Monthly Archives: October 2019

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A whole new wardrobe

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 23, 2019

I recently bought a whole new wardrobe and it has been transformative.

Of course, I mean the “a whole new wardrobe” in the literal sense, as in, the actual piece of furniture rather than a whole bunch of new clothes (I like to think I wouldn’t need a wardrobe makeover*, but I would greatly appreciate a few power blazers if anyone’s asking).

* But I would be open to a whole life makeover, like the Ty-becomes-cool montage from Clueless. I would absolutely be up for a whole team of people being totally and completely dedicated to making my life better. In fact, I think I may elaborate on that in a future column. Why settle on an appropriately-short footnote when you can milk an entirely unnecessary listicle out an idea?

For the past few years, I haven’t really had a wardrobe. For the first half of the year, I was living in a spacious Queenslander that made very poor use of space in a room without a built-in wardrobe. Before that, I was living out of suitcases during extended visits at friends’ places*. And before that, I was living in Sydney, paying far too much rent for a room that didn’t even have somewhere to hang your clothes.

* I know there’s a lot of bullshittery about the joys of being alone on the internet these days but, honestly, how bloody good are friends? Go spend more time with them. And not at an expensive brunch place, but in their lounge room while you’re wearing old track pants. I especially recommend spending time lazing around with them when you’re hungover instead of banishing yourself to your bedroom with a streaming service and delivered trash food. Being a piece of shit with someone else is honestly extremely restorative. I don’t know what my legacy will be when I pass, but if I can get the “don’t be hungover alone” message out there, I’d be happy with that. 

But the last few weeks I’ve been feeling settled. Comfortable. Ready to commit. So I decided it was time to buy a wardrobe.

After countless fruitless trading post scanning sessions and internal declarations that people were dreamin’, I begrudgingly realised that I was going to have to buy a new wardrobe and it together myself.

Now, pop culture has long warned of the destructiveness of putting together flat pack furniture.

There are countless skits about Ikea breaking up relationships and people making chairs with legs coming out of places where legs do not belong. It’s a bit of work and, let’s face it, you’re probably going to end up with furniture that looks significantly less polished than the picture on the box.

But as a literary spinster* I’m free from fears of relationship break-downs, I like to have something practical to do with my hands to keep them from scrolling mindlessly through Instagram and I don’t mind if things have a bit of… character about them. I’m a storyteller by trade, so it’s fairly on-brand for me to have dented, wonky possessions that “have stories to tell”.

* In case you didn’t know, I identify as a Jo March.

I also, unsurprisingly, really enjoy the independent woman ego boost that can only come from doing something so extremely equated with masculinity. I was ready for the challenge. So, inflated by a willingness to prove my own worth I boldly stepped into the furniture store.

I took up the shop assistant’s offer to help shift the long, heavy boxes from the shelf into the trolley, but I was completely on my own when it came to loading up my noble steed. 

Now, these boxes were a good 50 centimetres longer than I am, a bit hefty and were balanced on a trolley that really should have had the option to lock the wheels. I had to use a part of my brain that, given how sedentary my occupation is, I haven’t had to use in a while. It was physical problem solving, but under the pressure of being in public and wanting to give off the aura of calm competence.

Using a seesaw method and the strategic placement of my thighs, I was able to get the boxes in. I was mildly sweaty, but the scent of victory overpowered my perspiration as I drove my cargo home. I had done it on my own and it felt good.

I started putting the pieces together while my housemates were away, but the instructions told me to flip something I could not flip by myself without destroying the precarious structure. I tried to do it on my own, but wisdom tapped me on the shoulder and suggested I have a cup of tea while I waited for my housemates to return home. And so I was reminded to ask for help when I needed it, because it turns out one sometimes has to do some lifting one cannot do on one’s own, no matter how much empowering Beyoncé songs one has listened to.

I was also pleasantly surprised by the need to hammer in actual nails instead of just using those Allen key screws that hold the world together. And I have to say, whacking things with a heavy stick was a kind of primal therapy I did not know I needed. Even when the nails broke through the wrong way, I was composed, relaxed even. Despite the noise it made, I was overwhelmingly serene, as if the banging cancelled out the clanging around in my own brain. It makes me think I need to get into woodwork and could have been a terrifyingly tranquil torture chamber specialist in medieval times.

In the end, I had somewhere to hang my clothes, but I feel like I walked away with much more than that.

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To all the Rachels I’ve ever lied about

I’ve lied about being a liar.

Recently I was telling someone I didn’t know all that well that I was a shocking liar; that I both can’t lie convincingly and that, most of the time, it’s physically impossible for me to lie, no matter how trivial the untruth. It’s like lies curdle in my mouth. And, even if I do get thee false statement out, I usually vomit up a fumbled clarification.

In the context of dating this is a real plus, because if you’re with someone who can’t stomach lying, honesty and trust are a given. You can safely assume they’re not living a double life as a 443-year-old witch in the freckly skin suit of a 27-year-old and their orgasms are real. As far as failings and flaws go, being a shithouse liar is a positive.

But, now that I think about it, I told a blatant lie less than an hour after I professed my great deceptive shortcomings. I had made multiple comments about how undercooked the rustic cut chippies were and, from memory, I may have described them as disappointing. But when the waiter asked how our meal was, I put on my best people-pleasing grin and lied through my teeth to tell him it was “great, thank you so much”.

So not only did I lie, I also lied about a being a liar, which is a more potent kind of lie. Like, the lie about the dinner was a shandy, but the lie about lying was a Smirnoff Double Black.

And now that I realise it, I actually lie fairly often. I tell people “no no, you’re right” when they apologise out of forced politeness for standing in my way in the supermarket aisle. A blatant lie; they’re wrong. You can take up the whole aisle and block people’s paths just because you can’t decide if you want apricot chicken or black bean stirfry sauce from a jar that night. People have places to go, ya drongo!

I think the more accurate statement about my lying behaviours is that I usually avoid lying because I can’t handle the overthinking spirals it sends me down. I either tell the truth, change the subject or say something that’s not technically a lie, but not the whole truth.

Like when someone asks how you’re doing of a morning and you’re so tired your eyes feel like your inner eyelids are made from sandpaper, you’re feeling like you’ve wasted your youth and you were secretly hoping someone shot you in the thigh on the way in so you wouldn’t have to go into work and pretend to be a functioning human being for a good week, saying “good thanks” is a downright lie. And you don’t want to say this to the person, because they’re not a trained psychologist and, let’s face it, they probably have their own stuff going on – they don’t have the time nor the abilities to fix my sitch. So I like to go with a “oh yeah, I’m here”, which is, in essence, very true. I am at the place my body is physically located. That’s correct. I’ve not lied to the person, but I’ve given them a response and, often, it elicits a knowing nod where you both can acknowledge your mundane, depressing existences without having to articulate it in a public setting. It’s nice. It does the job. it usually leads to lasting, no bullshit friendships.

It means that I’m not obsessing about the lie I told, unlike right now. You see, the other day I had a phone call from a wrong number – some girl was looking for a Rachel. “Yeah, sorry, you must have the wrong number, I don’t know a Rachel,” I told her. I felt like I had to say something other than “WRONGO” and I couldn’t very well say “nah, I’m a Dannielle ya silly sausage” because I answered the phone with a “hello, this is Dannielle” To say my name again would have been a bit of overkill. So the “I don’t know a Rachel” came out. And that was a huge lie. I know many Rachels. But I hung up before I could explain myself. And now I’m going through a list of all the Rachels I know, mentally apologising for not acknowledging their existence to a polite stranger in a 20-second phone conversation.

I’m sorry to the Rachel who was a big sister figure to me growing up and became a dear, kindred spirit as an adult.

I’m sorry to the British Rachel I used to work with in Sydney who made me a tray of Mars Bar slice one my last day and called it “fridge cake”.

I’m sorry to the sassy Rachel I used to complain about the shake machine with when I was working at Hungry Jacks.

I’m sorry to the loud, crass Rachel who used to sit up the back of my school bus and shout at the driver to turn up the air con and the radio on our behalf.

I’m sorry to the Rachel who I spent hours with arranging flowers before a wedding and getting totally crunkmaggot with as said wedding.

I’m sorry to the Rachel whose wellness Instagram account I follow because she went to my college.

I’m so fucking sorry.

 

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Full of memories

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 16, 2019

So my phone memory is full.

After looking through the settings, I’ve learned that my phone has the capacity to hold 128 gigabytes of memory and I’m currently operating with just .3 gigabytes of free space.

This means my phone is assaulting me with passive aggressive pop-ups asking me to address my storage issues every time I go to use it. It’s quite confronting and a tricky problem to have. Like, I scroll through my phone to forget about my most pressing issues, so I don’t really want reminders of my hoarding tendencies flashing at me each time I go to numb my brain with cake decoration videos.

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The phone I have gives you a bar graph of how you’ve frittered away your storage space, and the majority of mine is spent on photos and “media”.

This comes as no surprise to me, because I do use that rectangle of sinisterly addictive bright colours and sounds as something of a personal portable photographic storage device.

I take a great many photos using this telephonic instrument and, while I do have an Instagram presence, my photos rarely make it to the social medias (unless they’re updates for the Macca Does Things or Deb Being a Dear series which, according to my data analysis, are much more popular than the visual updates about my own life).

I use my phone as a reference tool, snapping photos as memory joggers and storytelling aids. I mean, my whole existence is funding based on my ability to use words to convey meanings, but a photo of the bulging pimple on your butt cheek is going to get the message of your suffering across with more impact and immediacy than a string of carefully-selected adjectives.

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So, most of the time, I like to take photos for reference reasons. If I get a swollen eye from being exposed to dog saliva, I’m going to take several photos of that. If I see a nice flower I’d like to remember, I’ll take a snap of that. If I happen to pull a really large flake of skin off my sunburnt body, you better believe I want to store that away for future reference.

So every one of my photos, in my mind, are necessary. I need them, not just stashed away safely at home, but on a portable device so I can whip them out a moment’s notice during a yarn with mates.

But, as I want to be able to take more photos, I’ve had to cull some. Here’s a sample of the photos I reluctantly got rid of:

Seven photos of the new compost bin I put together last week: I was extremely excited about the prospect of my housemates and I becoming a composting household.  Mum and Dad have had chooks for most of my childhood, which means our veggie scraps were traded in for fresh eggs – like a waste-saving stock egg-change. But it’s hard to keep a coop as a renter with no backyard and a deep-seated distain for chooks. For years I’ve felt a twinge of guilt in my guts each time I threw away veggie scraps and, even though it was a hassle, I did miss cutting up the banana peel the way Dad insisted so it was easier for his girls to eat. Now I have a backyard and a compost bin, I’m chuffed. I would have put this on social media, however, we had a lot of friends over on the weekend and I was able to give them a personal tour of the compost situation so I think I can part with these pictures.

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Five photos of the brown, withered contents of our sad, sad fruit bowl: Look, this had the potential to be reference for a depressing still life painting and, if my technique was correct, a comment on the wasted potential of youth and a lament of the passing of time. But as I don’t have any classical painting training or any oil paints, I’m only going to keep one of those photos… just in case.

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Four blurry pictures of six Maxibons in my handbag: A bought a round of Maxibons on one of my late shifts. That’s the story. The blurred imagery perhaps conveys my manic excitement, but I think if I were to simply say “I tried to take pics for snapchat but they were too blurry because I was so pumped” suffices.

Four pictures of a large pear: I’ve already posted this to my riveting Instagram account, no need to hang on to them any longer.

Two videos of me roughly chopping butter: I find the sound and feeling of a good butter chop soothing, and I wanted to share that with my friends. I honestly think I could run a whole YouTube account of culinary-related ASMR (which stands for Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response and describes the relaxing, tingly brain sensations you can get from certain sounds and sights – highly recommend you get on this trend if you’re a wee bit stressy) with a huge section on butter, however these videos weren’t pristine content for that channel considering Miley Cyrus was singing Party in the USA in the background.

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Street style part two

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 9 , 2019

Last week I told you about the time I was approached to be in the street style section of a genuine – albeit local – magazine.

As you may recall, the experience put me in a bit of a flap.

Although it was nearly two weeks ago, I’m still ruminating on the experience. I mean, of course I am – it will give me fodder for late night regret sessions for decades to come.

In perhaps one of the most on-brand moves I could make, I’ve made the experience into not just one rambling rant I demand others read, but two. This time, I’ve gone back and thought about what I could have said during the fleeting interview.

I’ve decided to catalogue my outfit choices coming up with the cool, chic quotes I would give to the magazine about that particular item and, because I have a compulsion to overshare, the slightly less glamorous truth about it.

Please enjoy seeing me through the lens as a legitimate, fashion icon.

A pair of brown cork-soled sandals:

Magazine copy speak: “They’re made in Spain and I had to order them online because there’s very few stockists here in Australia.”

The inside scoop: I only knew about these because a few of my more fashionable friends had similar pairs and said they were super comfortable. I’m a bit of a stomper; my steps are only delicate when I’m walking on floorboards after arriving home late and trying to not to give my housemates the impression that a hippo is robbing their house. I like to think that I step with purpose (in fact, I have a signature thong flicking step rhythm that helps my sister locate me after losing me in large warehouse shops) and that puts a lot of pressure on your ankles and arches. I needed something to be kind to them.

My bright yellow skirt I bought from an op shop:

Magazine copy speak: This is a vintage skirt I bought from a charity shop a few years ago. I was drawn to its colour and love the subtle tailoring.

The inside scoop: I tend to frequent op shops because it’s cheap and, because it’s unlikely someone else will find the exact same items as me, allows me to pretend that I’m an individual when I’m merely conforming to the I-have-personality-and-I’m-going-to-express-it-though-second-hand-wear-and-obnoxious-earrings mould. Also, I have proportions that were much better catered to by brands like Katies and Millers 15 years ago.

My Sunflowers shirt:

Magazine copy speak: “I bought this from a little stall in Amsterdam after losing myself in the Van Gogh museum for three-and-a-half hours.”

The inside scoop: I saw an impossibly cool girl wearing one of these shirts and wanted to copy her choice to wear a copy of a work of art on her body through the magic of modern day printing processes. They didn’t have the particular shirt I wanted in the museum gift shop, which would have been too overpriced anyway, so we went to a street merchant nearby.

Earrings in the shape of bees with large green gem things dangling out their rear ends

Magazine copy speak: “A very talented friend of mine made these as a custom order for me.”

The inside scoop: If I put on statement earrings, everything looks much more purposeful instead of being chucked on at the last minute. Plus, statement earrings are a much easier way to get a self-esteem boost than actually building on your self worth and shaping yourself into someone worth knowing.

A brown leather handbag

Magazine copy speak: “I was coveting this bag for months and spied it in a store in Germany. I just had to treat myself.”

The inside scoop: I needed a bag that could hold my lunch, snow peas, office socks, spare office socks, diary, a spare notebook, a deck of cards, several out-of-date medications, teabags swiped from fancy breakfast buffets, tissues and several grams of nondescript filth without the world knowing what I was packing. An opaque leather sack seemed like the most socially acceptable way to lug that around at all times.

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Self care

I’ve just come off the back of an horrific case of the voms and have to shoot off to work soon so there’s no illustrations at the moment but, depending on how I go this evening, I may just treat you fine folk to some shoddy imagery. 

So self care is a pretty big movement nowadays, bigger than cupcakes and over-the-top doughnuts and even succulents. Because it often incorporates all those things. If you want be hedonistic about baked goods and plants, self care is an excellent way to excuse those purchases as something other than reckless spending to fill the void in your soul. And that’s fine. Self care is different for everyone.

This came up in a conversation with a mate the other day, when she said the self-care is more than scented candles and luxe baths, but about protecting yourself and taking care of yourself. And “taking care of yourself” can sound very vague. It could mean anything. But if you want to get specific – and I often do – about what that means in a practical sense, you’ve got to think small. Like, planning a Bali solo retreat is nice, but then, I’m thinking about the stuff you do everyday. Those little things that make you feel like less of a piece of shit. Essentially, these things you do for yourself that are nice, but probs not the kind of things you’re going to get a lot of likes for Instagram (even if the world can’t see your likes anymore, you still can).

I’ve come up with three mundane, slightly too initiate examples of hardcore, practical self care which came up for me in the past week.

Self care is flossing your teeth. I know, people don’t do every day. Some people don’t do it all. But if you floss your teeth every day, you’re automatically better than those who don’t do it. So not only will you have improved dental hygiene and, by extension, will save money on dental procedures, you’ll also be bolstered by the fact that you’re superior to a significant proportion of scumbags.

Self care is treating yourself to a fresh tampon after you accidentally get poo on the string of the one you had in. Especially when you’re not due for a tamp change for hours. I don’t know if you need to hear this but do hear this: you are too good to be walking around with a pooey string hanging out of you. Would you let a friend do that? No. You’d be horrified and demand your friend take your last tampon just so they didn’t have to endure the ickyness. So be your own horrified friend. Tell yourself that you deserve a clean string – that you deserve more. And when you assert to yourself that, yeah, you are better than a pooey string, your spine starts to straighten. You carry yourself with more power and poise. Sure, you wonder just how low your self-esteem is that you have to assert to yourself that you don’t deserve to have faecal matter dangling from your nether regions, but progress is progress. This is about more than shit and string; this is about the respect you have your yourself. So get that new tampon girlfriend and as you work up into position, whisper to yourself “because you’re worth it”.

Self care is feeling a bit of sticky grit and/or grime between your toes just before getting into bed and, instead of sleeping with filthy feet, getting up and scrubbing those leg hands of yours with a scrubbing brush. Yes, it’s an effort to walk to the bathroom. And quickly holding your feet under a running tap is waaaay faster than getting in there for a good scrub. But you’re worth walking down the hall for. You’ re worth more than a lazy splash under a lukewarm tap. Put in the effort for yourself, my dirty-footed darling. You deserve to go to bed feeing like some kind of luxe goddess, like you’re the daughter of Egyptian nobility who gets carried around on some kind of pillow platform by burly men and bathes in tubs of milk. But, let’s face it, you’re the daughter of Old Mate, you drive a dodgy former family vehicle with a lot of Ks on the clock and you would be devastated to waste that much milk (and, let’s be honest, in the southeast Queensland climate it would start to smell pretty quickly) so scrubbing your feet with soap is the closest you’re going to get to that feeling. Treat yourself.

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Street style

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 2, 2019

The other day I had the chance to be a super cool power woman in a fashion magazine and I blew it.

For years – decades even – I have longed to be featured on the glossy pages of a magazine that tells people what fabrics to swaddle their bodies in and what musical recordings are worth listening to. I have always wanted to appear next to an ad for an overpriced watch or delightfully unnecessary face ointment.

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I just love magazines. Perhaps it’s my background in print journalism, childhood love affair with scrapbooking or my eternal allegiance to capitalism and consumerism, but I love everything about them. The over-the-top photo shoots. The strategic font choices. The artful arrangement of products. The sound the page makes when you rub it between your fingers.

All of it.

And one of my favourite pastimes is reading a magazine interview and pretending that I am the one being interviewed. If you’re new to this column – yes, I AM extremely self-obsessed, still suffering from middle child syndrome and somewhat delusional. You’re bang on. But for those of you who had to endure the church readings/historical drama performances/general show pony antics I forced upon people lucky enough to be around me as I blossomed into adulthood, this is the kind of behaviour you should be used to by now.

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I was walking through Southbank the other day when I was approached by a stylish-looking young woman who asked me to be in the street style section of the Brisbane-based magazine she was interning for.

For those of you whole don’t covet women’s magazines, street style sections are the pages where impossibly fashionable everyday people are featured in a collage of style and sass. They’re stopped on the streets – hence the name – photographed and admired for their fashion choices. It’s a pretty big deal.

I’d just washed my hair the night before. l’d also somehow managed to put myself to bed at a reasonable hour the night before, thus getting enough sleep. And I wasn’t wearing my office socks with my sandals out of the office. As far as I go, I was glowing.

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Did this intern pick me because it was a Friday afternoon and she wanted to get the job over and done with as she had somewhere fabulous to be? It’s best not to think about that.

The fact is that she took my photo and my name and interviewed me about my fashion choices.

But, holy heck, did I blow it.

When I’m the one asking the questions, I’m generally in control (unless those questions are directed at Daryl Braithwaite). But on the other side of the notebook, it turns out I’m a little awkward and flustery.

She asked me what I look for when I buy clothes and I was honest in quite an uncool way. I’m paraphrasing myself here because I repressed the exact events of that interview to protect myself from reliving the shame but I said something along the lines of “Geez I don’t know… I shop at op shops at lot, so I’d go with price, to be honest”.

There were many “umms” and “ehhhs” and the kind of sounds you make when you’re sick and want people to know you’re sick but don’t have the energy to form complete words.

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When she took my photo, I went into complete deadfish mode. It’s like when someone is taking your photo and you don’t know what to do with your hands, but that applies to your entire body. I looked, I imagine, like I was trying to supress the violent release of gas from my multiple orifices.

It was not the effortlessly cool look I had always dreamed I would pull off.

But with a bit of prompting from the intern who definitely should have been paid for the amount of work she had to do in this five-minute interview alone, I think we got winning shot. She assured me it was cute, took my name, contact details and said she’d be in touch. I haven’t heard anything yet which makes me think the editor rightfully decided not to lower the good name of their publication with my presence.

However, even if I didn’t make it to the street style pages, no one can take away the fact that I was approached as a style icon. Which is extremely unfortunate, because this is going to haunt me forever.

Look out for next week’s edition, when I present my How I Should Have Responded to the Cool Fashion Intern to try to make myself feel cooler.

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Booked out

I have problem.

Well, let’s be honest I have many problems; a whole hessian sack of the bastards. But in the lucky dip of issues affecting me, today I’ve decided to yank my book hoarding and ignoring problem out of that mystery bag. Of course, there are other more pressing issues that probably need to be addressed – like the fact that the ulcers in my mouth are making it hard for me to chew – but I reason that, if I have to start somewhere, I should start with the issue I can make a blog post out of.

This problem, I know, is one that a lot of people suffer from. I read an article on the Guardian about it the other day, it’s come up in conversation with friends a few times now and its physical manifestation was confronting enough for a house guest to comment on it during a visit the other night.

I have problems with buying books and not reading them.

I pick them up, marvel at the ways they will enrich my life, shell out good money and then leave them untouched. And I have a lot of them.

I have the luxury of living a complete mess of a life, which means I move around a fair bit and my personal items are scattered between the homes of my various family members. This allows me to forget just how many books I have brought into a life of neglect.

I buy the books, trying to prove to myself that I am an intelligent, cultured and eclectic young woman. I like to think I am well read and my brain sponge longs to soak up the poetic words of others. That I need stimulation I cannot find from entertainment streaming services. In short, that I’m special. But the truth is that I am no longer the avid reader I was in my youth. I am an avid scroller, thumbing trough the numbing abyss of content on my social media feeds.  And every day I feel myself getting dumber. I forget how to spell words. I find myself having to Google words to make sure they mean what I think they mean.

I don’t want to confront the idea that I might actually just be a it of a deadshit, so I’ve prescribed myself with some serious reading to counteract this mental dimness. Reading, I tell myself, will fix this problem. If I replace my screen time with books, I tell myself, all my problems will get smaller. Trouble sleeping? Read. Low energy levels? Read. Crippling anxiety? Read. All communing existential dread? Read.

I’m going to turn it all around, I promise myself. But this means I have to actually pick up a book, shut out everything ease and actually read.

And to do so, I have a knee-high pile of books stacked aggressively on an inconvenient corner of my desk. This is where a good sense of imagination/unhinged mind helps, because I can feel it staring my down when I sit in bed, dicking around on my phone. The inanimate mound glares at me, with piercing judgment. But it’s not just me. A mate who popped round the other night found it just as confronting.

So far, personifying a heap of books has helped – I’ve just crossed over to the second half of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. I mean, it’s an important book, but the subject matter is quite depressing and it doesn’t really compel me to keep enduring it, but then I catch a glimpse at that hostile pile. I feel the burn of the imaginary stink eye and I read to avoid the impossible possibility of making eye contact with the judgmental tower.

Here’s a list of the books I still need to get through:

11:22:63 by Stephen King: This one was leant to me by a friend so I have that next up on my list so I can return it to her.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy: I bought this at the Lifeline Bookfest, because I heard about the movie but don’t think I can handle the visuals of watching post-apocalyptic survivors munging on a baby.

Animal Farm by George Orwell: This is one of those books that I feel like I should have read by now. I don’t know if I will enjoy it, but I will enjoy the smug feeling of having read it, so it seems worth it.

Summer in Caprice by Vladislav Vancura: I bought this book when I was in Prague – yes, I’ve been to Europe – and was swept up by the bookish charm of the quaint streets. This was one of the few books I could find that was written in English, plus the cover had rough illustrations and paint smears. It really spoke to the basic bitch Gilmore Girls loving, art appreciating, different-from-other-girls teenager inside me.

Witches, Midwives and Nurses by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English: Because angry feminist witch is a vibe I can bet behind.

The Weight of Things by Marianne Fritz: I came across a $5 book sale while I was tired and hungry one afternoon and was drawn to the red and pale pink cover.

How to Eat by Nigella Lawson: No explanation needed. I haven’t read this yet because I’m saving it for a treat, but I’ve had it for nearly a year now and still not read a single page, so clearly I need to start being a little kinder to myself.

Invisible Women by Caroline Criado Perez: I’m not ready for how angry this book will make me. It’s a book about the data gender gap, which exists because basically every standard, generic human used for testing models is based on the male. So when car manufacturers test seatbelts, the test dummy is generally a male body or that bullet proof vests are tested on male bodies, meaning they don’t fit well for women. Yeah, it’s going to make me angry and I don’t want to be charged for arson so I have make sure I read it when I can do a lot of running to get my anger out in a non-destructive way.

Judy Garland by Anne Edwards: A juicy tell-all about an old Hollywood icon? Of course I was going to buy it when it was priced at one whole dollar.

For Esme – with Love and Squalor by J D Salinger: I don’t care how clichéd this makes me with my trendy glasses and high-waisted op shop items, I love Salinger. I like the books from the 50s where smoking is glamorous and everyone is from old money. And just when you thought this indie tragic couldn’t get anymore I’m-so-alternative, I bought it at the book market in Berlin across the road from the site of the infamous Nazi book burning. Yeah, I’m that girl.

The Natural Way of Things by Charlotte Wood:The cover is quite pretty and it was going for quite cheap at the Lifeline Bookfest.

Sour Heart by Jenny Zhang: This is was a selection for a now defunct book club I was once part of in my Sydney days. I joined the month after this book was chosen and decided to catch up on my own time.

A Hero in France by Alan Furst:I came across this in a weird $5 book store pop-up just before I went to Europe and thought it would be nice to have some historical fiction to ready on my trip. I didn’t even pack it.

Everywhere I Look by Helen Garner: I heard an interview with Helen Garner on Conversations and was stuck by extreme guilt for not having read a single one of her books. This one was going cheap at the Bookfest.

The Ballad of the Sad Café by Carson McCullers:I can’t even remember buying this one…

Salt, Fat Acid, Heat by Samin Nosrat:This is another book I’ve been saving for treats. It’s just such a beautiful book that I feel like I need to really savour it like a piece of cake and so can’t just read it any old time – it need to be relished in the right setting with the right culinary accompaniment.

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This one made it to print

Two or three squares

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, September 25, 2019

Every day we’re faced with decisions.

Quandaries that require us to stop and think about the person we want to be and the world we want to live in. Predicaments. Challenges. Tests.

Depending on how you look at the world it’s an opportunity for things to break you, or to shape you.

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They come out of nowhere when you least expect it.

Here’s an example. You’re… using the facilities and everything is going according to plan. The toilet paper roll was nearly at the end when you walked in, but there was an ample supply for your specific needs. But upon taking off exactly how much you required for that particular visit, you’ve only left two-to-three squares of toilet paper.

You stare down at them, precariously clinging to the cardboard tube. You know you don’t need to use any more paper.

If it were only one piece, you’d have grabbed it with the rest of your handful of loo paper. But two-to-three squares? That’s a little bit too many to use just for the heck of it.

Using more would be extravagant. Gluttonous. Diva-like. But you catch yourself considering going for an unnecessary wipe like you’ve got toilet paper to burn. Who do you think you are? Mariah Carey?!

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It’s only a few squares, you tell yourself in a bid to make yourself sound like less of a lavish human being. Surely it’s not that big of a deal.

But then remember that wet blanket of a saying that stops you from acting like the selfish clown you know you are deep inside. The saying that rings through your head each time you step over a plastic bag in the street or needlessly extending your shower by 10 minutes (whether or not you’re playing Hillary Duff’s Coming Clean is beyond the point). It’s saying that haunts you into complying with your unreasonable standards. “What if everyone in the world did what you did?” a deep, authoritative voice in your head says coolly, with just enough seriousness to know you’re being judged (by yourself, mind you).

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And then you consider the resources that went into creating that thin, tissuey paper you cleanse yourself with. All the trees. The water. The hours of marketing meetings spent debating the colour of the packaging.

A lot of went into producing the stuff that keeps your bottom clean and you’re going to waste it?!

Then you start doing the maths. If everyone in the world went around using an extra two-to-three squares of toilet paper, the consumption of that resource would go up by a metric s—load. You picture trees being cut down and dams drying up and an elderly Blinky Bill being told to move his family into a block of flats in the inner city.

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It’s all a bit overwhelming.

So you decide the best way to approach the crisis is to do nothing, to leave the toilet paper as it is.

But then you remember that leaving it as it is means leaving that tiny amount of toilet paper for the next person to use the facilities.

And, look, whether you’re a scruncher or a folder, the dregs of a toilet roll isn’t going to be enough for wiping away the concentrated sin purged from human bodies.

If you were to leave the roll as is, you’d set up the next person for disaster. We’ve all found ourselves in a similar situation and it’s fair to say that it’s not pretty.

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So you try to pick between sentencing the next loo user to an unhappy experience or singlehandedly destroying the planet and subjecting Blinky’s family more trauma.

Things get dark and dizzying and you’re suddenly very glad you’re sitting down.

Is this a question of sacrificing the happiness of your loved ones for the greater good? Or, in a world of changing climates and inevitable doom, should you put your family first? Will you be able to live with your decisions?

Then you realise there’s a simple compromise.

You flush, leave the toilet paper where it is and place a replacement roll within arm’s reach of its nearly-expired predecessor and carry on with your day like a normal person.

Good on you.

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