A new term began last night at Ryerson - a full class, 18 writers on an evening so mild, I rode my bike to work. How I love the challenge of a classroom full of potential. Here we go.
On another note, however - I got a call this morning from a friend who also goes to the Y, to tell me she'd run into a fellow member having a meltdown. A few days ago, I put up the following notice on the bulletin board in the Women's Health Club.
LOOKING FOR MAC/IPHONE/SOCIAL MEDIA TECH SUPPORT. Probably someone 22 years old, but could be anyone who understands these things. I function on these machines and on FB but would like a coach to teach me how to function better and how to fix the glitches that drive me insane. If you know someone, please give them my coordinates.
My friend said the woman was furious about this terrible notice. She made an official complaint to the Y, and it was taken down. Because it was ageist.
Holy @#$, Batman. Can you imagine living with absolutely no sense of humour but all antennae quivering to detect a hint of incorrectness at every turn? It's like the people accusing Jordan Peterson, the U of T professor who refuses to use "ze" or "they" for a transgender person, as "fostering hate". I just read an article in the NYT saying it's the extreme absurdities of political correctness that elected Trump - "People are sick and tired of hearing about liberals' damn bathrooms" - and faced with my accuser, I understand what that means. In a world full of major issues, with so many more to come after Friday, we are giving far too much time and energy to people obsessed with the unbelievably minor.
I can't help but think - yes, I'm still sensitive - of the student last term who told my boss I needed sensitivity training because I made a joke to the one man in the class about representing half the planet. Ye gods, the world is disintegrating around us; my ex-husband who lives in Washington just wrote, "The Visigoths are already arriving." And people are fixated on such petty things.
Oh well.
It's busy around here. Late tonight, my upstairs tenant Carol arrives back from her other home in Ecuador. Thursday, my home students and I are having a huge potluck meal to celebrate the beginning of our winter term, and later THAT night, my ex arrives to spend four days under my roof, that used to be his roof, visiting our children and grandchildren.
He is also avoiding the inauguration. With its seven Rockettes and nineteen Mormon Tabernacle singers. Hard to believe that is actually going to happen, that such a horrendous human being will be in the White House. The world shudders.
Time for a big, big glass of wine.
And incidentally, If you know someone, could be 38 or 43 or 56 or 68 or 75 or 81 or 103, if they're good at Mac tech stuff and social media, please give them my coordinates. But frankly, the chances are that they'll be 22.
polish
10 hours ago
Oh, I laughed: "...all antennae quivering to detect a hint of incorrectness at every turn." In our house (where one of us is 69 and the other is 62), we have a device that is referred to as "the call-phone". When it was purchased -- and I swear, we were the among the last on the planet to buy a cell-phone (there, I've given away its true identity)-- John sent an email to our children with the number of his new phone. He meant to type "cell-phone" but made an error and typed "call-phone" instead. Our children, older than your preferred age group for coaching, won't let him forget it. Dad, do you have your call-phone? Does Mum know how to use the call-phone yet? (She does, barely.)
ReplyDeleteMade me laugh. My favourite is my mother figuring out the internet. Some years ago when she heard that Anna had moved to another apartment, Mum asked me what her new email address was. We are old, we are old, we shall wear the bottoms of our trousers ... tight, like the kids do.
ReplyDelete