Published in The Clifton Courier November 22, 2017

It’s amazing how the mind wanders.

I love how you can begin with one topic and end somewhere completely different. Like, you might start talking to someone about the weather and find yourself telling them about that time you ate chalk (it tastes exactly the way you’d expect chalk to taste, in case you’re wondering).

I have a tendency to take a lot of detours when I’m telling a simple story, going off on unnecessary tangents and taking what I like to call “the scenic route” of conversation. I believe it’s a hereditary trait, but I’m not pointing fingers at which parent I’ve inherited it from* (I don’t think I need to).**

* Mum bloody LOVED this. 

** This is the kind of joke you can include in your local paper in a township with a population of 1500. The Tinder pool may be very limited, but at least people understand your family jokes. 

Some people find it annoying, but I think there’s some merit to rambling on.  I think it can be a welcome distraction, if you let it. And sometimes a distraction can be as good as a holiday.

So consider me your travel agent. Because I can start with any topic – let’s go with vacuuming – and take it to places that makes you wonder how I got there. Observe:

As far as household chores go, vacuuming is one of the ones I dislike the least.

I tell myself that it is an efficient form of exercise. I like to think that gliding the machine back and forth builds core strength. And the fact that I’m cleaning while sculpting a physique fit enough to be deemed attractive, but not too muscly that I appear threatening (we don’t want anyone thinking women are too strong now) is satisfying.

I love the concept of killing two birds with one stone.

Heck, I’d like to pull off the literal meaning of that phrase too. Being able to chuck a rock in the air and end up with two dead ducks sounds bad-arse. And it would be a handy skill to have in the event of the collapse of civilisation and, subsequently, supermarket food supplies. I’m not sure why I always end up relating everything back to the inevitable crumbling of society, but I like to think it’s because I’m one of the few destined to survive it.

But anyway, back to vacuuming.

So many benefits.

I do like being in a clean room, with the many particles of dirt being safely and hygienically rounded up in a plastic prison/vacuum bag instead of being sucked up into my lungs. Those anti-smoking ads with the lung dissection really imprinted on me as child. And that’s great, I suppose, because I don’t smoke as an adult – despite how cool Kate Winslet looked taking a drag in Titanic. But sometimes I think of polluted air and imagine it coating my lungs like the amount of tar a pack-a-day smoker breathes in every year. I wonder if that’s healthy.

Again, back to vacuuming.

I like it when there’s spilled rice or sand on the floor to clean. I love the sound that comes from the vacuum cleaner as the stuff is sucked up. It’s so damn soothing that I sometimes purposefully spill things just to enjoy the satisfaction of sucking them up. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty odd way to spend one’s time. Depending on how you look at it, it’s either me savouring the simple joys of life or an exemplification of the mundane, miserable existence I lead. I can always get back to this place too – whether I’m choosing to be happy or pointlessly sprinting nowhere on the delusional hamster wheel of life.

Again, I digress – the vacuuming.

I was vacuuming near the bin in the kitchen the other day and saw a bunch of ants. I sucked them up instinctively, but now I’m conflicted about it. Are those ants now dead? Or are they alive and terrified after being sucked into a dusty tunnel of darkness? Will they ever find their way to freedom? Am I some kind of monster for sentencing them to this fate purely because of their audacity to exist within the parameters of my kitchen?

And that’s where the simple topic is vacuuming led me. Questioning whether I was a monster.

I’d apologise for wasting your time with a column about nothing, but at least it had absolutely nothing to do with the state election*, right?

* Yeah. What you just read was a 600-word build up to a joke about how annoying election campaigns are. 

Distractions; just like a holiday.

Sometimes encouragement isn’t all that encouraging.

The other day the exercise app on my phone that tracks my jogs informed me that my afternoon was my 49^th fastest run recorded for that particular distance.

The notification was written in a cheery shade of green and punctuated with an exclamation mark.

I’m not sure if that exclamation mark was mocking me or if it was being genuine in its excitement for my achievement, but either way it’s troubling.

Because being 49^th isn’t often something worth celebrating.

They don’t make ribbons for 49^th place. They make a first, a second, a third and then a generic “good try” ribbon. These “good on you for participating in the activities the Queensland curriculum forces you to take part in” ribbons used to be orange back in my ballgames carnival days. Then one year, they became multi-coloured metallic caterpillars. I’m not sure if this was because the Clifton cluster was suddenly allocated a bigger ribbon budget or if someone complained about orange being the colour of generic mediocrity, but we started getting these whizbang rainbow ribbons and they were honestly better than a boring blue first ones (read into that what you will and perhaps slip it into conversation at your next dinner party when you’re down to the meaty red wines and feel as though your conversation could solve all the world’s problems).

Sure they were pretty, but they meant nothing. And part of me feels as if this green exclamation of my personal running ranking was that patronising caterpillar deluding me into thinking I wasn’t a total failure.

Maybe it was just trying to acknowledge that I’d tried to be active instead of napping in a puddle of my own drool on the wrong end of my bed, like I’d rather have been doing at the time.

And that’s nice, isn’t it? It’s like a virtual cheerleader congratulating me for making good choices.

But, as always, I’m choosing to read more into this throwaway line than is probably necessary. Because if you’ve learned one thing after all this time you’ve wasted reading my overly-wordy dribble, it’s that I have the overthinking power to subvert something totally harmless into something sinister.

So I’ll start with something positive and slowly morph it into an affront.

If you were running in a race against hundreds of other people, coming 49th would be an achievement. Heck, even if you were racing against 49 other people, at least you creamed that one lazy sucker. As long as some other poor bastard went even slightly worse than you did, you’re doing alright. A victory is a victory, however small. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you.

But this race wasn’t against anyone else.

It was a race against myself.

I was unwittingly racing previous, fitter versions of myself and didn’t even realise it.

So when you take this into account, this little green line of text was essentially a reminder that I had done a better job 48 other times. This notice might at first appear to be enthusiastically saying “well done” with its lime green hue, but the subtext was a much more of a deadpan, deeply sarcastic “well done”. If anything, it was more of an “oi you’re sloppy runner, a complete disappointment to yourself and you’ve really let yourself go” than anything else. It was a slap in the face, not a high five.

And I get it; if I’m coming in 49^th against myself, I probably do need a good slap somewhere.

Some people would suggest a positive outlook equals positive results. But in this case, my negative approach boded well. Because after my most recent run, I received a notification informing me that it was my 32^nd best. That’s progress.

Pessimism wins again.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, November 8, 2017

I hate the way my brain decides to deal with my problems.

I had to get up at an ungodly hour one morning last week and this was a source of stress for me. As fate (slash my poor planning skills) would have it, I ended up going to bed much later than I’d planned on the night before this early start.

Of course, I went to bed concerned about the tiny amount of sleep I’d be getting that night.

Generally, being sleep deprived when I have nothing to achieve that day is bearable. In fact, if my sleep deprivation is the result of a night painting the town a metaphorical shade of red, being tired actually puts me in high spirits. Everything is funnier. The presence of any kind of food is cause for jubilation. A simple cup of tea is even elevated to a higher state of glorification than usual (and, as anyone who has every chinked mugs with me before would attest, the level of exaltation I attribute to a cuppa is already bordering on chants of “hosanna”).

But this strange high that comes from a lack of shut-eye is generally limited to Sundays.

Having to be a functional, productive human who wears shoes* and forms complete sentences while sleep deprived is not my jam.

* Look, shoes are great. I have nothing against them. I like that they form a barrier between me, the hot bitumen, the chewed gum and the used condoms one occasionally skips over on a footpath. That’s very noble of them to expose themselves to that grime for my benefit. But sometimes you just don’t want them on your feet. Sometimes you just want socks. 

I either find myself being infuriatingly excitable and talkative to the point that my co-workers want to stab me in the eye with a ballpoint pen (or so I imagine) or being catatonically dopey.

Either way, I don’t get a lot done. It’s not a good workday. Nobody wins.

So given my brain is what controls me, and that “me” is essentially the collective firing of neurons in my skull, what I want my brain to do and what my brain actually does should be aligned.

You’d think that being faced with a limited amount of sleep, my brain would act accordingly. And considering my brain belongs to me, you would think it would act with my best interests at heart.

But it turns out doesn’t have a heart (figuratively speaking, because you could argue for and against a brain having a heart considering it is powered by a beating heart but doesn’t have an independent, internal heart within itself as a singular organ).

In fact, my brain could probably be likened to another part of the human anatomy – specifically, the orifice at the end of the digestive tract.8

* Yep, that was an arsehole joke. One for the adults. And the smart kids. I’m all about the smart kids. I want so much to impress them. 

Because my mind decided to deal with the sleep dilemma by giving me even less sleep.

It woke me up with phantom alarms and jolted me awake hours before I needed to be. It decided to screech, “you’re going to be so tired tomorrow” over my neurological PA system when it could have just run a loop of ocean sounds. It could easily just shut down, but decided that it was the time to practise the emergency flight or flight drill.

It’s almost as if my brain was doing it on purpose to torture me – like it was resentful that I didn’t feed it with the works of Tolstoy or because of how many times I took advantage of $3 basics specials* during its final stages of development.

* But this might be my brain’s fault anyway, I mean, it wasn’t my left knee that reasoned $3 for a shot of tequila was a good deal, was it?! My left knee doesn’t have that kind of authority. 

And when I did actually have to wake up, it decided to “help” the situation by playing Time Warp – one of the top 10 most annoying songs ever written – on repeat. What kind of strategy is that?! It was like my brain was taunting me, rubbing in the fact that I was going to be a wreck that day by making it even worse with the poor song choice.

Essentially, my brain was turning its figurative back on me while also laughing in my face (well, technically from behind my face, if you think about it).

I thought I called the shots up there, but it turns out I was wrong. I don’t control my brain. My brain controls me.

And it seems my brain has a sick mind.

Original published in The Clifton Courier, November 4, 2017

Something incredible happened over the weekend*.

* And by this I mean, the weekend before. Last weekend the only incredible thing that happened to me was that I was stung for TEN BUCKS for a bloody bottle of water for the table when I met some friends at cafe. I was livid. It might even become an entire column, I’m so angry. Please stand by. 

For one thing, I went into a port-a-loo barefoot and managed to avoid contracting any major diseases. This probably deserves an entry in a medical journal, as I’ve heard that feet are quite absorbent (which, I guess, is why the old Vicks vapour rub on the soles of the feet sealed in with socks is such an effective cold remedy).

But something bigger than my fortuitous swerving of a fungal foot infection happened.

It was if the stars aligned, like some higher being was up there pulling the cosmic strings from the heavens to orchestrate a miraculous event in history. It was strange, as if I’d known deep down on a cellular level for some time that this collision of fates was not only coming, but had to happen for some greater purpose. However, I didn’t realise the gravity of this apparent prophecy until it actually eventuated.

And then I knew that I was born for this moment.

So just what in the heck am I talking about? Is all this hyperbole and lukewarm poetry going to be worth the payout?

You’ve already read more than 150 words, but was this worth the investment of your time when you could have made a start on the crossword on Page 4?*

* I must admit, I’ve started doing those crosswords and hoooooy boy are they satisfying to complete. I can understand why someone would bypass my smutty dribble fora cheeky brainteaser. 

That depends on how you view things.

If you think that rounding up three people with the same, slightly obscure first name is a waste of time then perhaps the crossword is for you. But if you believe in magic, then you’ll know that this is something to be celebrated.

Because over the weekend I achieved a long-held goal of mine: I finally managed to get all three of Clifton’s Colleens together for a photo.

After years of trying to make it happen, it happened. And it was glorious.

The power of C* combined and I could feel the aftershocks reverberating inside me, almost rattling my ribcage.

* Yes, I made them make a “C” shape with their hands. 

The result saw me chalk up more than 60 likes on Instagram, but it’s hard to quantify something like that.

Especially because I think this photo represents something more than the assured legacy of an Irish name.

It represents a new phase in this marvellous continuum of adulthood for me.

With all the complaints us young folk make about growing up like the never-ending onslaught of financial responsibilities and having to call to make our own appointments, there’s a lot of negatives surrounding adulthood.

But one thing we should all raise a teacup to is the fabulous perk that is realising you can be mates with the grown-ups from your childhood. Somewhere along the line our brains matured, we could legally hang out in licensed premises and our bus drivers and the tuckshop ladies became people. And not just the people who could get us from A to B or handed out hotdogs in brown paper bags, but people like us.

When this happens, your friendship base expends beyond the people you went to school or swimming club or uni with and you have all these extra people in your life to spin a yarn with.

The even nicer thing about this is that being in a place like Clifton where you still talk to the lady who taught you how to type is that these people aren’t just limited to the parents of your schoolmates. They’re the everyday people who happened to be around as you were growing up. I like being able to rock up to the pub or the rec grounds alone, knowing there’ll be a good handful of top-notch people there to have a good chat with. Some people go their whole lives without knowing that kind of connection, so even though our water supply could be a little better*, we’re pretty lucky to be here.

* A lot better. I mean, there was a lot of calcium build up in Mum and Dad’s toilet before they finally replaced it. It always made things awkward when guests weren’t briefed on the Number Two situation for the main toilet in the house. 

On a related note, if there are any other Colleens in the area who weren’t part of the Cosmic Colleen Convention*, please make yourselves known**. I’ll see you at the show.

** I’ve since been informed that there were at least two Colleens I missed in the photo. I’m genuinely hoping to round them up for the Clifton Show in February. Hopefully this means I’ll be able to write my plane tickets home off on tax. 

* I’ve started brainstorming ideas for what this meeting could be, asking mates for what they think the collective noun for a group of Colleens should be. So far I’ve got “COLt”, “COLLection”, “COLony”, “COLLege” and “COLtivation”. I’m always open to suggestions. 

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 25, 2017

Over the weekend* I moved and it taught me a lot about myself.

* As in, last weekend because of the lag. 

And no, I didn’t move back to Queensland – although that’s the dream – but to a beachside neighbourhood. My idea is that being being closer to the ocean will not only improve my outlook, but magically transform me into one of those fit, toned people you see jogging along the beach who can crack walnuts with their perky, perky glutes. I’m also reasoning that the sea air will mean I’m inhaling less toxic airborne Sydney soot and will hopefully result in a thinner layer of filth coating my lungs.*

* The concerning air quality is in my top five things to complain about Sydney… out of a list of about 547. 

And while I’m yet to confirm the place is definitely not haunted*, I’m feeling like this was a good move.

* Although I’m very wary of keeping mirrors facing away from me when I switch the lights off. I wear and eye mask too, which helps. It’s not so much that I’m worried about the threat of what the paranormal might do to someone who sings as many Christmas carols as I do moving into their space, it’s more that I don’t want to see them. I’d prefer to be oblivious, even consciously so, if I have to.

My room is larger. I’ve got somewhere to line up my totally-not-creepy Harry Potter figurines. If you hold your head juuuuuust right, you can see the ocean from the lounge room.

But the journey to reach this point wasn’t so cruisey.

And by “here” I mean on my newly-built Ikea flat pack bed.

Yep, I finally lashed out. After going through my entire life not paying for a bed or a mattress I have finally invested in a raised sleeping platform of my very own.

And I have to say, I learned a lot about myself in the process.

For one thing, I had no idea how stubborn I was until the weekend.

The instructions included with the bed told me I’d need a hammer, a Phillips screwdriver and a second person to turn the pile of metal into a functional piece of furniture.

And instead of accepting the wisdom of the Swedish furniture gods, I dismissed it. Even though I had access to a hammer, multiple screwdrivers and two helpful new housemates.

I wanted to prove something. And that something was that I could put a flat pack together without help from anyone else using just my own two hands and the sheer power of my pig-headedness. What good comes from proving something like this?

Perhaps it was my way of proving to myself that Sydney hadn’t softened me, the straight-talking, would-kill-a-sheep-if-it-came-down-to-it country girl I pretend to be after two beers. I’m someone who can change her tyre herself thank you very much. I’m someone who will fix a broken blind with a hair tie and duct tape her bumper bar back on to her car. I can do things. I guess I like to think of myself as an industrial, sightly bogan kind of Beyoncé.

So a simple flat pack should be a piece of cake (in case you’re wondering, carrot cake with cream cheese icing is my current fave).

And somehow, without a single swear word I managed to pull it off. The hammer would have been overkill. The screwdriver wasn’t really necessary. And who needs living, breathing humans when you have two boxes the perfect size for holding things up?! A dingbat, that’s who.

I was amazed at how much this boosted my self-esteem (which was kind of low considering I’d stuck my hand in a toilet that morning and smelled awful from moving all day).

The second thing I learned is that I’m an intolerant, irritable person. As I crawled under the covers and nestled into a sleeping position, I was ready for a blissful night’s slumber. But when I moved and heard a faint squeak. I shifted around and there was another squeak.

With each movement a small but audible sound came from somewhere in the framework of my totes-impeccably-constructed bed and my anger grew. Each sound ground my soul just that little bit more, like a knee with the thinnest layer of cartilage.

It was unbearable.

But the third thing I learned about myself is that I can also be lazy. Because it’s been more than 24 hours and I have done nothing to fix the problem.

* Yeah, this baby’s still squeaking and it’s been a fortnight. Maybe this weekend I’ll do something about it. But then again, maybe I won’t.