looking good...

Dear Pharmacy,

I am so glad I decided to get my passport photos redone with you.

As a result I look hot on my UK working visa. Absolutely awesome.

Australia Post, you can keep your ugly filter, it is no longer required.

Jess.

PS. This is my 900th post. It's only taken five or six years. Good things take time.

dear bumface,

RE: interesting developments.

So... let's talk in cryptic crossword speak.

You're potentially at a crossroads. You've seen similar crossroads before.

No biggie, hey?

Except you're not so sure. Really not sure. Both options are equally enticing.

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.

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.

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.

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.

From my experience, real piece of mind comes from going with your gut.

the ugly filter

Dear Australia Post and Polaroid,

Do you or do you not fit your passport photo cameras with an ugly filter?

I need to know it isn't just me.

Normally my face isn't so fat, my skin so blergh and the overall tone so... '80s?

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.

This isn't the first time, Australia Post and I fear it won't be the last.

Please, please rectify this, I swear your camera is broken, not me.

In the meantime, I may take my pretty little face in front of a camera without an ugly filter.

Yours in disgruntledness,

Jess

the overwhelmingly sad beauty

This evening I saw the single most beautiful and sad thing ever.

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.

I always knew we were blessed to live in Western Australia for one thing: beach sunsets.

And I try not to take them for granted.

This evening's was perfect. I honestly cannot recall seeing anything more perfect.

There was a clear view to Rottnest Island, or at least its silhouette, among those of ships along Gage Roads.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My reaction?

I started crying.

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

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?"

And that in itself was so, so sad.

panic stations

Yesterday morning I was on the verge of a panic attack.

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.

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.

What made this panic attack even stranger, potentially more concerning?

I was having a panic attack in my sleep.

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.

And I can understand why I had the dream. I am simultaneously excited and petrified about my plans.

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.

drought

I cannot remember the last time I needed an umbrella.

I know it's been the better part of three months.

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?

But it's been such a long, long time.

In the time the Thornlie tree man has been perched on a limb, staging his protest, it has not rained once.

In that time, cyclones have lashed the North West coast, and a bushfire has caused immeasurable heartache. But still - no rain here in Perth.

Christmas, New Year's, Australia Day, Labour Day, parties, road trips, heartache, work, work, work and other stuff in between. No rain.

Since it last rained, the good stuff in life has diminished rather than flourished.

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.

But the fact remains: No rain = bad juju.

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.

The only sniff of rain I've had is a song called The Rain - it's Aussie hip-hop, don't hate...

It teases with its lyrics: Hush child from the joy to the pain, it'll all wash away in the rain.

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.

So hush child, from the joy to the pain it'll all wash away in the rain.

le sigh

I have a Hens Night to go to in just under an hour and a half.

And to tell you the truth, I cannot be arsed going.

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.

I don't like them.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'll try not to roll my eyes.

Stop wine-ing

It's March.

Yes, how time flies, blah, blah, blah.

March for me will be all about giving up one of my great loves - wine.

Why wine?

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.

And I don't have a cute name for this endeavour. Mostly because March is tricky to make cute.

Also because 'stop wine-ing' is self explanitory, also it's a nod to Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop.

So if you see me reaching for a glass of red this month, please, please tell me to 'Stop wine-ing'.

When I told some of my friends about this last night, they said April has to be, "It's not a Tuna' month.

Fair call, no tuna sandwiches during April.

but... i still like you

Every 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.

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.

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.

And when given a 'poon' to drink her chino, she inevitably makes a big mess. Every single time, without fail.

The last time she made a mess, her mum scolded her. And what did she come back with?

"But... I still like you."

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.

She thought it would work in the reverse, it might get her out of trouble if she said that when she got told off.

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.

And yes, I will still like her. And she will still like me. And nothing will really change that

And that's life, right?

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.

little by little

otherwise known as the post where I realise I'm not batshit insane.

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?

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.

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.

And it's more than mildly disruptive to the writing process, to the anything process.

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.

Like I said earlier, it's good to know I'm not batshit insane.

She says to switch of KFKD, you have to take a deep breath - funny how the difficult things are often answered so obviously.

So that's my aim - take a deep breath, turn off KFKD and get into it. Whatever it takes to get going.