In my day job as a television journalist, I live a sort of ridiculous existence of dressing like a real estate agent in brightly coloured suits while asking people about the horrendous thing that has happened to them or their loved ones. After leaving court or an inquest or a crime scene for the day, I often want to remove my brain, give it a spray and wipe and put it back fresh for the next day. Because that’s not physically possible, I have to make do with the next best thing - trying my best to melt it out of my ears with reality television.
My white noise machine is the sound of very thin and very rich white women screaming at each other across various series from the Real Housewives franchise. My salve is disappearing into the beige world of the Kardashians, where nothing bad happens except having to eat those massive salads they’re always shaking in giant plastic containers.
Lately I’ve been watching the half women, half hair extension cast of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. I don’t want to have a single thought while I watch producers do a truly commendable job of creating dramatic fight scenes at parties where nobody is drinking. I just want to exist as a piece of half sentient play-dough watching the shape and colours of these women doing TikTok dances in matching tracksuit sets. Maybe this is the adult equivalent of calming baby sensory videos.
Perhaps like other journalists I should take up running or boxing to decompress. But I prefer the thinking woman’s alternative, and welcome the comforting glow of Love Islanders on an OLED screen.
I can never make up for years on less money than I should. But I can advise young women to learn from my mistakes
I wanted to slip her a note, warning against saying ‘yes’ to his marriage proposal
I am quite good with money. I know exactly how to spend it all
Flying Ryanair, smoking on holiday and other things I’ll keep doing even though I shouldn’t
The benevolent gods over at Netflix have bestowed a second season of America’s Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders upon us. It seems to be a show about southern women with big hair breaking the spirits of some of the most beautiful and talented dancers I have ever seen. I have neither an interest in cheerleading nor the NFL, but I am glued to the plotlines of young hopefuls trying to join the squad. Will so-and-so perfect her high kicks in time? Why are all these women pushing their body through gruelling training if being a cheerleader pays less than minimum wage?
Helpfully, Dallas Cowboys’ executive vice-president and the daughter of the team’s owner, Charlotte Jones, explains “they actually don’t come here for the money”.
“It is about a sisterhood that they were able to form, about relationships that they have for the rest of their life,” says the daughter of a billionaire with a completely straight face.
Which leaves the women to try to eke out a living doing whatever they can to pay their rent while putting in 14-hour days between work and rehearsals. This season we see the dancers refuse to sign their contracts, as they attempt to negotiate a liveable wage from a football team making huge sums of money from their labour and likeness. It’s syndicalism in spandex. RIP Karl Marx: you would have loved this season and the Thunderstruck dance routine.
One girl breaks down in tears explaining she’s just exhausted between the demands of the team, looking perfect and working full time.
“But why do we want people to quit their full-time jobs, when that’s what’s so impressive about ya’ll?” a team official responds. Again with a completely straight face.
[ Brianna Parkins: I am quite good with money. I know exactly how to spend it allOpens in new window ]
When women ask for more money, particularly young women or women from minorities, they are made to feel unreasonable for making an entirely reasonable request. You can take all the advice about women needing to be more assertive and asking for what they want, like men do, in order to close the gender pay gap. But I have found that when I have done just that, it has rarely been received well. Instead, especially in my early career, I was gaslit into thinking I was just lucky to be there.
Or they would plámás me. Telling me how much they loved my work. I was very important to them. They just couldn’t show me that by giving me more money. Which is odd because in free-market capitalism, money is probably the most popular way of rewarding someone for doing a good job. Instead I was made to feel greedy and scummy. As if I was cheapening myself and my profession for stooping to something as low as “working for money”.
Until I finally had a (male) boss in Australia who hinted at me to ask for a pay rise and then rolled his eyes at my lowly request and added another $10k on the figure. I can never make up for the years on less money than I should have been earning. But I can advise young women (and cheerleaders) to learn from my mistakes.
