Yesterday I was in no state to be writing anything. I had been to a wedding the night before and, in my infinite wisdom, decided to drink about three quarts of a bottle of red wine on the journey to karaoke kick ons, where I apparently fell asleep.

It took a dose of Super Rooster and some anti-nausea medication from Mum’s chemo days to even get my upright, so there was no way I was going to nut out a witty blog post.

And today I found myself still raspy-voiced and dusty-brained. Hence, I’ve turned to my favourite taking-it-easy pastime of interviewing myself based on magazine copy.

Today’s come from one of my favourite titles, Elle, which asks it’s contributors a serious of questions with the word “list” involved.

Invigorated by a surge of self-obsession, I went beyond the six questions thrown at the talented people on those hallowed glossy pages and sprinkled a few of my own questions in there. 

On my playlist: Lately, a fair bit of Metallica. I wouldn’t say it’s accurate to call me a metal head, but sometimes you just want a bit of smooth but heavy guitar to drown out the nattering in your brain for a few minutes. I also like to pair with the classic chime “park it yourself, Metallica breath” from one of the dudes in the brilliant and inspiring movie Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead.

On my reading list: I’m currently trying to get through The Diary of Anne Frank, and I really want to pick up the second instalment of The Handmaid’s Tale, but I’ve been reading a lot of magazines instead lately so I don’t see myself getting through either title any time soon.

On my to-do list: Bake more bread, do my tax return and buy new sneakers because my toes are poking out of the ones I have been wearing for the past two years or so, which can’t be good for my form in general. They also make me look like a bit of a drip. Oh, I’m also wanting to make my own sauerkraut for an upcoming Oktoberfest party, because I really enjoy putting in a ridiculous amount of effort to create something that could easily – and cheaply – be bought at the supermarket.

On my don’t-do list: Throw gym balls at unsuspecting victims just going about their business. Sometimes my brain like to conjure up scenarios where I act extremely out of turn and one of its favourite things to do is to give me the urge knock people over with comically-sized rubber spheres. To stop myself from acting on this malicious impulse, I have banned myself from carrying gym balls in public places. So far I haven’t slipped up yet.

On my wish list: Sneakers that don’t make me look like a bit of a drip.

On my ditch list: I’ve got a couple pairs of really warn, saggy knickers that don’t even hold themselves up anymore that need to go.

On my bucket list: I want to try one of those KFC Zinger pies before they go out of production again. I want to live, dammit.

On my blacklist: Those table and teaspoon measurement spoons that are all grouped together on a ring that you can’t separate, so you have to wash them all when you only used one. You think they’re super practical because they’re all kept together, but if you’re not an animal who keeps their utensil draw in serious disarray, you can generally find the spoon you’re after. They don’t need to be bound together. That’s just marketing creeping into our lives and enforcing bullshit norms that serve no purpose. Get out of my utensil draw, you capitalist pigs!

On my grey list: Corned beef. In general, I’m not a fan. Corned beef as a meal is seriously underwhelming and that bland white sauce/flour gravy bullshit that goes with it is like mediocrity in liquid form. It’s just not something I would ever order or want. However, I love me a good Rueben sandwich, which comprises of mostly corned beef. I love the Swiss cheese and the pickle and a kraut. It’s a cracking combination. So I can’t say that corned beef should be completely in the bin.

On my white list: Lamb. A thousand times lamb.

Instead of turning to a magazine to ask myself open-ended questions with the view to elicit long-winded, revealing answers about myself, I’m going down a different route this weekend.

This edition of Dannielle Interviews Herself But Isn’t Weird, OK? Is based on a handful of discarded beer bottle caps I found on the ground at the park near the basketball hoop.

These weren’t the “how many games did Alfie Langer…?” kind of questions I have come to expect from my stubby lids, but had conversation starters printed on the inside, there to save the day when the banter inevitably peters out and the silence allows the realisation that everyone has grown apart to sink in. Rather than finally agreeing that, maybe you don’t have to keep beating the dead horse that is your friendship, you keep it together for at least one more barbecue with the help of discussion prompts and an copious amounts of alcohol.

Here are the questions:

 Your most memorable sporting moment? Discuss: Because I was shootin’ hoops at the time, a memory from my basketball days came to me. To begin with, I need to emphasise that I was a beefy kid. I was solid. Big boned. Stocky. I was – and still am – rather shithouse at team sport. I enjoyed winning, but I never really had the coordination or the speed to do so. But there were plenty of people who did. One guy in particular was a bloody wizard with that extremely-worn ball. He was just always shootin’ those hoops. I wanted to stop him streamrolling over our team, but I didn’t have the ability to match his. However, I did have bulk. So this one time he was streaming up the court I, in some kind of local-sport-related fit of rage, just stopped right in front of him, knowing he would crash into me and be knocked for six. I mean, he got back up and continued to cream us, but I remember feeling an exhilarating sense of victory. Looking back, that’s actually quite concerning that my overwhelming sense of victory came from literally knocking someone down.

Would you rather eat schnitzel or steak for the rest of your life? Discuss: Well, this is a tough one because I love a good schnitty but I also love a good steak. I suppose this is the premise of the question; both are great, but which one do you want forever? I finally understand how the men of The Bachelor feel. I mean, schnitty is obviously the sexy one, who has all that chemistry and crunch. Steak sparks a slow-burning desire, but a schnitty is explosive and exciting. But steak doesn’t come with the deep-fried glut that makes you feel a little yuck, it fills you with iron and protein and leaves you feeling loved and satisfied. And schnitties can be very hit and miss – a good schnitty is a great, but an average one makes you wonder why you chose it above all overs. In the end, I’m someone who is prone to a bit of iron deficiency, so steak always makes my feel good. It complements me, offering what I lack. So, schnitty, as much as I love your sizzle and crunch, my heart lies with someone else. And that someone is a thick, juicy slab of steak.

Should you prick your sausages while cooking them on the barbecue? Discuss:  First off, given this is a beer sold in Australia, I’m surprised they didn’t really play up that yeah-mate-so-strayan’ thing most ales do. And, while I’m here, can I just say that the world “whilst” drives me crazy? It’s entirely unnecessary when the more colloquial “while” is acceptable, making the word redundant for anyone who doesn’t feel the need to look like they’re super smart and impressive by sprinkling a couple of “whilst”s into their rants. It’s the same for people who say  “whom” instead of “who”. People know what you mean mate, you don’t need to get all old English on us. And, look, I don’t want to be spiteful, but the kind of people who use those terms are the kind of people who write complaint letters or take to their local community Facebook group to whinge about their poor service at KFC. Anyway, no, don’t prick the sangs ya dingbat, all the juices escape if you do that.

Shoestring fries, crinkle-cut chips or thick-cut chips? Discuss: Ok, so my favourite chips are the ones that come from Super Rooster but let’s leave that to one side to address the question. In terms of ranking, crinkle-cut is at the bottom. They are never cooked well and often go soggy – they’re all show and no pony. Next I’ll have to go shoestring, because they’re generally quite tricky to mess up. They don’t take long to cook so they’re generally always fried to perfection, however, they don’t have a long plate life. Let them sit there for longer than 20 minutes and they’ve gone all cold and depressing. Thick-cut chips then take out the crown, but only conditionally. If they’re cooked well – fluffy on the inside and crunchy on the outer regions – they’re heaven. You’ve got the crunch and girth everyone dreams of. But an undercooked batch of thick-cutters is deeply disappointing and, in that case, I’d go for shoestring.

What sporting event would you like to go back and witness? Discuss: That’s gotta be that State of Origin match where Gordon Tallis dragged old mate from NSW over the touchline in a terrifying fit of rage. Of course, I would want to be the age I am now so I could enjoy it with a couple of jugs of beer rather than the age I was when I actually witnessed it on TV, when it was a formative experience that imprinted on my psyche and informed my approval-seeking tomboy character.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are your interests?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally published by The Clifton Courier July 17, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

Now it about weeks out and I have to act.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 10, 2019

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

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

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

That thing I kept putting off was writing this column.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* About abortion, no less.

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

I feel like a bloody genius.

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

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

I’m flying to Europe in a few hours and I’m having some thoughts.

Of course, when I say “thoughts”, I mean, confronting jolts of fear that have aftershocks in my guts. I’m not really scared of flying, but I do have some niggling anxieties I feel as though I should get out of my system now, in the safety of my parent’s house in case they manifest into a brain fart that makes me say something that you really shouldn’t say in an airport unless you want to get escorted out by armed officers.

I’ve obviously got the major fears swirling around in my head – plane failure, kidnapping, air pirates – but it’s the tiny finicky details of Euro travel that have me a little jittery such as:

Getting a yuuuge phone bill: I had perhaps one of the most first word nightmares a few weeks ago about this. I don’t really remember the details but I was in Europe having what appeared to a be great time and, at some point, I remember that I didn’t turn dat roaming off my phone. I don’t recall how the rest of the nightmare unfolded after that but I did wake up with my stomach absolutely knotted with fear, fear of an exorbitant phone bill. Like, no one wants huge out of pocket bills, but I feel this one would be one of the hardest to swallow because the blame lies squarely on you and the only benefit you would get from all this data roaming would be being able to see the most up-to-date posts from your distant relatives who enjoy posting life advice with pictures of those little yellow minions for some reason.

Losing my passport: I am genuinely terrified of this. I’ve had my passport in my travel backpack for weeks. I know where it is, but my head isn’t convinced. I’m just going to check it now.

Inadvertently sparking a international terror incident: What if my coldsore cream is also a corrosive substance? What if the jumper I washed yesterday and dried in the wintery wood smoke tests positive for explosives? What if a Facebook group I liked back in my uni days has gone real extremist in their views?

What picture are they going to use if the plane goes down? I don’t take a lot of selfies, but when I do, they’re always shithouse. My Instagram account is mostly pictures of my Dad being… Dad or Mum being sweet or something about tea. I think the most recent one of me where you can see my face is one where I have a pickle up my nostril. I think, if anything happens to me, I’d like for the picture of me shoeless, wearing a wine-socked dress with an armful of sausages in the Bunnings carpark. It’s on my sister’s Instagram account.

If I don’t get arrested or maimed in a crash or decide to change my identity, I’ll try my best to post old columns regularly. But please don’t hold it against me if I’m too busy being tres fabulous to post stuff.

Catchya!

I love magazines. They’re glossy, have a great smell and the layouts are intoxicating to a former newspaper woman and closeted scrapbooker like me. While I’ve never been in the targeted demographic for the beauty sections of magazines, one segment that always spoke to me was the Weekend In Products section in Elle. Basically, they’d take someone fabulous and ask them to list the products they use of a weekend and display them beautifully alongside their anecdotes.

And because I like to imagine myself as someone fabulous enough to be in a magazine but haven’t yet received any offers, I decided to give myself the Elle treatment.

I found myself in a wee bit of a conundrum because I didn’t want to be naming names brand-wise as I don’t want to be seen to be endorsing anything, but I also wanted to be honest. And, let’s be real, there’s absolutely no chance this post is sponsored, so I’m not being paid to say I use something when I don’t. Also, this isn’t me telling you what to use, because I think it will soon become very clear that I’m no expert in this realm. So please just enjoy this for what it is: a self-indulgent glimpse into my mundane little life.

The subjects Elle interviews are usually super glamorous or edgy, cool women who play gigs or something over a weekend. My weekends are rarely weekends – that is to say, I rarely have a two-day break on a Saturday and Sunday. And if I do, it always catches me off guard and I plan very little for it.

So I don’t really have any sweet eyeshadows or body glitters or anything all that flash on my list of products. Prepare to be underwhelmed.

Soap that claims to be some kind of anti-soap: Dove soap is soap, but it’s not really soap, if that makes sense? The packaging refers to it as “moisturising bar” but it’s in the soap section. I am like 99 per cent certain this is effective as a cleaner of general gunk off my body and I always smell better after I use it, so I think it’s safe to refer to is as a soap product. However, the people at Dove are quick to stress that this won’t dry you out like other soaps. And, look, when I use any other soap, I do feel pretty dry and gross. Also, I know that there’s a big movement for body wash, but the whole notion of body wash shits me for some reason. I’ll use it when I have to, but I feel like body wash is a huge fuckaround with all that plastic and pump bottles and scented bullshit that I can’t actually think straight. Perhaps one day I’ll bash out a more coherent rant but, for now, let me just say that I am anti-body wash.

Roll-on deodorant: This stuff isn’t exactly a roll on, come to think of it, it’s more of a softened incarnation of my soap that I smear across my pits in the hopes of creating a protective layer to seal in my stank. I use the stuff I use because it makes it smell like I’ve just showered and I feel like the soapy goop doesn’t make my armpits as itchy as the spray on stuff. I don’t like being itchy at the best of times, but scratching your armpits looks pretty rank, so I try to avoid it.

Dry shampoo: I have very fine hair and a greasy disposition, meaning my hair gets grotty pretty quickly. I used to be someone who washed their hair every night but, thankfully, those days are behind me. Now that I’ve found dry shampoo, I can go days without having to wash it. Plus, this stuff solidifies the gunk in my hair, creating a volumising effect, which is a real plus. The only downer is the brunette-tinged residue can make my face look dirty if it gets on my skin. I also get brown particles under my fingernails when I run my hands through my hair, which makes me look as if I just dug myself out of a shallow grave.

A facial scrub as a face wash: Yes, I know some people launched some kind of hogwash crusade against St Ives, claiming ingredients in their apricot scrub destroy your face skin. I know there are armies of people on the internet campaigning against this type of stuff. And I’ve read some opinions of dermatologists who are, no doubt, extremely learned. But I love this stuff. I use it twice a day, every bloody day. I’m not grinding it into my face to give myself apricot-scented gravel rash, I’m just lightly massaging it over my skin. I’ve been using it for probably more than a decade now and it’s fine. Now, I say this as someone who, despite being genetically burdened with weird hips, a chunky frame, thin hair and, if my assumptions are correct, a neck that will age to look like a hairless cat with its bones magically removed, I do have pretty good genes for my face skin. If I’m not drinking like a fish and keep moderately active, I don’t really have many problems with acne or my complexion. And as sensitive as I may be, my face skin seems pretty laid back. So I could probably use whatever cheap goop I wanted to. And I like this stuff, so I’ll keep using it, thank you very much.

A micro-fibre cloth: My sister had a stint as a Norwex dealer and I got right into their body washers, but for my face. Just like my “face wash”, I like to go heavy duty with my wash cloths and use the rougher body cloth instead of the more delicate make-up removal cloths. Apparently there’s silver weaved through the fabric ad that gives it antibacterial powers, but I like the way it gets in and rips out a rogue whitehead that pops up on my nose after a few schooeys.

Oil free moisturiser: The Clean and Clear range is like a training bra – it was the introduction to skincare for generations of Australian tweenage girls. Most of them grow out of it, graduating to more sophisticated products as their maturity and income increases. I, however, haven’t followed that path. I started using this stuff after I was given a free sample in a magazine and didn’t really have cause to change. The fact that it suited my teenage budget means that, as a slightly wealthier adult, I can use money I could be spending on fancy face creams on margaritas instead.  I smear this gear on my face, and my neck when I think of it, after my scrub and washer routine. Again, I got really, really lucky in the face skin department but, as a consolation, I do have hairy toes.

SPF 50+ sunscreen: This gear is what I like to refer to as my day cream, because it makes me feel like a fancy woman who has specific creams for certain times of the day. Specially, I use the “sensitive” Banana Boat sunscreen, because I like feeling that I need a special kind of formula for my delicate face. I started using this everyday when I was living in Armidale, the “highest city in Australia”. Now, the “city” part is debatable, but the height is bang on. It’s slightly less than one kilometre above sea level and being that high up means you’re closer to the sun. I stopped wearing it for a while when I was in Sydney, but I’ve added it back to my routine and have noticed that my skin really bloody likes it. I guess its thickness counteracts whatever damage my scrub is supposedly doing to my face, and the added layer of goop seems to be protecting my face from windburn. The packet says it’s non-greasy, but I like to think the slick of it blocks the wind and keeps my face from drying out.

Some body moisturiser with lanolin oil: I’ve got no idea what lanolin oil is supposed to do, but I like that it comes from sheep’s wool because it feels like I’m supporting farmers and being a natural goddess. I bought this stuff because it was running low of my other moisturiser and this was in the bargain bin at the supermarket. It’s also got an Australian-made symbol on it, which feeds into my nationalism nicely. I may actually try to buy it again, so long as it hasn’t been discontinued.

Steroid ointment: I have this really cool thing where I get dermatitis on my left pinkie and ring finger. If it dries out, it gets itchy, red and weeping blisters that are extremely unpleasant. It’s really hard not to scratch sometimes; it’s like a demon possesses me and I can’t stop feverishly scratching until I reach some kind of self-hating climax and suddenly realise how much pain I’m in. It’s quite unnerving, really. My left ring finger seems particularly afflicted and, as a result, has an aged, wrinkled appearance which you’re more than welcome to interpret as a sign I’ll be an unwedded wench for all of my days. Honestly, it makes sense.