Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 19, 2018

The other day I participated in a fun run after going to a ball the night before.

Now, when the word “ball” is used in that context, some people imagine something Cinderella-y. Elbow-length gloves. Pumpkin coaches. Women waltzing with their dashing male suitors.

But the kind of balls I’ve experienced have very little in common with the dazzling affairs from Disney movies.

Yes, guests are glamorously-dressed, but they don’t maintain an aura of elegance for long. Of course there is dancing. But that dancing better resembles a bunch of soccer hooligans chanting their team’s anthem than a ballroom waltz. And there is much, much more sparkling wine involved than is allowed in a G-rated animation.

I first got a taste for these kinds of events at uni, when some college or organisation would chuck on a ball every few weeks. As a tight-arsed student, my strategy was to make the most of the bar tab before it ran out, stocking up on as many glasses of cheap “champagne” as I could carry.

Apparently, my strategy hasn’t changed.

I’ve now learned that, no matter how mature I get, will always revert back to the stingy, pisswreck of my former self whenever presented with a bar tab scenario. I mean, I have a folder on my laptop containing tax receipts, divvied up into two sub-folders labelled “deductions” and “donations” and yet I still turn into that 18-year-old mess in an asymmetrical dress, terrified of the prospect of having to pay full price for a drink.

I won’t go into details of my night, but suffice to say there was a video of me belting out I Want It That Way in the foyer of a fancy, fancy hotel before interrupting myself by making a loud reference to the state of my big toenail.

To cut a sloppy story sort, I got to bed by 2am for a 6am start.

Amazingly, it only took three alarms to get me up later that morning. I put on shoes. I slopped on sunscreen. I even made it to the meeting point before everyone else on my team.

But I was not in a good way. I smelled like a second-hand gorilla’s armpit. I wore an expression like I’d just had a lobotomy. And my unfiltered public groans and whimpers meant people kept a safe distance from me, as it was clear I could blow at any moment.

I can’t recall many exact details from the run, as I assume it was so traumatic I blocked most of it from memory, but here’s a vague rundown (run not being the operative word) of my journey:

The first kilometre my body was in a state of shock, still not entirely aware what was happening.

Two kilometres in I was on the Harbour Bridge, distracted by my distain for the iconic piece of infrastructure. I was too busy thinking, “it’s not even that great, but” and judging people for stopping to take selfies to focus on the fact that I was jogging.

By the third kilometre I became aware of how high-impact stomp dancing in platform heels can be and the effect it has on your joints.

Then I became aware of how unhappy my stomach felt. I could feel my leg muscles angrily protesting in support of my grumbling tum. My body was in full revolt, turning against me.

By the fifth kilometre I was focused on trying to calm my stomach with the power of my mind, while scanning for a port-a-loo in case a violent ejection took place. I told myself that it was a mind over matter thing, but willpower is often overruled when your body decides to make an emergency evacuation.

In the sixth kilometre I was fuming that despite having run past people coming back the other way for ages, I hadn’t yet looped around. I began to despair at how much further I would have to go just to sit down.

It was around the seventh kilometre when I started asking myself the most important question a journalist can ask: why?

I got over the eight and ninth kilometre marks by sheer delusion.

Then, as the finish line approached, I told myself that I didn’t come all this way to conk out with 400m left to go. So I kept going.

And when I got over the line, I didn’t feel that bad. I actually remember feeling kind of good. By the end, I guess I had sweated out most of my toxins and sins. I was a clean slate – figuratively, of course, I reeked and had weird sticky patches all over my skin.

Then I went and got myself a recovery mojito.

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, September 12, 2018

Spending too much time on your phone is a problem.

Today, I nearly missed my bus stop because I was staring at my phone. Constant scrolling through Facebook means I’m always vulnerable to spoilers to TV shows I’m watching, but not in a timely manner. And gawping at a screen makes it way harder for my already quite noisy brain to shut the heck up at night.

But today, it actually solved a problem of mine. I had a reasonably uneventful weekend and was searching for a column idea. I didn’t want to risk anyone becoming Vitamin D deficient (the, in this case, D is for Dannielle, but the other Vitamin D is important too), but I had absolutely nothing to write about.

So I did what I would always do: started staring at my phone.

And that’s when it hit me: I have a treasure trove of personal insights no one asked for in the multitude of tabs I have open on my smartphone internet browser.

Some people/psychopaths don’t keep their tabs open after using them, deleting the internet pages once they have served their purpose.

But not me. No. I like to cling on to these pages, like the non-existent memory of a fictional lover while listening to The Fray.

Just like the “clutter” and “unnecessary crap” that is stashed at my parents’ place, those tabs might come in handy one day.

And so I have dozens upon dozens of tabs open, just ready to be pulled up and used at moments’ notice. So please, enjoy this non-exhaustive list of tabs I refuse to close. I mean, if I’ve managed to keep your attention for this long, you may as well keep going.

The prices at the fancy hairdressers around the corner from me: The intersection at the end of my road has perhaps the most stereotypical combination of shops for my wanky eastern suburb. One corner has a fancy hairdressers with brand-new furniture that has been purposefully aged to look shabby chic. Another corner has a Pilates studio. On the other side is an up-market boutique for pet grooming and accessories. The other corner is a house that’s probably worth more than the Clifton Library but has 12cm of backyard. I looked up the prices of this hairdressing joint on my phone because I didn’t want to walk in, ask to see the price list, be shocked by the prices and have to fake a mysterious spleen spasm as an excuse to get out of there.

The prices at the discount hairdresser at the local shopping centre: Because the fancy place around the corner was, unsurprisingly, ridiculously expensive.

My daily horoscope: Because I can be a little on the indecisive side and sometimes it’s fun to base your daily decisions on some bullhonkey a bored editorial intern pulled out of thin air. Today’s essentially told me to really go for it with my get-rich-quick schemes – time to make my bridal limerick business a reality!

The YouTube clip of Beyoncé’s Formation: Because every now and then I need a reminder of what power looks like. One play of this song and my sass pants are very much on and up (in my head, these sass pants are gold, high-waisted and make my abs look super toned).

A Google search that reads “what foes brhce bogtrotter look like now?”: Because I assume the movie Matilda came up in conversation… after a few beers. And you’d be surprised by how often the current state of the chocolate-cake-eating Bruce Bogtrotter comes up, so it really does save a lot of time by having it there, ready to go.

The date of International Men’s Day: Because there’s always one bloke. Every year. And I feel like the kind of bloke who bangs on about International Women’s Day won’t believe you when you say there is, in fact, an International bloody Men’s Day, so it’s easier to confirm it via the internet. It’s November 19, in case you’re wondering.

A Google Images search of WD40: Because I needed to draw a picture of the world’s most versatile product and required a visual reference but didn’t want to walk to the linen cupboard to find it. I keep this on hand because you never know when you might need WD40, even if it’s just in image form.

Many, many searches for cheap accommodation in Dublin: Because my friend and I were ready to burn the city to the ground and sleep amongst the warm ashes rather than spend another night in a dank hostel… but we were still very tight on the Euros and wanted to get the best deal. Not sure why I kept a hold of these, but I suspect it’s just so I can causally slip into conversation that I once went to Europe.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 5, 2018

We all have special talents.

Like, there are some people out there who can sing like Britney Spears (Britney Spears is the first one to come to mind, but I’m sure there are others) and then there are some people who can braid like a demon.

I was trying to think about my special talents the other night, when I rocked up at a birthday party I wasn’t invited to thrown in honour of a birthday boy I didn’t know at all and was doing my best to make friends. The question “what’s your talent?” was thrown around when I met two Tims and needed to commit something to memory about both so I wouldn’t mix them up (one could cook, the other 3D-printed things and, sadly, neither of them had “Tam” for a last name).

So now, today, being a little seedy and in need of a column idea, I’m trying to think of my own talents.

And look, I could really do with a list of positive things about me today. I mean, my idea of fulfilling the “be productive, be healthy and get organised” resolution I set for myself this weekend was ordering two pizzas with wholemeal bases – because the pizza I don’t eat in one sitting while watching five hours of television featuring Nicole Ritchie, I can take to work tomorrow*.

* Oh goodness, I’ve just done literally the same thing – the only difference is that I was watching Spiceworld instead of live-streamed television. I feel like I’ve developed a pattern of behaviour that I might need to address. 

Also, it’s faster for me to punch out a column in list-form, and I’d really like to get back to numbing my brain with Great News as quickly as possible. So here it is, my list of “talents”:

Noticing when someone gets a haircut: Yep, you might say that this isn’t a talent, it’s me having the sense of sight, using my eyes to gather information about the world. And you might say that having eyes isn’t a special trait, it’s merely an outcome of thousands of years of evolution.

But it’s more than that.

Because it’s not just noticing that someone has recently had their ends trimmed, it’s mentioning it. And it’s not just saying “hey there, sweet ‘do”. It’s telling someone “hey, beb, I see you, you’re noticed, you matter”.

And, sure, maybe that’s a little creepy and borderline stalkerish, but I like to think it’s a public service.

Avocado ripeness judging: Yes, I know my dark-rimmed circular glasses and constant stream of jokes about how my life is a mess screams millennial, so I realise that an avocado-related talent doesn’t exactly distance me from the cliché. However, I would like to point out that I’ve not shortened it down to “avo”, so there.

I just happen to have quite a good sense about when an avocado is ready. I don’t have to squeeze them in my palm like I would the still-beating heart I’d just ripped from the chest of my enemy – it’s more of a dainty pinch. And when there’s a two-for-one special with avocadoes, I know how to pick one ripe guy and one that will be ripe by the time I’ve eaten the first, ready-to-go avocado.

My old housemate thought it was really impressive, and she’s a clinical psychologist who owns multiple blazers.

Being able to pick things up with my feet: Look, I get it. Feet are gross.

Have you ever looked at them, like really looked at them? They’re like flat fists with tiny, stubby and, depending on you genetics, hairy fingers poking out one end. They just don’t look right.

However, my feet are surprisingly dexterous. I once picked up a needle – A NEEDLE – with my foot.

I know that society demands we wear shoes and that whole burning-hot-bitumen situation makes them necessary for getting around in summer, but I really think I’d function better if I didn’t have my feet imprisoned in footwear. I mean, it’s not like a could peel a banana with my feet, but I just think that the toes/forgotten phalanges aren’t being used to their full potential.

I can make fart noises with my neck: This probably means my neck skin isn’t going to age gracefully, but I can trap the air between my hand and my neck in such a way that it sounds like someone… coughing in their rompers*. I don’t even have to be sweaty (but it helps).

* This is a family euphemism for farting. And, honestly, I don’t mind it. I think there’s a bit of charm in using the term “rompers” instead of saying something crass like “bum cough”. 

However, I’ve now started doing it unconsciously, so I have to really watch myself when I’m doing it at work. This means I have to explain to my desk buddy about my talent so they don’t think I have some kind of gastric disease.

Appearing perfectly normal but oversharing so much that people realise I’m a bit of a weirdo: As evidenced above.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 29, 2018

“How was your weekend?” can be a big question.

Sure, I could answer with a perfunctory “good”, but I find myself unable to. I do so love telling people far too much information about my personal life.

But I also find myself unable to coherently form sentences at this time. I’m quite tired, I think I have hay fever and I’ve got a serious case of the yeah nahs. I’m just not up to writing a full, cohesive yarn for you.

But my sister had a ballgames carnival to celebrate a milestone birthday over the weekend, so of course I have stories.

And so I’ve decided to condense my two days of freedom into dot points. Given the sporting nature of the weekend, I suppose sticking to the highlights (and the not-so-high-highlights) is fitting.

And with that lazy introduction, I give you my peaks and troughs for the past weekend:

Peak: Sitting on the plane with an empty seat next to me minutes before take-off. I pictured myself sprawled out, sipping a beer and watching the clouds roll by in the kind of comfort you can only get from having 60cm more seat space than everyone else.

Trough: Watching the last bloke board the plane, barrel straight down the aisle and take his assigned seat… next to me.

Peak: The bloke sitting in what should have been my feet’s seat giving me his beer to take as a roadie, because he wasn’t much into beer these days. An empty seat would never have given me its beer.

Peak: Returning to the old Maguire house, where the homefire was literally kept burning.

Trough: Going to say hello to our emotionally-distant blue heeler Lady, but remembering she had passed on.

Peak: Dad turning on the “wireless”, which automatically started playing the Beaches soundtrack.

Peak: Finding unexplained red wine in the beer fridge.

Peak: Eventually going to bed, enveloped by the all-consuming darkness that I crave so desperately in my Sydney apartment (it’s much easier to sleep when you aren’t sleeping next to a block of flats fitted with security lights).

Peak: Pilton Valley bacon. Thick, salty and satisfying.

Trough: Not hearing a single Lee Kernaghan song on the radio the whole drive from Clifton to Toowoomba.

Peak: Being handed the coolest shirt I will ever own – a Hawaiian-style button-up with flamingos on it. I’m already planning on wearing it to work. Paired with a nice pencil skirt and the right attitude, I’m confident I can make corporate-flamingo a legitimate office look.

Peak: Stepping on to the ballgames paddock, ready to rumble.

Trough: Realising I’d completely forgotten how to play ball games – the easiest games in the world – and being faced with the reality that my brain is turning to room-temperature mush.

Peak: Hearing the story of a Great Great Uncle Gillam who might just be the loosest unit in history. As the story goes, old mate was bitten on the finger by a snake. I don’t recall which finger and I’m unsure of the snake, but I’m going to go with a death adder because it sounds the coolest. According to folklore he copped a bite, but refused to be taken down by some wimpy legless lizard, so he actually BIT HIS DAMN FINGER OFF. By all accounts, he lived to tell the tale. I mean, if you bit your own finger off after a snake bite, you’d want to bloody live – if for nothing else, to be able to tell that story at the pub.

Trough: Realising my I-broke-my-wrist-falling-off-a-horse-but-kept-riding-for-40-minutes-and-hosted-a-house-party-before-going-to-the-emgerency-room story is now significantly less cool by comparison.

Peak: The luxe barbecue buffet.

Trough: The washing up.

Trough: Hitting the inevitable day-drinking wall and being unable to muster the energy to push past it.

Peak: The suggestion of cups of tea and Spiceworld.

Trough: Realising I’d slept through my only chance of hearing the sound of rain on a corrugated iron in six months.

Trough: The sticky, sticky floor beneath the leaking mojito dispenser.

Trough: The glitter explosion in the bathroom.

Trough: The washing up.

Peak: Blueberry pancakes.

Trough: The washing up.

Trough: The first round of goodbyes.

Peak: My little sister’s unwanted airport potato wedges.

Trough: The second goodbyes.

Trough: The aircraft being fully-functional and not needing to be grounded overnight for unexplained repairs.

Trough: The final goodbyes, communicated via over-exaggerated arm movements from a distance. It’s those last few steps towards the plane that really kick you in the guts, making you feel like you’ll be melancholy for months. It’s a stinging feeling you know only something truly, profoundly joyful will counteract. And when you’re being herded on to a jam-packed shuttle taking you back to Stinktown, you can’t really picture anything strong enough lift your heavy heart.

Peak: The in-flight bickies.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 22, 2018

On Sunday* I received an email informing me that it was National Potato Day.

* Yeah, this was a while ago. National Potato Day was August 19. Commit it memory so you can celebrate it next year, people. 

I don’t know who decides these things. I mean, I don’t really know if anyone actually has the authority to designate an entire day to one thing. I suppose someone just makes these things up and hopes they catch on. I suspect it’s a public relations exercise in many cases, although there would be a few that have come about because of tradition or historical events or something to do with the moon.

And, hey, I have nothing against these days. No one is holding a pulled back rubber band (one of the most threatening sights known to humanity) to your head and forcing you to observe the holiday. It’s just a fun thing to celebrate as a way of breaking up the soul-crushing monotony of day-to-day life.

I mean, I probably was going to end up doing it anyway because Sad Sundays often call for carb-dense consolations*, but I chose to mark National Potato Day by eating a roast potato sandwich. I also  uploaded a picture of my potato sanga to Instagram, posted an unnecessarily-lengthy recipe for said carb explosion on my blog and learned a few facts about potatoes. Apparently there are more than 4000 varieties of spuds, most of which have roots (pun intended) in the Andes. The word “potato” comes from the Spanish word “patata”, which is how I will refer to the life-giving vegetable from now on. I read somewhere that China is the world’s biggest consumer of potatoes, based on figures from 2010.  And, as I saw in a Google Images search, potato flowers are actually really quite pretty.

* I mean, I didn’t even plan this before I went to post this, but I seriously said to myself “fuck this, I’m having potatoes for dessert” to myself tonight. They’re currently in the oven, waiting for me to finish my Lamb Bam Container (like one of those health bowl things, but it’s more accurate for me to call it a container because I always make enough to take for lunch and you can’t take an unlidded bowl to work willy nilly – yes, you can expect a recipe next time I’m too hungover to write a column).

After looking for about three-and-a-half minutes, I wasn’t able to ascertain why August 19 is the National Potato Day, so I’m going to assume it was just thought up by someone from a potato production group trying to promote everyone’s favourite form of starch.

And good on them.

However, I suppose that this means that any old person can suggest that people celebrate something on a particular day. All they need is a bit of a following to get it off the ground.

And, because I have been given a platform here, I’ve decided to float a few ideas for national days. Please, feel free to mark them on your calendar.

Comfs Day: This is a day where people are free to wear comfortable clothing in any context, particularly in the corporate sector. This means sloppy joes, trackies, bed socks with thongs and gravy-stained singlets. It will fall on the first working day of the year, to soften the blow of returning to the world of adult responsibilities after the festive season.

National Garlic Bread Day: People are given the liberty to eat garlic bread as a main instead of a side dish. This will fall on May 22, in honour of my sister, who loves garlic bread more than most things. I know she would be proud if this were her legacy.

Tea Appreciation Day: This is a day for giving thanks for tea. People around the country will come together, boil the kettle and dedicate at least 15 minutes to yarning on over a cuppa.

And there’s no room for discrimination. It’s not about teapots versus tea bags; it’s a day of unity. It’s a time to lay aside the prejudices of tea practically white with milk or a brew so dark if looks like a cup of a night’s sky. And whether you’re a fancy earl grey or an alternative chai or an average, run-of-the-mill Ceylon, everyone is welcome.

Of course, I’d stipulate that non-tea-drinkers are also welcome, but ask they respect the day by sipping their liquid of choice from a teacup or traditional mug.

This day happens on the 20^th of each month, because people should have get togethers regularly and, more importantly, because you can emphases the “tea” when you format the date as MONTH-DAY. For example, March twent-TEA or May twent-TEA.

National Mattress Flipping Day: On this day, everyone will actually flip their mattresses, after months of meaning to do it. The goal of this day is to help people avoid creating confronting ditches in their mattresses, which wreaks havoc on both the spine and the self-esteem (because seeing just how large your bodily indent is can never be good for your self-confidence). It will fall on July 1 each year, which is pretty much bang-on half-way through the year. If this day is widely taken-up, efforts to have December 31 recognised as National Mattress Flip Back Over Day, where people flip their mattresses again and gives them the illusion they’ve achieved at least one thing with their year.