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Tuesday, July 19

Ikea Kitchen Cart DIY

Truth: I've never wanted a Bekvam cart, that Ikea staple of a million undergrad kitchens.
It's a functional size and shape, but the untreated wood isn't very appealing. Last month, during a DIY drought--our apartment is running out of projects, how will I live?--I decided to give in, buy the Bekvam, lug the box home and start staining. Our existing kitchen "cart" needed to eat it, after all:

cart before

I mean, look at that thing. Purchased on sale at Canadian Tire in 2008 for $10. It could barely even stand up straight.  

Staining and painting are hard tasks when you live in a cramped apartment, so I opted to get the job done outside on our (equally cramped) front porch. Let's just say, I spent a lot of time yelling at wind.

After:
cart after


butcher block
(Please ignore the disgusting switch plate. This ain't my house, so I ain't DIY-ing that thing.)

It looks like a million bucks--or like $249.00, which is the price of Ikea's similar Stenstorp cart. 
I'm currently living cheaper than Ikea. I didn't think it could be done. 

Also!
nancy drew

A gift from Devan's mom, or, a book salvaged from a basement in London, ON. Yes, those are goblets of milk on the front cover. 

captive biscuits

I may have to start a series of blog posts testing out these recipes. Nay, will. 

My City of Internships

I've been nursing a quarter-life crisis for some time now. It's the culmination of a number of factors: this city, the job market, social media constantly making me feel inadequate, and my own tendency to sweat the small and big stuff. This past week I was mulling over how best to explain my woes through words. Then, today, this article appears: Unpaid interns, working for free

The Globe gets it. And it sucks.

I opted to apply to Masters programs following undergrad, for reasons I can't even remember now. I managed to get accepted to all of the schools I applied to, which only made things worse; it was fuel for my fire, confidence for my crazy. I knew that I liked writing fiction, and that I was good at it. I didn't consider my options-- in my mind, the only option was to get my MFA.

Two years later, I have a surplus of short stories, a rough draft of a "novel", and practically no employable skills.

My biggest problem is that I don't know what I want to do. At age 25, I still don't know what I want to do. I do want to write, but "writer" isn't a real job anymore; it certainly isn't a job that pays. In the world of fiction writing, my age is a positive thing (I'm only 25!). In the real world, the one filled with jobs and expenses and debts, my age is a liability (I'm already 25).

I know what fields I'd thrive in: arts and media in broad strokes, but specifically publishing, advertising, editorial, communications. None of those fields want me as is, though, because I haven't followed the standard path. Haven't you heard about The Path?

The Path: Get a BA--> get a post-grad diploma or certificate--> take an unpaid internship (or several)--> fight to the death with thousands of other kids just like you for the same small handful of jobs.

This city has a dearth of arts-related jobs, yet it's awash in unpaid internships. As the Globe article points out, these internships don't just take advantage of students and recent graduates; they're also inherently classist.

"One of Mr. Perlin’s chief critiques of unpaid internships is they are classist. While they may be a stepping stone to gainful employment, students who cannot afford to spend a summer without pay are shut out from such opportunities."


From my perspective, I can't afford to go to a post-grad college program let alone take a string of unpaid internships. I've cleared all my debts from undergrad and grad school, but it seems like the only way I can get a stimulating job is by putting myself back into the red.


I'm 25. I'm not sure if I have enough fight left in me.  

Friday, July 8

A Story About Crabs

A story I wrote about crabs can be found in Issue Two of Dragnet Magazine right here. The setting is loosely based around the Peixaria Portugal fish store on Ossington, which may be the smelliest spot in Toronto. Sadly,  my story does not feature scratch and sniff technology. Something to think about for the next issue, eh?