Just not where I thought I’d be

A year ago I was a content Londoner, preparing for my final weeks at Harper’s Bazaar and excited about the prospect of a new job. Sure, it wasn’t at another magazine, but it was certainly a financially lucrative move and I was confident I’d be inundated with freelancing gigs. It didn’t quite work out like that.

Since then I’ve freelanced on-and-off (mostly unpaid), been made redundant and finally forced back into nannying. While I love kids, I love writing more. But I just can’t seem to land an on-staff editorial role. It doesn’t help that the economy is so crap that people world over – including truck loads of journalists – are being laid off.

Back in London Bazaar has lost a third of its editorial staff and here in Sydney things aren’t much better. With so many cutbacks publishing houses are putting new projects on hold and those in jobs are cementing their discount-designer-derrières to their swivel seats.

And when a mag vacancy is advertised, every man, woman and university graduate is applying. Applications are generally online forms where in 25-words or less you get the opportunity to tell them why you’re perfect for the role. This morning I received a similarly generic, ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ for a magazine role I thought screamed me. Each dot-point in the job brief linked directly to a line in my CV, and I could even name drop that a top editor in the same publishing house had referred me to the role. But all that didn’t even get me an interview.

To add insult to injury, Boyfriend is taking a tour-leading job in South East Asia. Signing an 18-month contract but promising to break it and be home by New Years, he’ll be away for 7 months. In his mind he’s doing the right thing. With no travel operation jobs on offer here, he sees tour leading as not only a great experience but as a natural step in his professional journey.

So while he’s hanging in Halong Bay, trekking through Laos and shopping in Bangkok I’ll be here, living with my parents and applying for jobs that don’t seem to exist.

And more than two years since I first interned in New York I’ll be an intern once more, in Sydney. At twenty-five, I expected more.

...For some uplifting fashion news check out pics from day one of Rosemount Australian Fashion Week .

On the campaign trail...

For the first time, in a long time, I’m watching an episode of The Biggest Loser and not feeling guilty. Why? Because in the past two days I’ve put in over 10.5 hours of pavement pounding…

Mum’s running for local government (again), so it’s up to Dad and I – the only mugs still living at home – to help letter box drop her electoral ward. And if trudging up and down grassy knolls, dodging spiders, cobwebs and barking dogs, wasn’t enough, she’s making us wear ultra-identifiable lilac cotton bibs. Chic. No?

Add to that intermittent rainfall and you’ve got yourself a pretty tough workout.

Of course, it’s all worth it. While we have at least another two days of hard slog ahead – and one VERY long day come the election on May 2 – the positive comments we’re hearing from people as we walk past their homes reaffirms just how proud I am of my Mumma.

I couldn’t think of anything worse than being a councillor (politics is just not my thing) but she really loves serving her community and it’s clear from the comments that a lot of people are truly thankful for the hard work she’s put in. Regardless of the long hours, and despite the relentless phone calls from constituents, Mumma never tires of helping others. I admire her strength and her backbone. It takes a lot of courage to put yourself up for nomination, and even more to follow through with candidacy. I’m sure I’m not that brave… so I guess I should just put up with the lilac and keep smiling. After all, over the years Mumma’s done a lot more than that for me!

Big and bruised

Weddings tend to bring out the worst in me. Not emotionally. Physically. No matter how I plan, or how good my intentions, come the day of wedding (or sometimes the night before) something MAJOR happens to ruin everything.

I know, I know. It’s not my day – yet – it’s theirs. But I just don’t get why wardrobe malfunctions and bodily disorders need to play havoc with my fun?

In preparation for the wedding we attended in Auckland, and for my cousin’s wedding (this afternoon), I bought off eBay a stunning bright green Chloé number. It goes down as one of my all-time favourite online purchases, and yet to date, I’ve been unable to wear it. While it fit perfectly six months ago – when I was all trim from thrice-weekly Pilates sessions – by the time we got home from eating our way through the Middle East my body had morphed into a swollen version of itself. Like a balloon, I’d inflated. With most of the ‘air’ amassing in my boobs.

In NZ, I begrudgingly passed on Chloé for another number in my wardrobe, but I really had my heart set on donning the green for today’s celebrations. I’ve been running all week, drinking tons of water and even bought a new pair of suck-me-in, ugly-undies. Nothing’s worked. My boobs are still massive. And in the interest of decency I’ve had to once again pass Her over. I feel like I’ve let a good friend down.

To make up for my lack of wow-factor attire, I booked in a ludicrously expensive blow-dry (seriously, it was cheaper living in London) and forked out yet more cash on some L’Oreal Sublime Bronze tanning gel. All-bronzed-up, I got to bed early last night attempting to get some beauty sleep. Unfortunately my sister and two of her munchkins were bunking in with me – down from Port Macquarie for the wedding – so what should have been a restful evening turned into an evening of hell.

Baby Nine-Weeks farts and snorts louder than an overweight, middle-aged man – I’m talking constant squeaks and bubbles – and Master Almost-Two cried out for “Mumma” at least half a dozen times. My poor sister, yes; but whattabout me?

Halfway through the night I got up to go to the bathroom and blow my nose – hay fever still plaguing my sleep – only to walk head first into the closed bedroom door! Sister had closed the door earlier that night to help Baby sleep. The loud bang/crack of my nose on wood at 1am well and truly destroyed that plan. I cursed loudly, Sister jumped from bed, Baby cried, and Master Almost-Two wailed in with the best of them. I swear, it was the worst night sleep of my life.

So now I sit with tired eyes, awaiting my blow-dry; looking decidedly orange and sporting a swollen schnoz. Pollen is prevalent, my face is itchy and I still have to wear the suck-me-in, ugly-undies.

Lord, I wonder what will go wrong when it actually is, My Big Day?

My take on Nicole Richie...

With my boxes of clothes still en route from London (12 weeks and counting!), I'm a girl anxious for some retail relief. Fortunately I can live vicariously through the likes of Nicole Richie and the girls in 'How much is your wardrobe worth?' in May's issue of Shop Til You Drop .

As always, check out Girl With a Satchel to find out more!

Catching my breath

I've always loved this piece, by Dutch artist, Ellen Kooi. While I'm not one for meditation - breathing in and soul searching seeming a obnoxious waste of time - this picture always gives me pause. Just as the child is suspended mid-air, I too feel light. Dare I say it? I breath in. Deeply.

The last month has flown by. Literally. We left Cairo for Abu Dhabi, spent three days in Dubai. Flew 'home' to Sydney only to fly out four days later to Auckland to spend a week with friends and celebrate a wedding. Back to Sydney, I took off to Port Macquarie to stay with my sister and (try to) help her with her three bubbaloos - all under three!

Admittedly none of these trips were arduous. Even the week in Port - with its endless rain and pooey nappies (that included me scraping poo off two pairs of toddler's Bonds undies) - was lovely. I got to spend time with my sister, perpetually held my adorable 8-week old niece and happily came to the realisation that I may never have my own children. Only joking. I'm sure I will. I'll just give myself time to breathe in between deliveries, unlike my eldest sis.

Poor sister. While on their own her children are gorgeous, delightful little munchkins, together they're a recipe for disaster (and maybe even motivators of self harm). Miss Almost-Three is clever and cheeky in equal measure, while Master Almost-Two worships the ground his older sister skips along, thereby mimicking her every act - especially the naughty ones. Thankfully Little Miss Two-Months is an incarnation of her mother, quiet, selfless and happy to take a back seat to her siblings.

For Easter I helped Sister drive the tiny terrors down to Sydney. We managed to tire the eldest two out with some Dora The Explorer DVD action but 30 minutes from our destination, Baby Bubbaloo let rip with her wailing. Caught on the highway in the middle of the night with nowhere to pull over, one crying baby turned into three. I stretched my arm back to hold onto the tiny, shaking hand of Bubbaloo (a dirty nappy the cause of her outburst). With her fingers wrapped round mine her breathing eased and the crying ceased. Radio reception also returned, so with the sounds of Nova 96.9 calming our nerves we made it to the house in one piece.

Easter Sunday was full of chocolate eggs, my grandmother's 'blessed' ham and bread, and enough food to feed a small army. And although the pitter-patter of little feet spreads crumbs into the carpet, no one can deny that the five most recent additions to our family definitely revive the holiday spirit.

So as I looked through the photos I've taken in the past weeks of my nieces and nephew, I once again came across this dreamlike field of flowers. Tired and weary, I took a deep breath in...

Now I'm breathing out. Slowly.