It seems that I might actually be almost close to finishing the dissertation... which is exciting, because once I'm not a student any more, I'll actually be unemployed--like, that's what I'll have to put on forms and stuff. Nah--screw it, I'm just gonna put "writer." And say it out loud as I fill out the form, then look around and announce, "Yes, I am a Writer." When that gets dull, I'll start doing "Actor." And I'll really pronounce the O: ActOr.
Anyhoo, the diss is making me antsy, and I think I might be losing my grip on my social skills (as anyone whom I've assaulted with border-collie-like affection on my rare trips in public these days will surely verify), but I think I really hit on a stellar idea while updating my Facebook status and pointless Twitter account (1 person is following me! Woo! What up, Amanda?) for the 47th time last week: Time Machine! Why waste more time writing my dissertation? I'm just gonna build a time machine, go forward 3 or 4 years or so (yeah, that oughta do it), grab a copy of my diss from the library, bring it back with me, and PLAGIARIZE MYSELF! I am a genius! (Or, the guy who wrote Back to the Future 2 is genius. I am really good at this plagiarism, no?)
Seriously, people, call me. I need to talk to someone who is not by dog. Especially call me if you would like to offer me a job or produce my totally un-plagiarized screenplay.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
In Soviet Russia, Play Critiques You!
I came across this story on Facebook today (thanks, Robin, for the link!). For you who don't hyperlink, I sum up: Edmonton actor Jeff Haslam posted a vitriolic reply on a fan blog. Apparently, one of the subscribers to his theatre company wasn't 100% in love with their latest show. The Globe & Mail article is pretty anti-Haslam on the topic, and I agree that his comments aren't exactly warm and fuzzy, but I do appreciate the fact that he had the courage to respond to a review of his work... to a point.
The really exciting thing about online publishing tools, from blogs to Facebook to Twitter, is that we now have an unprecidented ability to engage in dialogue and debate. Unfortunately, some people hide behind the anonymity of online comments to say some truly hateful things (as my very dear friend Junaid, among others, can tell you). But the fact that Haslam commented openly and sincerely is laudable. I would love to see more artists responding to their critics like that. After all, why would the critic or the reviewer get the last word? The idea of a critical dialogue between a reviewer and an actor or a playwright or a novelist or a filmmaker is pretty inspiring, actually. Though Haslam's comments in this case were pretty immature, petty, and unprofessional. In my opinion. (See my previous posts on the topic of thick skins and artists.) Nonetheless, props to him for publishing his response openly and sincerely, and under his own name and profile pic.
Where he really loses me, though, is this comment: "I wish she’d stop subscribing to my theatre company." (He also calls her "icky" and a "pretentious doof." Uncalled for, since the blogger in question didn't start the name-calling. But it's not like other reviewers haven't resorted to name-calling, so he has a right, I guess.) Since when are only purely positive reviewers welcome in a theatre audience? How fascist has Edmonton become since I moved away, that we now ask critics who offer any sort of actual criticism not to patronize artistic establishments? More importantly, how financially flush is Teatro La Quindicina that they can afford to hand-pick their subscribers like that? Don't we all wish we had that kind of financial independence? From now on, I am only sending my work to publishers that are going to love it. If they have any notes on my writing or--dare I suggest it---if they would even consider rejecting it, forget them. I don't need their journals or their imprints, or their money (for those literary magazines that can still afford to pay their contributors, anyway). While I'm at it, next time I teach, I only want the students who are going to give me a glowing review on my teaching evals at the end of the year. I really don't think that educational institutions should even consider admitting students who are going to be in any way critical of the teaching staff, curriculum, administration, or subject matter in any of the courses. They should like it--all of it--or drop out.
Of course, as Haslam points out, theatre companies can dispense almost entirely of audiences. He writes, “I wonder if [Yeo] knows that her crappy 19 bucks goes to less than 40% of what it costs to pay all the artists she isn’t always smitten by?” He is really on to something here, don't you think? I mean, why bother running the risk of an audience that isn't going to love your play. Theatre companies should just close their doors entirely, and perform to an adoring director, AD and Board of Directors every night. That oughta take care of those pretentious, presumptious reviewers!
So I'm getting a little ranty here. I guess it just irks me that someone who has the privilege of working as an artist should be so unreceptive to feedback, or the possibility of dialogue--so much so that he actually suggests censoring his audiences! His stance is troublingly hypocritical: he feels entitled to comment on the reviewer's blog, and challenge her opinion of his performance, but he wants to rescind her ability to attend his plays in order to provide her own feedback? Have we really rached a point where plays can resist censorship, and take on contentious issues, but the audiences aren't allowed to comment on the actors' or playwright's handling of these topics? Have we moved to a place where art is a monologue, and as patrons of the arts, we're all meant to just take it? Maybe I'm doing it wrong, but I always thought that opening a dialogue--not closing it--was kind of the point...
The really exciting thing about online publishing tools, from blogs to Facebook to Twitter, is that we now have an unprecidented ability to engage in dialogue and debate. Unfortunately, some people hide behind the anonymity of online comments to say some truly hateful things (as my very dear friend Junaid, among others, can tell you). But the fact that Haslam commented openly and sincerely is laudable. I would love to see more artists responding to their critics like that. After all, why would the critic or the reviewer get the last word? The idea of a critical dialogue between a reviewer and an actor or a playwright or a novelist or a filmmaker is pretty inspiring, actually. Though Haslam's comments in this case were pretty immature, petty, and unprofessional. In my opinion. (See my previous posts on the topic of thick skins and artists.) Nonetheless, props to him for publishing his response openly and sincerely, and under his own name and profile pic.
Where he really loses me, though, is this comment: "I wish she’d stop subscribing to my theatre company." (He also calls her "icky" and a "pretentious doof." Uncalled for, since the blogger in question didn't start the name-calling. But it's not like other reviewers haven't resorted to name-calling, so he has a right, I guess.) Since when are only purely positive reviewers welcome in a theatre audience? How fascist has Edmonton become since I moved away, that we now ask critics who offer any sort of actual criticism not to patronize artistic establishments? More importantly, how financially flush is Teatro La Quindicina that they can afford to hand-pick their subscribers like that? Don't we all wish we had that kind of financial independence? From now on, I am only sending my work to publishers that are going to love it. If they have any notes on my writing or--dare I suggest it---if they would even consider rejecting it, forget them. I don't need their journals or their imprints, or their money (for those literary magazines that can still afford to pay their contributors, anyway). While I'm at it, next time I teach, I only want the students who are going to give me a glowing review on my teaching evals at the end of the year. I really don't think that educational institutions should even consider admitting students who are going to be in any way critical of the teaching staff, curriculum, administration, or subject matter in any of the courses. They should like it--all of it--or drop out.
Of course, as Haslam points out, theatre companies can dispense almost entirely of audiences. He writes, “I wonder if [Yeo] knows that her crappy 19 bucks goes to less than 40% of what it costs to pay all the artists she isn’t always smitten by?” He is really on to something here, don't you think? I mean, why bother running the risk of an audience that isn't going to love your play. Theatre companies should just close their doors entirely, and perform to an adoring director, AD and Board of Directors every night. That oughta take care of those pretentious, presumptious reviewers!
So I'm getting a little ranty here. I guess it just irks me that someone who has the privilege of working as an artist should be so unreceptive to feedback, or the possibility of dialogue--so much so that he actually suggests censoring his audiences! His stance is troublingly hypocritical: he feels entitled to comment on the reviewer's blog, and challenge her opinion of his performance, but he wants to rescind her ability to attend his plays in order to provide her own feedback? Have we really rached a point where plays can resist censorship, and take on contentious issues, but the audiences aren't allowed to comment on the actors' or playwright's handling of these topics? Have we moved to a place where art is a monologue, and as patrons of the arts, we're all meant to just take it? Maybe I'm doing it wrong, but I always thought that opening a dialogue--not closing it--was kind of the point...
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Save First Nations University
Please show your support for First Nations University!
See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zc1xmmQlOY
Or go to http://fnuniv.wordpress.com/letter/ to download a letter to send to your MP.
See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zc1xmmQl
Or go to http://fnuniv.wordpress.com/letter/ to download a letter to send to your MP.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Why Can't We Just Say It?
In the last week or so, I've received a letter and a couple of emails that rankled me a little. They weren't rude or insulting, but they were polite. Very, very polite. Insultingly polite. And polite to the point of meaninglessness. I know--politeness is a quintessentially Canadian quality. But come on. Can't we just get over it?
I'm good at polite. Very, very good. When I owned a business, I wielded politeness like a weapon. Customers who complained, or who were looking for discounts, or who were making requests that I wasn't going to give into--they ran up against my politeness. I never had to give away anything I didn't want to. And I also never had to be rude. Seriously--my politneness is like adamantium (or maybe unobtanium) coated in Teflon.
I should qualify--politeness, in my opinion, is not the same as good manners. Good manners are a code of conduct based on consideration. They vary from situation to situation, and require you to be attentive, and to respond to people in a way that will make them most comfortable. Politeness is also different from kindness, which is based on sympathy, consideration, and a desire to give someone else what they need or want. Kindness and good manners are, in my opinion, closely related. Politeness is a different bird.
Being polite means getting your own way without directly making a request or a demand, and simultaneously making it almost impossible from someone else to deny you what you want. Being polite often means being very, very manipulative. Or, at least, so I've come to conclude.
Back to the letters: the first was a PFO (thanks to Claire for that term. The first word is "Please." It means, "No. Don't bother us any more."). I had applied for a job, and got a very polite PFO in the mail. Nice of them to send it, right? I actually appreciate PFOs, because I tend to haunt my mailbox or Inbox, waiting to hear about jobs I really want. I think that sending a form letter PFO is a very considerate way of telling applicants they don't have to be on pins and needles any more. Except that the PFO was transparently disingenuous. It contained a couple of ridiculous superlatives. Now don't start by telling me that I'm selling myself short. Yeah, I happen to think that I have mad professional skilz. I ran a business, I'm a pretty good teacher, and a good writer, too. (Sorry, is it not polite to say so?) But I'm also realistic. For instance, I don't have my PhD yet, and my only publications are short stories. I also know several people who were probably applying for the same job, and I know that their CVs are a lot sexier than mine. So I wasn't particularly suprised to get a PFO. I was disappointed, yes, but what really rankled me was the blatantly obvious form letter that pretended to address my application in particular. In fact, for a split second, I actually thought that the respondant was making fun of me--"Oh, yeah, you were REALLY qualified for this job. NICE application, lady. We were REALLY impressed." (No, that's not what the letter actually said, that was how I interpreted it on first reading.) So you've got to send a form letter--okay. I get it. A lot of people apply, and it would take years to address each application individually. I don't mind getting a form letter. But please, let's be a little sincere. "Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position at this time" will suffice. Add a bunch of silly superlatives about my "exceptional qualifications," and that's just patronizing. The form letter, however, was apparently insufficient, because I also got an equally silly form email PFO. Really? Twice? This is almost as bad as the weird rejection letter I got a few years ago, in which the magazine editor actually wrote, "If you are going to continue in this field, you will need to develop a thick skin." If these aren't form letters, then somebody has started a rumour that I respond really, really badly to disappointment. Like, postal-badly.
Which brings us to the other email. Now, it has taken a few years, but I actually have developed a thick skin, when it comes to rejection letters. I have published four short stories, and two of my plays have been staged. Believe me, I have sent my work out more than six times. In my early twenties, I cried every time I got a rejection letter. I got over the habit. (If I hadn't, I would perpetually suffer severe dehydration.) I know I write well. I also know that publishers get a lot of really good books and stories, and can't run them all. I don't mind form letters, and am actually flattered when an editor takes the time to scrawl a few words that directly address my writing on the little rejection slips. I've received a lot of good feedback that way. Sometimes, editors even suggest other magazines that are more liely to publish my work.
Some friends of mine have received really bitchy rejection letters. One of the Nice Wantons told a particularly gruesome rejection letter horror story. Until last week, though, I've never received anything other than direct, polite (in the best sense of the word) and professional rejection letters. The email I received on Friday, though, was a different story.
It actually began with some very helpful and practical advice, but the message quickly develved into a diatribe about the sender's work load: the number of submissions she receives, why she doesn't have time to read my work, and how I am wasting her time. It was all very polite, mind you. Very carefully-veiled acrimony. She had clearly only given my work a cursory glance--she was even mistaken about the genre. The worst part was, she referred to it as "poorly-formatted." Yeah. She did. Criticize my writing all you want, bitch, but my formatting is impeccable.
Seriously, though, my irritation springs from many sources. First, does she really expect me to seriously consider the advice she provided in the first half of the email, when she went on to give me a dressing-down for wasting her time? We are all emotional creatures, and we are not likely to be particularly responsive to someone who is being acrimonious. If she meant, "Screw you," then she should have just cut to the chase--that's what I read in the email, and I wasn't really feelining like considering the rest of the message. I don't think that's a hyperbolic response, either. Second, she counted the number of pages that I'd written, and conceded, at the very end of the message, that I must be "very passionate to write so many pages." I found that comment condescending in the extreme. I sent her a professional request, from one professional to the next. Whether or not I am passionate or not is a non-sequitur, especially since she announced, at the beginning of her message, that she neither read, nor intended to read my work. Despite her company's policy on receiving unsolicited submissions. Finally, her work load is not my problem. If she feels overworked, she should discuss the situation with her supervisor, and not with me. Why can't people stick to the topic? Don't send me irrelevant information--and don't imply that your workload is somehow my fault, or my problem.
I think the crux of the problem is that people forget that someone--a real person--will be reading the crabby emails they send. Why do we think of email (especially business email) as an acceptable place to exorcise our frustrations? How do we think people are going to respond when we fire off a passive-aggressive diatribe like the one I received? Not well. (But I'll get to my response in a minute.) Honestly, we need to put our need for politness aside for a second. We need to learn to say, "Screw you" (or worse) and mean it. Why veil aggressive, angry behaviour in insincerity? Because, guess what--as soon as we type "screw you!" into the body of a business email, one of two things is going to happen: either we're actually going to communicate our meaning in a clear and direct manner, or we're going to realize how inappropriate that kind of response is, and actually draft and appropriate and professional response.
I blame email and its capacity for almost-instantaneous communication (unless, of course, you're using your Dal account) for a good part of the proliferation of passive-aggressive emails like the one I got. If the individual who emailed me hadn't been able to fire off a message right away--if she'd had to type it out, sign it, find an envelope and a stamp, re-read the message, fold the paper, and place it into the envelope, she might have realized, at some point, that it really isn't appropriate for her to tell me about all the other work she has to do. At least, I like to think that would have been the case.
So. My response to her message. First, my mouse hovered ober the "Delete" icon, then moved over to "Reply." I clicked, and started typing. Then I deleted the whole works. Instead, I opened a word document, and drafted a reply that mirrored, almost sentence-for-sentence, her email to me, in tone and in structure. At one point, she suggested that I enroll in a writing class to learn how to format my work properly. I suggested a Professional Communications course to improve her business emailing skills. I saved it. I brought my laptop downstairs to show Trent. He nearly died laughing.
"Is this someone important?" he asked. "Someone who could affect your career?"
"Not likely," I told him. Really not likely. I had Googled her.
"Then send it."
I did. I felt awful. The email was condescending, passive-aggressive, and impeccably polite. It was dreadful. Just a few hours later, I had a reply. It was direct and assertive. The woman told me that she thought it was terribly inappropriate and bad for my career to suggest that an industry professional enroll in a Communications course to learn how to draft business emails. She also acknowledged that she hadn't noticed that my work was, in fact, formatted according to industry guidelines when she had sent her original email. She told me that, if I hadn't sent such an inappropriate reply, and simply pointed out her error, she might have reconsidered her decision not to read my work. She might have been sincere on that point--but I doubt it. I'm pretty sure my work was in a company recycle bin (or possibly a shredder) long before she emailed me the first time. Of course, I have to tell myself that, or risk regretting my message. All in all, the second email was much better than the first. She addressed only the issues at hand. She told me clearly and without any forms of politeness that she was truly offended by my email. And she even offered some good (professional, and not condescending) advice on navigating the industry. I sent her a sincere email thanking her. I acknowledged that my first reply had been deliberately snotty and condescending, and probably ill-judged, but that I had been responding to what I perceived as a tone of frustration and impatience in her email. I told her that I truly appreciated the advice she had given me. I hope she reads it. She probably won't. It will probably be deleted, unread. That's okay. I know those guys will never consider my work--at least not as long as she's with the organization. But I feel that I've performed a public service. I somehow doubt that the next rejection letter she writes will be as unprofessional, acrimonious, or passively aggressive as the one she wrote me. I hope it won't be nearly as condescending, or as polite.
So. My mission for me: stop being so damn polite. Say, "Screw you" when I mean it. Because if I mean it, I know the message is getting across anyway, not matter how polite I am in trying not to say it.
I'm good at polite. Very, very good. When I owned a business, I wielded politeness like a weapon. Customers who complained, or who were looking for discounts, or who were making requests that I wasn't going to give into--they ran up against my politeness. I never had to give away anything I didn't want to. And I also never had to be rude. Seriously--my politneness is like adamantium (or maybe unobtanium) coated in Teflon.
I should qualify--politeness, in my opinion, is not the same as good manners. Good manners are a code of conduct based on consideration. They vary from situation to situation, and require you to be attentive, and to respond to people in a way that will make them most comfortable. Politeness is also different from kindness, which is based on sympathy, consideration, and a desire to give someone else what they need or want. Kindness and good manners are, in my opinion, closely related. Politeness is a different bird.
Being polite means getting your own way without directly making a request or a demand, and simultaneously making it almost impossible from someone else to deny you what you want. Being polite often means being very, very manipulative. Or, at least, so I've come to conclude.
Back to the letters: the first was a PFO (thanks to Claire for that term. The first word is "Please." It means, "No. Don't bother us any more."). I had applied for a job, and got a very polite PFO in the mail. Nice of them to send it, right? I actually appreciate PFOs, because I tend to haunt my mailbox or Inbox, waiting to hear about jobs I really want. I think that sending a form letter PFO is a very considerate way of telling applicants they don't have to be on pins and needles any more. Except that the PFO was transparently disingenuous. It contained a couple of ridiculous superlatives. Now don't start by telling me that I'm selling myself short. Yeah, I happen to think that I have mad professional skilz. I ran a business, I'm a pretty good teacher, and a good writer, too. (Sorry, is it not polite to say so?) But I'm also realistic. For instance, I don't have my PhD yet, and my only publications are short stories. I also know several people who were probably applying for the same job, and I know that their CVs are a lot sexier than mine. So I wasn't particularly suprised to get a PFO. I was disappointed, yes, but what really rankled me was the blatantly obvious form letter that pretended to address my application in particular. In fact, for a split second, I actually thought that the respondant was making fun of me--"Oh, yeah, you were REALLY qualified for this job. NICE application, lady. We were REALLY impressed." (No, that's not what the letter actually said, that was how I interpreted it on first reading.) So you've got to send a form letter--okay. I get it. A lot of people apply, and it would take years to address each application individually. I don't mind getting a form letter. But please, let's be a little sincere. "Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you a position at this time" will suffice. Add a bunch of silly superlatives about my "exceptional qualifications," and that's just patronizing. The form letter, however, was apparently insufficient, because I also got an equally silly form email PFO. Really? Twice? This is almost as bad as the weird rejection letter I got a few years ago, in which the magazine editor actually wrote, "If you are going to continue in this field, you will need to develop a thick skin." If these aren't form letters, then somebody has started a rumour that I respond really, really badly to disappointment. Like, postal-badly.
Which brings us to the other email. Now, it has taken a few years, but I actually have developed a thick skin, when it comes to rejection letters. I have published four short stories, and two of my plays have been staged. Believe me, I have sent my work out more than six times. In my early twenties, I cried every time I got a rejection letter. I got over the habit. (If I hadn't, I would perpetually suffer severe dehydration.) I know I write well. I also know that publishers get a lot of really good books and stories, and can't run them all. I don't mind form letters, and am actually flattered when an editor takes the time to scrawl a few words that directly address my writing on the little rejection slips. I've received a lot of good feedback that way. Sometimes, editors even suggest other magazines that are more liely to publish my work.
Some friends of mine have received really bitchy rejection letters. One of the Nice Wantons told a particularly gruesome rejection letter horror story. Until last week, though, I've never received anything other than direct, polite (in the best sense of the word) and professional rejection letters. The email I received on Friday, though, was a different story.
It actually began with some very helpful and practical advice, but the message quickly develved into a diatribe about the sender's work load: the number of submissions she receives, why she doesn't have time to read my work, and how I am wasting her time. It was all very polite, mind you. Very carefully-veiled acrimony. She had clearly only given my work a cursory glance--she was even mistaken about the genre. The worst part was, she referred to it as "poorly-formatted." Yeah. She did. Criticize my writing all you want, bitch, but my formatting is impeccable.
Seriously, though, my irritation springs from many sources. First, does she really expect me to seriously consider the advice she provided in the first half of the email, when she went on to give me a dressing-down for wasting her time? We are all emotional creatures, and we are not likely to be particularly responsive to someone who is being acrimonious. If she meant, "Screw you," then she should have just cut to the chase--that's what I read in the email, and I wasn't really feelining like considering the rest of the message. I don't think that's a hyperbolic response, either. Second, she counted the number of pages that I'd written, and conceded, at the very end of the message, that I must be "very passionate to write so many pages." I found that comment condescending in the extreme. I sent her a professional request, from one professional to the next. Whether or not I am passionate or not is a non-sequitur, especially since she announced, at the beginning of her message, that she neither read, nor intended to read my work. Despite her company's policy on receiving unsolicited submissions. Finally, her work load is not my problem. If she feels overworked, she should discuss the situation with her supervisor, and not with me. Why can't people stick to the topic? Don't send me irrelevant information--and don't imply that your workload is somehow my fault, or my problem.
I think the crux of the problem is that people forget that someone--a real person--will be reading the crabby emails they send. Why do we think of email (especially business email) as an acceptable place to exorcise our frustrations? How do we think people are going to respond when we fire off a passive-aggressive diatribe like the one I received? Not well. (But I'll get to my response in a minute.) Honestly, we need to put our need for politness aside for a second. We need to learn to say, "Screw you" (or worse) and mean it. Why veil aggressive, angry behaviour in insincerity? Because, guess what--as soon as we type "screw you!" into the body of a business email, one of two things is going to happen: either we're actually going to communicate our meaning in a clear and direct manner, or we're going to realize how inappropriate that kind of response is, and actually draft and appropriate and professional response.
I blame email and its capacity for almost-instantaneous communication (unless, of course, you're using your Dal account) for a good part of the proliferation of passive-aggressive emails like the one I got. If the individual who emailed me hadn't been able to fire off a message right away--if she'd had to type it out, sign it, find an envelope and a stamp, re-read the message, fold the paper, and place it into the envelope, she might have realized, at some point, that it really isn't appropriate for her to tell me about all the other work she has to do. At least, I like to think that would have been the case.
So. My response to her message. First, my mouse hovered ober the "Delete" icon, then moved over to "Reply." I clicked, and started typing. Then I deleted the whole works. Instead, I opened a word document, and drafted a reply that mirrored, almost sentence-for-sentence, her email to me, in tone and in structure. At one point, she suggested that I enroll in a writing class to learn how to format my work properly. I suggested a Professional Communications course to improve her business emailing skills. I saved it. I brought my laptop downstairs to show Trent. He nearly died laughing.
"Is this someone important?" he asked. "Someone who could affect your career?"
"Not likely," I told him. Really not likely. I had Googled her.
"Then send it."
I did. I felt awful. The email was condescending, passive-aggressive, and impeccably polite. It was dreadful. Just a few hours later, I had a reply. It was direct and assertive. The woman told me that she thought it was terribly inappropriate and bad for my career to suggest that an industry professional enroll in a Communications course to learn how to draft business emails. She also acknowledged that she hadn't noticed that my work was, in fact, formatted according to industry guidelines when she had sent her original email. She told me that, if I hadn't sent such an inappropriate reply, and simply pointed out her error, she might have reconsidered her decision not to read my work. She might have been sincere on that point--but I doubt it. I'm pretty sure my work was in a company recycle bin (or possibly a shredder) long before she emailed me the first time. Of course, I have to tell myself that, or risk regretting my message. All in all, the second email was much better than the first. She addressed only the issues at hand. She told me clearly and without any forms of politeness that she was truly offended by my email. And she even offered some good (professional, and not condescending) advice on navigating the industry. I sent her a sincere email thanking her. I acknowledged that my first reply had been deliberately snotty and condescending, and probably ill-judged, but that I had been responding to what I perceived as a tone of frustration and impatience in her email. I told her that I truly appreciated the advice she had given me. I hope she reads it. She probably won't. It will probably be deleted, unread. That's okay. I know those guys will never consider my work--at least not as long as she's with the organization. But I feel that I've performed a public service. I somehow doubt that the next rejection letter she writes will be as unprofessional, acrimonious, or passively aggressive as the one she wrote me. I hope it won't be nearly as condescending, or as polite.
So. My mission for me: stop being so damn polite. Say, "Screw you" when I mean it. Because if I mean it, I know the message is getting across anyway, not matter how polite I am in trying not to say it.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
The Tea Baroness Abdicates
Yesterday, Trent and I made the difficult decision to close the doors of our café, Cargo & James Tea, Halifax. I imagine that our decision comes as a surprise to some of you, and not at all to others. I also imagine that many of you feel that we should have told you personally, and you’re right, but I hope you’ll forgive us, knowing that we would rather not have to tell the story more than once. However, we are very grateful for all of your support, and we want to thank you for helping us out in so many ways: giving us the start-up money we needed, moving furniture and equipment, putting together a safe and giving us a stereo, coming all the way downtown to buy our tea and coffee and teapots and steepers, setting up our bank accounts and lines of credit, working for us for peanuts, sharing your artwork, your music and your poems, not kicking me out of the PhD program or Trent out of the sector council, handing out our coupons and telling your friends and families to stop by the café, coming by to chat with me at work, listening to us gripe, worry, gush, brag and confide in you, helping us navigate the mysteries of Simply Accounting, and not telling us we’re crazy when we told you we wanted to be business people. Thank you so much.
Although, in the last sixteen months or so, the store has been financially self-sustaining, it has just been too much for us to handle. Until very recently, we had hoped to sell the business, and were in negotiations with potential buyers as late as Friday, but when the last interested party backed out this weekend, we decided that it would not be responsible to incur another month’s expenses and stresses. In addition, we have yet to take home a paycheck or any dividends from the business, and after thirty-three months of working for free—and working some very, very long hours—we are feeling the strain. But while the business itself is kaput, Trent and I will be fine. If things go worse than we think they will, though, does anyone want to buy one very small dog? How about one slightly used Baroness tiara?
Although tea wasn’t quite the financial goldmine we had hoped it would be, we are glad that we made this venture. We learned so much, had so much fun, gained experience in business that we could never have had otherwise, and met so many extraordinary people in the process. We have thoroughly enjoyed the last two and a half years as Tea Baroness and Baron.
We plan to lay low for the next week or so—we haven’t seen all that much of each other lately, and it would be nice to see if we still remember how to sleep in—but we know we’ve neglected a lot of important relationships in the past few months, and we want to get in touch with so many of you very soon.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
917 Redux
As some of you may remember, I am issue 917. Still. Again. Always. Maybe the Administrivia gods didn't like my burnt offering of red tape and black ink. Or else the Data Entry Demons (I picture them looking like the Gravelings from Dead Like Me) have it out for me. Or I have bad beaurocratic karma. I don't know. But the fun, it just keeps on coming.
So. The whole student loan fiasco last fall--I spent innumerable hours on the phone with CIBC until I was finally escalated to a lovely woman in their Ombuds office who has me fax her all my Schedule 2s and Form Bs (Schedules 2 and Forms B? Whatever.). To make an extremely long story short, she submits all my forms, and keeps me in interest-free, non-repayment status for another year. Except that I have to pay $250 in interest, because although the adminicrats at Dal who gave me the forms I needed to submitlast year insisted that, since I had a Schedule 2, I didn't need a Form B, I was accumulating interest on the Alberta portion for failing to submit a Form B on time. Whatever. This year's forms were all submitted, I was in interest-free-non-repayment status again, and meanwhile, Mary Beth cleared up that nasty 917 problem for me. Home free, right? Right?
Wrong.
In January, Trent's work sent him to Las Vegas for the CES. Since the hotel room was paid for, I decided to tag along. Toni and Brad met us in Vegas, and we had a great time. Once we got there.
Before we left, I decided to be a very good PhD student and pick up some books and articles to read in Vegas. The week before, I had put about $20 of photocopy money on my DalCard, so I grabbed a stack of (non-circulating) journals and went to photocopy them. Except that the photocopy machine said my DalCard was expired. I'm no dummy, so I knew right away that Dal had 917ed me again. I take the books up to the circulation desk, and try to explain that I Am Issue 917.
"I have no idea what that means," the circulation librarian tells me.
By this time, it's ten minutes to 4. We're leaving the next day, and I know that there's no way I can get me student status reinstated in time to get these books. So I offer to leave my wallet, Visa card, Dal Card, my soul with the librarian if she'll just let me run the (non-circulating) journals to the English department--the building directly across the street, no more than two minutes away.
"I have to check with my supervisor," she tells me. And she does. I watch as she confers with a woman at a desk no more than twenty feet away. "Sorry," she tells me at last. "You can't take these books out of the library. But you can buy a visitor's card for $1 and put more photocopy on it."
Okay. I know that $21 is not a lot of money. But Dal has just "expired" the almost $20 that I put on my card the week before, and despite the fact that my tuition is paid in full, has, without a reason that anyone in any campus department or division can fathom, revoked my student status. I am not giving them another $21.
"Listen, I'm just going to run to the English department and get Mary Beth to phone your supervisor and explain my situation, okay? What is your supervisor's name? Would you please tell her that someone from the English department will be calling her right away?"
The circ librarian agrees, and I sprint (I am not exaggerating. I sprinted. In really cute pumps) to the English deparment in under 60 seconds, quickly give Mary Beth a rundown of the sitch, and she calls over to the library. And gets the librarian's voicemail. A phone call to the circ desk tells her that the supervisor has left for the day. Nice, eh?
At this point, I am not in a friendly mood. So I sprint over to the DalCard office and snag the attention of the only staff member still working. I would like to be able to say that I used my charm and diplomacy, but I didn't. I basically had a temper tantrum. The DalCard woman tries to tell me that a data entry error originating in the English department has resulted in all my priviledges being revoked, but this is not my first trip to the circus, friends. I tell her that the English deparment didn't revoke my student status. She tries to send me to Human Resources or to the library. I refuse to leave. I demand that she un-expire my card and allow me to use it at the library to take out books, and to photocopy, using the money I loaded onto the card the week before. A long line of students is forming behind me. I can see that the woman is getting nervous. Frankly, I feel kind of bad for her--I mean, it isn't her fault that Dalhousie's administrative and data storage computing systems are a joke. But I'm also not backing down. Finally, she takes my card outside with her. She's gone for a long time. I briefly worry that I've driven her to some kind of act of administrative meltdown--you know, my DalCard, the Henry Hicks clock tower, whatnot. Finally, finally she comes back. My DalCard, it seems, has been "un-expired." But only for two days. I have two days to take books out of the library and use up my photocopy money before I'm re-revoked. I thank her. Politely. Then sprint back to the library, do my thing there, rush back to the English department, update Mary Beth, and the next day, I'm off to Vegas with a suitcase half-full of books and articles. And, a week later, when I get back, Mary Beth has sorted out the whole 917 issue. I am a real-life PhD student again. I think Mary Beth has magic powers--like maybe an adminibeaurocrativia-repelling suit of some kind.
So much for 917.
Last week, I worked a lot of hours. Not unusual, really; often, I work in the cafe until early afternoon, then make my way over to campus for a few hours. Monday to Friday mornings, I leave the house at five minutes after seven, and I seldom get home before eight at night. But almost every day last week, there's a message on the phone to call back CIBC before 7 p.m. Fat chance.
Yesterday, I get a letter in the mail. From CIBC National Student Centre, containing an Important Message Regarding my Canada Student Loan. My end-of-studies date was August 31, and my six-month grace period, it seems, is about to expire. My loans are entering repayment unless I submit a complete and accurate Schedule 2. Deep breath.
Today, from my office at Dal, I call them up. The guy on the phone says he has no record of my having submitted a Schedule 2. He doesn't mention a Form B, but I'm guessing he has no record of that either. I can hear my voice getting more and more harpyish as I explain that I had them faxed directly to the Conflict Resolution specialist in the Ombuds office, and she told me last fall that all my records are complete and up to date. He puts me on hold for about a century. I fucking hate muzak. Finally, he comes back on and says that, because my forms were not processed until January 25, my file will not be updated until later this week. I have no words. I faxed them the forms last October, they weren't updated until three weeks ago, and somehow, this is my problem?
Anyway. I suspect that the phone messages last week were about the same thing, but I return the call to CIBC, just to be sure. It is, indeed, my friendly reminder to start paying up, since their records show that I am no longer a student. I point out that, had I not spend close to 100 hours on the phone with them over the past six months, I might have actually had time to complete my dissertation. Yeah--I feel strongly that, were it not for CIBC, I would be a PhD by now. So I have the girl double-check that all my forms are received and in order.
"You know, it's actually a really good thing that you called back to follow up," she tells me. "In fact, you should probably call again next week to be sure." She also tells me that the Form B is redundant, and that the only for I need to submit is the Schedule 2.
This is the point at which I finally lose my temper. There was a diatribe. It was unfriendly. I don't remember everything I said, but I'm pretty sure that I concluded by threateneing to bill them for my time, each and every time that I had to call them to confirm that someone there is actually doing their minimum-wage data entry job and processing the paperwork that I have been sending them, faithfully and on time, despite the nauseating degree of negligence and indifference on their part.
"Okay, so, thanks for your call, and be sure to call back next week to follow up with us, okay?" she says just before she hangs up.
So. The whole student loan fiasco last fall--I spent innumerable hours on the phone with CIBC until I was finally escalated to a lovely woman in their Ombuds office who has me fax her all my Schedule 2s and Form Bs (Schedules 2 and Forms B? Whatever.). To make an extremely long story short, she submits all my forms, and keeps me in interest-free, non-repayment status for another year. Except that I have to pay $250 in interest, because although the adminicrats at Dal who gave me the forms I needed to submitlast year insisted that, since I had a Schedule 2, I didn't need a Form B, I was accumulating interest on the Alberta portion for failing to submit a Form B on time. Whatever. This year's forms were all submitted, I was in interest-free-non-repayment status again, and meanwhile, Mary Beth cleared up that nasty 917 problem for me. Home free, right? Right?
Wrong.
In January, Trent's work sent him to Las Vegas for the CES. Since the hotel room was paid for, I decided to tag along. Toni and Brad met us in Vegas, and we had a great time. Once we got there.
Before we left, I decided to be a very good PhD student and pick up some books and articles to read in Vegas. The week before, I had put about $20 of photocopy money on my DalCard, so I grabbed a stack of (non-circulating) journals and went to photocopy them. Except that the photocopy machine said my DalCard was expired. I'm no dummy, so I knew right away that Dal had 917ed me again. I take the books up to the circulation desk, and try to explain that I Am Issue 917.
"I have no idea what that means," the circulation librarian tells me.
By this time, it's ten minutes to 4. We're leaving the next day, and I know that there's no way I can get me student status reinstated in time to get these books. So I offer to leave my wallet, Visa card, Dal Card, my soul with the librarian if she'll just let me run the (non-circulating) journals to the English department--the building directly across the street, no more than two minutes away.
"I have to check with my supervisor," she tells me. And she does. I watch as she confers with a woman at a desk no more than twenty feet away. "Sorry," she tells me at last. "You can't take these books out of the library. But you can buy a visitor's card for $1 and put more photocopy on it."
Okay. I know that $21 is not a lot of money. But Dal has just "expired" the almost $20 that I put on my card the week before, and despite the fact that my tuition is paid in full, has, without a reason that anyone in any campus department or division can fathom, revoked my student status. I am not giving them another $21.
"Listen, I'm just going to run to the English department and get Mary Beth to phone your supervisor and explain my situation, okay? What is your supervisor's name? Would you please tell her that someone from the English department will be calling her right away?"
The circ librarian agrees, and I sprint (I am not exaggerating. I sprinted. In really cute pumps) to the English deparment in under 60 seconds, quickly give Mary Beth a rundown of the sitch, and she calls over to the library. And gets the librarian's voicemail. A phone call to the circ desk tells her that the supervisor has left for the day. Nice, eh?
At this point, I am not in a friendly mood. So I sprint over to the DalCard office and snag the attention of the only staff member still working. I would like to be able to say that I used my charm and diplomacy, but I didn't. I basically had a temper tantrum. The DalCard woman tries to tell me that a data entry error originating in the English department has resulted in all my priviledges being revoked, but this is not my first trip to the circus, friends. I tell her that the English deparment didn't revoke my student status. She tries to send me to Human Resources or to the library. I refuse to leave. I demand that she un-expire my card and allow me to use it at the library to take out books, and to photocopy, using the money I loaded onto the card the week before. A long line of students is forming behind me. I can see that the woman is getting nervous. Frankly, I feel kind of bad for her--I mean, it isn't her fault that Dalhousie's administrative and data storage computing systems are a joke. But I'm also not backing down. Finally, she takes my card outside with her. She's gone for a long time. I briefly worry that I've driven her to some kind of act of administrative meltdown--you know, my DalCard, the Henry Hicks clock tower, whatnot. Finally, finally she comes back. My DalCard, it seems, has been "un-expired." But only for two days. I have two days to take books out of the library and use up my photocopy money before I'm re-revoked. I thank her. Politely. Then sprint back to the library, do my thing there, rush back to the English department, update Mary Beth, and the next day, I'm off to Vegas with a suitcase half-full of books and articles. And, a week later, when I get back, Mary Beth has sorted out the whole 917 issue. I am a real-life PhD student again. I think Mary Beth has magic powers--like maybe an adminibeaurocrativia-repelling suit of some kind.
So much for 917.
Last week, I worked a lot of hours. Not unusual, really; often, I work in the cafe until early afternoon, then make my way over to campus for a few hours. Monday to Friday mornings, I leave the house at five minutes after seven, and I seldom get home before eight at night. But almost every day last week, there's a message on the phone to call back CIBC before 7 p.m. Fat chance.
Yesterday, I get a letter in the mail. From CIBC National Student Centre, containing an Important Message Regarding my Canada Student Loan. My end-of-studies date was August 31, and my six-month grace period, it seems, is about to expire. My loans are entering repayment unless I submit a complete and accurate Schedule 2. Deep breath.
Today, from my office at Dal, I call them up. The guy on the phone says he has no record of my having submitted a Schedule 2. He doesn't mention a Form B, but I'm guessing he has no record of that either. I can hear my voice getting more and more harpyish as I explain that I had them faxed directly to the Conflict Resolution specialist in the Ombuds office, and she told me last fall that all my records are complete and up to date. He puts me on hold for about a century. I fucking hate muzak. Finally, he comes back on and says that, because my forms were not processed until January 25, my file will not be updated until later this week. I have no words. I faxed them the forms last October, they weren't updated until three weeks ago, and somehow, this is my problem?
Anyway. I suspect that the phone messages last week were about the same thing, but I return the call to CIBC, just to be sure. It is, indeed, my friendly reminder to start paying up, since their records show that I am no longer a student. I point out that, had I not spend close to 100 hours on the phone with them over the past six months, I might have actually had time to complete my dissertation. Yeah--I feel strongly that, were it not for CIBC, I would be a PhD by now. So I have the girl double-check that all my forms are received and in order.
"You know, it's actually a really good thing that you called back to follow up," she tells me. "In fact, you should probably call again next week to be sure." She also tells me that the Form B is redundant, and that the only for I need to submit is the Schedule 2.
This is the point at which I finally lose my temper. There was a diatribe. It was unfriendly. I don't remember everything I said, but I'm pretty sure that I concluded by threateneing to bill them for my time, each and every time that I had to call them to confirm that someone there is actually doing their minimum-wage data entry job and processing the paperwork that I have been sending them, faithfully and on time, despite the nauseating degree of negligence and indifference on their part.
"Okay, so, thanks for your call, and be sure to call back next week to follow up with us, okay?" she says just before she hangs up.
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