Monthly Archives: March 2023

This one did not, This one made it to print

Smells

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 23, 2022

I bloody love a scented candle. 

Now, I feel like scented candles get a bad wrap for being basic, in the same way having too many cushions or artfully-draped-throw-rugs are deemed basic. 

And you know what? These things are basic.

Cushions and blankets provide comfort and warmth, which are pretty fundamental needs for most beings, particular the human kind who crave tenderness and don’t have thick enough fur to insulate themselves from the cold. 

Scented candles smell good. And good smells are… good, you know?

Like what’s the alterative? Does anyone want to be sitting in a stink cloud? Does anyone enjoy being in a musty house, inhaling faint odours of rotting fruit, old sweat and hot dairy? 

Of course not. 

I think not wanting to experience the discomfort for a yucky smell is a pretty basic human desire. And I don’t think that’s anything to be ashamed of. 

But, let’s be honest, some scented candles are better than others. Some of the smells are great, but others are overpowering, unpleasant or just downright weird. 

And there’s only a few basic food groups of scented candles, like the florals, the herbals, the sweets and the suavely savouries. And they’re supposed to appease everyone. 

I’d like to see scents embedded into wax that fit my specific needs, such as:

The Christmas Smell: There’s be a lot of people who think The Christmas Smell smells like cinnamon and gingerbread and things roasting on the fire. But not to me. And that’s not to say those people are dirty stinkin’ liars, but it’s just that it’s not really THE Christmas Smell, but THEIR Christmas Smell. Because The Christmas Smell is subjective. When I say “it smells like Christmas” the scent that’s tickling my nostrils smells very earthy, but not damp. Kind of like dry peanut shells that have been rained on and then left out in the sun. And that’s not because Christmas Day at my house involves us getting sacks of dirt or spreading out mulch (I’m not saying we’re poor gardeners, but I think anyone who has been to the Maguire House would know we’re not… avid gardeners). My version of The Christmas Smell more smells like a time of year rather than one specific day. And I’m not sure what exactly it is about that pointy end of the year that creates the smell – maybe it’s a certain tree blooming, maybe it’s someone harvesting, maybe that’s actually my true body odour and I can only smell around Christmas because that’s when it gets hot enough for my sweat to overpower my deodorant – but it’s such a good smell.

Phonebook/newsprint: I do love that I love the smell of news print, given I’m an old newspaper woman from way back. It makes me feel like one of them authentic traditionalists in a world of digital natives on these newfangled devices who just don’t get it. But mostly, I like that newsprint smells… academic – it’s a smell that borders on old books but doesn’t quite tick over to musty. It’s like crisp dirt mixed with ink or something. 

Sheets just taken off the clothesline: This is a clean smell you just can’t replicate with a clothes dryer. There’s something about cotton being blasted by the sun that smells not only clean and sanitary but also wholesome, you know? Like, you’re letting Mother Nature sterilise your sheets and neutralise your dank musk that seeps into the weaves of the fabric as you sleep. 

Jasmine: I know that candle companies make floral scents all the time, but I have yet to come across one that smells exactly like that time of year when all the jasmine flowers bloom. It’s a smell that smacks you in the face, but in a good way. 

The washing powder Grandma used to use: Every now and then I cop a whiff of someone’s laundry and it makes me think of my grandmother. I’m not sure what detergent she used to use and she’s not around to ask anymore, so I can never manufacture this smell. I just have to enjoy it when I encounter it. When I smell it, I remind myself it’s just someone’s laundry, but there is definitely a voice in my head rehashing all the dumb things I’ve done recently that Grandma could be trying to tell me off about by conjuring her smell to send me messages from beyond the grave.

Standard
This one made it to print

Voicemails

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 16, 2023

When was the last time you listened to your voicemail message?

Just to be clear, I’m not talking about the voicemails people have left for you which are, more often than is reasonable, ambient recordings of someone fumbling around with their phone, unaware they’re leaving a message. I’m talking about the recording of your voice that plays when someone’s trying to ring you but you’re busy/sleeping/avoiding their call so you can’t answer the phone. 

I’m asking this because I listened to mine the other day for the first time for what could very well have been more than a decade. 

I’d missed a call from a colleague who had to check they had the right number for me because my voice message apparently sounded nothing like me.

And it occurred to me that I didn’t even know what my voicemail message actually said. I assumed it was a polite and informative recording, but I had no evidence to support that assumption. All I had was a vague recollection of a friend telling me that I sounded really young in the message and the realisation that I’d received that feedback a few years ago and did nothing about it.  

I mean, why would I know what my voicemail message says? I never have to call myself and leave a message, you know?!

So I put my phone on loudspeaker and dialled my own number. 

Turns out my message didn’t say who I was. I told people to press has for some reason. And I sounded like a seven-year-old talking while pinching their nostrils closed.  

And, look, as someone who gets about the office in horse print socks with sandals and puts on a lot of silly voices, I’ll admit that I live by a fairly loose definition of professionalism and maturity. But even I have standards. 

I was somewhat concerned to think about how many people had called me and heard that message. Because I’ve had that voicemail message for aaages. 

I’ve had the same mobile phone number since my friends pooled their money to buy a Nokia 3315 for my birthday present going into Grade 8. I’ve had the same brand of phone for the past decade at least, and any time I’ve got a new handset all my settings carry over so I’ve never had to re-record my voice message. So I just… haven’t. 

It makes me wonder how often people update their voicemail messages and if it’s something I should have been doing more regularly.

Like, I haven’t changed my Facebook profile photo in a while. It was taken at a friend’s 21st and my friends and I are now well and truly into The Year Of Thirty. I haven’t changed the way I drink my tea since I started drinking it like 15 years ago. And most of my pop culture references are still from the era of television when The Simpsons was played at 6pm every weeknight.

It just never really occurs to me to update things just for the sake of it. 

And now I’m not really sure what my new voicemail message should say. 

Obviously I’ll include my name and an insincere apology for not answering the phone but what else do I actually need to say?

I mean, people often tell other people to leave their number, but I’m really bad at listening and have to replay the message a few times to jot down their phone number. And, more often than not, you’ll have the redial option of a missed call notification so you don’t really need their number anyway. 

And often I actually don’t want people to leave a voice message because I always forget to listen to them. Texting me would be more convenient and efficient. But saying “heyyy it’s Dmags, sozzies for not answering, text me the deets” or “oi, just shoot me a text hey” probably doesn’t project the level of professionalism I’m going for if someone had to contact me for work. But being too professional and clinical would make me sound like a pompous clown. 

Then there’s the whole dilemma of trying to work out how you actually even change your voice message in the first place. 

It all seems like a bit much. So maybe I might just leave it a while* longer… 

* Yeah, look, I still haven’t changed it. In fact, I don’t even know how.

Standard
This one made it to print

Concert dancing

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 9, 2022

I recently went to a concert. 

Now, for those of you who have been following this dribble (which, obviously, refers to my column) since the beginning, you might think, “oh geez here we go, we’re in for another vomit story”. 

But I would like to point out that at the time of the aforementioned concert, I was in a healthy, (mostly*) unaltered state. And I would also like to point out that, back when I did get sick at that live music event way back in the day, the friendly festival medic put my affliction down to being under the influence of gastro. 

* It was a long time ago, so I can’t really say for sure how much goon had been consumed prior to the gastro infection…

And, besides, this isn’t one of those Dannielle-gets-a little-carried-away-and-vomits stories. I may well be past that. This is actually me passing down some wisdom I’ve acquired during my many trips around the sun. 

Of course, it’s repeatedly been established that I’m in no position to doll out life advice, but I shan’t let that stop me. 

I was at a sparsely-attended gig with one of my sisters, sober and feeling very much out of practice when it comes to being at a gig. Thanks to the pandemic, I was no longer the concert-going manic pixie dream girl I liked to think I was. And while I’d experienced live music since the outbreak of a certain unnamed virus, I was rusty and a little unfit. 

We hung right back from the small, density-limit-contained crowd, positioning ourselves so there was no one within a five metre radius of us. 

And while this was good for social distancing, it did make us feel a little off. 

Usually, back in The Before Days, you’d be right up in the thick of it at a concert. There would be a dense, sweaty clump of humanity that had a certain energy to it. Everyone fed of each other. The vibe was infectious. You couldn’t really help but dance in those circumstances.

But just the two of us on our own meant we had to be our own hype girls. 

And it felt awkward. 

Thankfully, we knew what to do to get ourselves in the mood and it’s something I feel compelled to share here, because it really is a game changer. 

Some old friends of ours had this thing they’d do in a dance floor or concert setting that never failed to get people moving, laughing and scraping the zest from the lemon of life. 

And it’s remarkably simple. 

All you need to do is place an object on the ground and pretend it’s something kind of sacred, kind of dangerous and extremely powerful. You revere it but, once it’s one the ground, would never, ever touch it. 

I used my over-the-shoulder bag on the night in question, but anything will do. A half-full glass of water. A hat. A discarded thong with a busted strap. Whatever is at hand, really.

Once you have your object, you proceed to artistically jump over and dance around it. 

Maybe you skip over it. Maybe you do a box step over it without your feet coming into contact with it. Maybe you circle around it, repeatedly pointing downwards at it like you’re a member of the Wiggles performing an ancient spell. 

Whatever you choose to do, you do not actually touch the object, but come very, very close to touching it and you make it as dramatic and silly as possible. You might start out small and restrained with your movements, but eventually you get sucked in. You loosen up.  You get loose then you get lewse and then you lose yourself to the rhythm. 

I remember one time, back when Big Day Out was still a thing, we deployed this method in rave-like corner of the festival. It started off with just the three of us and we were having so much fun, other people started joining in. It ended up growing so big that, for a second there, it felt like we’d created a new religious cult. 

It works at festivals and weddings and, just putting it out there, would probably go off at my wake. It absolutely worked in this case. As soon as I put my bag down, my sister knew that We Were On. 

And within about 23 seconds, we were loose, limber and very hyped up for the main act to come on. 

So if ever you find yourself wanting to dance, but not quite in the right frame of mind to do so, you know what to do. Trust me. It works.

Standard