Some of you may track signs of aging by when another grey hair shows up, or how all your joints have a meeting to decide how they’re going to haul you out of bed in the morning. When I last had my eyes tested, the doctor told me my eyesight had actually improved slightly in one eye. I found this odd, but she said it was fairly common.
I thought of how often I’ve made a final vet date for a beloved cat and had them go into kitten mode on their last day. I took improved vision as a sign of impending death. One of my mom’s best friends, Kay, didn’t have any children and was a little stern with the kids in her neighbourhood.
They liked to play hockey on her wide, pristine cement driveway. She would allow it until her husband was due home, and then tell them to move along. Decades ago, a tiny aspiring NHLer called her “Crabbyapplesauceface.
” It stuck. I am officially in my Crabbyapplesauceface years. You kids, get off my lawn.
“My lawn” is a placeholder for many, many other things. At the grocery store the other day, my favourite checker asked if I wanted to start collecting something. I said no, thank you.
“It’s just your phone number,” she said. No. I have no interest in collecting points so a corporation can then collect endless streams of information about me.
If you sell groceries and list two prices — one if I have your privacy-invading app on my phone, and a higher one if I don’t — I won’t shop in your store. How can you penalize people who don.
