I'm not sure men can ever properly understand the force of nature that is PMS. There is evidence that men also have a monthly hormonal cycle that does cause some PMS-type symptoms, but the timing is harder to nail down...well, for obvious reasons. I've known some men that could give us girls a run for our money, but most of them seem to be blissfully ignorant of the ravages of a hormonal tsunami. The smart ones have figured out that it is NEVER acceptable to write off a woman's mood as PMS, even if she knows that is precisely why she is being bitchy. Just because the feelings are coming from a hormonal source rather than a rational one, doesn't make them any less real, and dismissing a woman's feelings for any reason - ESPECIALLY when she is already in a highly irrational place - is always going to be bad news. Now, that being said, the smart women catch on pretty quickly to when they're PMSing so when they do try to defenestrate a coworker, they can do it with a disclaimer so that said coworker doesn't take it personally when they're plummeting to their death.
Suffice it to say, it sucks. Being in a bad mood is already not fun - but not being able to figure out why you're in that bad mood, or even worse, KNOWING why but also knowing there's absolutely nothing that will make it go away except time, can make it pretty difficult to get through the day. Mine is kind of like having bipolar disorder for a week - I can go from happy to phenomenally pissed off at the blink of an eye, but the "happy" is more of a manic state than anything that would normally pass for contentedness, and the pissed off is...well...the words "duck" and "cover" come to mind. I get wicked fatigue, and we're not talking "gee, I was a little short on sleep last night and wouldn't a catnap be nice?" we're talking, "I think I just accidentally chased two Benadryl with a shot of Nyquil." The logic centers of my brain shut down and it's like I can actually feel my synapses misfiring - it takes me 2-3 times as long to do even the simplest calculations at work (I usually have to write out arithmetic I would normally do just in my head or on a calculator), experiments don't work that should be no-brainers, it even feels like my motor skills suffer. I can always tell it's setting in when the combination of fatigue and snippiness are strong enough to register as abnormal - when I'm literally falling asleep at my desk and my Labmate tolerance drops to zero. Most of the time, I can laugh at her silliness because damn it, she IS cute, but there's always that one week that I just can't listen to her without boiling inside. These are the times when I take a step back, and find things to do with myself that will keep my social interaction at a minimum.
This has been one of those weeks.
I noticed a couple of days ago just how many things were PISSING ME OFF and how many were making me IMPROBABLY HAPPY. And I decided to sift through some old posts to see if there was a pattern to my rants. It's actually uncanny if you know what to look for - there are certainly other times when I write bitchy posts, and there are some times when I'm hormonal but not feeling inspired to write about what's pissing me off, so it's a subtle trend, but clearly identifiable to the only one of us who knows exactly how I was feeling as I wrote each post. So I decided this time to just blog some of my ups and downs from the past few days.
So without further ado, I present my Mood Swings:
I HATE when people walk unnecessarily close to me, usually on the stairs in the subway. It's not okay to cut someone off in traffic, and it is also not okay to cut them off on a stairwell. Fuck off, lady, this is my personal space and there is no reason you need to be so close to me. Interestingly enough, a person's concept of what constitutes a reasonable no-fly zone around their neighbor seems to be inversely related to the volume their iPod is set to. Why don't you just get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie?
I LOVE banh mi. Also known as vietnamese subs or Saigon subs. Is it really so wrong if the one great love of my life turns out to be a sandwich? They do seem to contain fructose, so it's a slightly abusive relationship, but he told me he didn't mean it, that it won't happen again, and it only happened because he loves me so damned much. I want believe him, and dammit, I'm gonna.
I HATE stupid questions. "What's in the well plate?" "Alcohol, I'm cleaning it out." "Cleaning?" "Yes, I actually USE the wells, so I clean them out with alcohol when I'm done with it." "You put things into the wells?"
Yes. I actually use the plate for its INTENDED PURPOSE. Imagine that.
"Yes." "Is there fluorescein left in the wells?"
Um, that would be THE REASON I AM CLEANING IT.
I LOVE H&M. I walked out with a skirt, a dress, and a blazer for $55. Oh, Scandinavian design, why you so good to me?
I HATE crazy people on the subway. At least when they cross the line from humorous babbling into yelling at you for not sitting by them.
I LOVE crazy people on the streetcar. Apparently, insanity has a manicure.
I HATE loud cell phone conversations on public transit. Or anywhere in public, really, but on transit you're forced to be in close proximity to the conversation, which makes it far more annoying. I really don't need to know what you're picking up for dinner, or who's picking up the kids, your secret recipe for cold fusion, or your peculiar fondness for hamster porn.
I LOVE dairy.
I HATE when people respond to an e-mail and have clearly not actually read what they are responding to. I have told you that the problem does not exist on my end and have asked how I am supposed to fix a problem that my program doesn't think exists. Your response was, "the problem is still there and I strongly recommend you fix it on your end." THAT IS NOT A VIABLE SOLUTION.
I LOVE riding on (uncrowded) streetcars. On a nice day, the air circulation is lovely, the ride is smoother than a bus, but infinitely more scenic than the subway.
I HATE people who insist on talking shop when I just want to drink my beer in the sunshine after work.
I LOVE the guy who lifted my laptop bag to simplify my attempt to squeeze into the awkwardly-placed but last-remaining empty seat on the bus. He also made friendly chat with the rather unassumingly pretty girl sitting next to him, and when he got up to leave the bus, I realized that his son was sitting opposite him, and they were wearing matching hats. Too cute.
I LOVE/HATE the guy who got up from his seat, moved to the front of the bus to let the blind man who had just gotten on know there was an available seat, and guided him gently to the spot he had just vacated. That was a truly lovely thing you just did. But did you have to nearly take out one of the guy's kids with your laptop bag as you did it?
I HATEHATEHATE the "Tag Huntresses." I've been staring at those stupid ads on the subway for DAYS, and just when I thought it wasn't possible to dislike them any more, I manage to serve up yet another hot slice of loathing in their general direction. Bitch ain't even that hot.
That's all that comes to mind right now. Stay tuned for the next installment in, oh, about 28 days.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Dream a Little Dream of Me
I rarely remember dreams - I don't often wake up during the night, and I'm usually done dreaming by the time my alarm goes off in the morning. Dreams are supposed to be where your subconscious works out all of the things that you can't quite deal with in your waking life, so I tend to assume that I never remember them because there are things my subconscious doesn't want me to know. And frankly, I'm okay with that...I'm willing to trust its judgement.
I do go through periods, however, where I remember my dreams with some frequency. Last summer, I had a lot of anxiety dreams right before waking up, due to the combined stress of being completely broke, teaching solo for the first time, living with my parents, and needing to make arrangements to move to a foreign country. In addition to the stress I was already under, the anxiety dreams meant I woke up well before my alarm, exhausted, but unable to go back to sleep...it was a rough couple of months. Luckily, I've had precious few of those since I settled in and became self-sufficient again.
But when I do remember my dreams, I make an effort to look up the themes and symbols to try to figure out what's going on. I have a couple of dream books and, while I think their interpretations are kind of like horoscopes - you can find whatever you want to find in them, picking and choosing the things that might be relevant to your own life until you're convinced the author is REALLY ONTO SOMETHING - I find it interesting when I hit on a symbol that is uncannily appropriate and can't be logically explained. Like, how does a couch mean something in your dream if you don't consciously know what it's supposed to represent?
Which brings me to the reason for this post: over the last couple of nights, I have actually remembered a couple of dreams. Both pretty literal, but I think fairly representative of what's been on my mind lately. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream about the VGLM. I can't remember if I had been thinking about him as I feel asleep in order to deliberately dream about him - I sometimes do that because I'm dying to see what my subconscious thinks he looks like naked - but regardless of whether it was intentional or not, it was a simple, lovely dream. I don't remember most of the specifics, just that we were spending an evening together at home. Some details from my waking day had worked their way in - I had bought a couple of movies that day, and in the dream I offered them up as something to do and was pleasantly surprised at how excited he was to watch one of them. In fact, the whole dream was one pleasant surprise after another - we sat on a couch (a particular home furnishing which, incidentally, is supposed to mean you're in love with the person you're sitting with...I've run into that one before. Not quite buying it - I like the VGLM, but I'm not in LOVE with him. I think I'm too jaded to fall in unrequited love nowadays.) and he put his arm around me. He snuggled with me, and told me I was beautiful. We were just about to start the movie when I woke up, trying to convince myself it wasn't just a dream. I kept my eyes closed, trying so hard to believe that it was his shoulder my head was against and not just a pillow.
How sad is it that my happy dreams never get to the good stuff? I fantasize about SNUGGLING, for God's sake. I can't even get lucky in my dreams. At any rate, I think this one is self-explanatory - anybody who reads this thing knows that I'm kind of getting sick of being single and going on crappy dates...I want someone to share my life with. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, who will greet me with a hug and a kiss and tell me I'm amazing. Real intimacy with a member of the opposite sex.
Which is what makes this morning's dream interesting.
In the dream, it was my wedding day. Except it wasn't a typical wedding day - I had sort of gotten up that morning and found out I was getting married. And my mom and some other miscellaneous people without faces had brought me a big box of clothing from Goodwill to sift through to find something to wear. I seem to recall there being a couple of actual wedding dresses, but for some reason I was either not allowed or afraid to ask to try them on. I do know that I said or thought at some point, "I really wish I could afford to buy a real wedding dress," and wanting to cry. Through all of this, I had no concept of who the groom might be...I just kept trying on hideous suits with shoulder pads and trying to at least find something white to wear. Now, apparently, to dream of wearing a wedding dress "is to be trying to sort out one's feelings and hopes about relationships and weddings." Gee, thanks, Dream Dictionary. Is there an interpretation of "No shit, Sherlock" I should be aware of? But frankly, I know why the dream was wedding-related - I have the show I was watching right before I went to bed to thank for that one. I do have a fairly debilitating fear of somehow getting myself into a situation where I have agreed to marry someone I don't really like, but this has come up in enough dreams that I am now fully aware of this fear and trying my best to shake it (although unless I go out on a truly exciting date sometime soon I may be beyond the point of no return). So let's move on to the other prominent themes.
The changing of clothes: "The clothes we wear in a dream can often depict the facade, or persona, we create for other people. We have certain roles that we adopt in response to other's reactions....Clothes can often act as a protection against being touched. This protection may also be against having the real self violated. Clothes can conceal or reveal. In covering up nudity they conceal our perceived imperfections and, by implication, disguise our sexuality. In revealing certain parts of us our dreams may show in what ways we are vulnerable...Changing clothes. We are attempting to change our image." Sounds familiar, no? I think my subconscious mind has been reading this here blog too much. I mean, using my dreams to merely reiterate what I've been saying consciously on here...that's just laziness. What does it mean when you're subconsciously plagiarizing yourself?
On being poor: "To experience poverty in a dream highlights a sense of being deprived of the ability to satisfy our basic needs. We may feel inadequate, either emotionally or materially. Often we need to go right back to basics to discover what our real needs are." Well, duh. Again, tell me something I don't know.
So I think my subconscious is really just telling me to blog more.
I do go through periods, however, where I remember my dreams with some frequency. Last summer, I had a lot of anxiety dreams right before waking up, due to the combined stress of being completely broke, teaching solo for the first time, living with my parents, and needing to make arrangements to move to a foreign country. In addition to the stress I was already under, the anxiety dreams meant I woke up well before my alarm, exhausted, but unable to go back to sleep...it was a rough couple of months. Luckily, I've had precious few of those since I settled in and became self-sufficient again.
But when I do remember my dreams, I make an effort to look up the themes and symbols to try to figure out what's going on. I have a couple of dream books and, while I think their interpretations are kind of like horoscopes - you can find whatever you want to find in them, picking and choosing the things that might be relevant to your own life until you're convinced the author is REALLY ONTO SOMETHING - I find it interesting when I hit on a symbol that is uncannily appropriate and can't be logically explained. Like, how does a couch mean something in your dream if you don't consciously know what it's supposed to represent?
Which brings me to the reason for this post: over the last couple of nights, I have actually remembered a couple of dreams. Both pretty literal, but I think fairly representative of what's been on my mind lately. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream about the VGLM. I can't remember if I had been thinking about him as I feel asleep in order to deliberately dream about him - I sometimes do that because I'm dying to see what my subconscious thinks he looks like naked - but regardless of whether it was intentional or not, it was a simple, lovely dream. I don't remember most of the specifics, just that we were spending an evening together at home. Some details from my waking day had worked their way in - I had bought a couple of movies that day, and in the dream I offered them up as something to do and was pleasantly surprised at how excited he was to watch one of them. In fact, the whole dream was one pleasant surprise after another - we sat on a couch (a particular home furnishing which, incidentally, is supposed to mean you're in love with the person you're sitting with...I've run into that one before. Not quite buying it - I like the VGLM, but I'm not in LOVE with him. I think I'm too jaded to fall in unrequited love nowadays.) and he put his arm around me. He snuggled with me, and told me I was beautiful. We were just about to start the movie when I woke up, trying to convince myself it wasn't just a dream. I kept my eyes closed, trying so hard to believe that it was his shoulder my head was against and not just a pillow.
How sad is it that my happy dreams never get to the good stuff? I fantasize about SNUGGLING, for God's sake. I can't even get lucky in my dreams. At any rate, I think this one is self-explanatory - anybody who reads this thing knows that I'm kind of getting sick of being single and going on crappy dates...I want someone to share my life with. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, who will greet me with a hug and a kiss and tell me I'm amazing. Real intimacy with a member of the opposite sex.
Which is what makes this morning's dream interesting.
In the dream, it was my wedding day. Except it wasn't a typical wedding day - I had sort of gotten up that morning and found out I was getting married. And my mom and some other miscellaneous people without faces had brought me a big box of clothing from Goodwill to sift through to find something to wear. I seem to recall there being a couple of actual wedding dresses, but for some reason I was either not allowed or afraid to ask to try them on. I do know that I said or thought at some point, "I really wish I could afford to buy a real wedding dress," and wanting to cry. Through all of this, I had no concept of who the groom might be...I just kept trying on hideous suits with shoulder pads and trying to at least find something white to wear. Now, apparently, to dream of wearing a wedding dress "is to be trying to sort out one's feelings and hopes about relationships and weddings." Gee, thanks, Dream Dictionary. Is there an interpretation of "No shit, Sherlock" I should be aware of? But frankly, I know why the dream was wedding-related - I have the show I was watching right before I went to bed to thank for that one. I do have a fairly debilitating fear of somehow getting myself into a situation where I have agreed to marry someone I don't really like, but this has come up in enough dreams that I am now fully aware of this fear and trying my best to shake it (although unless I go out on a truly exciting date sometime soon I may be beyond the point of no return). So let's move on to the other prominent themes.
The changing of clothes: "The clothes we wear in a dream can often depict the facade, or persona, we create for other people. We have certain roles that we adopt in response to other's reactions....Clothes can often act as a protection against being touched. This protection may also be against having the real self violated. Clothes can conceal or reveal. In covering up nudity they conceal our perceived imperfections and, by implication, disguise our sexuality. In revealing certain parts of us our dreams may show in what ways we are vulnerable...Changing clothes. We are attempting to change our image." Sounds familiar, no? I think my subconscious mind has been reading this here blog too much. I mean, using my dreams to merely reiterate what I've been saying consciously on here...that's just laziness. What does it mean when you're subconsciously plagiarizing yourself?
On being poor: "To experience poverty in a dream highlights a sense of being deprived of the ability to satisfy our basic needs. We may feel inadequate, either emotionally or materially. Often we need to go right back to basics to discover what our real needs are." Well, duh. Again, tell me something I don't know.
So I think my subconscious is really just telling me to blog more.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Carrie-d Away
I've been having a Sarah Jessica Parker moment over the last couple of days. I've been feeling thin and healthy, and therefore the last couple of nights I've taken to wearing a vintage slip as a nightgown. I like it - even though nobody is there to see it, it makes me feel cute and feminine and sexy. When I was drinking wine with the Landlords a couple of weeks ago, Landlord told me how just that week he had seen me leave for (or maybe it was come home from) work and commented to Landlady that I was "starting to look like a Torontonian." Now, part of me couldn't resist feeling a little indignant...I mean, come on, did I REALLY look THAT bad before?....but I know he meant this as a compliment. And it's true, a year ago, I only wore full makeup if I was going out (and even then it was rare), and now I wear it every weekday. Back then I rarely so much as blow-dried my hair, and now I not only do that regularly but often go so far as to (gasp) STYLE it on a daily basis. I used to live in t-shirts, jeans, and flannels...now the flannels and hoodies only come out on weekends, and the only jeans I wear to work are my Good Jeans. Now, these changes started as soon as I left grad school - my first real teaching gig last summer forced me to start wearing my nicer clothes more often, and I was happy about it. But moving here, where I have many opportunities to take notes from well-dressed women on the subway, and getting back into good shape have forced me to buy a few more cute clothes and, perhaps more importantly, wear the ones I already had better (I have one pair of pants in particular that have always just been....well...fine. But today I tried them on for the first time since last summer and they made my ass look fantastic, if I do say so myself.). At any rate, I've noticed that Toronto women of my age, much like New York women, have a way of dressing and carrying themselves that's worth admiring. And on days like today, when I am feeling cute, thin, well put-together, and confident, I see people watch me when I get on the bus as opposed to remaining in their music- or book-induced oblivion. So at least today, I apparently look like a Torontonian, and I like it.
Now, the previous paragraph was written as an attempt to justify to myself that I have a right to now rant about other people's fashion choices. You didn't REALLY think this was going to be a sweet little entry about self-esteem, did you? For the record, let me state that I am absolutely NOT a fashion expert, and I have made some rather hideous transgressions in the past AND present, but there are certain things that I see on a regular basis that I simply can not let go by any longer without comment. So let me just take a moment to flip my Bitch Switch...
(click)
Okay, let's begin, shall we?
There is an epidemic sweeping across the female population, and it flares up hideously in the warmer months. I am talking about Visible Undergarment Syndrome, or VUS. Now, I feel the need to state, in the interest of full disclosure, that I have been known, on many occasions, to show a little bra strap. In fact, I will be doing it for the better part of today because, while I'm sure I have bras that wouldn't poke out from this top, they don't make my boobs look as good as this one, and I'm willing to make the sacrifice. However, this bra happens to match the top in both color and texture, so I consider it a fairly minor transgression. I have also been known to do the deliberately contrasting bra strap and top bit, but only when the top in question is a wifebeater and I am in a decidedly casual environment. I'm sure someday down the road I will be completely appalled with myself for ever wearing a grey wifebeater with purpley-blue brastraps clearly visible, but for now, I happen to find it a little slice of trashy-cute fun. So, in some cases, I believe this is a rule that is meant to be broken.
But I draw the line at the back strap.
I found it truly appalling this morning to see not one, but TWO fully exposed back straps on the subway. Not a little edge poking out of a poorly-fitting top...not a deliberate hinting at a cute bra under a little shirt - just a complete absence of any attempt whatsoever to wear an outfit-compatible bra. Perpetrator #1 was wearing what appeared to be a t-shirt converted into a halter top, with full arm- and back-strap exposure. As far as I'm concerned, a little bra peek is okay as long as it's consistent with the lines of the garment - it should be either subtle, or an accent to the main piece, not the focal point. You don't wear a lacy bra under a wifebeater, and those who wear a regular bra with a halter top should be taken out back and pelted with Prada until an appropriate level of good taste has entered the bloodstream. However, in her defense, at least the bra matched the color of the top, and she was clearly going for a Look (side note - I didn't even realize people still WORE Dr. Martens...are the 90's already retro, or is the punk/goth bit really that immune to trends?) that, while not visually appealing to most of the population, really wasn't designed to be. I can respect that.
Perpetrator #2, however, was completely unforgiveable. I first saw her from the back, so my first impression of her was a beige back strap cutting clearly across her back above the top of a black and white sundress. BEIGE IS NOT A FASHION STATEMENT. Beige lingerie is purely functional, meant to disappear under a garment, making it the single most heinous bra to display in public, particularly when we're talking huge-ass back strap action. Then she turned around. Okay, honey, I get it. You have a very impressive rack, and it takes a serious undergarment to make those puppies all perky like that. Your cleavage is looking quite fetching. But here's the thing: fantastic rack + spaghetti straps = never gonna happen. If you've got great cleavage, you should use it, but for the love of God, please leave the spaghetti straps to those of us with itty-bitty boobs that can be acceptably supported by a strapless bra while you opt for something low-cut that will hide the industrial strength riggings underneath. That's all I'm saying. One bra strap turned you from a Very Cute Girl into dangerously borderline Jerry Springer material. Oh, and that reminds me, get your roots done. Again, there's a difference between trashy-cute and just trashy, sweetheart.
Just yesterday I had come face-to-face with the flipside of VUS. I saw a girl on the subway - young, pretty, and looking quite put-together. Very monochrome - black from head to toe, but a nice top, nice little capri pants with these utterly ridiculous extremely pointy-toed black stilettos that she couldn't walk in to save her life. But all in all, a very cute outfit and she looked pretty good as long as she wasn't trying to, you know, actually locomote. Until I followed her up the stairs in the station and was confronted with the expanse of bright-pink underwear between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt. Not a peek of waistband - enough cloth that I actually wondered if she had layered a pink shirt under the black one. Unfortunately, the return of low-rise pants, a trend I welcomed with open arms while I tremble in fear of the return of the high-waisted pants of my youth, has brought with it an accompanying wave of VUS. Yep, I'm talking about Panty Peek. Again, this is sometimes done deliberately, but unlike the contrasting strap thing, I simply cannot get behind purposely displaying your thong for the world to see. Whether or not I'm flossing is nobody's business but my own. I don't think it's too much to ask that, if a woman buys low-rise pants, she buys slightly lower-rise panties. I take great pains to ensure that my panties are high enough to ensure complete ass-crack coverage (because one of the great lessons in life is to know one's limits, and exposed ass-crack, an even less forgivable sin than PP, should be a no-brainer in that arena), yet low enough to not be seen by the outside world. I remember a day not that long ago when women lived in fear of the dreaded VPL (Visible Panty Line - remember Underalls commercials? ahh, memories...), but now full-on panty exposure runs rampant. It's not pretty, it's not sexy, and it needs to be stopped. Keep your tighty-whities (or pinkies, as it were) to yourself, I say. If we all work together, we can make VUS a thing of the past. Scientists at the laboratories of Victoria's Secret and La Senza are working on a vaccine as we speak, but until then, please tell all of your friends to practice Safe Sexy.
Okay, I think I've gotten the VUS rant out of my system for now. But the day I see a girl displaying the dreaded back strap/Panty Peek combo (an occurrence that I am sure is only a matter of when, not if), my head is liable to explode. Maybe when it gets cold again I'll finally vent my Skinny-Jeans-Tucked-Into-Mukluks-or-Some-Other-Ridiculous-Sort-of-Boot rage if the Fashion Gods haven't mercifully removed that trend from the style lexicon by fall.
Oh, but while we're on the subject of footwear, what the smurf is up with Crocs? When, exactly, did GARDENING CLOGS become a fashion statement??? There are no words. Literally.
Final note: While I was writing this post, feeling all smug and cute, I got a phone call and now have plans for tonight. I'm going to a baseball game.
In heels.
I'm going to be one of those girls I make fun of. Believe it or not, I don't ALWAYS want to be Carrie Bradshaw.
Now, the previous paragraph was written as an attempt to justify to myself that I have a right to now rant about other people's fashion choices. You didn't REALLY think this was going to be a sweet little entry about self-esteem, did you? For the record, let me state that I am absolutely NOT a fashion expert, and I have made some rather hideous transgressions in the past AND present, but there are certain things that I see on a regular basis that I simply can not let go by any longer without comment. So let me just take a moment to flip my Bitch Switch...
(click)
Okay, let's begin, shall we?
There is an epidemic sweeping across the female population, and it flares up hideously in the warmer months. I am talking about Visible Undergarment Syndrome, or VUS. Now, I feel the need to state, in the interest of full disclosure, that I have been known, on many occasions, to show a little bra strap. In fact, I will be doing it for the better part of today because, while I'm sure I have bras that wouldn't poke out from this top, they don't make my boobs look as good as this one, and I'm willing to make the sacrifice. However, this bra happens to match the top in both color and texture, so I consider it a fairly minor transgression. I have also been known to do the deliberately contrasting bra strap and top bit, but only when the top in question is a wifebeater and I am in a decidedly casual environment. I'm sure someday down the road I will be completely appalled with myself for ever wearing a grey wifebeater with purpley-blue brastraps clearly visible, but for now, I happen to find it a little slice of trashy-cute fun. So, in some cases, I believe this is a rule that is meant to be broken.
But I draw the line at the back strap.
I found it truly appalling this morning to see not one, but TWO fully exposed back straps on the subway. Not a little edge poking out of a poorly-fitting top...not a deliberate hinting at a cute bra under a little shirt - just a complete absence of any attempt whatsoever to wear an outfit-compatible bra. Perpetrator #1 was wearing what appeared to be a t-shirt converted into a halter top, with full arm- and back-strap exposure. As far as I'm concerned, a little bra peek is okay as long as it's consistent with the lines of the garment - it should be either subtle, or an accent to the main piece, not the focal point. You don't wear a lacy bra under a wifebeater, and those who wear a regular bra with a halter top should be taken out back and pelted with Prada until an appropriate level of good taste has entered the bloodstream. However, in her defense, at least the bra matched the color of the top, and she was clearly going for a Look (side note - I didn't even realize people still WORE Dr. Martens...are the 90's already retro, or is the punk/goth bit really that immune to trends?) that, while not visually appealing to most of the population, really wasn't designed to be. I can respect that.
Perpetrator #2, however, was completely unforgiveable. I first saw her from the back, so my first impression of her was a beige back strap cutting clearly across her back above the top of a black and white sundress. BEIGE IS NOT A FASHION STATEMENT. Beige lingerie is purely functional, meant to disappear under a garment, making it the single most heinous bra to display in public, particularly when we're talking huge-ass back strap action. Then she turned around. Okay, honey, I get it. You have a very impressive rack, and it takes a serious undergarment to make those puppies all perky like that. Your cleavage is looking quite fetching. But here's the thing: fantastic rack + spaghetti straps = never gonna happen. If you've got great cleavage, you should use it, but for the love of God, please leave the spaghetti straps to those of us with itty-bitty boobs that can be acceptably supported by a strapless bra while you opt for something low-cut that will hide the industrial strength riggings underneath. That's all I'm saying. One bra strap turned you from a Very Cute Girl into dangerously borderline Jerry Springer material. Oh, and that reminds me, get your roots done. Again, there's a difference between trashy-cute and just trashy, sweetheart.
Just yesterday I had come face-to-face with the flipside of VUS. I saw a girl on the subway - young, pretty, and looking quite put-together. Very monochrome - black from head to toe, but a nice top, nice little capri pants with these utterly ridiculous extremely pointy-toed black stilettos that she couldn't walk in to save her life. But all in all, a very cute outfit and she looked pretty good as long as she wasn't trying to, you know, actually locomote. Until I followed her up the stairs in the station and was confronted with the expanse of bright-pink underwear between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt. Not a peek of waistband - enough cloth that I actually wondered if she had layered a pink shirt under the black one. Unfortunately, the return of low-rise pants, a trend I welcomed with open arms while I tremble in fear of the return of the high-waisted pants of my youth, has brought with it an accompanying wave of VUS. Yep, I'm talking about Panty Peek. Again, this is sometimes done deliberately, but unlike the contrasting strap thing, I simply cannot get behind purposely displaying your thong for the world to see. Whether or not I'm flossing is nobody's business but my own. I don't think it's too much to ask that, if a woman buys low-rise pants, she buys slightly lower-rise panties. I take great pains to ensure that my panties are high enough to ensure complete ass-crack coverage (because one of the great lessons in life is to know one's limits, and exposed ass-crack, an even less forgivable sin than PP, should be a no-brainer in that arena), yet low enough to not be seen by the outside world. I remember a day not that long ago when women lived in fear of the dreaded VPL (Visible Panty Line - remember Underalls commercials? ahh, memories...), but now full-on panty exposure runs rampant. It's not pretty, it's not sexy, and it needs to be stopped. Keep your tighty-whities (or pinkies, as it were) to yourself, I say. If we all work together, we can make VUS a thing of the past. Scientists at the laboratories of Victoria's Secret and La Senza are working on a vaccine as we speak, but until then, please tell all of your friends to practice Safe Sexy.
Okay, I think I've gotten the VUS rant out of my system for now. But the day I see a girl displaying the dreaded back strap/Panty Peek combo (an occurrence that I am sure is only a matter of when, not if), my head is liable to explode. Maybe when it gets cold again I'll finally vent my Skinny-Jeans-Tucked-Into-Mukluks-or-Some-Other-Ridiculous-Sort-of-Boot rage if the Fashion Gods haven't mercifully removed that trend from the style lexicon by fall.
Oh, but while we're on the subject of footwear, what the smurf is up with Crocs? When, exactly, did GARDENING CLOGS become a fashion statement??? There are no words. Literally.
Final note: While I was writing this post, feeling all smug and cute, I got a phone call and now have plans for tonight. I'm going to a baseball game.
In heels.
I'm going to be one of those girls I make fun of. Believe it or not, I don't ALWAYS want to be Carrie Bradshaw.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Don't Tell Me
A week ago, I came home on a Friday night to find my landlords sitting on the deck and finishing their dinner and was invited to hang out and have a glass of wine with them. I figure okay, sure, that would actually be really nice, so I head downstairs to drop off my stuff and change into flip-flops before I settle in on the deck to have a glass of wine before retiring early. There's only about one glass left in the bottle, so I think it's sweet that Mr. Landlord has offered it to me.
Mr. Landlord steps inside for a moment and reappears with a fresh bottle. A magnum, to be exact.
I should have known better than to have "a glass of wine" with a Greek man. It's true - I did only technically have two glasses, because only once did I manage to actually empty the glass before he refilled it. I'm still not sure how that magnum wound up empty when I only had two glasses....
So after a long evening of drinking wine and talking about all manner of entertaining things, Mr. Landlord made us some Greek coffee, took his leave, and I was left chatting with Mrs. Landlord. So the inevitable question came up, "Why doesn't a girl like you have a boyfriend? You should be out juggling dates on a Friday night, not at home hanging out with us!"
"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
"Why are you alone?"
It comes in various forms, but the fact remains - I get this question a lot. In fact, it came up again just last night, and now that I'm done with grad school and I no longer get asked, "So when are you going to be done with school?" it is officially my Least Favorite Question.
To those asking it, let me answer your question with another: If I knew why I didn't have a boyfriend, don't you think I would have done something about it by now? I mean, you people seem to think I must be choosing to be single, because if I wanted a boyfriend I'd have one, end of story. While there are lots of things I like about being single, I think it's a rare person that, given the choice, would opt for being single rather than having someone special in their life. I mean, I'll take being alone over being with someone just for the sake of NOT being alone, but like everyone else, I have been programmed by God and evolution to need to pair up. It's like yin and yang - two separate, opposing, but complementary forces...each still a tiny part of the other. If you try to separate one from the other, each is left with a hole right through its core. We all need people in our lives that, though they are different from us and may have different priorities or beliefs, love us unconditionally and hold us up when we need it. And we all need that one person that can hold us up in a way that nobody else can.
When I was younger, there was a period where I was the kind of girl who always had a boyfriend. I'd date a guy for a few months, then break up, and about a month or two later I'd have a new one. And these were good guys - I've always maintained good friendships with my exes (a couple of them I happen to know read this here blog regularly), and they are all people that I still think highly of, even though they weren't right for me.
In the last year, I've had two dates. With a guy who just sent me an e-mail forward that I found not only unfunny, but more than a little bit racist.
How did I go from always having a good, quality boyfriend to bland dates with people who may or may not be racist?
Mrs. Landlord was trying to give me advice on how to land a man. Her advice pretty much boiled down to "mess with his mind and make him think he can't have you - make him think he's in danger of losing you." Basically, she told me to play games - be a bitch and they'll come after you like a puppy dog. And you know, that works...I've seen it in action. Women that have mastered the rules of that game not only always have a man in their life, but get them to give them anything they want. Remember my infuriating labmate? She was all atwitter yesterday because she was going out with her ex-boyfriend and afraid she was going to be a bad girl. And I haven't gotten the rundown of the evening yet, but I'd put money on the fact that she probably DID do something that her boyfriend won't be happy about, and she'll tell him, and it will somehow result in him showering her with lovely things that she doesn't deserve. But I can't do it. I hate the game. If I like someone, I want to be able to tell them that, not make them think I DON'T like them or that I like someone else better. Flirting with someone you are attracted to and interested in is one of the great pleasures in life - acting like they don't exist is no fun at all, at least not for me. I could play your game, but here's the thing, Mrs. L. - I don't want to be like you. Yes, you are a passionate, strong, beautiful woman with a fantastic husband, but you get into long, screaming fights with him, your mother, your daughter...every important person in your life. I have spent many an evening or long Sunday trying to pretend I'm not hearing your arguments through my ceiling. If that's what playing your game gets me, no thanks. It is, in fact, possible to live a life of passion without complete chaos.
Now, if you're a regular reader, then you know that I got exactly opposite advice on how to land a man from my good friend BNL. How's that for yin and yang?
I had a moment a couple of weeks ago that confused me even further. I met the girlfriend of someone I briefly had a crush on (a crush that was squashed and pretty quickly gotten over once I found out about said girlfriend, even though this was the first time I had actually met her). (WARNING: the rest of the next couple of paragraphs probably makes me look like a not-very-good person. However, we all have moments and habits that make us less than perfect, and admitting you have a problem is, after all, the first step to recovery.) Now, I don't know if guys do this, but it's a fairly universal female instinct to, when faced with a picture or real-life meeting with an ex of a boyfriend, a new girlfriend of an ex, or any female a guy you are or have ever been interested in might be attracted to (past or present), do the incredibly petty "am I cuter than her?" mental size-up. In this case, the answer in my head was a resounding and emphatic yes. She's a perfectly lovely woman, and a good match for the guy in question from what I could gather in our very brief contact, but I did get some smug self-satisfaction out of knowing that I am, in fact, cuter. I know - it's petty, immature, and superficial, and dammit, I just can't help it. It's a reflex - I ALWAYS do it, and I always feel pretty bad about feeling good about it. But I was thinking about it on my way home that night, and I naturally went through my mental catalogue of previous size-ups and came to the sudden realization that about 90% of the time, I have genuinely felt like I came out on top in the comparison.
(I feel the need to point out here that the comparison is strictly physical - I make no claims of being a better person, merely more attractive. Also, none of this applies to the aforementioned exes who read this, because thankfully, I have never to my knowledge seen any of the women you dated before or after me. I'm sure they are lovely and WAY hotter than I.)
I mentioned this to a friend on IM, and her respose was, "So basically what you're saying is that you're out of the league of every guy you've ever dated." Well, that's one possibility - the other is that I just have a wildly over-inflated ego. It's probably a combination of the two...I do tend to like the guys who are fantastic people, but don't have the confidence to go after the super-hot chicks they could probably get if they just tried. But there's also certainly no shortage of people out there who don't like me nearly as much as I like myself. It all just serves to drive home the point that I haven't the slightest clue what My League is anyway. I feel like I should try to re-evaluate it, but I have no idea how one goes about figuring something like that out. But if I think My League is a guy who thinks I am Out of His, then clearly a love connection will never be made.
So everybody seems to have a different theory on why I don't have a boyfriend, including me. Unfortunately, none of us seem to agree. So I officially throw in the towel. I'm clearly not doing a good job when it comes to making things happen or figuring anything out, so I think I'm done trying. I never used to have to try to make things happen - they used to just happen to me. So maybe my new strategy should be a complete lack thereof. I think that, at least for now, I am officially on strike...I am going on record as a conscientious objector...to put it simply: I give up.
Feel free to place your bets in the comments as to how long this strike will last - I doubt I'll be able to go very long before I once again fire up the decadent romantic self-analysis engine.
Unfortunately, this will NOT help the fact that I very much need to get laid. At this point, it's been so long that I'm not sure I still know how to do it, although the way the VGLM was dressed yesterday was making me desperately want to remember. Any straight man that can actually pull off a pink dress shirt is a force to be reckoned with. Damn.
Mr. Landlord steps inside for a moment and reappears with a fresh bottle. A magnum, to be exact.
I should have known better than to have "a glass of wine" with a Greek man. It's true - I did only technically have two glasses, because only once did I manage to actually empty the glass before he refilled it. I'm still not sure how that magnum wound up empty when I only had two glasses....
So after a long evening of drinking wine and talking about all manner of entertaining things, Mr. Landlord made us some Greek coffee, took his leave, and I was left chatting with Mrs. Landlord. So the inevitable question came up, "Why doesn't a girl like you have a boyfriend? You should be out juggling dates on a Friday night, not at home hanging out with us!"
"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
"Why are you alone?"
It comes in various forms, but the fact remains - I get this question a lot. In fact, it came up again just last night, and now that I'm done with grad school and I no longer get asked, "So when are you going to be done with school?" it is officially my Least Favorite Question.
To those asking it, let me answer your question with another: If I knew why I didn't have a boyfriend, don't you think I would have done something about it by now? I mean, you people seem to think I must be choosing to be single, because if I wanted a boyfriend I'd have one, end of story. While there are lots of things I like about being single, I think it's a rare person that, given the choice, would opt for being single rather than having someone special in their life. I mean, I'll take being alone over being with someone just for the sake of NOT being alone, but like everyone else, I have been programmed by God and evolution to need to pair up. It's like yin and yang - two separate, opposing, but complementary forces...each still a tiny part of the other. If you try to separate one from the other, each is left with a hole right through its core. We all need people in our lives that, though they are different from us and may have different priorities or beliefs, love us unconditionally and hold us up when we need it. And we all need that one person that can hold us up in a way that nobody else can.
When I was younger, there was a period where I was the kind of girl who always had a boyfriend. I'd date a guy for a few months, then break up, and about a month or two later I'd have a new one. And these were good guys - I've always maintained good friendships with my exes (a couple of them I happen to know read this here blog regularly), and they are all people that I still think highly of, even though they weren't right for me.
In the last year, I've had two dates. With a guy who just sent me an e-mail forward that I found not only unfunny, but more than a little bit racist.
How did I go from always having a good, quality boyfriend to bland dates with people who may or may not be racist?
Mrs. Landlord was trying to give me advice on how to land a man. Her advice pretty much boiled down to "mess with his mind and make him think he can't have you - make him think he's in danger of losing you." Basically, she told me to play games - be a bitch and they'll come after you like a puppy dog. And you know, that works...I've seen it in action. Women that have mastered the rules of that game not only always have a man in their life, but get them to give them anything they want. Remember my infuriating labmate? She was all atwitter yesterday because she was going out with her ex-boyfriend and afraid she was going to be a bad girl. And I haven't gotten the rundown of the evening yet, but I'd put money on the fact that she probably DID do something that her boyfriend won't be happy about, and she'll tell him, and it will somehow result in him showering her with lovely things that she doesn't deserve. But I can't do it. I hate the game. If I like someone, I want to be able to tell them that, not make them think I DON'T like them or that I like someone else better. Flirting with someone you are attracted to and interested in is one of the great pleasures in life - acting like they don't exist is no fun at all, at least not for me. I could play your game, but here's the thing, Mrs. L. - I don't want to be like you. Yes, you are a passionate, strong, beautiful woman with a fantastic husband, but you get into long, screaming fights with him, your mother, your daughter...every important person in your life. I have spent many an evening or long Sunday trying to pretend I'm not hearing your arguments through my ceiling. If that's what playing your game gets me, no thanks. It is, in fact, possible to live a life of passion without complete chaos.
Now, if you're a regular reader, then you know that I got exactly opposite advice on how to land a man from my good friend BNL. How's that for yin and yang?
I had a moment a couple of weeks ago that confused me even further. I met the girlfriend of someone I briefly had a crush on (a crush that was squashed and pretty quickly gotten over once I found out about said girlfriend, even though this was the first time I had actually met her). (WARNING: the rest of the next couple of paragraphs probably makes me look like a not-very-good person. However, we all have moments and habits that make us less than perfect, and admitting you have a problem is, after all, the first step to recovery.) Now, I don't know if guys do this, but it's a fairly universal female instinct to, when faced with a picture or real-life meeting with an ex of a boyfriend, a new girlfriend of an ex, or any female a guy you are or have ever been interested in might be attracted to (past or present), do the incredibly petty "am I cuter than her?" mental size-up. In this case, the answer in my head was a resounding and emphatic yes. She's a perfectly lovely woman, and a good match for the guy in question from what I could gather in our very brief contact, but I did get some smug self-satisfaction out of knowing that I am, in fact, cuter. I know - it's petty, immature, and superficial, and dammit, I just can't help it. It's a reflex - I ALWAYS do it, and I always feel pretty bad about feeling good about it. But I was thinking about it on my way home that night, and I naturally went through my mental catalogue of previous size-ups and came to the sudden realization that about 90% of the time, I have genuinely felt like I came out on top in the comparison.
(I feel the need to point out here that the comparison is strictly physical - I make no claims of being a better person, merely more attractive. Also, none of this applies to the aforementioned exes who read this, because thankfully, I have never to my knowledge seen any of the women you dated before or after me. I'm sure they are lovely and WAY hotter than I.)
I mentioned this to a friend on IM, and her respose was, "So basically what you're saying is that you're out of the league of every guy you've ever dated." Well, that's one possibility - the other is that I just have a wildly over-inflated ego. It's probably a combination of the two...I do tend to like the guys who are fantastic people, but don't have the confidence to go after the super-hot chicks they could probably get if they just tried. But there's also certainly no shortage of people out there who don't like me nearly as much as I like myself. It all just serves to drive home the point that I haven't the slightest clue what My League is anyway. I feel like I should try to re-evaluate it, but I have no idea how one goes about figuring something like that out. But if I think My League is a guy who thinks I am Out of His, then clearly a love connection will never be made.
So everybody seems to have a different theory on why I don't have a boyfriend, including me. Unfortunately, none of us seem to agree. So I officially throw in the towel. I'm clearly not doing a good job when it comes to making things happen or figuring anything out, so I think I'm done trying. I never used to have to try to make things happen - they used to just happen to me. So maybe my new strategy should be a complete lack thereof. I think that, at least for now, I am officially on strike...I am going on record as a conscientious objector...to put it simply: I give up.
Feel free to place your bets in the comments as to how long this strike will last - I doubt I'll be able to go very long before I once again fire up the decadent romantic self-analysis engine.
Unfortunately, this will NOT help the fact that I very much need to get laid. At this point, it's been so long that I'm not sure I still know how to do it, although the way the VGLM was dressed yesterday was making me desperately want to remember. Any straight man that can actually pull off a pink dress shirt is a force to be reckoned with. Damn.
Enjoy the humor of the situation.
Chapter 1:
So, without going into all the details, I had a good night tonight. Went to an AMAZING concert, shared it with a friend who wouldn't have been there if I hadn't told him about it. Have been in my usual self-indulgent philosophical frame of mind as a result.
Got off the subway at my office to get my stuff.
Am much more observant when I am in this state of mind, so as I walk to the office, I notice the way the buildings look at night....the way the sidewalks arc off from the normal path...an abandoned baseball cap that says, "change the world."
So I pick it up.
Turn it around.
The back says "IBM."
Does anyone else see the humor in the situation?
What if I tell you that I had to let the cap out to make it fit? I'm sure there's something deeply insightful in there about small minds, but I'll just let you figure out how to articulate it.
And in the meantime...I'm considering it a gift from God because the thunderstorms have made it suddenly cold and resulted in my having a bad hair day (as though it wasn't already bad enough).
Hey...you have your Gospel, and I've got mine. That's the beauty of interpretation.
Chapter 2:
I realized on the bus that I, in my "change the world" cap...with my shoes in a brown paper bag (and yes, I was wearing another pair - I'm not yet weird enough to go barefoot on public transit)...my laptop bag tucked under my seat in the customary crowded commute manner even though there were approximately 5 people on the entire bus and thus no need for space management...I had become the sort of person I normally blog about. I was officially the oddest person on the bus. But a close second was the guy across from me, a drowsy fellow who was clearly packing a well-worn copy of the Bible. But he was even more tired than I, and struggled to find a comfortable posture in which to doze on the way home.
What I wouldn't have given to have had my camera on me at that moment. Picture it: a man dozing, Bible in lap, with a movie marquee in the window behind him reading, "Knocked Up." Again, not sure I can articulate the true deliciousness that is that slice of irony.
But seriously...how many people do you know, who are returning home dead tired with a splitting headache...yet, faced with the choice between going inside and going to my warm and rather comfortable bed and curling up on the cold ground in the park across the street, choose the latter?
I couldn't help it. Venus was lookin' mighty fine. And, I think, Mars.
I am seriously odd. And I have GOT to stop reading astronomy books.
So, without going into all the details, I had a good night tonight. Went to an AMAZING concert, shared it with a friend who wouldn't have been there if I hadn't told him about it. Have been in my usual self-indulgent philosophical frame of mind as a result.
Got off the subway at my office to get my stuff.
Am much more observant when I am in this state of mind, so as I walk to the office, I notice the way the buildings look at night....the way the sidewalks arc off from the normal path...an abandoned baseball cap that says, "change the world."
So I pick it up.
Turn it around.
The back says "IBM."
Does anyone else see the humor in the situation?
What if I tell you that I had to let the cap out to make it fit? I'm sure there's something deeply insightful in there about small minds, but I'll just let you figure out how to articulate it.
And in the meantime...I'm considering it a gift from God because the thunderstorms have made it suddenly cold and resulted in my having a bad hair day (as though it wasn't already bad enough).
Hey...you have your Gospel, and I've got mine. That's the beauty of interpretation.
Chapter 2:
(This is officially the first blog entry I have WRITTEN on the train, as opposed to merely COMPOSED on the train. Anyone familiar with the obsolescence of my laptop should appreciate that that imposes a severe time constraint, due to poor battery life. I even went the wrong way on the line because I was so engrossed in getting this started, so you should all be feeling really important right now - I almost didn't get home on your behalf. Seriously - I could be way the hell over on the northwest side of the GTA with NO IDEA how to get home had I not noticed the "the next station is Wellesley...Wellesley station" announcement in time.)
A job?
A man?
SOMETHING.
Because I really like My City. And the idea that I've already spent almost half of my time here is feeling WAY too close and finite. If I can't stay here, I really need a reason to be somewhere else. And that ain't happening either.
I realized on the bus that I, in my "change the world" cap...with my shoes in a brown paper bag (and yes, I was wearing another pair - I'm not yet weird enough to go barefoot on public transit)...my laptop bag tucked under my seat in the customary crowded commute manner even though there were approximately 5 people on the entire bus and thus no need for space management...I had become the sort of person I normally blog about. I was officially the oddest person on the bus. But a close second was the guy across from me, a drowsy fellow who was clearly packing a well-worn copy of the Bible. But he was even more tired than I, and struggled to find a comfortable posture in which to doze on the way home.
What I wouldn't have given to have had my camera on me at that moment. Picture it: a man dozing, Bible in lap, with a movie marquee in the window behind him reading, "Knocked Up." Again, not sure I can articulate the true deliciousness that is that slice of irony.
But seriously...how many people do you know, who are returning home dead tired with a splitting headache...yet, faced with the choice between going inside and going to my warm and rather comfortable bed and curling up on the cold ground in the park across the street, choose the latter?
I couldn't help it. Venus was lookin' mighty fine. And, I think, Mars.
I am seriously odd. And I have GOT to stop reading astronomy books.
Friday, June 08, 2007
I put my rants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else.
I have just about had it with my department.
Last month, they farted around so long with getting my new contract ready that I am currently working without a valid work permit (although the nice lady at Immigration assures me that I am not an illegal alien, as long as I sent in my renewal application before the old one expired, I have a grace period). I am also sans a valid health card because I can not renew it until I have a valid work permit in hand, so I will be getting my ass chewed out by the Ministry of Health whenever I actually go in to get a new one. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack or break any bones until Immigration gets around to sending me my permit. Then, on payday, I was underpaid by over $800 because the woman who does the payroll ignored the new contract AND the reminder that my boss sends her every month about who is supposed to get paid what and simply paid me the amount that my boss USED to pay me when my salary was supplemented by my teaching income. When the error was brought to her attention, she requested a cheque from the university to correct the difference, and said that she would forward notification in a day or two when the cheque would be ready for me to pick up.
That was a week ago.
Yesterday, I sent her and my boss an e-mail asking what the status was, since I cannot pay my bills this month without that money, and it takes at least 10 days for me to transfer money back home in order to pay those bills, so I pretty much need to start that process right after payday and we're now a week and a half past that day. Boss is understandably concerned (he's already feeling bad enough about the salary he's paying me, even when the department ISN'T stiffing me by $800). Woman in the business office writes back this morning to say that the cheque has been ready since the 31st, and she forwarded the notification to both me and the Boss, she doesn't know what happened.
Let's see: you forwarded this to TWO people, yet NEITHER of us received it. Huh. AMAZING.
Just suck it up and admit you forgot to send it. I realize that this little glitch isn't even a blip on the radar screen amid the millions of dollars that you deal with every day, but it's a big fucking deal to someone like me.
On a related note, those of you reading this who care about me, please say a little prayer, do a ritual tribal dance, do whatever it is you do to make good things happen to people you care about. I'm waiting to hear about a fellowship that would literally double my salary. The odds are REALLY slim of my getting it (as in, 3 of them are slotted to be distributed among something like 6 of the faculties at the U of T, as if merely competing with everyone else in Arts and Sciences wasn't enough), but Boss and I are hoping that since they announced it fairly late not many people found out about it in time to apply. I'm not getting my hopes up, but it's hard not to think of all of the good changes I could make in my life if I were actually making the kind of income a postdoc is supposed to be making.
Last month, they farted around so long with getting my new contract ready that I am currently working without a valid work permit (although the nice lady at Immigration assures me that I am not an illegal alien, as long as I sent in my renewal application before the old one expired, I have a grace period). I am also sans a valid health card because I can not renew it until I have a valid work permit in hand, so I will be getting my ass chewed out by the Ministry of Health whenever I actually go in to get a new one. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack or break any bones until Immigration gets around to sending me my permit. Then, on payday, I was underpaid by over $800 because the woman who does the payroll ignored the new contract AND the reminder that my boss sends her every month about who is supposed to get paid what and simply paid me the amount that my boss USED to pay me when my salary was supplemented by my teaching income. When the error was brought to her attention, she requested a cheque from the university to correct the difference, and said that she would forward notification in a day or two when the cheque would be ready for me to pick up.
That was a week ago.
Yesterday, I sent her and my boss an e-mail asking what the status was, since I cannot pay my bills this month without that money, and it takes at least 10 days for me to transfer money back home in order to pay those bills, so I pretty much need to start that process right after payday and we're now a week and a half past that day. Boss is understandably concerned (he's already feeling bad enough about the salary he's paying me, even when the department ISN'T stiffing me by $800). Woman in the business office writes back this morning to say that the cheque has been ready since the 31st, and she forwarded the notification to both me and the Boss, she doesn't know what happened.
Let's see: you forwarded this to TWO people, yet NEITHER of us received it. Huh. AMAZING.
Just suck it up and admit you forgot to send it. I realize that this little glitch isn't even a blip on the radar screen amid the millions of dollars that you deal with every day, but it's a big fucking deal to someone like me.
On a related note, those of you reading this who care about me, please say a little prayer, do a ritual tribal dance, do whatever it is you do to make good things happen to people you care about. I'm waiting to hear about a fellowship that would literally double my salary. The odds are REALLY slim of my getting it (as in, 3 of them are slotted to be distributed among something like 6 of the faculties at the U of T, as if merely competing with everyone else in Arts and Sciences wasn't enough), but Boss and I are hoping that since they announced it fairly late not many people found out about it in time to apply. I'm not getting my hopes up, but it's hard not to think of all of the good changes I could make in my life if I were actually making the kind of income a postdoc is supposed to be making.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
