Published in On Our Selection News April 24, 2014

Getting to know someone can be a brutal task.

Over the long weekend I carried one of my duties as my sister’s Maid of Honour (a role which I have interpreted as Wedding Related Event Coordinator/Bunting Maker), which was planning a get-to-know-you gathering for the wedding party. While a large portion of the wedding party spent roughly nine months in the same womb as I did, there were some who I didn’t know as intimately.

Assuming everything goes to plan, I’m going to be sitting at the same table as these poor souls, eyeing off the same basket of dinner rolls. While we would be forever bound by photographs of us dangling from a tree “candidly” laughing together, I figured we should be at least know each other’s names. In fact, I decided that the bonds of forced flower- holding and obligatory ceremonial involvement should be fortified by friendship. I decided that the best way to forge said friendships was with the assistance of social lubrication – i.e. wine. I also know myself well enough to know that my post-nuptial behaviour may garner a few judgemental glances, so at least this way the other members of the bridal party would know what to expect and prepare themselves accordingly. So a Wedding Party Party was scheduled.

After buying a half a kilo slab of double brie, a box of mini-dagwood dogs, and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, I was ready to make a good impression. However, I soon learnt that a selection of fancy, fancy party foods and cheap wine are not the only ingredients necessary for bonding. Ridicule and gentle contempt are really the basis for birthing boon companions (I googled synonyms for “friend” and “boon companions” came up – it sounds obscurely dirty in a way, but I’m going to run with it. Try and use it in a sentence today!).

The mateship magic only came after a game of celebrity heads using a smart phone sparked an intense argument about whether the wrinkled one-named super-star who made out with Britney Spears was Cher or Madonna. Curse words were thrown and angry hand gestures were made, but the floodgates of friendship were thrown open. Because our polite facade was cast aside, we were free to be as vulgar and obnoxious as the situation called for (which is a great deal, as anyone who has ever play charades would know). Insults were thrown and song choices were maliciously scorned (one groomsman suggested a Shania Twain song for the First Dance), and for some reason, this brought everyone closer. It seems there isn’t much of a difference between friend and fiend.

You can be an acquaintance, but it’s usually not until you mock them for their trivial mistakes or call them a dingbat (or the non-PG-rated equivalent) that you start exchanging hand-woven friendship bracelets. Because the root of real friendship is knowing the other person’s flaws (and inventory of rude words) and deciding that you can still tolerate them despite all this. Which possibly explains why most of my friendships were cemented during $3 basics specials nights.

Published in On Our Selection News April 17, 2014

Easter is an interesting holiday.

There aren’t a lot of rules in place. I mean, if you’re reasonably devout there’s the classic don’t eat red meat and be generally quite sombre on the Friday, but if you’re perhaps a little more lax then things become very vague. The big dilemma is whether or not you’re supposed to hang around with the family, and what day this should be happening. A rising trend (and by “rising trend”, I mean I’ve noticed a similarity amongst the few friends I’ve spoken to about it) is that young adults are being let down by their parents’ lack of planning for the big occasion.

Gone are the days of large family gatherings and the tell-tale signs of a small, hopping mammal who kindly leaves chocolate treats (clearly the Easter Bunny is less sloppy these days). We are now in the days of tired parents who either just want to sleep or spend time together as a couple. During one of my most recent Easters, my parents and little sister decided to go up to the beach, leaving the house empty and me, my sister and her boyfriend alone to celebrate The Resurrection the only way we knew how – roasting three kilos of lamb and eating until we were struck with the meat sweats.

A real problem is that Easter is a sneaky holiday – for some reason we never really see it coming. With Christmas it’s pretty easy – people plan for that months in advance. There’s even Christmas carols to remind you that it’s coming up. No one can make the graphic details of a crown of thorns, possible back splinters and that whole nail thing into a joyful little tune played in shopping centres. Parents usually pull the holiday together when their offspring are in school, but as soon as said offspring start pretending to be adults, the lines are blurred. Who is supposed to plan these occasions? One year I took it upon myself to prepare an Easter seafood extravaganza, but the only plans I have in place for this year involve a hot cross bun bacon sandwich for breakfast and comfortable pants. Perhaps we are all getting slack in our old age?

Published in On Our Selection News April 10, 2014

I just put the fabric printer cover around my shoulders and yelled “don’t look at me!” to my colleagues.

No, I’m not suffering a breakdown, I am just a little bit chilly. That’s right – winter is coming, and I have not braced myself for the crisp onset very well. In fact, I would say that I am not ready at all for the frosty winds of broken souls. I don’t even have a back up cardigan resting on my chair, hence the dash for the machine cover. Thankfully, a kind-hearted co-worker had a pashmina stashed away, which I am now draped in instead. But I do still look slightly crazy, as pointed out by my boss, who labelled me something akin to a “bag lady”. Unfortunately, this similarity will continue as the months get frostier. In fact, I think there’s a scale that has a sharp line demonstrating the link between temperature and social acceptability – as temperatures plummet, so too does Dannielle’s adherence to social norms.

As the months drag on, subtle changes take place, which culminate into my morphis from a model young lady to shawl wearing, cackling old hag with a horrid temper and an overwhelming desire to knee children in the face.

The initial stages are terrible jokes about the cold. This is similar to the denial phrase of grieving – I make jokes to distract myself from my sad reality. In fact, I just engaged in this phase, making a series of terrible jokes with the mail lady. “See you later,” she said, unknowingly setting herself up for the sharp sting of a painful pun. “You SHAWL-y” will,” I proudly responded. When the jokes dry up (along with my skin from those harsh winter winds) I grow bitter, and start cursing everything. The frost. Inanimate metal objects for being cold against my skin. Small children for having the nerve to be joyful in a world full of sorrow.

Somewhere around the new financial year, I start bringing a blanket to work. Usually, I am able to restrain myself to a reasonable draping over the legs, tossing the blanket aside when I come into the line of sight of customers. But there are those days when the blanket is draped over my shoulders, and because I have yet to buy a cape, I have to take on a particular stance to keep the blanket on my shoulders. The hunched over posture is not noticeable when I am seated at my desk, but when I am up and about (say to make a cup of tea, or to yell at kids to get off my lawn), I resemble the typical hunched witch from cautionary tales warning children not to eat other people’s houses. I walk around in this manner avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the office. However, sometimes an outsider makes their way into the wooden icebox that is our office building. Apparently, this kind of behaviour is less than professional, so I must either disappear or straighten my spine and remove the blanket or shawl I happen to be wearing. My senses become very acute, and when I hear the jostle of our door knob, my eyes narrow and I scuttle out of sight, cursing the heartless customer for forcing my de-shawling.

Yes, Winter is coming. And perhaps we should brace ourselves. You may think that you know what’s in-store, but you know nothing. For the Winter is cold, and full of nutjobs.

Published in On Our Selection News April 3, 2014

Old Maguire, apparently, has a farm.

On Sunday afternoon, I made a shocking discovery: there had been two sheep living up the back of my yard for close to a month and I had absolutely no idea. Self-absorbed and short- sighted, I spent weeks oblivious to the fluffy friends with whom I was sharing an address. Over the years, Dad has had a number of farm animals sharing our backyard, with many chickens, a few lambs and the infamous “Cody the Calf” calling the Maguire abode home. Despite living in a rural area my en- tire life and my experiences with the various farm animals Dad has impulsively invited to stay with us over the years, I know very little about farming. In fact, I often find myself having to pretend I know what farmers are talking about when we speak of such things. It’s reached a point where my interviews with farmers are referred to as another episode of “Dannielle Pretends” by my mocking colleagues.

As my farming knowledge is so low, I tend to respond to livestock based on emotions. So I was thrilled with the discovery. The two new additions to the family are cute, come up to the fence to say hi and will eventually make for a delicious roast lunch. Another benefit: Dad allocated a large portion of our massive deluxe chicken coop wonderland as a sheep coop. Why am I thrilled? Because there’s only one chicken living in that coop, and that chicken is a cold and callous murderer who does not deserve all that space.

While I can’t tell you anything about Summer crops, I have learnt a few things about chickens: namely, that chickens should never be trusted. While I’ve yet to read Lord of Flies, from what I’ve gathered of the plot, I believe the conditions in the coop are similar to those on that fictional island. Things start off fine when there’s a new batch of hens, but they inevitably descend into madness. Too many times have I been scarred by the sight of the hen-hate victims, pecked to a point of mutilation. They would run to get feed, but due to being targets of group attacks, their limbs didn’t work properly, so they limped erratically towards food, bouncing like a ball of misery with the occasional feather sticking out (the chickens picked out each other’s feathers to add insult to injury). Gradually the chicken population would dwindle, as after each death the brood would turn their screeching anger onto a new victim, leaving a lone survivor. Thus, the top chook has claimed her territory. And the bastard doesn’t even lay any eggs.

But now, this chicken will have to pay penance for its evil. It will have to watch the sheep frolick about in the lush green grass it ended so many lives to dominate. The sweet smell of justice will fill the nostrils of this diabolical bird, and it will be the scent of sheep poop. The roost will be ruled not by a fiendish fowl, but two cloud-like saints.

And while I’ve never been one to play with my food, I may even just join my fleecy besties in enjoying that space and freedom just to rub it in. The pecking order has just been reversed.

Published in On Our Selection News February  27, 2014

Success can take shape in many forms.

For some reason, I volunteered to make a cake for an Hawaiian themed housewarming party on Saturday night. I had grand visions of the baked perfection taking the form of an oversized pineapple. But this treat would also be a trick – instead of the pineapple flavour partygoers would expect, they would be blown away by a coconut taste explosion. The plan was simple – I’d make 4 round coconut cakes, stack them and cover with layer of yellow icing. The pineapple illusion would be completed with some leaf-shaped pieces of green cardboard stuck in the top.

However, when it came to the actual creation of this masterpiece, things were less than ideal. The first batch of cake mixture seemed a little thicker than usual and appeared to have a much greater volume than the single cake tin The Women’s Weekly assured me it would fit inside. It wasn’t until I closed the oven door that I realised I’d added an extra cup of flour. Assuring myself that a biscuit-cake hybrid would add a delightful crunch, I continued on. I was determined to present this pineapple. Imagine, if you will, the entire baking session as a montage to Rudimental’s Not Giving In. Unfortunately, four from four of my cakes came out of the oven looking like they’d been dropped several times. With a slightly deflated ego, I went to finish what I had started, hoping to hide the atrocity in a blanket of icing. Due to the sheer size of my tower of shame, I had to use two batches of icing, one much runnier than the other. The results were horrendous. Surveying my handiwork, I was hit with the realisation that I’d spent four hours of my Friday night making a yellow abomination.

This “cake” would have been better described as The Leaning Tower of Pus. It resembled a stack of dried pus scabs, with the ooze of infection dribbling over the top of it, collecting in a pool of sticky yellow gunk on the plate. It looked like the Michelin man, if he was suffering from severe jaundice and put in the microwave. Basically, it was a pile of failure. Worse still was that this nightmarish confection was slightly taller than the cake container, meaning that it was squashed, as well as grossly deformed. I was disheartened, but I’d promised cake, and dammit, I’d bring cake.

Thankfully, the party had started hours before I arrived. The hostesses were doing so well at keeping their guests hydrated that the mound of yellow disappointment was received as a golden cylinder of awesome. Guests flocked to the cake, using whatever tools were at their disposal to consume it. Some used knives from the cheeseboard, while the pull for others was so strong that they plunged their (hopefully sanitised) fingers into the cake’s moist layers and scooped the coconut sponge into their mouths, not unlike the motions of Bruce Bogtrotter during that infamous scene in Matilda. And while I watched the eating orgy unfold, I swelled with pride. Although this was not the grand unveiling I had hoped for, seeing grown adults abandon socially acceptable behaviour to consume my creation was still pretty grand. Sometimes, success is not how you imagined it would look like, but it still tastes as sweet.

Published in On Our Selection News February 20, 2014

Winter is coming, and so are the mice.

I was thinking only last night that Winter beckons. And I fear that, living across the road from a big paddock, we are overdue for a good old fashioned Winter mouse plague. Then earlier this morning, I overheard “I saw a mouse!”at morning tea. This was quickly corrected as “I bit my mouth!” when my ears pricked up, because it’s a well documented fact that I don’t enjoy the presence of mice in the world.

I’m currently writing this with my legs crossed in my chair, high off the ground. As a girl, I reserve the right to be a little squeamish when it comes to rodents. It’s something my suffragette sisters would agree with – maybe? They actually probably couldn’t give a rat’s (see what I did there?!) and continued raising hell regardless of the presence of tiny mammals. And while I enjoy wearing pants, voting and the illusion of having control over my uterus, I retain the right to be frightened of mice. My fear of the scuttling creatures goes beyond culturally ingrained characteristics.

At some point in my primary school’s history, some thrifty P&C member acquired offcuts of Astroturf for kids sit on at lunch time. Said grassy fabrics were kept rolled up in an old store room underneath the school building, which was known for mice infestations. One day at Little Lunch, my friends and I took a mat, rolled it out and sat down. What we didn’t know was that the fake grass had a mouse inside, which freaked out and started scampering around once his cover was blown.This caused mass hysteria. The tiny creature darted about, looking for a safe, dark cave in which it could hide from the pre-pubescent girls in unflattering puffy shirts and culottes flapping about like they were being tasered while wearing rollerblades. After a few panicked, squeal-filled seconds, the mouse was out of sight. Confusion sunk in. There was suspicious calm, and tense side glances. We may not have been old enough that multiple side buns weren’t cool, but we knew that the mouse was not done yet.

Then it hit me.That mouse had found it’s safe, dark cave.There was a mouse in my culottes. I could feel its little claws, and dirty furry skin and filthy tail. I felt it panic as it realised that it made a huge mistake. And after vigorously shaking my lower half, I felt the mouse scamper down my leg. I stood shocked and shivering – all I could do was cry. I can’t clearly remember what happened next, but I do know that I was ushered into the staff room to continue my mental breakdown. Not content with destroying my spirit, the mouse also ran through my lunchbox – meaning my lunch was ruined forever, just as I was.

And while I got replacement food, the mouse had done it’s damage. Sure, I put on a brave face and even laughed along as my awful, awful schoolmates sang “Hickory Dickory Dock” to me, but my damaged psyche could not be fixed with a ham sandwich. Seeing a mouse sparks intense fear, which pulsates through my body and forces me to embrace my animal instincts and get to higher ground. And I think I’ve earned that right. My colleagues may think it’s irrational, but, as the saying goes, “Don’t judge someone until you’ve shaken a mouse out of their culottes.”

Published in On Our Selection News February 13, 2014

There are always times when you question your instincts.

Some examples are when I let my nine year old sister cut my hair like Lindsay Lohan’s sassy American character in The Parent Trap or when I trusted my best friend to take the wheel of the ride on mower while I sat in a wagon which was being towed behind and ended up with a nasty scalp laceration. These choices weren’t really decisions, they were mere actions – instincts, I suppose. It was more rush than reason. Once I was kicking a footy with friends in a park across a busy road from their filthy, possum infested house. On the way back to the crapshack they called home, one of them made a joke that I should kick the ball across the road into their front yard. I instinctively put foot to ball, which apparently nearly caused a major traffic crash. My two amigos were stunned. “Oh yeah, you do things without thinking,” one of them remembered out loud once the immediate danger and beeping of horns ceased. He was right. A great many defining incidents of my high school career could attest to that.

But since becoming an esteemed adult who once had two university degrees and an old Hungry Jack’s “Crew Member of the Month” certificate magnetised to her fridge door, I have endeavoured to make my choices more deliberate. Of course this does make my lunch decisions lengthy and an entirely painful experience for the poor deli workers at my local food store, but has also seen a steep decline in near death situations.

Recently, I made the decision to instil a self-imposed “dry February”. Being the shortest month of the year, I thought it would be breeze. However, being my sister’s 18th birthday on February’s last day, I thought it would be reasonable to make it a 27 day drought. The number was whittled down once more when we had some down time before a wedding dress fitting on February 1 and of course, being 11.20am, my sister and I decided an espresso martini was the best way to fill the time. I recoiled in shock as I remembered my pledge on the ride home hours later. But I reasoned that this was okay. “Bookends!” I told myself. The pledge was still intact! The next weekend was much more successful, and the only bottle I hit was plastic and filled with water.

Heading to a friend’s house party on Saturday, I told myself that I wouldn’t need to bring anything, yet I arrived with not one, but two bottles of red – in case I decided that I didn’t want to follow through with my feeble pledge. I stayed strong for two hours, until I stepped up to the carefully arranged pyramid of cups, ping pong ball in hand and decided to undecide the choice I had previously chosen. I had ignored my instincts telling me that the pledge was stupid as I absent-mindedly ordered a drink on February 1. As a young woman, many a magazine has told me that my instincts are never wrong. They can only bring good outcomes. I decided never to question my instincts again. Unfortunately, I broke this pledge too. I questioned why my instincts led me to foolishly volunteer to cover an event the next day: none other than the Queensland Whip Cracking Titles. In an echoey hot shed. For two hours. Perhaps I have more to learn. 

Published in On Our Selection News February 6, 2014

Show time baking is serious.

The Show to me always seemed like there were only a few camps – those who showed cattle, those who came to ride the Scrambler and those who came purely for the thrilling privilege of standing around in the fenced area in which over-age persons are able to consume any canned beverage on offer at the bar. In school I was forced to enter some handwriting, but after passing the age of mandatory bottle green culottes, the only thing I’d put in the Pavilion was the rubbish from a dagwood dog into the bin by the open door.

However, a remark from a Show Society member that the same person had won the Fruitcake Challenge every time sparked an idea in the office, and within minutes the idea had swollen with air bubbles to reach the light fluffy texture of enthusiasm. That comment was the baking soda we needed to rise to the challenge.

And with that, I was in. Suddenly, people came out of the shadows and started talking about their show baking. I heard about all the competitive bakers. There are certain people who just manage to nail it every time, so others don’t dare challenge them with their pitiful use of flour. One such person is a father of a primary school classmate, who always seemed nice but clearly had to be feared in the Show baking world. I’ve been told he has his awards pinned to his cubicle wall at work to rub it in the face of another employee. I’d known these people for years, yet this side of them I’d never seen before. Maybe, like closet Christians under Roman rule, they had been drawing a sign in the dirt with their feet as they spoke to me. But being unconverted, I didn’t see the outline of a sponge cake they drew. I had been oblivious to this religion, and those practicing it right under my nose. But now, I was part of the parish, and all of a sudden I started getting texts with fruitcake tips/commandments that had no doubt been passed on for generations.

Like all religion, there is conflict, and religious philosophical discussion that can get ugly. While I wasn’t yet turning over tables in temples, this new convert had already ruffled feathers. I got into a debate with the father of a boy I went to school with, about whether a dessert I ate was a macaron or a whoopie pie. I changed the subject, thinking that it was impressive enough that this farmer knew what a macaron vaguely looked like and should let him have his moment. However upon later reflection of this semi-heated exchange, I realised this came from the man who told me that if you’re going to enter sultana scones you’d better make sure that you’ve got enough sultanas (because if the steward pulls a scone apart and can’t see a trinity of sultanas on each side, you’re not worth the flour you bake with). This was a man who knew his baked goods. And while the whoopie pie movement is a baking fad that will eventually be forgotten, it was still an arm of the baking faith, and should be recognised.

Now I fear reprisal. I worry that I have inexcusably offended the clergy. Most of all, I worry I’ll come home to find dozens of burnt solid fruitcakes that have smashed through my windows with notes telling me “the oven is next”. 

Published in On Our Selection News January 30, 2014 

There’s more to Australia Day than beer.

I see Australia Day as a celebration of the freedom we enjoy. If we want to wear a ratty koala poncho and not much else, then we are well within our right to do so. But what comes with our own freedom is the freedom of others, meaning those who chose get Southern Cross tattoos and shout “Straya” all day are allowed to do so. Australia Day, from my experience, is about beer AND democracy.

Perhaps the best example of this would be Andrew Laming. Not only could the addition of “ton” on the end of his last name make him an iconic Aussie dessert, but this guy seems to have “Straya” down pat. I don’t know what this man stands for, but if he can stand upside down while hastily consuming a can of ale, I can bet you that he just won over hundreds of supporters. Because while that may not make him an exceptional politician, it sure makes him seem like an exceptional bloke.

Another combo of beer and democracy is Triple J’s hottest 100 Countdown, which lists the best 100 songs from 2013 as voted by the people. People listen in, beer in hand, waiting to hear the result. Just like the Federal Election, the result of this nation and worldwide vote is often met with controversy. Every year the number one song is debated, and there is outrage over the songs that didn’t make the top spot. There’s nothing that riles up young, alternative-minded hipsters quite like music and its pop- ularity. And after a day of liberal ale consumption, words like “mainstream” are thrown around on Facebook like molotov cocktails and the quality of songs is debated in the same fashion that Laurie Oaks discusses proposed legislation.

Number one is often called a crap song by the not so keen alternative music fans, and is torn apart by being too mainstream by the very keen alternative music fans. There’s a winning song, but it never really wins – much like actual democracy. The process is a win in itself. Because the thing about democracy is that everyone is given a vote. And while some people take music and/or politics seriously, there are others who don’t care as much. Or people who just don’t know their stuff. One girl was disappointed that Robin Thick’s Blurred Lines didn’t make it in – but even though she spelt “thought” as “thort”, her opinion is still valid. She, like everyone, was still allowed a vote. What is clear is that popularity and merit don’t always correlate. There are times when the most popular song or politician just isn’t as good as the less popular ones. Popular songs aren’t necessarily terrible, and whether or not a song is “good” – like politicians – is entirely subjective. If you hate country music, then you’re hardly going to rate Lee Kernaghan’s new CD.

But the beauty of events like countdowns and elections is that they give us an opportunity for discussion. And by discussion, I mean complaints. The mere act of complaining is a political act in itself. Complain loudly and to a big audience, and you’re doing a fair bit for democracy. We’re not all able to agree all of the time. And we shouldn’t. Lorde might be better than Vance Joy, and Daft Punk may be just a little overrated. But as Australians these are the discussions that we’re able to have, and enjoy. And on Australia Day, we’re able to do it with a beer in hand. 

Published in On Our Selection News January 23, 2014

All my life I have been lied to about how fun the beach is.

From movies to picture books, spending a day at the beach has been romanticised to give us unrealistic expectations. Throughout my childhood I was brainwashed with images of Bec Cartwright smiling in the Summer Bay surf, and lied to via interactive flap-books such as Spot Goes to the Beach. We’ve been led to believe that the seaside is fantastic. And after myweekend beach experience, I think it’s time the truth be told. Dannielle Goes to the Beach sounds like it would be a great picture book, possibly with lift-up-flaps and fun textures to feel. It would be a great book to sit on the kindy bookshelf. However Dannielle Goes to the Beach would be a harrowing tale of one girl’s transformation into a salt riddled, sub-human creature.

Now, the trouble with picture books is that they can’t convey the actual saltiness of the water. You forget that sting and instead remember the cool of the waves. This is why my book would be accompanied with a spray bottle of saltwater so the reader can repeatedly squirt themselves in the eyes to get the full experience. On Saturday, my eyes decided to be extra sensitive to the salt, causing my eyelids to burn with the fire of a thousand suns. Not only did this make it impossible to see, but also made my nose run like a tap, which resulted in constant sniffing and some super attractive heavy mouth breathing. That page would invite the reader to pull a lever illustrating the mucus intent on escaping the heroine’s nose. Then there would be a cardboard cutout of the girl that the reader could drag across the page in a curvy track to mimic the disorientated walk of the heroine as she attempted to find fresh water, hampered by blurry eyes and bare feet on hot cement.

My posture stooped and as I wiped my nose on my arm, I also wiped away any pride that remained. I stumbled to a sink and splashed my eyes for at least five minutes, still struggling to breathe through my nose. That page would have a lever to scrunch up the faces of passing tourists into disgruntled looks of disgust, and prompt the reader to mimic the sound of a vacuum cleaner trying to suck up wet cement (otherwise known as: “Dannielle trying to breathe post-ocean swim”). My next move was to find toilet paper to blow my nose with. This would be illustrated with a public toilet door flap to open, which would reveal a damp, torn pair blue Bonds men’s briefs crumpled on the floor next to a suspicious looking puddle. “Pull the lever to lower Dannielle’s faith in mankind!”, the book would instruct the reader.

Despite all this, the book would end with the girls’ sinuses clearing eventually. Little Dannielle would reason to herself that she must have just had a bad day as she gazed at the sunset sky over the beach. She’s enjoyed the beach before – this was a one-off bad experience. She doesn’t hate the beach, just feel how soft it made her skin! The book has a seemingly happy ending, with the final words being “to be continued.” The reader is then told to look out for the sequel – Dannielle Discovers Severe Scalp Sunburn and Endures a Week of Sickening Head Peel.