tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67243512024-03-24T02:20:14.444+08:00MilchfrömmlerMilchfrömmler is German for milk bigot.
Currently tying to be current... and stuff.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger878125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-22173411066394116972010-05-09T09:46:00.002+08:002010-05-09T09:49:14.841+08:00dear mum,First of all Happy Mother's Day. I hope you're having fun in South Australia.<br /><br />Today is also laundry day. You know, washing clothes, nothing to wear.<br /><br />But luckily for me you left a cardigan on the airer. Yoink. Thanks Mum.<br /><br />So thanks for your love, your ranting and (most importantly at the present moment) your wardrobe.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br />JessUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-9457020177003884222010-05-01T18:24:00.002+08:002010-05-01T18:57:36.746+08:00ow.Of all the places I expected to be at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, the emergency department wasn't all that high on the list.<br /><br />Bed? Yes.<br /><br />Making a coffee? Yes.<br /><br />Emergency department? No.<br /><br />The excruciating pain woke me up; just above the right hip and spreading out in every which direction from there.<br /><br />It reduced me to a whimpering, sobbing mess.<br /><br />So off to the hospital we went. In my pyjamas.<br /><br />The pain was still taking my breath away so I entered the world of ill-fitting hospital gowns and identity bracelets.<br /><br />They had to take my blood and they wanted to put a line in just in case hard core intravenous painkillers were the order of the day.<br /><br />Yep. Cannulas.<br /><br />They hurt. Like some kind of words that would thrust this blog into MA 15+ territory.<br /><br />And that was the first time they tried.<br /><br />Two hands and one wrist later, I was sporting a cannula. Out the side of my wrist.<br /><br />The pain subsided, much to my relief.<br /><br />Mum was sitting at my bedside wanting to take photos of me in an ill-fitting hospital gown.<br /><br />I know, not exactly happy snap time.<br /><br />So I said a potentially inappropriate joke: 'Hey look, I'm Jesus!' Holding up my hands with the two round band aids over failed cannula attempts.<br /><br />She giggled. Dad looked at us funny.<br /><br />If I could crack jokes, I was well enough to go, so I left the hospital with 20 minutes to spare to get to my travelography course.<br /><br />I made it on time, looking like I'd just done a runner from a hospital.<br /><br />Just call me Speed Racer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-66994110448349573972010-04-30T18:25:00.004+08:002010-04-30T19:00:51.230+08:00token lady...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkTccIIkCVEd1M191l605L0MLtxtKZNLgx2TVeIFZ4bAuofnr44ql3HdQ6toCvCVsXxw7H-W89bIrAYhw9X62lU4rRI-UwVjFawyvAxes3rpk-2ab9DNPz4EkIVSd-1JBpFYw/s1600/IMGP0256.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkTccIIkCVEd1M191l605L0MLtxtKZNLgx2TVeIFZ4bAuofnr44ql3HdQ6toCvCVsXxw7H-W89bIrAYhw9X62lU4rRI-UwVjFawyvAxes3rpk-2ab9DNPz4EkIVSd-1JBpFYw/s400/IMGP0256.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465880437714923762" /></a><br /><br /><br />...or beer bitch as one colleague endearingly named me.<br /><br />Every Friday (well, <span style="font-style:italic;">most</span> Fridays) six of us gather together and drink beer at midday. In full few of colleagues and those poor souls in the newsroom who shake their heads disparagingly and try to shield their envy, we drink.<br /><br />The ritual's been going on for nigh on a year.<br /><br />One of us will get impatient. Or thirsty. So they grab the box of pilsner glasses and head towards the common area.<br /><br />Then we wait until the quorum has gathered, introduce the guest star (rarely are all six foundation members there on any given Friday), make the obligatory Love Boat joke at the guest star and wait for the reveal.<br /><br />There has to be a reason for the beer at hand. Or it has to be a very good beer.<br /><br />The reveal is the best bit. It's kind of like a beery version of Toastmasters. It forces you to convince the others that the beer before them is something awesome to behold. Or else you have to tell a bloody good story to back it up.<br /><br />We've had all kinds of beer. Japanese beer made in Canada, two cartons worth of English beers, your usual Belgian or German suspects. <br /><br />We've also had home brew and Emu Export, but we only talk about that when we want to dish out some shtick.<br /><br />And I am the token girl. Sitting amongst some of the funniest, Irish-est, drunkest, interesting blokes you'll know. Some of the time I wish they'd shut up about the bloody cricket (thank goodness the season's over) and other times I laugh so hard at their anecdotes, impersonations and views that I quite literally cry.<br /><br />We are the envy of the office.<br /><br />So much some envious women have formed a wine club.<br /><br />But they don't have a token guy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-24295768364943336502010-04-29T22:07:00.002+08:002010-04-29T22:11:22.480+08:00unintelligible gruntHere's the bit where I should have something profound to say.<br /><br />But I don't.<br /><br />All profundity decided to walk away for the day. They called it a profound strike.<br /><br />So... I'm just writing shit instead.<br /><br />In other news, I still haven't lost the touch with grabbing an old book with random photographs from the second hand bookshop and making a corker party invitation.<br /><br />Just you wait... This one? Spectacular. <br /><br />Who needs facebook events when you can have one of my lovingly handcrafted invites.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-47129698029130007832010-04-28T20:05:00.003+08:002010-04-28T20:52:07.132+08:00on my mindI'm trying to get on a bit of a blogging kick. See if I can blog once a day (trust me, you don't need anymore than a once-a-day insight into my mind)<br /><br />But here's some lolz from today.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1. I appeared in a colleague's dream.</span><br />In their dream, I was also spending a day a week working as a doctor. Apparently it's the best kind of moonlighting. I was a nice doctor for the record. Trust me, I'm a doctor (in your dreams)<br /><br />But then, after the program (yes, we've shifted to real life) she came over and pointed to her eye and frowned. I was on the phone. As soon as I got off the phone, I asked what was wrong with her eye. She said it was puffy. I said, "You've got a stye, rub your eye with a gold ring." She asked me if I ever had any aspirations to study medicine.<br /><br />So yeah... I just spent too many words on describing someone's dream (and real life). Moving right along....<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2. Everyone loves my soup</span><br /><br />I make chicken vegetable noodle soup that dreams are made of. That sentence doesn't really make sense and I don't care. It's that delicious.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3. Jane Austen, much like Charles Dickens is not that easy to read.</span><br />I find I need to devote my entire attention span to the very old syntax and the pussyfooting around things. Take for example in Persuasion, where Sir Uptight Conceited Father runs out of money because he's been too extravagant. Miss Austen takes five pages to explain in very convoluted 1800s terms that he must mortgage his home and rent it out in order to continue his cashed up lifestyle. Oh the shame! Just goes to show the GFC is not a new concept.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4. Dad was watching a Bon Jovi concert on Foxtel.</span><br />That fact disturbs me greatly.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5. Things you must investigate post haste.</span><br /><br />In no particular order: QI, why Stephen Fry has lost so much weight of late, Turkey, Istanbul, Cappadocia, microstoven dishes, why I buy kitchenware when I'll be leaving the country in a month and, The Swell Season.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-15768012477641948592010-04-27T22:24:00.002+08:002010-04-27T22:38:36.910+08:00runYou know it's time to leave Perth when:<br /><br />You become Facebook friends with someone and there's that 0.333 degrees of separation that only the most isolated capital city in the world can deliver.<br /><br />You can't even get a head start on shaping your own notoriety because somebody who worked with somebody who went to uni with someone you went to high school with knows you and has already told all the daggy stories they can about you. <br /><br />That is more or less a perfect example of how Perth works.<br /><br />You just want to back away slowly before the stoic, parochial... who am I kidding?... stuff draws you in to stay longer and longer.<br /><br />Until you're stuck.<br /><br />Yep, that was just a great advertisement for WA: "We rock! And you should think so too..."<br /><br />You know it's time to leave Perth when you realise you need to fashion a flow chart to show how you know everyone... or more importantly how everyone knows you.<br /><br />Flow chart.<br /><br />Coming soon...<br /><br />You know it's time to leave Perth when... you want to be you. Not known as somebody's child, grandchild, sibling, niece or nephew, 2nd best friend twice removed.<br /><br />(Don't get me wrong, identity is a great thing and you're inevitably, irrevocably shaped by family and friends)<br /><br />There is that liberation in knowing that no-one knows of the university or high school you went to or the suburb you live in.<br /><br />Nor do they care.<br /><br />They want you to bring your A-game in humanity, be the best you that you can possibly be, show them you're more than just the pigeonholes yourself and others have slotted yourself in.<br /><br />Yes please.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-86782681284159684002010-04-26T15:26:00.002+08:002010-04-26T15:56:06.107+08:00practice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10yFryERHdCEvLaDWwuyE6rYfYxo2yPP0TXc-eZTnQu88miVRa9GwlddgLjWjUyprmBOW0o5tkyTJBfppKoP5sm_-HglZhA8bC8QOvD-r7Feml-2NtU62lAmV1DBsYngQo6-a/s1600/IMGP0121.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10yFryERHdCEvLaDWwuyE6rYfYxo2yPP0TXc-eZTnQu88miVRa9GwlddgLjWjUyprmBOW0o5tkyTJBfppKoP5sm_-HglZhA8bC8QOvD-r7Feml-2NtU62lAmV1DBsYngQo6-a/s400/IMGP0121.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464345792403668146" /></a><br /><br />"Excuse me, can I take a photo of you?"<br /><br />There was joy in my household this weekend as my new camera arrived in the mail on Friday.<br /><br />This camera is long awaited, so too its new lens and plain betterness.<br /><br />I've been reading up on travel photography, trying to get my head around all the elements I need to keep in mind to take that superhero photo I keep banging on about.<br /><br />One thing I really want to do well as far as travel photography is concerned are portraits. <br /><br />The <a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9781741046892/Travel-Photography">good book</a> says it's important to treat the portrait subject with respect, ask before taking their photo, all those nice things you should do.<br /><br />I was putting the camera through its paces in Freo's West End, taking some architectural detail photos amongst the wedding parties in stretch hummers having their bogan wedding portraits.<br /><br />Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I spotted someone dressed as a ghoul. In my head, I tried to figure out when Halloween was. Certainly not late April.<br /><br />But the closer the man in the long black cloak came, the more I realised his was an Aboriginal performer, face painted with yellow and white, didge slung over his back.<br /><br />I thought I'd bite the bullet, obey the good book, ask permission to take this guy's photo.<br /><br />Smaller than me, with a killer swagger, he walked over to a bench and flung his coat off to reveal a chest painted much like his face.<br /><br />He smelled like a combination of hard liquor, sweat and in short: a rough night.<br /><br />"I just walked past that wedding party, I wished them the best of luck.<br /><br />"I might go back and play them a tune while they have their photos taken."<br /><br />Somehow the conversation with turned to his own love life.<br /><br />He told of women who had run around behind his back.<br /><br />"Yeah, the next time I find a woman, I'm gonna spear her I reckon."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">That's one way to pin her down...</span> I said, fully aware of the pun.<br /><br />A peal of laughter erupted from him. He thought it was the funniest thing ever.<br /><br />He then turned serious again. <br /><br />"They reckon I might have a kid from one of those old missus.<br /><br />"My brother saw her with this kid in the pram and he said it looked exactly like me!"<br /><br />He then deliberated as to whether he really wanted to know whether the kid was his or not.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Well you'll know whether the kid is yours or not if he has a beard</span>, I said, pointing to the beard protruding from his white and yellow face.<br /><br />"A baby with a beard!" he roared with laughter. This really could be the funniest thing he'd heard all day.<br /><br />"You don't have any smokes do you?"<br /><br />I shrugged my shoulders, <span style="font-style:italic;">Nope, I don't smoke. Sorry.</span><br /><br />He wandered off talking about heading back to the wedding photography session.<br /><br />But not before shaking my hand.<br /><br />Sometimes it's not about getting the photo that makes photography a good experience.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-24700264739772554442010-04-25T12:14:00.002+08:002010-04-25T12:51:54.721+08:00how to solve a cryptic crosswordI was cranky yesterday afternoon.<br /><br />Somehow I had missed the memo ordering all Sunday drivers to be especially aggravating on a Saturday.<br /><br />Traffic was shit, shop service was bad. Welcome to Perth, where time stands still and so too do her inhabitants.<br /><br />After letting out an unintelligible war cry of rage, I drove to Granma and Granpa's place, where tea and an assorted tray of biscuits are a must. Especially <a href="http://www.arnotts.com.au/our-products/products/fancy-and-fruit.aspx">squashed fly biscuits</a>.<br /><br />At Granma and Granpa's you rarely need to knock on the door. Granma has already shuffled over to the door and greeted you with some witticism or another.<br /><br />But today she was quiet as she opened the door carefully.<br /><br />"Ssh..." she whispered, "the baby's asleep,".<br /><br />The baby is her 86 year old husband taking a snooze on the sheepskin-covered couch.<br /><br />We're relegated to the bedroom lest I hear his snoring.<br /><br />We can leave the bedroom at 3pm and have the legendary tea and biscuits. Until then, I am regaled with stories of why my great uncle has a stutter (Freak gliding accident, apparently).<br /><br />"What's the time?" she asks.<br /><br />I hold my watch out to see it's three o'clock on the dot. Time to wake Granpa.<br /><br />During tea and biscuits Granpa normally stays quiet. He's the strong, silent type. The still waters run deep type. He's also rather deaf.<br /><br />But this time he would pipe up every so often from behind his cryptic crossword.<br /><br />"Granpa does the cryptic crossword every day," says Granma. Speaking for him is her norm.<br /><br />"It's not as hard as normal crosswords," rasps Granpa (he always sounds raspy, as though he hasn't spoken for a while when he talks) "you get two clues put together in the cryptic crossword."<br /><br />Fair call, I thought but those two clues are still tricky.<br /><br />"The LB one in the Sunday Times is the trickiest," he said.<br /><br />"To complete the LB you need a thesaurus, a good atlas, the complete works of Shakespeare, a Bible and an encyclopaedia."<br /><br />That explained the bottom shelf of the bookshelf. There they all were.<br /><br />He read out a clue in the latest cryptic crossword.<br /><br />"Book coming my way?" he asked.<br /><br />Granma and I looked over at each other and shrugged.<br /><br />"Tome!" he said brightly in a self-satisfied tone.<br /><br />There were chuckles all around as we laughed at the dad jokeishness of it all.<br /><br />"He's so clever," said Granma half taking the mickey, half complete adoration for her husband of 60-odd years.<br /><br />Granpa got up.<br /><br />"Oh, it's four o'clock already is it?" asked Granma, "I thought you had a shower yesterday."<br /><br />"No..." was his reply.<br /><br />Granma reached over to his shelf where he keeps his Columbines, crosswords and a calendar, it would appear.<br /><br />She showed it to me. Every second day was highlighted yellow. Shower day. Every other yellowed day had a C for clean clothes, others had a H for washing his hair. He had his hygienic routine mapped out until August. <br /><br />We chuckled and thought about the prospect of highlighting a square one day out. <br /><br />Granpa returned from his shower and had a bit more of a chat just before 5 o'clock. Or bowls o'clock as it would happen to be.<br /><br />Today I bought the Sunday Times. I'm going to give the LB a crack.<br /><br />Just to see how I go.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-75130507976371292342010-04-20T19:02:00.003+08:002010-04-20T20:55:03.213+08:00dear icelandic volcanoYes, that's right, I'm one of millions, or even perhaps billions who cannot pronounce your name properly, let alone spell it.<br /><br />So sorry, I could try and say it, but I'm fairly certain I'd make a mockery of the Icelandic language. And the voice of the Swedish Chef.<br /><br />Anyway, where was I?<br /><br />Yes.<br /><br />Dear Icelandic volcano,<br /><br />I know you're cranky and you're spewing stuff into the air. It's your moment in the sun, you're stealing the spotlight in the international media. And you're teaching people a few things:<br /><br />a) Always have a plan B, C, D, or all the way through V.<br />b) Never travel farther than you can afford a taxi fare back to your humble abode.<br />c) Not to be so precocious as to assume you can just fly somewhere. Commercial aviation is relatively young.<br />d) You cannot ever make airport terminal chairs comfortable. Nor can you make them into beds.<br /><br />Ok, so we've established that you've given us a few timely reminders. Lesson learnt.<br /><br />Now can you please, please, please it a rest in ooh... a month at the most? I have a plane to catch.<br /><br />K thx bye,<br /><br />Jess.<br /><br />PS. Will ask SCOSE how to say your name. They will know.<br />PPS. Do you have a nickname? That may be easier.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-50520103760880427402010-04-18T21:37:00.003+08:002010-04-19T18:07:39.112+08:00high achievers' five year planWow. 25. <br /><br />Quarterlife. Didn't that sneak up upon us?<br /><br />Anyhoo. After quite a high-achieving quarter century, I thought it only fair that I set a few goals for the next five years.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1. Have a tropical cyclone or police operation named after me</span><br /><br />Let's face it - doesn't the phrase, "The category five Severe Tropical Cyclone Jessamy is bearing down upon the Pilbara Coast" have a rather nice ring to it? So too does, "WA Police are busily working on Operation Jessamy - the fight against underage tomfoolery."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2. Be a publisher, not a just published.</span><br /><br />Yep, Editor-in-chief or Editor-at-large sounds awesome.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3. Fill a passport with stamps and visas</span><br /><br />Let's be conservative and aim for 20 stamp or visas. I'm already going to make a nice dent in that one. The mid-level ultimate? Russia. Just because it's a pain in the arse to get one<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4. Learn how to do something really culinary.</span><br /><br />Blend some wine, brew some beer, make some cheese, roast coffee beans. I would love to be able to make something really awesome.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5. Take a superhero photograph</span><br /><br />Not just a good photo, nor a great one. Not even an awesome photograph. I'm talking about <span style="font-style:italic;">the</span> photograph. The one that gets published in Lonely Planet, National Geographic. The superhero photo. Yes, please.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-55412438595274173622010-04-17T14:41:00.002+08:002010-04-17T15:54:13.721+08:00looking good...Dear Pharmacy,<br /><br />I am so glad I decided to get my passport photos redone with you.<br /><br />As a result I look hot on my UK working visa. Absolutely awesome.<br /><br />Australia Post, you can keep your <a href="http://milchfrommler.blogspot.com/2010/04/ugly-filter.html">ugly filter</a>, it is no longer required.<br /><br />Jess.<br /><br />PS. This is my 900th post. It's only taken five or six years. Good things take time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-90043707013907544302010-04-09T23:22:00.002+08:002010-04-09T23:40:39.545+08:00dear bumface,RE: interesting developments.<br /><br />So... let's talk in cryptic crossword speak.<br /><br />You're potentially at a crossroads. You've seen similar crossroads before.<br /><br />No biggie, hey?<br /><br />Except you're not so sure. Really not sure. Both options are equally enticing.<br /><br />You want my opinion. I think that's dangerous. Not because I'm biased ( I am), not because I have an agenda ( I don't). But mostly because it is your decision. Not mine.<br /><br />May I stop and give you one piece of advice? Do not listen to your head. Your head is far too rational on either side of the equation. The cartoon angels and devils have veritable field days and you're left without any clue or any calm. A tougher deliberation awaits when you listen to your head.<br /><br />Do not listen to your heart. It is irrational, flippant, useless in times like these. It is not a matter for your heart to decide.<br /><br />No, go with your gut. Go with what feels right. More importantly go with what feels right for right now. Not ten years down then track. Ten years time will sort itself out in precisely that time frame. <br /><br />From my experience, real piece of mind comes from going with your gut.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-39450188899883631292010-04-06T18:50:00.002+08:002010-04-06T19:04:56.314+08:00the ugly filterDear Australia Post and Polaroid,<br /><br />Do you or do you not fit your passport photo cameras with an ugly filter?<br /><br />I need to know it isn't just me. <br /><br />Normally my face isn't so fat, my skin so blergh and the overall tone so... '80s?<br /><br />I could go so far as saying these passport photos are far outweigh the badness that is drivers licence photos. In fact, they must list photographic skill as a prerequisite for jobs at the WA Department of Transport.<br /><br />This isn't the first time, Australia Post and I fear it won't be the last.<br /><br />Please, please rectify this, I swear your camera is broken, not me.<br /><br />In the meantime, I may take my pretty little face in front of a camera without an ugly filter.<br /><br />Yours in disgruntledness,<br /><br />JessUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-55315108768289721322010-03-21T21:30:00.002+08:002010-03-21T21:53:25.131+08:00the overwhelmingly sad beautyThis evening I saw the single most beautiful and sad thing ever.<br /><br />It was twenty past six, I was at Mosman Beach. It's a Sunday thing - walk on the dog beach, lose myself in my own solitude. It works.<br /><br />I always knew we were blessed to live in Western Australia for one thing: beach sunsets.<br /><br />And I try not to take them for granted.<br /><br />This evening's was perfect. I honestly cannot recall seeing anything more perfect.<br /><br />There was a clear view to Rottnest Island, or at least its silhouette, among those of ships along Gage Roads.<br /><br />The sun was tracking its last ten or so minutes into the ocean and there were just enough clouds to make spectacular reds, yellows, oranges and purples of every shade imaginable.<br /><br />To the left there were the lights of Fremantle's inner harbour, the twinkling beacons of cranes, cranes and more cranes. It was eerily beautiful bathed in the greenish yellow shades the lighter cloud cover to the south was giving off.<br /><br />And then to my right a storm was brewing further up the coast. The looming thunderclouds didn't know whether they purple or dark, dark grey. But every so often the sky would light up as the electricity couldn't contain itself any longer.<br /><br />And there I was in amongst it, sand between my toes with nothing but my car keys in my pocket and my thongs in one hand. It wasn't hot, nor was it cold. There was a light breeze, but not enough to make one look windswept. Everything was right.<br /><br />My reaction?<br /><br />I started crying.<br /><br />I honestly can't tell you why I was crying - it could have been because it was so epically beautiful, to the point of overwhelmingly beautiful<br /><br />It could have also been that something so beautiful is meant to be shared. It was an amazing moment; something I'll never forget. But it will also be something I'll never be able to turn to someone and say, "Hey, remember that sunset? The one with the thunderstorm that eclipsed every other sunset?"<br /><br />And that in itself was so, so sad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-27006839725484316872010-03-14T15:07:00.003+08:002010-03-14T15:22:09.367+08:00panic stationsYesterday morning I was on the verge of a panic attack.<br /><br />That in and of itself is concerning, I haven't had a panic attack for a good 20 months. I thought I'd gotten past the panic and anxiety. <br /><br />It's another reminder that I'm very human, very vulnerable. Perhaps you're never quite cured of your demons. Wherever you go, there you are. You're no different and no less susceptible because you've moved on - both in time and place and mental position.<br /><br />What made this panic attack even stranger, potentially more concerning? <br /><br />I was having a panic attack in my sleep.<br /><br />As vivid as losing a tooth in a dream is, so too is having a panic attack. Just as you feel the gums and the gap in your 'losing a tooth' dream, so too do you feel the instant your stomach plummets, your head spins and your thoughts become irrationally worst case scenario. It's very real, very raw, very scary.<br /><br />And I can understand why I had the dream. I am simultaneously excited and petrified about my plans. <br /><br />I need to relearn the tools to keep the panic attacks in dream land and not in real life. Just another thing to add to the to-do list.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-45543836063136583472010-03-12T18:54:00.003+08:002010-03-13T16:25:28.158+08:00droughtI cannot remember the last time I needed an umbrella.<br /><br />I know it's been the better part of three months. <br /><br />I have a sneaking suspicion that the last time I needed an umbrella I probably would have disregarded that need and dashed wherever I needed to go. It was probably 5.45am, I needed to fetch the paper, or hop in my car. Rain makes my hair frizzy - care factor? <br /><br />But it's been such a long, long time. <br /><br />In the time <a href="http://www.abc.net.au/local/audio/2010/03/12/2844598.htm?site=perth">the Thornlie</a> tree man has been perched on a limb, staging his protest, it has not rained once.<br /><br />In that time, cyclones have lashed the North West coast, and a bushfire has caused immeasurable heartache. But still - no rain here in Perth.<br /><br />Christmas, New Year's, Australia Day, Labour Day, parties, road trips, heartache, work, work, work and other stuff in between. No rain.<br /><br />Since it last rained, the good stuff in life has diminished rather than flourished.<br /><br />And I know I shouldn't whinge, there are people facing harder things than I am, that have faced harder things than I have, that will face harder things than I could ever imagine.<br /><br />But the fact remains: No rain = bad juju.<br /><br />I have even left Perth for little chunks of time. Went to Canberra - no rain, hot weather. Went to Adelaide - no rain, hot weather, a pair of pandas. I wouldn't know rain if it slapped me in the face.<br /><br />The only sniff of rain I've had is a song called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch#!v=Dpga9ichLFg">The Rain</a> - it's Aussie hip-hop, don't hate...<br /><br />It teases with its lyrics: <span style="font-style:italic;">Hush child from the joy to the pain, it'll all wash away in the rain.</span><br /><br />And that's it. I don't need rain because it's wet. I need rain because I need it to all be washed away.<br /><br />So hush child, from the joy to the pain it'll all wash away in the rain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-38839520369019619962010-03-06T16:03:00.002+08:002010-03-06T16:22:57.848+08:00le sighI have a Hens Night to go to in just under an hour and a half.<br /><br />And to tell you the truth, I cannot be arsed going.<br /><br />I can never be bothered with them. In the past year, I have been to massive three hens nights, four kitchen teas and I'm sure my brain cannot remember additional pre-marital girly fests.<br /><br />I don't like them. <br /><br />I don't like the giggles, the lame 'how well does the bride know the groom' quiz, the penis paraphernalia (unless you can prank someone with it in the days following)and in some cases, the inevitable male stripper. Don't get me started on how tacky the male stripper thing is. I have one thing to say before I move on: a shaved scrotum is not cool. Not now, not ever.<br /><br />My hate is simple: my friends never do this in our everyday, week-to-week friendship existence. Why start with the sleazy stuff now, as if to salute our soon-to-be hitched friend off with one last nod to being a single lady? Why do it in a way we never acted in the first place?<br /><br />And as for kitchen teas - they're cute. Outdated but cute. I hate the 'identify the spices game'. I feel mildly awkward as two or three generations of women collide. But it's nice. And let's face it - it's always funny when Nanna makes a somewhat inappropriate remark. Plus, I love buying bakeware for my friends. It is also the only way they will ever get my banoffee pie recipe.<br /><br />Please, please don't read any of this the wrong way. This isn't a feminist rant. I wouldn't call myself feminist. I am just me, trying to be the best me I possibly can be. But I think we should act authentically rather than act to some lame, two-and-a-half star American rom-com prescription of what a hens night should be.<br /><br />And again, don't regard me as jealous of my engaged/married friends. In the land of ifs and/or whens I would hate my own hens night as much as anyone else's. <br /><br />So here I am, an hour and a quarter before a close friend's hens night. I love her to death and I'm going because it should be fun (and did I mention I love her to death?). But I'm not looking forward to it; I have my early escape plan hatched.<br /><br />I'll try not to roll my eyes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-47555649114987726582010-03-02T16:19:00.003+08:002010-03-02T16:29:05.664+08:00Stop wine-ingIt's March.<br /><br />Yes, how time flies, blah, blah, blah.<br /><br />March for me will be all about giving up one of my great loves - wine.<br /><br />Why wine? <br /><br />Well quite simply, when I drink wine I don't know when to stop. When I drink beer or anything else, there are warning signs when it goes a little too far.<br /><br />And I don't have a cute name for this endeavour. Mostly because March is tricky to make cute.<br /><br />Also because 'stop wine-ing' is self explanitory, also it's a nod to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop.<br /><br />So if you see me reaching for a glass of red this month, please, please tell me to 'Stop wine-ing'.<br /><br />When I told some of my friends about this last night, they said April has to be, "It's not a Tuna' month.<br /><br />Fair call, no tuna sandwiches during April.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-75263530905220327182010-02-24T16:33:00.003+08:002010-02-24T17:12:04.662+08:00but... i still like youEvery time the three year old comes around I make her a babycino (or a chino) as she calls it. She makes sure I put a 'sweetheart' of chocolate powder on top.<br /><br />It sounds like I'm a nice, caring aunty but really I'm just getting rid of the extra milk that I steamed up for my own coffee.<br /><br />She always asks for a spoon, or a 'poon' as she calls it. She's three years old, hardly time to be calling in the speech therapists. I always say no. Tell her drink it like a big girl. She whinges to some other adult who gives in to her every whim and gets her a spoon from the cutlery drawer.<br /><br />And when given a 'poon' to drink her chino, she inevitably makes a big mess. Every single time, without fail.<br /><br />The last time she made a mess, her mum scolded her. And what did she come back with?<br /><br />"But... I still like you."<br /><br />You see, she must have cracked the sads the last time she was told off by an adult who told her that they still like her, but she can't keep being naughty.<br /><br />She thought it would work in the reverse, it might get her out of trouble if she said that when she got told off.<br /><br />The truth of the matter is that she will always make a mess. She will always get told off until she learns and her Aunty Jess will always make her chinos.<br /><br />And yes, I will still like her. And she will still like me. And nothing will really change that<br /><br />And that's life, right?<br /><br />We adults are so much like children but as our language becomes more sophisticated we begin to shadow what we really mean. Nothing changes to the way we treat each other but our words.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-86060838056949767972010-02-21T21:34:00.003+08:002010-02-21T21:47:30.733+08:00little by littleotherwise known as the post where I realise I'm not batshit insane.<br /><br />I'm reading I book about writing at the moment. Yeah, the irony of reading a 250ish page book about writing certainly isn't lost on me; why read about writing when you could just right?<br /><br />But I am and it's inspirational. It's called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and it's not your standard here's some traditional stuff about what plot is and then what character is. <br /><br />Although it's littered with early '90s references, I feel as those she's describing my procrastination, my unrealistic thoughts and more importantly she talks about Radio Station KFKD - or K-Fucked as the case may be. The theory is that this station messes with your head in stereo. One channel is telling you you're awesome, amazing and the best ever. Meanwhile exactly at the same time the other channel is saying you're crap, you can't do it and it won't work. Whatever 'it' is.<br /><br />And it's more than mildly disruptive to the writing process, to the anything process. <br /><br />I couldn't paint such a vivid picture of this as Anne Lamott has - but this is exactly what has happened with anything in my professional life over the past five or so years.<br /><br />Like I said earlier, it's good to know I'm not batshit insane.<br /><br />She says to switch of KFKD, you have to take a deep breath - funny how the difficult things are often answered so obviously.<br /><br />So that's my aim - take a deep breath, turn off KFKD and get into it. Whatever it takes to get going.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-40373565349717597142010-02-19T19:19:00.003+08:002010-02-19T19:39:29.653+08:00from the file marked 'tired and emotional'Maybe I'm overtired, maybe I'm just thinking about life too much.<br /><br />Maybe I should really stop saying maybe so freaking much.<br /><br />I tend to preface my speech with, "I don't know..." and "Maybe...". There's hesitation there because I could not possibly be more definite about what's to follow , whether it's professional or personal - but I'm scared to be so definite. When I say either of those phrases in front of something, you know I really know.<br /><br />It's a habit, a bad one at that. "I don't know" is my own personal "um"<br /><br />So what do I know?<br /><br />* I know that I'm sleep deprived because I'm frustrated with my situation. Refer to the previous post to get the drift.<br />* I know that caffeine doesn't help. Come 9am, I'm still no more mentally awake than at 6am.<br />* I know that something's got to give. Something's got to give to make life more rich, more interesting, more fulfilling.<br />* I know that I make the pasta bake, the tortellini pasta bake with the ricotta and homemade tomato sauce, the one that got so much praise and it still tastes delicious. But the praise isn't there with my culinary audience of <span style="font-style:italic;">les parents</span>. I miss that appreciation. I miss the spirit in which I made it - so joyful. I miss the <span style="font-style:italic;">ahava</span> I threw into it.<br /><br />The secret ingredient really is <span style="font-style:italic;">ahava</span>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-11193293581561112982010-02-18T16:02:00.002+08:002010-02-18T17:25:38.243+08:00u ok today?My boss texted me to see how I was going. I must have given off that air of sheer frustration.<br /><br />Truth be told, I was hardly panic stricken. Just busy.<br /><br />That's how it is right now - busy. As one end of the to-do list dissipates, the other end grows with a vengeance. <br /><br />It's gotten to the point where people preface their interruptions with "I know you don't want to be bothered but..." One of the most common cries across the office is, "Je-esssssssss". Yes, with the perfect amount of confusion and frustration, my name can have two syllables.<br /><br />People actually don't envy me; they admire my patience, they certainly don't envy me.<br /><br />But this is what they pay me money to do.<br /><br />And I'm left wondering whether this is a temporary thing, or whether this is a permanent state of play.<br /><br />So am I ok? <br /><br />In the context of today, yeah. Sure, I'm fine.<br /><br />In the context of this week, this month - not really.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-72980894624402588162010-02-14T14:05:00.002+08:002010-02-14T14:44:12.974+08:00statusThis weekend I got in the social pages.<br /><br />It's a weird feeling - odd that someone thought you were wearing the right clothes (if only they knew!) and looked the requisite part of the party (I think 'arty glitterati was how they described the partygoers of this particular event...). And don't get me wrong - it was a great party with great people, great music and an adequate amount of alcohol. I had a blast.<br /><br />And while it's nice to get your snap in the paper and it's nice having people who can be bothered flicking through the TV guide notice you; it's not exactly the be all and end all.<br /><br />If my life's work was to end up in the social pages, then let's just say I haven't exactly arrived. Nowhere near. If my CV was made up of social appearances (or even social invitations!), it would be dismal.<br /><br />But then I think of what really matters. I'd much rather be photographed for being at Lauren's kitchen tea (having an epic long conversation with her grandma), or at Mandy's birthday party (where the music really was abysmal), or at quiet Thursday night drinks at The Stanley (where you can wear what you want). Those are moments that matter, moments where my attendance means something to the people throwing the party. If I weren't there, wasn't invited, I'd be shattered. Absolutely bereft. <br /><br />So status, parties, pictures in the paper? I can take it or leave it. I'm not being a snob, I just recognise the value that comes from time with real friends, laughing drinking, eating and just being with those I adore. <br /><br />And I don't need my mug in the paper to remind me how important that is.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-22883608322877920132010-02-09T17:29:00.003+08:002010-02-09T18:37:18.159+08:00again with my propensity to quote dead US presidentsI tend to inadvertently find awe and inspiration in the words of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_roosevelt">US</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronald_reagan">presidents</a> who have long since died.<br /><br />Of course, I know it's not their words, but the words of someone else paid to write them.<br /><br />But it doesn't really matter who wrote the words, does it? It's what you make of it, where you grasp the inspiration from.<br /><br />So from the filed marked "Wise words from dead US Presidents('s speech writers)", here's the latest nugget of inspiration courtesy of Theodore Roosevelt. Onya Teddy!<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."</span></blockquote><br /><br />I'm about to go on a limb - do something a little risky, a little unknown - and do something I really want to do, something I'm passionate about. Something that gets me back to the very basics of what I've wanted to do in my career - tell stories. Tell stories my way.<br /><br />But there's fear. The good kind. The kind where it's more nervous energy than crippling anxiety. To quote William Shatner (he hasn't played a US president, has he? He's Canadian, so it almost seems wrong) in one of his spoken words:<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">"What are you afraid of? Failure? So am I."</span></blockquote><br /><br />Me too, William Shatner, me too.<br /><br />But I'd rather give my grand plan a crack, than go through life thinking, "I had a good idea way back when."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6724351.post-83181187837959813972010-02-08T18:05:00.003+08:002010-02-09T17:02:16.963+08:00a definition of serendipityShe was curling my hair and trying to explain the concept of definition to me.<br /><br />I don't know about you but someone trying to explain hair terms is kind of like someone trying to physics to me, I just don't get it. I probably never will and I'm fine with that.<br /><br />The curling was going fine but she felt a propensity to chat - I think hairdressers must have an "Idle Chit Chat" unit in their Certificate IV of Hairdressing course. She started talking about her impatience for things in life.<br /><br />I told her, "You just have to rely on serendipity."<br /><br />When she said, "What's serendipity?" I knew I'd used too many syllables. <br /><br />I'd have to explain myself.<br /><br />"It's kind of like the opposite of impatience - letting the happy coincidences happen," I began.<br /><br />Clearly they don't teach them philosophy for beginners at TAFE.<br /><br />"Oh! I just want the serendipity to happen right now!"<br /><br />Teaching a hairdresser about serendipity is kind of like teaching journalist about defined curl.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0