(Wo)men at work

Recently in the media we heard a whole lot about women not getting paid as much as men.

Reasons ranged anywhere from plain old sexism to women not being confident enough in the workplace to ask for a pay rise because they “didn’t believe their position to be worthy enough.”

I know in relationships, many women are perfectly capable of speaking their minds and are at equal terms with their partner – and no one questions that. 

But with employment, it’s a different matter. And I’m not just talking about the pay.

Sadly I have noticed that in many cases in the workplace, women are still treated differently to their male colleagues.

For some offices, it’s tradition that women are filed into two annoyingly neat and restrictive categories: the “ball-breaker” who gets the promotion; or the “push-over” who gets the corner office and who will gladly do your filing for you while you go on holidays.

Of course, we all know women are a lot more diverse than this. But these are the stereotypes people in the office tend to fall back on time and time again – they’ve become as comfortable and familiar as tea breaks.
I remember a woman in a mid-level position in my office. She was loud, domineering and opinionated; but fantastic at her job. She negotiated a pay rise and ended up with a nice little package: the office with the view, a promotion – and the nickname “ball-breaker.”

There was a man at the same level who was also loud and domineering, regularly slamming doors and stomping around the place – but I never heard any names whispered about him apart from “busy and “important.”
It seems pushy or powerful men in the office get the privilege of more favourable words like “stern”, “firm” or “putting the foot down”. They are seen as someone to be respected, even feared.

But for women? “Psycho bitch” is one I’ve heard thrown around from time to time about certain and powerful women. I can’t say I’ve heard that said about any successful men I’ve worked with, even if they do have psycho tendencies.

It’s worth noting these words aren’t just used by men – women can be the worst perpetrators at times.
Of course, I know there are women out there who are both confident and forthright employees while remaining well-liked. I just want those less-than-favourable, stereotypical words not to make it to the workplace so often.

We’ve landed the right to work. We’re still working on equal pay. Can we at least start with this?

Switching off isn't so easy

I've jumped on the meditation bandwagon recently. Originally reserved for hippies, meditation has now belongs in the “cool thing to do” category, along with yoga and pilates.

But it’s more than a fad for me – it’s a health matter.  Being an anxious person by nature, it was recommended to me by my doctor as a relaxing technique.

The first time I tried it, I begun googling how to meditate, which kind of seemed like an oxymoron. "Free your mind" the websites told me. "Place yourself in a room with no distractions." I peered anxiously at my surroundings - a lit-up iphone, a laptop, and a heater that kept buzzing annoyingly. Not a great start.

I set my ipod to "rainforest sounds" to cover the noise of the traffic outside. Hmm. "Free your mind" I thought.

"Well this isn't so hard," (my mind) continued. "Wait - did I forget to pick up my dry-cleaning? Uh oh. Didn't free mind. Start again. Ummmm......free mind free mind..."

Cue iphone ringing. Back to square one.

Was it always this hard to just be alone, doing absolutely nothing? Or has the endless "need to be reached constantly" killed any hope of that?

I’m talking mobiles, Facebook check-ins, endless twitter updates on what we’re eating for lunch. It’s a scary thought that if we wanted; everyone could know what we’re doing at any time, every second, of every day.

But it’s not just that.

I don't even have kids, but in the midst of my attempted meditation, I wondered how on earth a Mother could sit alone in silence for more than 5 minutes when I know for a fact some can’t even go to the bathroom on their own without being interrupted.

I'm told there are other forms of "meditation" though – it doesn't have to be sitting in a room by yourself.

It is defined as “anything relaxing that you take pleasure in doing with just you and you alone” – from getting a massage or reading a great book. Whatever it is, it should be regular, the (google) experts say.

But with all the distractions in the world – is that really possible anymore?

In my room, I grudgingly switched off the iphone, the laptop and the ipod, and it was finally just me and the sound of...nothing.

At first it was a bit weird. There’s always something on – whether it be the TV, someone talking, whatever. But eventually, I was thinking of absolutely nothing and when I got up around 15 minutes later, I arose in a dreamy, Zen-like state of calm. Nothing could faze me.

It seemed I had to switch off, to really switch off.

Of course, that lasted approximately 10.5 seconds until I misplaced my car keys and was running around the house like a madwoman - but hey, baby steps.

What's your form of "meditation?" Do you struggle to find time to yourself on a regular basis?

The long and the tall of it

I realise what I'm about to say  may make some of the more vertically-challenged readers want to throw their lattes at me....but sometimes being tall sucks.

Not all the time. Like when I'm in a big crowd or I'm reaching for those on-sale peep-toes at the very top of the shoe rack at myer. But on certain occasions, it blows.

Let me explain why.

1. Being on the receiving end of painfully obvious comments.
"Wow, you're tall!" Really?? I had absolutely no idea and have never, ever been told that in my life. Tell me more! What bugs me about this comment is not just the pure moronic nature of it, but also the fact that it only applies to tall people. Would you say "wow, you're really fat!" to an obese person, or "wow you're really short!' to a short person? The tall have feelings too, people.

2. Grannies always use you as their personal cherry picker at supermarkets.
"Excuse me dear, can you just reach that can for me? Since you're so tall and all." (Insert sweet smile). Ugh. While I'm one for being nice to the elderly, this one still can get a little tiring for a tall person just trying to do their grocery shopping and getting hassled 4 times an aisle. Makes for slow shopping, frankly. It starts to feel like you're not a person anymore but rather, a useful mute giant with very helpful arms. It's especially annoying when the grannies take their can and run away with barely a thank you.

3. You can't wear super high-heels without feeling a bit like the BFG.
You don't know how many times I've gazed longingly at a sky-high pair of heels without sighing gloomily at the prospect of me stumbingly around getting even more of the comments above than I usually get. Sure, some tall girls strut around in heels like they were born in them and look amazing. But for me personally, when my head's almost touching the roof, I tend to get a little claustophobic.

4. Short man syndrome.
Ahhh yes. Many a time I've had a short man approach me in the bar and either try to cut me down to size or whisper that he'd like to get me into bed because he "loves a tall girl." Asking one of my short male friends about it later, I got the explanation: "If a short guy gets a tall girl, everyone knows he's pretty much killing it. It's harder for a short guy to get, almost like a prize" Kinda like catching a prized big fish? Ok...

5. You can't be discreet.
Any time I feel and look like crap and want to just quickly run through the IGA to get some pimple cream, it doesn't really happen. "Ah Laura, saw you from over there! Your head was poking over the aisle!" Sigh. Basically, when you're tall, you get noticed in a crowd. You stand out. That may be a good thing when you're looking a million bucks, but when you have one of those days where you just want to be invisible, it's a bit of a curse.

To end on a positive note, I suppose I should mention the good things about being tall. Skinny jeans always fitting perfectly without any need for alterations, being able to wear ballet flats out without feeling under-dressed, clothes fitting better...ok you can stop throwing your lattes now.

Teawithle tweets.

I confess, before online news I tried twitter – and I hated it. With one swift glance I decided it was something to fear, something that worked against its user rather than with them.

I couldn’t understand so many parts of it – how to write to someone, how to see if someone wrote to me, and what was with these damn hashtags??

The worst part was keeping within the 140 character word limit. I’m a confessed babbler, and deliberately go the long way about saying things to create a dramatic effect. A story to a friend about a date, for example, will consist in carefully dissecting every detail: “well first he picked me up, in a sky blue lancer I think it was?

Anyway, he was wearing jeans and a top. Ok so he knocked on the door – three times I think it was – which was really cute and showed he’s not too persistent…” as you can see, my friends get everysinglebit of information, whether they like it or not.

Being blunt and to the point is something men are much better at – while my girlfriend’s voice messages often consist with a 10 minute analysis of what they’re doing at the moment and why, their messages consist of “Its Darren. Call me.”

So when I was required to face twitter again for online news this semester, I approached it with trepidation. Staring blankly back at the “write something in 140 words or less” tag, I begun to type, each time getting the “wrong answer” message from twitter – each sentence was way too long.

It was annoying for me, because shortening my sentences meant that my tweet wasn’t as funny or witty as it could be.

But, gradually over the months I got the hang of it, and now I’m shortening everything, even my neverending stories. Now even my in-person stories can be to the point: “date was worst. Had #motherissues”.

Tell it like it is?

I was out shopping recently when I had a bit of a wake up call.
While trying on a size 10 jacket and finding it a tad too big, I kindly asked the shop assistant if it came in a smaller size.

She gave me a swift head to toe once-over and declared (loudly), that there’s no way the size 8 would fit me.

I would have liked to tell you that I yelled at her, or reminded her a little something that I learnt in the retail business, that “the customer is always right”, but instead I muttered thank you and left immediately to avoid any sniggers.

Later on, fuming about it over coffee with a friend, I wondered whether the shop assistant was perhaps right – maybe I suffered from body dysmorphia, or high self-esteem?

You see, I’m not unfamiliar with it. An ex-colleague of mine used to always ask to borrow my clothes, pretty much every weekend. Now she was about a size 16 at least, and at the time I was a size 8 (believe it or not, Ms shop assistant).

I liked this girl so I didnt want to hurt her feelings. So, I’d let her borrow my stuff. As she squeezed into the teeny tiny dresses in front of me I tried hard not to wince when I heard the fabric snap and tear.
“See, it fits!’ She said, twirling gracefully, seemingly not noticing the huge rip in the rear end.

After about three ripped dresses I finally came up with a story that I hoped she would believe – I had sold all my good dresses to Vinnie’s and just didnt have any nice ones for her to borrow anymore. Of course, she found out that wasn’t true when she saw me post photos wearing the dresses on facebook, and we eventually stopped talking after that.

Yep, a friendship broken all because someone suffered from high self esteem, and the other didnt have the balls to tell it like it is.

Well, I’m sure you all think I’m a real cow now. But I just couldnt bring myself to say to her what that shop assistant told me - you are not a size 8.
The week after my shopping disaster I stormed into that same store and grabbed the size 8 jacket I had been advised against, head held high.
As I pulled it on, I noticed it was a little tight. As my fingers fumbled with the buttons, I could hear that same fabric-pulling noise. By then I was trying desperately to button it, making awful noises in the change room like I was in labour. “Errrrrrrrr” “offffff” “gahhhhhh”. I was determined to prove that shop assistant wrong.
Finally, when I had buttoned it all up, with huge gaping holes between each button so you could see my bra, each button straining, holding on for dear life, I walked out and surveyed myself in the mirror, ignoring the shop assistant’s collective gasps of horror.

“I’ll take it,” I said smugly.

And that, ladies, is the story of how I proved a shop assistant wrong.

The power of the hairdresser

“Hello there,” she said dryly, sauntering over to where I sat nervously.

She’d kept me waiting for half an hour at least, and although I had somewhere to be in less than an hour, I never once complained or attempted to hurry her. At times I’d send a worried glance over in her direction, but she simply ignored me.

And so begins the countless mind games of the hairdresser.

Some may write them off as a bunch of uneducated bimbos, but trust me, these girls and guys are in one of the most powerful professions.

They’re up there with waxers, shop assistants and door bitches.

Why? Because they hold your fate in their hands, and if you’re rude to them or they don’t like you, watch out because they are armed: with scissors, searing hot wax or a simple “no you’re not getting in, sorry.”

Don’t believe me? One of my friends was once rude to a beautician. Five minutes later, she had a gap in her eyebrow the size of a small island just before a huge party.

For fear of being scorned, she didn’t go to the party and thus missed out on – who knows what? But it certainly would have been better than sitting at home in pyjamas and whimpering.

Yep, her fate for the night was held in that beauticians’ well moisturised hands.

Another of my friends was in a bad mood the day of her haircut, and was snappy towards the hairdresser. She looked down to read her magazine, then looked up again fifteen minutes later to see a mullet-style haircut and her hairdresser smiling smugly. 

As for me, I hadn’t been to my usual hairdresser in well over a year now – pretty much a dumping in any hairdresser’s books. We were the best of friends in hairdresser world, and my hair benefited from it – my mop was a shiny, swishy haven. But then I got bored. Started to look around, and found someone else. Someone who would be a bit more adventurous and let me put a few highlights in here and there.

Unfortunately my new hairdresser ruined the state of my hair with a bad dose of peroxide and now I have to come crawling back to the old one, and she ain’t happy.

I’m being punished now, of course. With the long wait, the crappy magazines set in front of me, and the cold coffee. Now she’s running her hands through my hair, tsking, while I cower in fear.

“Look what they’ve done to you.” She said disapprovingly. “I can’t believe you went to someone else and let them do this…” she trailed off, hurt, while I avoid her eye and stare at the floor.

“I’m sorry…” I say. “Um…I was actually living overseas for the past year…and then one day I was minding my own business when this crazy man who didn’t speak English came up to me and started to cut my hair, and…”

The lie is terrible, poorly executed, and doesn’t work on her. “Hmm.” She simply says flatly, folding her arms.

I’m starting to think by this stage that not being monogamous in a hair relationship is truly worse than a normal relationship. The cruel words, awkward lies, and disappointed stares are all too much for me.
Eventually she works away at my hair, as I sit there sweating. Luckily she doesn’t do too much revenge-fuelled damage. The fee is $50 more than she usually charges, but I pay it with a thankful smile and rush away, promising her I’ll never cheat again.

Was this guilt trip she put on me just an excuse to get more money? Probably, but I’m certainly not going to go through that one again. If you’ve ever been one of the many people who have been the bearer of a bad haircut but simply smiled and said “that’s great” tearfully when the hairdresser asks you if it’s ok, you know what I’m talking about.

They have the power.

Is your gaydar working?

Have you all heard of the gaydar? It’s the little radar that goes off in your mind when you meet someone who you get the feeling is gay.  To put it in a sentence, “he was really nice, but my gaydar was going off like crazy.” It’s an intuitive ability to assess one’s sexual orientation that saves you a lot of time and heartache.
Complacently, I’ve always maintained I’ve got a pretty spot-on gaydar.

But I’ve got something to confess to you.

When we first met, I thought my boyfriend was gay. Quite sure of it, actually.

We worked in the same building, and with his neatly pressed suits, expertly coiffed hair and perfect posture, everytime we got in the lift together I’d sigh and think “what a shame he’s not straight.”

But it wasn’t just those stereotypes that made me sure he batted for the other team. It was that darn gaydar beeping away, responding to his aura, his actions, his mannerisms. Polite, neat, and a little flamboyant…but then, I was used to the “bloke’s bloke” who yelled out “nice arse” from the window of his ute, so perhaps I wasn’t the best judge of character.

Anyway, at the time I thought I was an expert in that field; and usually my gaydar was right on the money.
So when he casually emailed asking if I wanted to go for a drink, I was slightly surprised, but thought that he must be on the hunt for a ‘hag’ – the must-have accessory for a gay man, a woman who they can share their thoughts and secrets with, minus the sexual confusion.

He offered to pick me up from my house, which I thought was a bit odd but considered he must just be the curteous type.  A small part of me was madly hoping he was straight, because something about him just seemed like my type, yet I couldnt pick it.

Throughout the date, my ‘gaydar’ was beeping madly. He turned up in jeans that fit snugger than mine, a country road scarf (for fashion, not for warmth), and a bright pink shirt. Flamboyant hand gestures, check. Ordering a cocktail with a little umbrella in it, check. Looked into my eyes rather than my chest, check.
So while I was attracted to this guy, and I felt a spark (which at the time I just a BFF spark), I thought surely this one is a write off.

There was the odd flirtation now and then, but mostly it was just friendly banter over cocktails, not unlike an outing with my girlfriends.

The date ended, and he dropped me home. As I was saying how nice it was to catch up, I noticed him eyeing me off in a way that didnt look like he was just admiring my outfit.

Just as I was thinking maybe this guy is straight, he turned to the car mirror and asked with serious concern: ”do you think my hair looks funny? I got a new hairdresser the other week, and I just dont think she did a good job.”

Playing with his hair, he sighed sadly…and so did I.

My gaydar was so confused by this stage it had malfunctioned; so I was on my own to figure it out.
Then, just as I slumped over, defeated with this guessing game, he leant over and kissed me.
There were fireworks, sparks, any cliche words you can use to describe it. And with that the game was called off, and my gaydar hasnt beeped once since.