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.

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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.


  1. I’m pretty sure you’ll be one of the sweet ones.

  2. With the exception of Saturday, hubby worked overtime on the Sunday, then on the Monday. Middle child worked then went out, the young man was either working or hanging with friends, so it was just me, the dogs and the wonderful heat. I finished planting my vegetable garden, did loads and loads of laundry, with the added satisfaction of hanging it on the line. Plus a barbecue for one. All and all a good weekend. BTW I am looking somewhat forward to my senior years, only because I want the senior discounts! lol

  3. First I died when I read this sentence: “The wind picks up in the middle of the day, bringing forth that age-old dilemma: lip gloss or no?” DIED. I AM DEAD. Then the Beducator. Oh, God. I would never be able to say that with a straight face. “Hi, I’m Alison, and I’m a BEDUCATOR.” Snort.

    I, too, sincerely hope I will be a sweet old lady a la Betty White in The Golden Girls. I will probably have lipstick on my teeth all the time and be crazy as a bessybug (whatever that is; I’ve heard it all my life.) I will probably gush over babies and annoy their mothers with unwanted advice. So, mildly annoying. But I fear becoming Potato Lady. Surely she was always an unpleasant person and just lost her filter as she aged?

  4. Beducator. BEDUCATOR.

    I too hope to be one of the GOOD kinds of old ladies. Maybe I will be the forthright-but-fair kind, the sort that feels a little better when her estrogen drops and her testosterone rises, but only gets confident, not combatant. Maybe I will be the sweet rosy-cheeked kind who looks lovingly on all. Maybe I will be one of the other good types. But please, please, not the three pounds of potatoes type.

  5. bibliomama2 says

    I’m with Alison – that lady was a bitch to start with and she’s just gotten REALLY good at it with age. I just blogged about how I’m getting better at not being a doormat as I get older, but if I ever lose it over three-pound potato bags or run over toddlers with my grocery cart like Hannah’s bitchy old lady, just shoot me. I feel certain that you will be an exceptionally sweet old woman who everyone will love, and the odd time when you brightly say “tell him to eat your dick!”, everyone will assume that they heard you wrong.

  6. You have lots of adventures at that Co-op! I don’t remember the Co-op of my childhood being this exciting. Mostly just apples and the occasional package of pink Jockey underwear, to be honest. 🙂

    I hope you will share photos of your newly planted not-even-a-single-flake-of-snow yard.


  1. […] and happiness, because I sure don’t want to turn into a Bitter Old Crone. Remember the Potato Lady? The old lady at the Co-Op who I witnessed yelling at the produce manager because she wanted a […]

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