finding my place on earth

A few posts back I wrote that I was about to throw myslef in the full time frenzy of finding full time time job. You know, it's the 20 CVs per day frenzy and registering with X number of online recruitment agencies, those who spend a lot of time claiming they have the dream job for me, but after the first phone call give up delivering the dream to me. In other words, they never get back to me. Surely, I am not that stupid, or that rude, or that forgettable. Am I..am I...am I..??????Anyway, digressions aside, I started with the subject of job hunting, just to announce that there was a slack in the activity. Worry not, pick it up, I will soon. It's just some other daily life activities interfered and stole the time.And energy for that matter. And my enthusiasm dropped too. But today, I got fired up again about the whole business to get a job. I met my rich friend. A mum of a lovely, though outsized toddler. Her chief concern of the day every day is to make her life just soooo perfect for herself and her tod; she does it by hunting down for her little offspring the perfect pair of socks perfectly matching his new booties, getting dead set on finding a pair of sandals with a buckle made from pure silver, and swooping in Boots on the last pack of wipes saturated with just the perfect blend of botty soothing herbs.Then, when she accomplishes those deeds, she takes a brief break in front of the telly only to ponder how imperfect her deeds (i.e.purchases) actually were and starts heading back to the shops to have the imperfect goods replaced, refunded or repaired.
OK, so how does that tie in with my earlier statement about me getting fired up to find a job..? Well, I guess I would love to have the money to buy the silver buckle sandals, the lavender scented socks, the gold coated wipes and other fab what nots. But then, I missed one link in my chain of thought. It's not her job that pays for her extravagances, it's her husband. So where does that leave me? Well, I think I will just have to curb my desire to buy, buy, buy and serve it to my cynic mind on a plate of sour grapes. After all, those silly spenders of their rich husbands' money have lives so little, they can easily be filled with a dozen reciepts from Debenhams, John Lewis or Laura Ashley. My life takes far more. Even if it is 2356 signs worth of blog post.

Has anyone ever wondered what SAHMs go through ? Well, apart from the piles of dirty nappies and wipes after wipes after wipes...Why does any sensible, educated and enlightened by the stroke of feminism woman would choose to stay at home in the company with inarticulate, irrational, incontinent, incapable creatures? Some call it maternal instinct. Yes, there is some of that. But it does not stretch so far as to make life feel like bliss made in heaven. And when it does stop stretching, life becomes a dreary and stressful experience. How much can anyone endure hours of monotonous whinging, moaning closely followed by fits of tantrums, during which food lands on the ceiling and on a CD player. Well, no sane woman could endure that for long.Not for the 2,3,4,0r even 10 years that many women choose to stay at home with their offspring. So why do they do that? I have a theory about that, and it says that they choose full time mummying because the alternative is gruelling and gruesome. The alternative is to 'have it all': nice home and a nice career. Except that 'nice' is more often in theory than practice. Nice career often, in most cases of working women, amounts to spending 8 hours per day at the till, at the computer, at the phone, at the shelves, or at some other inanimate object with which we are asked engage to produce some not so nice money (not nice because it is never enough to comfortably cover full time child care expenses, bags of nappies, and basic essentials to keep the family alive such a case of chardonney per month). Add to that, the arsehole of a manager (what kind of recruitment system is in place in this country that it's always arseholes that get promoted?) and the choice becomes a no-brainer. Yeah, cots, snots and play blocks , give them to me any time, they just seem to be a doddle. Of, course, high flying career women have none of these concerns. But then they belong to a different breed, I guess one that should stop breeding. After all the 30 minutes of 'quality' time with their children can only ensure that their children remember what mummy looks and smells like. That's mad. But then women like it mad, in or out of the house..it's always mad. And sad.