IPL and the Chocolate Starfish

In my latest reincarnation I'm a Social Media Manager. I'm finding there are certain downsides to having a few clients for my social media management gig these days (I'm in house for one, and freelance for four others), namely that the "Year of Content" has quickly taken a back seat. Because this blogging shit isn't paid, while faffing about on someones Instagram account is, and I have a mortgage to pay.

But it's not the daily grind that you think of when people mention going to work. It's pretty cool and there are the great perks that come with my job. Namely, that I can be in the office, tap tap tapping away on my laptop and then pop in to the next room for some IPL hair removal.

Such an event occurred the other day, and since it involves nudity and genitals I thought "I SHOULD TOTALLY BLOG THIS!". Because embarrassing myself on the internet is part of my very specific skill set. 

Now I am not a fan of the look of a Brazilian wax. In my mind it looks pre-pubescent, and that gives me the heebie jeebies. But I figured it might be a good idea to have one session of IPL the full South American way to reduce the amount of hair, and then just get my standard bikini line done from then on to actually permanently remove ALL of that straggly hair that usually sticks out my bathers. 

I'm no stranger to having people between my legs. You dirty bastards are thinking "oh yeah, I bet!", but what I actually mean is that I've been waxed before, I've had kids, I've had operations down there, so quite a few people have been exposed to my undercarriage. Plus I'm of the age where my giveashit factor is rapidly declining. It's just a vulva, yo.

I prepped for my IPL the night before by briefly considering the whipper snipper for the inital stage, but instead opted for the clippers (that will never be looked at the same by MapGuy mid beard trim). Wrapped in a towel, I lugged the trimmers, and the hand vac (because my Lady Garden was more Lady Hedge) to the bathroom, past MG who piped up "Need a torch? A headlamp perhaps?". Fucker. 

As it turns out, I could have used one. Or a hand mirror. 

I'm super bendy, but even with my attempts at contortion I couldn't see everything and did my best to feel my way around when I got the actual razor blade stage. Feel fanny, swipe swipe, feel fanny, swipe again, smooth, next bit. And on and on it went for seventeen hours until I just about blunted the razor. I'm not kidding - I have the fabulous, and not uncommon quirk, of all my pubes being "double pluggers" or even "triple pluggers"; two or three hairs growing out of each follicle. You're welcome for that visual. 

You have to shave before IPL because the light is distributed throughout the pigment, so having the pigment just under the skin in the follicle means you'll get a more power packed punch where it really needs it. Also, it's super heating that pigment and those hairs will singe. Legit catch fire if you're not careful. 

I head to work the next day and after an hour or so of Professional Facebooking, it was my time to go and get the actual IPL done (yes, we're this far in to the story and I haven't had it yet). 

I hopped on the bed and my lovely coworker, D, quickly did my underarms first - and a few little microscopic hairs that had popped through a millimetre from the night before singed. See, you thought I was joking about catching fire but I'm not. And we don't want a CROTCH FIRE, ya hear? I ripped my pants off doing the whole hide your undies thing - OMG why do we do that? She's about to see my vag but oh dear don't let her see my delicates! - and jumped on the bed legs akimbo. 

I was scared it was going to be super painful, but I'd witnessed (and filmed - you HAVE to watch it!) the gorgeous 1MotherBlogger having her IPL Brazilian and we chatted throughout the whole thing. Surely if you can have a bit of a chin wag it's not that painful... and she was right. Whilst it wasn't fun, but there were only a few really ouchy bits and I too was able to chat away the entire time while D manoeuvred the handpiece all over my bits, zapping my follicles to kingdom come. My underarms actually hurt more, which means I obviously have Labia of Steel. 

Aaaanywho, it came time for me to roll on my side so D could do my butt. Yes, they go ALL THE WAY.

But wait, it gets better. Because I heard the horrifying words "Oh, you've missed a bit shaving. It's OK, I'll get a razor". At which point my colleague, a woman who is so lovely and I enjoy working with, SHAVED MY ASSHOLE. 

She proceeded like it was nothing (because she's a nurse, a consummate professional, and has done this exact thing hundreds of times), and zapped my chocolate starfish. On the pain scale, it was only about a two to three, but on the embarrassment scale of 1 to FUCKING KILL ME NOW, it was right at the top. It's one thing to have your lady lips treated, but it's a whole new experience for a colleague to hold up your buttcheek and go to town. Or, I don't know, maybe it's not for you. You might have a very, err, progressive workplace?  

As the treatment finished I was relieved both that I could put pants back on and that it had barely hurt at all - honestly waaaaay less painful than waxing. In pondering how awkward it would or wouldn't be to look D in the face and think "you've seen me naked", I considered that it would be worse if she'd treated over the hair; I would be left explaining to the Fire Department and Emergency Room docs just how it came to be that my ass hairs caught fire and burnt the office down. 

Leraning how to say no

The universe, or my fairy godmother, or whoever must have been listening to me last week, because no sooner had I said I should have been a teacher, I was asked to interview for an amazing role.

It involved teaching parents of children from different backgrounds (predominantly immigrant, Aboriginal and low socioeconomic, but also any families within a geographical catchment) in the comfort of their own homes, how to be their child's first teacher. Tricky is in the program this year because he's been asking me actual school questions lately and is trying to read (what?!) and I didn't know if I was teaching him properly or going against everything he was learning in kindy. So we enrolled in the program mainly for me to be confident that I could help him.

He loved it. I loved it. To be part of the staff on that program would be amazing. I attended the interview and I left feeling so bloody confident. I'd nailed it. Except for the bit where I said "Roleplay in interviews makes me feel like a dick". Classy, Glow, real classy.

My parents had agreed to look after Bobbin for a couple of hours at a time, but even then, with clients booking in all over the place, it wouldn't have been an easy schedule. My dad, the army dude, needs regimented schedule. My mum just needs to know when she can and can't go out for coffee. It was going to be hard, but they said they'd give it a go.

The next day I went to Tricky's kindy for a Mother's Day Morning Tea. I've never been one to cry at kindy; the idea of my kids growing up and gaining more and more independence doesn't make me sob, it makes me celebrate. No really, because if they're not growing up... yeah, the other alternative isn't so nice. So anyway, I'm sitting at Tricky's kindy and he's winking to me from the "stage" area as they were getting ready to sing us a song. The kid who never sings and never does the dances at school. Get him on a dancefloor and it's a different story, but in a bunch of kids, no go.

He sings. He dances. He waves at me and points directly at me when the lyrics say "I love you". I melt in to a giant puddle and come the closest to crying at kindy I ever have. I'm talking lump in my throat the size of a house. I was so damn proud of that kid, previously paralyzed by shyness and here he was SINGING and DANCING!

If I was working, I might miss out on these little things that are actually HUGE to both him and me. It got me thinking, and as I turned around to pick up Bobbin (who was making a beeline for the home corner), I realized I would be missing out on so much of her first year when I didn't have to. I had so much time with Tricks, and this year with him at school, Bobbin and I get to have one on one time together where she comes first and isn't just being stopped from eating Lego or being moved away from one of Tricky's creations.

She is a handful and then some, but geez, she's good value. She needs her mama. I need her.

On Tuesday, the company called me to offer me the position, and, on Wednesday I formally declined.

I've never turned down a job before. I've never been in the position to. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, wanting to please them and say yes. But the right thing for me, for my family, was to finally learn how to say no. I feel that if I go back to paid work right now that both of my kids would just miss out on so much, and since I'm in the very privileged position to not have to go back, I feel like it would be short changing them, particularly Bobbin.

I take my hat off to you paid-working mamas, and to the paid-working dads, I really do. I couldn't do it.

7 things I hated about being a Beauty Therapist

Image adapted from Sérgio (Savaman) Savarese via Wikimedia Commons

I was a beauty therapist and makeup artist in my time PT (pre-Tricky). After studying feminism at uni the decision to become someone who faffs about with skincare and makeup raised a few soon to be perfectly coiffed eyebrows.

Despite my lecturers almost having heart attacks on my transition to the beauty world, I never saw what I did as anti-feminist. Every day in my job I made women feel better about the skin they were in. I might not have agreed with everything they chose to do, but telling them they can't wax off every single hair on their whole body because I thought it made them look prepubescent isn't very feminist either. Each to their own and all that jazz. Or all that vajazzle as the case may be.

Making women feel beautiful was actually pretty awesome. I was good at eyebrow shaping and given virgin eyebrows could make you look like you'd had an eye lift with a bit of wax and some perfectly aligned tweezers. I was also good at speedy brazillians but that's a different and rather more painful story.

There were definitely downsides to the job though:

1. Forgetting client names/faces. If you spend 90% of the time with your client looking at their vag, it's bound to happen. I'd usher them in to the room, wracking my brain about who it was, come back, remove the towel and BINGO... "So, Janet, how'd your date with Stewart go?". I never forget a vagina.
2. Whiffy clients. Ladies, please, if you've been at work all day and popped in for a quick wax on the way home, you're not at your freshest. It's not hard to use the freshening wipes provided. You're paying for them after all.
3. Manky clients. Completely different to the whiffy clients because these ones just filthy all over. I once had a young girl come in for a massage and the grime around her neck made me want to puke. When she piped up with "if you see any ticks just flick them off, I've just come back from camping", a little bit of my soul died.
4. Cranky latecomers. I get it, shit happens and you're late. But when you arrive 20 minutes late for a 30 minute appointment then yell at me when I tell you we have to downgrade your treatment? Then I get shitty and the urge to not be so gentle with the wax on your labia. Seriously gals, don't piss off your waxer.
5. Unrealistic expectations. Having a client request a makeup style that you know will look horrible and despite trying to persuade them they'll look shit unless you tone it down, they are adamant they want the catwalk look. So you do it... and they hate it... and you have to take it off and re-do it all, putting you behind schedule. The urge to scream "I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO" is rather strong.
6. Feet. Having to touch someone's feet when you have podophobia brings on cold sweats and panic attacks. I went to therapy to help with my issues and I could focus and get through it but I would have to disinfect my hands afterwards. With bleach. I once did a pedicure on a woman who only had nine toes as a result of an "accident" involving her brother and a sharp axe.
7. Assumptions. People generally assumed that I was a Beauty Therapist because I was too stupid to do anything else. They always I assumed I was a high school drop out. I was a uni drop out, GET IT RIGHT! It was with these folk that I'd always use the big words and I'll never forgetting pulling the dihydrogen monoxide joke on one of those bitches clients.

So there you have it. There were more positives than negatives and a lot of that was to do with the girls I worked with who made it fun. I even liked them enough to invite them to my extremely-awesome-but-strictly-budgeted wedding, so that's saying something.

On a side note, if you have a weak constitution, turn on SafeSearch when you *ahem* search for images of a facial.

What do you hate about your job?

Anonymous trolls: Not just for blogs!

There has been much talk on the interwebz of late about trolls. Actually that's a lie, it's not of late, it's always. There is always someone unwilling to put their name to a comment for all sorts of reasons, not just to flame (though that's normally the case). But you're deluded if you think not putting your regular email address on a comment or blocking out your name in a tweet somehow grants you traceless anonymity.

The other day I met up with my Aunty Steffi (not her real name, except for the Aunty part), in the city on her lunch break. She has only just found her way to the world of Facebook and all she knows of blogs is that I have one and it's where I word vomit occasionally. She pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the table for me to read.

"This was on my desk when I got in to work yesterday" she said, her face defiant.

Click for larger image

"Oh my gawd you have a TROLL!" I screeched. A totally appropriate response given our food court location.

As someone who has been teased for laughing too much and too loudly, seeing this cowardly unsigned letter made my blood boil.

Now this could have been an awful story. I could be telling you how Steffi was so upset by the letter that she now feels uncomfortable going to work. That she has let this cretin win... but that's not the case. Because all of the women in my family are of the kick-arse variety.

"That's terrible, Steffi! What did you do?"

"I stuck it up above the kitchen sink and wrote next to it: 'Can the person who left this on my desk please come and see me so we can discuss this like adults'"

Her colleagues have rallied around her in support and the ongoing "Shhhh you're breathing too loud" jokes that have started since the discovery of the note are made loud enough for whomever printed the note to hear. She won't go down without a fight... and she most definitely will not go quietly.

And just like all things on the internet, all things in an office are traceable. The IT department can, within minutes, find out which computer sent that document to the printer...

So, Steffi's troll, welcome to the 21st Century where there is no such thing as anonymity. Douche.

Have you been bullied at work?

Pimp My Con

Yo. Sup?

Now don't be gettin' all up in ma face about ma new way of talkin'. I be the shiz and can talk however I damn well please. Ya dig?

Oh dear lawd it's painful to talk like that!!!

So. I'm gonna do some serious pimping of DPCON12 because it's almost here! In order to do said pimping, I gotta look the part, right:

Ahh that's better. Suits me, yes? You can call me Glowalicious.

And the fabulous team: Kirrily "Ma Grillz" Whatman, Brenda "Bling Bling" Gaddi and Maria "Sparkle Eyes" Tedeschi:

We're a pretty bunch, yes?

We have been working our butts off (yet mine is still expanding) to bring you an awesome conference and it's looking absolutely brilliant so far!

I'm so excited to hear the speakers, especially those jumping up for My Blog, My Story - last year I bawled my eyes out so this year I am coming prepared with tissues (hidden in my feather boa, of course) so that I don't have to have snot up my sleeve again.Or perhaps pimps use silk handkerchiefs? I'll have to look in to this further.

Because I'm an attention whore a go-getter, I'll be jumping up on stage during dinner and hosting an open mic where you can get up and read out one of your best blog posts from the last year. HOW COOL! If you want to be part of it you can email me at trae@digitalparentsconference.com.au (come on, you know you want to).

There are less than a handful of tickets left so vamoose! You get a full access pass to the conference panels a choice of workshops, admission to the expo room (my domain!), the chill out room, morning and afternoon tea, lunch (nom nom I've seen the menu) and the fabulous dinner dance where there will be dinner and dancing (duh!) and you get to meet me.

Will I see you there? You'll recognize me cos I'll be the one dressed as a pimp.

Buzzing With Excitement

The other day I was complaining as usual about how writing a bio is impossibly hard. Trying to spruik yourself without sounding like a wanker is a skill that I do not posses.

But I finally wrote one and combined it with the photo that got the most votes:

Ahh, but what is it for???

Well, yours truly is now officially a writer for The Daily Buzz, a website that finds all the must-have cool and funky toys, clothes and accessories for babies and kids (and a few things for the mamas too).

I'm buzzing with excitement at the chance to bee part of the team. See what I did there? That's the writing talent that got me a job, baby!

I'm kinda flipping out a bit because I now get to throw around words like copy, deadline and briefs (not the underwear variety, though I have been known to throw those around too). How grown up does that sound?

So go check out The Daily Buzz coo over how cute I am as a cowgirl on their about page.

Find The Daily Buzz on Facebook and Twitter

Working Girl

Day one of the Big Scary Leap is over! And it was rather anticlimactic really... I was bored silly (well, sillier than usual). It was really quiet - I didn't have any makeup clients at all and compared to always having Stuff To Do at home, it felt like I was bludging the whole time.

I was super impressed with myself for remembering my computer log on when I got there, but that was about all I remembered. Each time someone asked me where a product was I'd ummm and arrr (like a pirate) and end up asking The Mad Pharmacist (the only other staff member on yesterday). Luckily The Mad Pharmacist and I get on really well so instead of getting annoyed with me, he just teased me mercilessly than listened patiently while I rabbited on about Tricky.

So how did my Pros and Cons list fare?

Cons:

- I'd miss out on Tricky-time

After making Map Guy and Tricky walk in with me (yes for those extra few moments – gawd I'm just a pile of mush these days) I said good bye, gave my boys a kiss each and that was it really, I did miss him, but I didn't pine over him like I expected. Probably because I talked about him incessantly a little bit and had my phone full of photos to look at. At the end of the day I did shower him is so many kisses and cuddles that he had about three layers of drool on him (compared to his usual two).

- I'd have to express multiple times a day at work and I already feel like a cow
Expressing is a bitch. I do it once a day for the premmie bubs but having to do it multiple times in one day was a bit of a bummer. I have no idea how the gals that exclusively express manage to do it. But we do what we have to do, right?

- Map Guy and I will only get one day a week together

Quality not quantity, right? Which basically means it's only been one day and I have no idea if this an issue or not, so, um, yeah, let's just ignore it for a while, OK?

Pros:

+ We'd have more money
Go to work = get paid. Awesome. But go to work and sell a lot of stuff = get bonus! I get a $5 bonus each time I sell more than $100 of stuff in one transaction, so yesterday I managed to do that twice. I'm constantly amazed at how much crap people buy. But yay for bonuses! I will buy something shiny with that moolah.

Wooo shiny - I wish! Image

+ I would have a lunch BREAK and toilet BREAKS

I confess to going to the toilet just because I could... Yes, I'm really that pathetic. But what I didn't even think of was the expressing break – I was moaning about expressing and not realising that I'd be sitting alone in the office to do it and could therefore do what all good employees do when slacking off at work and check my email, FaceBook and Twitter! Score!

+ I'd get to talk to adults about things other than poo and wee

I forgot just how much poo and wee talk goes on in a pharmacy. Diarrhea, constipation, urinary tract infections and more. Then of course there is the scab, pus and miscellaneous itching talk that goes on in any pharmacy. My iron stomach got a work out.

The final verdict: I had a pretty good day! I'd forgotten how much I liked chatting to clients and laughing til it hurt with The Mad Pharmacist... I think I'll go back next week.

A Small Step or a Giant Leap?

This Saturday I will be making a Big Scary Leap.

Image Here

Nah, not that kind of big scary leap... had you going though didn't I?

Some might think it's just a small step, but right now, for me at least, it feels like a Big Scary Leap... back in to the paid workforce - dun dun DUUUUN!

I've done a little bit of freelance makeup work since Tricky was born – just for clients that had heard about me through word of mouth, which means they were all women from Map Guy's work (he's my makeup pimp), but not enough that you could really say I was working. I hadn't put myself out there as “open for business” after taking time off to have Tricky for a few reasons.

I didn't know quite how to go about re-launching myself (from a cannon?) and plus I wasn't sure if I was ready yet. I was quite happy to plod along taking jobs whenever they came up but my bank account was whispering sweet nothings to me... with an emphasis on the nothing rather than the sweet.

The arguments for and against were spinning around in my head:

Cons:

- I'd miss out on Tricky-time

- I'd have to express multiple times a day at work and I already feel like a cow

- Map Guy and I will only get one day a week together

Pros:

+ We'd have more money

+ I would have a lunch BREAK and toilet BREAKS

+ I'd get to talk to adults about things other than poo and wee

I didn't know if I should call my old work (I was an in-pharmacy makeup artist) and ask to come back. I knew they needed someone but would they want me? After all I am the chick who told them on my very first day that I was preggers.

In my defense, I didn't know I was pregnant when I went for the interview – I found out the day before I started so when I got there I was all “forgive me for breeding.” Not really the type of first day I was expecting (cos I was expecting *boom chick*).

Then on Monday... THEY called ME! Hooray! You love me, you really love me!

So tomorrow I'll have my first full day without my Tricky - and I'm sad, excited, nervous and anxious all at the same time. So wish me luck!

{to find out how my first day went, read about it here}

How did you feel going back to work? Was it a small step or a Big Scary Leap? And because I'm now using Disqus for comments so I will endeavour to reply individually.


It's Friday so that mean's it's Flog Yo Blog Friday again! Check out the great reads below. As always #1 is our fabulous host, Lori from Random Ramblings of a SAHM.

From here to paternity (leave)

Working as a casual has it's advantages – for example, I can have time off (without giving much notice at all) when I get a freelance client. It does have its disadvantages too though, and at the moment they're being felt in the lack of maternity leave way.

Whilst casual employees are entitled to 52 weeks unpaid parental leave (It's called parental leave since either mother or father can take it if they are to be the primary care giver) its only if they have “completed 12 months continuous service” with their employer – and that, unfortunately, is not me. I was feeling like a bit of a change in direction so handed in my resume to be the 'Makeup Consultant' at a pharmacy. I was interviewed on the spot (glad I wore a nice outfit!) and offered the job right then, pending a police clearance. Excellent! So I gave three weeks notice at the place I was working in and thought everything was perfect. The day before I was due to start at the pharmacy, I found out I was pregnant.

Legally I had no obligation to tell my new employer I was pregnant, especially since it was before the 12 week “She'll be right” stage. But I decided to tell them anyway, basically out of a sense of overwhelming guilt. They were shocked to say the least and suggested we all just play it by ear and see what happened. Phew.

So after six months in the job I've now left. Although they have asked me to come back after Tricky is born, I don't have a legal leg to stand on if they change their mind. I've even trained up my replacement, and there isn't enough work for two of us. But I suppose I'll waddle over that bridge when I come to it. For now I'm enjoying the extra time to nest and put my (swollen) feet up.

But what about Hubby? And all the other partners out there? What are they entitled to? Bugger all is what. It is up to the individual company to decide what leave entitlements the non-primary care giver is eligible for. It was a topic of hot debate at antenatal classes the other day with all the couples comparing. It was awful to hear the stories of the men in the group (our class consists of all heterosexual couples with the woman being the primary care giver) having to fight for time off.

Hubby works for the government and gets two weeks paternity leave straight off, no questions asked. Luckily for us his boss (whose wife is expecting her third at the same time as we are expecting Tricky) is very flexible and encouraging him to do what he has done each time (and will do again this time). That is, to combine his paternity leave with carer's leave and a little bit of annual leave, which all up is a grand total of six weeks off work! Hooray!

This not only means that I will get some help in those difficult first few weeks, but it will also allow Tricky to bond with his dad, an opportunity not every bub gets. Especially, it turns out, for teachers. One of the men in our class is a teacher and is allowed a whole three days off. Three days?! THREE DAYS?! That is disgusting! Worse when you consider his wife has to have a scheduled caesarian section for health reasons – she will need three days just to get out of bed – then what?! She'll get a kiss goodbye while her husband goes off to work no doubt feeling guilty for leaving, and she can struggle through. They had tried to get the caesarian scheduled in for the beginning of the school holidays, but turns out you can't pick and choose quite that easily.

Did your partner have time off?  Did he/she have to fight for it?

No experience necessary, apply within

Today was my last day of work for a while. I'm going to let my inner feminist come out to play and say that more accurately: Today was my last day of regular paid work for a while. Because we all know that the real job starts soon, being a mother. Yes, the poorly paying, crap hours, do it for love job of a lifetime.

Ellen Page said it best in the movie Juno when telling her boyfriend she was pregnant: “Cos you know... they say pregnancy often leads to... you know... infants” Its not that I'm just figuring this out, I've been aware of how these things work since I was about nine years old, but now its becoming more and more of a real thing as opposed to just a concept which it has been up until now. Assuming that Tricky comes on his due date, which is unlikely considering only a mere 2-5% of babies do, I have eight weeks to prepare. I can handle eight weeks; I can do some painting, decorating, re-painting because I've changed my mind on the colour scheme, and even clean skirting boards in that time if I so choose. But what if the little sucker comes early?

My sister (who I was keeping anonymous but insists on commenting as 'Aunty Penny') attended a farewell party of her work friend, Cass, who was about to have a few weeks off in preparation for the arrival of her bub. There were presents and cake involved, so understandably everyone had fun. But the baby had other plans and decided to come THE VERY NEXT DAY! As a result every time Tricky moves today I look down sternly and say “Not yet, kiddo!” in my best don't-mess-with-me-I'm-your-mum voice. Because we all know that would work.

Even the antenatal classes are still focussing on birth – yes I need to know lots of things about that, but in the scheme of it all, that is going to be a very small part of the whole having a baby adventure. What happens after? I'll have some midwives and nurses for the first few days but then I have to take this small, strange looking creature home and he'll be entirely dependant on me for EVERYTHING! Hubby has never changed a nappy in his life and only recently held a newborn for the first time (looking highly uncomfortable and completely sh*t-scared, I might add). Now the two of us are supposed to keep this thing fed, clean, warm, entertained and alive. When does the training for that start? It surely can't be all 'on the job' can it? This is slightly more important than my high-school job at Kmart and even that came with a three day training course! If you want to get a bit dramatic and go all 'A Current Affair' and 'Today Tonight' on it, this is the future of our country I'm raising and I'm expected to just wing it? Sheesh! No wonder new mums are tired, they spend half of their time caring for the baby and other half wondering if they're doing it right.

When leaving work today I was amazed that each person used the same words – they all wished me luck on the “impending birth”. But whenever I hear the word impending, my head automatically assumes the next word is doom. So that's all I heard all afternoon, “Good luck on the impending doom” followed by a smile and quick hug. Thanks, the doom thing freaked me out but that pathetic awkward squeeze makes everything OK.

How long did you have off work before bub arrived? Did he/she come anywhere near the due date? Leave a comment.

Mummy, where do babies come from?

This week at work I had a rather startling experience. When someone says “My job means I get to meet people from all walks of life” I wonder if they could actually meet as wide a selection as I get to meet at my place of employment. I'm a freelance makeup artist but for regular income I work in a pharmacy just outside the city, and you meet people not just from every walk of life, but every crawl, skip, hop and jump of life. Not a single day goes by there without some sort of interesting person popping in for a chat – we've had the usual pharmacy suspects – elderly, young parents, drug addicts etc, but because of our location we also tend to get a few “Perthonalities” from TV and football. It can get very hard not to stare at the footballer's legs while their waiting for their medication.

Most of the time they chat and even call me by name (I wear a name badge - it's not that they like me so much they remember me), we exchange pleasantries with more often than not them asking about Tricky while I pretend to not know who they are or what medications they take. Oh that's for impotence... wow!

But then you have those days when it's not the pseudo celebrities that are the highlight. Last week one of the 'regulars', Justine (not her real name) a lovely male to female transgender, came in. We normally chat about all sorts of things ranging from boring weather to the latest makeup trends. She's fantastic and bubbly, always brightening my day. But this time was different. Justine started asking me all sorts of questions about pregnancy. I didn't mind at all and started blabbering away, happy for someone who actually wanted to listen. However when the questions changed to include such gems as “How did you know you were pregnant? What symptoms should I look out for?” I nearly fell over. I didn't know how to reply!

I have absolutely no proof the Justine was delusional and asking for herself – she may have been asking on behalf of a friend or even a daughter. But that didn't matter, because in those few nanoseconds half of my brain seized up and decided not to do any more thinking. “How long did you have morning sickness for?” she asked me. I had it for around 13 weeks but do you think I could say that? With half a brain out of action all I could manage to say was “forever”. She laughed and waited for the real answer to come... it didn't. I was gobsmacked. A sudden influx of customers and I was too busy to finish our conversation – I've never been so relieved in my life!

I suppose it is better though than the intellectually disabled lady who in her own way of wishing me luck said to me at 25 weeks, “Gee, I hope you don't have a miscarriage”.