Smile everyone is watching

There has never been so many opportunities for people my age to study, follow their dreams and basically do what they want. So I’m sure I’m not the only person who freaked out when they saw the recent Australian study about how happiness starts to decrease once you turn 25. Eeeek! I’m 28, so that’s three years of declining happiness which has already slipped by.

After listening to the recent Triple J Hack program on the same study, it’s clear that I’m not the only one who has had a so called ‘quarter life crisis.’ I do feel a bit guilty about it sometimes, there are people in third world countries living below the poverty line, struggling for food, education and  battling for basic survival and here I am contemplating my navel and what I ‘really’ want from my life.

It seems a very middle class or bourgeoisie syndrome, what do you do when you have too many options at your feet? You go into a tailspin of ‘what ifs’ and maybes and coulda, shoulda, wouldas. We really should know better, but we don’t. While people in these poverty stricken countries face daily issues, their levels of happiness are far greater than ours.

Just a month ago I was in a great job at a great business with brilliant prospects, excellent salary which I’d studied and worked seven years to get to and was living in a top floor flat just 5 mins from centre of the city.  Logically I had it all.

But I threw it away and moved three hours away to ‘reassess’ my life and find out what I really wanted to do. No job, no flat, no responsibility.

And now I couldn’t be happier. Sometimes I do have to pinch myself and question my sanity, how can I be happier in a little town like Gympie working in an unskilled job for half the salary?

It defies logic but it’s true and for the first time in my life, while my income isn’t on the increase, my happiness definitely is.

A case in point is I had been trying to lose weight for months (actually years) to no end despite endless activities (netball, PT, rockclimbing and salsa).  Now with just dog walking, swimming and the occasional run the weight is now falling off me, one month in and I’m nearly 4kg lighter both physically and mentally.

And suddenly doors that I wouldn’t have dreamed opening are now looking appealing, I’m taking a peak and finding I could go down any number of paths and what’s best, is I could travel a couple at the same time. The phrase anything is possible has never felt more true and valid for me right now.

So when I heard about this study and the decline in happiness it made me think about everything I’d done. I’m not a psychologist, scientist or expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I think the biggest problem facing many people in the 25-30 year old category is limitations.

The minute we sign up for something such as a career or study path, we put pressure on ourselves to do everything in this field. We bolt, lock and shut doors because they don’t fall into the box or path we envision for ourselves. Before long, we don’t have much left in the box that we actually enjoy. It’s all been done before and suddenly we want something new and don’t know where to start.

I have always been afraid of change. It sounds bizarre considering the amount of change I’ve had in my life over the last ten years, but it used to paralyse me. It’s easy to let this fear take control, after all what is familiar and safe is reassuring. While it can get boring, it is better than the unknown. Not knowing what is around the corner or what the next day will bring was enough to have me reaching for latest best-selling corporate book on how to be the nice girl who wins the corner office, rather than teaching myself how to paint, making time to write or considering a new career path.

Now I’ve made the leap, the prospect of change has galvanised me and I’m now trying out and doing all the things I enjoy but never gave myself the time to fully appreciate. I find myself contemplating a variety of paths that complement my writing which I never would have dreamed of before. Investment specialists would call it diversification, nanna would call it not putting all your eggs in one basket, I simply call it my new way of life.

X

J

too slow to keep worms in a tin...

So it’s been a month since I moved out here and you’d think I would be used to the country way of life, sayings and phrases tossed between locals but I’ve been a bit of a fish out of water.

I’ve been a bit slack on blogs, but thought I’d share just as couple of the gems that have been thrown my way or said in my earshot that gave me a giggle and certainly raised a few eyebrows…

• -          May your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down
• -          Too slow to keep worms in a tin
• -          He could talk under wet cement with a mouthful of marbles
• -          He had a head on him like a sucked mango
• -          I'm not pissing in your pocket mate ( telling it straight)
• -          Busier than a one armed Sydney cab driver with the crabs
• -          Give birth to a politician ( as in go take a shit)
• -          Seen better legs on a table
• -          Pass the dead horse (tomato sauce)
• -          Shit stinks, eggs don't bounce and you can't buy generals in a general store (apparently short for ‘what do you know?’)
• -          Dry as a bulls bum going up a hill backwards ( dry mouth)
• -          Don't come the raw prawn with me mate (pull the other one)
• -          I'd better ask me cheese'n'kisses first ( ask the missus)
• -          He's got a Ned Kelly on 'im (belly)
• -          Give us a Mick Jagger (a beer)
• -          I'm on the wallaby track ( looking for work)
• -          Wanna go halves in a rape charge (what do you think of that girl?)

And many of the locals have started passing on some of their local folklore as I doll out the cappuccinos. Not sure how accurate some of these are but gave me a giggle all the same:

• Never wear green to a wedding – it’s unlucky apparently
• Heat a lemon before you squeeze it
• When swallows fly low rain is on the way
• Cows lay down when it’s going to rain
•  If it rains before seven, it will be fine by 11
•  The louder the frog, the more the rain

-          When you tread on nine daisies at once, spring has come

It’s safe to say I still have a lot to learn when it comes to getting down with the local lingo but it’s certainly giving me a few laughs along the way

Til next time

X

J

woud you like an insult with that?

It was bound to happen. Anyone who knows me well knows it with absolute certainty. I am perhaps the most clumsy accident prone person there is. So add a serving tray, plates, glasses and strangers and there is almost certainly a 90 percent chance of embarrassment on some level, usually at my end.

But what I didn’t count on was the many ways my mouth gets me into trouble. Open mouth, insert foot. Change that, insert both feet.

One of several waitressing faux pas happened a few shifts ago.  After a full week in an apron, armed with an order book and pen, I had started to get well and truly into the swing of things.

The locals have been flooding in thick and fast and I’ve got to know a lot of them. They volunteer their life stories and as silly as it may seem, I’ve really been enjoying it.  I’ve gotten to know the local larrikins and their long suffering wives who know all punch lines to their gags, the ladies in their seventies who still lunch and gossip like teenagers, the nervous teens on first dates or last dates, families on a special night out or just an escape from the kitchen for the night with screaming teething tots in tow.  I’ve always been a guilty as charged people watcher. Imagining the stories behind all these people and threading them into different directions and adventures.

It reminds me very much of my uni days, when I used to waitress by night and work as a copy person and aspiring journo at the local paper by day. I’d get lots of tip offs, angles and ideas from talking to customers every night.

Now I’m trying to write and finish this torturous thing called a book, this waitressing gig has given me a renewed interest in individual characters, what makes up who they are and their lives.

So with a week under my belt, I was in full banter mode when I approached a table of two in the back corner. Another classic case of middle aged ladies at lunch. A pair, not dissimilar to two pink galahs on power line settling in to twitter away to each other for a couple of hours.

One had her back to me so I waltzed on over and asked“how are you going today ladies,”

It was then that the one with her back to me turned to face me. Instead of a pair of old dears enjoying a ladies lunch, it was in actual fact a mother and son.

Crap. Double Crap. I went beet red and spluttered my apologies, the mum laughed and the son gritted his teeth. Did I mention the son was hot? Not as in Gympie hot, but as Australia wide hot.

How did I manage to not notice his biceps on my way over? Or his chiselled, slightly unshaven jawline or blue eyes? Shit.

The hottest guy I’ve come across in this town and I just called him a girl.

I quickly took their orders and ran away. Put the order in the kitchen and started on drinks. Red wine and a coke that’s easy enough.

It was only as I was walking back over that I noticed the tattoo which peaked from underneath the back of his shirt and rested at the base of his neck. Hot. Very hot.

In fact the only thing which made me think he was female was that he had short spikeyish kind of hair, like the girl I work with and the woman (his Mum) he was sitting with.

I wondered how to get myself out of this pickle and into his well-formed favour as I put the drinks down. But once again, I was thinking of his biceps and not my balance. The glass of red wine tipped and fell, splashing all over his lap and onto the bottom of his white shirt.

Fuck.

I rushed back to get soda water and came back over, I just reached down and starting dabbing but within seconds realised I was basically massaging his groin. Yes definitely not a lady. I dropped the cloth and once again apologised and ran away. The other waitresses were having a right giggle at my efforts and I went back to other tables hoping he’d soon get his meal and would leave so this embarrassment would end as swiftly as it began.

By the time their meal was ready my nerves were still shot, I steadied myself and took them out, telling myself what else could possibly go wrong. I placed the snapper on his mother’s side and went to put down his plate of calamari and chips only to notice my fingers were slipping. I was going to drop the plate. It was going to fall in his lap, again.

I reached out with my other hand to steady it and overestimated and managed to tip it my way. His side salad ended up sliding down my skirt and falling to the floor. Grated carrot and lettuce wormed into my shoes.

Luckily the calamari remained unharmed. So I put the plate down, and rushed to get another salad, carrot and lettuce squelching underfoot. When I brought it back he took it directly out of my hands, staring at me like the crazy woman I appeared to be. I backed away. The poor guy was looking around for some kind of candid camera, not only had I called him a girl, but I just decorated his jeans with red wine and threw his salad all over myself.

It is hardly surprising that they wolfed down their food faster than two kids in an ice creamery. I begged the other waitress to do it but she told me to man up. So I gingerly went over and asked how it all was.

The mother gave a giggle and said, “Well it was lovely, I finished all mine, but he was a bit of a girl with his, hardly ate a thing.”

We all looked at each other and completely lost it. I was crying with laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. He was having a good giggle as well, the perfect way to finish their lunch.

As I took their payment for the bill I assured him,” Don’t worry you’ve been rather special today, the only guy I’ve called a girl and I guarantee you I won’t call you a girl on your next visit,”

He replied, with a smile, “It’s ok, we didn’t order it or clumsiness with our meal but it’s definitely made my day,”

My stomach gave a little flip flop and I said goodbye to them both.

The disastrous day also made me think, perhaps it’s time to reconsider my  flirting strategy, it turns out calling a guy a girl gets their attention  in more ways than one.

Xx

J

pics of the week..

who doesn't like home brew?

the recession in gympie - locks and bolts over shop doors

the colourful railway 

another lock guarding a shop front more than 100 years old..

a glimpse at what once was..

just some shots from about town I thought I'd share...

Can I take your order please?

Apron donned.

Black and white penguin outfit cleaned and pressed.

Unsexy yet comfortable black flat shoes tied up and squeaky clean.

Hair pulled back into a pony tail.

Hands, twitchy.

It was with these ingredients in hand that I stepped into the waitressing world.

A world I was once very comfortable with during my uni days.

It all started en-route back from Melbourne. I got a call asking me to come in for a training night as they had a lot of bookings at the restaurant. It would give me a chance to see if I liked it he said. IE: to see if they liked me and to make sure I wasn’t prone to dropping red wine on the white shirts of customers.

Perhaps I should have clued them in on some of my more memorable waitressing nights.

It started out harmlessly enough, it wasn’t overly busy to begin with and eager to learn I wanted to get their way of doing things down pat. My inner journalist always comes out in these situations. I produce a note pad and took notes, asked a ton of questions and wanted to know everything there was to know so I’m wouldn't get caught out like a rabbit in spotlights.

I looked around the room and feeling bolder, I asked how the numbers ran for the tables, I couldn’t quite figure out the pattern. The maître de kindly informed me it was just up and down the length of the restaurant. My first Doh moment of the evening.

My second frank spencer moment was using the wrong steamer pipe for heating the milk. Instead of steam, I inserted boiling water into my milk, causing it to overflow on to the floor.  Another waitress smiled and said, “It will get better.” as I stood over my foaming cauldron of milk.

Next I went over to help a family with a child who was on the verge of propelling himself out of the high chair and launching himself at every passer-by, pulling and tugging at sleeves.  I took their order and escaped back to the counter. I never have been a natural with children the best of times, so a toddler on the brink is never going to be in my area of expertise.

In an attack of nerves at it being my first table, I forgot to put the table number down. I forgot to call out 'order in' to the chefs and forgot to write hard enough so the carbon copy could be read by the cashier.

This was not as easy as I remembered, but I took heart when I heard the bell for meals. As clumsy as I am, I’m quite comfortable with carrying multiple plates and cups.

But Friday night just wasn’t going to be my night. The doors to the kitchen seemed to have a will of their own, deliberately trying to trip me up every time I exited and entered, snapping at my heels.

So just an hour into the night, as I negotiated the doors, I had my first incident. A breeze caught the pappadums which accompanied the butter chicken dish I was carrying. They drifted and fell back against me.

I tried to stop them from falling, with my chin of all things and ended up poking myself in the face. The pappadums went belly up on the floor and fell apart. I picked them up and took them back to the chef, who quickly replaced them without a word.  Door: 1, Me: 0

It was soon time to bring out food to the truculent tot and as I delivered his fish and chips he glared at me with a look of utter contempt and disdain that only a two year old can deliver. I turned my back cautiously only to have a lemon quarter and a couple of chips hurled at my hair. The lemon bounced twice and fell to the floor.

I graciously picked it up and moved on with a smile, teeth gritted.

As the night progressed I rolled with the punches, but they weren’t really punches, just jabs and prods which soon whipped me into shape. By the end of the night I was laughing with the rest of the girls and bar staff, joking with customers and once again reigning supreme as the queen of froth on the espresso machine.

Despite my little doh moments and wrestling matches with the swinging kitchen doors I passed the test and was asked to come back for more shifts. It appears they like their staff to provide comic relief as well as customer service.  

There was something so satisfying about doing physical work rather than sitting at a computer screen all day. Yes I left smelling of coffee, left overs and the odd spilt wine, but it was a delight not to have to stress over every little detail, make urgent phone calls or write emails at all hours of the night.

I could visibly feel myself relaxing while I was working and throughout the shift, ideas for the book and characters kept popping into my head. So much so I snuck to the loo to write them on a piece of loo paper.

I left with a smile, which I seem to be doing so much more of since moving up here. That is, until I got to the bathroom and discovered the lemon seeds still stuck in my hair.

Til next time

X

me, myself and I

Writing is more than words. Most people know this right? Well maybe not, because at the end of the day you either open a book to the first page, get swept away and buy it or put it back on the shelf. No harm done. Except to the author who slaved for weeks, hours, months and days on writing the very prose you just so casually disregarded.

It’s nothing personal. After all it comes down to taste and style. For this very reason I’m nervous. It’s hard enough to write, but it’s even harder still to get your head around the fact that the baby you are nurturing may one day, turn out to not be readable or in fact very good.

I have my own writing style, as does every aspiring writer/author, but I’m not arrogant enough to assume that this is the way people would like to read. So with this in mind I have been doing some research.

For a Chic lit style book you might ask? Yes, even though I have ‘experience’ in the world of men and women as well as dating and relationships including the embarrassing and hilarious situations you can often find yourself in, it still needs research.

I can’t stop thinking about the first page, I’ve written about nine chapters over the years (this needs to be 12 by the time I’m done) but it all comes back to the first page. I’ve written and re-written it a hundred times.

In thinking about this first page, the main thing I always come back to is tense. I have always related to and loved books which are written in the present tense and told via first person. When I open a book and the character jumps off the page and starts talking to me like a mate I’ve met for coffee. That’s when the true fun begins. Not when I’m reading about how the character has willowy size 4 figure, long ash blonde shoulder length hair, a cupid bows mouth and eyes which are a stunning aquamarine. That is more likely to make me think, who do I know like that? And do I really want to know more about them?

If it feels like someone you know or would love to know and who is or has been in the same situation as you, that’s when my interest is piqued. So this is what I’ve tried to do with the lead character in my book. Lisbeth. I have been writing Lissy’s voice for years but its only now as I ponder tense and read and re-read my favourite books that I realise the only way to tell her story is via first person.

While some of the stories and situations she finds herself in are inspired by real life and imagined events, it is very much a work of fiction. So it’s with this in mind I’m starting to re-write many sections of the book.

It’s a torturous but rewarding process as I start to hear her voice become stronger, more eloquent and relatable with every change I make.

Hopefully by the time I’m done, when someone opens the first page they won’t be able to stop themselves from turning to the next and the next.

But just in case, the next time a book on a shelf catches your eye and you skim to the front page, give it another 30 seconds and perhaps even turn to the second page. Someone’s heart and soul has been poured into that and you may just find yourself or someone you know hidden amongst the words.

Xx

J

introducing the big red..

So while life might be indeed slower watching the jacarandas bloom and fall and kookaburras mock all who pass, I don’t want to turn grey before my time.

With this in mind I decided to go for my first Gympie local run. No big deal you may say but for the runners out there, it’s daunting. You have a regular beat; a circuit you follow that is familiar as the back of your hand. It has markers where you know you need to push yourself and others where you can go easy if you’ve overdone it lately.

Trying out a new run circuit for size is always dicey. It can affect your pace, momentum and focus and I must admit I was more than a bit nervous to try out the new route I had plotted. A quick little 5km run not far from home. Bordering some bush but not so much so that I’d be fighting snakes or bushrangers for my patch of the path.

I went with mum in the car to check it out beforehand as I plotted it. It seemed easy enough, at the time that is.

I’m an evening runner through and through, but as I didn’t know the area I thought a morning run would be ok for the first start. Not the best of ideas really especially considering animals are most active in the morning.

Did I mention Gympie is in a valley? So it has quite a few hills. Change that it has A LOT of hills.

So I started off on my run, struggling up the hill on our street and then careened down under. Gathering speed and turning up my volume I started to get into the swing of things. I dodged some of the branches on the paths and then crossed over a park where a session of boot camp was getting underway. I surreptitiously decreased the volume on my head set to listen in on the session, to see if the trainer was as hard core as those in Brisbane. I heard him shout out “that woman is running faster than all of you combined, get going you lazy lot”. I must admit it spurred me on. Until I saw the hill ahead.

I’m sure this hill wasn’t in the circuit when I did the pre-run lap with mum. Surely I wouldn’t have signed off on having such a thigh burner in my route? What to do? All eyes from the boot camp were still on me and I felt the obligation to perform, perform, perform. I didn’t want to turn around and just amble in a different direction, I also didn’t want to puff out midway up like the non-energiser bunny and fall flat on my face in front of everyone.

So I kept persevering. But step by step, my run got slower, I’m sure those girls in the park where now going miles faster than my snail pace. I sneaked a glance back at them all. The trainer had his hands on his hips and was staring in my direction. Shit. Double shit.

How do I get myself into these situations? Suddenly I started to feel my spare key start to slip from the spot on my hip down my leg. As I worried about catching the key without stopping and losing momentum I didn’t notice the big red roo to my left on the footpath. In fact I didn’t see him until we were less than a metre a part. Face to Face.

He was stained a dusty red, double my height and standing on his tail and back legs. He had no plans to relinquish his part of the path which was home to a tree with some kind of nut which he was maliciously munching on while eying me up, his next human victim.

He was what many would class as a ‘boxer’ type kangaroo and let out a scream. The roo stood firm and I thought what mum would say when she got a call from an ambulance saying I’d come off second best to a kangaroo who had ripped me from chin to toe. At the same time I fell off the side and onto my knees.

My scream no doubt attracted the attention of the boot campers who would have looked up to see a fully grown woman on her hands and in knees, as if in mock worship in front of a big red kangaroo. The roo looked at me like I had rocks in my head and bounded away.

I recovered my senses and struggled up the hill with a bruised knee and ego. While I’m the first to admit I’m hard of hearing, there was no missing the voice on breeze which reached me; “Silly city girl.”

My country camouflage had officially been blown. Apparently country folk don’t scream at roos on a regular basis especially when they are terrified of being torn a new one.

You’d think after that experience I’d be plotting a new run route or better yet a route to the nearest treadmill, but no I’m off to do the same route today, later this afternoon.

I’m ready to go toe to tail with the roo again, to prove once and for all I can be more country than city, at least for a quick 5km run that is. Watch out Gympie, a new road runner with a Rambo attitude will be out on a street near you soon.

Xx

J