Girls, girls, girls!

My eighty-seven-year old grandmother still has lunch every fortnight with ‘the girls’: the ladies she spent her school days with, more than seven decades ago. Somehow, while in the eyes of the rest of the world these girls grew into ladies and even old women; to my grandmother they are simply childhood friends.

Such clarity escapes me. Even at twenty-five I find it hard to classify the women in my life. Sure, close friends are ‘girlfriends’, but what about the females I work with? The ones over twenty-five: are they ladies? Women? Both those descriptions seem to age them prematurely, and yet, calling them girls certainly belittles their accomplishments. After all, these ‘chicks’ are professionals. Some married. Some mothers.

Or am I just being pedantic? Surely I wouldn’t mind someone referring to me as, “the new girl at work”. Why am I so troubled about misidentifying others? But sitting on a lower rung of the hierarchical office ladder I’m definitely uneasy.

Ironically, when my grandmother was a young woman, while girlfriends were ‘girlfriends’, in polite conversation one would refer to all other women as Ms. X and Ms. Y. Formality was key.

How lucky we are to no longer be forced to conform – employers and employees known to others on a first name basis – how wonderful and equal! Yep, within the confines of work first names are fine…

Just don’t try talking about that girl/woman/lady, Sue, who works in the office next to yours, who has a toddler and a mortgage and who is giving you a lift to work on Wednesday!

Nine to five... I wish

Dolly Parton’s famous southern drawl, Workin’ Nine to Five, whata way to make a livin’, plays over in my head. Who, these days, works a neat eight-hour day with an hour for lunch? And who, if lucky enough to have such a schedule, would honestly complain about it?

I love my new role. But lunchtime takes place any time from 12pm to 3pm, and only to the extent that it takes me that long to eat my brought-from-home tuna sandwich – bite by bite – in between managing web updates, coordinating talent schedules, replying to emails, updating excel spreadsheets and fighting with the colour printer. And even then, it’s usually severe dehydration that forces me to stop, take a swig from my Mount Franklin, finish my sandwich and maybe get up and go to the loo.

The rain in Sydney last week was horrible, but at least it didn’t make me feel bad about being indoors. As a contractor, my desk sits in an internal office, with a view through a glass window that looks into yet another office. I know that the sun has been shining gloriously the past few days, but only because I see shards of it through other people’s windows when I’m running between offices.

From talking to friends – on both sides of the masthead – my lack of a lunch time and further inability to leave work until 6pm and sometimes 7pm, isn’t unusual. Horror stories also splurge from friends who chose careers in law, accounting, medicine and business. It seems we’re a generation pushed to the limit. But in a GFC what choice do we have?

Maybe I should re-work Dolly’s lyrics? Produce a hit song and live off the royalties. It’s just a pity I can’t carry a tune.

Gainfully employed

How nice it is to come home from work each day tired. I love it. And while my physical fatigue is most certainly due to wearing four-inch heels for eleven hours a day for the first time in months, it's the mental workout that makes the pain worth it.

Being part of a team. Having tasks to complete. My own desk. Phone line. Email.

But... I have jumped across mastheads: now I'm contracting with the Ad Sales team of large publishing company. I like it. The pace is fast. Deadlines are adhered to. Yep, I think I might have found a mag genre that suits. Business is good.

And the pay is certainly better.

Like all good jobs, I was referred by a friend. A phone call, a meeting and voila! I wish I could give hope to young strugglers out there, but the sad mag truth is, it's all who you know. So get to know people. Do work experience. Ask friends for favours. Now is not the time to be meek and mild. Be eager, hardworking, but above all, humble. You catch more bees with honey!

For now I'll keep the specifics a little hush-hush. Because it's all still new. And because I'm tired.

Mummy Big, Maisy Small

Being a mother is often a thankless job. I should have learned that by watching my mum, but I was too busy demanding ever more from her. Thankfully, I'm learning it now... through the lives my sisters.

I remember growing up wanting to be their age. Do what they did. If they had It, I wanted one. But when they became mothers I knew this was one experience I could wait for. Not because my nieces and nephew are anything less than amazing little munchkins, but because while utterly gorgeous, a lot of times they simply suck the life out of their doting mums.

Whether it's by refusing to eat (or only eat pistachios), refusing to talk in public while chatting like a banshee at home or just refusing to do as they're asked (especially when their immediate safety is concerned); children are draining.

They're also their parents harshest critics. Last week while my sister was reading Master Two his new library book, Maisy Big, Maisy Small, he came up with a doozie. Like all good parents, Sister likes to point to things of importance when flipping through a brightly coloured picture book. Following her lead, Master Two pointed to the page below:

L: daddy. R: mummy

My sister has recently given birth to her third child in as many years and she's still a svelte size 10. Yet to her adoring boy (who favours cuddles with his Mumma over anything), she's a short and stumpy version of Maisy.

He's just lucky he's so cute.

P.S. It should be noted Daddy wasn't too pleased at his tall and thin caricature either... he's been trying to beef up at the gym ever since!

To shave or not to shave?

With Boyfriend sunning himself in South East Asia for the rest of 2009 – and given my current lack of funds – by default, I’ve fallen behind my regular 5-week trips to my waxing lady.

I’ve also gone off the pill. Having ‘controlled’ that element of my life for the last decade I figure his overseas absence is a great time to see if my menstrual cycle can actually fend for itself.

So I’m not only hairy, this week I’ve started to cramp too. My boobs are ultra sore and a rather large pimple is taking residence upon my chin. Fabulous.

From talking with friends I’m assured in time the cramps will ease, my skin’s oils will find a natural equilibrium and I’ll feel more in tune with my body than ever before. And apparently there are cheaper methods of hair removal… I just abhor them.

I’ve tried the creams: yucky, itchy, messy. I’ve tried the home wax: yucky, messy, ouchy! And rather publicly I attempted the Epilady: although after first use this little gem was returned to its box, never again to see the light of day.

I know there’s always the razor. But I hate the razor. Sure, it can swipe hair off your legs in a matter of seconds, but what about my girly bits? It goes against the grain to use a blade near my groin, not to mention my punani.

Though as the weeks pass by I wonder: what other option do I have? I’ve not indulged the growth or short-and-curlies for almost as long as there’s been hair down there, but if I don’t sort out a remedy soon Boyfriend will return to find me lost in a jungle. So I suppose I’ll have to bite the bullet and break out the Bic.

But do you know what’s strange? I think there’s a tiny part of me that’s going to miss my fur… because nothing says au naturale like curlies on your beaver.

Note: Top pic thanks to Kotex.

Cover letter fatigue

Another morning scrolling through the likes of Seek and CareerOne, the scope of my job search ever expanding: how about Melbourne? What about Auckland? Should I/could I make the switch to PR?

It’s not just the saga of finding a job-op within my chosen field that makes the process so painful, once found it’s the writing of yet another pleading cover letter – selling myself to a nameless, faceless being – that makes me both cringe and cry. An anonymous soul with the future of my professional career at their fingertip: scanning my CV do they hit print or delete?

So I try to grab them with an informative, concise and hopefully impressive exposé into my career to date. My time at The Cancer Council NSW, where as a marketing contractor I helped on the Go Smokefree campaigns of 2003/06; my internship at Bridal Guide magazine in NYC; my role at UK Harper’s Bazaar and even my stint at The College Design Consultancy (London), producing corporate reports for FTSE 100 companies. I craft each letter to fit the job speck, read up on the company/publication and tailor my listed skills accordingly. In my twenty-five years I’ve been a girl on a mission. Always powering ahead. But as the weather gets crappier and with my savings ever dwindling, I have to hold myself back from outright begging.

Desperation is far from attractive in a future employee. Hard working. Energetic. Proactive. Resourceful. They’re the attributes sought by an employer. The pity is that while I would describe myself as all of the above, so could a number of similarly job-seeking Aussies. What I wouldn’t give to know the secret of a job winning cover letter – and to never have to write one again!