Monthly Archives: June 2019

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Bogan margs

I don’t have a lot of time, but think I need to share this with the world. Today.

It’s a new drink that could really change things for you. The idea for this cocktail came to me as not so much as a brand new recipe, but as more of a “happy hour hack”.

A friend and I have recently started doing something we like to call Maragrita Wednesdays. The event is linked to the delightful Wing Wednesday phenomenon, where respectable establishments discount their chicken wings, often to ridiculous prices. We’ve found a chain that does 25 cent wings each Wednesday, much to our delight. This place is a Mexican joint, so obviously they do margaritas. And when you and your best friend are eating 25-cent wings, you obviously do margaritas too.

Last time we celebrated Margarita Wednesday, we had settled in for the long haul, setting up shop at a table and building up an impressive pie of chicken bones. But we couldn’t hang around all day and decided that, after a few hours, we best move on.

By that time it was happy hour at the next stop on our tequila tour, during which basics were just $5. We wanted to keep up with our Margarita Wednesday ethos, but the prices were a wee bit too high to justify. We were after a cocktail that packed the same punch of a margarita, but was kinder on the wallet.

So the time came to improvise.

This drink could have many names such as Sly Margarita, Thifty Margie, Margs for Thinkers, or a Cheeky Margot Robbie, but when we told other friends about our creation, it was dubbed the Bogan Margarita.

We’ve since given it a nickname, in true Australian style, shortening it to Borgan Marg, a name that could be trademarked but we feel it is something that belongs to the people. Everyone should be able to get one of these into their gobs. So we’re not sitting on this secret. We’re letting it out.

Here’s how you can get your hands on one.

You ask for the house tequila, with something lemony as a mixer. I can say from personal experience to avoid lemonade if possible, instead opting for lemon squash. It takes better but you also want it to be a nice looks-lemony-but-we-all-know-that-colour-is-the-colour-of-chemicals yellow for atheistic reasons. Make sure you get a bit of a ice in that one (however, given it’s a basic spirit at happy hour, you’re probably going to end up with plenty of ice-cold filler).

Then, either ask the bartender for a salt shaker or snag one from a nearby table and shake yourself a good dusting of salt into the glass.

Give it a pretentious swirl and Bob’s your aunty, you’ve got yourself a fine imitation margarita which isn’t all that different to the real McCoy.

Congratulations, you’ve seen the light.

Here’s the recipe in case you want to make this for yourself at home:

Ingredients:

  • Cheap tequila
  • Solo/lemon squash/pub squash
  • Ice
  • Table salt

Pour a nip (the volume of which is entirely up to you and your needs at that particular time) of tequila into a glass. Next, add a few cubes of ice. Top up the glass with some pub squash. Vigorously shake salt into the glass before swirling the ice around – use your finger if you must.

Note, you COULD dust the rim with salt and garnish with a lemon wedge if you were feeling a little fancy, but I think we all know this is not really the beverage for you if you’re feeling a little fancy.

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Just a wave

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 12, 2019

Waving is a big thing in our family.

Obviously we’re big on the finger wave to the stop-go person going through road works. And we appreciate a courtesy wave from drivers we make room for when they need to change lanes under pressure.

But the Maguire family is all about the send-off wave.

I’m not entirely sure where it began, but somewhere along the line we started following guests out to their cars, gathering at a clump at the end of the driveway and waving until they get half-way down the street.

As children, my sisters and I would take this a step further and run barefoot alongside our friends’ cars as they were picked up from sleepovers, evoking the drama of a WWI nurse keeping up with her beloved soldier along the platform, waving until his train was out of sight – only, rather than being restricted to the confines of a train platform, we stopped when we reached the patch of prickles.

Sometimes the send-off can put you in a bit of a fluster, especially if you’re like me and take a while to get set up for a long journey. When you’re putting on the right playlist, looking for sunnies and trying to wedge your water bottle in an easy to reach spot, having the whole family standing there waiting for you to bugger off can be a bit annoying.

But the older we all get, the less of an annoyance it has become.

This thought struck me last week. I was back in town for a few hours last Tuesday, deciding to kick off my mid week-weekend with a cheeky cervical screening (let this be a reminder for anyone who has been putting off a routine check: just bloody get it over and done with, for heaven’s sake). I popped into the Maguire house for a catch up and cup or three of tea.

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In case you have blocked it from your memory, it was aggressively cold last Tuesday.* My parents had shut up the house and were keeping warm by the fireplace. So when it came time for me to leave that afternoon, I expected to bid my farewells in the kitchen, especially to Dad.

* This was obviously a couple of Tuesdays ago now. And, in the off chance you weren’t in the township of Clifton on the Tuesday in question, it was real fucken cold. Like, put on your grainiest Aussie drawl cold. 

My father dislikes the cold more than he hates the way people say they’re going to the “bathroom” when they’re actually going to the toilet (I personally don’t have a problem with people finding a polite way to say “I’m off to excrete some waste” but that seems to matter to Macca, who takes a tough stance against the Americanisation of our culture).

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He really, really doesn’t like the cold.

But, sure enough, both parents made their way out of the warmth and through the garage-cum-lounge-room, which is much colder (“you can feel the difference with that insulation”) than the rest of the house. Dad even ventured outside – wearing a woollen jacket, mind you.

It’s an unnecessary gesture; saying goodbye at the door would absolutely suffice. But, geez, it’s pretty nice, I thought to myself as I drove off.

It reminded me of the time a few years back, when Dad was dropping me at the Brisbane airport to catch the plane that would take me to my new life Sydney. We were running slightly late and I hopped out at the drop-off zone feeling flustered, saying a quick goodbye because there were cars everywhere.  I rushed to the check-in counter and then waited quietly at the gate. I’d assumed Dad, who finds the traffic of Toowoomba hectic, would have bolted from the madness of the airport. But then I saw a battered, dusty Akubra coming up the escalators and there was Macca, ready to wave me off.

Despite the traffic, the ridiculous car park fees and having to muck around with the bloody paid parking machines, the old Maguire tradition continued. He was there waiting with me as the rest of the passengers boarded, watched on as I finally gave the flight attendant my ticket and waved the whole time I walked down gangway and out of sight.

Again, the send-off wave is completely unnecessary and can be a quite a bit of effort, but geez, it’s really bloody nice.

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Yeah nah: flappy bins

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 5, 2019

I wrote this short, sharp burst of rage after putting off writing my column until the last minute as I was devoid of even any half-baked ideas. My editor shot me an email telling em that, given how close they were to finishing that week’s paper, the slot allocated for my smut had shrunk somewhat. I thought it was a good opportunity to get something off my chest .

I’ve just watched an Instagram video of a friend participating some kind of waterfall cleansing ceremony in Bali where she has to rid her body of all negativity by screaming into a curtain of rushing water. She said it was freeing and epic.

I too would like that feeling – to be released from the shackles of my rage.

But I, unfortunately, happen to find myself inside a Queenslander with paper-thin walls surrounded by neighbours on a not-all-that-quiet suburban street. If I were to audibly let out the 4,893 megalitres of negativity inside my body, the house would quickly be surrounded by a swat team.

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So, instead, I’m going to purge myself of my underlying rage in the form of a short, sharp little rant by angrily tapping on my keyboard.

I feel like these little spaces are ideal for venting spontaneously about something extremely trivial with absolutely no justification. Last time it was the yuckiness of fake mint flavouring and, by extension, toothpaste. Today, I choose to direct my anger towards those bins with the flappy lids.

If you’re lucky enough not to be familiar with them, these are the ones that have triangular, pointed tops – kind of like giant milk cartons.

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I grew up in a household with a foot-activated bin. You pressed down on the pedal, the lid flipped open and you could dump your pencil shavings in one painless motion. You didn’t have to touch the bin. You didn’t have to bend down. You weren’t a slave to the vessel containing the household rubbish. And when the lid came down, all the filth was sealed off from the world. It’s an excellent system.

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So I cannot understand why people endure the bins with these flappy lids that swing up and down like they’re mocking you with their big, stupid binny grins.

They never completely close, meaning the stench and germs from your waste leech out and pollute the air you breathe into your precious, precious lungs. If you want to put something small in there, you have to get right up close to the garbage. You have to stoop down to its level. And, if you’re chucking out a teabag, you generally end up getting tea on the outside flap and have to wipe it off.

Most frustrating of all, if your bin gets to the point where it’s nearly full but not full enough to traipse out to the wheelie bin in your pyjamas wearing bedsocks and thongs, you can’t really use the lid. The lid gets stuck on a large chunk of rubbish and you find yourself needing to lift the whole flappy lid apparatus throw away a single teabag.

We all know I was leading to this point but there’s really no other way to wrap up this unprovoked outburst: this type bin needs to be binned.*

* In a responsible manner that will insure the plastic will be recycled and used for another product that will better the live of humanity. 

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Car clutter

Originally published by The Clifton Courier on May 29, 2019

The clutter you keep in your car is a special kind of clutter.

It’s not like the stuff shoved into a bottom drawer because you don’t really have anywhere else to put it, it’s the things you collect along your journey.

It’s the stuff you carry with you when you leave your home base. And that makes the clutter more than a jumble of items, but an inventory of supplies. You may never need to draw on those supplies, but preparedness is the difference between a day out and disaster.

So when you clean out your car, the decision to either dump something or keep it in your stores is a decision that requires a lot of hypothetical thinking. You must consider the possible scenarios you could find yourself in and whether that item will assist you.

Of course, when you have an overactive imagination and a tendency to worry, this means a lot of items are put in the “keep” category, such as:

A small portion of All Bran: As much as I love bran in all its forms – with and without sultanas – this wasn’t put there on purpose. I don’t have such a compulsive need to chow down on high-fibre cereal that I need to keep a secret stash of bran in the various crevices of my life. I’d left it at my parents’ place and my mother, who seems to only take her bran with sultanas, didn’t need it cluttering the pantry. She’d bundled it up with a few bits and pieces I’d left at the Maguire Manor for me to take to my actual home. I’d crammed everything into the glove box and completely forgot about it. Now whenever I open the glove box and see the bran, I can’t bring myself to take it inside. What if I find myself stuck on the side of the road for hours with no sustenance? What if I stay at a mate’s place and their breakfast options lack significant fibre? I can’t take those kinds of risks. So the bran stays.

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A clean pair of undies: Again, these were originally in the car because they were included in Mum’s care package/bundle of crap I’d left at her house (the amazing thing about leaving clothes behind at my parents place is that they miraculously turn up freshly laundered). I reason that it’s extremely practical to always be packing spare knickers. This is not a reflection of my driving abilities – I am proud to say that no one has ever soiled themself while I was at the wheel. However, I like to always be ready in case of spontaneous slumber parties (I’d think nothing of borrowing a friend’s pyjamas, but sharing knickers crosses a line) or having to skip town at a moment’s notice after making some powerful enemies in a high-stakes game of poker. It would be ideal to have fresh undies in either scenario.

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A free singlet I got for participating in a work fun run: Because if I end up in the middle of nowhere having starved to death after finishing all the bran, I want to impress whoever finds me by showing them how active my withered body once was.

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A quarter of a carton of stubbies: Because you should never turn up to a party empty handed and you just never know when a mid-week morning tea will turn into a party.

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Several supermarket green bags: I really only need one but I keep forgetting to bring them into the shops with me and end up buying more.

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Two eskies: I have a big one and a little one, meaning I’m covered if I spontaneously purchase a ham and, on the same outing, pick up a bunch of prawns from the trawlers. Clearly, this is an aspirational thing. They say you should dress for the job you want to have, so I’m hoping the “cart around enough insulated boxes for lavish diet you one day hope to exist on” also applies.

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A pair of bold, angled hoop earrings: I think I’ve established that most of the items in my car are kept there for emergency purposes and these earrings are no exception. If you’re dressed like an absolute bag of human excrement and find yourself needing to look somewhat polished, statement earrings will change everything. A pair of statement earrings will make it look as if you chose your outfit with purpose, rather than chucking on whatever was comfiest. Always keep emergency statement earrings handy.

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KPIs of a 12-year-old

Marks of success according to my younger self are a wee bit different to those I have now.

For example, finally getting to a point where my super is more than my HECs debt is not something 12-year-old Dannielle would have dreamed of, but it’s something 27-year-old Dannielle feels pretty darn smug about.

27-year-old Dannielle thinks that having enough savings for a house deposit is a measure of success. Her goals include having a kitchen stocked with French cast iron cookware in coordinating colours and being able to grow her own potatoes on her hobby farm. She wants a rustic wooden dining table long enough to seat 12 friends. She’d like to write a book. She’d froth a pair of customised RMs.

But success looked a little different to 12-year-old Dannielle. And when I compare my current state to those pre-teen KPIs, I feel pretty good about where I’m at right now:

Having a laptop: Far out, watching people hack into the main frame with a laptop made them seem so badarse back in the day. I really wanted to type something with purpose, like a Charlie’s Angel or a glamorous executive working in fashion with a report due. Needing a computer was the dream, but being the kind of mover and shaker who needed a computer on the go was the pinnacle of greatness.

I have a laptop top now and I don’t exactly feel like Lucy Liu or Christina Applegate (Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Deadwas a formative film for me), but I sure as shit love the sound of the keys making noises as I press them. Sometimes I just write “the the the the the the the the” over and over and over because I love the sound. As I write this, I am using a laptop on my bed. If you could see me now, young Dannielle!

Needing a personal assistant: I used to play “offices” a lot a child. It was my favourite game. I would set up a corner office with a window with lots of papers and a typewriter on my desk, then get to work on some urgent tasks. I was a very important executive with lots of decisions to make and reports to prepare and files to have one people’s desks by five. I was under a lot of pressure, so I needed a person assistant to do some bidding for me. Her name was Channel and she was only available on mobile phone. I would bark orders at her on my toy flip phone, angrily slamming it shut when I had to repeat myself yet again with a simple request.

I don’t have a Channel, but I hope to one day become important enough to require one. I like to think that 27-year-old Dannielle would be more of a mentor than a highly-strung Charlotte Pickles type of boss – not that I have anything against Angelica’s mum. She’s an icon and a role model and I am not ashamed to say it.

Having Austar: If anyone reading this is not a regional Australian born in the early 90s (I know my demographic), Austar was the equivalent of Foxtel, or pay TV. It had shows like Spongebob Squarepantsand Dariamarathons and no ads.

Austar isn’t a thing anymore, but I do have Foxtel, which is even better because it suggests that I’m living the big city life as well as paying for premium entertainment. I got it especially for Game of Thronesbut they’ve really won me over because they have EVERY EPISODE OF GRAND DESIGNS EVER on there at the moment so I’m going to hang on to it for another month or so.

Having a day planner: I mean, these were just so fucking cool. Having things to do and needing to write them in a diary to organise yourself? That’s the funnest.

I’m proud to say that I do have a diary now, which I need to professional and personal purposes. I mean, I do write things in there such as “chatted with Grandma” and I don’t use a pen with a fluffy top, but I feel like I have fulfilled this dream.

Driving a convertible: If you were rich and successful in the 90s, you drove a convertible, most likely a red one. You had a cup holder. You blasted music through the speakers. You drove along like hot shit. Of course I wanted one.

I am currently borrowing my dad’s x-trail because I had to sell my unregistered Camry for $100 and I needed wheels when I moved back from Sydney. It’s a really roomy vehicle. It holds a lot of stuff. I’m not complaining at all. Plus, I feel like my hair would get really knotty if I drove around with the top down.

Being on Better Homes and Gardens: We didn’t have Austar, so our television choices were limited and I loved craft and home decoration tips. It was my ultimate goal to host this show (while being an Olsen twin).

I have let myself down. I mean, I don’t have to be on Channel Seven, I could film my own version on my smartphone and create a YouTube channel. Modern technology makes it totally possible. But still, I ignore my dreams.

Having a double bed: I dreamed of being the kind of young adult who talked on the phone laying on my belly while flipping though magazines, something that looks much more glamorous on a double bed. I wanted the bed to have a funky doona cover and tasteful throw pillows that I could flop on to after having my heartbroken by a square-jawed dreamboat. I wanted fairy lights on the bed head. I wanted it all.

Now I have a queen-sized bed, which is a whole couple of centimetres bigger than a double bed, which would make my 12-year-old self very happy. I have a total of seven pillows, which match my doona cover. I even have a throw blanket that ties the whole look together. I’m a fucking goddess.

Although, I rarely talk on the phone in bed while flipping through magazines – I prefer to go hands-free and do housework while I’m on the phone because it’s more efficient that way.

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Three things I did yesterday that felt like accomplishments

Yesterday was Day One of my mid-week weekend.

I didn’t have much planned for the day, which is quite unlike me as I like to feel as if I’m utilising my time as efficiently and with as much purpose as I can jam into it. Notice, I said I like to FEEL as if I’m being efficient and purposeful. Feeling as if you’re going something like that is quite subjective, really. And when you have a mind that tips over to delusion as easy as mine does, it’s highly possible to think you’re being efficient and purposeful when you’re actually just, in the long scheme of things, dicking around and wasting time on meaningless pursuits.

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Something I struggle with as a list maker and diary keeper, is living in the moment. I mean, I’m a Capricorn, and in magazines the archetype for someone with that star sign is a ball-busting career woman with a blazer, a Blackberry and briefcase full of broken hearts. And whether or not you believe in the precises science of astrology, I do really quite like that image of me. I like being the before woman in romantic comedies who is powerful, successful and gets shit done. I like her neuroses and her drive and her well-styled apartment. However, every Before Life-Changing Standard-Lowering Romance woman has her flaws and mine is being present. I find myself thinking about the next thing I have to do, or internally berating myself for not doing the things I should be doing.

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Sometimes, I set there and just waste time scrolling through my phone, mindlessly switching between apps because I’m so stressed about wasting time, when a good use of my time would actually be to spend half an hour strolling outside or having a nap or literally anything that will calm me the fuck down.

I’m trying to work on relaxing myself just a wee bit, or at least reframing the way I think about the ways that I spend my time so don’t stress myself into a dramatic breakdown at work – although, that always seems to be a catalyst of hijinks and eventual success in the movies, so I tell myself it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I did have a very public meltdown. And part of this has a lot to do with doing a bit more nothing, but with purpose. It’s about attaching meaning to activities I used to consider pointless.

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So, something like going for a walk, for example, seemed like an inefficient use of my time. I mean, I’d be better off jogging because I’d burn more calories and get to where I needed to go faster. But yesterday, when I found my morning schedule wide open, I went for a walk. I ended up finally having a chai at that cafe along the route in the park where active mums go to meet up with their active mum mates. And it was lovely. I got a bit of fresh air. I soaked up some sunshine. I didn’t have that feeling of a dozens of little anxiety bouncy balls jumping around in around in my guts.

I came back from my walk deciding to try spending the rest of the day without plans. I mean, I had plans that evening to meet up with a sister at the gym, but  about five hours of free time without a to-do list is pretty significant.

I miraculously found myself feeling like I had not wasted my day. I felt like I actually achieved something. And now that intro that was much, much lengthier and emotionally revealing as I thought  is out of the way, here are the three things that felt like accomplishments for me yesterday:

Trying a Tunnock Teacake:I saw these in my general news consumption over the weekend, because the bloke who invented them was given a Queen’s Birthday Honour. There was a lot of fanfare about it because these things are like the Scottish cultural equivalent to a Tim Tam or an Iced Vovo. They have a cult-like status among the Scots, I read, so I imagine they’re the things people put in care packages for Scots aboard, much like Australians would chuck in a packet of Tim Tams for homesick Aussies who, not like I’m trying to start something or anything, but probably wouldn’t eat them in their day-to-day life. They’re not actually teacakes, but marshmallows on biscuits covered in chocolate – here, the literal equivalent would be an Arnotts Royal, without the jam. I found myself on a deep, Tunnock Teacake dive and told myself that if I ever came face-to-face with one, I’d try it.

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I thought this would take me to Scotland, however, I only had to go as far as my local supermarket, which stocks a handful of international products. I bought a box of the prized chockies while dashing out for some groceries yesterday as my chicken fingers cooked in the oven.

I ate two while watching Gavin and Stacey (yes, that’s an ode to Wales, not Scotland but I’ve kin fog gone off Outlander) and I bloody loved them.

Would recommend.

Watching two episodes of Big Little Lies: Now that Game of Thronesis officially done, I want to have another show to keep up with. One of those is The Handmaid’s Tale, but a lot of people in my office seem to be talking about Big Little Lies too. Plus, I bloody love me some Nicole Kidman. So I’ve decided to start watching it but I feel like binging TV shows isn’t great for you. You don’t have time to sit and ponder what’s going to happen next. There’s no time to process what happened before the credit rolled. And you generally tend to find yourself mildly dazed and disconnected when you’ve finally finished.

I feel like it’s eating a family-sized bag of chips to yourself; it sounds amazing, but in practice you find you don’t even really enjoy the chips at the end as you shovel them into your gob. You get the most delight out of them when you eat slowly, perhaps breaking them apart along the crinkles or pretending to be Mikko from Pocahontasin that scene where he eats John Smith’s biscuits. It’s just more enjoyable in the long run if you don’t watch all in one hit. So I try to keep myself to a double episodes limit, three episodes at the most.

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Finished the jar of pickles that was in my fridge for aaaaaages:I’m not a fan of clutter, I hate waste and I’m moving out of my place in about six weeks. So I want to get through all the stuff I have stored in the fridge and pantry, but to actually use it instead of just throwing it out. So yesterday, when I chowed my way through a whole jar of mini pickles – partly as an accompaniment to my chicken fingers, partly as snack food while watching my stories – it felt like a real achievement. Not only is the jar empty and out of my fridge, but it is now freed up to hold other things – homemade stock, soil for a succulent, dreams, etc. Unfortunately, I discovered that hummus does go bad and I had to chuck out some chickpea slop that tasted like carpet underlay, which was disappointing, but at least there’s a bit more space in the fridge now. I’m suddenly inspired to get through the cranberry sauce that I bought at Christmas time. Perhaps some oaten cran-jam drops might be just the ticket. Watch this space.

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A low-effort, warming dessert perfect for filling your tum to distract you from the unfillable void in your soul

I’ve done lazy recipes before, but this may be the laziest.

This concoction is, as the title suggests, a low-effort, warming dessert perfect for filling your tum to distract you from the unfillable void in your soul.

It’s three simple ingredients: frozen raspberries, Greek yoghurt and sturdy oats. And it only requires three pieces of equipment for both preparation and serving. You’ll need a cup/mug/non-metallic chalice/bowl, a spoon and a microwave.

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Yep, not food processor here. This is Sunday evening snackery at it’s laziest (well, besides just opening a packet of Digestives, which I highly recommend).

Here’s the process:

Get your raspberries out of the freezer. Yes, they do have to have first been frozen. I know fresh raspberries look great in your shopping basket. They look great in the fridge. They look great on a kitchen island. But this isn’t the time to be fancy with your fresh produce like you have all the perks of living in an unrealistically clean but rustic farmhouse without the realities of crippling uncertainty and mud. No, you need the raspberries to have come from a packet in the freezer aisle of a supermarket.

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Now, bung them into the vessel of your choice and zap them in the microwave. There’s something about the transition of going from frozen to nuked in a radioactive box that completely fucks up the raspberries, causing them to have a complete breakdown at a cellular level. It all becomes too much that they just totally lose all sense of self and fall apart into a jammy mess.

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Tonight, I grabbed about a handful of frozen rasps and microwaved them in the kind of glass tumbler you’d expect to see a spoiled American girl on a teen movie take one sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice out of before skipping breakfast, running out the door and getting tangled in a series of events that changes her whole outlook on life as a popular girl. The berries were on for about one-and-a-half minutes, with a wee bit of stirring in between. Here’s a washing-up-saving tip: stir with the wrong end of the spoon, so you can use the same spoon to dish out your yoghurt later without the risk of cross-contamination.

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The next thing you’re going to want to do is grab a small handful of oats and chuck them into the hot, sticky raspberry victims in a manner similar to throwing confetti at your former fling after their wedding, which they conveniently didn’t tell you about until after you gave them a wristy but before they returned the favour (OK, no one is allowed to steal this for the movie script they’re working on, I just came up with it then and it’s my idea).

The whole idea is that the oats will soak up the raspberry’s tortured essence, acting as an instant, albeit slightly soggy, crumble.

Next dollop on a big of yoghurt, to cool the raspberry goo to the point that it won’t burn the arse out of your tongue.

Serve immediately… to yourself.

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An extra day on Earth

The other day I was out jogging and nearly fucking died.

I came within like half a metre of being hit by a car, but it was also like I almost hit it the car. I was running along a footpath that had a slip lane running through it. It was one of those lanes where the pedestrian would technically have right of way because the car would have to turn into the pedestrian’s path (it checks out, I just looked it up on the Queensland Government website) buuuut it also would make sense for the pedestrian (i.e. me) to check that no bastard was coming before crossing the road because getting banged up by a car is a huge hassle.

There was this moment of near impact where things looked a little bit like I could have had a very real excuse to skip the gym for a few days.

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If we were just two people walking in opposite directions along a hallway, it would have been one of those times when you nearly bump into someone, make that “oooop” noise and shuffle away with a stupid non-confrontational grin in your face.

But when one of those people are in a car, it’s not an awkward encounter, it’s a near death experience.

Like, I’m not angry of anything, I mean, if I died, I’d probs have had to make myself come back as a ghost to tell the driver, “oi, like don’t be too hard on yourself mate, I probs would have done the same thing aye”.

The thing that gets me is that my near death experience would have been more poignant.  I just assumed it would have been a profound moment for me. Like, that a switch inside me would have flicked and suddenly I was super focused and thankful and started milking every once of joy from the dry, chapped teat of life. You see near death experiences on movies and they often tend to change people. They start carpeing diems and embracing love and building something worthwhile.

So after I was gifted a whole extra day on earth, I decided to see how I spent this gift. Here’s a rough outline of my behaviour following the incident:

Immediately after: I kept running for about 30 seconds before needing to deeply inhale and exhale on a park bench. I mean, this could have been more dramatic. I could have been having a full-on freak out, but I was underwhelming in my performance. I just sat on the bench, breathing deeply. To unaware passers-by, it would have looked as if I had tried running too soon after a large bowl of porridge.

Perhaps if I overacted a little more, a charming prince-like character could have come to my aid, whisking me off in his Tesla to get me a calming cup of chai at a quiet coffee shop where we would have a chance to talk. Obviously this would lead to a life-affirming romance where we help one another to evolve for the better but, ultimately, know we could never be together. I haven’t quite worked out where our story ends, but I like to think maybe Prague (his family money has interesting origins and I really want to go back to that little gingerbread shop).

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A little after immediately after: I decided to jog at a leisurely pace to my playlist of upbeat female singer songwriters, going through the park to soak up some nature. Only, it was a wee bit cold and the park was pretty much just the green space along the oversized drain running through that side of town. I told myself I would seize the day by treating myself to a decadent chai after finishing.

About 30 minutes after: I decided to try to pinch a few pennies and made myself wait until I got home to make myself a cup of tea. That’s ok though, I do like the tea I make myself.

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About an hour after: I’d booked myself a haircut about two months prior after being prodded by my new hairdresser, appalled by my split ends. You’d think this would be the time I’d say, “fudge it, let’s make my hair fairy floss pink” or something, but I actually quite like the colour of my hair and I don’t have the energy to maintain an edgy bob so I just got a trim. I mean, I did crumble and buy the shampoo my hairdresser suggested, because apparently the stuff I was using was coating my hair in silicone, so that’s something. Life’s too short to have your hair coating in silicone.

About three hours later: I went a little wild and made myself some pasta for dinner – I lashed out and finally used that low-carb, high-protein pulse pasta I’d bought on special months ago. I even used the last of my goats cheese. It was delicious and, as far as I’m deluding myself, super healthy. I mean, if I was going to live on and, hopefully, get entangled in a life-transforming romance, it’s best to keep a tight rig.

About three-and-a-half hours later: I started watching Gavin and Stacy as per a friend’s recommendation.

About six hours after: I went to bed at a reasonable hour because I had work early the next morning.

About 12 hours after: I woke up, washed my face and had a cup of tea. I usually don’t eat until mid-morning when I work early shifts, but today I went wild and had a small, measured portion of bran and oats with yogurt.

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About 15 hours after: I went outside for my break after I was urged to “go outside and stroll in the sunshine for 15 minutes” by a work friend who I swap gardening and cooking tips with. I came back inside about seven minutes because it was brisk and my ankles weren’t covered.

About 16 hours after: I had second breakfast, being my boiled eggs and kale office special. I used a lot of butter, but that wasn’t a you-nearly-died-so-treat-yourself kind of thing. I always have had a lot of butter in my life.

About 20 hours after: I bought myself two sticks of kanagaroo salami at a fancy deli. Then I shopped around for the cheapest veggies, finding my way to a store with an interesting international food section. Out of all the options, I selected a rhubarb and ginger preserve.

About 22 hours after: I ate the leftover pasta and finished watching The Bodyguard (the TV series, not the Whitney Houston epic).

About 24 hours after: I decided not to go to the gym.

Yep, that’s depressing.

But I would like to point out that I intend to make up for this slack seizing of the day today by observing Margarita Wednesday, a glorious holiday where my nursing friend and I find ourselves with the same Wednesday off, so we celebrate by getting margaritas.

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Today, we’re also incorporating Wing Wednesday into the festivities, where we go to a joint that sells chicken wings for 25 cents a piece and become human stains.

Happy Margarita Wednesday everyone!

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This one made it to print

How to run good

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, May 22, 2019

Yeahhh sorry, there’s no real impressive illustrations today. I got knocked around by a bastard of a sickness today and, for a while there, felt like I may have pooed the Uber. I don’t know what kind of fines you get for shitting the seat, but I imagine it would be higher than a the standard vom rate. 

Anyway, I managed to keep all fluids/chunks inside me and came home and slept for like five hours and, while I’m feeling better, I’m still a wee bit fragile.

Maybe I’ll get bored and come back to this piece with some whizbang drawings but, for now at least, you’re going to have to make do with your imagination. 

I’ve invented a new kind of workout.

It’s my take on high intensity interval training. I wouldn’t recommend it as a regular thing, but it certainly motivates you to move, raises the heart rate and generally tuckers you out.

It’s important to warm up for this workout, which starts the night before. You want to set yourself up to crank up your cranky levels.

To get yourself nice and grumpy, set your alarm for 6am to hit the markets before work. Go to bed much later than you planned and stare at your phone for at least half an hour before you actually try to sleep.

The next morning, be abruptly jerked from the few minutes deep sleep you experienced that night by your alarm.

Have a pre-workout shake alternative – a cup of tea – to get you going.

Use GPS to direct you to the markets, letting it take you not to an entrance you can use as a private citizen, but a large commercial gate that is both closed to the public and on the wrong side of a vast market complex.

When you finally do arrive, be sure to cut your finger on the car’s window guard when you hand over the cash to pay for parking and accidentally squash the large sack of spinach you bought. Then, to make sure you’re good and ready for the workout, miss an important turn on the way back.

Once you arrive home, have your green bag’s strap break as you try to unload your market goods from the car in one trip.

By this point you should be sufficiently miffed, so put on your running gear, including shorts with a tiny zip-up pocket on the butt. Lock the house up, grab your phone for music and chuck the keys in your pocket, being too irritable to muck around fiddling with the zip. Just assume you’ve zipped yourself in. This is essential.

Jog around a 25-minute loop in your neighbourhood, finishing with a killer hill you don’t really ever want to do again. As you run, let your stress levels lower with each huffy exhale until you return to your house calm, hungry and with just enough time to shower and get to work for a nice al-desko (a depressing spin on “alfresco” where you shovel food into your face at your work desk) breakfast.

Feel the pocket for your keys and realise they are gone.

Immediately, you heart rate will shoot back up.

Now realise your housemates are away, you can’t get into your house and that your car keys are also on that key ring.

At this point, your ticker should be beating madly. That’s what you want.

Start running the length of your street, looking on the ground for anything that may resemble your keys. Call work, partly to let them know you may be late, partly to hear the soothing voice of a concerned, authoritative adult.

Next, run back up the street to your house, hoping you missed said keys on the ground. Then call your parents to ask if they still have the spare key to the car that is now undriveable. Feel a little less stressed. Then, call a level-headed mate to calm you further. Have her distract you by talking about herself while you powerwalk along the entire loop you took before.

Get that heart rate back up as you near the end of your route still keyless but also facing the dreaded hill.

Return home empty-handed and let yourself get so panicky you start doing what I like to call the anxiety shake (it’s where you fidget violently and look like you’re trying to swat an invisible fly).

Now it’s time for a mid-workout cool down.  Walk slower along the route for the third time, stopping nearly half-way to wait in line for 10 minutes at the Post Office to see if someone handed them in. Then go to the police station and dismay to find it closed. Call Police Link to report your keys missing and to hear a firm but kind adult in control. Take big, deep breaths to stop yourself from wailing in public.

As you wait to receive the online missing property form link on your phone, walk a further some 20 metres away.

Spot your keys on a low wall along the footpath.

Time for the end-of-workout stinger. Sprint back to your house, keys in hand, and shower faster than you ever have before so you can get to work.

Refuel yourself with a post-workout shake alternative – another cup of tea – when you’ve finally had a chance to stop.

Check your smartphone’s health stats and find you’ve covered a distance of more than 14 kilometres all before 10.30am.

And exhale.

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