Recently I've been daydreaming about a list of careers I think I’d be good at:

Teaching. Like, old school. Think Edna Krabappel. Smoking as the kids watch TV when I’m hungover. Never heard of pedagogy. Zero standardised tests other than the 16-year-old one I photocopy wonkily and send one of the students to trim with the office guillotine. All students ace it because the answers are written in stall three of the toilets and have been there for a decade. Then the kids make clay ashtrays for Father’s Day.

Rich housewife. No notes.

Bouncer at a nightclub. Nobody hates 20-year-olds in strapless tops more than women in their forties, so why are bouncers all men? I’d just show up in trackies, unwashed hair, and yell at these girls to make better choices. A quickie in the nightclub toilet with a guy named Zane will ruin your life. Not only with chlamydia, but the fact that in nine short months you’ll start to look like me. Go home, girls. Read a book. Listen to your parents.

Fashion stylist for Big W. Look, I interview people for a living, and one of the questions I always ask is, “What’s your favourite shop in Orange?” To date, nobody has admitted that it’s Big W. I live there. A quick stop at the Leaf Café, where they greet me by name, then the most stylish dress and scarf combo 45 bucks can buy you. And all the dresses now have pockets. I’d also excel at being the smiling door greeter person, if Big W Orange happens to be hiring...

Town planner for Orange, with particular interest in the parking situation on Peisley Street. I have no qualifications. Yet, I couldn’t possibly make this street any worse.

Chief designer for McDonald’s beverage lids. Because WTF is going on here? It used to be simple. Grab straw. Push through weak spot in lid. Sip triumphantly as you navigate the drive-through one-handed in your mum’s Mazda. But now? It takes three steps just to open the straw. Then you have to flip open the lid while shouting at the kids in the back seat to share their $80 pack of six nuggets, while trying to dodge the Uber Eats drivers as you leave the drive-through. Enough is enough.

ADHD medication packaging designer. The box should be so bright pink that it screams when you enter the room and you remember why you walked in; the tablets should be spring-loaded, and an alarm should go off when you forget a dose.

Activities coordinator for an ADHD support group. Monday: Sourdough discard tortillas. Tuesday: Sourdough duck origami. Wednesday: Crocheted Christmas trees for tomorrow’s handmade Christmas cards. Thursday: Duck feeding in Cook Park. Bring your own peas and zero questions about the Christmas cards.

Parking inspector. I’d be fired within days. Hours, perhaps. But not one of you would receive a fine in that time. You’re welcome. Marriage counsellor, but just for the chaos. I’d remind them of their mistakes, encourage blame, and tell my friends all the stories I hear over margaritas at Mad Hatter on a Friday arvo.

The person who decides annual Christmas decoration themes and colours. Because my mum sure as hell never had to deal with this commercial garbage. Red. Green. Silver. Glass baubles the kids aren’t allowed to touch. Christmas tree lights that last generations. One shop per city is allowed to sell angels and star tree toppers because they are made so well they last.

Duck champion of Cook Park, or whatever the actual title is. Ducks. Ducklings. Ducks with ducklings. Something to do with ducks...That’s all.

Advent calendar designer. Firstly, ADHD med advent calendars. You get Ritalin, a craft to hyper-focus on, a worldview challenge, and a party popper with which to announce to your colleagues, friends, and family the precise moment your meds wear off in the afternoon. Then The Perimenopausal Woman’s Advent Calendar: Twenty-four tiny bottles of Baileys, each discreetly labelled PROTEIN COFFEE BOOST XTREEEEEM(TM).

Sourdough failure influencer. A YouTube channel named 'Only Discards', and each video starts with me saying, “Well, you f%^ed that up, didn’t you?” then I show you how to make bagels.

Hat sorter for kindy parents.

Unhinged Kmart worker. I'd lurk in the plastic plant section saying things like “full sun for that bad boy”. No doubt, I'd be fired the day I get my hands on a labeller and give 'strict instructions' about fake plant care, as well as the kind of men who are allowed to share this medium-density, high-profile pillow with you. No scrubs, please.

And finally, real-life Coco’s mum. I’d hang around coffee shops, parks, shopping centre escalators, and primary school gates, just to hug each and every mum I see. And I’d tell you: “You’re doing great.”