Buying our hearts out

I’ve always championed retail therapy – but I’ve found a glitch in system. Buying property.

Four months ago I was an eager beaver, armed and ready with my constantly updated Excel spreadsheet of inner west properties – their dimensions, stats and sale prices – taking charge of Boyfriend and my first steps onto the property ladder. Grandma was saving Saturday’s Domain section for me and I spent my evenings trawling through online realty sites imagining our lives in Newtown/Leichhardt/Darlington/Potts Point... We’d not been approved for our loan just yet, but I was confident.

And well I could be. With an overly generous monetary gift from my parentals we were only seeking to borrow 60 per cent of the mortgage – banks were fighting for our business. Lucky us.

So began our Saturday searches. Ever prepared I’d spent lunchtimes formulating itineraries, back-to-back viewings to ensure we were seeing all our market had to offer. With everything up for auction we jumped on opportunities for sale. One Thursday lunchtime I even hijacked a cabbie to take me to two inner city viewings, wait for me and take me back to work. Despite a few wrongs turns down the side alleys of Newtown, I arrived back to my desk on time and unscathed – convinced I’d found ‘the one’.

Spending the next week-and-a-half to all extents and purposes moving us in and renovating the 2-bed federation semi (in my head), Boyfriend and I viewed it again last weekend; a fresh pair of eyes helped me realise that this little project was more than just a lick-of-paint and backyard blitz.

Driving home with the sun blazing, burning our arms and thighs through the car windscreen, we were hot and bothered but not beaten. We collated our thoughts, went through the pros and cons of renovating and decided we should try for a place that had most of the hard work done already.

And we knew just the one: a gorgeous little terrace in Lewisham with a manicured secret garden and covered deck off the second bedroom overlooking said-oasis. Painted and primed we could move in and be blissfully happy. Now we just needed to nab it for $606K.

We scoped out an auction and scored oodles of advice – bid at the last hammer, up the last bid by $20K, make your final offer the night before – I honed all my positive energy into visualising our ‘win’. Then last night the realtor rang to say the vendors had been made an offer above their reserve and they were cancelling the auction; did we want to make a counter offer?

With a heavy heart I knew our offer wouldn’t make the cut. And while my head tells me it’s better to find out now so we’re free to spend Saturday looking at more realistic options, the ever-positive part of me that had already mentally moved my wardrobe into the master bedroom of Number Four St John’s Street took the blow to heart.

Never have I ever had so much money to spend on just one thing and never have I ever felt so low about it. Maybe we should take the money and run away to Europe, travel by gondola, eat and shop like the minted…

But we wouldn’t. So we wait the week out and march on come Saturday. Another eight places to view, another eight floor plans to rework. Yep, I feel the power coming back, my spirit rising.

We’ll beat the odds and find a place within six months. It’s just shopping, after all.

Working like a machine?

I love it when marketing campaigns get really creative. It’s not all about free products, either. If they’re going to grab me on my way to work – and heaven-forbid stand in a queue – then they gotta make me smile.

This morning, Nestlé Kit Kat, did just that.

Hopping off the bus at Wynyard I noticed a line forming, leading to a large red vending machine. Free Kit Kats? Yum.

Following successful campaigns in Japan and the UK, a human vending machine was set up to offer lucky passersby the opportunity to stop working like a machine and, ‘Have a break. Have a Kit Kat.’ One poor – yet seemingly very happy – guy was stuck in said-vending machine and it was the consumer’s job to tell him which bar they were after. The only catch was that we had to make him work for it! Choose bars that were high, low, to-the-side… make him reach.

With camera crews all around I thought for sure there’d be more pics online by now, alas, I had to scrounge one from a London-based initiative (see above)… I’m far too self-conscious nowadays to pull out my own camera phone and take a picture. No way! I grabbed my free chocolate bar and ran.

After all, I had work to do.

Have you been 'Dr. Phil-ed'?

I have. And I do.

It started about ten years ago when the straight-talking (former football-playing giant) psychologist started making guest appearances on Oprah (the two go way back to Oprah’s Amarillo Texas beef trial-days). In 2002 when his syndicated, The Dr. Phil Show, first aired I went so far as to set my VCR to record it daily (sadly live coverage was scheduled at the same time as my first-year uni lectures!). Dr. Phil (aka. Dr. Phillip Calvin McGraw) was a breath of fresh air. And much like the term, “to Google”, people from all walks of life began “Dr. Phil-ing” each other: re-working Phil-isms into their lives*.

No ifs, buts or maybes, Phil helped people, “get in control” of their lives.

So last Thursday when a spare ticket to his one-off Sydney show at the Acer Arena came floating by my desk – including wine and dining in the company’s corporate box – I jumped up and got control… of said-ticket.

It was only as I was sitting in the back seat of my Director’s car on our way to Acer, listening to her conversation with her other passenger – a National Group Sales manager – that I realised I was in for more than just an evening of motivational speaking. I was networking.

Yes, I got to sip of company wine, schmooze clients and talk holidays and shopping with people way above my career-station… it was fun. And I got to hear good ol’ Phil. He even brought doting and dutiful wife, Robin, to the stage (to prove their marriage is not on the skids). We got Dr. Phil-ed – this time on the seven attributes of successful people, abridged from his best-selling book, Life Strategies.

I listened – at first slightly put off by his crappy mike setup – and started nodding along with the rest of the crowd. I was going to take something from this fortuitous freebie… and then he drolled off successful trait number six. What? How did I miss one-to-five? Must have been the red wine.

Amused by the enlightenment that my sub-standard listening skills probably ruined my chances of becoming one of the world’s most successful people, I attempted to take note of traits six and seven.

Six: Successful people have a nucleus – a group of people around them pivotal to supporting and encouraging their success.
Seven: Successful people have passion – for their life and for what they aim to achieve.

Excellent. Got it. More red wine, please.

A typical Gen-Yer, I went home and “Googled” the rest!

In it together

I’m all about endurance sport. I know that my body wasn’t built for short bursts of speed; star jumps and high kicks ground me as well. I would pack a zillion things into a single day, if I could, but just don’t make me sprint to each appointment – I’ll arrive sweaty and unhappy.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they exercise: I have good muscle memory, enjoy strength training, like to count reps and could happily power walk for hours on end. I love the journey and feel revived once I reach my destination.

I think that’s why I spend so much time with my family. They ground me. Their support gives me strength and helping them inturn flexes my muscles. And I’d happily walk to the ends of the earth for any one of them.

They would do the same for me.

On Saturday Mum and I held a stall at Rozelle Markets. We started early – 7am – and stood with our backs to the wind all day. We were selling old knick-knacks Mum had collected, a bunch of old clothes and a pile of books. Our trash and treasure had filled the car to bursting… in the end we made just under $280. A neat hundred each once the stall and a couple of take-away coffees had been paid for. We vowed never to do one again.

But it was nice to spend the day together. Bond over bric-a-brac, talk about stuff. So we didn’t make a fortune and ended up donating most of our wares to fellow stall owners – who needs money when you have each other? At least that’s how we felt once we were out of the bitter cold and blood and warmth had returned to our hands, feet and cheeks.

From standing nine-hours to running 14 kilometres, I took on the City2Surf on Sunday. Somewhat of a family tradition, this year Dad was celebrating his eleventh consecutive C2S (no mean feat for a 63-year-old), my sisters their fifth (each now a mother to bubs three-years and under) and me, marking my C2S-return, post-NYC and London.

Dad and middle-Sis had the finish line firmly in their sights; both having trained to beat last year’s times. Elder-Sis and I were simply enjoying the sunshine. When your sisters are sleep deprived thanks to waking-babies, currently breastfeeding and still up for making the mission from Hyde Park to Bondi it’s hard not to be a little awe-struck – walking or running, just getting out of the house is hard for most young mums.

So when Dad and m-Sis sprinted off at the gun, e-Sis and I took off at a canter. We jogged, we walked; weaved in-and-out of the crowd and moved to the side when sprinters came from behind. Best of all we nattered away. She got her a whole morning away from the kidlets and I got two hours of her undivided attention – a very rare treat post-bubs.

At the finish the four of us reconvened at Bondi Icebergs. Dad grinning from ear-to-ear having run his fastest time ever – 92-minutes – m-Sis thrilled with 80-minutes and e-Sis and I content with having done it together. Tomorrow we’ll all look out for the Sun-Herald happy snaps taken as we crossed the line. Today we nurse tight muscles. But yesterday was our day – our ‘family thing’ – to remember.

My Sister's Keeper

I’m the kind of girl who can be moved to tears watching a 30-second TV commercial. Little kids, old people. The sick, the dying… a malnourished puppy – just add music – my throat gets tight and my chest heaves. I cry.

So l knew that going to see My Sister’s Keeper with my Mumma was going to get me sobbing – I just didn’t realise the effect if would have on my persistent blocked nose. Luckily said-Mumma had a bag full of tissues and needless to say I can now breathe freely; two weeks with a snuffed up schnoz sorted during the course of a 109-minute flick.

But seriously, have you seen this film? It’s fabulous.

Happily married couple, Sara and Brian, have the perfect family life until they find out their two-year-old daughter has leukaemia. In order to save the life of one child they bring another into the world – a perfect donor match in the form of Anna. And so begins more than a decade of blood and bone marrow donations from sister to sister, constant hospital stays and ultimately the dissolving of Sara and Brian’s happy family dynamic. When Anna calls on the services of a top defence lawyer, to seek medical emancipation, a messy and traumatic reality becomes even more tragic.

Yes the subject matter is horrible and sad and full of life’s-not-fair moments, but the actors are all incredibly well cast – Cameron Diaz is amazing as the fiercely single-minded mother, Sara, and Sofia Vassilieva gives a vivid portrayal of the dying girl, Kate – and both sides of the coin/dilemma are explored, developed and ultimately given credence. You can’t hate Sara for the choices she’s made and you can’t fault her children for their actions.

In my life I’ve known parents with sick children, and friends who’ve lost siblings – I can’t possibly begin to imagine their grief. The tears I shed for one small film are nothing compared to the convulsions I would have were I to lose a sister or any member of my family. Family is everything to me and I hope one day to have children of my own – but the scary thing is that the more people who are important to you the more you have to lose.

But I suppose it’s what you have that keeps you going and what you had that keeps memories alive.

In the film’s final sequence, Anna says it best, “What’s important is that I had a sister. And she was fantastic.”

Saturn's Return

I wanted to love it. I wanted to feel touched, inspired, understood. Instead I sat, eyes fixed on the stage with a perpetually furrowed brow, cringing at the wackiness. To think it started off so well.

Last night I went with a bunch of girlfriends – our ages ranging from 25 to 28 – to see The Sydney Theatre Company’s return season of David Berthold’s production of Saturn’s Return, a play by Tommy Murphy. A play about the astrological phenomenon that takes place every 27-30 years in a person’s life, coinciding with the time it takes the planet Saturn to make one orbit around the sun.

For gen X and Y-ers this ‘return’ in their late 20s can cause havoc to their lives. Some pass the threshold ultimately more assured, while others struggle against the reality of transitioning from youth into adulthood. I get it. I see it in my friends and I can feel the stars aligning for my own journey to the ‘other side’ but I just don’t think Murphy’s play really nailed it.

The story focuses on a young couple, Matt and Zara, who have been together for 7 years. They live together and are content with their own unique take on love and commitment (two years ago they had a threesome with one of Matt’s footy mates… as the play opens they’re planning another, maybe with a girl from Zara’s yoga class). Then Matt tells Zara he loves her and… she hesitates. So marks the end of ‘reality’ and the play spirals into a world of character-changes and make believe. Zara steals a baby, but maybe it was just a doll, and then an old boyfriend pays a visit only to turn into the couple’s child and get taken away by aliens dressed in cardboard, while Zara and Matt are stuck to the wall and floor, respectively. Fuck. It’s not just me, is it? That’s absurd.

Out of the seven of us, one thought she could relate to the feeling of being stuck as Berthold depicted it. The rest of us were still struggling to come to terms with the abrupt ending, and I couldn’t get over the baby – or was it a doll?

There’s lots of semi-nudity, course language and a higher boy ratio to girl (well, there’s three actors: 1 girl, 2 boys)… so it should have been enjoyable to one Boyfriend-deprived, as me. But I was left unfulfilled.

Maybe I’ll ‘get it’ in a few years time.

Saturn’s Return

A play by Tommy Murphy

Director David Berthold

With Toby Moore, Leeanna Walsman, Matthew Zeremes

The Sydney Theatre Company, Pier 4, Hickson Road Walsh Bay NSW 2000

Tel: 02 0250 1700

Note top pic: The cast of Saturn's Return thanks to SMH

Pointed obsession

I have a thing for vampires. Ever since Kirsten Dunst took on Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire I’ve secretly pined for sharp white teeth and a wax-like complexion. Poor Boyfriend has copped his fair share of neck wounds from my overzealous embrace and I’ve been known to plead for dress-up parties in a not-so-subtle attempt to indulge my penchant for playing vamp – so it’s surprising I’ve taken so long to get into the Twilight phenomenon.

Now I’m bitten.

While I covet Robert Pattinson (playing Edward Cullen) and think Kristen Stewart perfect for the role of Bella Swan, I’m determined not to watch any of the films before I’ve finished reading Stephanie Meyer’s four-part series. It won’t be hard. Each night I forsake much needed sleep in order to read just-one-more-chapter. I’m halfway through New Moon and I don’t want it to end.

Thankfully I’m borrowing the series from my gorgeous friend. She’s one book behind and at 6pm last Sunday – such is the level of our obsession – I drove 40-minutes to her place in the teeming rain to trade book one for its sequel. This morning she texted a gentle reminder that another weekend was drawing near… she needn’t worry; I’m hungering for Eclipse already.

I’m not ashamed to admit that Meyer’s books are turning me into a giggly little school girl. I pore over their pages like a teenager possessed; willing Bella and Edward to get it on already and conjuring images of myself ripping into a sultry looking Pattinson.

It appears I’m not alone. Tweeting my obsession and posting Facebook alerts it seems that even the more mature and refined of my friends have succumbed – some have even read the books twice!

More praise to Meyer, she’s planning prequels…

Is it wrong for me to buy the film’s poster for my wall?

MasterChef was rigged

Now, I know, we all love Julie. She’s the cuddly Mumma we all want to cook us chicken soup when we’re sick and make us chocolate cake for our birthday – but she is no master chef!

And it’s not that I’m especially a fan of Poh, either. In fact I don’t think either of the girls belonged in the final two. I’ve worked in enough restaurants to know that the kitchen is no place for a person prone to hissy fits or breakdowns. Good chefs, great chefs are clinical. They’re scary. As a waiter, you wait for them to ding that bell and quickly, cleanly take the appropriate dish off the pass and to the eager diner. You don’t ask questions. You don’t collect a smile or kind word. You say, “Thank you, Chef” and scurry on.

Forget her messiness – Julie puts way too much blood, sweat and tears into her culinary creations. Having spent the past three months watching her toil away behind the bench I’d be worried her ‘home style’ cooking might make me ill. Yes, she’s a lovely, happy lady – but was that the show’s brief?

No. They were searching for Australia’s first Master Chef. A person in the same ilk as Matt Moran (ARIA, Sydney), Emmanuel Stroobant (Saint Pierre, Singapore) and Donovan Cooke (Hong Kong Jockey Club Happy Valley Clubhouse, Hong Kong) – all fine dining chefs who made guest appearances throughout the season.

Every night (except Saturdays) I, along with a couple of million other Australians, sat down to supper eyes peeled to the TV screen. We watched as hundreds of hopefuls auditioned their favourite dish, marvelled at the challenges that saw twenty finalists whittle down to five, four, then seven again (when a second-chance Navy-lunch challenge brought back Tom, Poh and Justine); and we nodded when Lucas and Julia – who’d earlier secured a place in the final week – were swiftly sent packing. It seemed that winning those early master chef challenges worked against them. Those who had stayed week-to-week had become hardened contestants: compared with them, Lucas and Julia were weak.

So came the final four: Chris and Justine, talented, level-headed, reasoned cooks; Poh, whose art background and perfectionism ensured every dish she plated look amazing and tasted fabulous, and Julie, with her flour-flecked face, sweaty brow and inevitably sliced fingers.

Julie, Julie, Julie.

Now the grand ol’ prize for winning season one of Channel Ten’s MasterChef Australia: $100,000 in prize money, the chance to work in some of countries top kitchens, and a cook book deal. It’s this last little ditty that’s got me all in a flurry. Because, it was the cook book deal that sealed the fate of the final four.

Chris’ Snout to Tail, Stout to Ale idea was great, but not really mainstream. And Poh’s Food From Mars Malaysian creations – Century Eggs? No thank you. Justine…? Well, French cooking’s a tad fiddly.

But Julie had an idea that Channel Ten could run with. What self-respecting Aussie battler wouldn’t run out to buy, Our Family Table? Full of easy to prepare at home dishes-with-love. Yep, that was a money earner – even Donna Hay wanted to buy a copy. So that’s how the cookie crumbled.

In the end, it came down to Julie’s marketability. It didn’t matter that Poh’s replications of the final challenge dishes looked and tasted far superior, they threw her to the curb over a teaspoon of chocolate sorbet and gave Julie a bunch of undeserving ‘nines’.

Poor Poh. Poor Chris. Poor Justine.

Although, I’d like to think these guys will go the way of runner-up reality TV contestants-past and make their mark sans the cloud of chef-lebrity. Poh off to LA (with Curtis Stone), Chris with his beer and meat inspired cook book (that celebrity chef, Ben O’Donoghue loved!) and Justine under the guidance of Matt Moran at ARIA.

Julie’s cook book will sell. She’ll open her family café on the New South Wales Central Coast, and her boys will love having Mum back in the kitchen.

I just can’t help feeling a little deflated. Three months of loyal following and the finale fizzled. Master Chef has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Making our mark

Meeting up last night with a girlfriend from my uni days, it was interesting to see how our conversation has evolved. No longer, “Should we go to Café Otto for a mango smoothie in between Contracts and Real Property?” (…we battled through Law together at UTS), now we’re sharing salary stories and swapping realtor contacts.

It seems we’ve both reached that stage in life when owning our own home has become something we are planning towards. No longer a pipe dream, we’re tallying assets, meeting with banks and finding out just how much the financial world is willing to lend us. Though she holds a few more cards than I – having actually gone on to practice law – we’re both going into this venture with our significant others. Yes. It’s all very exciting.

However, I think I lost her when I shouted euphorically that realestate.com.au was better than sex. Though I resisted the urge to argue the excel spreadsheet I’d devised detailing Sydney house sale trends was the equivalent of real estate Viagra, a strange wave of pity did fall over her face. I admit, my enthusiasm may have something to do with the fact Boyfriend is still traipsing through South East Asia, but as a Virgo, graphs and tables really do make me giddy. There’s something so satisfying when information can be broken down into columns and tables: I feel inspired.

When I (calmly) mentioned said-spreadsheet, Girlfriend was intrigued. I’ve promised to email it to her – share the wealth. She may be an associate solicitor and doing her masters, but I’ve got the low-down when it comes to land and sundry.

And for my wisdom I have to thank the likes of Sarah Beeny (Property Ladder, The Lifestyle Channel) and Kevin McCloud (Grand Designs, The Lifestyle Channel). Again, I’m showing my propensity to be a nanna-before-my-time… but I love DIY. Home reno shows, IKEA catalogues, flipping through the pages of Domain on a Saturday – bliss.

So it’s a very nice feeling knowing that soon (very soon), I’ll be able to put all my ideas into action: in a home of my own.

Cadbury Conspiracy

When I was little I was a bit of a show pony. My sisters – six and seven years older than me – would taunt me with the song lyrics, “You’re so vein”, every time I looked in the mirror. Fair enough. I did like my own reflection.

As I grew up I realised other benefits of mirrors and reflective glass: checking for the remains of food in my teeth, confirming appropriate outfits and scrutinising my behind. But it took a longer time for me to realise that not all mirrors are created equal. Not all reflections are true to form.

This is most notable when it comes to the reflections around the office. Working at a magazine publishing house there are lots of mirrors. In the lobby of our building every wall reflects, even the elevator doors are mirrors. Waiting in line for the lifts of a morning checking one’s appearance is a covert operation – humorous, as by then it’s far too late for wardrobe changes, though you can spot a frayed hem or spilt milk before greeting colleagues on your floor. But I digress.

You see the horror of the lobby is that our wall of mirrors makes everyone look stumpy. Having (obviously) surveyed my reflection a fair few times before leaving the house, each day I will myself not to look at the image of myself waiting in line. “Those mirrors are lying.” I chant.

Inevitably my gaze is drawn toward the elevator doors; my image is stretched as the doors open and I embark on my journey to the fourth floor. I feel like crap.

It’s ironic then that my salvation lies in the office kitchen; in the Cadbury’s confectionary fridge, to be precise. You see, selling candy in an office where everyone’s on a diet is a tall order – except that is, when you make the person standing in front of the vending machine appear taller, thinner. Then they’re putty in your hands.

Clever – no?

Note: Above image courtesy of Getty images.

Coco and corsets

About six months ago I invested in my first pair of tuck-me-in-stop-me-breathing undies. And at first I loved them.

Maybe I was a little trimmer (butt less saggy) then, who knows? But lately it seems that my failsafe choice of undergarment is cutting into my butt and upper back rather than cutting the mustard. Charming, I know, but I like to be honest about these sorts of things.

On Tuesday night I went and saw Coco Avant Chanel with a girlfriend. While I’ve always coveted la Maison Chanel and the elegant haute couture designs the House is famous for, I’ve never really known much about its founder, Gabrielle (Coco) Chanel.

Audrey Tautou’s performance is flawless and portrays Chanel’s complexity brilliantly. Staunchly independent and emotionally vulnerable in equal measure, Chanel never married. Ambition saw her rise from poverty and establish herself as a meticulous fashion couturier, paving the way for women – not only in the business world, but also in the fashion stakes. Chanel rebelled against corsets. Rebelled against belts. She wanted women to be comfortable, move freely – like her style she wanted fashion to be effortless. Her heavy smoking habit likely helped her cause, maintaining a very slight frame until her death in 1971.

But, you’d think if it was good enough for Coco, this fashion-choice should be good enough for me. Why then am I again battling with the girdle? I’m uncomfortable and sporting a very ugly VPL (visible panty line) – that’s it! Tonight I’m throwing caution to the wind and ditching my shaper-knickers.

From now on I’ll stick to wearing all black. Coco would like that.

All dressed in white...

In the interim between leaving school and your ten-year reunion, there are seemingly few events that offer opportunity to catch up with old/long-lost friends and reminisce. After the rush of twenty-first birthday bashes most people slink off quietly, many travel – some semi-permanently shifting overseas – and some start settling into adulthood, gaining a mortgage, marriage, maybe even a kid.

With parents no longer funding the parties, guest lists get smaller. You lose touch with the myriad of peeps who saw you through your teenage years and get on with the business of interacting with work colleagues. You grow up.

Then come weddings – in all their grandeur.

At twenty-five, I’m in a committed relationship. He’s lovely. I love him. He’s thirty. We’re not married – not even engaged. I thought I was okay with this.

But on Saturday night I attended the engagement drinks of one of my best mates from school. Based in Hong Kong – where her now-fiancé works – Girlfriend is getting ready to take the next step into adulthood: one orange-coloured stiletto at a time (some brides like white; this chick plans to mix it up a tad).

Regardless of where they are in their careers, I still see school friends through school-uniform-clad eyes: cut-out dolls in tunics. I can’t get over the fact that she’s about to walk down an aisle to the bells of the Wedding March. So you can imagine my shock as I heard the evening updates of who is already married and who has even popped out progeny in the three years I was gone. Suddenly the finger to the right of my left pinky started feeling very light. Weightless. Missing some bling.

Not that it should matter what everyone else is doing – but with school friends it does. You spend six years of high school competing with them in the classroom, on the running track, in the pool, and in the fashion stakes of formals – it’s hard to let that competition go when suddenly you’re playing a more serious deck of cards.

I’m elated for my Girlfriend – she looks amazingly happy – but if I’m honest, I’m a shade of green too.

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!

The carbon footprint of my travelling pants

About six months ago I purchased a pair of 18th Amendment jeans off eBay. I was living in London, the seller in Sydney. I paid about £20 for them (plus postage) and they were sent via airmail.

Two months ago I moved home to Sydney. My jeans came with me.

And a week ago I listed said-jeans back on eBay. I had yet to wear them – along with a handful of other previously-thought-MUST-have items – so I thought best cut my losses and recoup much needed funds. Bidding on my jeans closed this morning. They sold for $41.50 (plus postage). Their buyer lives in London.

I haven’t yet seen Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (or indeed the film’s sequel), but I immediately had flashes of Blake Lively donning my old Amendments; and then I thought about the greenhouse effect. Suddenly my penchant for impulse spending didn’t seem so funny.

I know that my jeans won’t be the only things boarding a jumbo back to London Heathrow but I do feel slightly guilty about the ease with which I choose to import – and export – items of clothing. Not simply because I should be more conscious about supporting local designers, which is really important, but because every delivery van, every aircraft, every postman’s motorbike leaves a mark – and carbon pollution is so last season.

Blake and I... two peas in varyingly shaped pods

Yep, another mag distorting a girl's notion of 'normal'. Apparently Blake Lively is our new poster girl for "healthy living"... hmmm. I've also heard she makes the Gossip Girl stylists tear out the labels of all clothing bigger than a size 0. For her story and more check out June's Cosmopolitan magazine - or read my review at GWAS!