Life Lesson $80.00

Maybe its my tendency to see more silver lining than cloud, or perhaps its the yoga training. Regardless I seem to have put a positive spin on what has been a rather maddening situation that has been unfurling these last few days.
Long story made relatively less long is this:
I was asked to submit a proposal for a feature article for a local mag
I do so. Detailed and complete with the fact that I had already attained permission to visit the organization I’d be writing about and to interview the founder/ED, the staff and even those who benefit from their services. I also provided guarantee of photos.
I’m told CONGRATULATIONS! We love it! The feature is yours! Lets talk details Monday.
Monday late afternoon the editor calls me and tells me I’ll be paid 80 dollars (WTF?! are you kidding?!) and that she wants final copy by Friday. (s’cuse me?)

I say “No” pointing out that the interviews alone will take me 2-3 hours. The editor says “What interviews? Just grab info from their website and rewrite it”. (*crickets*)

I say (because I am new to this and willing to roleplay as a doormat apparently) “Fine”

I put in two hours and then, because I realize that I can not do this with even an ounce of self-respect without talking to the org, chat with them by phone for about 30 min. I then spend another hour rewriting to include this new info.

[For those keeping score I'm now clocked at 3.5 hours, not including the emails and calls with the editor or my proposal.]

I am told to send it to the org for ‘approval’  (WTF squared). I do so Wednesday by 9:30. I send a copy to the editor as well.  The org sends it back on Thursday afternoon with that would make anyone with any journalistic integrity’s head spin. I decide to pick my battles and make the changes because while completely over the top and aggrandizing, they are not technically inaccurate and because at this point I had decided not to have my name published with the piece anyway and because I just wanted this all to go away.I dont hear from the editor till 11:30 Friday morning at wich point I get an email saying she can’t publish the piece because it needs editing. The editor writes this. The EDITOR. (sigh) OK. I write back asking for some clarification: length? content? font? i.e.: what the hell do you mean by ‘editing’. It’s now noon and on Monday she gave me a Friday 3 PM deadline.

I get an email back saying some of my sentences are run-ons and that my grammar is bad in spots. Hm. OK. I look it over. Yes, some sentences are long but they are properly written. At this point its a matter of stylistic choices and other than that I don’t see anything.

At this point I should point out that I have other clients. meetings. shit to do. I literally can not, (and quite frankly don’t want to) deal with this right now.

So now her I am on Saturday night and I have now spent an additional 30 minutes rewriting for the org and reviewing again for the editor for a grand total of 4 hours,of work,  5 if I count back and forth emails, calls and proposal writing. After speaking with my dad (a stand-up guy and former journalist) I decided that it’s not worth my stress. I did a final quick look over and sent it back to the editor with a brief email explaining that as the EDITOR I trusted her opinion and that she has permission to make any changes she feels necessary, including coming up with a new title (she scrapped 3 of mine).

I also told her not to associate my name with the piece and to kindly forward the $80.00 to my address.

I will sleep well tonight.

 

Oh? And the lesson? Over estimate my time and my value. Also, if my gut says “No”, LISTEN.

 

 

 

My Day (a post with bad grammar)

Today was a day.
It went something like this:

Wake up with a start at sunrise
Contemplate cleaning my room, say “Fuck it”, go back to bed
Half sleeping, turn on the radio. CBC obviously.
Cant fall back asleep
Say ‘Fuck It” again and get out of bed
Put away dishes.

Get to the café for 8:35 to prep for my 9 AM call that comes at 9:25 even though I told her I had to be somewhere at 10.
Postpone my 10 o’clock by email while on the phone.
Hustle to my 10 (now 10:15)
Have a relatively useless meeting.
Send follow-up emails related to that meeting that need immediate attention.

It is now 11:30
I have not had coffee. My sinuses are blocked and I look like a chapped version of Rudolf. I order the cheapest thing on the menu (grilled baguette with butter) and on a whim add cheese. I’m splurging today.

I get a call form my mother. She sounds well and its less trying than usual. For this I am thankful.

I start writing the article that’s due in 24 hours. I hate it. I start again, I hate that too.
I switch to another project and realize how much I want to fire that client. My work is interspersed with an email exchange so much further in the realm of babysitting than project management that it boggles the mind. I retreat to Facebook and Twitter.

I think about what sex would be like with the guy I’ve been making out with. I can’t seem to make it work in my head. What’s wrong with me that I cant even make my fantasies work?

I revisit the article. I still hate it but slog through it. Its hideous but an almost finished state of hideous and I consider this a small victory.

I am interrupted by the woman next to me wanting to plug into the socket under my table.
We make small talk. She is intense and earnest in a way that is both refreshing and off-putting. She has bright pink hair and in a geneticist specializing in poplar trees. She has a 17-year-old son whom she stresses she had ‘very young’. She is moving to Sweden in June. I couldn’t make this up.

I send of the second project and start a third. I’m know I know what needs doing but I can’t rally the brain cells. I dive in and draft a proposal anyway. It rings false and sales-pitchy but that’s what the industry calls for and I can’t tell if I’m more distressed by that fact or by the fact that it came so naturally to me to write that way.

I look up and see a good-looking man across the room. I bemoan the fact that I am so sick and look like death.

Its 3 PM. I order chicken quesadillas with hot sauce. I try to look cute eating them because now he has seen me see him and there is no way out of this glance-dance. The hot sauce scalds my mouth and hurts my chapped lips. I tear. Tearing up over quesadillas is decidedly not sexy. Fuck.

Once again I delve into Facebook and Twitter. I forward some links of interest to friends who might benefit from them. I look at the hideous article again. I feel an overwhelming desire to scream.

The pink-haired young scientist mom next to me engages in what will turn out to be a 30 minute long and exceedingly personal phone conversation with a man named Doug who I ascertain is her ex. She talks at him about his feelings and motives like she is Dr. Phil. She uses terms like “my reality’ and ‘your insecurities’. I knew there was something weird about her. When all attempts to block her out while I try to edit become fruitless I plug in. The Be Good Tanyas seem to lower my blood pressure.

I get a call from my dearest friend in Toronto. She has a lump in her breast. She is not worried. She’s calling me to bide the time while waiting at the walk-in clinic for a referral. I am happy to hear her voice and her calm is infectious. I too am not worried.

Its 4:25. I get a response to one of the two urgent emails I sent at 11. In it I’m told to make sure I hurry getting back to him. Seriously? Fuck you. Five hours to reply to a simple question when I know you are at your desk is not OK.

I update my invoicing, reply to some personal mail and pack up.

Got home and slacked by watching a movie. Quick dinner then more article wrestling. This time armed with a drink. I become worried that the drink helped and briefly contemplate alcoholism as professional development.

I have an hour-long overdue chat with another girlfriend in TO.

I sit down to write this.

Timing

I started out the year wanting to post a Happy Moment every day, but as I continue my Post a Day in 20011 project I’m finding that I often have other things I would rather blog about and that after my HM I no longer have the time and/or energy to do those. That said, I am reworking my commitment to stay at a post a day but not necessarily a Happy Moment.

Today I would like to write about my ‘interesting’ evening last night. I was at a bar with my (male) BFF. A couple of pints, the end of the game, a laugh, the usual.  At one point these two guys joined us which was nice as I was just bemoaning my super non-existent love life. The one I originally thought had potential was crazy. The second guy was not (!) He also had a British accent (!!) He was also bright (!!!) Respectful (!!!!) and capable of carrying on a conversation (!!!!!) Oh, and the piece de resistance? He’s an internationally acclaimed (read: un-broke) visual artist (!!!!!!)

[NB: for those of you keeping score at home, that's 6 exclamation points so far]

The night rolled on and our heads got closer. We were engrossed in our own conversation about museums and travel. His hand found his was to my knee. I didn’t move it. It was nice. Then, after a few bits of well-placed flattery, he worked in to conversation, with his had still on my leg, that he has a girlfriend that he loves very much and doesn’t plan on leaving.

 

*crickets*

 

Uh… OK, buy you might want to reconsider that hand on my thigh then, ya buddy?

What the hell is it with partnered men these days?

Married? Check

Live-in girlfriend? Check

They all seem to find their way to me.  *eye roll*

 

When Men Market to Women…

This ad ended up on my side menu of Facebook just now. For those of you who don’t read French its an ad for menstrual pads thats being hyped by a contest to win a romanic week-end away for two. The title of the contest is ‘Just Us Two’. As you can all see there is a (presumedly) attractive man in the ad. Now, I don’t know about you, but on the list f things I want most during my period, a romantic week-end away IN NO WAY FACTORS IN. I want flannel, not lace, I want tea, not champagne and I certainly don’t want to have to worry about staining the fancy 600 thread-count sheets at a cozy lovers’ B&B.

*ahem*

Rant over.

Gagnez un week-end

 

Gagnez un week-end à l’Auberge Le Baluchon. Inscrivez-vous dès maintenant et courez la chance de gagner un week-end romantique!

Spiritual Bumper-cars

All the surfaces are reflective in this town. I can’t find the pores, the holes where smells and sounds are supposed to seep in, where humanity seeps out. It all hovers here, above the surface in fine, separate layers. Nothing commingles. Siloed and segregated I walk through busy, bustling streets surrounded by an invisible shield of my own scent, energy, thoughts. Here they play spiritual bumper-cars and no one ever wins. No one gets bumped, but we all define winning differently…

I have never experienced anomie the way I learned in sociology class. I could never internalize the feeling, understand what it meant to feel alone in a sea of life. I am starting to wrap my head around it now. I’m not there, but the prospect has become less hypothetical.

I teeter between anger and sadness, disbelief and frustration. How? And more importantly, why? Why live in a cocoon when you can be out in the world? Is it a protectionist instinct? Self-preservation? What about the green of my eyes makes you look away so quickly? What is it in the curve of my smile that has you turning away?

Sex Talk

Went to an open-forum style chat on sex tonight. I had high hopes that were all quickly dashed. Too bad because I think it could have been great. Like a drunken mistake though, all that happened was half-way through I was itching for an excuse to leave.

I consider myself fairly politically correct, excessively so if you ask my brother and a handful of others, but I just CAN NOT get on-board with A) validating every single thing, every single person says and B) being so careful not to offend that you end up saying nothing at all (and take a bloody long time doing it).

BDSM is rough. Bondage is not fluffy. Masochism is harsh. That’s why people who like it, like it. To deny this basic premise is to essentially deny those who take part in it any validation. By insisting that calling it harsh devalues or judges it negatively is to miss the point entirely and furthermore reinforces the notion that harsh = bad.

This was but one hyper-politically correct academic approach to a very visceral topic that made me crazy this evening. But I am too tired to write more. Sleep calls, perhaps more ranting tomorrow.

Seriously?

Remember how I said moving was fun? Hark back if you can (or scroll I suppose) to a post, not long ago where I mentioned that I liked moving, relished the chance for fresh starts and adventure, enjoyed the chance to take stock.

Lies.

Well no, not lies exactly but every silver lining has a cloud I suppose… Picture this:

Last night I crawl into bed -it was cool in the apartment as A) I am trying to use less energy and B) I’m broke. I curled into my its-winter-and-I’m cold-and-sleeping-alone fetal position and tried to generate some heat. I fell asleep soon after and did not wake up until 2.5 hours later when I was shivering so hard I yanked a very heavy and suprisingly pliant carpet off my floor and chucked it on top of myself. Giggling and warmer I went back to bed. This morning I awoke and, determined to enjoy my first morning in the new place stayed curled in bed while coming to the decision that I would make myself a cup of warm tea and come back to bed to read. Warm and fuzzy and still half asleep I plodded into my kitchen only to be met with a puddle of wet spreading ever closer to my feet. It was coming from the fridge. Well shit. I guess I’m buying that fridge I saw on Craig’s List… I opened the fridge and then the freezer. Wait. My ice is icey and the fridge is cold. Where is that water from then? I look up. Nope, no leaks. I decide to follow the trail of wet past the fridge and when my eyes land at the base of the water heater all visions of warm tea and literature vanished. Well fuck.

I’ll fast-track through the rest of my day. A day composed of waiting, waiting, working a bit from home, waiting and finally saying screw this and walking over to the cafe with my book. The landlord never came, never called and I have a bad feeling that I won’t have water, neither not nor cold until Tuesday. So I am now at my mum’s place so I can shower, brush teeth and have the sublime luxury of a flushing toilette.

Yay moving!

ARRGGG!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

I could scream. I am so thoroughly annoyed. I was supposed to be moving today, in fact I did move today; a car load of my stuff plus all the cleaning supplies I needed, all hauled out to the other end of town thanks to a friend who put today away to help me. Got there, hauled shit out of the car only to get into the apartment and see that the current tenant is STILL LIVING THERE!!!

Laptop on, dirty dished on counter, clothes everywhere, food in the fridge, hair in the sink LIVING THERE.

Back into the car go the boxes of my life, back go buckets of cleaning pastes & powders, back goes best friend in the whole wide world for not being pissed at me for wasting his day. And all of us back to the west-end where we proceed to lug all my stuff back up a flight of stairs.

Ugh.