In the spring, an elderly woman’s thoughts turn to rage.

It’s that amazing time of the year when the sun is still out when I go to bed (granted, this isn’t that late) and the sky is lightening up when I go to yoga at 5. The drive home at 6:25 requires sunglasses, the sky is blue and the mornings are calm. The wind picks up in the middle of the day, bringing forth that age-old dilemma: lip gloss or no?

The greatest thing about this time of year is gardening! I was at the garden centre yesterday, purchased what I felt was an appropriate amount of plants for the backyard, and am now contemplating taking out even more grass to accommodate my purchases. I have already edged my gardens, taking out some grass along the way, but I might have to do it again before my husband notices.

“Is that the display or the contents of your cart?” he asked. Well.

Sadly, I did not get flirted with by any elderly men on my garden centre trip. Maybe I just don’t have it anymore. The entire garden centre was filled with seniors, and me. One lady got incensed at another lady leaving her cart in the middle of the aisle. “Excuse me? EXCUSE ME!” she said sharply, and I looked up. “Oh, not you, dear,” she said, patting my arm. “There’s just too many damn seniors in here. Probably forgot their hearing aids.” This lady was seventy-five if she was a day, so I just smiled and nodded. Don’t piss off the old ladies.

Honestly, elderly ladies are a strange lot, and I hope that when I’m an octogenarian I am one of the “sweet old things” rather than the “horrible embittered women without a filter.” I was grocery shopping at my usual senior-infused Co-Op and I witnessed an elderly woman having a meltdown on the produce manager. She wanted three pounds of potatoes. She came all the way here, a special trip, for three pounds of potatoes. But they only sell potatoes in five pound bags! Five pounds is too much! When the produce manager directed her to the display where one can choose which potatoes in whatever quantity they want, she was incensed. SHE WASN’T GOING TO WEIGH HER OWN DAMN POTATOES. The produce manager received a star in his heavenly crown for carefully weighing out exactly three pounds of potatoes into a bag for her, while she eyed him with suspicion. Were the prices going to be as good as they would be in a three-pound bag of potatoes? She didn’t know. She just didn’t know. She has shopped here for years and they’ve always had the three pound bags and now they don’t and this store is just going downhill, DOWNHILL.

God, I hope I don’t turn out like that. For one thing, potatoes last forever. Did she think she was going to die before she’d be able to consume five pounds of potatoes? Maybe. You don’t buy green bananas at that age, and at any rate, her blood pressure is probably through the roof. Her doctor is probably never going to allow her to grocery shop ever again. I have great admiration for the long-suffering produce manager; a lesser man might have pummeled her with the five pound bag.

Just for interest’s sake, this is a poster that was RECENTLY on display in my Co-Op. I am not sure what year it was taken, but I think it says something about my choice of grocery establishments.

How was your long weekend? We spent it with my in-laws, and although it apparently snowed while I was gone, it was absolutely gorgeous out there. We visited friends and the boys enjoyed swimming in their pool with their kids (THANKS SAMMI!) and we spent a lot of time just enjoying being outside.

We also did some shopping while we were there. My husband spent the better part of the day at the car dealership getting a new car for my mother-in-law – a star on HIS heavenly crown – and on Saturday morning we decided to buy a new bed. The bed that we sleep on when we visit is very soft and squishy, and makes me move like I am an irritable 100 year old woman. Friday night I actually got up and slept on the marginally more comfortable couch, which is when we decided that a new bed would be a good investment, since we spend a lot of our vacations out there.

People, I will cut to the chase. We bought a bed from a man whose last name was Wood, and on his business card, he is listed as a “Beducator.” I feel that I need offer no further comment.