I wrote this yesterday. I could have posted it yesterday too, but I try to honour my Wednesday and Sunday posting schedule (even though I failed to do so on Wednesday). I mean, you could argue that I was spreading the task across two days in order to manufacture a false sense of achievement. If I both wrote and posted this piece yesterday, I would need to do something useful today in order to not feel like a waste of dwindling resources. But by delaying the “publish” part of the equation by one day, I have set myself up with a free kick of feeling of useful with extremely minimal output. 

Yes, you could say that. Because you’d be bang on.

My housemates are away at the moment, so I have the place to myself. I also had the weekend off work, which is exceptionally rare. I was free and uninhibited by the potential judgement I could face by being exposed to other people. I didn’t have to wear shoes or appear effortlessly cool (which actually takes a lot of effort, mind you). So I did what any wild bit of gear my age would do: bought the Saturday paper and interviewed myself like I was a Brisbane celebrity.

On this particularly loose Saturday morning, I opted for theCourier Mail, which comes with the Q Weekendmagazine. I do enjoy this publication. You get some long-form journalism, a snapshot of what you should be doing to be considered a cool person about Brisbane and you’re encouraged to buy overpriced crockery and statement necklaces (this week it’s a crescent moon one, which really speaks to me at the moment) to fill the dark void deep within your soul. But perhaps my favourite features are the quick little interviews they do with cultural contributors to the river city.  This weekend it was writer, comedian John Safran and junior sous chef at Motion Dining Qian Cao. I fancy myself a bit of a writer, I see myself as a culinary whiz and I find myself sniggering at my own Instagram feed from time to time, so I feel like I am more than qualified to take the same questions as these esteemed professionals.

So I’ve decided to take a few questions from both interviews and weave them together to create a rich tapestry of my self-obsession. Please, enjoy and feel free to play along at home.

* I am aware that this looks more like an example of cross-stitching than a tapestry, but it’s really hard to convey a tapestry with my skillset, so back off. 

Who inspired you to get into the kitchen? My mother. I didn’t really like her cooking that much and wanted to make food I actually wanted to eat. I know, that sounds pretty rough. So let me clarify in order to make me sound like less of a big meanie.  She does a mean roast, a cracking fruitcake and her Bolognese sauce is pretty bloody good, but she does the same thing over and over and over again. I get bored and like to control things, so I decided to make my own damn food. Also, she steams the arse out of broccoli, which makes for a really unappealing mush. I actually like broccoli, but I didn’t know I liked it until I ate it in the way nature intended: in solid form.

What was the first dish you ever learnt to cook? Gingerbread, possibly. Or this stuff call “yum yum balls” which used to be on the box of the cocoa powder Mum would buy. It’s kinda like rum balls, but without alcohol, fruit, or much substance. It’s essentially crushed Nice bickies, sweetened condensed milk, cocoa and coconut. Actually, no, I think it was cornflacks. They were also an off-the-pack recipe special, this time from a box of Cornflakes. My sister used to make them a lot. It’s honey, butter and Cornflakes, from memory. Most people call them honeyjoys for some fucked up reason, but I absolutely think cornflacks is a much better name. Because they’re like Cornflakes but not. I’m not saying I would beat anyone up over the cornflacks vs honeyjoys debate, but I reckon I’d get into a pretty heated argument about it.

What is your show about? Well, I don’t have one yet, but it would definitely be about me. I mean, I plan on writing it about a small town newspaper and base it on my experiences in Armidale and Clifton and would give interviews telling people that it was about showing how lovely and hilarious and infuriating regional life can be, but you better beleeeeeive that’s going to be told in my voice.

What’s next for you? Well, I’m thinking I’m going to crack open a beer and start making some savoury shortbread for an unofficial function I’m having at a friend’s place tonight. But I could also just find myself twirling my hair and staring off at the grass for a while until my neighbours get back and I realise how much of my day I’ve wasted.

Favourite ingredients to work with? Oats. I think I’ve made that pretty clear in recipes past.

Strangest request you’ve ever had from a diner? I suppose when people ask for no milk when I’m brewing up a cup of tea. Pretty weird, I reckon. Not the kind of person I would leave my children to in my will. I wouldn’t want my offspring being brought up around that.

Ohhhh good lord, I just turned to the back page and sweet baby cheeses there’s a buttload of great questions that come via a lengthier questionnaire with the bloke who’s Australia’s current Bachelor. I’m going to save that for later. Get keen.

What are your interests?

It’s a bit of a loaded question, isn’t it? I mean, on the surface, it seems like a question about what people do in their spare time. Hobbies and such. Model trains. Horse riding. Making your own kombucha scum blob that lives in your friend and – probably – feeds off your positive energy which it channels into a secret, mysterious scoby resistance until it’s strong enough to stage a global uprising. It’s an innocent enough question if you’re keeping it at a superficial level.

I’ve decided that I probably need to have a few pre-prepared non-concerning answers ready to go in case someone stings me with it, so I don’t come off as the kind of person who I actually am. I mean, it’s not a lie to say that I enjoy cooking, reading, gardening drawing. That’s factually correct. And, sure, it makes me sound like a middle-aged mum from a posh family with a golden labradoodle and a holiday house, but that’s probably enough information one would need if they asked a “what are your interests?” in a small talk context.

But, obviously, there are a lot of other things that interest me. That is to say, there are a lot of other things that hold my interest; that absorb my attention in such a manner that I lose all awareness of time, space and whatever Russell Crowe is banging on about on Twitter.

If I were to be completely and totally honest about my interests, I would need to include the following:

My split ends: I can spend an inordinate amount of time inspecting at the ends of my hair. I mean, split ends make your hair look like you’ve been using them to scrub bathtubs, but I get some serious satisfaction from seeing the damage my careless lifestyle has done to my one beauty. They flare out in stands of twos and threes and, when I’m really lucky, I find a hair with several – yes SEVERAL – ends fanning out like a tiny plant root. This hobby of mine means I’m rarely bored and relish stops at traffic lights.

The piece of glass that has been embedded in my foot for a decade: While helping clean up after my eldest sister’s 21^st, I stood on a piece of broken glass. It wasn’t a huge drama but it was more than just a rogue shard, so it warranted a trip to the  medical centre, where they cleaned out the wound and gave me a slightly-larger-than-average bandaid to pop over it. As far I was concerned, the glass had been flushed out. But, some time after the wound had healed, I noticed something too hard to be made from my soft, fleshy body in the scar. I picked at it and, after some dedicated digging, pried out tiny piece of glass. It was a thrilling pursuit and, much to my delight, the glass seems to keep coming to the surface. Even today, the day before my sister’s 31^stbirthday, I can pick at my foot and know there’s a reward waiting for me, entombed in my skin.

Myself: Obviously. I mean, I write a personal blog and my favourite pamper day activities are seeing a psychologist to talk about myself. As honest as it would be to say “I’m actually really interested in working out why I can be such a cunt sometimes and seeing if I can blame any of it on formative childhood experiences so I don’t have to take full responsibility for my shithouse personality,” while scooping out a double serving of wombok salad on my paper plate, I’d really have to pick my audience.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier July 17, 2019

I’ve decided that I need to have a garage sale.

I’m getting ready to go on a cheeky international jaunt with my sister. But before I take off and sully the good name of my country, I also have to move out of my current place.

My lease runs out while I’m away so I’m shifting to a different side of Brisbane where I will have access to more of my mates, almost exclusive use of a bathtub, and may just get away with starting a compost heap in the backyard. I’m really looking forward to it.

This means I won’t have to pay rent while I’m away or lease out my room to some stranger who might not put things back in the exact spot they belong. It’s a real scheduling win.

But this means my final days before I fly out will involve a lot of packing of gear I was supposed to get rid of earlier this year, but was too busy being fabulous/watching Gavin and Stacey to do so.

Now it about weeks out and I have to act.

I’ve managed to sort my large inventory of stuff into two categories: Things I Absolutely Should Not Keep and Things I Probs Don’t Need to Keep. The former needs to go.

I know I have the owner’s bias, but I feel like there’s a bit of a value to these unwanted possessions I’ve collected over the years. I mean, there’s at least $48.60 worth of gear I’m just sittin’ on.

It’s not junk; everything still works. The glasses still hold liquid. The plates are still viable surfaces from which to eat food. And the vast collection of old jeans I’ve cut into high-waisted shorts still make you look just yeah-I’m-dressing-for-myself-not-you-mate enough to allow you to enjoy a filthy $3 basics session with your friends without being bothered.

Surely someone out there wants to pay good money for the weird stuff I’ve amassed.

I don’t really want a bunch of strangers nosing around, judging my life’s possessions and it would be pretty inconvenient for my current housemates to give up the driveway for the morning, but I think a garage sale is the best way to go. People can just rock up, check out the stuff on face value and, hopefully, offer my more than my asking price for the sweet, sweet loot.

I mean, there’s the laziness aspect of not listing items individually but I think that, if I opted for a sale method requiring me to write descriptions for my “stock” I’d be too honest. And while honesty is the best policy, my strand of it is a terrible, terrible marketing strategy. I know this because I tried to sell an armchair when I was in Armidale and got zero takers. Here’s a snippet the ad:

“Like leather but nowhere near as luxurious, this armchair covering makes you question your morals. Not because you’re picturing a calf having its skin peeled, but because you know you nestling in the sweat stains of strangers shouldn’t feel so good.”

See? I’m just not good at sales – I find it very hard to lie and I have a tendency to highlight the negatives even when I’m trying to be positive.

Here’s a sample of the descriptions I’d write for my gear:

Mirror with golden plastic unicorn detailing: This item is completely unnecessary and barely functional, as the unicorn detailing covers much of the mirror. Would recommend for decorative purposes only. Best suited to someone extremely extra with a limited budget and no aversion to tackiness.

Mint green plates with scratch marks: Look, these aren’t special, but they’ll do the job. You’re only eating food off them, aren’t ya? You’re not putting them in a display hutch or anything. Whatta you care what they look like?!

A bunch of tiny bottles: These would have been great for parties like a year ago when mini bottles and paper straws were in, but they’re not all that trendy anymore. Also, I picked them up from the tip shop after they were clearly dumped by a bottle supplier and they didn’t come with lids, so you can’t even seal them. You could probably use them for plants though?

An ex-rental copy of Centre Stage: This movie is extremely cheesy and includes a Jamiroquai song, but I promise you it’s good. My favourite scene is where the ballerinas break in their new shoes.

A marital arts self help book: I don’t understand why I have this and neither will you. I recommend keeping this on your shelf for years before gifting it to your least-favourite cousin in your family secret Santa.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 10, 2019

If you want to be really productive at a bunch of things, concentrate on just one thing that you really, really don’t feel like doing.

Because as fabulous as will power and motivation is, the thing that really kicks you into gear is good, old fashioned avoidance.

I’ve just had a super productive afternoon and I have nobody to thank except my ability to put things off.

That thing I kept putting off was writing this column.

Believe it or not, sometimes it’s difficult for me to rant about absolutely nothing of consequence with zero stimulus to provoke me. I know. I usually have a cauldron of rage to rely on when things get super dull, but I wasn’t even able to draw on the repressed anger bubbling away inside me after an extremely minor inconvenience.

I’m pretty annoyed; usually I’m ruminating over something I spin into a yarn. Think of the carols they blast at the supermarket at Christmas – it’s like that but instead of songs about joy and bells and plum-based desserts we never eat, it’s a loop of things like “since when did people start calling ‘utes’ ‘trucks’ – what has our country come to?!” or “yeah, I was a nasty little snot in Grade 9, I absolutely deserve a good toe stubbing”.

But when I sat down to write earlier today, everything shut down.

I stared at the blank screen and my head flooded with the white noise you used to get on analogue television. I couldn’t get anything down.

And this really made me mad, because I wanted to get it done so I could finish the final 20 pages of the Jane Austen book I’ve been binge-reading and find out if the bookish, dignified young heroine shines despite her inferior circumstances and lands the conveniently rich and handsome man of honour. I had no idea which way it would go. I mean, the suspense was killing me.

I wanted so badly to put this column to bed, but I had nothing. So I avoided it.

While I usually just stare at the wall or smooth my hair between by thumbs until I fall into a trance when avoiding something, I decided to get other stuff done instead.

And look, it’s dangerous to say that procrastination is a great strategy for productivity, but it kinda is. I mean, you get a lot of things done… just not the thing you were hoping to get done.

Here’s the stuff I did while I was avoiding writing this column:

A sweaty, sweaty workout: it can be hard to motivate yourself to stay on a treadmill. But for every minute you’re running on a conveyor belt to nowhere, that’s another minute you don’t have to do your assignment. And that’s one heck of a carrot to dangle in front of your sweaty ass.

Unloaded the dishwasher: I didn’t even have to do it, there was another draw completely empty. But when I unload the dishwasher, I can put things away the way I like it. And that’s a victory I cling to.

Made a risotto I didn’t even really feel like: Yep, I opted to cook what might be the most demanding, time-consuming stovetop dish for dinner. I mean, it’s a piece of piss to knock together but you do have to do a lot of stirring and encouraging and hydrating – looking after a sloppy mate going back on the prowl at the pub after a messy breakup. I used brown rice too, which took even longer.

Vacuumed the kitchen: There were a few flakes of onion and garlic peels on the ground and, as a firm believer in a shoes-off household, I feel like you should be able to walk around barefoot without getting crud stuck to your feet.

Vacuumed the rest of the house: Because the vacuum cleaner was already out and if I had to put it away – the worst household chore of them all – it may as well have been worth it.

Mopped the kitchen and my room: Having grown up with a carpeted bedroom, running a mop around my living quarters is a bit of a novelty. I do like the extra zing of cleanliness it adds. And I think that everyone would be a bit better off if I didn’t have carpet in my room – that red ink and latex stain from when I was working on my edgy Year 12 art statement* may have made it look less like someone lost a limb in my room.

* About abortion, no less.

Finished my column: By tricking myself into doing other stuff instead of writing my column, I was able to come up with enough column fodder to write my column.

I feel like a bloody genius.

Please excuse the crassness of my illustrations – I drew them on the plane and didn’t have any water to activate the wonder of my water colour pencils. I just painted them using my fingers and some melting ice from a Starbucks iced tea.

However, I did this while at the Louvre, which makes this shit art… art. Voila!