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.

The time has come for desperate measures. I have been getting more and more alarmed by my expanding girth but my fourteen year old boy appetite cannot be tamed. I am not a woman who craves salads, light healthy meals and clean eating. I have the palette of a truck driver and unfortunately I am starting to resemble one.

When planning my recent trip to Newfoundland I was looking forward to eating fish and chips. I ate a form of fried fish and chips every day, sometimes accompanied by a small plastic cup of coleslaw as a token vegetable. Not everyone has the chops for such feats of oil and batter but for my mighty iron stomach it was pure grease induced bliss. My feasts induced a dreamlike trance, akin to what opium den dwellers must experience, with glassy half-lidded eyes and an overwhelming need to recline on silky pillows. I half expected to die of a french fry induced stroke but I would have gone happily, requesting that my greasy ashes be scattered over the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It was a glorious greasy time.

It has to stop. I was at a Dancing With Parkinson’s event last night at a salsa club surrounded by shimmying supermodels in tiny dresses. I chugged gin and tonics in my frumpy sensible skirt, felt the sweat running down the back of my legs, my fried fish barrel gut straining against my Spanx. I capped off the evening by convincing The Sweetie that I needed an eggplant parmesan sandwich to soak up the gin. Obviously the sight of skinny models wasn’t enough motivation to change my fried food proclivities. Nevertheless I woke up this morning with a slight hangover and new resolve. I will reintroduce fruits and vegetables into my life and work towards doing my pants up again.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats summer. The other seasons can’t offer anything that rivals all of summer’s glory. Berries, long endless days, warmth, patios, barbecues, ice cream, picnics, lounging in the grass, all of it is spectacular. Don’t bother trying to extol the virtues of crisp autumn days, sweaters and skiing. Not interested.

Despite my love of summer I’m not a fan of summer solstice as it marks the beginning of the days getting shorter.  I prefer being on the upswing, knowing that every day is getting longer.

For today, however, despite the tiniest whisper of dread, I will wear my summer dress and embrace the glorious sun.

I heart Newfoundland!

Newfoundland is truly magical. Everything was breathtaking, every corner turned was more adorable than the previous one. I listened to fiddle music and watched old couples, young girls and weathered fishermen dance together. I saw moose with their big jowls and dainty legs amble across the road. I met the most charming, genuine, lovely people I have ever encountered. Jagged cliffs protruded out on the crashing Atlantic making everything feel untamed and atmospheric.

At times I felt very dramatic, like I should be clutching a cloak to my chest and wailing for my sailor lover who had been smashed against the rocks. Other times I felt hearty, rosy cheeked and giddy from bracing hikes with the wind whipping in all directions. I passed through picturesque fishing villages with adorable names and quaint colourful homes nestled between the rocks. It was glorious.

The Sweetie and The Sweetie’s sister were delightful travel companions who were forgiving of my pathetic sense of direction, although I do now expect recognition for being an excellent moose spotter.

I didn’t see icebergs, although I drank a lot of local iceberg beer. I was cold every day even when wearing a wool hat and mittens and it was still an amazing trip. That is a sign of a magical place indeed.

I am off to The Rock! The Sweetie, his equally sweet sister and I are heading to Newfoundland to find icebergs and puffins and fish and chips. Despite my recent resolution to give up eating my scaly friends of the sea,  I am looking forward to eating lots of fish and chips, if only to say good bye.  I’ll be packing my toque like a good Canadian girl and plotting how I can smuggle a puffin home. When I told a friend I was going to Newfoundland he started waxing nostalgic about his recent trip Iceland and how he ATE A PUFFIN. There will be no puffin eating for me, nor will there be flipper pie or cod cheeks, just a blissful week of hiking, soaking up the rugged landscape and sharing lots of laughs with The Sweetie and sweetie sister..

The temperature has dropped over the past few days, offering up a bit of respite from the humidity and allowing me a break from lamenting my regretful winter of eating nothing but carbs and avoiding the gym. When the thermometer rises I am thrown into a panic knowing that I can no longer hide under layers of clothing, attributing the extra bulk to my sweaters and puffy coat. I begin to worry that I will have to resort to wearing Mrs.Roper inspired caftans and send myself into a tailspin of carb bloated remorse. The cooler temperatures put a temporary halt to my panic so naturally, I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies.

I was intrigued by these chocolate chip cookies I saw on Smitten Kitchen that were described as the ever elusive crispy on the outside chewy on the inside cookie. I think these may indeed be the ones, although I can’t say for sure because I ate half of the cookie dough before they went in the oven, and I managed to overcook the remainder because I got distracted looking at arm exercises on the internet. The irony of watching exercises while eating cookie dough is not lost on me. I will try these again during the next cool spell, perhaps while sporting a new summer caftan.