Unhappy Contessa

Today's to-do list:

1. Fire hair stylist
2. Ditch granny sweater

While at the bowling alley, searching for eel-skin shoes to match my purse, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face an 11 or 12-year-old red-headed boy wearing jeans and a short-sleeve plaid dress shirt buttoned up to his neck. Was it Mayberry Day and someone forgot to tell me?

The look on Opie's face told me he had mistaken me for someone else. His eyes widened, his mouth opened as if he were about to ask Paw if the fish were biting when he squeaked out:

"Sorry. I thought you were my grandmother."

Now, I AM old enough to be a grandmother - to itty, bitty children, not those knocking on puberty's door. No granny gushing for the Contessa, at least not until after the first Social Security check arrives. I steer clear of babies and toddlers just so people don't get the wrong idea.

The kid was embarrassed and the Contessa handled the awkward moment with finesse.

"Thanks, a lot, Opie-boy. I think Aunt Bea's calling." The boy ran off.

"Hey, you remember that dead bird you found? The one that was killed falling out of a tree? He got a little push from your good friend Barney. That gun of his used to have two bullets.

At least I didn't tell him he'd grow up to be bald. Even the Contessa isn't that cruel.