Originally published by The Clifton Courier, December 21, 2018

I thought I’d take the opportunity to post this before I head to work while I wait for my kale to cook. I’m currently in an empty house, sipping a cup of tea from the cat-face-shaped mug I gifted myself  for Christmas. I thought I may as well use the morning to be productive rather than watching Christmas breakfast television, so I’m gifting you, dear readers, with a bonus Christmas column still warm from the oven, smelling of gingerbread and quiet desperation. Not only does mean this Christmas content is hyper relevant, it also means I can write something in my new diary that I’ve been holding off writing in until Christmas for a little treat. 

I realise this all sounds a little sad but don’t worry, I’m about to have a mango. 

Merry Christmas ya filthy animals. 

People often ask you what you want around this time of the year.

It’s not an aggressive “whatta YOU want!?”  or a probing “what do you really want?”, but a perfunctory request for gift ideas as the social norms for this time of year commands an exchanging of tangible tokens of affection with one’s inner circle.

We make suggestions that we know the well-intentioned gift-giver can afford, choosing items that aren’t too difficult to acquire.

If you were to say what you really, really wanted, you’d be burdening your loved ones with a list of unrealistic demands. It would make you look like a diva, while revealing the deepest, most pitiful parts of your soul. It would a combo of “a mint-condition Barbie Fold’n’Fun House” and “someone to be around to have a cup of tea with me when I feel lonely”.

However, we don’t say that. Usually the answer is a polite “I don’t need anything” or “a few more pairs of socks wouldn’t go astray”.

But if you were able to ask for anything for Christmas, with no price limits or requirements for the gifts to be something one can actually give, what would be on your list?

It’s an interesting question to ask yourself, and makes for a lively discussion around a dinner/dessert/chips-and-dip table.

Here’s my list of things I actually want for Christmas:

World peace: As this is a magic list of things I can wish into existence, I feel I should be somewhat benevolent. People would be pretty cranky with me if I wasted my mystical powers on myself. So I figure I may as well through the world a bone with a blanket wish that generally solves all the big problems while making me look good.

A few days of good, soaking rain: Again, this is partly due to my desire to appear as a selfless person who derives her joy from the happiness of others. But this is a self-serving wish.

I would love a few days of the sound of rain hitting a tin roof. It’s such a marvellous sound. It drowns out my inner monologue and creates a feeling of cosiness that a noisemaker app could never achieve.

And a few days of rain would put a slight chill in the air, which would allow me to wear an oversized sloppy Joe while lounging around the house. I think relaxing is best done in an aged jumper, as is having an emotional breakthrough after a period of quiet self-reflection brought on by some mild emotional trauma.

A few days off to enjoy the few days of good, soaking rain: I love the rain but I don’t really love having to be a productive human being in it. It just makes things a trickier – you have to drive slower, your thongs flick puddle water up the back of your thighs and you get foggy glasses.

I hate having to work while there’s fantastically depressing weather happening outside. That kind of weather must be savoured, like the last Tim Tam in the packet. You don’t want to be thinking about emails or accounts while there’s fog rolling in and rain lashing the windowpanes. You want to be rehashing the events of the past until you come to some kind of enlightening conclusion.

Some mild emotional trauma: Because you need something to mull over during a period of quiet self-reflection in order to achieve your emotional breakthrough.

Some mulled wine: Because, after you’ve done all that mental mulling, the best way to celebrate your emotional breakthrough is by redirecting your mulling energy towards cinnamon-y alcohol.

A cast iron skillet and casserole dish from this really, really fancy cookware brand: I’ve entered a period of my life where cookware is a status symbol. I mean, I would love to be able to sear a perfect steak before finishing it off in the oven or bake bread in a tasteful pot, but I would also love for people to note that I can afford pricey cookware and make the assumption that I have my life in order. I wouldn’t tell them the fancy, fancy frypan appeared in my kitchen as the result of some undeserved magical intervention rather than being purchased by me, a successful adult who makes financially-sound decisions. They don’t need to know that.

For microwaves to have silent switches: We have sent man to the moon. We have cloned sheep. We have created machines that allow us print in three-dimensions. And yet, we still don’t have microwaves that don’t beep obnoxiously at us when our noodles have cooked.

For zoodles to actually have the taste and texture of pasta: I am a fan of using zucchini in the place of pasta, don’t get me wrong. It tastes fine. But you are lying to yourself if you believe zucchini ribbons are able to replicate the delights of those carb-dense strips of starchy heaven.

A few more pairs of socks: Because they never do go astray.

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, December 12, 2018

Earlier this week I cleaned out my handbag.

I cleared out the half-used tissues, wrappers and receipts expecting my load to be considerably lightened. But, despite clearing quite a bit of rubbish out of there, it seems I was still luging around quite a bit of baggage*.

* And before you ask, only some of it was emotional. 

I had been a reformed handbag user not a year before, restricting myself to a large clutch which could be casually slung over my shoulder as I flounced out into the world handsfree and carefree. I had room only for my phone, wallet and keys. I had taught myself to travel light, with no handbag weighing me down.

But after getting fed up about carrying a separate bag every time I wanted to bring lunch to work, I upgraded to something with a bit more room.

And even though I technically should have stuck with the same wallet, keys, phone philosophy, I found my principles weakening. Because with more space apparently begets more shit.

I told myself I’d stick to the essentials, but it seems my list of bare necessities is a little longer than it used to be. I’m still uncertain about what is superfluous and what is a fundamental need, so I invite you to examine the inventory of my handbag and make your own judgement:

A blank notebook: I generally feel uncomfortable without a few blank sheets of paper handy, which makes me feel like a free-spirited Jack Dawson (without the smoking habit and, hopefully, the unfortunate fate of going to all that trouble to survive the Titanic’s sinking only to freeze to death hanging on to a door). Should inspiration ever strike me, I’ll be able to scribble down my brilliant thoughts before they dissipate into the fog of inconsequential thoughts misting up my brain. I don’t want to be hit with the sudden urge to write the great Australian novel (or at least the equivalent of The Very Hungry Caterpillar) while sitting on a train or waiting for the loo without the means of jotting it down. So I keep a notebook in my handbag, poised for poignancy. However, I’ve been carrying around that notebook for months and it’s still empty.

Pens: The pen is mightier than the sword, and I’m always packin’. Partly because I need an implement with which to write the aforementioned literary classic, but mostly so I can write notes on my hand to “buy milk and strawbs” so my mushy Weet-Bix glob of a brain remembers to go to the shops.

A stubby holder: I hate hot beers and love novelty slogans on synthetic rubber cylinders, so these things are pretty much an essential. I now make sure I’m carrying at all times, in case of an emergency.

Blank calling cards: I bought these ages ago thinking they would be a classy way to let someone know I rocked up at their joint and missed them. I envisaged a Holly Golightly-esque version of myself using an old-style calligraphy pen to write notes for my friends. A woman of style and substance I’d be, wearing a well-tailored outfit. Instead, they’ve remained in the box, jammed in an overstuffed pocket of my bag. I haven’t even used them to make with bogus business cards, such as “Dannielle Maguire: Human Stain and Living Reminder That You’re Not Doing So Bad” or “D-Magz: Professional Mad Dawg”. I’m disappointed in myself.*

* Between writing this and republishing it online, I did use one of the cards. I let the friend I was staying with know I was ducking out but would return within the hour. My language was sloppy, My handwriting was clumsy. And I was wearing a baggy oversized gym t-shirt so I didn’t even have that going for me. I must work on this – my handwriting, my vocab and my general attire. Perhaps my New Year’s resolution will be to change myself completely. 

Hand cream: Because my delicate lady hands need attention.

Eczema cream: Because my delicate lady hands sometimes get inflamed and scaly and I scratch them in my sleep and sometimes a gross liquid oozes out and lint gets stuck to my weeping pores.

A mini-torch: In case of a blackout/spooky story circle that requires me to shine a light up my face for dramatic effect. Admittedly, I don’t have any spooky stories and really, really don’t want to hear any.

A deck of Greek Ancient Lovers playing cards: I figure it’s probably better to have nudie playing cards than no playing cards at all. I mean, what if I get stuck in a lift with a few people and need we something to pass the time while we wait to be rescued? I doubt my fellow trapped humans will care about the obscene imagery when we’ve run out of things to spy in I Spy.

A plastic bag: It’s in a similar vein to the whole being-trapped-in-an-elevator thing, but this item is for containment rather than entertainment. I also think it’s handy to have plastic to act as a rain guard for a smart phone or, in extreme cases, to gather water like the kid from Life of Pi. You really just never know.

Deodorant: In case I’m stuck in a lift for days without access to a shower.

Moroccan oil: In case I’m stuck in a lift for days without access to leave-in conditioner.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 28, 2018

Escaping from the Sydney cesspit sounds like a good thing.

The fact that I went as far as to call it a cesspit suggests I didn’t like it very much. And that’s a fair call to make. I mean, I involuntarily pull a sour face when people mention the place. I sometimes even let out a mildly disgusted noise; the kind of vocalisation you make after stepping on a potato chip that has gone soggy after being dropped in a puddle at a public pool.

So you’d think there would be no negatives involved in leaving the place behind me.

However, you’d be wrong.

I’ve now got to completely reinvent myself, which is going to take some work.

After two years in Sydney, I’d transformed into an over-exaggerated stereotype, typifying all the good things* about being a country Queenslander.

* And, let’s be honest, a couple of the bad things. 

I’d talk up the benefits of cob loaves. I’d say “mate” a little more than necessary. I’d make some reference to a swag, just to let people know that I’m totally comfortable sleeping outdoors like a jolly bloody swagman.

I realise it sounds incredibly wanky but, in my defence, it’s hard not to slip into this role. It’s kind of like being around people from overseas – you just can’t help but play up to the Aussie stereotype.

And that was fine in Sydney, where people generally viewed my Queenslander ways as novel and amusing*.

* And very, very bogan. And perhaps a little brash. And somewhat annoying.

But now I’m back home, that’s just not going to fly.

Everyone eats cob loaves. People here can tell when you’re spreading the “mate” on a little too thick, like a heavy slathering of Vegemite on toast*. And, let’s be honest, most people have slept in a swag in the past fortnight or so, and they’re not bragging about it.

* And that is jarring. I witnessed someone who spreads their Vegemite on so think the toast looks burnt. He doesn’t even use butter, he just goes in dry. It’s actually really quite confronting.

I am no longer that token Queenslander, because everyone in this state is. And the last thing I want to do is ham up my Queenslander ways. When you go too hard on the Queenslander in Queensland – and it’s not Origin time – people can tell pretty quickly that you’re a try-hard dropkick. They’ll be off you faster than you can say “Milton mango”.

Plus, I had cultivated a personality based almost entirely on disliking my surroundings. My hobby was hating Sydney. In my spare time, I disliked Sydney. My favourite sport was Sydney bashing. I haven’t got the hard quantitative data to back me up, but latest estimates show that roughly 67% of my conversations were, in some way, complaining about Sydney.

With more than two thirds of my go-to conversation topics wiped out, I now have to find something else to talk about. My brain has to readjust to be less critical. I have to get used to not hating everything and generally being a misery guts.

And that’s quite a blow.

I mean, negativity is my thing. Positivity is like a pair of brand new restrictive skinny jeans that are too tight around the crotch. I can handle it for a few hours, but as soon as I get home I’m putting on my loose-fitting pessimism pants, which are so thin from being overworn it feels like I’m wearing nothing at all (nothing at all).

Being in a happier place (locationally speaking) requires me to get a whole new metaphorical wardrobe.

It’s also going to mean that I’m going to have to put more effort in my weekly musings. I can no longer bank on the fact that something annoying or outrageous will happen to me in Sydney, providing an endless supply of column fodder for me to rant about. That safety net is gone.

But then, I just spent 570 words whinging about something I’ve been wanting for two years.

This gives me faith that, now I’m not spending an obscene amount on rent, living among literal street rats* or regularly paying $12 for an underwhelming schooner of beer, I’ll still have something to rant about. I’m just going to have to be a bit more creative about it.

* To be fair, I did only see two in my time. 

That, or I’ll just have to start doing more embarrassing things on my weekends to write about.

There is work to be done, yes, but hope is not lost.