Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 16, 2020

My sister and I have a saying. 

Actually, we have a lot of sayings. Most of them (and by “most”, I mean 98.99 per cent) are quotes from the shows and movies we’ve seen 17,000 times over. It has got to the point that, whenever we chat on the phone, we have the same conversation about the ratio of pop culture quotes to original dialogue. About 20 minutes in, we wonder how many shows we’ve quoted. We then wonder if we could go five minutes without a quote and then, inevitably, we fail said challenge.

I mean, if we were quoting Shakespeare or Lord Byron, it would sound as if we were very cultured, intelligent young women. But because it’s quotes from works including Laguna Beach, The Simpsons and Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead (plus the commercials included on the video because the copy we watched so many times was recorded off the TV by Grandma), it makes us sound like a pair of airheaded dingbats. Even though, back in the day, Shakespeare and poetry were once popular culture smut. Makes you think, huh? Like, who the heck gets to decide that a movie about a 17-year-old who fumbles fabulously through an executive role in fashion to save an entire company all while maintaining a relationship with a chilli dog delivery guy is less worthy than a play about two horny teenagers hooking up?!

Anyway, this isn’t the column I sat down to write.

What I was trying to say is that we have this saying in our sisterhood known as “grate the cheese”. 

It’s a phrase we use to describe the menial tasks one does in the kitchen while someone more domineering assumes the lead and becomes head chef. 

It came about from my sister and I cooking things together. I can’t say for certain it was born from a risotto mission, but given our love for the dish and its need for grated cheese, I think it’s a safe bet.

I have what some might describe as a bold confidence when it comes to the kitchen. Others might describe it as dictatorial. Some would say I’m independent, others would say I’m egomaniacal. It depends on who you ask.

Suffice to say that when I know what I’m doing, I’ll go ahead and do it. And so I tend to dominate when in the kitchen. 

The saying came from my sister asking me what she could do to help prepare the dish. I wanted to control the size of the mushroom chunks. Dicing the onion and bacon and sautéing it with just the right amount of butter and oil was something that would take too much explaining. And knowing when to add the rice was something only I knew. 

But there was cheese to be grated. It was something I didn’t feel like doing and something that was had to screw up (I mean, if someone grated so hard their finger skin was mixed in with the strands of Mild Tasty, that would be huge problem, but most people know when to stop). So offered her the job of grating the cheese. 

When we make other dishes together, the vibe is the same, even if there’s no cheese to be grated. I command all the difficult, fun to do jobs for myself, especially if the success of the dish relies on the adequate completion of these steps. My sister will get the less critical jobs. 

This seems to be the way it always goes with us, even when she has started cooking and I join in offering to help. Despite my noble intentions to act as the sous chef, somehow, she ends up grating the metaphorical cheese. And while “I’ll grate the cheese” sounds like it only applies to the kitchen, it can be adapted to pretty much any situation where there can be a leader and… an assistant. Decorating halls for parties. Jazzing up a garden. Planning a hen’s weekend. There’s so many uses for the saying.

But I’m trying to better at stepping back, relinquishing control and being the cheese grater myself.

And because grating the cheese is applicable to so many situations, I think I’m going to take her up on the off-handed, not-sure-if-she’s-serious offer for her to have a go at writing my column one week. She can do all the praise-grabbing fun bits and I’ll do the thankless, behind the scenes task of sub-editing it. 

This is a huge amount of faith I’ll put in her, demonstrating the trust I have in her abilities. And I think it shows how much I’m maturing as a person, you know? Like, it proves that I CAN step aside and let someone take the wheel. That I’m relaxed. That I’m not an unrelenting control freak.

Of course, I’m never going to let her take charge of adding stock to risotto though. I can’t trust her with that.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 9, 2020

I usually have a hard time making decisions. 

When you’re as gifted with overthinking (which, just to be clear, is pretty much the opposite of thinking a lot of smart, rational thoughts but is, rather, thinking a lot of low-quality, irrational thoughts) as me, you become aware of all the possible consequences of the choice you make.

I mean, that’s how you’re supposed to make a decision. You consider the likely outcomes that will arise from choosing Option A or Option B, weigh them up, select one option and then move on with your life.

But, for far too many decisions, I’m unable to follow those steps. The steps usually go: consider the likely outcomes of Option A and Option B, then consider the 14 other different consequences that I will endure as a result of the chain of events set off by choosing Option A or Option B, then consider how much I could possibly regret choosing Option A knowing I could have went with Option B, then weigh up the regret factor if I chose Option B over Option A, then delve into an ethical dilemma about what I could live with, then try to work out what my instincts are telling me, then consider whether I’m attuned enough to my instincts, then fret about how long I’ve taken to decide, panic and then, finally, blurt out an option.

It makes it very difficult to be around me sometimes, particularly when I have to make monumental decisions such as deciding what to order at a café. 

However, there are times when making a decision is easy. 

An example of this is when you’re faced with an alternate drop situation and the options are fish or a big hunk of steak. 

Obviously I’d go for steak.

However, this was an alternative drop situation at a wedding where I knew very few people. My friend was placed across from me at the end of the table and as soon as we sat down, we began eyeing off the menu. 

My friend is no fool. She wanted the steak too. So there was no hope of striking deal with her. 

When the other two people took their seats, the conversation obviously turned to the menu. The person seated next to my friend wanted the steak. The person seated next to me said he wasn’t fussed. 

But I assumed he was being polite.

I don’t know what kind of person can go through life with that kind nonchalance. No one is so easy going as to not have an opinion about which alternate drop meal they’d prefer. The thought of someone not letting something like that impact their day is very difficult to understand. 

I assumed he wanted the steak too.  

And so my best hope was to hope the alternate drop gods would smile down upon me. 

When the mains came out, the bloke next to me happened to be away from the table.

And, sure enough, the steak was placed in front of his empty seat and the fish went in front of me. Without thinking, I swapped the plates over, cackling madly with my friend and our new friend sitting next to her.

But then, the over thinking set in.

Option A was eating the steak and pretending nothing happened. Option B was swapping the plates back over. The consequences of Option A was a delicious meal followed by a night of guilt and another notch in the “bad person” tally I assume is being added to by some kind of cosmic accountant who will determine my fate in the afterlife. Also, there was the potential I’d create a lifelong enemy and this man works in the same industry as me, so that could negatively impact my career. What if he carried out career sabotage as revenge? What if he rose in the ranks to a position of supreme power and was on a hiring committee I found myself in front of in years or decades to come? Was the steak THAT good? And, leaving vengeance aside, what if I spoiled his night. Could I live with that? Option B, however meant having a nice but less steak-y dinner and then moving on with my life. 

So, in the end, I swapped the plates back. 

My friend and the guy sitting next to her made over-the-top gestures about how good their steaks were and that definitely stung but, in the end, I know I made the right choice. 

Maybe I’m making progress? 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 2, 2020

I’ve been having trouble with ants lately. 

The little stinkers have been getting into my honey, even though it was stashed in a clean jar with no drips and stashed up high in a kitchen cabinet.

I mean, they’ve getting pouncing on the odd crumb here and there, but they seem to have a radar specifically geared towards detecting the location of my honey.

And this hurts.

I use honey instead of sugar for my tea and I really, really love a good cup of tea. Like, to the point that I’ll let out one of those deep, throaty groans you might expect to hear in a low-budget romance movie when taking my first sip. I get particularly vocal after a long day at work, something my housemate has become acutely aware of in recent months since his working-from-home office is just metres away from the kitchen.

I mean, I’ll have sugar in my tea in a pinch, but it’s just not as good. 

So I have to protect the honey I have. Because it’s not just any old store-bought, comes-from-a-squeezy-bottle honey. It comes in three kilo buckets from Warwick. 

It’s the good stuff.

I can’t get it at my local supermarket; I have to secure my supply of this highly valuable substance from a long-term fruit-and-veggie-distributing associate and make a special trip to pick up the goods from my dealer/mother. 

At the moment I’m wary of visiting her because the tough little nugget has already had more than enough trips to the hospital and, in These Uncertain Times, I’m even more wary of the filth I expose her to (in this case, I’m referring to the coronavirus, but “filth” could also be linked to my previous taste in music, cheap perfume that somehow smelled like a sugary migraine and, let’s be honest,  the things that come out of my mouth in general).

So when I get my hands on good honey, it becomes one of my most-valuable assets.

And when ants get into said precious resource, it’s a big problem. 

Like, I know they’re only insects but they’re infesting my food source, an invasion of which should be interpreted as nothing less than an open act of war. 

I mean, a rogue crumb on the bench is unclaimed and therefore fair game. But to mount a covert operation to sneak into a cabinet to pillage my supplies crosses a line. There’s no peace treaty or mutually-agreed border deals both parties have signed, but they know what they’re doing.

So when I saw them all over the honey jar the other day, I unleashed fury. 

I rinsed them off in the sink and erased their supply lines with a disinfectant spray and a damp cloth. 

But then I was hit by a wave of guilt. 

Maybe it’s because I’m a deeply empathetic, caring person with a compassionate spirit or maybe it’s because my housemate was watching Antz last week, but I couldn’t help by think about the devastation I’d inflicted on the ants. I mean, the disinfectant I had was basically vanilla-scented metho and even though it smelt lovely, drowning in a glob of the stuff would be less than pleasant. And being washed down a dark and slimy drain was a death sentence that is truly the stuff of nightmares.

I stared down into the sink as the mangled ant corpses and felt like a monster. 

After all, they were only trying to feed their ant families.

But, more importantly, I feared what would happen if the other ants saw the destruction. What if, instead of collecting food, they focused their efforts on bloody, pincer-y revenge and joined forces together with other colonies in the area to launch a reprisal attack?

I mean, one or two ants biting your armpit would be unpleasant but not deadly, however, it’s worth considering the estimated ant to human ratio is one million ants to one human (well, according to the first answer that came up on Google). I mean, if they put their minds to it, they could potentially takeover the world. 

So, wracked with my constant companions of guilt and fear, I decided to try to be a more benevolent enemy. 

I decided to keep the honey in the fridge, because I had to protect what was mine, but I vowed to no longer rinse my foes down the drain. And when I saw a bunch of them picking a bit of egg yolk I dropped into the sink I kept my word. I let them be and found I had a much easier job of cleaning the mess after they’d taken their share.  

Hopefully, the colony noted my mercy and resolved to stand down any attacks. Because I think the last thing we need this year is for humanity to be overpowered by ants. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, August 26, 2020

Do you every watch stand up comedy and wonder if the stories they’re telling up there on the stage are true?

Lately, I’ve been finding myself wasting literal hours watching videos on my social media feed. One video ends but then another one pops up in its place and on and on and on it goes until it’s three hours past your bedtime and you can feel the inside of your eyelids. I do this and inevitably the social media gods serve me up an endless streams of loud, bitter women and their feminist comedy (which is weird, because social media platforms are supposed to have algorithms that predict the kind of stuff you like and feed you content that mirrors your way of seeing the world and they’re feeding snarky women jokes to me?!…*if you cold imagine the bad joke drum sound effect right now, that would be very helpful).

Anyway, so I find myself watching these snippets of stand up routines and some of them go into stories that sound very specific to them. Like, they talk about a set of wanky parents at their child’s school or one of their hot mess friends. They name them and mimic their mannerisms. And it makes me wonder that, surely, that person can’t be real. 

Because as bold and ballsy as these comedians may be, I don’t think anyone would be brazen enough to name and roast someone on a global comedy tour and not crumble when they ran into them at the school gate.

So these people are either given pseudonyms or these hilarious encounters are totally made up.  

I mean, that’s fine, I suppose if you’re watching these comedy acts and you don’t know the person up on stage. You can suspend belief and tell yourself that, yes, it’s possible for someone to deliver with the most hilarious, cutting comeback known to man spontaneously, when we all know the good comebacks don’t actually come to you until three days after the fact, when you’re ranting about the situation to yourself in the privacy of your car. You could pretend that they actually did run into a character so ridiculous down at the shops. You can believe that these intense parents actually exist.

But when you know the person, it’s uncomfortable. 

I once went with a group of friends to watch a comedian we knew. I thought he was a pretty funny guy until he started telling this story about a flatmate. He went into great detail about this flatmate’s characteristics and this bizarre scenario and we sat there horrified. 

Because we knew he didn’t have one of those flatmates. We knew he lived with his girlfriend. And so, knowing that fact, we made the reasonable assumption that this anecdote he was articulating was a complete fabrication. 

The whole act was just that; an act. 

And I guess that’s fine. It definitely would take more brainpower to invent a whole funny scenario and flesh out characters and all that jazz than just retelling something that happened to you. But knowing for sure that this story definitely wasn’t real sucked the humour out of the situation for me. I felt this overwhelming urge to call old mate out and alert the others that they were being fed lies. 

This is extremely annoying, because it forces me to apply the same standard to this column. Because while I don’t know every single person in town, I know many readers would be able to see right through any untruths I wrote here. 

So everything I write here has to be stone cold truth*.

* Plus, I’m a strong believer in honesty** being the best policy.

** I’m also a believer in replacing the word “honest” with Hon Hon***, because I have a friend with a last name we’ve adapted to gift him his infamous nickname Hon Hon. I recommend giving it a go some time.

*** I’m not sure whether he endorses this or not.

The problem with this is that, after so long doing this, I’m worried my subconscious is coercing me to do column-able things. Like, what if I was actually making myself into an awkward mess on purpose to generate content? Maybe I’m actually a sensible, competent person underneath it all but I’m secretly tricking myself into being the personification of a lead fart. 

I thought this today, when I ended an encounter with a new co-worker by saying, “I guess I’ll see you around… in this place… where we work together…” before trailing off and then just exiting the situation as my other co-workers laughed at my god-awful social interaction attempt.  

Like, this isn’t me bragging, I’m genuinely concerned, I have a degree in communication, and this is the kind of crap I pull?

I mean, I genuinely don’t know what I’d prefer: me gaslighting myself or me genuinely being… me. 

Ugh.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 12, 2019

It’s Father’s Day, I’m pretty disorganisaed and I’m at work today so I can’t see Dad. My father is a big character in my life and makes for excellent content. His…lifestyle choices are very entertaining and documenting his way has earned him quite the following on my Instagram account (which is to say, the people who already follow me enjoy the posts about Macca). I’ve chalked up a lot of well-lilied Insta posts about him throughout the years, but I think the column below is my favourite thing I’ve written about him. I posted it on this blog more than a year ago but I’m feeling sappy and lazy enough to give it another run.

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 got 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.

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).

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.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, August 19, 2020

This is the kind of column that comes from having very, very little going on in your life but you’re still trying to optimise all activities so you have more time do… nothing. Observe as I exploit a mundane cleaning task and monetise it in a bid to maximise satisfaction.

The other night I cleaned out my handbag.

I felt I had too much gear in there and needed to free myself of the excess stuff. So I made an inventory of all the stuff in my bag and then determined what was worth returning to my sack of personal items and what needed turfing. Here’s how that process went:

A belt that needs attention: It’s my pony belt; an iconic buckle I bought a good 10 years ago. It had a really flimsy strap which started to deteriorate, but an old family friend hooked me up with a sweet leather strap, extending its life significantly. He wouldn’t let me pay him for his craftsmanship, so I baked him a batch of gingerbread to say thanks. When his wife returned the container, she gave me a leather key ring. It’s a cracking belt not only because it features a free-spirited horse galloping with the wind in its mane, but because it usually gets a compliment and that gives me the opportunity to tell this story. It was especially fantastic when I was living in Sydney, when I really got off on holding my quaint AF Clifton upbringing over those city slickers.

Headphones: So I don’t have to hear other people’s boring conversations on the train, and as a cover for when I’m eavesdropping on other people’s dramatic conversations on the trains (fun fact: no one can tell when you’ve paused your music if you just play it cool).

An empty water bottle: Because I’m trying really hard to keep my withered body a little more hydrated.

Roll-on deodorant: It’s actually the stuff that’s kind of like a softened bar of soap that you smear on your pits to create the illusion of cleanliness. Not one you really want to be sharing with mates.

A reusable shopping bag

Four assorted water flavourings: because I’m a child and sometimes need sugary sweetness to convince me to drink water.

A novelty strawberry shaped tea infuser: See above.

One of those detangling brushes

One scrunchie: Because sometimes the hair ties on your wrist unexpectedly blow out.

An Acres of Opportunity stubby holder: Because being caught without one really takes the enjoyment out of a cool beverage.

A mini sanitiser bottle: Because it was free and that stuff is like gold in These Uncertain Times.

Two crumpled shopping lists

A light-blocking sleeping mask: I’m guessing this is for preparedness in case I found myself on a plane and wanting to nap. I mean, I often find myself wanting to block out the world and nap, but the plane thing isn’t looking all that likely these days…

A mini torch that doesn’t work: Which would be soul crushing if I found myself in the bottom of a well with only the contents of my handbag as survival tools. How I would curse myself for not replacing the batteries.

A peg: For emergencies.

Strong antihistamines: Cause I’m one itchy son of a sausage.

Three business cards: The best being for a floating cat shelter.

Two receipts I didn’t need to take: But I did anyway to avoid checkout awkwardness.

Three sets of house keys: Two of them are on bottle openers, which make them extra useful.

A pack of visitor calling cards: Because I’m a classy broad. Although, I’ve only ever used one.

A small pack of post-it notes: For important messages that MUST be stuck to surfaces.

Various toiletries: well, it be more specific, a spare hotel toothbrush; mini toothpaste; a lipgloss I got free with a magazine and never used; paw paw ointment; three tampons; three face wash free samples; three moist towelettes from a chicken vendor; 19 bobby pins; a glasses wipe; one clean but crumpled tissue; cold sore cream; and dermatitis cream.

Two ginger lollies: For settling troublesome tums.

Two pens: I’m disgusted; I thought I’d have more.

A sewing kit: Good thing airports aren’t really a thing right now, because I had no idea this was there and it has A LOT of pointy things in it.

And here are the things that didn’t go back in: the tissue, the receipts, two rogue post-its and the torch, but I’ll probs return the torch to the bag if I remember to replace the batteries. The rest is essential. Obviously.