1. Fire hair stylist.

2. Ditch granny sweater.

While at the bowling alley recently, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face a red-headed pre-teen 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 expression on Opie’s face told me he had mistaken me for someone else. I get that a lot. People confuse me with Susan Sarandon. We both have big eyes. He opened his mouth as if to ask Paw where the fish were biting when, instead, he dropped a G-Bomb.

“Sorry. I thought you were my grandmother.”

Grandmother? Moi? Maybe I shouldn’t have asked the clerk for Dr. Scholl bowling shoes. The truth is, I am old enough to be a grandmother - to itty, bitty thumb-suckers, not kids knocking on puberty’s door. No granny-gushing for Contessa, not at least until after the first Social Security check arrives. In fact, I steer clear of babies and toddlers just so people don’t get the wrong idea.

The kid was embarrassed at his blunder but Contessa handled his awkwardness with finesse.

“Thanks for nothing, Opie-boy. Remember the episode where you found a dead bird that had fallen out of a tree? When you cried like a little girl? Well, here’s something they didn’t put in the credits: birdie got a little push from your buddy, Barney. That gun of his used to have two bullets.”

The kid ran off in search of his granny, screaming “Stranger Danger.” At least I didn’t tell him he’d grow up to be bald. Contessa can handle only so much finessing.

Sad to say, although Opie may have been my first near granny-outing, he wasn’t the last. A couple of weeks ago I had taken Cat to the emergency room after a tumble at basketball practice. The young medical attendant asked Cat a few preliminary questions, like her age, weight and if she belonged to Team Edward or Team Jacob.

Turning to me, she asked, “You’re her, um, er...”

We were on the verge of grandmageddon. Cocked, loaded and ready to drop, the G-Bomb rested on little Nurse Ratched’s pierced tongue. I’ve always heard that in the last seconds, we see our lives flash before our eyes. Barbies, Beanie Babies and Backstreet Boys must’ve paraded by because she reconsidered.

“…her mother?”

Good answer. Otherwise, Doogiette Howser would’ve been on the floor searching for her tongue stud.

I don’t understand how people mistake me for being older. It’s not as if I mix Metamucil with my Merlot. Well, maybe once, but the doctor advised me to add fiber to my breakfast. I work out at the gym, killing myself walking on the treadmill. OK, sitting. It’s amazing how many calories you burn by getting up to fetch your flask, er, water bottle.

How can anyone think I’m a grandmother, what with the care I shower on my little ones, I whined to The Big Guy.

“Little ones?” The Big Guy questioned, taking away my wine. “Pinot and Grigio have had facial hair almost as long as you.”

At least Cat’s young and I still get to do mom-stuff with her, like chaperone school dances. That is, until that restraining order.

It’s not as if I don’t want to be a grandparent. I look forward to it. I’ll take the grandkiddies on field trips to the drive-thru beverage barn, or buy them stuff their parents wouldn’t, like nose-rings and thongs. If they get snippy with me, or roll their eyes, I won’t have to threaten dropping them off at Child Protective Services. I’ll just send them back to their parents and call it payback.

Danielle Schaaf is the coauthor of DON’T CHEW JESUS! and can be reached at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com. She’s currently working on her second book, FOLD YOUR OWN DAMN LAUNDRY.