I was in a Halifax nightclub the other day—one of those shiny, bubblegum spots that cater to the barely- (or not-quite-) legal crowds, and that change their name and décor more often than most of us change underwear. It wasn’t a night out; the club was serving as a lunch hall for a movie I was doing background in. This place had, at its entrance, just to the right of the bar, a rather peculiar focal point: a large, billboard ad for the morning-after pill. It’s one of those jokey ads, a touch risqué and just a little wry. Its slogan, “Oh no.”
I was offended when I realized what I was looking at. Really? A huge ad for backup birth control within reach of the beer taps? Ick, right? The little-l-liberal in me immediately reacted, suggested I was being prudish, maybe even a little sexist. After all, women have a right to decide how to regulate their bodies.
I should clarify my opinion on the position. I absolutely and unequivocally support a woman’s right to decide how to manage her body and her fertility. I am pro-choice, and I think that women have the same right as men to decide when, how, and with whom they’re going to have sex. I bristle when I hear the word “slut,” and I despise the notion that women who are sexually aggressive, voracious, or even (and I hesitate to use the word) promiscuous are any more objectionable than men who behave the same way. But that’s not to say that I don’t find some behaviours—by women or men—objectionable.
I explain with another story. Last week, I was on a different movie set. Dewar, the Manitoba judge whose remarks seem to shift the blame for a sexual assault from the rapist onto the victim came up. And, of course, someone began to defend the judge and the rapist. “Don’t get me wrong,” the guy explained, he wasn’t defending rape, but “you know the kind of attention a woman wearing a super-short skirt is going to get in a club.” I’ve never really learned to temper the expression of my opinion, so my reply was pretty… snappish, shrewish, bitchy, shrill—choose your gendered adjective. I defended my right to wear whatever I want without fear of sexual violence, and concluded my tirade with, as I remember it, “and you can think what you want of me when I’m wearing that skirt, but anyone who’s not a criminal is not going to rape me after I say no.”
I don’t want to have a discussion on what constitutes a refusal. I think we—and the law—have been pretty clear on the topic. No means no. That’s all. Nothing justifies rape, ever. Ever. But—but—I do judge women who dress in what I think is an overtly provocative fashion. Particularly in certain contexts. In the middle of the day, for instance. Or at work.
Of course, I’ve been known to dress in a way that makes me look and feel sexually attractive. Most of the time, in fact. I have more than one short skirt and low-cut top in my closet. I don’t think that makes me a hypocrite. Whatever I wear, I wear it in a way that—I hope –communicates my sense of self confidence and self worth. II believe that there’s a difference in presenting yourself as sexy, and presenting yourself as a sexual object. And, like pornography, the latter is hard to define, but I know it when I see it.
I don’t pretend to be an arbiter of taste or propriety. I recognize that the line stands in a different place for different people. For some Muslim women, for instance, that line is showing their hair or even their face in public. That’s not antimodern or antifeminist, in my opinion. After all, I have a line, too. As my reaction to women whom I think have crossed it proves. I think that line has a lot to do with self respect, and refusing to make it easy for people to throw around words like slut or see me as nothing more than a sexual object. But I will defend every woman’s right to decide for herself where that line is, or whether it’s even important.
And that line brings me back to that nightclub poster, and my reaction to it. Yes, we sometimes make choices that aren’t in our best interest. Yes, we have a right to do our best to mitigate the effects of our bad decisions. Yes, products like the morning after pill help women to manage their sexuality in a responsible and empowering manner. But… should we plan to make bad choices?
The poster is positioned strategically. It’s huge, and you can see it from the dance floor, and from the bar. I’d go so far as to suggest that it seems to encourage irresponsible behavior.
Yup, I said it. Irresponsible. Because we should be responsible with our bodies. After all, we only get one. When we’re responsible to ourselves, we lead healthy lives, and that means caring for and protecting our bodies.
But that responsibility goes double for sexual health. Because—unless we’re planning on a life of celibacy, our sexual choices might impact someone else later on. According to some estimates, half of North Americans will have a sexually transmitted infection at some point. Some are curable. Others are merely treatable. And they might also affect ourselves later on, as we make decisions about fertility and parenting.
I’m not expecting myself or anyone else to be infallible. Everybody’s gonna make a bad choice sometimes. We have that right. And we’re lucky enough to live at a time when our mistakes don’t have to impact the rest of our lives the way they might have in the past. Many STDs are easily treated. And even the ones that you’re stuck with forever are manageable. The world doesn’t end if you contract a sexually transmitted infection, or have an unplanned pregnancy. But—wouldn’t you rather avoid it where you can?
So. There it is. My problem with that ad. To me, it’s encouraging irresponsible behavior with the suggestion that mistakes can be fixed. No problem—make that bad decision. This bar’s got your back. Have one more cocktail, have unprotected sex, and worry about the hangover tomorrow. Call me crazy, but wouldn’t it be better to plan ahead? Just a little?
Hey, dodgy nightclub, how’s about you relace that tacky “Oh no” poster with a nice ad for condoms? Class up the joint a touch!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Now THAT Would Be a Good Use of my Time!
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.
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.
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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I Am Issue 917
God, I hate administrivia. All week, I've been looking forward to spending today on my dissertation. It's almost 3, and I haven't even started yet. Why? Administrative glitches have kept me on the phone and email for hours. Student loan problems again. You may remember that this is a perennial problem for me. Actually, I've been plagued all week with administrative glitches. On Tuesday, I was trying to order a book through the library's document delivery system, but kept getting an error message that says that I am not permitted to access Document Delivery. I get in touch with the library, and they tell me that my card is expired, and to go to the DalCard office. I do, and they tell me that my card is not expired, but that my student status has been revoked, and that I am now staff. The DalCard lady tells me to go to the English department, because they're the ones who changed my status. So I run back to the English department, and straight to Mary Beth, because she can fix anything. She tells me that the English department hasn't changed my status, and she starts making phone calls. She reaches someone who says that I have to go to the DalCard office, because they're the ones who can make status changes. (Yay! Admiscircles are great!) She reaches someone else who says that, since my SSHRC ran out, and I'm teaching part-time, I can't have student status--meaning that I can't have my bus pass (which I've paid for) or use the library (which I need). Mary Beth calmly tries to point out that my primary role is a graduate student, so I need to be able to use the library. She leaves many messages for many people. The next day, Mary Beth tells me that she has spoken to many people (registrar, library, DalCard, etc), and that the library people had told her my DalCard was expired. However, when she spoke to the DalCard office, they said my card didn't expire until December 31st. Regardless, even if I do get a new DalCard, it will say I'm faculty instead of a student. No bus pass, no library borrowing privileges. So she keeps looking into it. This morning, Mary Beth (aka my hero) sends me the following email:
Hmmmm. Apparently the DalCard office has a work ticket system.
You are now going to be known as Issue 917.
Looks like they will now give you a bus pass sticker, and a new
card when the one you have expires the end of December. If they
have a problem with this, tell them you're Issue 917, and hopefully
that will clear things up.
For the record, I would like everyone to refer to me as Issue 917 from now on.
This morning, I was going through my mail to find a letter from the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) telling me that, as my end-of-studies date was April 30, I am now accumulating interest on my student loans, and they enter repayment status November 1st. Sigh. The issues:
1. I am still a full-time student.
2. I am a graduate student, and my annual end-of-studies date is August 30, not April 30.
3. I filled in and submitted all my forms last year. I haven't got around to it yet this year, but since my end-of-studies date was only 2 months ago, I wasn't too stressed that it's still on my to-do list.
So I phone the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!). I spoke to a woman who was either a Nazi or a demon--not sure which. I explain that, every year, I have similar problems. She tells me that she has no records of previous phone calls or emails to the call centre, and that I should have asked to talk to the supervisor, I should have filled in the correct forms, I should have submitted them to a bank branch, and since I didn't do any of these things, my first payment is due November 1st. I told her that I had gone to my school registrar last year, filled out the forms that they told me to fill out, and submitted them. She tells me I should have double-checked, and, since my end-of-studies date is April 30, I should have submitted new forms in September. I explain (again) that my end-of-studies date is August 30, so I still (should) have time to fill out and submit the forms. She tells me I should have made sure my school gave me the right forms. I explain that my school insisted that they had, that they put the correct date on the forms, and that I submitted them on time. She told me that wasn't possible. At this point, I am EXTREMELY frustrated and, I confess, yelling. I ask her to please stop telling me what I should have done, and that I had done everything that I could reasonably do to submit my forms correctly and on time. She tells me there's nothing she can do about it, and that my payment is due November 1. I ask to speak to her supervisor; she says, "Are you sure? There's a long wait." I said yes, I was sure. She suggested that, instead, I request for a supervisor to call me back. I agree. The problem is, the supervisor will not call me back until Monday--November 3, and my loan goes into repayment on November 1. However, there's no guarantee that CIBC will revoke the interest they've been charging me since April.
So. I take a deep breath. I send a very long email explaining the issue to the CIBC Ombudsman. I call the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) again. When a woman answers, I make sure it isn't NaziDemon again. It isn't. I explain the problem as calmly as I can and ask what we can do. She puts me on hold to check my file (NaziDemon didn't bother) and, when she comes back, tells me that I've submitted Form B, when I should have submitted Schedule 2. I take a deep breath and explain that, last year, when I went to the Registrar, I just asked for whatever forms would keep me in interest-free, non-repayment status with both Alberta and Canada Student Loans. She advises me to send in this year's forms, but insists that there's nothing she can do about last year's--I owe the interest. I try not to cry. I point out that I did everything I reasonable could to fill in and submit all the right forms on time. She suggests that I call the Dal registrar to request a letter explaining that: a) I am and have been a full-time, year-round graduate student, and b) they gave me the wrong form. She also tells me that, even though I go into repayment status on November 1, my payment won't actually be due until the 30th. NaziDemon never told me that part.
And so I call the registrar's office. I explain: I am a graduate student, I pay fees year-round, I asked for the right forms, I got the wrong ones, and now I'm screwed. I ask for a letter "Oh--" I add, "And I'm Issue 917."
Long pause. "I have no idea what that means. I'm transferring you to my supervisor."
Fortunately, she takes the time to explain the whole novella to her supervisor, so I don't have to launch into the whole thing one more time. And here's what I find out: because so many students drop out during the year, they have a policy of never putting grad students' official end-of-studies date (August 30) on the form. Instead, they only put April 30, and we have to come back in April for a second form to submit. WTF?! I told her that nobody had ever told me that. She says I should read my forms more carefully. Believe me, I will from now on. Only suddenly, I remember getting a notice from the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) last spring, warning me that my end-of-studies date was approaching, so I went and got a shiny new set of forms. Of course, when I picked them up, there was only a Form B, not a Schedule 2. "Didn't you notice that one of the forms was missing?" she asks me. I manage to suppress the urge to point out that my PhD is in English, not Administrative Formology. I'm glad I did: she agrees to write me a letter; I'm to pick it up on Monday.
I'll keep you posted.
Hmmmm. Apparently the DalCard office has a work ticket system.
You are now going to be known as Issue 917.
Looks like they will now give you a bus pass sticker, and a new
card when the one you have expires the end of December. If they
have a problem with this, tell them you're Issue 917, and hopefully
that will clear things up.
For the record, I would like everyone to refer to me as Issue 917 from now on.
This morning, I was going through my mail to find a letter from the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) telling me that, as my end-of-studies date was April 30, I am now accumulating interest on my student loans, and they enter repayment status November 1st. Sigh. The issues:
1. I am still a full-time student.
2. I am a graduate student, and my annual end-of-studies date is August 30, not April 30.
3. I filled in and submitted all my forms last year. I haven't got around to it yet this year, but since my end-of-studies date was only 2 months ago, I wasn't too stressed that it's still on my to-do list.
So I phone the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!). I spoke to a woman who was either a Nazi or a demon--not sure which. I explain that, every year, I have similar problems. She tells me that she has no records of previous phone calls or emails to the call centre, and that I should have asked to talk to the supervisor, I should have filled in the correct forms, I should have submitted them to a bank branch, and since I didn't do any of these things, my first payment is due November 1st. I told her that I had gone to my school registrar last year, filled out the forms that they told me to fill out, and submitted them. She tells me I should have double-checked, and, since my end-of-studies date is April 30, I should have submitted new forms in September. I explain (again) that my end-of-studies date is August 30, so I still (should) have time to fill out and submit the forms. She tells me I should have made sure my school gave me the right forms. I explain that my school insisted that they had, that they put the correct date on the forms, and that I submitted them on time. She told me that wasn't possible. At this point, I am EXTREMELY frustrated and, I confess, yelling. I ask her to please stop telling me what I should have done, and that I had done everything that I could reasonably do to submit my forms correctly and on time. She tells me there's nothing she can do about it, and that my payment is due November 1. I ask to speak to her supervisor; she says, "Are you sure? There's a long wait." I said yes, I was sure. She suggested that, instead, I request for a supervisor to call me back. I agree. The problem is, the supervisor will not call me back until Monday--November 3, and my loan goes into repayment on November 1. However, there's no guarantee that CIBC will revoke the interest they've been charging me since April.
So. I take a deep breath. I send a very long email explaining the issue to the CIBC Ombudsman. I call the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) again. When a woman answers, I make sure it isn't NaziDemon again. It isn't. I explain the problem as calmly as I can and ask what we can do. She puts me on hold to check my file (NaziDemon didn't bother) and, when she comes back, tells me that I've submitted Form B, when I should have submitted Schedule 2. I take a deep breath and explain that, last year, when I went to the Registrar, I just asked for whatever forms would keep me in interest-free, non-repayment status with both Alberta and Canada Student Loans. She advises me to send in this year's forms, but insists that there's nothing she can do about last year's--I owe the interest. I try not to cry. I point out that I did everything I reasonable could to fill in and submit all the right forms on time. She suggests that I call the Dal registrar to request a letter explaining that: a) I am and have been a full-time, year-round graduate student, and b) they gave me the wrong form. She also tells me that, even though I go into repayment status on November 1, my payment won't actually be due until the 30th. NaziDemon never told me that part.
And so I call the registrar's office. I explain: I am a graduate student, I pay fees year-round, I asked for the right forms, I got the wrong ones, and now I'm screwed. I ask for a letter "Oh--" I add, "And I'm Issue 917."
Long pause. "I have no idea what that means. I'm transferring you to my supervisor."
Fortunately, she takes the time to explain the whole novella to her supervisor, so I don't have to launch into the whole thing one more time. And here's what I find out: because so many students drop out during the year, they have a policy of never putting grad students' official end-of-studies date (August 30) on the form. Instead, they only put April 30, and we have to come back in April for a second form to submit. WTF?! I told her that nobody had ever told me that. She says I should read my forms more carefully. Believe me, I will from now on. Only suddenly, I remember getting a notice from the CIBC National Student Centre (I LOVE those guys!) last spring, warning me that my end-of-studies date was approaching, so I went and got a shiny new set of forms. Of course, when I picked them up, there was only a Form B, not a Schedule 2. "Didn't you notice that one of the forms was missing?" she asks me. I manage to suppress the urge to point out that my PhD is in English, not Administrative Formology. I'm glad I did: she agrees to write me a letter; I'm to pick it up on Monday.
I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Coast Best of Food
It's back! The Coast is now accepting votes for Best of Food! Maybe I'm biased, but I think you should keep Cargo & James Tea in mind for Best Tea, Best Cafe, Best Coffee... and don't forget Zoe, Amanda, Elise, Alia, Christine and Britta when it comes to Best Barista!
Thanks for your vote!
http://www.thecoast.ca/halifax/BestofFood2009/Page
Thanks for your vote!
http://www.thecoast.ca/halifax/BestofFood2009/Page
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Please Support Research in Arts and Social Sciences!
The recent federal budget calls for SSHRC funding to support business-based research; please sign the petition below, or contact your MP to let the government know that Arts and Social Sciences research is important and deserves funding, too!
http://nikiashton.ndp.ca/sshrc
http://nikiashton.ndp.ca/sshrc
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Why Valentine's Day and All the Other Holidays (Except Hallowe'en) Are Stupid: An Essay
Valentine's Day is dumb. It's a dumb, mean holiday. Thursday, I overheard three different couples arguing (mostly via cell phone) and realized... it's almost That Stupid Holiday again. Now, as you all know, I'm the Twenty-First century Feminist, kicking ass in great shoes, cooking and baking with glee, demanding equal pay for equal work (so there, Sweatervest!), and insisting that someone with male genitalia due his fair share of the vacuuming and toilet scubbing. But I'm all sympathy for the menfolk around Feb 14th. Honestly, haven't you figured it out yet? THIS HOLIDAY IS A TRAP! Because whatever you do, it's not going to meet your female partner's expectations. Not even close. Brought home flowers? She wanted chocolates, babe. Couples' massage? She was hoping for jewelry. Nice dinner out? Wanted you to cook it. And because of the messed up, unwritten rules of this Very Stupid Holiday, we're not allowed to tell you what we want! You're just supposed to know. Because evedence of telepathy shows that you really, really love us. Come ON! Nazis probably invented Valentine's Day.
Also, The Stupidest Holiday Ever is just mean. Single people hate it. Check that: single women hate it. Single men are just hoping that The Mean, Stupid Holiday will have chipped away at single women's self esteem enough that they'll get an easy hook-up tonight. So who likes Valentine's Day? Creepy single men who have little hope of getting any the rest of the year.
In fairness, Tacky Pink-and-Red Holiday isn't the only mean holiday. Pretty much every commercial holiday leaves somebody out. Christmas? Not your favourite holiday if you have a crapload of people on your gift list and a minimum wage income. Thanksgiving? Not the biggest hit with the Native North Americans, I imagine. Easter? It's supposed to be a "spring" holiday, but it just reminds Canadians how long and crappy our winters are? Family Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Grandparents' Day? Not hard to figure out who might feel left out on these ones. Canada Day? Not a big hit with the JWs.
So what about Hallowe'en? Diabetics probably don't like this one much. Except that they get to dress up like zombies and exact their revenge on candy-eaters by scaring the crap out of them. Same goes for dentists. Okay, okay JWs aren't big fans of this one either. Still, I gotta say, on balance, Hallowe'en wins the Least Emotionally Damaging Holiday award. Of course, that guy (yup, adult. Grown man.) I made cry at the Fort Edmonton Halowe'en Spooktacular by chasing him with a rotary saw, while wearing a black cloak and goalie mask, probably doesn't agree with me. But at least that psychological damage was all in fun. Crappy Paper Hearts and Stale Cinnamon Candies Day is still in last place in my books.
Also, The Stupidest Holiday Ever is just mean. Single people hate it. Check that: single women hate it. Single men are just hoping that The Mean, Stupid Holiday will have chipped away at single women's self esteem enough that they'll get an easy hook-up tonight. So who likes Valentine's Day? Creepy single men who have little hope of getting any the rest of the year.
In fairness, Tacky Pink-and-Red Holiday isn't the only mean holiday. Pretty much every commercial holiday leaves somebody out. Christmas? Not your favourite holiday if you have a crapload of people on your gift list and a minimum wage income. Thanksgiving? Not the biggest hit with the Native North Americans, I imagine. Easter? It's supposed to be a "spring" holiday, but it just reminds Canadians how long and crappy our winters are? Family Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Grandparents' Day? Not hard to figure out who might feel left out on these ones. Canada Day? Not a big hit with the JWs.
So what about Hallowe'en? Diabetics probably don't like this one much. Except that they get to dress up like zombies and exact their revenge on candy-eaters by scaring the crap out of them. Same goes for dentists. Okay, okay JWs aren't big fans of this one either. Still, I gotta say, on balance, Hallowe'en wins the Least Emotionally Damaging Holiday award. Of course, that guy (yup, adult. Grown man.) I made cry at the Fort Edmonton Halowe'en Spooktacular by chasing him with a rotary saw, while wearing a black cloak and goalie mask, probably doesn't agree with me. But at least that psychological damage was all in fun. Crappy Paper Hearts and Stale Cinnamon Candies Day is still in last place in my books.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Also, I Plan to Start Wearing a Trenchcoat, Sunglasses, and Fedora in Public.
Hello, faithful readers. (By which I mean, Hi Phil.)
I'm having some internet privacy issues of late, so I'm going to lock down this Blog so that only people whom I approve can read it. It's probably something I should have done a long time ago, but I hate the feeling that I have to become all paranoid and hide my identity online. Mainly because I'm not all that interesting--I'd always thought that no one would really be interested in anything I post online. Not interested enough to stress about it, anyway.
So... in the next little while I'll be locking down this site. I've already locked down my Facebook page. If you want access to either, just drop me an email: becca {aaattt} cargoandjames {dottttt} com. (My hotmail account is too spammy.)
See ya undercover.
I'm having some internet privacy issues of late, so I'm going to lock down this Blog so that only people whom I approve can read it. It's probably something I should have done a long time ago, but I hate the feeling that I have to become all paranoid and hide my identity online. Mainly because I'm not all that interesting--I'd always thought that no one would really be interested in anything I post online. Not interested enough to stress about it, anyway.
So... in the next little while I'll be locking down this site. I've already locked down my Facebook page. If you want access to either, just drop me an email: becca {aaattt} cargoandjames {dottttt} com. (My hotmail account is too spammy.)
See ya undercover.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I'm Fessin' Up
Here it is--my confession: I am probably the only person in all of North America who wasn't glued to the TV today. Just after 1 (Halifax time), I made myself a tea, then walked down the hall and peered into all the offices where people were crowded around computer screen, watching the CNN live feed of the inauguration. And when I got back to my office, I cracked a browser window myself. But here's the confession: I wasn't enthralled. I didn't cry.
Before I start getting hate mail, I should clarify: I think Obama is awesome. Wish we could replace Sweatervest with an Obama of our own. I cried when I heard the election results. I feel pretty hopeful when I think of what the next eight (yes, eight) years will be like in the world. But I just subjected Nicole, my friend, colleage and officemate to a tyrade of cynical curmudgeonliness about the obsessive attention to the inauguration. Why? Honestly, I'm not really sure. Except that I feel generally suspicious of ceremonies. I guess what I'm most looking forward to is opening the newspaper over the next few weeks and months and seeing the kinds of things he does as President. Don't get me wrong: the English grad student in me really admires him as an orator. It's exciting (in a very nerdy way) to see rhetoric used so expressively and effectively in public. Especially after eight simultaneously hilarious and appalling George W years. (What? women putting food on their families?) I guess maybe, too, I think it's a little sad that we won't have such an obvious source of humour for the next few years. But what I think it comes down to is that I feel a little sorry for Obama. I mean, the man could be Jesus or Dumbledore himself and still not live up to all that we want him to live up to. Also, he's inheriting a huge crap pile, and everyone's trusting him to clean it all up: the economy, Iraq, Afghanistan, and more than three hundred years of racism and oppression--the whole shebang. Honestly, does anyone envy this man the task ahead of him? Still, I think we're all hopeful. I guess it's an exciting time--especially after eight years of terror and paranoia. So why am I being so curmudgeonly about the whole inauguration speech? Maybe I'm just a jerk. Or maybe I'm hoping that we're going to see real and meaningful change. And as much as I love a well-crafted, effectively delivered speech, I think that what excites me most is not the speech, but the action that, I hope, will follow.
Or maybe I'm just curmudgeonly.
Before I start getting hate mail, I should clarify: I think Obama is awesome. Wish we could replace Sweatervest with an Obama of our own. I cried when I heard the election results. I feel pretty hopeful when I think of what the next eight (yes, eight) years will be like in the world. But I just subjected Nicole, my friend, colleage and officemate to a tyrade of cynical curmudgeonliness about the obsessive attention to the inauguration. Why? Honestly, I'm not really sure. Except that I feel generally suspicious of ceremonies. I guess what I'm most looking forward to is opening the newspaper over the next few weeks and months and seeing the kinds of things he does as President. Don't get me wrong: the English grad student in me really admires him as an orator. It's exciting (in a very nerdy way) to see rhetoric used so expressively and effectively in public. Especially after eight simultaneously hilarious and appalling George W years. (What? women putting food on their families?) I guess maybe, too, I think it's a little sad that we won't have such an obvious source of humour for the next few years. But what I think it comes down to is that I feel a little sorry for Obama. I mean, the man could be Jesus or Dumbledore himself and still not live up to all that we want him to live up to. Also, he's inheriting a huge crap pile, and everyone's trusting him to clean it all up: the economy, Iraq, Afghanistan, and more than three hundred years of racism and oppression--the whole shebang. Honestly, does anyone envy this man the task ahead of him? Still, I think we're all hopeful. I guess it's an exciting time--especially after eight years of terror and paranoia. So why am I being so curmudgeonly about the whole inauguration speech? Maybe I'm just a jerk. Or maybe I'm hoping that we're going to see real and meaningful change. And as much as I love a well-crafted, effectively delivered speech, I think that what excites me most is not the speech, but the action that, I hope, will follow.
Or maybe I'm just curmudgeonly.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Let's Act Green!
As usual, I'm probably the last to hear about this, but I like the One Million Acts of Green thing. I like that it gives me easy tips, so I don't feel all overwhelmed, like I have to undergo a major change and save the planet all by myself. I like that it tells me I'm a good girl for the things I've already figured out on my own--like that I should stop using my dryer and air-dry my clothes instead (I love my outdoor clothes line in the summer! I particularly like hanging out Trent's gynch with the yeti!) and that cold water is better than hot for doing laundry. I like that it's giving me new tips to try. I think you guys should join. Unless, of course, I'm the last to get on board and you all know already. Either way, here are a few things I've figured out already:
- Vinegar makes the best cleaning product. Buy a tiny jar of a nice-smelling essential oil (pine and bergamot are nice) and mix pickling vinegar (it's stronger) with a few drops of the essential oil in a spray bottle for cleaning counters, bathrooms, sinks, and toilets. Add a little baking soda to clean the bathtub. Dilute in hot water to wash floors. By the way, vinegar is dirt cheap--cheaper than ordinary cleaners and way, way cheaper than enviro cleaners!
- Eat vegetarian once a week. If you don't like tofu, add lentils to your pasta, or put almonds on your salad. Meat production and processing also produces a lot of greenhouse gasses. Come on--one supper a week isn't all that hard. Just ask Trent!
- Clothes lines are awesome! They make your clothes smell so nice, and wind is a natural fabric softener. Except in the winter. In winter, it's just a freeze-solid-crunchifier.
- Nellie's All-Natural and Watkins make awesome natural laundry detergents. Nellie's even makes a great bleach substitute. Add a tablespoon each of vinegar and baking soda to your laundry for extra cleaning power. Buy powders, not liquids, and always wash on cold.
Okay, now your turn: tell me the ones I've been missing. Oh, and click on the link in my first paragraph and join the challenge!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A Pretentious, Biased and Uneducated Art Review
To the confession: art makes me feel dumb. I don't really understand the different between a really good painting and a poor one. Like everyone else, I like some paintings, and I don't like others. I have some basic concept of technique and composition, but visual art usually makes me feel like I'm going to be exposed for my plebeian tastes.
Poetry used to make me feel the same way. I was nearly 30 before I finally felt that I "got" poetry. A startling confession for an English PhD candidate, I know. Give me a novel or a short story, a play or an essay and I'm a critical fish in water. But poetry... I'm still getting used to it.
And maybe it's because we're all so used to seeing photos, but my visual arts anxieties are somewhat lessened when I'm looking at a photograph. So I'm pretty excited that this month's Cargo & James exhibit is part of the Photopolis Festival. Until the end of October, we will be showing Scott Blackburn's Religious Views by a Non-Religious Person. And you know what? I look at his photos and I think, "I get it..."
And so right now, I'm going to offer a critical review of some of his paintings. Don't judge me if I get it wrong.
My favourite photo is of a Madonna statue from a church in Church Point, NS. The statue is remarkably lifelike, and her eyes are turned to heaven, only Scott has managed to capture her gaze from a downward perspective. As you look at the photo, you feel an uncomfortable sense of voyeurism--like you have somehow got between her gaze and God. In addition, the statue, and its gaze in particular, is uncannily lifelike--I continually forget that I'm looking at a photo of a statue. It's both beautiful and usettling.
Scoot has also taken a composite photo of a church that is falling into ruin; the amazing thing about this photo is that the images suggests iconic heaven-and-hell imagery: beams of sunlight falling through the ruined roof, and darkness showing through the broken floorboards.
Other images expose the often decaying pageantry of religious imagery: beautiful statues feature cracks and faults, and the guilding on haloes is tarnished and rusted.
Okay. I'll stop being so bloody pretentious now. You can trust me when I tell you that tese are beautiful and haunting pictures, or you can come to Cargo & james to see them yourself, and then tell me how utterly wrong I am about them.
Poetry used to make me feel the same way. I was nearly 30 before I finally felt that I "got" poetry. A startling confession for an English PhD candidate, I know. Give me a novel or a short story, a play or an essay and I'm a critical fish in water. But poetry... I'm still getting used to it.
And maybe it's because we're all so used to seeing photos, but my visual arts anxieties are somewhat lessened when I'm looking at a photograph. So I'm pretty excited that this month's Cargo & James exhibit is part of the Photopolis Festival. Until the end of October, we will be showing Scott Blackburn's Religious Views by a Non-Religious Person. And you know what? I look at his photos and I think, "I get it..."
And so right now, I'm going to offer a critical review of some of his paintings. Don't judge me if I get it wrong.
My favourite photo is of a Madonna statue from a church in Church Point, NS. The statue is remarkably lifelike, and her eyes are turned to heaven, only Scott has managed to capture her gaze from a downward perspective. As you look at the photo, you feel an uncomfortable sense of voyeurism--like you have somehow got between her gaze and God. In addition, the statue, and its gaze in particular, is uncannily lifelike--I continually forget that I'm looking at a photo of a statue. It's both beautiful and usettling.
Scoot has also taken a composite photo of a church that is falling into ruin; the amazing thing about this photo is that the images suggests iconic heaven-and-hell imagery: beams of sunlight falling through the ruined roof, and darkness showing through the broken floorboards.
Other images expose the often decaying pageantry of religious imagery: beautiful statues feature cracks and faults, and the guilding on haloes is tarnished and rusted.
Okay. I'll stop being so bloody pretentious now. You can trust me when I tell you that tese are beautiful and haunting pictures, or you can come to Cargo & james to see them yourself, and then tell me how utterly wrong I am about them.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Sure, They SAY 70% of Communication is Non-Verbal...
You can smell it in the air... stale beer and acne medication. That's how you know this year's crop of first-year students is in town, settling in for, y'know, school and... stuff. Today, all the street corners are dotted with Shinerama volunteers: 17-to-19-year-old standing at every intersection, collecting money for Cystic Fibrosis research. Some of them have rigged up boxes on sticks so that they don't have to step out into traffic: they just poke out the box, and drivers roll down their passenger windows and throw money in. Problem is, I'm a luddite withour power windows, and a pickup truck I can't reach across. So at every corner on my way into the city, I'm making this exaggerated rolling motion with my right arm, and hoping that they'll understand that the motion, coupled with my pained "I'm-sorry" grimace, means, "I don't have power windows, so I can't give you money right now, but I feel really, really guilty about it!" and not, "I'm a miser and think charity is for suckers!" Fianlly, finally, I'm headed down a quiet street and I see more Shinerama kids. I pull over, reach across the gigantuan cab of my truck, roll down the window, hand them all my change, and I explain my predicament and ask that they stick one of their Shinerama stickers to my passenger window, thinking that would help explain things on my way home. And it would have too, except that on the drive home, all the Shinerama kids were on the driver's side. Sigh.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
I Want Your Brains! BraaAAAAAIIIIIIiinnsssss!
Here's the skinny: Trent had a brain child this spring, and now we're trying to get it working. Buckley's Music is donating a guitar to our store. We're going to hang it on the wall next to a donations box and invite customers to play it... for a small donation. Then we're going to match those donations, and the money will go to providing music lessons for kids whose families can't afford to pay for them on their own; the YWCA is going to help us select program participants. All is going well, except we can't think of a clever name for the program. "Music for Youth" is just so prosaic. Little help?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
I'm Not Dead, I'm Just Boring
So this Blog is making me a little anxious lately. I keep trying to think of something to post. For a long time, I figured no one read this beasty any more, but then you all give me hell when I go unposted for a long time. Well, I hate to say it, but I got nothing. Life is pretty dull these days. I don't even have a good rant for you, on account of I'm pretty happy about most things. I worry about our teashop not making money yet (though we did have a really good day on Saturday, despite the crappy weather), and I am secretly (check that: was secretly--not so secret any more) terrified that everyone will find out what a big academic slacker I am, even though I've had a really productive couple of months. I'm working out a lot lately, and even though I haven't lost any weight, and I look pretty much exactly the same as I did in my winter hibernation months, I feel prettier. Much, much prettier. Yay, endorphins! Trent and I went to Montreal for a few days. It was fun, relaxing, and I'm still trying to figure out how to get the pics off my cell phone. I wish we had more time and more money to do all the house projects we plan on doing. I wish I could take a few weeks and visit Edmonton. I wish my dissertation would go faster. I wish I would get an acceptance letter in the mail from a publisher for a change. I wish everyone who's sent me a rejection letter would get really bad hives. I wish we had a maid--or at least a house elf. I wish I had another Harry Potter book to look forward to. I wish my hair was naturally red so I could stop dying it. I wish I could afford to go shopping much more often. But I'm glad the writer's strike is over, on account of I got my BSG back. And I'm glad Trent hooked up a computer to the TV so I can watch Buffy whenever I want. I'm glad I'm not teaching this summer so I have more time for school, the store, the garden and the gym. I'm glad we're finally making good friends in Halifax. I'm glad shirts are long and waists are Empire this summer. I'm glad it's almost summer! I'm glad to hear how well everyone I love is doing. And I'm glad you guys still actually want to hear what's going on in my life--even if it's boring. I love you and I miss you.
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