Today is my first Sunday off in ages.

I had planned to do a lot with this glorious free Sunday, gifted to me by the roster gods. I had intended to use the overripe bananas in my fruit bowl to make healthy banana oat pancakes for breakfast after a light jog in the sunshine. Perhaps I’d go to the markets or take a bushwalk in this native reserve not far from my house. Maybe I’d power sand that old writing desk I’ve been planning on converting into a shabby yet tasteful plant and whiskey stand. Or I could even get cracking on the cook booklet I’ve now committed myself to write.

But life rarely goes to plan when you’re a pisswreck with limited stocks of self-control.

I’ve woken up on this, my free Sunday, with a stinging headache, having very little memory of how I made it into bed. My mouth tastes like bad breath. My stomach feels like it’s full of stubbed out cigarettes, handbag crumbs and full cream milk five days past its best before date. I spent far too much money on frozen margaritas and prawns. I ingested countless calories, essentially cancelling out all the time I’d spent at the gym through the week. I have a slight shakiness to me, which suggests I may not be able to keep my cup of tea down for long. To summarise, I will quote the message I sent to my sister earlier this morning: “my life huts”.

But still, there’s plenty for me to be proud of.

Because, while looking at my past Uber trips, I’ve learned that I went home before 9pm. After several frozen tequilas, I could sense that I was heading down a bumpy and potentially embarrassing path. I had tipped past the threshold of tipsy and, having not had access to a dance floor, I was headed into emotional drunk territory. The signs were there. I was wondering off for some air by myself, staring out at the water dramatically. I’d told my sister that her saying I couldn’t bring my friends she’d never met to her husband’s birthday party to pre-drink for a wedding had “actually hurts my feelings”. I’d started getting sniffly. I was in a tequila cloud and the fog was not clearing.

I took notice of these signs and acted accordingly, stepping in and sending myself home. This is quite impressive for me, as a person who has a poor track record of knowing when too much is quite enough. So, at 8.50pm, I told my friends that it was time for me to leave and ordered an Uber away from potential drunken disaster.

I’d sent no emotional messages I’d live to regret (drunk spats with sisters don’t count, that’s the beauty of sisterhood). I made no phone calls to former flames. I didn’t require a complete stranger to comfort me as cried in public. I had no cause to unclog my own vomit from a nightclub bathroom hand basin because the clumps from my stomach blocked the drain and filled the entire sink with sick.

This was a monumental victory on my part.

And, based on my preliminary enquiries, I made some good decisions when I arrived home. My teeth have been cleaned. My body, showered. My face is devoid of all traces of makeup. I even managed to put my scrunchie away in its rightful place (in the Queensland Polo Association’s 1957 gold cup I found at an op shop, where I keep all my colourful scrunchies). Sure, my breath probably stinks, the booze fumes leaching from my pores suggests a long shower is necessary and there’s a pale smear of foundation on my pillow but, generally, I’m in good shape.

I haven’t stepped on any glass or bunged up my ankle. I can’t see any unexplainable bruises. A quick inventory of my handbag suggests I have not lost anything. I’ve just checked my text messages and seen the only drunk plan I made for today was a leisurely morning tea at my house at the extremely reasonable time of 11am. My Uber rating is a respectable 4.78.

These are all signs to celebrate. And so I’m going to do that, raising a glass of bubbly Eno to myself and my progress to becoming a less ridiculous person.

Cheers!

I’ve recently realised that I’m not the most ambitious of people.

Sure, I want to have a good life, but I don’t really have any clear goals in mind. I mean, I’d like to get to the end of my life feeling like I wasn’t a totally shit person, that I had a reasonably good time and that I’d done enough cool stuff to justify the amount of resources that went into keeping me alive. I want to have formed some incredible bonds with people and, hopefully, not completely hate myself by the end of it.

And that’s all great – and apparently the best way to approach life so you don’t set yourself up for failure.

But I felt the need for some tangible goals; some concrete criteria against which to measure whether my life was a failure or a raging success. I recently told my psychologist that my goal is simply to have goals – like, that wanted to be ambitious, but there wasn’t really anything I cared about all that much. So I’ve come up with a list of stuff that makes me go “yeah, that’d be pretty cool” or “I wouldn’t mind that”. Of course, some of these goals are loftier than others, but at the moment this is the best I have to work with. And I suppose if I’m going to all the effort to dream, I may as well dream big.

So here are a few things I wouldn’t mind ticking off my life to-do list:

To keep all my teeth for as long as possible: This requires me to brush regularly, floss daily and to avoid chewing on toxic corrosive waste. I’ve also got to keep out of street fights and not find myself in such a sad state after losing my job at the workhouse that I have to sell my molars to send money to feed my illegitimate daughter, who I foolishly left in the care of Borat and the woman who played Bellatrix LeStrange.

To win an Oscar: As a youngster I thought it would be for my acting, which I assumed I would excel at career-wise because I have a loud, booming voice, I was often picked to do the lengthier church readings or meatier, zanier parts in the over my like 24 schoolmate (that’s across about four year levels, mind you) and when we did an appallingly bad Harry Potter musical in Year 9, I got the only passing grade while the rest of my group failed. However, I’ve not yet landed any major roles. You could say that’s because I’m simply not good enough, but I prefer to look at it from the angle that I’ve not yet tried. I seem to couch a lot of my lack on success based on the fact that I’ve not tested my potential and so it still remains in tact; I can still fantasise about one day being great and say, “I probably could if I wanted to”. It’s a nice safe way of maintaining your baseless sense of self-importance.

But, yet, I’m getting to the point where, if I want a magazine article to say “and she did it all before she turned 30…” I’d best get a wriggle on.

And because I’m already fairly invested in writing, I might set my sights on winning an Oscar for screenwriting. And I shan’t be one of those names Australian broadcasters would cling to because Cate Blanchett took a year off and Nicole Kidman was focusing  on television. I will not be the name that makes people say “who?!” to their spouses in the living room when my name is read out on news. I’ll be a star in my own right, wearing bold yet tasteful choices – many involving capes – to red carpet events. I’ll be fabulous, deep thinking, very well connected and tastefully dressed 82 percent of the time. I’ll be involved in human rights advocacy, become close mates with David Attenborough and become well known for my flattering neckline choices.

And when Vogue finally comes over to do 73 Questions with Dannielle Maguire, I’ll nonchalantly motion to my Oscar statue, which will be displayed with my Hungry Jacks Crew Member of the Month certificate and my first pottery piece.

To have a set of signature jewellery with a matching dagger: I saw this in a museum in London once and was inspired. It was exactly the kind of ancient empress style of extra I often yearn for. I’d like a breastplate style of necklace, with bold matching earring and a dagger for me to fondle while I laze about in my luxurious chamber, plotting my next move. At this stage, I’m thinking I want the pieces to be cast in bronze and to involve a milky opaque stone. Nothing overly sparkly, but classic and tasteful.

To have a house complete with a luxurious chamber: This requires me to remain employed, invest my money wisely and not waste my pennies on frivolous knick knacks and do-dads. Of course, a custom-forged dagger and jewellery set is important, but should probably aim to have a palace to call my own before I go out commissioning blacksmiths. For a while there I dreamt of having a room that was essentially the inside of Genie’s lamp from I Dream of Genie, but now I’m moving more towards the aesthetic  of the house from Practical Magic. So I have a bit of thinking to do about the overall vibe of the place, which is great, because I reckon I’ll need to gather a few more pennies together before I can own property and that’s going to take a bit of time.

To have my own cook book: Now, this is one I could easily do myself. I’ve already got a handful of recipes I could print out, staple together and claim victory. However, I’m going to try to aim higher than a cook booklet, because I really just want to have one of those photoshoots with classy aprons and fancy cookware – because I might just be able to take some of the props home for my own kitchen. Plus, I really want an outtake reel to show just how zany and approachable of a person I am – you know, poking my tongue out at the camera, offering the lighting expert a lick of the bowl, that kind of thing.

To appear on Sesame Street: I would not be the woman I am today without Sesame Street. That show is so funny and wholesome. I bloody loved the letter of the day and the sassy pig girl group and that orange ball with lips called Cecile. Can’t say for sure how the plasticine sass ball shaped my soul, but I know it was profound.

Of course, this goal requires me to achieve something in my own right first so we can have a gag to pin my appearance one, like when Nora Jones was on there singing “don’t know why, Y didn’t come” or when Feist sang “1, 2, 3, 4 monsters walking cross the floor” So this is a big motivator for me to actually do something with my life, purely so I can alliterate with furry monsters.

To have a Barbie doll fashioned after me: I have to start off by saying that my sister already made a Dannielle Barbie. Well, that is to say, she found a brown-haired Barbie, put her in a pinky pink blazer and swapped her for the blonde Barbie in the Journalism Barbie box. It was a very, very thoughtful gift that sits on my official home office desk. So I kind of already have this one.

But I would like it if the people at Mattel actually produced a Dannielle Barbie, like they did with Ita Buttrose. I mean, Ita has a lot to put on her resume, but imagine being able to put “Is a Barbie doll” on a job application form. Just imagine.

And while my career path has so far been somewhat less impressive than Ita’s, it’s encouraging to know that a career in journalism, writing and publishing could maybe one day lead to this goal. Again, this is something that would require me to not only achieve greatness, but to do so with class and sass. And this is a yuuuuge motivator for me career wise.

Instead of thinking small and being the sometimes petty and stroppy person I am, I need to think bigger; grander. I need to think about what would Barbie doll Dannielle Maguire do. Would she send a passive aggressive email, or would she approach the situation with pragmatic compassion and solve the problem face to face? Would she take a rejection letter as a sign to give up or use it to fan the flame of ambition? Would she settle for a quiet life of blandness or speed off into the sunset in a hot pink convertible, chasing down adventure?

If I think this way, not only will I have a sweet obituary, but I could one day be immortalised in plastic form.

Sure, she’d be a little chunkier than her predecessors and they’d have to work out a way to fit thongs on Barbie’s feet, but I like to think it’s possible.

So far, I’m thinking my accessories would be a laptop with a CD rom slit, a teapot and a scented candle.

To be parodied on either Family Guy, The Simpsons or South Park without authorisation: This would preferably happen while I was in a career lull, possibly after I’ve done something stupid, but hopefully not unforgivably offensive. I would use this platform as a springboard to get back up at ‘em, taking the cartoon roasting with good humour, making a T-shirt out of my caricature and showing the world that I was not done yet. Years later, while giving an interview about my life, I will speak about this woke me up and sparked a decades-long friendship with the show’s creators, who went on to become godparents to my delightful, well-adjusted children.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 6, 2019

“Nothing” is a word that means so much more than just “no single thing”.

For example, if you were to ask me what I did on Saturday night, I’d probably say “nothing”.

I didn’t plan anything for the night, which is supposed to be the pinnacle of excitement for a working adult. I realised this when I walked in the door on Saturday afternoon with some new pots, a stylish watering can and a second-hand school desk I plan on restoring (if anyone has a power sander I could borrow, please let me know – I’ll pay you in non-award-winning gingerbread).

I had nothing planned, but “nothing” was not what I did.

I mean, no one is ever doing nothing. If you’re lying in bed, your body is still respiring, at the very least. Even if you’re dead, you’re not really doing nothing; technically, you’re disintegrating. That’s not a particularly active pursuit, but something is still happening.

“Nothing” is just shorthand for “not a single thing of interest”. But it’s unfair for me to decide what is of interest to you, so I’m going to list what I actually did on Saturday night and let you decide for yourself:

Planned a social media post about a custard apple I bought that day: I’ve always wanted to try a custard apple. Growing up, apples were staples, bananas showed up occasionally and strawberries were a treat. Heck, even a pear was exotic – I didn’t have my first pear until I was well into adulthood. So I wanted to announce to the world that I had brought a custard apple into my home and, let’s be honest, I was craving the dopamine hit of online validation from people I barely know.

Researched custard apples: Once I had the custard apple in my custody (sorry, couldn’t help myself), I didn’t know what my next step was, so I did a bit of digging online. I learned from the leading custard apple body of Australia that you’re supposed to wait for it to soften, like an avocado. So I had to let it sit.

Contemplated the custard apple: It cut quite a striking figure on my desk and I have a tendency to stare off into space and lose all concept of time and place. Who knows how long I was lost in the bright green abyss?

Invented a new afternoon tea treat: I’ve done it again. I’ve taken a baked item that tastes delightful as it is and bastardised it with healthy intentions, a food processor and a craptonne of oats. This time my victim was the humble pumpkin scone, which I defiled by using ground oats instead of flour. Naturally, you’ll be forced to endure the “recipe” in the near future.

Attempting to lure friends over with these pumpkiny abominations: I put a fresh-out-of-the-oven picture of them on Instagram thinking my mates would take up my offer and pop around for a very late afternoon tea. I had no takers.

Loaded the dishwasher: I was home alone and could load that bad boy the way I’ve always wanted. It was bliss.

Questioned who I’ve become: This wasn’t a Saturday specific-activity, it’s now part of my regular bedtime routine.

Today I was having a lovely morning. I woke up to the sound of rain, fixed myself a cup of tea and was generally just taking it easy. I was sitting there at one point, having just finished a healthy breakfast while listening to a podcast, thinking that I was relaxed.

Too relaxed.

And then it hit me, like a sack of premium potting mix to the face. I had misread my diary. I was supposed to start work two-a-half-hours earlier than I thought I did.

So, rather than leisurely strolling down to the bus stop and maybe having a wander about in the park before swanning into work ten minutes early with a chai in hand, I had to haul some serious flat-bottomed arse.

I did not muck around. I power brushed my teeth. I threw on whatever clean, vaguely professional clothing I could find. I mean, I had a full cup of tea that I hadn’t even sipped yet and left it – nay, abandoned it – it on my dresser. It was a tense time.

I ordered myself an Uber and hoped that ride sharing would be the answer to my self-inflicted problem.

But Uber drivers never seem to have the same panicked sense of urgency I want them to have.

I mean, it’s not that I want them to slow down, open the door and shout “I’m not coming to a complete stop so you gotta run and juuuuuump” at pickups, but I would like a little bit of a “follow that car” kind of vibe.

I mean, the ones I’ve had lately take corners at the recommend second gear. They keep a safe distance between cars. They approach traffic lights expecting to have to stop.

And, sure, that makes them safe drivers. I love safety. Safety is my favourite. But I just get ancy when people don’t have the same sense of urgency as I do.

I also tend to be a bit of a backseat driver, which is actually a nightmare I repeatedly have. I’m literally sitting in the backseat, trying to operate a moving automobile. It’s essentially that scene from Mr Bean where he’s trying to take an armchair home in his tiny car and ends up rigging up a shonky system that allows him to drive from the chair, which has been strapped to his roof. It’s so fucking stressful and terrifies me. It’s also super unnecessary. I already know I’m a control freak who is unable to control her own life. I’m aware. I don’t need an anxiety-inducing dream to tell me that.

Anyway. What I mean to say is that this overwhelming craving for control and flurry of urgency fluttering in my chest makes me an uncomfortable passenger.

Like today, for example, I’d mentioned my dilemma to the driver who made the appropriate “that’s awkward for you, you silly bloody sausage” throat noise people make when they want to politely acknowledge your discomfort but communicate that you’re the person at fault. He knew what a hurry I was in. And that super 90s Tina Cousins song Pray was on the radio, for a reason I can’t quite explain. That preachy dance floor belter is the perfect chase song. The chorus is so intense. I mean, it’s electric gospel, that’s a powerful fucker of a stout.

I was in a hurry. The soundtrack was on point. The sky was grey and dramatic. How could you not get swept up in all that?

There should have been pigeons scattering and people diving into fountains to clear our path.

But this bloke was in classic Sunday morning drive mode, abiding by all the road rules like a maniac.

I mean, call me a melodramatic, self-obsessed millennial, but I was stunned that a complete stranger wasn’t willing to put life, limb and license on the line to get me to work three-and-a-half minutes faster by taking a few uncalculated risks.

Unbelievable.