"The Whirlpool"

At the Y on Wednesday, my locker mate Tina, who changes next to me and whom I have never met outside the Y, said, "Welcome back. I followed the blog and feel like I was in B.C. with you."

I didn't even know she was aware of my last name, let alone the blog.

Today, in the Sunday morning class at the Y, I realized how out of shape I am. Forest bathing and wrestling with a wooly puppy over her favourite slipper do not a fitness regime make, and let's face it, I was mostly sitting in Chris's studio fussing over words or cooking or eating Chris's baking. So the legs, arms, and heart need some upgrading. How - my usual cry - how to find time to do everything that needs to be done, including fitness? I am still overwhelmed, though gradually feeling more in control - finally got some groceries, that helps. But the house - the house needs so much time and tending, and each time I enter a chaotic room, especially my office, I am tempted to turn around and walk out again. So I do.

Yesterday's treat: a student's book launch. Laurel Croza took my course many years ago, transformed one of her class exercises into the picture book "I Know Here" which won many prizes, put out a second picture book, and, now, a book of stories for pre-teens. She sent all of them to me to edit in the early stages, so it was a huge treat to read them again in a beautiful little book, "The Whirlpool," put out by Groundwood. Laurel had never done any creative writing before coming to my class; she's tenacious, hardworking, focussed. Very proud of her. (And grateful - when she gave her speech, she thanked family and friends, then turned to me and said "Beth is the best writing teacher in Toronto." And I didn't have to pay her much to say so.)

To be honest, I would give my eye teeth for a book launch here, at the offices of acclaimed Canadian publisher House of Anansi.

From there to the Emerson, a great little restaurant nearby that happens to be where my son works. We had time before his shift for dinner together; I haven't seen him for months. The owner, who's a high school friend of Anna's, bought me a glass of champagne. It's amazing how good the service is when you're dining with someone who works there. Beef Wellington, tomato salad, champagne followed by a Cote de Rhone, with a charming beloved companion - I'm a lucky woman.

Today it's chilly but the sun is strong. I have to say, I'll take this over mild and dark cloudy grey. Now to write a list and get moving, figure out what's most urgent. Top of my list: centipedes. There are always a few around, but they're moving up and out: there was one in the bathtub last week and in my bedroom last night. Not welcome. Must kill.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

I don’t need time. What I need is a deadline. -Duke Ellington, jazz pianist, composer, and conductor (29 Apr 1899-1974)

the little battles of life

An extraordinary day yesterday, battling both of the academic institutions for which I work, where my courses are due to start in two weeks. It seemed, yesterday, as if they were both out to make sure I can't do my job, which surely - don't you agree? - is counterintuitive.

As I've written, the numbers for my Life Stories memoir course at U of T are strangely low this term; I couldn't figure out why, so I went on the website. And found to my disbelief that they are running another memoir course, taught by a better-known writer, at exactly the same time on the same day. I've been teaching Tuesdays 12.30 to 3 at U of T for more than a decade, and that is the day and time they decided to give to another teacher of memoir. When I wrote to ask, they replied this was a mistake and apologized. Nothing to be done. My class will either be cancelled or extremely small.

Hey ho.

So then Ryerson's turn. My course there is almost always too full - the cut off number is 18 but I've had 19, which is absurdly big. The time, they wrote to say I'm at 12 and the class is full. What? At Ryerson, if we have fewer than 10 students in a class, we're paid less, so with only 12, with a few no-shows or dropouts, I'd end up with fewer than 10 and less pay. When I wrote to enquire about this strange cut off of 12, they replied that they've put the class in a "breakout room" which only seats 12 so they've cut off registration.

Let's get this straight: Ryerson is a vast sprawling campus through the downtown core of Toronto, and they cannot find a single room for my class that holds more than 12? Plus I've already battled them about breakout rooms - they're tiny glass boxes designed for a few students to sit and work alone, completely wrong for a memoir writing class.

Still not resolved.

So on top of the other stuff that was already roiling in my gut, I felt as if the world was conspiring to keep me from doing my jobs, the jobs that help pay my considerable bills. Phooey.

First world problems. I have a job. I have a roof and bread on my plate. Nothing to complain about, but it makes a great story. I love to whine.

And then my home class students arrived, writers who've been working with me, some of them, for years, and what fabulous stories, what skill and focus and honesty. Bad day forgotten. And now the sun is shining again. Only one thing to say: onward!

my Beatles talk at Miles Nadal May 24

An absurdly difficult day, to be explained some other time. But the sun is pouring in, and this just arrived, and soon my home class students will too. So all is well.

ode to chocolate

During Monday's visit. What Glammas do best - help smear chocolate on the face.

I'm down, I'm really down, as Paul McCartney sang

Your cheery correspondent is despondent tonight. The world is too much with me. Sometimes reading the newspaper is unbearable, and today in particular, after my own city was attacked and ten people slaughtered by a young man who, it now seems, was enraged because no woman would sleep with him. It seems that his loathsome assembly of Incel friends used to meet on Facebook to celebrate the murder of women and men who just might be sexually active. No, it's too insane, what's happening in the world is beyond comprehension. Syria, the Iran nuclear deal, climate change, immigration and refugees, increasing income disparity, ghastly Doug Ford looming in this province, every single thing that comes out of Trump's mouth, much much more. Sometimes, it's unbearable, just rubs me raw.

And then today, on that same FB, an intelligent woman who used to be a friend posted a racist comment by Winston Churchill with a diatribe shouting that he was "a mass murderer," and I made the mistake of asking for a bit of restraint, for us to be conscious of the mores of his times, as we will surely be harshly judged for our follies in times to come. Followed by a series of even more violent comments in rebuttal. Did Winston Churchill make a racist comment about black people being an inferior race? It's possible he did; he was born in 1874, a product of his times, for better or worse. Did he also help win the war against the Nazis? I guess that doesn't matter.

And then deciding not to wade further into that swamp, I read my dear Chris's blog, where he indicates that he's having a breakdown perhaps because of too many visitors staying too long. That means me. I know he was not blaming or accusing, but still, it hit hard.

Plus I spent the afternoon doing grunt work for our conference, fiddly work which needed to be done, and we were a great cheerful team doing it, but truly, that shouldn't have been the sort of thing we were called on to do.

Plus with two weeks till it starts, my class at U of T is very small so far. Though we did have a good meeting there yesterday and I got to meet some of my colleagues, that was nice.

I'm overwhelmed by all I have to do here, an endless list in this house plus the renovation to come. I'm sad and deeply concerned for a family member who is making what I think are poor, self-destructive choices, plus after two days of hot sun, it was grey and damp today, plus ... maybe I'm still jet-lagged and will cheer up tomorrow. I'm sure I will. I bet you are also hoping this sad sack will.

Plus my printer is out of ink and I have to go remember how to wrestle the new cartridge in.

First world problems, all. But tonight, not even wine helps.

PS Within two minutes of my posting this long self-pitying whine, dear friend Nick sent a kind email. What a blessing are friends. Now, time for peanut butter. That always helps.