So, what's with the elderly lady who stopped Pooh Bear and I on my way out of a restaurant yesterday to ask about my GRANDDAUGHTER? Really? "Nope, not my granddaughter," I announced looking over my shoulder.
"A niece?", she called a bit louder.
"Unh-uh," I stopped.
"Little friend?" she ventured.
I faced the inquiring person. "My daughter. She's my daughter." You can stop guessing now. I'm insulted enough. She looks like a mini-me, and besides, do I really look that old? No.
Her husband chided her while catching my eye, "That was mean. She's obviously not happy you called her a grandma."
You got that right, old man. I mean, I could be a grandma technically. I'm sure there are plenty my age, right?
Pooh Bear explained to me as we exited, "When we get home you can dye your roots, Mom."
So, it was a grooming issue after all.
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