Tag Archives: work

Mani-pedis = Icky

I am now, and always have been, a nail-biter. I am also pretty deficient at anything that requires combining patience with fine motor coordination. As such, I got into the habit of getting my nails done. And I am cheap frugal, so I got in the habit of getting them done at cheapie nail shops.

It’s pretty obvious upon entering most places that offer $15 manicures that it’s far from a great job. Even if the owners are fair, and nice, sloughing off other people’s dead foot skin for minimum wage has got to suck. It’s also pretty obvious that most of the people working in these nail shops are young, immigrant women for whom English is a second language.

A year or two ago, the mother of a friend of mine developed pneumonia. She’s Vietnamese, and she worked in a nail shop for decades. Her doctor thought she was a chain-smoker, because of the condition of her lungs.

There was only so long that I could ignore that getting my nails done in these places very likely made me a first-world jerk. So, I finally grew some ovaries and wrote this story for the Globe on all the really terrible health risks faced by nail salon workers.

I’m trying to learn to do my own nails. I pretty much suck at it.

Popcorn & Politics

popcorn

I had some extra time yesterday, so I finally made this Chili Lime Tequila Popcorn recipe from 101 Cookbooks that I’d been drooling over for months. It made me miss my dear departed Auntie Zan, who used to make us stovetop popcorn all the time, drenched in butter. I have a fear of deep frying, so I thought it would be hard. Instead, it was incredibly easy. I cheered out loud as the corn bombs rattled off the pot lid, then considered again how foolish most “convenience” food is, and how it isn’t really convenient for anyone but big food companies.

That train of thought was cemented when I idly scrolled through the comments on the recipe, and saw a mention of “popcorn butter lung.” I knew that microwave popcorn tends to be insanely high in trans fats, but until yesterday I didn’t know that a chemical called diacetyl in artificial butter was giving factory workers that make the stuff a rare lung disease called bronchiolitis obliterans.

I don’t know why this surprises me. I’ve been an advocate of real, fatty food over weird, low-fat food since forever. It seems completely counterintuitive to, for example, add gelatin to make low-fat yogurt creamy when full-fat yogurt is already creamy? But still, the idea that a 44-year-old woman now needs a lung transplant due to popcorn butter…well. It’s an outrage.

After mounthing off about the artificial butter travesty to Le Jenk for a bit, I put the popped corn goodness into a giant paper LCBO bag and head off to see Fantastic Mr. Fox. I’m not a cinephile because I have both snobbish and bummer tendencies. I find that most movies fall into two categories: stupid or depressing (with Wes Anderson representing strongly in the latter). Well, Mr. Fox was one of those rare gems that I wholeheartedly enjoyed. It was funny, it was smart, it was awesome to look at, engaging, touching but not heart-wrenching, overall thoroughly enjoyable. It was the best movie to watch on a -20 degree day after sneaking buttery, spicy snacks into an overpriced movie theatre. Do yourself a favour: melt some real butter onto some real popcorn, then go see it, soon.

Dropping Domestic Science

pollanhero

At the corner of Bloor Street West and Avenue Rd in Toronto, there’s a stately old building that used to belong to U of T. I can’t quite remember what the stone-etched sign says, but it’s something like “Department of Household and Domestic Science.” Back in the day, women attending college to get their MRS. degree would head here to learn how to cook, clean and raise children. Today, it’s a Club Monaco outlet, selling readymade clothes to busy people who fit cooking, cleaning and child-rearing in between making money and doing important things.

A week or so ago, Michael Pollan published a New York Times magazine piece on food celebrity called “No One Cooks Here Anymore.” Pollan is a personal favourite, both as a food writer and biology journalist. But, like many other women, I wasn’t thrilled with how, in the cooking piece, he linked feminism to the decline of cooking and therefore, the increase in poor health and obesity. Or rather, I didn’t mind that. What I did mind was how Pollan idealized the kitchen, suggesting that women (and men, which he said numerous times) should return to cooking because it’s an essential quality that makes us human. It’s not, he said, like those other dreary chores we’ve thankfully abandoned because of feminism—for example, sewing.

It is a shame that women saw cooking as drudgery, but in holding it above other domestic tasks, Pollan refuses to see just why we did. His oversimplification obscures the fact that cooking three meals a day for four (or six, or ten) people was just part of the housekeeping package—women were also planning the meals and buying the groceries, doing everyone’s laundry and cleaning the toilets, plus rearing the kiddies and providing elder and healthcare. Then we were supposed to put on lipstick and suppress any of our own issues before hubby came home from the “real” world. To idealize cooking and ignore the rest of it is to again devalue the big, exhausting whole of domesticity, which is exactly why women sprinted out of the house in the first place.

The loss of all Domestic Sciences has left us worse off. We need to figure out a way to bring ‘em back. Take sewing, Pollan’s example. Mass-produced clothing is often made under heinous labour conditions, then comes home with us in plastic bags that find their way out to the ocean. Real sewing (classified and priced as an essential, not a hobby) could go a long way in fixing that—to paraphrase Pollan from the piece, have as big a wardrobe you like, as long as you make it yourself. As for cleaning, using the non-toxic stuff indeed requires more effort and time; I fit it in, cause for me that’s far better than using brand name products with potentially poisonous outgases. Childcare is a vast, unwieldy topic—suffice it to say I was shocked to see a City of Toronto brochure given to my new mom friend with “tips” like “Don’t leave your baby alone in the bath.” Losing centuries of domestic knowledge has actually put us in danger.

I was born a feminist, and I do find it sad that definitions of “equality” so often devalue the home. What’s always been needed is a way to properly value domestic work, in the same way all that money- and stuff-making is valued out in the public sphere. (First step: men contributing a fair and equal share.) Ten thousand years ago (in the 1980s), New Zealand economist Marilyn Waring began advocating that tasks like child-rearing be included in countries’ GDP, a provocative idea that’s still fascinating today.

Of course, no one does that. Instead, we eat processed foods, wear pesticide-soaked clothes made by Third World children, and make ourselves sick trying to clean things. Attending to our essentials is a chore to finish as fast as possible, so that we can run out and do something that matters. Home-cooked meals are important, but getting everyone back in the kitchen is just a start.

Wild Careering

ladderhero

I looked up the etymology of “career” yesterday and as I suspected, it comes from horse racing. Before it came to signify a work trajectory with personal meaning, the word meant galloping at full speed like a sweaty animal, which isn’t too far off the mark of how I feel sometimes.

It’s so complicated, balancing the ethereal bits and pieces that comprise success. So I’m middle-class and snooty, so I know I don’t want a “job.” My day-to-day livelihood earning has to be “fulfilling.” It has to have Meaning. In my younger days, I’ve been an absolute brat about well paying work because it wasn’t Meaningful (or at least Fun) enough for smarty-pants me.

Lately though, my bratty ass has had a wake up call. Being skint isn’t romantic, it sucks, and I’m re-evaluating my concept of success to include, you know, financial solvency. I’m also re-evaluating the peer recognition angle—I want to have good relationships with my colleagues and of course I want people to appreciate my work, but dang, f’n politics. Like my mom always said, other people’s opinions of you aren’t as important as your opinion of yourself. Right? Right?

Writer Alain de Botton (who’s almost as smart as my mom) makes a similar point in the TED lecture below, where he opines on the definition of success and failure. He defines snobbery as judging someone on one aspect of their self—like, you know, their job. As always, his observations are witty and thought-provoking, as he discusses envy, fortune and the oh-so North American concept of a Loser. He reiterates that you really can’t have it all. I’ve been reading about David Foster Wallace and Dash Snow this week, sad stories where talent and money didn’t bring happiness. Sacrifices are a part of life, and so it’s best to make them knowingly and peacefully. It’s definitely muse-worthy stuff, so here I am, musing.

Careering wildly seems a bit pointless, at least until I figure out where the track leads. For the next bit, I’m going to have a vocation, the definition of which is “an occupation to which a person has a specific calling:” I can’t help it, I still want to write. So, I’m going to write, pay my bills and be glad about it. I’m also going to nurture and be thankful for the non-work aspects of my life (love! health! food!). And, because it’s July and kinda sunny out, I am not going to let this fading summer pass me by.

Freelance woes: idea theft

hamburghero

Believe it or not, editors are people. Like any other group of people, there is much variety among them. I am lucky enough to work with some terrific editors—ones that give me interesting work and decent pay, ones that are enthusiastic and supportive and funny and smart. I like to consider some of them my friends. But of course, some editors suck.

The one all writers know is the editor that sits on your invoice for days, weeks, months because they forgot or never knew what it’s like not to have a regular salary. Other unappealing editors include those that rewrite your stuff constantly because they have writer envy (but are too scared to take the freelance dive) or they’re socially incapable of telling you what they want. Editors that can’t type a quick “no, thanks” to story pitches are pretty bad, too. But I think the worst kind of editor must be the Thieving Editor, followed closely by the Sanctimonious Editor. Here goes my sordid tale.

Last fall, I was setting out on a trip and did the usual round of story pitching. An editor at a large paper (one you know) responded positively to my list of pitches, specifically one angle. It was agreed that I would go on my trip and report back, most likely writing that story unless it really didn’t work. So I went. And came home to an email from the Thieving Editor that she was “really, really” sorry, but my idea fit so well into a package she had put together when I was gone that she had assigned it to another writer. She apologized, but she was sure that I could think of another angle for my travel story because I was “so full of good ideas.” Now, I’ve had ideas rejected and massaged, and dealt with editors both dismissive and generous. But I’d never been outright ripped off. I. was. speechless.

Well, not really. I called every writer I knew for sympathy and advice. Eventually what happened is that I was turned on to the very persistent Derek Finkle (whose CWG I should join, and would, if I didn’t think about quitting freelancing every day lately). Currently Canada’s self-appointed defender of freelance journalists’ rights, DF went to bat for me for no good reason. (I really suck for not joining his agency, dang. Maybe he should do a post about me.) He got the Thieving Editor on the defensive. She called my idea “unoriginal” (although apparently still good enough to steal) and said she hadn’t stolen it (I don’t think that train of thought works). DF asked her why she had apologized if she hadn’t done anything wrong. She hedged. He called her boss. Long story short, I got an “idea fee” of about 30 per cent of what I would have got for the story. I also did come up with another angle (cause I’m so full of good ideas) and wrote about my trip. But I was insulted and demoralized. Since then, I have always been wary of pitching editors I don’t know, and have mostly done it Stateside, because the potential byline is worth the risk. Apparently, this experience-based fear makes me overly paranoid and prejudiced.

Why, you ask? I heard through the grapevine last week that another newspaper (yes, one you know) was looking for a new columnist. So, I sent ideas, and received a very positive response. However, the editor in question had agreed to try out another writer on the column. But she liked my clips, so she hoped I would send her more ideas (cause I’m so full of good ones!). I said thanks. A few hours later, I got nervous. I think there’s a cliché about it—oh yes, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. Not wanting to be a fool, I emailed the Sanctimonious Editor back and said:

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I had a terrible experience last year – an editor … solicited ideas from me and then assigned them to another writer, explaining that I was “just so full of good ideas.” … I am absolutely not suggesting you’d ever do that, but once bitten, twice shy – if for some reason you’d like to assign your chosen writer the…ideas I suggest, please negotiate with me first… I just wanted to be clear that I consider those ideas mine, all mine.

Well, boom! The Sanctimonious Editor was very offended and wrote back to tell me so before outlining her entire CV and history of airtight ethics. I felt badly. I wrote her back and told her my experience in more detail and said that it wasn’t personal at all. I asked her if a veteran such as herself had any suggestions for a writer seeking to protect her ideas. I told her that I knew of other incidents that had been similar to mine (which I do, don’t I little freelancer friends?). I said that I hoped that she had some room to be sympathetic towards me, and I offered a genuine apology.

Not good enough. Sanctimonious Editor wrote back again. She didn’t offer any ideas of how not to get ripped off by editors without her impeccable moral standards. Instead, she said that to even mention the possibility of my ideas being taken from me—despite my outlining for her how that has happened to me in the past—was to colour all editors with the same brush. It is, she says, akin to racism and sexism (yes, that’s what she said). Sanctimonious Editor has no trust in me and she never wants any ideas from me ever again.

Well, I didn’t want to send her any. I felt I understood her position, I just wanted an indication that she might try and understand mine. Apparently not. Despite how very full of good ideas I am, it seems that a) I’ve made myself an enemy, and b) I still don’t know how to cover my ass.

Excuses, and a link

Sorry, I’ve been percolating lots of posts that I haven’t had time to write cause I’m trying to, you know, get paid. Currently working on a story about the black-focused school the TDSB is opening in September, which is stirring up a lot of thoughts, you can be sure. Stay tuned. In the meantime, you can follow me on Twitter, if you’re so inclined. And if anyone knows how to put a Twitter badge on a WordPress page, lemme know.

In the meantime, this Bitch Magazine post has some good links about women and the Iranian election. Get smart.