heard The Sweetie yelling “Calm down! Jesus Christ!”

Apparently at that point I levitated, rose from the bath with a wall of water, jumped in a single bound from the bathtub, screaming and knocking over my vodka tonic as The Sweetie for some inexplicable reason kept yelling,“Work with me, work with me, help me help you,” over and over again. I know when someone tells you to move slowly with exaggerated calmness that you should try to remain calm and do as they say but the survival instinct cannot be controlled.

I knew it was a spider. A thick legged one, dark grey and horrible that was inches from my shoulder, paddling in the bathtub next to me. I hate spiders.

The bath that was meant to salvage my irritating annoying day was ruined thanks to the bathtime spider saboteur. See? Unredeemable. Some days are just like that.

I’m a tad PMS-y today. I was already a little teary this morning. I fought with the actively indifferent gum-cracking reception girl at the gym. Apparently the gym policy has changed overnight and now I must show my gym card to obtain a towel. Being the sweaty cardio monster that I am, I NEED a towel. I admit I was a little ornery. I did not want to go back to the change room, open my locker, rifle for my gym card and hand it to the gum-cracking towel gatekeeper. It wouldn’t have been a big deal but sometimes I’m just a bit bitchy and if you are going to randomly change rules overnight there should be a little leeway until people psychically figure out the new policies. I just wanted a towel so that I could run on the treadmill, blow off some steam, and maybe get some of my PMS crazies out.

The new thrifty lean times are getting to me a little. Although I am enjoying my potato soup filled days, (The Sweetie makes an excellent potato soup) I must admit that I am missing a few things. I miss reading magazines in my bubble bath. I loved that ritual. Magazines are too expensive and frivolous now that I am hardcore thrifty girl.  I feel huge lust for these Swedish Hasbeens and I admit that I feel a little wistful that they can’t be mine. Nothing cures the PMS blues like a funky clunky pair of  clogs. And perhaps a giant chocolate pie in bed under the covers.

These are my problems of the day.

Good timing for me to see this .

Very true, very wise, and now I can feel like a shallow ingrate while dreaming of the cute shoes that won’t be mine and deciding who to pick a fight with next.

My day was going along quite swimmingly. I had gone to the gym, I had steel cut oats for breakfast, I felt robust and full of health. Over all things were quite rosy.

Then a client showed up, looked at me, smiled knowingly, patted my belly and said ” Do we have some happy news to share?”

It took me a moment to register what she was implying. All I could muster was “Ummm, the happy news is that I am fat?!!”

I will admit that sometimes I have a penchant for maternity style frocks. I have a fondness for empire waists. They make me feel like a I have a bosom while leaving room in the belly area for some bloat. I have also come off a winter of full-on carb indulgence. Moments prior to my client’s arrival I had polished off a dish of roasted potatoes that were meant for dinner. So yes, perhaps I am not quite ready to sport midriff baring tops just yet. Perhaps there is a bit of a belly there. Things are a little soft. That being said, it is not appropriate to ask any woman if she is pregnant. Unless you see a baby’s head appear between my legs, do not assume I am pregnant.

Ever.

It is one of those days. It is spring and I should be happy but I feel an undertone of dread. I sipped my morning coffee only to discover that the milk was sour. My throat is a little scratchy and I have been feeling a little achy the past couple of days. It doesn’t help that I am gearing up to do my taxes, which is always a nightmare. I hate tax time. It is when I realize I have no organizational skills, still file things in old cracker boxes and have no savings. I feel like a big fat loser with a nacho belly.

I have been watching episodes of Til Debt Do Us Part on television at the gym trying to rid myself of my ever expanding nacho/guacamole/beer gut. It is a show featuring couples in debt and the guru who tries to get them back on track. She scolds them, cuts up their credit cards and gives them responsible money tasks. Meanwhile I am sweating on a stupid cardio machine whipping myself into an anxiety attack and kicking myself for all the useless purchases I’ve made throughout the year. Why did I need any more items featuring animal motifs? Why do I leave my taxes to the last minute and then cry when I realize what a financial misfit I am? Why do I lament the same things year after year yet never make a change? What is the point of exercising if I’ve already scarfed down piles of buttery toast and potato latkes for breakfast, delicious as they were.

Luckily I came across this, which made me feel a little bit better for a brief moment before I slid back into self-flagellation.

Years ago when my parents had a house with a garden my mother noticed a groundhog at the bottom of their property. He would appear at least once a day and systematically eat his way through some of her prized plants. He was a portly fellow with a distinctive waddle and provided my mom with hours of delight. When she realized that he seemed to have a particular fondness for her ajuga plants she made sure to plant more, lest he go hungry.

The betrayal of Wiarton Willie stings a lot on this Groundhog Day. Obviously a little kindness towards one of their brethren means nothing to these little ingrates. Just how long do they think they can get away with dashing the hopes of winter weary humans? Just because they have very squeezable looking noses and round cuddly bodies shouldn’t give them license to crawl out of their burrows and declare that winter is going to stick around for another six weeks. We expect winter to be long but do they have to confirm it with such glee? And I know they’re gleeful. I can see it on their smug little faces when they waddle back into their burrows, smirking at their job well done. Horrid hairy beasts. To think that my mom planted extra delicacies for one of their kindred. They should be ashamed of themselves.