Work-Life-Balance. Blah.

This work-life balance business is a crock of shit.

It's a catch phrase used to emolliate the jagged edges of a frantic reality when you are trying to juggle it all. Not have it all, because that is a delusion.

Just juggle it all.

The Adriana Huffingtons and Sheryl Sandbergs of this world have published sound bite tomes (Thrive & Lean In respectively) advising women how to navigate this work-life-balance theory. In a nutshell, Arianna advocates sleeping and breathing more and Sheryl's advice is to work more.

Thanks Ladies.

What are the other two 'metrics'?
(ariannahuffington.com/thrive)

Nonetheless both books were bestsellers for a hot second which shows that women of a certain demographic are seeking advice and guidance on how to work, raise families, manage domestic life, prioritise one's health, have some leisure and social pursuits and remain somewhat sane.

I rarely hear men use the work-life--balance catchphrase. Men I know tend to fall into two categories. Those who work and leave the domestic everything to their spouse. Said spouse might work too but tough luck for her. The other category are men who work and are 'hands-on.'  This might mean they do housework, do the school drop-off, pick-up or shop for food and cook it.

I personally dislike the term 'hands-on' when applied to male domestic labour for it implies some kind of altruism on the man's behalf.  Again, it's not a term ever used in relation to women. It's a double standard.

The work-life-balance issue is bothering me more than normal now because I am working more. Not that I ever stopped but when you drop below three days a week, somehow it's not seen as 'work.' It's something you do for pocket money. Yeah, right.

Pretty much every woman I know
(www.ricominciodaquattro.com)

Maybe my mum has the answer when she advises me to, do less, to which my reply is, you are welcome to my laundry. 40c wash please.

Stupidly I agreed to increase my paid work hours in the lead up to Christmas; a time in which domestic chores and social activities quadruple. I get through my days on coffee, sugar and rage.

My husband's work load hasn't changed too much. Maybe a slight increase but nothing requiring Valium.

But why should he need Valium? He didn't source all the birthday and Christmas presents and make sure they are delivered to the recipients. He didn't write and send all the cards. He didn't monitor and plan the family and our child's festive social calendar which now qualifies me to become a airport traffic controller. He doesn't do the doctors, dentist and haircut appointments. He doesn't help out at school. He didn't source any of the houses we have looked at as potential buyers.  He didn't source the family dress up costumes for the Christmas parties ahead. He didn't organise childcare.He didn't look into and plan all the Christmas activities we are doing over the break as a family.

He did get the Christmas tree though. It's huge and too big for our little house.

None of the above is brain surgery. But it requires a lot of brain space.

All throughout November, my head pulsated to an alarming level. I thought I had Martian blood. Every woman I spoke to said the same. Next year we should all get t-shirts that read:

My Head is Exploding. Duck.

Amongst all this jolliness, I'm trying to write a book.  About a mum who is negotiating the work-life-balance dilemma so she can be at home with her daughter and husband, although her career (and passion) means she needs travel for long periods.

But my current work-life-balance is preventing me from writing.

And so is this rant.

Over and Out

About four years ago, I wrote about a blog post about re-entry into the paid workforce after having had a baby. I did not foresee that the beginning of a part-time working life  (plus baby, plus Masters degree) would mean the end of blogging.

I don't know why I did not see this. Even a blind person would have seen it.

It was a busy four years. I met some truly wonderful people in my workplace. My boss was tops. I went to work beaming most days. Happy and full of bad jokes which I shared with anyone around me.

Then disaster struck! Nine months ago, the project I had been developing with my boss was suspended indefinitely. I had nothing to do. Left with little choice, I applied for an internal vacancy which on paper looked like a great challenge. More responsibility. More money. More days.

When they offered it to me, I felt uneasily relieved. I wasn't happy about spending less time with Dragon but I did welcome a new challenge. It was a trade-off.

A great deal is made of intuition by holistic practitioners and Psychologies magazine.

Follow your gut, they say. Or is it,  Listen to your gut. ?

Regardless, the true answer to all life's mysteries is to be found within your abdomen

During the handover for my new role, my stomach had a lot to say. The primary message seemed to be:

GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!

Did I listen?  Did I follow?

No. I did jackshit and instead adopted a Protestant work ethic facade hoping that my stomach was wrong.  That I was just imagining that the new job did not resemble in the slightest what I had hoped it would be.

An oldie, but a goodie

Six months later, I quit.

It wasn't all for nothing. Being in a soul sucking, toxic workplace highlighted to me what I wanted to do. I started writing a book to keep myself sane. And I started writing here again. And many more places. I just started to write.

It was the only way to get my stomach to shut up.

Working Hard for (No) Money....

When I was studying economics in high school, my then teacher told us how the work of women at home, ie housewife, mother etc was not included in the GDP of the nation. He said that this seemed an inaccurate reflection of the population's real productivity as so much work goes on in the home and in the rearing of kinder. He asked what we thought the real value of such work would be?

He was an unlikely feminist with his Fair Isle knit cardigans and combover hair but what he said has stuck with me all these years.

A lovely selection of Fair Isle sweaters

And now it is time for me to stick my toe back into the dirty waters of paid work. It is time to take a break (yes, many women consider going back to work a break as child rearing is like non stop, unpaid domestic slavery) from my beloved 14 month old dictator and rejoin the masses.

But who'll have me?

Well I have a job interview next week; my first in years.  I like job interviews. I see them as little ethnographic field trips into the inner workings of industry. Although I am the one being summoned to be assessed as to whether they should hire me to work like a slave for £10 an hour (I work in the arts and hey, it's more than I'm getting at home); I always enjoy job interviews because I am very much also, interviewing THEM.

I like meeting a a panel of strangers who have dedicated questions in front of them to ask me. The same questions it seems that all potential employees ask their interviewees.  I like assessing what their work personalities might be like and whether I would like to work with  them. Would we clash or would we become work buddies? Did they dress up for this interview or do they always wear such stiff clothes?

It's so much fun for that hour or two.

If you get the job, well that's when the fun stops.

Tell it Like It Is

A friend posted this recently on Facebook. Too good not to share:

Good 'ol HR. Why call an apple and apple when you can call it a spade?