Monthly Archives: September 2016

This one did not

My mate Maranoa

At the start of the week a story broke that out of all the electorates in Australia, only one had more than 50 per cent of the population against legalising same sex marriage.

One.

And of course it was the one I grew up in: Merry old Maranoa.

This was based on data from ABC’s Vote Compass. So technically, it’s not the entire population, just the population who could be bothered to log on to the internet and fill out a bunch of questions. And, if we’re going to be super technical, it’s the people who had actual access to the Internet with a connection reliable enough to support the website for the amount of time it takes to fill out the questionnaire.

Regardless of all the variables and questions raised about the proportion of the population that used Vote Compass as opposed to the proportion that doesn’t, this was a blow.

Because I like where I grew up. It’s a strange place that my Sydney friends don’t believe is real.

I’d like my home patch to be known for the sheer ingenuity that comes with saving a dying bottle tree by plugging it with cement rather than collective bigotry.

But I’m comforted by one fact: this data was collected in 2013.

I like to think that we’ve moved on from that. I like to think that in 2016, we realised there were far more important things to channel our strong opposition towards than two consenting adults being legally bound to one another.

I like to think we’ve realised that, in the grand scheme of things, where someone wants to stick their body parts doesn’t really matter at all as long as said parts are going into (or grinding on) a consenting adult. It’s actually pretty weird that this can be someone’s biggest concern.
For people who are in the gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer, transgender and intersex community, being able to marry the person they love is a pretty big deal. It’s a pretty big deal for anyone – that’s why weddings are such big piss ups.

It’s not just about the party though. It’s about that legal recognition of marriage.

It’s about all the rights that heterosexual people who are married have simply because they tessellate.

It’s about acceptance.

It’s about not having someone/an legal system/a country/a roomful of crusty old pollies tell they can’t do something.

There are a lot of people out there who want same sex marriage, not just the LGBQTI folk.

Even if you’re not one of those people who want these fabulous unions to exist, it seems silly to rally against it.

Because we have bigger fish to fry.

We have an alarming suicide rate in rural Australia.

We have coal seam gas dividing communities.

We have farmers getting ripped through the arsehole by supermarkets.

We have more than 80 per cent of Queensland in drought status.

We have domestic violence ripping families apart.

We have all this crap to deal with in our state alone. Let’s not go into the national and global issues, which are also pretty fucking critical.

And yet people still seem to think that preventing two people who love each other being recognised as a married couple is worth marching against.

It’s even more baffling that with things like a refugee crisis and ice scourges and homelessness that this is the issue churches want to be vocal about.

With so much shit going down, why do people give enough shits about feeling irky about someone else’s love life to complain about it? There are SO MANY more important things to complain about.

Like seriously, there are farmers riddled with depression living in dustbowls teetering on the edge of suicide and you care about preventing two adults’ wedding?! Are you fucking serious?!

Having spent about 90 per cent of my life in Maranoa, I find this really odd.

Because we’re the kind of people who know why you shouldn’t leave the water running while you brush your teeth. We’re the kind of people who opt for an Akubra and a long-sleeved shirt instead of a one of those singlets with armpit holes big enough to fit Clive Palmer through when the sun is the hottest. We’re the kind of people who keep a spare stubby holder in the glovebox at all times.

Because we’re practical people.

And practical people don’t carry on like a pork chop over pointless crap that doesn’t actually hurt us.

We’re the kind of people the whole country describes when they talk about the “typical Aussies”. We’re the ones who help someone out of a bog. We’re the ones who turn up with a tray of slice when a neighbour’s going through a rough patch. We have a nickname for nearly everyone. We’ll sink piss with rich or poor, old, young or even those just under the legal drinking age (we probably draw the line at 14 though – we’re not animals).

We’re she’ll be right, fair dinkum top blokes.

So it seems weird that we’re being branded as homophobes. Because if you’re a real top bloke (and that phrase applies to any sex, by the way), you don’t think you’re better than anyone.

Because that’s essentially what people who oppose same sex marriage appear to do.

If you’re heterosexual and against same-sex marriage, you’re basically saying that your way of making the sex (e.i shoving a penis into the various holes of a female) is superior and therefore the only legitimate way of doing it. You may say that you don’t have a problem with homosexuals but don’t think they should be able to be married or call their committed relationships “marriage”, then you’re saying your relationship is better than theirs. And therefore theirs is inferior and illegitimate, which basically translates to a piss-soaked pile of pork gristle.

In Australia, we’re built on the notion that every bastard is equal. We like to think that we’re all mates. We see ourselves as true blue. We don’t like the idea of thinking we shit gold and we certainly can’t stand the pricks who act like they do. That’s definitely the vibe I get from growing up in Maranoa.

That’s also the tale we like to feed into on days like Anzac Day or Australia Day – that we’re great people who care about our makes and aren’t up ourselves.

So why is it that in 2013 apparently so many top blokes from Maranoa (and I know a lot of top blokes from Maranoa) thought their sexual orientation was better than someone else’s?

I don’t really have the answer.

But I certainly hope that in 2016, all the top blokes in Maranoa – and the shit blokes too – realise that opposing same sex marriage not only makes them a dickhead, but there’s so many other things to be angry about.

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This one made it to print

Stop looking at me, swan

Abridged version originally published in On Our Section News, September 22, 2016

Settling an unsettled mind is a tricky task.

The other day I had my first yoga session in more than two years. I’ve never been much of a yoga person, preferring to jog and pick up heavy things in order to sculpt my fleshy outer casing.

But I’ve had a bit of spare time on my hands lately and it’s magpie season, which means nowhere is safe.

So I went along to a class, dragging my stiff but somehow (I know exactly how: bread) soggy body to the studio and plonking myself down on a mat my sister leant me. I first was struck by how bad I am at listening to and following instructions. It’s like when you ask someone for directions and then tune out at the poor stranger you ambushed attempts to guide you do your destination. I never listen to directions, and it’s a problem. Especially because most of the time when I’m listening to directions, in my head I’m telling myself that I need to listen to directions more because I don’t listen to directions… it’s a cycle that won’t ever end.

Also, I haven’t become any better at telling my left from my right. I failed my learners’ licence test SEVERAL times because I keep mucking up my directions. And it seems I have learnt nothing since I was 17-and-a-half (it’s true, and I still have the Schoolies ’09 singlet to prove it). There’s a lot in yoga about left hands going one place and right legs going somewhere else. It’s like a slow version of the hokey pokey. I’m considering putting an L on my left hand and an R on my right next time.

Yes, there will be a next time. Because it didn’t mind that place.

But also because I want to tame the lions of my mind. Apparently yoga can make your head stop banging on about nothing and this makes you all not highly strung and present minded and all that shit you see in adult colouring books.

I wanted to achieve this during my first session. But it wasn’t that easy.

I sat there ready to empty my mind. Sure, that’s no easy feat. There’s a lot going on up there (think: a room with fax machine receiving endless faxes, a continuous loop of The Simpsons reruns projected on a dirty sheet, an air horn playing the tune of jingles from 90s television ads, several small fires, a mime and a confetti gun). But if anything was going to still my internal waters, surely it would be yoga.

Yoga has soothing music and encourages you to breathe and allows you to wear thongs to class (one of my sisters wears slippers, that’s how bloody relaxed it is). The gym has a confusing video clip playlist that means Pink’s Get This Party Started or Taxiride’s Creepin’ Up Slowly are on every time I’m there. The gym encourages you to “just do it” (whatever “it” is hasn’t been specified, but I can assure you “it” will make the folds under your buttcheeks sweaty and doesn’t involve vanilla slice). The gym requires closed in shoes at all times.

If my mind were to be quietened, this might be the best spot.

So after all the stretching and breathing and twisting my body, I prepared for stillness.

The instructor finished the class with some form of relaxation session, telling us to close our eyes and focus on our breathing. Then she told us to visualise a swan.

And that’s were it all went off the rails.

Because for the last four or so years, I’ve been hankering to sink my teeth into the flesh of one of those long-necked geese.

It started after someone told me the monarchy owned all the swans in The Commonwealth. Naturally, I was outraged. I don’t know the exact twists and turns the following rant took as I unleashed against the unfairness of it all, but it ended with me vowing to taste the flesh of the queen’s winged children. Even if I had scrape it off the road or pick at the rotting corpse of a swan after fishing it from polluted waters. 

So when the instructor told us to picture a swan, I didn’t see a graceful bird gently gliding through a pristine pond, I saw a roast chook with a bloody long neck. And because I had nothing to do but sit there in silence with my eyes closed, my fowl mediation burned with intensity. I saw feathers flying. I heard the honks of despair. I could feel the crunch of the meat thermometer piercing the glazed skin and passing through cartilage.

Then the other night I went again. And again I wanted to quieten my mind. But instead all I thought about was an animated series about a duck and a seal being best friends (you can’t take that idea, either). It was to be reminiscent of the Rocko’s Modern Life era and break down barriers. The animation would be the most basic of drawings – none of this three dimensional bullhonkey that children are force-fed. I even had the first few bars of the song for the opening credits.

Clearly, it takes more than a few stretches to break in the wild brumby with flowing mane and sparkling eyes that is my mind. Maybe my thoughts were never meant to be reigned in. Maybe my mind is supposed to run free on the horizon of lunacy.

But during both times, while the ridiculous and criminal thoughts pulsated through my brain, I remained still. On the outside, I was calm. My chilled out exterior shielded the madness within to a point where one couldn’t suspect my thinking.

And here’s where yoga could potentially have its biggest benefit for me.

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This one did not

Bunk with me tonight

I have to find somewhere to live in a new city and it’s horrific.

Because this kind of process is like making a friend and moving in with a partner all at the same time. It’s a double whammy of uncomfortable.

I know that I make a great housemate. I mean, I bread my own schnitzels for Pete’s sake. I also own the first three seasons of The Nanny on DVD. I wipe down the bench constantly. I have four Glasshouse candles to my name at present. I enjoy baking slice. And I LOVE a casual draping of a blanket for style reasons. I’m a catch.

But The Internet doesn’t know that. To The Internet, I’m simply a brown-haired girl with a bucket of dreams and taste for Queensland-centred memes.

So I have to sell myself to a stranger in the hope they won’t think I’m a creep. It’s like the opening episodes of The Bachelor/ette without the free booze. I have to convince people that I’m cool and fun, but not too fun (because no matter how convenient it would be no one wants a methlab in their house) and responsible and won’t smother them in their sleep.

Which is hard work.

And unfortunately, I have to be honest about who I am, because once you do actually move in, the illusion of normalcy will be forever shattered. As soon as your suitcase hits the floor, the jig is up. No matter how many times you assure them that you’re normal, it’s going to be hard to get them to accept that fact once you start pulling out your Harry Potter figurines and placing them strategically on your window sill. The collection of onion-shaped crockery is probably a red flag. The ode to carrots you painted yourself isn’t going to go unnoticed.

Sooner or later the real person trapped inside your suit of flesh and hair will become clear. A lifetime of Disney movies directed at subconsciously moulding me into an obedient consumer who never questions authority because I’m too busy being pretty has taught me a lot of things, but the biggest is that the truth always comes out.

So I’ve gone ahead and done a quick whip around on the corners of the internet to find out what questions people should ask a potential roommate before giving them the keys. I’m putting myself to the test to see just how I would shape up as a potential roommate.

I think I sound alright.

What do you do on the weekends? Staring into the abyss until I realise I’m about to wet myself.

Do you like to have friends over or keep the party outside? Friends are great. But unfortunately they’re people. And people tend to make messes. They spill drinks and drop Cheezels and then unknowingly step on said tubes of yellow delight, crushing them into the carpet. So I guess my answer really depends on the floor coverings.

Do you smoke? Smokers are jokers (and by “jokers” I mean “people who don’t seem to mind the prospect of dying a slow and painful death”).

How often do you drink at home? Well I’m not bloody made of money, so I’m not going to do all my drinking at licensed premises am I? And apparently it’s frowned upon to mix up vodka, juice and other liquid atrocities in a water bottle and drink it on public transport, so I have to take the party somewhere else.

Do you have references? Yes, most of them are from The Simpsons, but if you were a girl with a VCR in the late 90s, you should be able to pick up on most of the others.

What time do you go to bed? I try to go to bed by 9.30pm but somehow keep ending up still awake at 11pm. I think it’s because I’m exposed to too many colours during the day. I need to spend more time in beige surrounds.

Do you have any pets? Are you considering getting any? I’ve wanted to have a Saint Bernard called Keith for years now, but after seeing the actual accountability required to keep a pet living and avoiding animal cruelty charges, I’m rethinking that. Growing up, we had this real lone ranger of a blue heeler who didn’t need attention, lived off our table scraps and had self-imposed and highly sophisticated waste management system which meant we never had to deal with what Dad calls “barkers’ nests”. All we had to do was keep his water up. But nowadays I’m seeing why people say having a pet is a responsibly. My sister and brother in-law spend shitloads on feeding their dog, have to give him attention and pick up his poo. I did it for them the other day, and the amount of poo in that plastic bag was unbelievable. It was the weight of a small baby.

What do you do for a living? The other day I drew a picture of the Empire State Building in exchange for some Thai food and ear candles. Does that count?

How long is your average workday? Too long, am I right? TGIF and such.

Do you work from home? If you consider “quizzing myself to create revealing, salacious reading for an imaginary audience” as “work”, then yes. Yes I do work from home.

Do you expect a lot of out-of-town visitors? My whole life fits within a small corner of southeast Queensland. They’re not just out-of-town, they’re going to be interstate and very loud about it. My father may just get arrested for wearing his pocket knife belt.

What’s your romantic situation? I have pretty strong feelings about my hat at the moment.

 

How do you decompress day to day? I like to make a cup of tea, groan like a wild boar getting a head massage and then tell whoever’s nearest about how good a cup of tea is. I also like to repeatedly smooth my hair until I forget who I am.

What’s your relationship like with your mother and father? Well may father’s antics are getting me a lot of likes on Instagram right now so I have to keep that little gem in my good books. And my mother actually tried to give me some of her unworn, shockingly sheer negligée she obviously bought with my father in mind the other day, so I guess we’re pretty close?

What’s your worst habit? I like to get people involved in my body. Sometimes I’ll ask them to grab the frighteningly-defined tendons in my neck. Sometimes I’ll prompt them to poke my heavily-bloated stomach. Sometimes I’ll encourage them to sniff my sweaty arm cast (only when I have a broken bone). Apparently running my hair along my lips is weird and off putting for people who aren’t me. But it makes me happy. And apparently asking people to run my hair along their lips is some form of harassment. But I think it’s just common decency.

What chore do you least like doing around the house? Putting away the vacuum cleaner. Sure, it may sound small, but it’s a bloody hassle. I mean, I’m not saying that I leave the vacuum cleaner sitting out like some kind of wild animal. But putting the dang thing back in the cupboard is an uncomfortable inconvenience that I dread.

If you were willing to go to prison for 15 years for a single crime, what would that crime be? I really can’t think of anything. I mean, I’d like to say “setting fire to the patriarchy”, but I think the eventual death of the older generation and calm, rational debate is the best move. So I don’t know, maybe touching paintings in art museums, causing a general ruckus.

Have any illogical pet peeves? Ah geez, I guess dolphin statues aren’t really my thing.

Did you do any clubs or activities in high school? I once convinced my religion teacher to endorse my idea to start an interpretive dance club at my school. All we needed were the unitards and we were on. Unfortunately there just wasn’t level of the commitment needed and the idea never got off the ground.

What are challenges you’ve faced in past living situations? I lived with a girl who wore a fedora and sarongs. It was pretty challenging.

Anything else I should know? I’ve been really into Sheryl Crow lately.

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This one made it to print

But she’s got a new hat

I recently found my soulmate in a hat.

I don’t really know what happened. The other day I was dehydrated and felt pretty nauseated, so I got in the car, cranked up the air con, blasted Sheryl Crow as loud as my car’s speakers would go without crackling (but Sheryl’s got some bass yo) and found myself at my Akubra dealer.

I spent a fair hunk of time with the salesman trying to work out what suited my needs. Because, while my head was pretty easy to fit, my needs were complicated. I didn’t really need the hat per say, but I was feeling fragile and I wanted it. My needs were strictly frivolous and spiritual.

I don’t really know how to explain that to a sales assistant. How do you ask another person to suggest a hat that is an extension of your soul? How do you phrase “I want a hat that would look poignant on my rustic headstone” without sounding insane? Because these hats are generally for agricultural people, but I had a higher purpose for mine.

I didn’t want to tell him that I grew up “in town” and the height of my agricultural experience was dumping fodder in a bathtub-cum-trough and sprinting to the gate because I was convinced the calf that lived in our spare paddock had a vendetta against me (I got mine in the end though, literally eating the flesh of my enemy).

You see, I’m from the country, but I’m not from a farm. My parents came out here for the cheap land and stayed for what I can only imagine was the heavily discounted peanut shell mulch and the hot chooks a surly legend called Barry would sell. I don’t have sheep to muster or crops to harvest.

I guess I just liked the idea of having a signature hat. Sure, sun safety is important and my skin is so pale that my neck is going to look like the skin that forms on custard when I’m 40. But it wasn’t about that. What I wanted was to be identified by a hat. Like if my plane disappeared over the ocean and my hat washed up ashore. I would want someone to see it and crumble into a fit of tears.

I don’t know how I got here. It was a strange journey. People stopped wearing hats as soon as they left school. For some reason, wearing a hat wasn’t cool – but for some reason ear stretchers were, go figure. The No Hat, No Play rule was the bane of our existence. Teachers didn’t seem to care that you could potentially asphyxiate on that whole donut you shoved in your mouth during an eating race or the innocent but disturbing display of sexual harassment in the school yard during kiss’n’catch, but if your hat fell off your head even for a second, a teacher would be on to you quick smart. Somewhere along the line, the idea of practical yet stylish sun protection crept into my head, built a nice three bedroom brick house and settled in. Maybe it was love of playing up to the country stereotype to my Sydney friends, maybe it was my desire to stop the part in my hair being forever pink, or maybe it was my yearning to have a wide-brimmed stamp of authority. But I found myself ending up on the Akubra website, trawling through the company’s Instagram feed, drooling over each picture in the dead of night too many times to ignore the call. And with my tax return burring a hole in my pocket and my credit card debt FINALLY paid off, I was in the mood to be reckless with my money but sensible with my purchasing.

Eventually the world’s most patient salesman and I can come to a consensus: a dusty dark brown cattleman.

Looking back, it was so simple, poetic even. Dusty was how I felt at the time. Dark, well that’s the general shade of my soul. Brown is essentially my trademark. As the only brunette amongst three blonde sisters, it was my identity: My oldest sister was The Smart One, my second sister was The Pretty One, my younger sister was The Cute One and I was The Brown One. Sure, it was comically soul crushing but at least it made me memorable to senile, vision impaired relatives. Then there was the Cattleman aspect – while not a legit cattleman, I did technically feed one once so it still counts.

It all fit. It was fate. It was me. And I’m not saying that Australiana headgear makes miracles, but when I walked out of that shop I didn’t need to vom anymore.

 

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Future thoughts, This one did not

The end of the road

So I’m selling my car and I feel incredibly emotional.

 

I’ve written before about parting ways with my noble steed, but this time it’s serious. It’s for real. It’s permanent.

 

I’ve had this car for my entire adult life, and it’s been like a comfort blanket of sorts – albeit a fuel guzzling one with a huge turning circle. It was my hail damaged quantum of solace; ferrying me from one disappointment to the next. It has been a comforting constant in my life over the years; it was with me long before I realised my side fringe was out-dated.

 

But I find myself behind the wheel of another vehicle (one of the too many cars my parents had, to be precise). I find myself admitting my former charger can’t sit in my parent’s spare paddock forever. I find myself moving on.

 

I know the time is right to pass it on to new owners, but I need to do it the right way. I need the poetic conclusion I crave but also avoid like the plague.

 

I know I need to pour some petrol on my past, light a match and toss it behind me as I strut towards the future (in vinyl hotpants, with unexplained toned legs of course). I yearn to hurtle towards the great unknown in a cloud of glitter. But no matter how fabulous an ending may be, it is still an ending. And that’s a little sad.

 

I’m about to move on to another phase in my life and I find myself aching for the meaningful moments of clarity American teenage movies taught me I needed. I want to take a last long look at the sun setting over the mountain in front of my parents’ home. I want to watch as the bonfire flames lick a handwritten letter. I want a single tear to be wiped away by a knowing hand.

 

Instead I’ve booked a pap smear, cancelled my phone bill mail out and am flogging unnecessary items on Gumtree.

 

Because the truth is that life doesn’t present proufound moments of importance. As much as I hate to admit it, my life isn’t a Hollywood epic, or even low-budget made-for-television movie.

 

There won’t be a banjo solo when my heart needs it most. The eagle flying into the sunrise will have nothing to do with my soul being set free and everything to do with a rotting sheep carcass over the hill. The rain won’t ever pour because I’m in the complication-cum-dramatic-realisation stage of a relationship.

 

So I have to invent my own meaning.

 

And I think I’ve done that with my Gumtree ad. It has been a particularly poignant Monday morning:

 

“The greatest advertisement for Toyota ever” – George, my mechanic.

 

This Camry may have entered its second decade of existence this year, but unlike other 20-year-olds, this wide-boned lady hasn’t had a breakdown of any kind – emotional or mechanical. This bastard just keeps on going.

I’ve had this car for about eight years now and the most I’ve ever had to do it was tape the bumper bar back on (don’t worry, it’s been professionally fixed now). The most my mechanic has had to do to it was replace the timing belt.

With 350,000 ks on the clock this old bird has seen some things, and I can’t say the only journeys we’ve been on together were purely distance-based. It’s been a spiritual ride and while the road wasn’t always a smooth surface I always made it home. Now we’ve reached a fork in the road and it’s time to go our separate ways.

But this Camry is far from reaching its final destination.

Sure, there are some dents, a bit of hail damage and that bumper bar doesn’t match the rest of car but it still does what it needs to do – get you from A to B. IT was previously registered in NSW so it was roadworthy about six months ago. The tyres are newish, with one being particularly fresh because I always seemed to run over a damned echidna with the same wheel.

The air con is an icy blast so powerful it could rival the cold bone chilling stare of Julie Bishop. The boot has enough room for a cumbersome swag, an esky and all your emotional baggage. The driver’s side sun visor has a mirror for you to check your teeth in.

Basically this car has everything a modern person could want (except electric windows or Bluetooth). And it needs a good home. Open up your heart and you garage door to this chariot, and you shan’t be disappointed.

 

Hopefully the car new owner exists and drives it away as the sun sets.

 

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This one made it to print

Chips and chipper-ness

Why do people ask how you’re doing when you clearly look awful?

The other day I went into my local chicken shop after a big night out. I looked seedier than a parrot’s poo. It was roughly 3pm. I was wearing pyjama bottoms, a dirty jumper and thongs (I was also wearing my watch, to make my outfit look more purposeful and accessorised with a dinosaur mood ring to indicate to bystanders that I had lost control my life, but was still fabulous). I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before and, according to the residue on my sandals, I didn’t end up completing the digestion process. So I was hungry, weak and a little shaky. My facial expression could be best described as was a mix of “just about to sneeze” and “the dog just died in the action movie”. I had a mess bun with so many flyaway hairs that it looked like I had slept on a balloon.

I was in fine form.

I walked up to the counter, and the girl at the cash register greeted me and asked how I was. Sure, she was just being friendly and enquiring about a person’s wellbeing is standard practice in customer service.

But you’re not supposed to actually answer them. You’re supposed to tell them you’re “good, thanks” and then cut to the chase (in this instance “the chase” means “requesting an ungodly amount of food without a side order of judgement from the team of teenagers handling your greasy pleasures”). You’re not supposed to be honest.

Because working in this particular chicken shop can’t be easy. These fast food soldiers would be exposed to all kinds of pain, and would perhaps clock off traumatised if everyone answered the “how are ya” question honestly. Being about 97.8 per cent of Toowoomba’s morning after food of choice, these brave young people would see the Garden City at its absolute worst. It’s practically a triage centre for the hungover. I’m talking smudged mascara, mismatched shoes, the dankest of trackpants. 

But seeing humanity at its lowest would correspond with some serious highs. They would witness the healing power of chicken salt. The soothing properties of secret sauce. The invigorating attributes of barbecued chicken.

I can’t think of a more noble profession. I have nothing but respect for these people, but on this afternoon, I forgot about their vital service.

“How was I going?!” What a bloody question. I thought about telling her the truth. “Well, I’m about to buy a family-sized box of chips entirely for myself at three in the afternoon. How the heck do you think I’m going Sharon?!”

But something stopped me. Sure, I just wanted my salty rectangular prisms of potato and didn’t want to prolong the ordering process. I didn’t want to come off a jerk. I didn’t have the actual energy to say that many words with my mouth while standing up. 

But mostly, I reminded myself how thankful I was for her service. I answered with a “tip top” and asked for my chippies.

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The businesswomen’s special

 

The other day I sat at a café in my active wear while working on my laptop.

It sounds pretty glamorous, and that’s because it was. There’s nothing more #lifegoals about smashing out some work after dropping some mean squats at the gym while refuelling The Truth (my body).

Except my work was a yarn about how I bought a hat.

And my version of active wear is oversized free t-shirts I’ve obtained over the years, three-year-old sneakers what have holes where my buggy little toes stick out and these snot green leggings my friend was going to throw away when she moved overseas. My gym bag is this bucket drawstring number that has one strap tied to the other strap because it broke off one day. It’s merch from a regional footy team, so it looks like I have some mildly-talented footy boyfriend who is letting me borrow his gear after I “spent the night” (i.e. we totally banged after a big night at da clubz) at his place last night. But in reality I once went to a party in Warwick and when I woke up I found it on the boot of my Camry so I snagged it – it seemed like the right thing to do.

And coffee makes me kind of sick in the tummy so I had tea. Coffee isn’t really as great as Gilmore Girls made me believe, which breaks my heart a little. But apparently Alexis Bledel, who plays Rory, hated the stuff too, so they filled her cup with a dark soda when filming. And that girl was in TWO films about magical jeans and female friendship, so she knows what she’s doing.

And my work briefcase was actually a carpet tote bag with several-dozen cat faces embroidered into it that I bought from my local op shop.

But otherwise I was so totally a freelancing babe nourishing my mind and body. Like a modern-day Carrie Bradshaw without literally any of her fancy things. I felt like I was one of those Instagram accounts run by a childless successwoman who isn’t afraid to take care of herself. In fact, I could have taken a pretty decent #workwork table top flat lay had my phone camera not been smashed a year ago (the lack of lenses makes for a blurry picture and while the front-facing camera still works, it means I have to put the phone into selfie mode and then point the screen at the subject of the photo – this method does not often bode winning results).

But nonetheless, it made me feel like some kind of powerful businesswoman. Which I guess I am.

Powerful: in my own mind. Businesswoman: technically.

Because while I may wear jazz-ballet shoes in the workplace I’ve got an Australian Business Number. I’ve written an invoice. I went on the Australian Taxation Office website and watched several short instructional videos.

I have to make big decisions for my business. For example, I have to decide if I want to continue keeping my business supplies in the catbag, or if I should switch locations to the dinosaur tote bag I bought from a recent trip to the museum. The catbag has a thick, protective fabric, but the tote bag has a T-Rex on the front and says “totes”. You can see my dilemma here.

And sure, my business supplies may very well be four highlighters and a free pen I was given by a member of my former trivia team, but that doesn’t mean I’m not legit.

I trade my words for dollars. Someone actually exchanged legal Australian currency to print details about my vomit spraying all over my steering wheel. I don’t know exactly how that happened, but it did. I have the invoice as proof. I’m not saying that this lifestyle is particularly sustainable (it’s really not) but it’s nice to know I live in a world where that it’s a reality.

Sure, I may make waaaay less than the GST threshold (there literally aren’t enough As in the universe to emphasis how far away I am from making any real money with my enterprise). But at least if someone asks for my occupation, I’m able to say that I’m a freelance writer.

And, more importantly, my ABN means I can now go to a wholesale distributer and purchase bulk quantities of clouds and strawberry ears.

 

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This one did not

Talkin’ shit

Everybody feels like a stale crumbling turd from time to time.

This is a scientific fact. Sometimes we feel all shiny and bouncy, but other times we feel like a beach ball the dog got a hold of and tore with his teeth: deflated, useless and covered in drool. It’s not a great feeling.

It’s a good time to talk about this because, according to all the Facebook posts, it’s national R U Ok day today. While it’s the only day a year I don’t seethe silently at the use of letters instead of words for words, it’s also a good time for people to be honest about what’s going on with them. It’s a good time to talk about feeling a little lost or sad or like a steaming pot of shit soup. We’ve all hit lows, and I’m not just talking about those inappropriate slut drops at school discos the chaperones would rather not have to address.

Sometimes you just can’t shake dem blues. It happens from time to time. Sometimes seeing a doctor is the best way to tackle what you’re going through. Talking to a mental health professional can be the most effective way to deal with what’s getting in the way of you doing your thang.

Now, I’m no expert (which you might have picked up by my use of the word “thang”) but I like to try to help – it makes me look like a top bloke. I also love to talk about myself. And I really love when people model their lives after mine (it hasn’t happened yet, but I’m sure I‘d like that). So for anyone who is lost enough to look to me for guidance I have make the following offerings. They’re just a few little things to do if you’re not feeling like all that and a bag of chips. They’re not life changers, but they’ve helped me in the past. Because, as the old saying goes, you can’t polish a turd but you can roll it in glitter. You can also stick a cocktail umbrella in it, press into the shape of a star and give it a mini feather boa. There’s literally hundreds of ways to glam up a turd that doesn’t involve polish of any kind.

1) If you’re feeling glum and you have glasses, put on your pair from your previous prescription for about half an hour. Yes, this may make you dizzy, dangerous behind the wheel of machinery of any kind and look extremely out-dated (circles are the new rounded-rectangles, after all). But go with it. Then, once you’re slightly used to the blurred vision of the world, chuck on your latest prescription and notice just how much fucking detail is in the world. You can see leaves! You can see into windows! You can see that used condom lying on the footpath! The world is beautiful.

2) If you’re not great at talking to people, go to a high-care nursing home and chat to the old biddies. It make you feel like a decent person for paying lonely people a visit, but it also is a great way to build your interpersonal skills without having to worry about what the other person thinks of you – depending on the residents’ level of dementia they won’t remember what you said anyway. But even though they may not remember you, being there puts a smile on their dials. Plus, there are a lot of uneaten up-for-grabs afternoon tea treats that sit in the fridges of such establishments – I know from experience.

3) I have two words for you: Sister and Act. I don’t care if you’re not religious. I don’t care if you hate 90’s music. And I don’t give two hoots if you’ve disagreed with some of Whoopi Goldberg’s comments on The View. Because this isn’t about that, this is about the power of song. Get on to YouTube, look up Oh Happy Day and go down a goose-bump inducing wormhole of funky choir renditions. I dare you to watch Sister Mary Lazarus rap latin with Whoopi and not smile.

4) While you’re on the ‘tube, punch in “Janet Jackson” and “Escapade” and let your shoulders do the talking. It’s pretty hard not to strut fabulously to this song, even while sitting down.

5) Go to your nearest bakery, pick up a bunloaf and actually pop in to visit someone. My Dad has this habit of always having something on him when he “goes into town” so if he drops round to someone’s place, he’s not empty handed. Sometimes it’s pumpkins he grew from the horse shit in our backyard, other times it’s two bags of donuts when one would have sufficed. I recommend our unofficial family motto: say it with hot chook. Have a face-to-face gasbag with someone you just bloody love and talk about your fucking feelings. Then ask about theirs. Continue this process until there are only crumbs left, the tea has gone cold and you’ve Facebook stalked at least one mutual friend you lost contact with years ago.

I guess the real point I want to make here is for bastards to look out for themselves and their mates. If you’re feeling rotten, talk about it. Seek help. If you’re worried about someone, ask how they’re going and be around. At best you could save a life, and at worst you have leftover bunloaf to deal with (which is the best kind of worst there is, if you ask me).

 

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Future thoughts, This one did not

Forever Jung

I am basically a spiritual guidance counsellor for humanity, according to Ms Briggs, Ms Meyers-Briggs and that Jung guy.

 

I shit you not. And you may think that “I shit you not” isn’t something a grand messiah of truth and knowledge would say, but the person who says “I shit you not” was the one filling out the questionnaire and that person (that would be me) received test results telling them they fell into the category of “benevolent pedagogues of humanity”. And I’m not trying to suggest anything, but I did go to a Year 9 dress up party in a homemade Jesus costume (all the girls from the fancier schools dressed up as sexy ladybeetles and shit, while I was clad in bedsheets and had taped cuttings from a mop head to my face).

 

The other day I had a crack at finding out my personality type according to a test developed by one of the top real-life mother-daughter combo (besides the pair who sang Where You Lead for the opening credits of Gilmore Girls and those two delightful redheaded heroes saving one house at a time on Good Bones) Katharine Cook Briggs and her daughter Isabel Briggs Myers. The pair based this test on a theory put forward by Carl Jung (source: Wikipedia, which I know will hurt my provisional clinical psychologist friend, but she should be comforted by the fact that I didn’t harass her for answers this one time…).

 

Now, this test has its limitations and has copped some serious criticism for being unreliable, apparently giving people different results when the test is taken on different occasions. This particular test is probably somewhat sketchy, as it took like 10 minutes to complete and was completely free and basically tried to tell you to apply to certain colleges, but that’s all small stuff.

 

According to me results, I have “tremendous charisma” and offer “nurturant tutelage” to those lost souls out there. This may make me sound like a cult leader, and I can’t say a cult led by me would necessarily be a bad thing. Since I’ve freed up my mental space by finally deciding on which Akubra to buy (an emotional journey you’ll hear about in due course), this is something that I’ve been thinking about lately: what kind of spiritual messiah would I be?

 

I don’t really have any commandments at the moment, other than “only drink if you’re trying to get drunk because otherwise it’s empty calories”. I only own one pair of sandals. And the last time I spoke in public I told people to “hit the piss and tear it up”. But according to my test, I have the ability and the vision to make real change. There are lost sheep in the world looking for a shepherd with one of those sticks with the curly bit on the end to steer them into the right path. They need a shining light and I can be their environmentally friendly light-emitting diode bulb.

I guess I’m the spiritual leader the world probably could do without and didn’t ask for – like Pauline Hanson. My robe would be a silky leopard print number (which I bought on sale). My sacred text being highlighted passages from Harry Potter. My septa, a dagwood dog. I like to think that I would become the living, breathing Magic 8 Ball people would turn to in times of confusion. A What Would Dannielle Do, of sorts. Sometimes the answer would be “yeah nah”, other times “nah yeah” and the occasional “oi, what do you reckon but?”. I want people to cling to my every inappropriate word. I want people to quote me in their lipstick affirmations on their bedroom mirrors. I want to make it so big that I’m featured on the covers of spare tyres on suburban families’ four wheel drives – I’m going to replace the “Gone fishing”s and the “Nut loose at the wheel”s with my glaringly overbearing chin dammit!

If this free internet quiz is to be taken as gospel truth – and it should be – I have the power to make it big. But I’ve got a lot of work to do if I’m going to establish myself as some kind of living deity. Because right now my only major follower is a local dental surgery liking every one of my Instagram posts in the last few weeks in a desperate bid for a follow-back.

 

At least it’s a start, I suppose.

 

 

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Daily thoughts, This one did not

Tuesday thoughts

Nah yeah: Moving my bod so quickly in a repetitive fashion that sweat actually dripped down my back and my face was so red it looked like had an allergic reaction to something.

Yeah nah: It started with the second breakfast and ended with my eating several inches of salami pepperoni and half a special edition duty-free jumbo sized packed of peanut M&Ms for lunch… #gainz, and such.

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