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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

Really? I just don’t get it.

I am sitting in front of my light box, trying to stave off the onset of my Seasonal Affective Disorder, sniffling because I was caught in the rain last night – a cold relentless rain, not juicy warm drops of summer rain. I just don’t understand. Getting caught in a sniffles-inducing cold rain is preferable to long evenings on a patio without the need for a hundred layers to keep warm? Itchy wool that prickles the skin is preferable to flimsy floaty light fabrics? Darkness is preferable over light? Surely free wiggly toes prancing through the grass or flitting about in flip flops is more appealing than being stuffed in confining shoes and itchy socks.

Who would rather eat an apple over plump juicy berries? (Other than The Sweetie who is the biggest apple apologist) There is no true comparison, is there? Other than ease of portability can the apple ever rival the mighty berry? Never. Can anyone truly look me in the eye and tell me that fall colours of orange and brown are better than bright refreshing shades of summer green? Please. Orange and brown are seventies basement shag rug colours. Orange makes me look sallow. Besides, those brilliant fall colours only last a short while. Then the leaves fall off the trees and there is nothing but grey soggy darkness. Not so bright and glowy then, is it?

I tried to look on the bright side of fall. I planned on making soup tonight. I did my best, but autumn signifies everything coming to a sad miserable end. How can witnessing everything withering and dying be an uplifting experience?  Party’s over. That is better than summer? Really? Bah.

1. I woke up multiple times with my nose stuffy, unable to breathe. Realized my sinuses have been hurting for months.
2. Hate my hair and I am bored with it. Recognize that I am actually bored with my face.
3. Become convinced that my sinus pain is some rare inoperable sinus tumour and I will lose my nose as punishment for my vanity.
4. Had to witness the CNE in full swing which is always a sad signifier of the end of summer.
5. I am bloated beyond belief. It is not natural for one person to be this bloated. I may be minutes away from an alien bursting from my belly, I am that bloated.
6. Wore a peasant style white blouse that I thought looked cute and billowy to help hide the bloat. Caught a reflection of myself in a window and realized that I look like a deranged pregnant pioneer clown.
7. Had a craving for a burrito although I should have had something healthy instead. It was bland, the lettuce tasted off and most of it fell on my white blouse and the front of my pants so that I looked like a messy deranged clown.
8. All the fruit in Kensington market was too squishy and over ripe.
9. My beloved sunglasses broke. I knew the day would come and had been dreading it. They were big and perfect. Not so big that I looked like an insect or an Olsen twin but they were just right. The arm managed to snap spontaneously in a weird spot. They cannot be saved.
10. Now I will have to squint and add to my ever deepening forehead furrow.
11. Found the perfect flitting-about-the-city sundress at Courage My Love until I realized that the side seams were disintegrating. Put it back on the rack with a heavy heart, my dreams of skipping to a picnic in a sweet vintage sundress dashed.
12. Decided that the only way the day could be saved would be with a pint of chocolate Haagen Das, which is usually the answer to emergencies. Went to the hateful grocery store that is always crowded, the aisles are too narrow and the cashiers always seem to be in training. Discovered that they had every ice cream flavour but chocolate. I don’t want rocky road or Mayan chocolate or chocolate chunk. Why do they have to keep inventing more ice cream with stuff in it that just interferes with its essence. A nut or two in a nut ice cream, fine, I get it. I love pistachio and enjoy some pistachio nuts in my pistachio ice cream. They belong there. I do not need Swiss chocolate covered almonds swirled with toffee, marshmallows and bits of gum in my chocolate ice cream. I don’t want to eat it with a fork and knife.
13. Stomp off in a huff and walk to the next grocery store. They too are out of classic plain chocolate. Why wouldn’t a grocery store carry extra plain chocolate since it is the obviously the most popular flavour? Feel a wrath building within and wish the alien would burst out of my belly now and take out the entire grocery store. Practically frothing at the mouth I grab the Mayan Chocolate, a box of Kraft Dinner and angrily tap my foot in line.
14. On my way home I witness one of those horrible urban cyclists who insist on wearing gas masks while biking to protect their delicate lungs from car exhaust. Just because they can’t handle the fumes do they really need to scare the rest of us by looking like some post apocalyptic Mad Max style eco-zombie?
15. As if I am not disturbed enough, I pass a couple who simultaneously cover their ears against the offending squeak of a passing streetcar. I hate these people as much as I hate the people who cover their ears on the subway. I know it’s not fair to hate these people. They should be allowed to protect their delicate eardrums if they want to, but I hate them anyway.
16. Almost howling with fury I enter the house and close the blinds. Thank goodness they are not those horrible white plastic blinds. I despise those. Just thinking about them sends me into a new fit of anger.
17. Try the Mayan Chocolate ice cream. As I suspected the spice distracts from the pure chocolate flavour. Eat it anyway. Eat the entire box of Kraft Dinner even though I didn’t add enough milk and it is dry and flavourless. Watch alien stomach expand even more.
18. Listen to the weather guy reporting a cold front and rain passing through Ontario. So what else is new this cold and wet summer.
19. Chide myself that if this is the extent of my problems I should really be thanking my lucky stars and be grateful for the amazing life I have.
20. Tell myself to save my “have an attitude of gratitude” pep talks for another day when I feel like listening to cliches.
21. Rub huge belly. Feel bitter and call it a night.