Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 28, 2018

Escaping from the Sydney cesspit sounds like a good thing.

The fact that I went as far as to call it a cesspit suggests I didn’t like it very much. And that’s a fair call to make. I mean, I involuntarily pull a sour face when people mention the place. I sometimes even let out a mildly disgusted noise; the kind of vocalisation you make after stepping on a potato chip that has gone soggy after being dropped in a puddle at a public pool.

So you’d think there would be no negatives involved in leaving the place behind me.

However, you’d be wrong.

I’ve now got to completely reinvent myself, which is going to take some work.

After two years in Sydney, I’d transformed into an over-exaggerated stereotype, typifying all the good things* about being a country Queenslander.

* And, let’s be honest, a couple of the bad things. 

I’d talk up the benefits of cob loaves. I’d say “mate” a little more than necessary. I’d make some reference to a swag, just to let people know that I’m totally comfortable sleeping outdoors like a jolly bloody swagman.

I realise it sounds incredibly wanky but, in my defence, it’s hard not to slip into this role. It’s kind of like being around people from overseas – you just can’t help but play up to the Aussie stereotype.

And that was fine in Sydney, where people generally viewed my Queenslander ways as novel and amusing*.

* And very, very bogan. And perhaps a little brash. And somewhat annoying.

But now I’m back home, that’s just not going to fly.

Everyone eats cob loaves. People here can tell when you’re spreading the “mate” on a little too thick, like a heavy slathering of Vegemite on toast*. And, let’s be honest, most people have slept in a swag in the past fortnight or so, and they’re not bragging about it.

* And that is jarring. I witnessed someone who spreads their Vegemite on so think the toast looks burnt. He doesn’t even use butter, he just goes in dry. It’s actually really quite confronting.

I am no longer that token Queenslander, because everyone in this state is. And the last thing I want to do is ham up my Queenslander ways. When you go too hard on the Queenslander in Queensland – and it’s not Origin time – people can tell pretty quickly that you’re a try-hard dropkick. They’ll be off you faster than you can say “Milton mango”.

Plus, I had cultivated a personality based almost entirely on disliking my surroundings. My hobby was hating Sydney. In my spare time, I disliked Sydney. My favourite sport was Sydney bashing. I haven’t got the hard quantitative data to back me up, but latest estimates show that roughly 67% of my conversations were, in some way, complaining about Sydney.

With more than two thirds of my go-to conversation topics wiped out, I now have to find something else to talk about. My brain has to readjust to be less critical. I have to get used to not hating everything and generally being a misery guts.

And that’s quite a blow.

I mean, negativity is my thing. Positivity is like a pair of brand new restrictive skinny jeans that are too tight around the crotch. I can handle it for a few hours, but as soon as I get home I’m putting on my loose-fitting pessimism pants, which are so thin from being overworn it feels like I’m wearing nothing at all (nothing at all).

Being in a happier place (locationally speaking) requires me to get a whole new metaphorical wardrobe.

It’s also going to mean that I’m going to have to put more effort in my weekly musings. I can no longer bank on the fact that something annoying or outrageous will happen to me in Sydney, providing an endless supply of column fodder for me to rant about. That safety net is gone.

But then, I just spent 570 words whinging about something I’ve been wanting for two years.

This gives me faith that, now I’m not spending an obscene amount on rent, living among literal street rats* or regularly paying $12 for an underwhelming schooner of beer, I’ll still have something to rant about. I’m just going to have to be a bit more creative about it.

* To be fair, I did only see two in my time. 

That, or I’ll just have to start doing more embarrassing things on my weekends to write about.

There is work to be done, yes, but hope is not lost.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 10, 2018

Well, we all know I had a lazy Sunday this week*.

* Last week, that is. This week I was actually only a mild piece of shit, instead of a full-blown burning turd. I did two lots of laundry and went for a damn run. I mean, I still “meal prepped” for the next day by ordering two pizzas instead of one, but that’s progress. 

I know that because I was there and the only reason I changed out of my pyjamas because I had to go outside to buy goat’s cheese*. But how do you know?

* My fancy pants pastry chef mate put me on to this particular brand of the stuff and I’ve taken to it like a mildly unstable young woman to cheese… that wasn’t a metaphor, obs.

Because this is another one of those Dannielle-interviews-herself-instead-of-coming-up-with-an-actual-column columns. And, after enduring this tripe for so long, you might have picked up on the fact that they only ever come out when I’ve been an unproductive bore of a human garbage bag.

But, hey, this isn’t my least inspired piece ever – last week I did a blog post about a recipe for strawberries on toast. Comparatively, this isn’t that terrible. So, your welcome?

As always, please feel free to interview yourself as you go along. You might learn something about yourself… but you might also learn things you didn’t want to learn about yourself. Beware.

The last thing you ate: Leftovers from when I ordered an excessive amount of pizza after returning home from a bottomless brunch at 9pm. It was made with an organic spelt crust. This makes it mildly healthy and totally counteracts the extra cheese I added to it before reheating it. That’s how things work, yeah?

The last thing you bought on impulse: A jar of goat’s cheese that comes soaked in this oil I would happily drown in. I mean, I feel like I should be doing everything within my powers to avoid an oil-related drowning, and I am. But, if for some bizarre reason I had to drown in a vat of oil and I had a choice about which kind, I would pick the oil that cheese is soaked in. I wouldn’t want to drown in any oil for obvious I’m-gonna-live-forever reasons but, also, because that would be kind of embarrassing and it would make fishing me out of the oil really tricky for whoever was charged with retrieving me; my body would be all slippery and they’d keep dropping me. This, of course, would be hilarious but also deeply, unforgettably disturbing. I mean, imagine trying to unpack that to a therapist – you’d not be able to tell the story of the trauma you witnessed without laughing. It would be extremely difficult to process. Wow. I mean, I know I can tell a long, rambling story, but even I’m surprised that  “what was your last impulse buy?” led me to this point. I don’t know whether to be concerned or impressed.

Last thing you threw away: A bunch of used teabags. I saved them and kept them in the fridge because I’ve had puffy eyes lately and a refrigerated teabag soaking on the old peepers apparently helps with that. I mean, I could just take control of my life and makes sure I get enough sleep, but a cold teabag seems like a reasonable alternative.

Last person you called: The Maguire House. I have the number saved as “Maguire House ICE” because apparently that will mean that in case someone finds me in an emergency situation – which, hopefully, will not be related to goat’s cheese oil in any way – they know they can call my parents’ house to let them know the proverbial crap has hit the fan. You should always prepare for the worst. It just makes sense. I mean, terrible things happen, they’re probably going to happen to you. That’s life. Hmm. This is getting a little dark again. I need to turn this around. Perks things up a bit.

The last compliment you received: My housemate’s friend was over for dinner and told me she liked my mug. I thanked her. But now that I think about it, it wasn’t really a compliment about my creative ability or virtuous characteristics or even something about my physical form such as having a pair of perfectly sculpted buns (because, let’s face it, that would be a baseless lie). It was a compliment for the people who made the mug. They thought up the design. They executed that design. They were able to make a business case in order to make that design a commercial reality. All I did was purchase it. And, yet, I took this mug comment as a huge compliment, letting it fill me with happiness. It didn’t say I was talented, or was an upstanding character or even that I had a smokin’ hot bod: all it did was inform me that I was competent at purchasing items. That I was a cog in the corporate machine. That I am a consumer, fulfilling my capitalist duties.  But you know what, I’ll take it.

What does that same about me? I think this questionnaire is over.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 3, 2018

Relaxation can be far from relaxing.

I recently had two days off work thanks to a cold. It was one of those colds you just had to let pass. There wasn’t really much I could do for it besides rest and fluids.

I took care of the fluids part by making drinking my water out of a stein make hydration seem more exciting*. It was the rest part of the equation that I really had to work on.

* Sometimes, if I really want to spice up water, I’ll make myself a nice, fizzy cup of Eno. I know it’s supposed to be for tummy troubles, but I just love that lemony shit. One of these days I can see myself making up an Eno cocktail. Maybe it would pair well with gin? Vodka? Incredibly cheap tequila I never intended on keeping down anyway? Expect a horrible recipe soon. 

Because I had the luxury of two days without responsibilities, I felt the need to be decadent in my approach to rest – like an underwhelming health retreat.

I felt the need for something more than medical healing like gargling with salt water; I felt like I should be spending this time doing something spiritually healing. Something that fits within the vague parameters of “self care”.

Now, self care is something that can range anywhere from ignoring notifications on your phone an hour before bed to prepare ready for sleep to carelessly ditching your recently-dumped mate to go on a solo $5000 on a spa retreat in Bali. The limits of self care are defined only by your selfishness and disposable income.

But, in a nutshell, self care is about being kind to yourself.

So, in a bid to satisfy this urge, I opted for something that vaguely fit within the realm of “pampering” while remaining true to my edgy, cynical, still-festering-in-teen-angst side: I decided to paint my fingernails black.

But when I tried to open the nail polish bottle, I was unable to unscrew the top. I thought I might have just been greasy at first (I’d just cracked into a family-sized packet of Tim Tams I bought to cheer up my housemate) but it became clear the lid was sealed from nail polish that had dried around the rim. So I started hacking at it with a knife. And just when I thought I was making progress, I sliced the whole top off, glass rim and all. The top flung across the room, splattering thick, black goop on the couch and carpet. I then spent the next 20 minutes scrubbing furiously. I was far from relaxed – I was flustered, annoyed and smelled like nail polish remover.

This made me think of an incident the other day, when I tried to light a scented candle to calm me. I’d had a stinker of a day. I was tired after having a terrible sleep the night before. My trusty jeggings* were in the wash. I had no birds or squirrels to help me dress. I stayed back an hour after work and achieved very little in that time. I was ignored by two of the busses I tried to flag down after getting too puffed from my jog to make my home on foot. No one offered me a tasteful leather briefcase full of money. A stinker of a day.

* Yes, I still wear jeggings. They will never not be a part of my life. 

But I decided to put it behind me.

I lit a scented candle, thinking to myself “you know what, you deserve this, you need to relax”. I grabbed my matches and struck a light. As the match ignited, I heard the crackling pop of fire in my ear.

Then I smelt it. That smell that anyone who has ever used heated hair styling tools fears.

I’d managed to burn my hair.

Only a little though. I mean, my head didn’t go up in flames, but still.

The scent that filled the room wasn’t a calming camellia so lovely it practically whispers affirmations about my being a goddess with each flicker of the flame. No. It was the smell of singed hair, screaming at me that I was a damned fool.

On Friday I came home exhausted, ready to curl up in bed and waste my evening scrolling through Instagram. But then I told myself to get up, make a cup of tea and enjoy the breeze from the balcony. And the tea was lovely. I began to unwind. Things seemed better.

But then I somehow managed to choke on a mouthful of tea*, nearly vomiting in the process. And not only did my mouth taste of spew but, as I’d had an extra spicy this-might-fix-my-cold curry for lunch, my throat was now burning.

* For a second there I did think “this is it, I’m done”. And not that I’d want to die drowning on a mouthful of tea, but I feel it would be pretty poetic. People would say that I died doing what I loved: drinking tea in complete solitude, wearing pony pyjama pants. What a way to go.

I mean, things going wrong with open flames and toxic liquids I can understand, but tea? The elixir that nourishes my very soul? Heartbreaking.

What next? I go for a calming stroll and roll my ankle? I sit by the beach and get pooed on by a seagull? I watch a beloved movie from my youth and realise it’s actually super demeaning and full of cringey punch lines that make me feel uncomfortable?

Maybe relaxation might just be too stressful for me.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 26, 2018

I forget something on pretty much every trip I take.

I currently don’t have a wise-cracking seven-year-old son called Kevin to leave at home while on holiday, but I wouldn’t put it past me. Because it seems I always forget something. One time, on a work trip, it was my laptop. Another time, while heading to a music festival, it was my ticket to said festival.

I’ve just come off the back of another trip home and am astounded by the things I forgot. It wasn’t so much what I omitted from my luggage, but more the things that slipped my mind.

And as I sat on the carpet at the airport, attempting to counteract my sloppy appearance by typing on my laptop like I was an important businesswoman, I collated everything I forgot (well, at least, the things I remembered that I’d forgotten) during this trip:

My phone charger: I could picture it, still plugged into the wall at my sister’s place, mocking me. I hoped I had enough battery left to crank some sweet tunes on my flight; otherwise it would have been a disaster.

I like having a bit of a chat with the person next to me, but an hour-and-a-half is a long time to make small talk. Plus, I don’t know anything about the weather, haven’t kept up with the NRL and haven’t watched a single episode of The Bachelor, so wouldn’t be able to pull my weight when discussing current events.

As such, eliminating the pressure to make conversation by listening to music is a must.

Plus, I doubt the captain takes music requests and, even if they did, would probably ignore my demand they play The Whole of the Moon four times in a row.

A white jumper: Yes, I made the mistake of wearing white to an event where red wine was served. And this might not have been such a disaster last year, when I could only stomach the sickly-sweet white wines that, despite making you feel like an overused dishrag the next day, don’t leave a physical mark on your clothing.

But now I’m a red wine drinker. I don’t even dilute it with lemonade anymore. And that makes for high-risk sessions.

I suppose that’s why red wine is associated with maturity, because by the time you begin enjoying red wine, you’re supposed to be able to handle your drinks… well, supposed to, anyway.

I left my jumper to soak in the laundry tub at my friend’s place, so I’m hoping to pick it up in a few weeks, crisp, clean and wine-stain-free.*

* I have yet to hear an update about the state my jumper. But, then again, I haven’t asked. I feel like it would be a bit rude. 

A bunch of flowers: I’d bought a bunch of birthday roses for Mum and put them in the fridge at my friend’s house to keep them fresh until I met up with her.

But when I met Mum for lunch, I realised I’d left the flowers behind. So I did the honourable thing: I splashed out and shouted her a round of cheesy garlic bread.

I was disappointed because, while the holy trinity of carbs, cheese and garlic makes for one heck of a birthday treat, flowers would have been a nice touch.

However, I am hoping my accidental floral offering to my mate might entice her to wash my jumper.

Now, this all sounds a wee bit negative. And one of my sisters told me I was a Pessimistic Polly – my words, not hers – so I’ve decided to look at the positives. Here are some of the things I remembered on my trip:

A festival-appropriate coat: This is an old parka of Mum’s I once borrowed and never returned. It’s a great size for throwing over a jumper and, as I discovered, has the perfect pocket-depth to hold a bottle of wine on each side.

The time of my flight home: I was once so late to the airport I basically sprinted across the tarmac to the plane and never want to cut it that fine again.

Sure, that time I made it to the plane, but the stakes were too high.

I mean, buying one plane ticket back to Sydney is distressing enough, but buying two because I missed the first flight would be too much to bear. So I arrived with at least 40 minutes to spare.

This left me enough time to get to the plane without having to re-enact Home Alone (I know, two references in one column… Christmas is coming ya filthy animals). I had time to indulge the weird three-trips-to-the-bathroom-before-flying superstition I’ve developed.

And I even had enough time to sit around the airport to write this column – which I’ll hopefully remember to send at a reasonable hour.*

* I did not. According to the timestamp on my email, I sent this to the Courier at 11.39pm. 

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 19, 2018

The other day I participated in a fun run after going to a ball the night before.

Now, when the word “ball” is used in that context, some people imagine something Cinderella-y. Elbow-length gloves. Pumpkin coaches. Women waltzing with their dashing male suitors.

But the kind of balls I’ve experienced have very little in common with the dazzling affairs from Disney movies.

Yes, guests are glamorously-dressed, but they don’t maintain an aura of elegance for long. Of course there is dancing. But that dancing better resembles a bunch of soccer hooligans chanting their team’s anthem than a ballroom waltz. And there is much, much more sparkling wine involved than is allowed in a G-rated animation.

I first got a taste for these kinds of events at uni, when some college or organisation would chuck on a ball every few weeks. As a tight-arsed student, my strategy was to make the most of the bar tab before it ran out, stocking up on as many glasses of cheap “champagne” as I could carry.

Apparently, my strategy hasn’t changed.

I’ve now learned that, no matter how mature I get, will always revert back to the stingy, pisswreck of my former self whenever presented with a bar tab scenario. I mean, I have a folder on my laptop containing tax receipts, divvied up into two sub-folders labelled “deductions” and “donations” and yet I still turn into that 18-year-old mess in an asymmetrical dress, terrified of the prospect of having to pay full price for a drink.

I won’t go into details of my night, but suffice to say there was a video of me belting out I Want It That Way in the foyer of a fancy, fancy hotel before interrupting myself by making a loud reference to the state of my big toenail.

To cut a sloppy story sort, I got to bed by 2am for a 6am start.

Amazingly, it only took three alarms to get me up later that morning. I put on shoes. I slopped on sunscreen. I even made it to the meeting point before everyone else on my team.

But I was not in a good way. I smelled like a second-hand gorilla’s armpit. I wore an expression like I’d just had a lobotomy. And my unfiltered public groans and whimpers meant people kept a safe distance from me, as it was clear I could blow at any moment.

I can’t recall many exact details from the run, as I assume it was so traumatic I blocked most of it from memory, but here’s a vague rundown (run not being the operative word) of my journey:

The first kilometre my body was in a state of shock, still not entirely aware what was happening.

Two kilometres in I was on the Harbour Bridge, distracted by my distain for the iconic piece of infrastructure. I was too busy thinking, “it’s not even that great, but” and judging people for stopping to take selfies to focus on the fact that I was jogging.

By the third kilometre I became aware of how high-impact stomp dancing in platform heels can be and the effect it has on your joints.

Then I became aware of how unhappy my stomach felt. I could feel my leg muscles angrily protesting in support of my grumbling tum. My body was in full revolt, turning against me.

By the fifth kilometre I was focused on trying to calm my stomach with the power of my mind, while scanning for a port-a-loo in case a violent ejection took place. I told myself that it was a mind over matter thing, but willpower is often overruled when your body decides to make an emergency evacuation.

In the sixth kilometre I was fuming that despite having run past people coming back the other way for ages, I hadn’t yet looped around. I began to despair at how much further I would have to go just to sit down.

It was around the seventh kilometre when I started asking myself the most important question a journalist can ask: why?

I got over the eight and ninth kilometre marks by sheer delusion.

Then, as the finish line approached, I told myself that I didn’t come all this way to conk out with 400m left to go. So I kept going.

And when I got over the line, I didn’t feel that bad. I actually remember feeling kind of good. By the end, I guess I had sweated out most of my toxins and sins. I was a clean slate – figuratively, of course, I reeked and had weird sticky patches all over my skin.

Then I went and got myself a recovery mojito.

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, September 12, 2018

Spending too much time on your phone is a problem.

Today, I nearly missed my bus stop because I was staring at my phone. Constant scrolling through Facebook means I’m always vulnerable to spoilers to TV shows I’m watching, but not in a timely manner. And gawping at a screen makes it way harder for my already quite noisy brain to shut the heck up at night.

But today, it actually solved a problem of mine. I had a reasonably uneventful weekend and was searching for a column idea. I didn’t want to risk anyone becoming Vitamin D deficient (the, in this case, D is for Dannielle, but the other Vitamin D is important too), but I had absolutely nothing to write about.

So I did what I would always do: started staring at my phone.

And that’s when it hit me: I have a treasure trove of personal insights no one asked for in the multitude of tabs I have open on my smartphone internet browser.

Some people/psychopaths don’t keep their tabs open after using them, deleting the internet pages once they have served their purpose.

But not me. No. I like to cling on to these pages, like the non-existent memory of a fictional lover while listening to The Fray.

Just like the “clutter” and “unnecessary crap” that is stashed at my parents’ place, those tabs might come in handy one day.

And so I have dozens upon dozens of tabs open, just ready to be pulled up and used at moments’ notice. So please, enjoy this non-exhaustive list of tabs I refuse to close. I mean, if I’ve managed to keep your attention for this long, you may as well keep going.

The prices at the fancy hairdressers around the corner from me: The intersection at the end of my road has perhaps the most stereotypical combination of shops for my wanky eastern suburb. One corner has a fancy hairdressers with brand-new furniture that has been purposefully aged to look shabby chic. Another corner has a Pilates studio. On the other side is an up-market boutique for pet grooming and accessories. The other corner is a house that’s probably worth more than the Clifton Library but has 12cm of backyard. I looked up the prices of this hairdressing joint on my phone because I didn’t want to walk in, ask to see the price list, be shocked by the prices and have to fake a mysterious spleen spasm as an excuse to get out of there.

The prices at the discount hairdresser at the local shopping centre: Because the fancy place around the corner was, unsurprisingly, ridiculously expensive.

My daily horoscope: Because I can be a little on the indecisive side and sometimes it’s fun to base your daily decisions on some bullhonkey a bored editorial intern pulled out of thin air. Today’s essentially told me to really go for it with my get-rich-quick schemes – time to make my bridal limerick business a reality!

The YouTube clip of Beyoncé’s Formation: Because every now and then I need a reminder of what power looks like. One play of this song and my sass pants are very much on and up (in my head, these sass pants are gold, high-waisted and make my abs look super toned).

A Google search that reads “what foes brhce bogtrotter look like now?”: Because I assume the movie Matilda came up in conversation… after a few beers. And you’d be surprised by how often the current state of the chocolate-cake-eating Bruce Bogtrotter comes up, so it really does save a lot of time by having it there, ready to go.

The date of International Men’s Day: Because there’s always one bloke. Every year. And I feel like the kind of bloke who bangs on about International Women’s Day won’t believe you when you say there is, in fact, an International bloody Men’s Day, so it’s easier to confirm it via the internet. It’s November 19, in case you’re wondering.

A Google Images search of WD40: Because I needed to draw a picture of the world’s most versatile product and required a visual reference but didn’t want to walk to the linen cupboard to find it. I keep this on hand because you never know when you might need WD40, even if it’s just in image form.

Many, many searches for cheap accommodation in Dublin: Because my friend and I were ready to burn the city to the ground and sleep amongst the warm ashes rather than spend another night in a dank hostel… but we were still very tight on the Euros and wanted to get the best deal. Not sure why I kept a hold of these, but I suspect it’s just so I can causally slip into conversation that I once went to Europe.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 5, 2018

We all have special talents.

Like, there are some people out there who can sing like Britney Spears (Britney Spears is the first one to come to mind, but I’m sure there are others) and then there are some people who can braid like a demon.

I was trying to think about my special talents the other night, when I rocked up at a birthday party I wasn’t invited to thrown in honour of a birthday boy I didn’t know at all and was doing my best to make friends. The question “what’s your talent?” was thrown around when I met two Tims and needed to commit something to memory about both so I wouldn’t mix them up (one could cook, the other 3D-printed things and, sadly, neither of them had “Tam” for a last name).

So now, today, being a little seedy and in need of a column idea, I’m trying to think of my own talents.

And look, I could really do with a list of positive things about me today. I mean, my idea of fulfilling the “be productive, be healthy and get organised” resolution I set for myself this weekend was ordering two pizzas with wholemeal bases – because the pizza I don’t eat in one sitting while watching five hours of television featuring Nicole Ritchie, I can take to work tomorrow*.

* Oh goodness, I’ve just done literally the same thing – the only difference is that I was watching Spiceworld instead of live-streamed television. I feel like I’ve developed a pattern of behaviour that I might need to address. 

Also, it’s faster for me to punch out a column in list-form, and I’d really like to get back to numbing my brain with Great News as quickly as possible. So here it is, my list of “talents”:

Noticing when someone gets a haircut: Yep, you might say that this isn’t a talent, it’s me having the sense of sight, using my eyes to gather information about the world. And you might say that having eyes isn’t a special trait, it’s merely an outcome of thousands of years of evolution.

But it’s more than that.

Because it’s not just noticing that someone has recently had their ends trimmed, it’s mentioning it. And it’s not just saying “hey there, sweet ‘do”. It’s telling someone “hey, beb, I see you, you’re noticed, you matter”.

And, sure, maybe that’s a little creepy and borderline stalkerish, but I like to think it’s a public service.

Avocado ripeness judging: Yes, I know my dark-rimmed circular glasses and constant stream of jokes about how my life is a mess screams millennial, so I realise that an avocado-related talent doesn’t exactly distance me from the cliché. However, I would like to point out that I’ve not shortened it down to “avo”, so there.

I just happen to have quite a good sense about when an avocado is ready. I don’t have to squeeze them in my palm like I would the still-beating heart I’d just ripped from the chest of my enemy – it’s more of a dainty pinch. And when there’s a two-for-one special with avocadoes, I know how to pick one ripe guy and one that will be ripe by the time I’ve eaten the first, ready-to-go avocado.

My old housemate thought it was really impressive, and she’s a clinical psychologist who owns multiple blazers.

Being able to pick things up with my feet: Look, I get it. Feet are gross.

Have you ever looked at them, like really looked at them? They’re like flat fists with tiny, stubby and, depending on you genetics, hairy fingers poking out one end. They just don’t look right.

However, my feet are surprisingly dexterous. I once picked up a needle – A NEEDLE – with my foot.

I know that society demands we wear shoes and that whole burning-hot-bitumen situation makes them necessary for getting around in summer, but I really think I’d function better if I didn’t have my feet imprisoned in footwear. I mean, it’s not like a could peel a banana with my feet, but I just think that the toes/forgotten phalanges aren’t being used to their full potential.

I can make fart noises with my neck: This probably means my neck skin isn’t going to age gracefully, but I can trap the air between my hand and my neck in such a way that it sounds like someone… coughing in their rompers*. I don’t even have to be sweaty (but it helps).

* This is a family euphemism for farting. And, honestly, I don’t mind it. I think there’s a bit of charm in using the term “rompers” instead of saying something crass like “bum cough”. 

However, I’ve now started doing it unconsciously, so I have to really watch myself when I’m doing it at work. This means I have to explain to my desk buddy about my talent so they don’t think I have some kind of gastric disease.

Appearing perfectly normal but oversharing so much that people realise I’m a bit of a weirdo: As evidenced above.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 29, 2018

“How was your weekend?” can be a big question.

Sure, I could answer with a perfunctory “good”, but I find myself unable to. I do so love telling people far too much information about my personal life.

But I also find myself unable to coherently form sentences at this time. I’m quite tired, I think I have hay fever and I’ve got a serious case of the yeah nahs. I’m just not up to writing a full, cohesive yarn for you.

But my sister had a ballgames carnival to celebrate a milestone birthday over the weekend, so of course I have stories.

And so I’ve decided to condense my two days of freedom into dot points. Given the sporting nature of the weekend, I suppose sticking to the highlights (and the not-so-high-highlights) is fitting.

And with that lazy introduction, I give you my peaks and troughs for the past weekend:

Peak: Sitting on the plane with an empty seat next to me minutes before take-off. I pictured myself sprawled out, sipping a beer and watching the clouds roll by in the kind of comfort you can only get from having 60cm more seat space than everyone else.

Trough: Watching the last bloke board the plane, barrel straight down the aisle and take his assigned seat… next to me.

Peak: The bloke sitting in what should have been my feet’s seat giving me his beer to take as a roadie, because he wasn’t much into beer these days. An empty seat would never have given me its beer.

Peak: Returning to the old Maguire house, where the homefire was literally kept burning.

Trough: Going to say hello to our emotionally-distant blue heeler Lady, but remembering she had passed on.

Peak: Dad turning on the “wireless”, which automatically started playing the Beaches soundtrack.

Peak: Finding unexplained red wine in the beer fridge.

Peak: Eventually going to bed, enveloped by the all-consuming darkness that I crave so desperately in my Sydney apartment (it’s much easier to sleep when you aren’t sleeping next to a block of flats fitted with security lights).

Peak: Pilton Valley bacon. Thick, salty and satisfying.

Trough: Not hearing a single Lee Kernaghan song on the radio the whole drive from Clifton to Toowoomba.

Peak: Being handed the coolest shirt I will ever own – a Hawaiian-style button-up with flamingos on it. I’m already planning on wearing it to work. Paired with a nice pencil skirt and the right attitude, I’m confident I can make corporate-flamingo a legitimate office look.

Peak: Stepping on to the ballgames paddock, ready to rumble.

Trough: Realising I’d completely forgotten how to play ball games – the easiest games in the world – and being faced with the reality that my brain is turning to room-temperature mush.

Peak: Hearing the story of a Great Great Uncle Gillam who might just be the loosest unit in history. As the story goes, old mate was bitten on the finger by a snake. I don’t recall which finger and I’m unsure of the snake, but I’m going to go with a death adder because it sounds the coolest. According to folklore he copped a bite, but refused to be taken down by some wimpy legless lizard, so he actually BIT HIS DAMN FINGER OFF. By all accounts, he lived to tell the tale. I mean, if you bit your own finger off after a snake bite, you’d want to bloody live – if for nothing else, to be able to tell that story at the pub.

Trough: Realising my I-broke-my-wrist-falling-off-a-horse-but-kept-riding-for-40-minutes-and-hosted-a-house-party-before-going-to-the-emgerency-room story is now significantly less cool by comparison.

Peak: The luxe barbecue buffet.

Trough: The washing up.

Trough: Hitting the inevitable day-drinking wall and being unable to muster the energy to push past it.

Peak: The suggestion of cups of tea and Spiceworld.

Trough: Realising I’d slept through my only chance of hearing the sound of rain on a corrugated iron in six months.

Trough: The sticky, sticky floor beneath the leaking mojito dispenser.

Trough: The glitter explosion in the bathroom.

Trough: The washing up.

Peak: Blueberry pancakes.

Trough: The washing up.

Trough: The first round of goodbyes.

Peak: My little sister’s unwanted airport potato wedges.

Trough: The second goodbyes.

Trough: The aircraft being fully-functional and not needing to be grounded overnight for unexplained repairs.

Trough: The final goodbyes, communicated via over-exaggerated arm movements from a distance. It’s those last few steps towards the plane that really kick you in the guts, making you feel like you’ll be melancholy for months. It’s a stinging feeling you know only something truly, profoundly joyful will counteract. And when you’re being herded on to a jam-packed shuttle taking you back to Stinktown, you can’t really picture anything strong enough lift your heavy heart.

Peak: The in-flight bickies.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 22, 2018

On Sunday* I received an email informing me that it was National Potato Day.

* Yeah, this was a while ago. National Potato Day was August 19. Commit it memory so you can celebrate it next year, people. 

I don’t know who decides these things. I mean, I don’t really know if anyone actually has the authority to designate an entire day to one thing. I suppose someone just makes these things up and hopes they catch on. I suspect it’s a public relations exercise in many cases, although there would be a few that have come about because of tradition or historical events or something to do with the moon.

And, hey, I have nothing against these days. No one is holding a pulled back rubber band (one of the most threatening sights known to humanity) to your head and forcing you to observe the holiday. It’s just a fun thing to celebrate as a way of breaking up the soul-crushing monotony of day-to-day life.

I mean, I probably was going to end up doing it anyway because Sad Sundays often call for carb-dense consolations*, but I chose to mark National Potato Day by eating a roast potato sandwich. I also  uploaded a picture of my potato sanga to Instagram, posted an unnecessarily-lengthy recipe for said carb explosion on my blog and learned a few facts about potatoes. Apparently there are more than 4000 varieties of spuds, most of which have roots (pun intended) in the Andes. The word “potato” comes from the Spanish word “patata”, which is how I will refer to the life-giving vegetable from now on. I read somewhere that China is the world’s biggest consumer of potatoes, based on figures from 2010.  And, as I saw in a Google Images search, potato flowers are actually really quite pretty.

* I mean, I didn’t even plan this before I went to post this, but I seriously said to myself “fuck this, I’m having potatoes for dessert” to myself tonight. They’re currently in the oven, waiting for me to finish my Lamb Bam Container (like one of those health bowl things, but it’s more accurate for me to call it a container because I always make enough to take for lunch and you can’t take an unlidded bowl to work willy nilly – yes, you can expect a recipe next time I’m too hungover to write a column).

After looking for about three-and-a-half minutes, I wasn’t able to ascertain why August 19 is the National Potato Day, so I’m going to assume it was just thought up by someone from a potato production group trying to promote everyone’s favourite form of starch.

And good on them.

However, I suppose that this means that any old person can suggest that people celebrate something on a particular day. All they need is a bit of a following to get it off the ground.

And, because I have been given a platform here, I’ve decided to float a few ideas for national days. Please, feel free to mark them on your calendar.

Comfs Day: This is a day where people are free to wear comfortable clothing in any context, particularly in the corporate sector. This means sloppy joes, trackies, bed socks with thongs and gravy-stained singlets. It will fall on the first working day of the year, to soften the blow of returning to the world of adult responsibilities after the festive season.

National Garlic Bread Day: People are given the liberty to eat garlic bread as a main instead of a side dish. This will fall on May 22, in honour of my sister, who loves garlic bread more than most things. I know she would be proud if this were her legacy.

Tea Appreciation Day: This is a day for giving thanks for tea. People around the country will come together, boil the kettle and dedicate at least 15 minutes to yarning on over a cuppa.

And there’s no room for discrimination. It’s not about teapots versus tea bags; it’s a day of unity. It’s a time to lay aside the prejudices of tea practically white with milk or a brew so dark if looks like a cup of a night’s sky. And whether you’re a fancy earl grey or an alternative chai or an average, run-of-the-mill Ceylon, everyone is welcome.

Of course, I’d stipulate that non-tea-drinkers are also welcome, but ask they respect the day by sipping their liquid of choice from a teacup or traditional mug.

This day happens on the 20^th of each month, because people should have get togethers regularly and, more importantly, because you can emphases the “tea” when you format the date as MONTH-DAY. For example, March twent-TEA or May twent-TEA.

National Mattress Flipping Day: On this day, everyone will actually flip their mattresses, after months of meaning to do it. The goal of this day is to help people avoid creating confronting ditches in their mattresses, which wreaks havoc on both the spine and the self-esteem (because seeing just how large your bodily indent is can never be good for your self-confidence). It will fall on July 1 each year, which is pretty much bang-on half-way through the year. If this day is widely taken-up, efforts to have December 31 recognised as National Mattress Flip Back Over Day, where people flip their mattresses again and gives them the illusion they’ve achieved at least one thing with their year.