So I had an interview yesterday. Or at least I think it was an interview -- the interviewers had copies of my resume, I brought work samples, and we talked about future work possibilities.
But it wasn't an interview in the traditional sense: there was no coveted job on the line, and my expectations were (and remain) fairly low.
Now, I have gone for many an interview. Some have been fantastic, leading to successful stints and professional relationships that lasted long after I left the employer. Others ... notsomuch. I remember one particularly awful experience in the basement of a ski lodge that left me crying, broken down by the sheer struggle of working in a field that didn't fit. Needles to say I didn't get the job.
As a freelancer I have a much different frame of reference when it comes to dealing with higher-ups. When I meet or speak by phone with editors it's mostly about content, results, projects. We try to find what will fit -- we don't try to find that elusive bi-weekly paycheque. And I've been told (I believe it was by Craig Silverman at a PWAC event last year) that face-time really counts when it comes to getting gigs as a freelance journalist.
I could definitely have been more prepared for this 'meeting,' but I took the advice of a contact who has worked for years with this organization. She said be yourself -- so I was. Doesn't mean that self -- skill set, and all -- can't change, but they should know the truth about where I am now. I don't need to fake enthusiasm or sincerity, at least with this employer. I feel it's my dream employer and I feel like I've entered some other, better world when I consume their content.
So I will do more of this, and get better at it. I will take what I've got and see what they have, and see if we can't make something fit.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Montreal Discoveries
Went to Montreal yesterday with Kirstin the Materialist and one of her stylish friends. A few discoveries:
Jeans by Bedo!
Mission: accomplished. It has literally been years (over five) since I have purchased a new pair of jeans. I've been wearing one pair from Tristan that I scooped at a clothing exchange, but even those are only for 'skinny' days. This new pair, though ... wow. High-waisted without being extreme, dark denim, front seam adding shape and sophistication... and only $50! Yay.
The Joys of Shotgun
Usually I don't get this front-row seat, or it comes at the expense of personal sanity, as I instinctively brake on an imaginary wheel everytime the driver lacks what I deem appropriate caution. But Endeman was cool ... so cool were we, in fact, that we missed the exit to Montreal while we caught up. I know our backseat passenger was miffed, but I took it as a sign that I can relax, enjoy the scenery. After all, Montreal turned out to be experiencing quite the blizzard, so this was part of our 'strolling' approach to the day.
Breakfast Breasts
A less enjoyable aspect came when we tracked down a breakfast joint. It took three or four blocks of somewhat anxious searching around St. Laurent and Rue Arthur, but we soon found a place that was not too expensive and still gave us that chic-we're-in-Montreal feeling. Unfortunately, it also gave us that don't-look-now-but-you-can-see-that-girls-thong feeling. American Apparel dresses on breakfast servers? AND WHERE IS OUR BILL? Perhaps it got lost somewhere in between the cleavage and the smiling, well-dressed men ... w. the potential of thick tips. In any case, we were relieved to get out of there, despite the fact that the poached eggs were near-perfect.
Deep now, deep thoughts
After an hour or so of Montreal strolling (so quiet as the snow piled up on the side streets), we got into Montreal/ Quebec politics. One suggested that the city was in a better place before the language laws pushed out big business; I mused that maybe Montrealers are happy with the trade off, that preserving culture, as they see it, is worth the decreased national and international position.
Then we took a right, through a sweet little snowy park en route to Arthur. We continued to gape at turrets and fantasize about a life in downtown Montreal. The politics continued but we also made room for stiletto complaints and price-point comparisons.
While the other girls talked shop, I considered snow removal. Who gets more snow, Ottawa or Montreal? Who has better snow removal? And how would this be judged?
Of course this train of thought was spurred by a snow removal vehicle, and as I came out of my speculative trance I saw the vehicle's driver staring at me. I stared back. I swear we were having a stand-off of stares, when finally another vehicle came around and he was forced to change his focus. But what's up with that?
The only answer I could find was a by-product of the earlier conversation. I thought he was staring at me, the nerve! But maybe I was staring at him, and he was like, 'who does she think she is?'
And maybe, just maybe, it's an uncomfortable trade-off of a free society.
You can stare at me, and I can stare at you.
We might not like it, or we might. We might even find ourselves blogging about it nearly 24 hours later! Though a Craigslist missed connection it is not.
Jeans by Bedo!
Mission: accomplished. It has literally been years (over five) since I have purchased a new pair of jeans. I've been wearing one pair from Tristan that I scooped at a clothing exchange, but even those are only for 'skinny' days. This new pair, though ... wow. High-waisted without being extreme, dark denim, front seam adding shape and sophistication... and only $50! Yay.
The Joys of Shotgun
Usually I don't get this front-row seat, or it comes at the expense of personal sanity, as I instinctively brake on an imaginary wheel everytime the driver lacks what I deem appropriate caution. But Endeman was cool ... so cool were we, in fact, that we missed the exit to Montreal while we caught up. I know our backseat passenger was miffed, but I took it as a sign that I can relax, enjoy the scenery. After all, Montreal turned out to be experiencing quite the blizzard, so this was part of our 'strolling' approach to the day.
Breakfast Breasts
A less enjoyable aspect came when we tracked down a breakfast joint. It took three or four blocks of somewhat anxious searching around St. Laurent and Rue Arthur, but we soon found a place that was not too expensive and still gave us that chic-we're-in-Montreal feeling. Unfortunately, it also gave us that don't-look-now-but-you-can-see-that-girls-thong feeling. American Apparel dresses on breakfast servers? AND WHERE IS OUR BILL? Perhaps it got lost somewhere in between the cleavage and the smiling, well-dressed men ... w. the potential of thick tips. In any case, we were relieved to get out of there, despite the fact that the poached eggs were near-perfect.
Deep now, deep thoughts
After an hour or so of Montreal strolling (so quiet as the snow piled up on the side streets), we got into Montreal/ Quebec politics. One suggested that the city was in a better place before the language laws pushed out big business; I mused that maybe Montrealers are happy with the trade off, that preserving culture, as they see it, is worth the decreased national and international position.
Then we took a right, through a sweet little snowy park en route to Arthur. We continued to gape at turrets and fantasize about a life in downtown Montreal. The politics continued but we also made room for stiletto complaints and price-point comparisons.
While the other girls talked shop, I considered snow removal. Who gets more snow, Ottawa or Montreal? Who has better snow removal? And how would this be judged?
Of course this train of thought was spurred by a snow removal vehicle, and as I came out of my speculative trance I saw the vehicle's driver staring at me. I stared back. I swear we were having a stand-off of stares, when finally another vehicle came around and he was forced to change his focus. But what's up with that?
The only answer I could find was a by-product of the earlier conversation. I thought he was staring at me, the nerve! But maybe I was staring at him, and he was like, 'who does she think she is?'
And maybe, just maybe, it's an uncomfortable trade-off of a free society.
You can stare at me, and I can stare at you.
We might not like it, or we might. We might even find ourselves blogging about it nearly 24 hours later! Though a Craigslist missed connection it is not.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The atheist bus ads
So -- perhaps not surprisingly -- Ottawa said no to the atheist bus ads that read:
There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.
What came as a more pleasant discovery was the editorial by Atheist Bus proponent (and Freethought Association of Canada president) Justin Trottier in today's Citizen. Expecting a confrontational tirade on Ottawa's conservative approach and the slippery slope of censorship, I was surprised to find a relaxed, fact-based (23% of Canadians don't believe in any god?) argument that called for continued discussion (and some talk of free speech, rightly so).
So here I am, Justin, trying to keep the conversation up.
I took interest in the mention of public transit as an ideal space for moving this discussion into the mainstream, and the suggestion that the United Church and other groups are in support of this dialogue.
Good defence on the money-well-spent front, and I've never really heard atheism summed up so succinctly:
"While atheism is not itself an ethical system, secular and humanistic values are crucial to an open society. They are the values of individual autonomy and universal human rights. They include the belief that evidence, reason and free inquiry form the best way of seeking solutions to shared problems. Try fitting all that on the side of a bus."
I've been following most of said discussion, but I'm still left wondering: how did you come up with the text for this ad?
I know you couldn't fit all of the above on the side of a bus, but as a Christian I'm confused. My belief in God doesn't make me enjoy life less. Rather, the exact opposite. I worry, sure, but doesn't everyone, regardless of their worldview? And I don't worry that much. Maybe that means I'm not a real Christian.
In any case, in all the debate I haven't heard where this text came from -- and I'd love to.
There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.
What came as a more pleasant discovery was the editorial by Atheist Bus proponent (and Freethought Association of Canada president) Justin Trottier in today's Citizen. Expecting a confrontational tirade on Ottawa's conservative approach and the slippery slope of censorship, I was surprised to find a relaxed, fact-based (23% of Canadians don't believe in any god?) argument that called for continued discussion (and some talk of free speech, rightly so).
So here I am, Justin, trying to keep the conversation up.
I took interest in the mention of public transit as an ideal space for moving this discussion into the mainstream, and the suggestion that the United Church and other groups are in support of this dialogue.
Good defence on the money-well-spent front, and I've never really heard atheism summed up so succinctly:
"While atheism is not itself an ethical system, secular and humanistic values are crucial to an open society. They are the values of individual autonomy and universal human rights. They include the belief that evidence, reason and free inquiry form the best way of seeking solutions to shared problems. Try fitting all that on the side of a bus."
I've been following most of said discussion, but I'm still left wondering: how did you come up with the text for this ad?
I know you couldn't fit all of the above on the side of a bus, but as a Christian I'm confused. My belief in God doesn't make me enjoy life less. Rather, the exact opposite. I worry, sure, but doesn't everyone, regardless of their worldview? And I don't worry that much. Maybe that means I'm not a real Christian.
In any case, in all the debate I haven't heard where this text came from -- and I'd love to.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Work/ life balance
Following my last post on the career/ marriage balance, I've been re-assessing priorities and taking stock of what really matters. Lots of 'in the moment' thinking and dishwashing daydreams.
While part of it accompanies the whole seven-months-before-I-say-I-do phase, these contemplative thoughts are also a result of a recent mini-tragedy in my home: my roommate broke her arm.
It's a pretty bad break and they don't know if she'll need surgery. She's doing acupuncture and Chinese medicine, not to mention legal action. This all adds up to a pile of appointments, plus the usual cooking, cleaning, opening and closing that people do with their right arm.
Being the stay-at-home freelancer that I am, I not only have the flexibility to help out, but I also have the financial "situation" that made me quite open to her mom's offer of compensation for running my roommate -- and good friend -- around town. (Basically, she paid off the debt I owed to said roommate.)
While I might not be the most cheerful of fetchers, I'm actually enjoying the process. It makes me organize my time (up earlier, at my desk later), but perhaps more importantly, it has made me think about my priorities.
When we're sick or hurt we can't help but put our life first. We can't type with a broken hand, we can't speak coherently on heavy pain meds. But if we're so removed from putting some importance on 'life' stuff like health and food and fitness and laughing, when we're blindsided with sickness or injury it's easy to panic, unable to imagine life beyond work.
But it's out there!
While part of it accompanies the whole seven-months-before-I-say-I-do phase, these contemplative thoughts are also a result of a recent mini-tragedy in my home: my roommate broke her arm.
It's a pretty bad break and they don't know if she'll need surgery. She's doing acupuncture and Chinese medicine, not to mention legal action. This all adds up to a pile of appointments, plus the usual cooking, cleaning, opening and closing that people do with their right arm.
Being the stay-at-home freelancer that I am, I not only have the flexibility to help out, but I also have the financial "situation" that made me quite open to her mom's offer of compensation for running my roommate -- and good friend -- around town. (Basically, she paid off the debt I owed to said roommate.)
While I might not be the most cheerful of fetchers, I'm actually enjoying the process. It makes me organize my time (up earlier, at my desk later), but perhaps more importantly, it has made me think about my priorities.
When we're sick or hurt we can't help but put our life first. We can't type with a broken hand, we can't speak coherently on heavy pain meds. But if we're so removed from putting some importance on 'life' stuff like health and food and fitness and laughing, when we're blindsided with sickness or injury it's easy to panic, unable to imagine life beyond work.
But it's out there!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Writing as a right
With my roommate's mom here tending to my spunky pal's broken bones and bed-ridden blues, I'm getting an extra dose of mothering -- a kind of parenting that includes more opinions and boy talk. Over wine and pizza at 3 in the afternoon yesterday she gave me her two cents about my plans to move to the U.S. in support of my fiance's education plans.
"American's are different"
"You know what they say about when one partner moves to be near the other, with no social network"
"What about your career?"
I finally stopped her relentless critique, yet something stirred inside. Perhaps it was the wine or the white-flour pizza, but I was feeling uneasy about the status of our plan. We hadn't fully explored the options within Canada -- a country that would offer us health care and interest relief on my substantial student loan.
I hemed and hawed over this notion for the rest of the day, looking for signs. There were signals that the U.S. market would be fertile ground for my journalism career -- like the environmental blog I'm about to start contributing to, based in NYC -- but there were also signs I should stay here in Ottawa. Assignment letters. Responses from new editors. Neighbourhoods blossoming with community spirit (that make Ottawa less like a city and more like a bunch of towns and a stable #1 employer).
I broached the subject with my fiance and it turned into a bit of a squabble, but I didn't tell him where the subject initiated from and I ended the conversation surprising him with the news that I'd be down for Valentines Day. As with all our plan-making, we're taking baby steps and keeping our options open.
In any case, with my career on the line and the love-or-money question raised, I settled down to write about what it is that keeps me tapping away at a keyboard, scrawling in the dark, composing poems on long runs. It came down to a fundamental feeling that I had a right to write. That I would feel somehow less human, less myself, less connected to the world, were I to give up the ghost on writing (and making a living by it).
And then I slept, and dreamt like never before. At one point, on the verge of tears, I shut my eyes and saw a book, it's pages urging me to write.
I woke, recalling my dream for pages in the half-light of dawn.
In the end, I found that writing is a right, as fundamental to my existence as water or air. Take it away and I falter, grasping at straws for who I am and what I am here for.
"American's are different"
"You know what they say about when one partner moves to be near the other, with no social network"
"What about your career?"
I finally stopped her relentless critique, yet something stirred inside. Perhaps it was the wine or the white-flour pizza, but I was feeling uneasy about the status of our plan. We hadn't fully explored the options within Canada -- a country that would offer us health care and interest relief on my substantial student loan.
I hemed and hawed over this notion for the rest of the day, looking for signs. There were signals that the U.S. market would be fertile ground for my journalism career -- like the environmental blog I'm about to start contributing to, based in NYC -- but there were also signs I should stay here in Ottawa. Assignment letters. Responses from new editors. Neighbourhoods blossoming with community spirit (that make Ottawa less like a city and more like a bunch of towns and a stable #1 employer).
I broached the subject with my fiance and it turned into a bit of a squabble, but I didn't tell him where the subject initiated from and I ended the conversation surprising him with the news that I'd be down for Valentines Day. As with all our plan-making, we're taking baby steps and keeping our options open.
In any case, with my career on the line and the love-or-money question raised, I settled down to write about what it is that keeps me tapping away at a keyboard, scrawling in the dark, composing poems on long runs. It came down to a fundamental feeling that I had a right to write. That I would feel somehow less human, less myself, less connected to the world, were I to give up the ghost on writing (and making a living by it).
And then I slept, and dreamt like never before. At one point, on the verge of tears, I shut my eyes and saw a book, it's pages urging me to write.
I woke, recalling my dream for pages in the half-light of dawn.
In the end, I found that writing is a right, as fundamental to my existence as water or air. Take it away and I falter, grasping at straws for who I am and what I am here for.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Monday morning (attitude)
Yes, it's Monday morning as I write this, a very cold Monday morning that saw the temperature actually drop after the sun came up. It also saw my alarm clock wake me (from a dream about getting my hair cut, the stylist finding popcorn kernels under my gums) at 7:30 a.m.!
Now, I'm usually at my desk by 9 a.m. ... but that's allowing for a dreamy 20 minutes or so of sheet-shuffling and dream-remembering. Today I had an appointment to keep: a seniors fitness class at the Metro Y.
As with all my fitness initiatives, there was a brief pause in which I questioned -- nay, doubted -- my decision. Do aerobics? For the sake of appeasing a source? Just because he offered a guest pass to his class? When it's -34C?
But alas, my bladder had already been stirred and I knew I had to answer the call. Soon I was bundled up: Gortex pants, puffy red coat, long johns, double layer of socks ... you get the picture (though really I should start documenting these get-ups... they're really something!)
That's not to say my resolve was complete. No, I stuck todays' Ottawa Citizen in my back pack -- just in case my fitness instructor source hadn't made arrangements to get me in the class free, I wanted to have back-up plans for hanging in the downtown Y lobby.
Then, as I walked in the frigid Centretown streets, the moisture from my breath forming a white layer of frost along the edge of my scarf, I realized that I was ready to rock. I had pulled myself out of bed, over the hump of Monday morning, and I was prepared to pay whatever (ok, I was considering a $3.25 limit...) to get into that class ... and receive what I knew would be a healthy dose of inspiration.
Indeed, it was more than I could have asked for. My name was on a sheet at the front desk (spelled correctly!), and the class was welcoming, quick-paced, and funny. It got me 'out of my comfort zone' by verbalizing grunts and 'voilas,' all to the tune of ABBA, Olivia Newton John, and the rest of those aerobics classics.
If you've never seen seniors move it, you're really missing out. There was something goofy, yet focused, about the mood of the class -- and altogether it made me excited for that chapter of my life.
As for this here chapter of my life, I'm meeting my source later today for coffee, where I'm expecting him to tell me the location of the fountain of youth, or at least lead me to some interesting stories.
But if neither works out, as is sometimes the case in this freelance life, I'll know this morning was not wasted. The Y60 class at Metro Y, the -34C, the alarm clock and the bundling, all got me over of the slump that sometimes comes with Monday morning.
Now, I'm usually at my desk by 9 a.m. ... but that's allowing for a dreamy 20 minutes or so of sheet-shuffling and dream-remembering. Today I had an appointment to keep: a seniors fitness class at the Metro Y.
As with all my fitness initiatives, there was a brief pause in which I questioned -- nay, doubted -- my decision. Do aerobics? For the sake of appeasing a source? Just because he offered a guest pass to his class? When it's -34C?
But alas, my bladder had already been stirred and I knew I had to answer the call. Soon I was bundled up: Gortex pants, puffy red coat, long johns, double layer of socks ... you get the picture (though really I should start documenting these get-ups... they're really something!)
That's not to say my resolve was complete. No, I stuck todays' Ottawa Citizen in my back pack -- just in case my fitness instructor source hadn't made arrangements to get me in the class free, I wanted to have back-up plans for hanging in the downtown Y lobby.
Then, as I walked in the frigid Centretown streets, the moisture from my breath forming a white layer of frost along the edge of my scarf, I realized that I was ready to rock. I had pulled myself out of bed, over the hump of Monday morning, and I was prepared to pay whatever (ok, I was considering a $3.25 limit...) to get into that class ... and receive what I knew would be a healthy dose of inspiration.
Indeed, it was more than I could have asked for. My name was on a sheet at the front desk (spelled correctly!), and the class was welcoming, quick-paced, and funny. It got me 'out of my comfort zone' by verbalizing grunts and 'voilas,' all to the tune of ABBA, Olivia Newton John, and the rest of those aerobics classics.
If you've never seen seniors move it, you're really missing out. There was something goofy, yet focused, about the mood of the class -- and altogether it made me excited for that chapter of my life.
As for this here chapter of my life, I'm meeting my source later today for coffee, where I'm expecting him to tell me the location of the fountain of youth, or at least lead me to some interesting stories.
But if neither works out, as is sometimes the case in this freelance life, I'll know this morning was not wasted. The Y60 class at Metro Y, the -34C, the alarm clock and the bundling, all got me over of the slump that sometimes comes with Monday morning.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Longjohns
Yes, those second-skin garments made the fashion news this week, as menswear designers went for 'toned down creations in the context of economic woes.'
With analysts calling it the most radical change in "fashion consumption history," models touted relaxed trenches, cardigan coats and ... longjohns. For those recently-made-redundant, stay-at-home types, perhaps? Indeed, my first reaction was to cynically wretch at the thought of thousands of men, deflated without a bi-weekly paycheck, but as I pulled on my own long underwear the image in the mirror gave me pause.
Back in my day as a 'ski area professional' (we take offense to 'ski bum') I was given many a compliments for my ability to strut in said garment, my collection of multi-colored and multi-purpose longjohns, even my potential as a model for Mountain Equipment Co-op catalogs. Longjohns hide just enough, smoothing flabby bits and whispering cottage getaway in one, practical wardrobe piece. They take the role of Spanx and the cute-factor of Uggs (the boot we love to hate). And they are now needling their way onto the 2009 runway collections of recession-fearing menswear designers.
And if you're going to stay at home, wearing one item of clothing for most of the day, it might as well be comfy -- and designer-labelled.
With analysts calling it the most radical change in "fashion consumption history," models touted relaxed trenches, cardigan coats and ... longjohns. For those recently-made-redundant, stay-at-home types, perhaps? Indeed, my first reaction was to cynically wretch at the thought of thousands of men, deflated without a bi-weekly paycheck, but as I pulled on my own long underwear the image in the mirror gave me pause.
Back in my day as a 'ski area professional' (we take offense to 'ski bum') I was given many a compliments for my ability to strut in said garment, my collection of multi-colored and multi-purpose longjohns, even my potential as a model for Mountain Equipment Co-op catalogs. Longjohns hide just enough, smoothing flabby bits and whispering cottage getaway in one, practical wardrobe piece. They take the role of Spanx and the cute-factor of Uggs (the boot we love to hate). And they are now needling their way onto the 2009 runway collections of recession-fearing menswear designers.
And if you're going to stay at home, wearing one item of clothing for most of the day, it might as well be comfy -- and designer-labelled.
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