I come across, both online and in person, as a cheery do-bee who just loves working. And yes, I get the question about work all the time. “How do you do it?” “How do you do so much of it?”
And I want to say, full stop: Because I need the money.
You know, to live.
I am sadly not surprised that childcare workers get paid less than people who care for animals. We constantly devalue the work of caring for and raising children.
I’m still unreasonably unnerved at the thought of being secretly “off work” for 42 hours.
Alice Gregory is living one of my dreams. Okay she lives many of my dreams but this specific one is about finding her uniform, which in her case is a black turtleneck, jeans, and black boots.
Getting a restaurant reservation for a popular restaurant can sometimes feel like an impossible task. A friend of mine once wrote a long, lovely letter to a restaurant owner to get a reservation, while another friend was able to land a reservation by using a concierge service via his credit card. I tend to wait until the hype has died down a bit before making an attempt to dine at whatever restaurant just received a load of glowing reviews, or join a dinner party that managed to get a reservation through some kind of hookup.
students would be well served to avoid the New England Institute of Art, a private for-profit college, where the typical net price is $29,700, median debt is $30,600, 16 percent of borrowers default on their loans, and just 36 percent of students graduate.
Wages for Housework is one of my favorite movements that will never happen but just talking about the possibility works to counteract the invisibility of this kind of labor. The Times has a nice roundtable debate on it.
This from NYMag’s Science of Us blog, “The Unshakeable Optimism of Thirtysomethings.” I think if anything it’s the unshakeable optimism of human people, who want to feel like anything is possible for long as is possible. When do we lose that? I hope not any time soon, but if you have (jquick?), please let us know in the comments.
By the time I got back to the apartment, greeted by a smiling baby, it was 11:30 a.m. I’ve been up for five hours, haven’t done a lick of work, and have to feed the baby again at noon.