Working

Other people’s stuff

Uberfrau comments on the labour dispute at a certain unnamed university.  Searing.

Prelude to summer: or, The Party

It was a colossally good drunk.  I won’t speak about the hangover.

The Professors threw a party last night, which feted an academic conference I did not actually attend.  Even so, the booze was free and plentiful and I shamelessly took advantage of the fact to  get completely legless.  I was by no means the only one.  

It’s been a while since I’ve been to a party, and even longer since I’ve been to a full on, balls-to-the-wall, smoke-‘em-if-you-got-‘em party, as last night’s indisputably was.  Montrealers, I’ve noticed, don’t throw parties quite the way they used to, which has everything to do with the fact that spacious apartments have gone the way of the dodo.  It’s hard to tear the roof off in a 3 ½, and harder still when most of your neighbours are colicky newborns.

Thus, it falls to the Professors to offer up their homes for summer revelry, and to provide the gallons of beer, wine, and spirits it takes to get a loftful of their peers and graduate students loaded.  That this cohort happened to include several old and much-missed friends and a decent smattering of new ones was merely the olive in the martini glass.

And yes, that was me dancing my ass off to Eminem.  Je ne regrette rien. 

 

Help?

As if life wasn’t already stressful enough, my computer has decided to stop functioning. Therefore, I am in dire need of a PC geek who makes house calls.

I know, I know–I’m the last person in the known universe to use a PC, but even so, I’m hoping that someone out there will take pity on me and kindly donate their expertise.  If that person is you, please drop me a line.

UPDATE:

Forty-eight hours, two tech support calls, thirty-six minutes on hold, several dozen reboots, one virus scan, three Windows patches, two system restores, and three hours of diagnostic tests later, I think it’s safe to say that I have a working computer again. Now, if I could only get those two days of my life back. Or, failing that, a Mac.

Post

Word

My student loan arrived on Friday.  The crisis is over but my morale is low as I brace for a summer of not quite enough.  After rent, hydro, and credit card payments, I have $350 a month to live on, which is hardly cause for celebration.  It is also not the stuff of great blog posts.

Since the conditions of my loan prevent me from earning employment income, I am keeping an eye out for under-the-table work.  If anyone reading happens to know of any, please do get in touch.

 

Mot juste

From the card that came with a bottle of scotch:

It is miserable to be really broke.  But it is more miserable to be really broke and sober.

xoxo,
S.

There’s a word that has been on my mind lately: fellow-feeling.  It is one of those expressions that teeters on the edge of archaism, the kind that, in the absence of more precise terminologies, one secretly yearns to revive. 

Fellow-feeling is synonymous with the word sympathy, but it strikes the ear differently.  It is a compound noun and a densely layered one, which, in addition to its noun-ness, possesses elements of verb, adverb, and even adjective.  Between them lies its meaning: someone feels, or has felt, as you do.

These last weeks, I have become keenly aware of the presence and absence of this quality, and there is something in the difference that speaks volumes about both friendship and politics.  I am considering this as I drink a glass of scotch, slowly, savouring its bite.

 

You mean people actually read this thing?

You know, when I finally get my student loan, I think I’ll rent me an $800 dorm room.  I hear it comes with amazing amenities.

As an update to my last post, I applied for an emergency bursary on Friday which should come through sometime this week.  Until then, my awkward but sincere thanks to those of you who have offered personal loans of various kinds.  While I won’t take your money, I will definitely take your beer and, more importantly, your company.  Poverty is nothing if not lonely.

Honestly, it’s been a hell of a spring, and because of it I find myself on the verge of fucking two things up that are very important to me.  Here’s hoping that the base does not in fact determine the superstructure, and that it’s never too late to rise phoenix-like from the ashes of one’s own ineptitude. 

(Sighs.)  Onward…

 

Still life with reno

The trees have leaves now, little ones that are exactly the colour of the pencil crayon Spring Green.  It’s still cold at night but I open my windows during the day, which are once again portals to the buzz of renovation work that is as much a sign of the season as tulips.

I would have thought that by now there would be nothing left to renovate.  Certainly, every window in the neighbourhood has already been replaced, as has every electrical wire and stairwell.  Perhaps it’s finally come to the installation of diamond encrusted kitchen islands and solid gold Jacuzzis, anything to wring the last drips of profit from a market that has started, finally, to cool.

Whatever the cause, the buzz is the soundtrack to a life that has lately become extraordinarily dull.  I am rationing everything–bus tickets, tampons, iron pills–and the relative success or failure of this endeavour determines my mood for the day.  Today, I spent ten minutes debating whether or not to buy a cup of coffee on my way to Arit’s place.  No, this is no fun at all.

Meanwhile, I read memos authored by a certain unnamed university trumpeting how well it treats its graduate students and I want to scream and cry at once.  Although I remain on the sidelines of the conflict, I hope the union kicks its lying, corporate ass all the way to Quebec City.  And with an ounce of luck, it will.

 

Out