My year in photos…

To my angels at work – my confidantes, my shoulders to cry on, my cheerleaders and the co-narrators of my life.

To the Petal, who sees me through good and bad times, and always knows when to buy me flowers.

To the woman who made me her friend against all odds, and has more respect from me than she’ll ever understand.

To She who phones from so far away, and always has the right words at hand.

To my family, both adopted and true, no words describe what you mean to me…

To my girls who stand behind me when I need to be strong, and stand around me when I need to fall.

To the man who persistently challenges me; my nemesis and my friend.

To the ex lover who knows me better than he knows himself, who can finish my sentences for me, and makes me feel safe.

To my Far Away Friend, who is always close because he’s so near to my heart.

To the one I betrayed when we were young; who years later still stands beside me and never lets me down.

To the new one – who despite my use of the words “inconvenient”, “time-challenged” and “complicated”, relentlessly pursues my heart and is slowly stealing it from under me.

Thank you – without each of you, I wouldn’t be me.

Adventures are waiting around the corner for you when you ride a bike through the streets of Perth.

Yesterday I decided (against my own better judgement) to ride to work (for anyone attempting to keep track of my three jobs, I was working at the outdoor cinema).

I took my mum’s tricked up new bike (when she found out I wanted to borrow it so I could ride at night, she went out and equipped it with a LOUD bell, a rear vision mirror (??!!), a wire basket on the front, and hilariously flashing lights on the front and back – how good are mums?!) and I began the Mt Lawley to Kings Park trek.

I rode on the footpath, which is by far the less stressful way of doing it (initially I was riding on the road, but somewhere between Hyde Park and Newcastle St I lost my nerve when a commodore swerved at me – seemingly for his own amusement), and slowly and sedately made my way up to the top of the mountain.

I’m the first to admit that I’m out of shape, but Oh My God – there were a lot of hills! I was huffing and puffing and thinking I’d made the hugest mistake. But then I finally, after an embarrassingly long amount of time (I won’t shock you by telling you how long it took me to get there!) got to the entrance of Kings Park. And it felt so good.

Gliding along the tree-and-memorial-lined street, my ipod shuffled from Al Green to David Bowie, I took my sunglasses off so I could feel the air on my face and I honestly thought, “I could become addicted to this feeling”. My red face and wheezing chest stopped annoying me and just became something to laugh at myself about – I’m a bicycle convert!

If you think it couldn’t get any better than that, you’re dead wrong – the trip home was even better. Riding into the darkness of Kings Park, it felt like it the blackness was enticing you in, and you were going to be engulfed by it.

My co-worker and all-round-ace-guy, Ivan, also rode to work, and offered to show me an alternate way home. He took me through Subiaco (startlingly quiet – the only signs of life were the people giving off “needy vibes” in lines outside Red Sea and Llama, and the doof doof sounds coming out of the Subi Hotel), and onto a cool, semi-lit bike path next to the train station.

We chatted about Italy, films, work, my travel plans, anything that came into our heads. He was very nice and didn’t go to fast (once again I was huffing and puffing), so the night-lights whizzed past at a sightseeing pace, and I could look around and enjoy the view.

When we got to Northbridge he heard firecrackers, and we realised it was Chinese New Year – it was the work of a few seconds to u-turn down a dark road and end up on Money st, as the Chinese Dragons conga’d and the drums got wilder and my wheels ran over the red paper of the fire crackers cracked. I loved it – we were there, right in the thick of it, taking part in an experience that surely would have been lost if I was drivimg home in a car.

I know I have a terrible tendency to get lyrical about these little experiences of mine, and rhapsodise about how great everything is and sermonise about how wonderful life can be. Life’s not a bed of roses – but I much prefer to remember the good the stuff.

Ride a bike – don’t just watch your life, take part in it!

I don’t get many days off from work at the moment, so I thought I’d use yesterday’s Australia Day public holiday as an opportunity to begin cleaning, turfing, down sizing and shedding.

I’m moving out of my home in three weeks to stay with family until I leave, so I can save money on rent and bills and incidentals. Obviously I can’t take a whole house of furniture with me, so I’m storing it for the next few years – but it seems silly to hold on to some things, like my collection of Wallpaper magazines, books I’ll never read (and didn’t like much in the first place), clothes I never wear now, and am even more unlikely too in the future, and stupid mementos like postcards, programs and tickets. That’s not to say that I’m throwing everything out – I’m a hoarder from way back, and that’ll never change, but the less personal things are getting the heave-ho.

I was on a roll, when the crash bangs of the fireworks began. I resisted for all of 45 seconds before I was out the door, shoes barely on my feet and my skirt flying behind me, as I sprinted to get a look from Hyde Park. And aren’t I glad I made it!

Fireworks (otherwise known as Pretty-Go-Bangs) are incredible… I love the noise and the smell. I love the colours and the patterns. the ones that start of little and get huge, the ones that start big and “waterfall” down, the ones that have two colours, the ones that look like a geyser. The sound of the oohing and aahing of the crowd around me. The hysterical giggles of the little boy in front of me, the radio coming out of the cars parked on the verge, the very proper Mt Lawley ladies who walk down with a glass of chardonnay in one hand and leading a poodle with the other.

How good are Pretty-Good-Bangs!!??

I had a bad day yesterday – which wasn’t helped by having to leave one job and go straight to another.

I’m not a good waitress at the best of times – my attitude is “it’s just food, if it doesn’t arrive at your table all at the same time, you’re not going to starve – it’ll get here eventually and there are actually people outside who can’t afford to eat tonight, so shut up”…

Anyhoo, after last night’s disaster, here is (sorry…) a top ten list of all the things you should never do at a restaurant, especially if I’m serving you…

1. Don’t thrust a glass in my face to imply that it needs to be filled, but not take a breath in your conversation or even look at me – IT’S RUDE.

2. Don’t click your fingers at me to get my attention. IT’S VERY RUDE.

3. When I offer you a taste of the wine, don’t make the joke “if I don’t like it, does that mean I get to send it back?” I’m likely to reply “no dumb ass, you’re tasting it to see if the wine is corked, however since you are too idiotic to know that, there’s no point in me wasting my time – perhaps I should organise a cask wine for you?”

4. Don’t assume all waitresses are students on the side. There are some highly intelligent people who are in hospitality as a career path because they can travel and earn good money – they don’t need a scumbag secretary like you, implying that there’s something wrong with being a waitress full time.

5. Don’t stack your plates in the middle of the table. It’s an etiquette thing. Having said that, if you’re willing to stack them, perhaps you’re willing to wash them?… I’ll point you in the direction of the kitchen.

6. Don’t move your glass when I’m pouring water (or wine, depending on the glass) into it. I know you think you’re helping, but since I’m not psychic, and the water is already pouring out of the jug toward your glass, why would you choose that moment to move the glass toward me?

7. My name isn’t “Waitress”, please don’t call me that. This is an entirely new phenomenon. I never encountered it when I was working as a waitress years ago, but since recently starting again, the number of people who have said things like, “Thank you Waitress” or “Can I have the fish, Waitress” is astounding. I’m not my job. I have a name, and if you’d like to use it, I’m happy to give it to you… Do you go collect the mail and say “Thank you Postman”, or do you go to your accountant and say “Please do my tax return, Accountant”? No – of course you don’t. So stop doing it to waitresses…

8. Don’t give me a hard time when you call up at 10pm on Friday night, trying to book a table for Saturday night, and I tell you we’re fully booked. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? Don’t give me some sob story about “it’s your anniversary, you had your first date at this restaurant, blah blah blah”. If the event meant that much to you, you would’ve booked earlier, like everyone else. Stop busting my balls.

9. Don’t walk into the restaurant and instantly use the Managers name because it makes you seem important, might get you a better table or service, or might wangle you a table when none is available. Do you know how many people use his name? We know you’re not his friend, we know he probably served you once or twice before and that’s it. We also know (and you don’t) that he probably has NO IDEA who you are – but he’s better at faking being nice then we are (thus he is the manager and we are not!). When you use his name, we think you’re a wanker.

10. Do not ever tip me 40c just to round your credit card total off. It’s so disgustingly rude. Do you know what that means? – it means you think it’s what I’m worth. So many people do it without thinking about how it’s going to make the person who spent the last four hours of their life pandering to your whims, wishes and fancies feel. I don’t mind if you don’t tip me if it’s not worth it – that’s honest. I love it when you do tip because you think it’s worth it (which happens surprisingly often), but do not ever treat me as if 40c is an appropriate, civilised or polite tip to give, it’s insensitive, thoughtless and rude.

Oops – that was a little bit more aggressive than I meant for it to be…

So next time you see me coming to serve you your Capriosca, run in the other direction, or smile, remember to say thank you, and we might all be able to live peaceably!

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I look different to how I went to bed. When I look in the mirror, it’s like my face has been sqooshed into an unnatural position; it’s a bit wonky, my smile is weird and my eyes are below my nose. It’s rearranged itself while I was sleeping.

The conversation (with myself) usually goes something like this:
Real Me: “Aggghhh”
Mirror Me: “Aggghhhhhhhh”
Real Me: “Who the hell are you?”
Mirror Me: “I’m you bozo!”
Real Me: “but what happened to my face?”
Mirror Me: “it got flattened and squooshed and now appears to be sitting far more to the left of your head than it was previously… you’re also a bit wonky”
Real Me: “Aggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

This exchange is usually followed by my hair appearing to have formed into dreadlocks, through which NO brush can get through, by the zipper on my favourite skirt breaking, or the realisation that my favourite jeans are ever-so-slightly too much tighter than the last time I wore them (damn those hard-to-resist doughnuts) and finding out that the only clean underwear I have is so old it’s being held together with safety pins (too much information?).

You’ve probably figured out by now – I’m not much of a morning person…

I lay in bed this morning, debating with myself the pros and cons of taking a sickie today. I’m not a lazy person – and I never take a day off if I’m not sick. My managers are really nice, and if you organise a “personal day” in advance they are usually pretty willing to give it to you.

But there I was – I’d spent the entire of the last week working day and night (bar the one evening I went to Somerville), and ahead of me was another week filled with working days and working nights. I’m a little worn out and lacklustre at the moment.

So I made myself a promise. I couldn’t stay in bed – I have too many meetings today and couldn’t justify missing them for a few more hours sleep.

Instead I’m going to do something for myself to help increase my energy levels so I can maintain this ridiculous amount of work… I’m detoxing!

As of today I’m having a few weeks of “no alcohol, no coffee, no sugary drinks, no bad rissoles from the Train Station Bakery, no late night meals to compensate for missing dinner, no pizza, no chips dripping with vinegar, no fast food of any variety”. I’m committing to a diet of fruit, vegetables, 2 litres of water a day, grilled fish (I’m not a big meat eater anyway – I usually only eat it in burgers when I’m drunk or hung over), anything that’s not dripping in fat or sugar.

I’m going to start taking my Spirulina and Vitamin B tablets that I paid a fortune for and never remember to take. I’m going to stop relying on the quick fix coffee and sugary doughnut to keep my going through the afternoon.

Big plans – with good intentions. This could be a long couple of weeks, but it could also possibly be the best thing I could do for myself. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

I own a dress!

This time yesterday not one single dress was hanging on my clothes rack. I’m a shorts or skirt sort of gal.

Today I have a thoroughly girly, pretty beyond belief, dress all of my own.

It was a splurge – especially since I’m in savings-mode for my Big Adventure – but the excitment it’s brought me and the number of conversations I’ve managed to initiate about my new dress has already superceded the financial guilt I had.

Pretty dresses are good for the soul.

Sometimes I get so obsessed with a potential scenario, I can’t stop myself from playing it out inside my head.

I can do this to the point of getting inexplicably emotionally upset about a scenario that hasn’t even occurred – I can work myself into such a state; I’ve even been known to start crying.

You would think I would know better, and tell myself to “stop being silly” or “it’s just your imagination”, but it’s no use. I convince myself of some terrible outcome that’s definitely going to happen, and nothing can convince me otherwise.

You’d think I’d be disappointed when the terrible outcome doesn’t occur, but instead I can be quite smug about it and think, “Well at least I was prepared!”

Today I’m writing this entry in an attempt to not do something stupid – namely, writing a confronting letter to someone in an aggressive tone, simply because I’ve worked myself up to believing that the situation I’m addressing will end up badly, when there’s no evidence to suggest it will.

So my goal for this week is: Stop assuming the worst, stop imagining bad things, chill out and have a bit of faith!

The photo above is one taken by my dear friend Scott, of a Japanese Autumn. It seems a fitting image to start my self-proclaimed “day of calmness” with.

This is my first doodlebox doodle!

I’m not sure how I found this website, but I love it – you should have a go! I’m intending to improve my doodle skills (hopefully not during work hours, as I did with this one), and might put my future attempts online to prove to you my increasing aptness! (Although claiming future “aptness” is more likely wishful thinking!)

http://www.neu-e.de/

Ever since I was little, my favourite thing has always been to go to the movies. Every opportunity I would take myself off with my friends and watch a film at Hoyts in the city. It was usually a bad teen flick, but the experience was the same – choosing the snacks before hand, giggling with friends while waiting for the lights to go down and the muzak plays, then the cinema gets darker and I get excited, the anticipation of being lost in a new and different world, not being distracted by day to day thoughts.

I’ve been known to cry at the end of films, not because the film is sad, but I don’t want to leave the cinema and enter the real world again.

All these years later I still feel the same way way, but now you can replace “choosing the snacks” with “making a picnic and bringing a bottle of wine”. I much prefer to sit outdoors – and like most Perthians, Somerville is my favourite outdoor theatre.

Nothing beats lying on blankets on the always-slightly-damp grass and chatting with friends for an hour, sipping on white wine gone warm. Throwing your spare jumpers and pillows on the cinema seats in a mark of reservation (I can’t imagine many places still existing where there is as much honour amongst a group of strangers as there is at Somerville), watching the sky through the pines as the blue gets darker and the pine tree canopy becomes a black silhouette.

Then the movie starts. The seats are uncomfortable (my personal tip is to fold your pillow over and wedge it at the bottom of the seat against the bar at your upper legs. I can go at least an hour in that position before getting uncomfortable). The wind rustles the trees and blows against (usually the left side of) your face. The heads in front of you take on the blue-yellow halo of the film, and it’s a perfect night all round!

I know I’m waxing lyrical a little about Perth at the moment, enjoying everything it has to offer. It’s so strange that I’ve decided to leave Perth to find something new, exciting, fulfilling, culturally experiential – and now I’ve become nostalgic about what Perth has to offer, and taking the time to write about it, remember it and sentimentalise about it! Maybe I’ll even miss it when I’m gone.