Old School

Supergirl and I are under siege (siege, I tell you!) by the woman in the office next to us. She's a reading teacher and also happens to be a Purveyor of Utter Pointlessness. Some of you may have thought that title was already taken by me, but surprisingly, you'd be wrong.

Purveyor is about 100 60 and doesn't know much about computers. She never married and doesn't have kids (oh hello, worst fear of my life, glad to see you're alive and well) and I think that's contributed to it, as singleist as that may sound. Obviously there are exceptions, but I just think that a lot of women of that generation seem to have become well-versed in computers because of their husbands and kids. For example, my mom knows about computers because my dad is techy and taught her everything, I'm sure waiting patiently while she sighed and swore and kickboxed the air around her out of frustration. And while she was really only motivated to get on email when I left for college, now she communicates with everyone that way and even runs her little volunteer organization online. So without the influence of my dad and I, I could imagine that she would be among those staring suspiciously at that glowing box in the corner wondering what it wanted from her and why it was looking at her that way.

Anyway, back to the Purveyor. She's really nice, just, well, overwhelmingly ditzy. First she asked me for computer advice and when I deferred to my dad, she came back and asked if she could trust his recommendation or if he only suggested it because he makes a tiny profit off of every Microsoft Office for Teachers that Amazon sells.

She'll wander into our office sometimes and just smile. Supergirl and I will take turns dealing with her depending which one of us is busier or unwilling at that moment to accept a world with the Purveyor in it. Then she'll ask a question like, "So if I want to write a letter on the computer, how would I do that?"

"Okay, well, you can just open a document and..."

"A document?"

The other day she told me she was having trouble sending an email. Turns out she wasn't in her email, she was online and typing in the email address where you type in a website. How was she planning to write the message? With her mind?

I don't mean to be impatient, but you cannot say, "Open that folder" without her saying something like, "You mean touch it twice, right? Or once? Or do you mean click?" I mean, I work with little children. This sort of thing shouldn't be infuriating to me. AND YET IT IS.

Today it was this, which came about because she was there and I'm making chicken marsala for the first time tomorrow night.

Me: Do you know what marsala wine is?
Her: What? Who?
Me: Marsala wine, for chicken marsala.
Her: Oh! I thought you were asking me about a student with the last name Marsala.
Me: No, well, I was just wondering if it's a cooking wine or a wine-wine.
Her: You're wondering if you need it to make chicken marsala? That would make sense. Marsala.
Me: Oh yeah, well, I do need it, as it turns out. It's in the recipe. I was just trying to figure out if I can buy it at the grocery store or if I need to go to a liquor store.
Her: That's a great question! You're so cute! You've probably never even been to a liquor store.
Me: I have, actually. I'm almost thirty.
Her: I love chicken marsala!