Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 10, 2018

Well, we all know I had a lazy Sunday this week*.

* Last week, that is. This week I was actually only a mild piece of shit, instead of a full-blown burning turd. I did two lots of laundry and went for a damn run. I mean, I still “meal prepped” for the next day by ordering two pizzas instead of one, but that’s progress. 

I know that because I was there and the only reason I changed out of my pyjamas because I had to go outside to buy goat’s cheese*. But how do you know?

* My fancy pants pastry chef mate put me on to this particular brand of the stuff and I’ve taken to it like a mildly unstable young woman to cheese… that wasn’t a metaphor, obs.

Because this is another one of those Dannielle-interviews-herself-instead-of-coming-up-with-an-actual-column columns. And, after enduring this tripe for so long, you might have picked up on the fact that they only ever come out when I’ve been an unproductive bore of a human garbage bag.

But, hey, this isn’t my least inspired piece ever – last week I did a blog post about a recipe for strawberries on toast. Comparatively, this isn’t that terrible. So, your welcome?

As always, please feel free to interview yourself as you go along. You might learn something about yourself… but you might also learn things you didn’t want to learn about yourself. Beware.

The last thing you ate: Leftovers from when I ordered an excessive amount of pizza after returning home from a bottomless brunch at 9pm. It was made with an organic spelt crust. This makes it mildly healthy and totally counteracts the extra cheese I added to it before reheating it. That’s how things work, yeah?

The last thing you bought on impulse: A jar of goat’s cheese that comes soaked in this oil I would happily drown in. I mean, I feel like I should be doing everything within my powers to avoid an oil-related drowning, and I am. But, if for some bizarre reason I had to drown in a vat of oil and I had a choice about which kind, I would pick the oil that cheese is soaked in. I wouldn’t want to drown in any oil for obvious I’m-gonna-live-forever reasons but, also, because that would be kind of embarrassing and it would make fishing me out of the oil really tricky for whoever was charged with retrieving me; my body would be all slippery and they’d keep dropping me. This, of course, would be hilarious but also deeply, unforgettably disturbing. I mean, imagine trying to unpack that to a therapist – you’d not be able to tell the story of the trauma you witnessed without laughing. It would be extremely difficult to process. Wow. I mean, I know I can tell a long, rambling story, but even I’m surprised that  “what was your last impulse buy?” led me to this point. I don’t know whether to be concerned or impressed.

Last thing you threw away: A bunch of used teabags. I saved them and kept them in the fridge because I’ve had puffy eyes lately and a refrigerated teabag soaking on the old peepers apparently helps with that. I mean, I could just take control of my life and makes sure I get enough sleep, but a cold teabag seems like a reasonable alternative.

Last person you called: The Maguire House. I have the number saved as “Maguire House ICE” because apparently that will mean that in case someone finds me in an emergency situation – which, hopefully, will not be related to goat’s cheese oil in any way – they know they can call my parents’ house to let them know the proverbial crap has hit the fan. You should always prepare for the worst. It just makes sense. I mean, terrible things happen, they’re probably going to happen to you. That’s life. Hmm. This is getting a little dark again. I need to turn this around. Perks things up a bit.

The last compliment you received: My housemate’s friend was over for dinner and told me she liked my mug. I thanked her. But now that I think about it, it wasn’t really a compliment about my creative ability or virtuous characteristics or even something about my physical form such as having a pair of perfectly sculpted buns (because, let’s face it, that would be a baseless lie). It was a compliment for the people who made the mug. They thought up the design. They executed that design. They were able to make a business case in order to make that design a commercial reality. All I did was purchase it. And, yet, I took this mug comment as a huge compliment, letting it fill me with happiness. It didn’t say I was talented, or was an upstanding character or even that I had a smokin’ hot bod: all it did was inform me that I was competent at purchasing items. That I was a cog in the corporate machine. That I am a consumer, fulfilling my capitalist duties.  But you know what, I’ll take it.

What does that same about me? I think this questionnaire is over.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 3, 2018

Relaxation can be far from relaxing.

I recently had two days off work thanks to a cold. It was one of those colds you just had to let pass. There wasn’t really much I could do for it besides rest and fluids.

I took care of the fluids part by making drinking my water out of a stein make hydration seem more exciting*. It was the rest part of the equation that I really had to work on.

* Sometimes, if I really want to spice up water, I’ll make myself a nice, fizzy cup of Eno. I know it’s supposed to be for tummy troubles, but I just love that lemony shit. One of these days I can see myself making up an Eno cocktail. Maybe it would pair well with gin? Vodka? Incredibly cheap tequila I never intended on keeping down anyway? Expect a horrible recipe soon. 

Because I had the luxury of two days without responsibilities, I felt the need to be decadent in my approach to rest – like an underwhelming health retreat.

I felt the need for something more than medical healing like gargling with salt water; I felt like I should be spending this time doing something spiritually healing. Something that fits within the vague parameters of “self care”.

Now, self care is something that can range anywhere from ignoring notifications on your phone an hour before bed to prepare ready for sleep to carelessly ditching your recently-dumped mate to go on a solo $5000 on a spa retreat in Bali. The limits of self care are defined only by your selfishness and disposable income.

But, in a nutshell, self care is about being kind to yourself.

So, in a bid to satisfy this urge, I opted for something that vaguely fit within the realm of “pampering” while remaining true to my edgy, cynical, still-festering-in-teen-angst side: I decided to paint my fingernails black.

But when I tried to open the nail polish bottle, I was unable to unscrew the top. I thought I might have just been greasy at first (I’d just cracked into a family-sized packet of Tim Tams I bought to cheer up my housemate) but it became clear the lid was sealed from nail polish that had dried around the rim. So I started hacking at it with a knife. And just when I thought I was making progress, I sliced the whole top off, glass rim and all. The top flung across the room, splattering thick, black goop on the couch and carpet. I then spent the next 20 minutes scrubbing furiously. I was far from relaxed – I was flustered, annoyed and smelled like nail polish remover.

This made me think of an incident the other day, when I tried to light a scented candle to calm me. I’d had a stinker of a day. I was tired after having a terrible sleep the night before. My trusty jeggings* were in the wash. I had no birds or squirrels to help me dress. I stayed back an hour after work and achieved very little in that time. I was ignored by two of the busses I tried to flag down after getting too puffed from my jog to make my home on foot. No one offered me a tasteful leather briefcase full of money. A stinker of a day.

* Yes, I still wear jeggings. They will never not be a part of my life. 

But I decided to put it behind me.

I lit a scented candle, thinking to myself “you know what, you deserve this, you need to relax”. I grabbed my matches and struck a light. As the match ignited, I heard the crackling pop of fire in my ear.

Then I smelt it. That smell that anyone who has ever used heated hair styling tools fears.

I’d managed to burn my hair.

Only a little though. I mean, my head didn’t go up in flames, but still.

The scent that filled the room wasn’t a calming camellia so lovely it practically whispers affirmations about my being a goddess with each flicker of the flame. No. It was the smell of singed hair, screaming at me that I was a damned fool.

On Friday I came home exhausted, ready to curl up in bed and waste my evening scrolling through Instagram. But then I told myself to get up, make a cup of tea and enjoy the breeze from the balcony. And the tea was lovely. I began to unwind. Things seemed better.

But then I somehow managed to choke on a mouthful of tea*, nearly vomiting in the process. And not only did my mouth taste of spew but, as I’d had an extra spicy this-might-fix-my-cold curry for lunch, my throat was now burning.

* For a second there I did think “this is it, I’m done”. And not that I’d want to die drowning on a mouthful of tea, but I feel it would be pretty poetic. People would say that I died doing what I loved: drinking tea in complete solitude, wearing pony pyjama pants. What a way to go.

I mean, things going wrong with open flames and toxic liquids I can understand, but tea? The elixir that nourishes my very soul? Heartbreaking.

What next? I go for a calming stroll and roll my ankle? I sit by the beach and get pooed on by a seagull? I watch a beloved movie from my youth and realise it’s actually super demeaning and full of cringey punch lines that make me feel uncomfortable?

Maybe relaxation might just be too stressful for me.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 26, 2018

I forget something on pretty much every trip I take.

I currently don’t have a wise-cracking seven-year-old son called Kevin to leave at home while on holiday, but I wouldn’t put it past me. Because it seems I always forget something. One time, on a work trip, it was my laptop. Another time, while heading to a music festival, it was my ticket to said festival.

I’ve just come off the back of another trip home and am astounded by the things I forgot. It wasn’t so much what I omitted from my luggage, but more the things that slipped my mind.

And as I sat on the carpet at the airport, attempting to counteract my sloppy appearance by typing on my laptop like I was an important businesswoman, I collated everything I forgot (well, at least, the things I remembered that I’d forgotten) during this trip:

My phone charger: I could picture it, still plugged into the wall at my sister’s place, mocking me. I hoped I had enough battery left to crank some sweet tunes on my flight; otherwise it would have been a disaster.

I like having a bit of a chat with the person next to me, but an hour-and-a-half is a long time to make small talk. Plus, I don’t know anything about the weather, haven’t kept up with the NRL and haven’t watched a single episode of The Bachelor, so wouldn’t be able to pull my weight when discussing current events.

As such, eliminating the pressure to make conversation by listening to music is a must.

Plus, I doubt the captain takes music requests and, even if they did, would probably ignore my demand they play The Whole of the Moon four times in a row.

A white jumper: Yes, I made the mistake of wearing white to an event where red wine was served. And this might not have been such a disaster last year, when I could only stomach the sickly-sweet white wines that, despite making you feel like an overused dishrag the next day, don’t leave a physical mark on your clothing.

But now I’m a red wine drinker. I don’t even dilute it with lemonade anymore. And that makes for high-risk sessions.

I suppose that’s why red wine is associated with maturity, because by the time you begin enjoying red wine, you’re supposed to be able to handle your drinks… well, supposed to, anyway.

I left my jumper to soak in the laundry tub at my friend’s place, so I’m hoping to pick it up in a few weeks, crisp, clean and wine-stain-free.*

* I have yet to hear an update about the state my jumper. But, then again, I haven’t asked. I feel like it would be a bit rude. 

A bunch of flowers: I’d bought a bunch of birthday roses for Mum and put them in the fridge at my friend’s house to keep them fresh until I met up with her.

But when I met Mum for lunch, I realised I’d left the flowers behind. So I did the honourable thing: I splashed out and shouted her a round of cheesy garlic bread.

I was disappointed because, while the holy trinity of carbs, cheese and garlic makes for one heck of a birthday treat, flowers would have been a nice touch.

However, I am hoping my accidental floral offering to my mate might entice her to wash my jumper.

Now, this all sounds a wee bit negative. And one of my sisters told me I was a Pessimistic Polly – my words, not hers – so I’ve decided to look at the positives. Here are some of the things I remembered on my trip:

A festival-appropriate coat: This is an old parka of Mum’s I once borrowed and never returned. It’s a great size for throwing over a jumper and, as I discovered, has the perfect pocket-depth to hold a bottle of wine on each side.

The time of my flight home: I was once so late to the airport I basically sprinted across the tarmac to the plane and never want to cut it that fine again.

Sure, that time I made it to the plane, but the stakes were too high.

I mean, buying one plane ticket back to Sydney is distressing enough, but buying two because I missed the first flight would be too much to bear. So I arrived with at least 40 minutes to spare.

This left me enough time to get to the plane without having to re-enact Home Alone (I know, two references in one column… Christmas is coming ya filthy animals). I had time to indulge the weird three-trips-to-the-bathroom-before-flying superstition I’ve developed.

And I even had enough time to sit around the airport to write this column – which I’ll hopefully remember to send at a reasonable hour.*

* I did not. According to the timestamp on my email, I sent this to the Courier at 11.39pm.