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!