Last night I went out to dinner with a friend and when we were done, I felt like staying out a little later. I ended up buying a movie ticket, but found I had about an hour to kill until it started.

So I did what anyone else would do: I sat myself down and had a second dessert… and texted myself.

I had some thoughts and I thought I’d record them. And because recording voice memos in the back of a café wouldn’t have been socially appropriate (and may have raised some suspicions among the patrons), I sent them via text.

Like, I fired them off to myself because I thought they’d make good fodder for a blog post and having them on hand would save me from having to think up something later tonight. And they have been very helpful.

But upon reflection and over-analysis, the texts are very telling.

Because it turns out that I can’t even take myself out for a nice evening without establishing that I’m a down-to-earth, humorous person or making it clear how unique and aloof of a character I am. It was almost like I was on a date with myself, putting on the “this is Dannielle” act for my brain.

Here are the things I was texting myself:

Just read a story about a designer who started her collection after being “frustrated with the lack of good napkins in the marketplace”.

What an odd thing to be frustrated over. Like, you can be frustrated over your nagging cough or the state of the education system or the man in the checkout line whose is breathing through his nose with a dangling shard of snot obscuring the sound of is breath. Those all seem like legitimate things to be frustrated over. But a lack of “good napkins”? Righto mate. *

* Look how relatable I am. Calling things out as wanky. Pointing out that there are real problems in the world. I’m so informed and insightful!

“Be adventurous”, readers are told in regards to styling table settings. Like it’s a sex life or a holiday choice.

It’s worth noting that I am sitting in a patisserie with powder blue walls where you pay a good seven bucks for a vanilla slice. And that’s not to say the vanilla slice – which, by the way, is called something else in a different language and comes dolloped with a decadent cream – isn’t delicious. It was worth every cent. And the powder blue walls are attractive. The seating is comfortable and the place is generally charming.

But it’s not the kind of place where the lady behind the counter calls you “darl”.*

* I’m from the country, therefore I’m more authentic than you.

It’s also worth noting that I’m in this place by myself on a Saturday evening* – date night – eating a slice that looks as if it were portioned to be split by two**. My skirt cost about four bucks from Vinnies*** and I’ve got two spare hair ties around my wrist. I’m listening to Christmas carols, and the song that just played was Feliz Navidad, sung by cats.

*I’m so independent

** I eat food. I’m such a real woman.

*** I buy vintage clothes. I’m cool. I’m climate conscious. I have a personal style. I’m better than those hordes of other girls, mouths in the troughs of fashion gruel that is consistently pumped out.

The point is not how pathetic/cool I am (this clearly is a subjective perception and I shan’t try to lead you, dear reader, towards either end of the spectrum – that’s a decision you’ve probably already made by now).

The point is perhaps that I’m not the intended target audience.

Definitely not the target audience. I ended up listening to cats meowing Feliz Navidad twice.*

* Apparently it was important for me to empathises my poor choice in Christmas carols. I guess I’m just edgy.

 I mean, I guess it worked. I ended up taking myself out to a movie and took myself home to bed.

But it’s now more than 24 hours later and I still haven’t got a text from myself…

It’s Sunday.

And it’s Dannielle-asks-herself-questions-she-finds-on-the-internet-time.

Apparently, that specific time is 10.13pm – which is late for someone who has an alarm set for 5.35am.

So in order to make this as painless as possible, I’m restricting myself to just a few minutes of blatant self-indulgence. You see, I no longer have access to a bath tub, so the time I would usually have spent bathing in bicarb soda and my own literal filth will be spent metaphorically soaking in my own filth. Yes, let me cloud up the waters with my salty bodily juices and the dirt of the day. Relax and breathe deeply as you let this sweaty soup seep into your pores!

Tonight, I’m going with questions you should ask someone on a first date. Because, what with the wonders of Sunday trading, Sunday night can be date night too.

Hop on in, the water’s fine!

What really makes you laugh? There’s a video of YouTube of a person in a shark costume dancing to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie. The video is called Shark Ira. It’s excellent.

Favourite piece of furniture? That would have to be the table my sister and I picked up at the dump when I was living in Armidale. I think it was an old school tables because it had the tidy tray shelf under the tabletop where you could keep coloured pencils/secrets. We sanded it back, painted it and made it look slightly less scummy. My favourite thing was telling any guest I had over how much it cost. Just $15, in case you were wondering.

Most detestable household chore? Removing food clumps out and bits of hair out of the sink. My long, darkish hair always looks rank after spending a few weeks down a drain and yanking it out reminds me of that scene from The Ring where Naomi Watts vomits up a lock of hair.

But, oddly enough, one of my favourite household chores is pulling my hair out of the vacuum cleaner. If I leave it to build up for a few weeks, it turns into this filthy yet impressive dreadlock. I mean, it’s gross and I don’t enjoy handling it, but it’s oddly enthralling to see just how long it gets.

Worst ice cream flavour? The worst existing ice cream flavour would have to be mint. But I can think of much worse ice cream flavours that probably don’t exist, like corned beef or big toe skin. So I guess mint isn’t that bad in comparison. It’s always good to put things in perspective, hey?

What are you looking forward to? Going to bed.

This isn’t an apology like all my usual later Sunday evening posts.

Nope.

I will not apologise for being too hungover to come up with a coherent, witty piece for you. I shall not beg for forgiveness because I’m too tired to sit up and force out a mediocre 500-word ramble.

I’m not going to try to half arse my Sunday post.

Instead, I’m going to view this a preview. It’s not an afterthought, buy a tantalising taster for a piece that could come tomorrow or in two days’ time. Granted, I’ve no clue what my yarn will be about, but that’s not important.

What’s important is that after years of hoping listlessly, the planets finally aligned for me last night. Something magical happened. Souls united. Hearts exploded. The world finally made sense.

I got a photo of the three Colleens from Clifton together.

I have achieved that long-held goal and it was every bit as wonderful as I thought it was going to be. What’s my next goal?

To master needlework. This is important to me.  Years and years ago now I noticed the section in the Clifton Show pavilion competition called “adult needlework” and thought about how fantastic it would be to enter a pornographic cross-stitch in the show. And since then, I’ve fostered this little dream to finally grab life by the balls and create a raunchy scene with a needle and thread.

The thing is that now, after seeing that achieving my goals is possible, I have this fire inside me. It’s the fire of confidence. It’s the fire of determination. It’s the fire of purposeful misinterpretation.

I have about three months to make this happen.

Let’s see what I can do.

I realise that today is a Tuesday.

It’s the day for tacos and treating yourself and, maybe, an alliteration-based excuse for pharmacies to push tinea ointment.

It’s generally not a day when you are gifted with an update on my fabulous cluster fuck of a life.

But I can explain.

You see, I moved over the weekend and I’m still all over the proverbial shop.

I may have most of my worthless possessions in one place now (except of course for an entire house’s worth of stuff that’s still at my parents and my festival kit – an esky and gumboots – sitting under my sister’s house) but that doesn’t have the calming affect I would have liked.

Because I’m living in a room with no built in wardrobes.

Now, I’m aware that’s not a massive deal. A rational person might just have bought wardrobe when while they were in Ikea for FOUR HOURS on Saturday, but you and I both know I’m not that kind of girl.

I’m the kind of girl who still thinks she’s going to take off into the sunset one afternoon following some kind of dramatic but endearing emotional breakdown and follow the coastline home. “Home” in this scenario would not be a place, but a corner of my heart. It will be a journey that will lead to a book that will lead to a Jennifer Lawrence film* and an hour special with Oprah. And I can’t be so Angus and Julia Stone-esque carefree if I’m weighed down with furniture, you know?

Once you buy furniture you lose your Holly Golightly aroma of mystery and adorable waifishness. You’re no longer an eginmatic riddle of a woman, but just another lonely spinster with a stinky old cat.

Nope, you have to remain aloof and rootless.

And this is all well and good when all you wear are little black dresses, but when you’re an op shopper with hoarder tendencies things become a little tricky. There’s no order. There’s nowhere to hang your sequinned top or store your pony jumper. Everything you have is strewn across the floor.

I’m very well aware that my life is a mess but I don’t want this reflected in my décor. I prefer to keep my possessions in order to give me the illusion that my personal affairs are also neat and tidy. Perhaps this kind of diversionary logic is why my life is currently in the state it’s in. Who’s to know?

Having things haphazardly shoved in a corner isn’t just unslightly, but it eats away a my very soul. I think that’s why I haven’t slept very well over the last we nights. The disarray is haunting me. It is destroying me. In fact, if anyone ever tried to torture information out of me, this might be the quickest way to break my spirit and bring about a confession.

So this afternoon I did the best I could to put my blob of clothing into some order. My shirts are folded in a laundry basket under my bed. I have my skirts hanging on a clothes rack. My DVDs are lined up neatly along the wall.

Sure, it’s far from worthy of those homewares magazines they have in doctors’ waiting rooms, but at least it’s vaguely functional. Again, just like my life.

Now all I need is my path-alternating breakdown to inspire my book and then I might be able to afford a wardrobe.

Any day now.

* I say Jennifer Lawrence because I generally like what she’s about, plus I’m hoping that by the time I get around to making a movie about my pathetic life she might be going through a lull and will take on any role to revive her career. I’m also hoping that we become close friends as a result of our collaboration and go on to take awesome holidays together in our 40s.

I have been vindicated.

This rant is a long one so please, do make yourself comfy. There’s a lot of times I could have gone with the “to cut a long story short” option in the piece, but then my yarn would be condensed to a paragraph and much less humiliating for me. And no one wants that.

So please, boil the kettle and find yourself a pillow.

The other day I came home from work, treated myself to a cup of tea and a read a bit of Nigella Express – Nigella Lawson’s book where she details her most half-arsed but lovingly-created recipes for people who don’t want to fuck around cooking for half the night but also don’t want to eat crap. It’s excellent and I’ve been reading it like a novel lately.

Reading Nigella is like curling up with a big bowl of macaroni and cheese with a scented candle burning – it’s just so soothing and comforting. After watching so many of her shows last year, I now hear her voice when I read the delightful blurbs that accompany her recipes. Her words are like my godmother telling me to take care of myself and not in the “eating your greens” and “keep the apartment door locked” kind of way. It’s the kind of “take care of yourself’ that’s about loving yourself and going easy on yourself and being kind to little old you after a hard day. I love reading her justifications for decadence. “I can’t defend my doughnut French toast from a nutritional point of view, certainly,” I imagine her saying in her warm, understanding way, “but know it has to exist”.

Brilliant.

Anyway, I was getting to the tail end of the book when I reached the Christmas drinks recipes. And amongst the gingery fizz and ode to eggnog was something called rouge limonade.

And you want to know what that is?

Red wine and lemonade.

This is huge for me personally.

You see, as a thirsty, tight-arsed uni student, I was one to mix a little lem and red together.

My friend and I would routinely sign up to attend the formal dinners held by our brother college. These dinners were surprisingly swanky (well, Queensland college swanky anyway…) and would see a whole bunch of wine bottles plonked on the tables of guests. Guests like my friend and I who had very little interest in the guest speakers brought in to inspire the leaders of tomorrow. We weren’t there to network or be motivated to become better people. We were there for the wine.

Only, I hated wine. Sure, I could double-fist glasses of champs until the bar tab ran out at balls but that’s only because of the soft-drink-like fizz. And I would smash a goon bag out of necessity, but even then I would attempt to mask the rank taste of bad choices and paint thinner.

White wine tasted like foot vinegar to me. Red wine was like prune-infused brine.

But I loved being drunk. It was one of the closest things I had to a hobby at the time. So I did what I could to mask the taste of the potent reds tempting us at the dinner table. And being a resourceful young woman, I worked with what I had: lemonade.

I mixed the two together and found it more than bearable. It was actually kind of good.

Now, people scoff at this. They think it’s the ultimate white trash. I’m classless. Scum. I have a palate with the sophistication of a five-year-old daycare kid who licks the other children.

I would reason that it tasted good. I tried to explain the merits of a sweeter, more carbonated red. I justified the combo as a way to make a heinous metho-grade red more palatable. I would argue that it was simply sangria without the menacing fruit pieces.

And yet, people continued to scoff.

But now I have been exonerated.

Not only has my drink been legitimised by a world-famous cook, but it even has a name. And fark me, apparently it’s even something they do in country France. Country France. That’s the epitome of quaint. “It’s not chic, but it’s thirst-quenching,” the goddess herself writes. She even agrees that it is a “major help at a party”, a claim which I have plenty of anecdotal evidence to back up.

Suddenly, I feel all my other “laughable” concoctions could be just as authoritative. My onion and bacon swelter, my tiger toast depression cure, heck, even my favourite childhood sandwiches (Maggi two-minute noodles on white bread with lots of butter). And all it seems that all takes to legitimise this is to put it in print.

That’s it, I’m writing my own cookbook.

Welcome to self-aware Sunday.

It’s the day when I am acutely aware of how much time I’ve frittered away and want to be productive while doing the least amount of work possible.

Today’s post come to you from a dark place; a place where I’m hungry, can’t decide what to have for dinner, am trying to save money and only have onion and bacon in the fridge.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to have onion and bacon for dinner but I decided to delay this final decision by being “productive” and answering a bunch of questions Marah Eakin from AV Club asked David Hasselhoff.

Because apparently the best way to boost my self esteem is to compare my answers to The Hoff. Yep, I’m going to try to be more interesting than the guy who sung at the breaking of the Berlin Wall and had a guest appearance in the Spongebob Squarepants movie. Righto mate.

Seriously. Google “David Hasslehoff 11 questions” and it will come up. Compare the answers. Then judge yourself.

But first please forget that I’m having onion and bacon for dinner and imagine me with ripped abs. Please. 

Which movie/TV world would you live in?

Gilmore Girls. I long for a world where the diner food is fabulous and doesn’t make you fat. Where my education involves blue plaid and facing off with Harvard. Where the grandparents are rich. Where journalism is revered. Where everyone listens to alternative indie music. Where coffee is tasty. I want it all.

But honestly I’d just settle for having a Kirk figure in my life. That’s kind of what I’m lacking and it’s making me worry that if I don’t have a Kirk, I could be the Kirk in someone else’s story. That frightens me.

Fave curse word? 

I’ll just go ahead and put it out there that I drop a C-bomb from time to time. Sure, I’m not going to say it in front of my mother if I can help it, but I will employ such verbal weaponry from time. I don’t know why it should be a word that only the menfolk should use and women should shun.

I just hate when guys are like all “this girl just said the C word”. I don’t care if this impresses them or disgusts them. Yes. I’m a woman. Who swears. I also drink beer and bake cakes and farking just sit down mate.

Ever been given shitty advice?

I actually can’t think of any bad advice I’ve been given right now. But some good advice I once received was from my former editor: never use the word “got”. There are so many other more specific words available to use instead.

I mean, I often use it in copy now because it’s in line with my conversational writing style but it makes for a good personal challenge. I feel like it keeps you sharp. Honestly, try not to use the word “got” for a day. See how much more aware it makes you of your use of language.

Another challenging on to try is cutting out all “like”s. Lena Dunham’s English teacher gave her the challenge and look where she is now. She once had Donald bloody Glover play her love interest, for crying out loud. Obviously, I’m terrible at this challenge too, but give it a crack. Even for an hour.

If by some miracle you both got into med school and finished med school, what sort of doctor would you be?

An OBGYN. Partly because I’ve been watching a lot of The Mindy Project lately, partly because I think I’ve got the dark humour that I think the profession of gynaecology could really use and also because I’d like to be a bit of a women’s health advocate. There’s so much weird shame about vag stuff and sexual health that just shits me to tears.

Like, being responsible about my sexual health is my hobby. Sure, pap smears are uncomfortable and the LAST thing you want to be doing hung over, but you want to know what else is uncomfortable? Being dead because of cervical cancer.

What would the ultimate Sunday involve for you?

It ranges from two ends of the spectrum. On one end would be day drinking, warm sunny weather, a water slide and probably some kind of meat rotisserie over a fire. On the other end of the scale would be a rainy day (and I’d be under a tin roof), multiple episodes of Grand Designs and Midsomer Murders and a batch of pumpkin scones.

I also like knowing that I have lunches ready for the week ahead on a Sunday, so I guess my ideal Sunday would involve someone preparing my lunches for me. And, since this is an ideal world, those lunches would be both delicious and result in the kind of rapid weight loss you could only achieve by investing a poisonous substance. Like, these lunches would make me so skinny people would start to worry about my health. Which is the dream, really: being thin and free compassion.

And since we’re talking ideal, why stop at organised meals? Why not throw in a few cups of tea with David Attenborough and a really powerful interview with the Olsen twins?!

What do you hate? 

People who illegally download shows. Like, why do you expect to get all your content for free without either paying for it or being exposed to ads? Like, does the world owe you this entertainment? Who the shit do you think you are?!

What advice would you give to a young Dannielle? 

Invent Facebook. I really dropped the ball on that one.

The last two bonus questions resulted in the following thoughts:

One: My last three-way phone call was probably in Grade 7. I would have been with my best friend and another girl from school, organising the next sleepover. People don’t really do three-way chats anymore, hey?

Like, that’s actually an excellent call function and people just stopped doing it. I think it’s a really efficient means of communication, especially now that everyone genuinely only has two friends anyway.

Two: I think I’m serious mostly because it fits in with the characters I generally try to model my personality after. Sometimes it’s adult Sam in Now and Then, sometimes it’s Rory from Gilmore Girls and sometimes it’s Meg Ryan in any Nora Ephron movie.

Unfortunately this generally comes across as a bogan Daria Morgendorffer with a people-pleasing complex.

I sit down to write this piece during an interesting moment in history. There’s revolution in the air. A movement is gaining momentum. The tides are turning.

Earlier today I was alerted to a news report by a friend: cob loaves are back, the headline suggested.

Back in fashion. Back in demand. Back on people’s coffee tables.

And I can’t say this extra publicity for the world’s favourite bready dip isn’t welcome. It’s important to spread the word and reach as many people as possible.

But at the same time, the cobloaf has never been out of fashion. It has been a part of my life, and the lives of many of my comrades for decades now.

I don’t write this to say, “I liked them before they were popular”, because that would be untrue. They’ve always been popular.

As a dip that brings people together, a cob is an essential addition to any gathering of people. It’s a vital ingredient to any family get together. Everyone dips from the same bready basket of cheesy wisdom. Its very nature promotes harmony and inclusivity. So, if we’re going to be honest, it’s fair to say that the cob is a crucial element to our very democracy.

Cobloaves have always been there.

And so, to honour this noble dip, I’m going to use this Sunday/Monday post to share my recipe.

What you need:

• A cob loaf – or any large singular bread roll from the bakery
• One large brown onion
• Five of six bacon rashers
• A knob of butter
• Olive oil
• A box of chopped, frozen spinach
• A tub of sour cream
• A tub of cream cheese
• Several reckless handfuls of grated cheese – a mix of mozzarella and tasty Bega will do
• A kind, noble heart

Step 1

Slice the top off the bread loaf – about one third of the way down from the top. You want to be able to fit as much cheesy love gunk as you can in this honeypot, so don’t cut too far down. If you do this, you will bring dishonour to your household.

You also want to keep the top part – think of it like a lid – in one piece. So don’t fuck that up either.

Step 2

Tear out the innards of the bread, as if ripping the gizzards from the gullets of your enemies. Try to tear the pieces into structurally sound, load bearing chunks. They should be thick enough to support the weight of the dip, but not so large that there’s only a handful of pieces.

Make sure you don’t rip too close to the edges –the last thing you want is a breach. Think like a water tank – have heavy duty, thick walls as the base, because that’s where the pressure is.

Step 3

Arrange the pieces of bread on a baking tray and toast them in a medium-heat oven. You can put the hollow loaf and top on a tray too, but I like to spend more time eating cob than I do washing up, so I just chuck the loaf and lid in on the grate.

There’s no hard and fast baking time for this part, because the level of toastiness one prefers for their bread is a deeply personal thing. I would never try to force my own beliefs about bread darkness on anyone. Just keep an eye on your bread and bring it out when it has reached your desired level of golden brown.

Step 4

Dice your whole onion, and cut the bacon into similar-sized chunks.

Step 5

In a medium-sized saucepan, tip a good, Jamie Oliver sized glug of olive oil and throw in the butter. Then pile in the onion and bacon. Sweat this down until the bacon starts to brown and the onion gets slightly crisp.

Step 6

Chuck in that spinach and sire it around until it melts.

Step 7

Dump in the sour cream and cream cheese. Enjoy the satisfaction that comes with being able to get it out of the tub all in one piece – if you can mange it. This feat of perfection and soulful serenity must be savoured. So drink it in. Maybe even light a post-coital cigarette.

Gently stir all the creamy goop together until it becomes one creamy universal force of love.

Step 8

Finish off this saucepan of delight by dumping in your grated cheese. I find that three big handfuls and then a few liberal sprinkles will do the trick.

I will say this, however: go easy on the mozzarella. Probs aim for a ratio of 1:3 with your grated block. If you have too much, the dip will be too stringy and make it difficult to get a clean break from the cob. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but chose your company carefully if you go extra on the mozzarella because some people view wrapping mozzarella around their fingers to break away from the dip as uncouth. Actually, maybe try to avoid these people to being with. They aren’t worthy.

Step 9

Place the hollow, toasty loaf on a serving platter and arrange the bread pieces around it. Tip in the hot, cheesy mess from the saucepan.

Step 10

Eat until you no longer care about the worries of the world and transcend into a cosmic state of peace.

Bonus cob stories:

Cob yarn one: I made a cobloaf last night for a barbecue my housemate was having. There were dips. There were pretzels. There were plain flavoured (my favourite flavour) chips. Fark me, there was even halloumi.

But my addition to the table was by far the most anticipated.

I was queen of the barbecue.

Cob yarn two: On my 23^rd birthday, I was in Armidale and didn’t have too many mates around to celebrate the monumental moment in history when I was born. I also had to work. So I decided to bring the party to my desk in the only way that seemed appropriate: by making a birthday cob, with candles and everything.

I Instagrammed this, because my life is nothing if its not seeking the approval of my peers to justify my misery and reinforce my delusions of wit and relevance. I got 42 likes, which was pretty good for back then. By comparison, my graduation post (featuring my two degrees and a Hungry Jacks crew member of the month certificate) only fetched 40. But please feel free to scroll through my account and give me an extra like. Even though it was nearly three years ago, I could still use the self-esteem boost to lessen the deep emotional scarring from that dark, dank period of my life.

Weirdly, barely anyone wanted to break off the bits of bread and thrust them into my cheesy, oniony, bacony dip. So I ended up with my own personal cobloaf and one heck of a dinner that night.

It was excellent.

I know it’s a veeeeery late Monday night. And I know this is another quiz. But if it means anything, I lost $40 of wine over the weekend to a drunken lout knocked over my table, smashed my dreams and crushed my will to live.

So I’m a little fragile right now, ok?

What was the last…

Thing you bought with cash: A doughnut. It was in my favourite flavour: plain.

I don’t really care what those Nutella diets say, plain is the way to go. You don’t want too much choc on your doughnut. If you wanted to just eat chocolate, you’d buy chocolate. If you wanted to just eat Nutella, you’d buy a jar, sit at home and eat it in your underwear.

Same goes for chips. Salt is the only flavour that you really need. Maybe salt and vinegar if you’re feeling flamboyant. I had a chip from an unmarked bowl the other day and was appalled to find out it was sour cream and chives flavoured. That was a crunchy mouthful of disappointment. Why is that even a flavour?!

Investment piece you bought: Today. I bought a jumbo container of yoghurt.

I’m not at a stage in my life where I can buy “investment pieces” or comply with fanciful notions like “financial stability” or “security”. It’s best just to forget all my troubles with a big bowl of good quality yoghurt.

Party you went to: My mother’s 60^th. We ate steak. We wore party hats. We ate smarties. Perfect.

Beauty product you apply before bed: I’ve started using dry shampoo so I don’t have to wash my hair so much. But because my hair’s so thin, it gets greasy. So I spray the dry shampoo overnight to let it soak up all my head grease.

Piece of clothing you bought: A scarf. I needed it for neck warming purposes.

Song you played on rotation: The Gang of Youths’ Like a Version. I spent a lot of time on public transport – trains and planes – which meant a lot of time for staring out windows emotionally. I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t cry on the train. I considered putting on sunnies to shade my tears but then I thought “fuck it, this is me” and let the world see my leaking emotions.

Thing you do to a model before sending her out on to a runway: I haven’t been in this position personally, but I like to think I would be something edge and empowering like “think goose”.

Text message you sent: It was a lengthy text about organising flights.

Book you read: Anthony Bordain’s something.

Photo you took on your phone: A photo of President Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire wearing a leopard print hat. Well, it was a photo of that photo. The original picture was in a tweet about how old mate banned leopard hats except for his own.

Cocktail you drank: Espresso martini. I’m not a massive coffee fiend, but I love espresso martinis. And café patron.

Time you cried: Stepping on the plane out of Sydney. Just a single tear.

Vacation you took: I have reached a point where I’m holidaying in Toowoomba. I don’t understand how I got here. What even is life.

Time you were relaxed: Just before I realised I hadn’t written my column or post and time was rapidly slipping away from me – like sands through the hourglass… which is a really depressing way to look at life actually. Who would open a show with something that glib?! I’m glad The Days of Our Lives is over.

Time you felt really happy: I believe I was screaming the lyrics to Taxiride’s Creepin’ Up Slowly while pouring myself a ginger crush wine.

Another Sunday, another selfie quiz.

I know I’ve been doing a lot of quizzes lately, and I make no apology for that. I’m tired. I’m grumpy. And I’m out of ideas.

Honestly, it was either a self-indulgent quiz or a rambling puddle of bullshit about me half-arsedly attempting yoga in the park the other day. I honestly tried to make it work, but it just wasn’t coming together. Long story short, a was heckled by a shirtless guy with a plastic bag of Hans Superdrys.

I’m actually surprised I posted anything today at all.

I’m far too tired for someone who spent their Saturday night watching Escape to the Country. I apparently had had a big week, because I didn’t even stay awake to see if the couple actually did buy the mystery house they seemed keen on (although this was partly because I didn’t want to go to bed disappointed in the likely case that the house hunters didn’t buy any property).

So yeah, maybe this is slack of me. Maybe I’m just being lazy for not coming up with a witty critique of society or being fun enough to have a graphic vomit story for you. But I’m too exhausted to be coherent right now, so tit bits of prompted prose is all I can muster up.

But in the spirit of Fathers’ Day, I’ll preface this week’s quiz entry with the immortal words of my dad, a man who goes by the name of Macca and gets more likes on Instagram than any selfie of mine ever could:

“Don’t be so bloody ungrateful. You’re too bloody we fed, yewse kids.”

Yeah, you git whatcha given.

I got these questions after searching “seven questions” in Google. I’ve adapted them from a list about questions you should apparently ask your employer at the end of a job interview. I have only used five of these questions, because two of the original questions were too tricky to transform from a professional perspective and apply to a narcissistic 20-something wearing pony pyjama pants. Five questions is probably all I can handle right now anyway. And, after all, there were five Spice Girls, so you have to take that into account.*

How do you celebrate accomplishments and achievements? I find a big serving of ribs is the way to go. It’s indulgent, but can easily by justified as healthy. It has no carbs. It’s packed with protein. Iron helps us play. It all works. Actually, I’ve been using meat as a treat for a little while now. Recently I came up with a new rule that any time I get my period, I get to take myself out of a nice steak dinner. You replace your iron you’ve lost, you get a ripper feed and you toast your own womanhood. It’s all the fun of celebrating your femininity while gnawing on bits of dead cow. Like, I enjoy being a woman. I enjoy not being a pregnant woman. And I enjoy slow-cooked beef. I feel like one day I may regret toasting to my empty womb, but that day is not today.

From your perspective, what does success look like? Not having to skip my sugar pills for six months so I can afford to fulfil my steak dinner rule.

What are your top priorities? Completing this post so I can get on with the rest of my Sunday.

“The rest of my Sunday” involves me going for a jog to the nearest Guzman and Gomez. My plan is to bolster my self-esteem by doing exercise, which will then make it easy to justify spending $17 on a single meal of Mexican food – because I worked hard and I deserved it. According to my app, the nearest location is just 1.8km away.

But, let’s be honest, I’ll probably end up ordering in or having cereal for dinner. I may be wearing a sports bra, but I am also currently wearing pyjama bottoms. 

What keeps you awake at night? For the most part, it’s sobering realisation that my meaningless life will one day come to an end. But there’s a security spotlight that keeps flashing on and off with the breeze that’s cheesing me right off. I’ve thought about taking it out with a slingshot from the shelter of my bedroom so the Body Corporate doesn’t see me taking justice into my own hands. But I don’t have the aim or the rubber bands to pull something like that off, so I’ve been using a sleeping mask.

But then the blackness of the sleeping mark reminds me of the eternal darkness that is waiting for my soul.

Maybe I should considering sipping hot milk before bed.

 Are there any shortcomings… that I could address now? I can think of many shortcomings that I SHOULD address now, but not a single one I COULD address now. I’m just too damn sleepy.

* You don’t really, but I did just base my title loosely around that flippant Spice Girls reference, so I guess it does have extra weight now.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 16, 2017

The other night I shamed myself.

Now, before you get carried away, I didn’t vomit into a sink, swear obnoxiously into a microphone of a bowls club karaoke night or beg for someone’s socks to cushion my aching feet (all other stories for other times).

In fact, for most of the night I was a model citizen.

But as I was walking home, I did a dishonourable thing. I used a pub purely for its restroom facilities and didn’t spend a cent.

You see, I had consumed a fair amount of liquid that evening and needed to use a ladies room. I was travelling solo, I wasn’t about to order a plate of ribs and tuck in alone.

So I walked into the establishment with a plan. My gaze was alternating between scanning the room and frowning at my phone as I mustered up all the acting skills I obtained from Year 10 drama to pretend I was in there to meet a friend.

Having put on the best performance my limited abilities would allow, I waltzed into the ladies room.

On my way out, I did an encore. I did my best to look extremely cross, phone in hand, as if I’d just been ditched.

Look, we’ve all done it from time to time.

We’ve all been en route from one pub to the other and heard the call of nature.

There’s a sense of urgency when you receive that call. You can’t screen it for too long without dire consequences.

Depending on your gender, you may or may not be have done so in shoes of a ludicrously impractical height and a quality so low, you couldn’t guarantee they’d hold together all night. This shortens your strides and makes walking decidedly more jerky, which isn’t good for an impatient bladder. You knew that waiting to your preferred pub wasn’t an option because it would take you that much longer to walk there.

Compound this with the bone-chillingly cruel winds and that unnecessarily slippery fog-meets-drizzle Toowoomba is famous for, and holding on until you reach your desired destination seems impossible.

So maybe you’ve stopped at some old pub half way through your journey to answer that call. You might have stayed for an obligatory beer, but if there were more than three people at the bar to distract the staff and you crept through a side door, you didn’t even bother.

And, depending on how… hydrated you were, you usually felt a pang of guilt as you left. But you still left.

You might have reasoned that it was better than the alternative. You didn’t want to have an accident and then call it a night – that would have meant spending less money in other pubs and bypassing the obligatory hot chips and gravy sesh afterwards. That would have had a negative economic effect on the entire precinct. And even though you never intended to spend your dosh at your toilet pit stop, you told yourself that the flow on effect of you partying on would have benefited the establishment in some way. That’s one way I’ve reasoned it.

But looking back, I should have felt guilty. I didn’t deem the place good enough for me to spend some time and my money, but I was fine with dumping my bodily excrement there. What a jerk.

And I was probably missing out on a good time. The gum-chewing, bleached-rats-tail-footy-haircut-toting gronks I avoided wouldn’t have been there. The dance floor, while non-existent at the time, could have been started easily and had ample room for moving interpretive dance performances. And, let’s be honest, pubs like that always have cheaper drinks. I was the fool.

So next time, I vow to buy a beer at the next pub I empty my bladder in. And if it’s the end of the night and I’m riding solo, I’ll get ribs.

Because having a whole plate of ribs you don’t have to share sounds like a pretty good way to end the night anyhow.