I spent last weekend in Boston visiting my sister, niece and nephew. My niece is a living doll with sumo wrestler thighs and my nephew has a tiny voice that makes any of his chatter completely endearing.

Alas, the wee rug rats were riddled with germs, and I returned to a doozy of a virus that has left me flattened, barf bucket by the bedside.

“Remember that I always loved you,” I’d croak tragically from the bed when The Sweetie would check on me.

“Can I get you anything?” He’d ask, his mouth covered protectively, keeping a safe distance away from my toxic germs.

“Just a gun. I’m ready to go,” I’d whisper.

“In that case can I eat your Cadbury’s chocolate egg?” He asked.

I am slowly mending, although when I do a mental inventory of food groups, most still make my stomach churn. Not the long gone Cadbury’s egg, though. I feel pretty confident that I could stomach some therapeutic chocolate. It is disconcerting for someone like me to want to shun food. Sadly, I checked the scale and my suffering hasn’t yielded a smidgen of weight loss. Sometimes there is no justice.

Seasonal Affective Disorder is a weird beast.  I was pulling out my summer clothes to pack for my free beach vacation, mere days away, and suddenly I felt so overwhelmed and dejected that all I could do was crawl under the covers, under my heaps of summer clothes and cry. Logically I know I should be polishing off my maracas, jumping for joy and hugging my beloved summer frocks, but instead I am crushed by this weight of winter misery.

It is comforting to know that I suffer from SAD rather than when I didn’t know what it was and spent the winter convinced that I was losing my mind. Relief will come. The days will get longer again and the darkness, heaviness and fog will release me. In the meantime, I take it hour by hour, relishing the things that make me smirk before I sink back again.

I love the brilliant Travelocity commercial from last year involving the crazed gnome. His maniacal singing while sitting with his Cheetos feels eerily familiar. I’d love him to drop by and sit on the couch with me. We could eat snacks and hum together.

Nice going Mutha Uckers.

Along with bracing myself for cooler temperatures and shorter days, I have to endure the autumn apologists. There are always those who have to share their misguided love of fall with me.

The glory of blazing coloured leaves? Great. Enjoy them while they last because after one big gust of wind they are gone, leaving nothing but bare ghostly branches, shivering squirrels and rain in their wake. Not the warm summer rain that makes everything sultry and steamy but the cold, dreary kind that runs down the back of your neck like nasty, clammy fingers. Likewise, there is always talk about the joys of crisp air. You can call it what you like but crisp is really a sneaky way to say cold. Cold makes my shoulders rise to my ears and the tips of my fingers icy so that people recoil when I touch them.

I am tired of the apple cheerleaders. Just because apples are plentiful and portable doesn’t make them great. They are not plump little bursts of sweetness like berries. They are tart, boring and insufferable, an overrated fruit if ever there was one. And need I remind anyone which fruit caused Adam and Eve to be cast out of Eden? It wasn’t the juicy strawberry now was it?

As far as comfort goes, the sandal beats the boot any day. Do feet really want to be stuffed into confining boots when they can be wiggling in delight and enjoying fresh air in a sandal? Is crunching through dry, dusty leaves that could be harbouring all kinds of mites really preferable to frolicking through soft grass with bare feet?

A friend tried to be helpful and suggested I cheer myself up with patterned tights. I spit on the patterned tight. I am not blessed with gazelle-like, slender legs and do not need to be drawing attention to that area. Pulling on a pair of tights is an ordeal. Inevitably they get twisted halfway up my legs and as soon as they are up I start feeling the horrible waistband digging into my tummy. A flimsy summer dress with bare legs is much more comfortable.

How can I jump on the bandwagon for shorter days? Why rejoice over a day that sees so little sunlight that it feels like bedtime at 5pm?  I suppose the autumn apologists prefer to chop the day off at the knees.

What do fall lovers have against chirping birds? Because you know they are leaving soon. Birds know better than to stick around when the icy weather arrives. Who would prefer to wake up in darkness and silence rather than light and chirping? Most animals are burrowing into holes knowing that the only way to survive this dreadful time is to crawl into a den, sleep and hope when they wake up again it’ll be all over.

Halloween and Thanksgiving? That is all you offer me in the way of fall holidays? Ghouls and slaughtered turkeys? How about the fact that every day feels like a celebration in the summer?

Perhaps I sound a trifle negative. Do I have to remind everyone what season comes after fall? Is everyone so short sighted? A few crunchy leaves, apples pies and gourds are supposed to make that nightmare around the corner more palatable?  I am not that easily swayed. If autumn lovers want to merrily ride on a harvest wagon to doom, they can be my guest, but I am not going to drink the cider.

I have always wanted to be an intimidating bad-ass so that people would think twice before messing with me. So far I haven’t mastered a tough girl persona. Instead of puffing out my chest and raising my voice, I retreat, slinking away with drooping shoulders. My tendency is to swallow potential tirades, mealy-mouthed girl that I am. Instead of letting it go, however, I fight in my mind, preparing my script for a future throw down.

I have been having a fight to the death in the arena of my mind for over a week now. A meddling acquaintance feels compelled to inform me on a regular basis that I am not living my life properly and I don’t know what is best for me. She apparently has all the answers to my unasked questions. My happiness is delusion, my contentment is apathy, my protests that I am satisfied with my life are denial. It’s funny how those who’s opinions I don’t care about are often the quickest to dole it out. It also seems that those who are miserable themselves have solutions for everyone else. It has become a bit of a theme this year where I feel judgment, spoken or unspoken, about my life and choices. I don’t consider myself a rebel or someone living a particularly unconventional life, but somehow my path seems to disturb some people. I have my health, I have love and I have connections that are meaningful. I have been eating delicious sandwiches with tomatoes right from our garden. One day I will have a dog. What more could I ask for? If I had a house or a more secure job or money would my life be better? Not to me. Yet there are those who are eager to act as pricks to my sunny balloon.

I was complaining about this latest installment of unsolicited advice over martinis with a couple of girlfriends.

“So maybe I am neurotic and a little flaky, but if I am happy and not complaining about my life, why should I have to defend it?”

There was silence from my girlfriend who has already admitted that she fears that I will end up sleeping on her couch in retirement. I have tried to assure her that her home will not be one of my destinations on my bag lady walkabouts, but I suspect she remains unconvinced.

My other girlfriend interjected, “But that is what makes you, you! If you weren’t all of those things you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

Bless her. Bless friends who love me for, and in spite of, my foibles. Bless those who don’t expect everyone to have the same values and goals and don’t feel the compulsion to enlighten me on a regular basis. Bless tomato sandwiches and refreshing lemon drop martinis. Bless the bad-ass mouthy chick within who always has a pithy retort to asinine comments, is a master of the stink-eye and can stop judgers in their tracks. One day she will be unleashed and the meddlers of the world will crumble.

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.