Published in On Our Selection News July 17, 2014

I’ve undergone a massive transformation in the past week.

I was minding my own business, making myself a late-night piece of toast the other night when my glasses simply fell right off my face. As if a punishment for having carbs after 5pm, the arm simply detached from the frames. I was a wreck – I loved my glasses. They helped me to not hit children when I drove and provided the perfect alibi for ignoring people I didn’t like when I strategically removed them.

Glasses eventually become an extension of your face, and so eventually they start to become your identity. I’m that girl with the thick black glasses, and I’ve accepted that. When I see pictures of my face without them, it looks weird (mostly because without the frames to distract you, you can tell that one of my eyes is bigger than the other). So I called my optometrist and booked an appointment, thinking they could be repaired. But my heart was torn to shreds yet again when I was told they were beyond repair and was casually instructed to “pick out some new frames”. That’s just like going to the doctor for a check up and having the nurse yell “surprise lobotomy!” as she locks the door.

Despite having multiple layers of flakey sticky tape wrapped around the arm, I didn’t want to throw my glasses away. They were a part of me. Glasses can inform much of your character. My thick rimmed black glasses said “this is Dannielle – the blackness of these frames mirrors the darkness in her soul and the slightly rounded rectangular lenses suggest struggles to get to a point when telling stories. Overall she looks studious and stern, but the discrete curved grooves on the arms imply she’s got a kooky side.” But now, with new glasses, that would all change.

It was a massive decision. Black or brown? Circular or rectangular? Scantily clad or conservative? There was a pair I liked, but felt like they showed too much eyebrow. Was that too revealing? Would these frames make my eyeballs look like optical harlots, virtually reducing the dialogue to “hey baby, are you lookin’ for a good time” every time I met someone’s gaze? And, like revealing clothes, you do have to question if you can pull it off. Just like a tight-fitting bondage dress on the wrong person is reminiscent of an over-stuffed Cornjack with the filling (bad fake tan can sometimes resemble that filthy yet delicious goo) bulging out the top and bottom openings, some pairs of glasses can be less than flattering on the wrong faces.

But the most important decision was based on what those glasses would say about me. Would these frames imply loose morals, impulsive behaviour and an inclination for boys with white sunglasses and tribal tattoos? Unfortunately, time was against me. With just five minutes until closing time, I had two choices. The black pair that were basically the same as the first or the whore-brow brown pair? I cracked the pressure and bought both.

Now I feel as if I have two identities – normal Dannielle and skank-brow Dannielle who makes reckless choices without considering the circumstances. When I went to pick them up, I also ended up bringing home forty chicken nuggets.

I was wearing the brown ones at the time…

Published in On Our Selection News July 10, 2014

There is a massive difference between a “girl’s night” and a “boys night”.

Over the weekend, I hosted my sister’s Hen’s Party (which I dubbed the “Week-Henned”). It was a daunting task as I’ve never even been to a bachelorette party, much less than planned one. So I did what I always do when I don’t know something: base my assumptions on movies and television shows. We’ve all seen the movies where bridal parties of both genders embark on pre- nuptial celebrations. But while the Buck’s Night is a wildly fun time, the bridal equivalent is either trashier than Paris Hilton’s hair extensions or completely boring. I used to think it was stupid that the parties were segregated into ladies and the menfolk: mostly because the lads seem to have more fun.

While they’re doing Jågerbombs on roofs or taking over a party boat, Hen’s Nights either involve the women politely eating tiny sandwiches, talking about their boyfriends or end with grown women wearing feather boas and sporting various phallic-shaped props projectile vomiting in public (I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more embarrassing than a big flock of fully grown women cackling because someone brought a plastic replica of the reproductive system. Yep, we were there in that sex-ed class; we all know who has them, and we all know what that does. If you’re going to flaunt body parts about, why not make a straw out of the inner ear as well – at least you might learn something!).

I knew that tradition called for a person of loose morals to prance around in their underclothes. I imagine having a stripper shoved in your face is much like watching a woman give birth: it’s something you don’t really need to see and you want to stand back from so you don’t get any fluids on your shoes. Thankfully my sister agreed and the brief I was given was “strictly no trashy stuff”. So I decided to cast of off the sparkly feather boa-ed shackles of hen’s nights past, and go for somewhere in between. I didn’t want to plan a trip on the lame train, but I also didn’t want us to resort to the pathetic Hen’s Night stereotypes. I must say that I was rather happy with how it turned out.

Our idea of a good night was a Bette Midler movie and jumbo pack of ear candles. Little clumps of orange drew ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and before long, it became a competition to see who had the most wax removed. The vying for waxy glory took over our girlish ways. People were outwardly jealous of one girl’s particularly chunky “ear sausage”(which subsequently made her the winner of the night).

And the grossness didn’t stop there. On the night we ventured out of our filth-cave, the name of the game was to sneak up on an unsuspecting Week-Hennder and surprise them with a bare armpit to the face, arm or any other bare exposed skin. Things got kind of rough, and it made for a frightening time up on the tables that for some reason people are encouraged to dance on. Then there was the particularly rude punching game. It turns out that girl’s nights can get incredibly filthy. Put a group of girls in a house together for three nights, and things can get borderline feral. And while I’m all for keeping up with the boys, I think they may have got queasy keeping up with us…

Published in On Our Selection News July 3, 2014

Nothing cements your stature quite like the number of fingers waved at you when you’re driving.

I’m not talking about obscene hand gestures, I’m talking about the humble finger wave. For those who have never been on a road in a country town ever, a finger wave is when a driver lifts one or multiple phalanges off their steering wheel as you pass. It’s a wholesome, friendly gesture. But like most innocent, warm-willed actions, I can completely subvert it with some over-analysis and just a dash of cynicism.

If you get one finger wave, that person doesn’t know you, but shows some kind of respect for you based on the location at which you cross paths, and the type of vehicle you drive. If you’re in a ute in a country town, no matter how much of a local you’re not, you’re getting a finger wave. If you have a shiny family sedan, you’re going to need to be on a dirt back road or wearing an Akubra visible from one kilometre to raise the finger of a stranger. A one fingered wave also comes in handy when you’re passing someone very slowly and kind of have to acknowledge their presence without coming on as too clingy. For example, if you lift a hand off the wheel and wave at a road construction worker with a stop/go sign, you’re coming on too strong. The worker will either stare at you blankly or become a little worried that you’ll pull up for a chat. But if you raise a finger, you’re not only being polite, it’s very likely that you’re also going to get a nod of acknowledgement. And that nod basilically says “Hey man, I don’t know you’re name, but I know who you are, Inside. I know your soul and I get you, just like you get me.”

The two fingered wave is a wave of obligation. It’s a show that you do indeed recognise that person’s vehicle and don’t generally bid them any bad luck, but it’s the kind of wave you think about before giving. It may be that you’re lifting an extra finger because they’re in a Police vehicle and you don’t want to appear to be giving them a middle-fingered gesture (which is an entirely different finger wave all together). It might just be that you don’t like the person enough to instinctively wave joyfully at their presence, so you have to force it. You’re not their friend, but don’t want to go starting fights because they make an excellent contribution to the slice table at school events and you don’t want to have to avoid their slice on principle. If you would eat their slice, you’re obligated to acknowledge their vehicle as it passes you.

The next step up is the full lift-off. Because the real measure of affection is in the thumb. If you lift off the thumb, you lose a bit of control of the wheel. If you get a full hand lift finger wave, it means that person will willing to risk their life, to send you warm wishes. The wave is even sweeter when the person has their family riding in the car. Nothing says “hey, how ya going?” quite like gambling with the lives of your loved-ones. The full handed wave is true love. A bromance for the ages. Either that, of it’s the sign of a far too keen stalker. In which case choose your returning feature wisely – apparently people read quite a bit into these gestures and things can get out of hand.

Published in On Our Selection News June 26, 2014

Why say what you wanted to say verbally and say what you didn’t mean to say when you can say what you actually meant to say in text form?

While the richest form of communication is face-to-face, I have found that I often over-indulge in text-based exchanges. The geographical isolation from many of my friends combined with a slightly obsessive need for control means that I rely heavily on social networking sites to interact with those I love, am friendly with and tolerate. There’s an old theory which goes something like “you cannot not communicate”. The less confusing non- double negative version: you’re always communicating. How? Well that is because there are lots of different ways you can communicate. With clothing, say a uniform, you can communicate that you’re part of a team. When you’re laying down, breathing heavily and drooling, your body language says you’re asleep. HOWEVER the message sent out (intentionally or not) is distorted by the receiver’s personal interpretation of the message. So while you seeing me in my touch jersey might make you think that I am somewhat good at team sports, this can be very different from the truth, which is that I was a part of that team purely to make up numbers, and the laying face down in my own drool thing could mean someone is actually more on the passed out side of sleeping.

My point is that whether you know it or not, in varying scales of intensity of interest, everything you do, say, wear or even don’t do is informing others’ perceptions of you. Accurately or not. It’s no wonder that people (i.e. me) communicate by controlled means, in ways they craft the messages to be received by the receiver. I wasn’t so self aware of this tendancy I had until Saturday, when I was browsing in my favourite low-cost department store. I recognised a girl who used to go to my school, who happens to regularly post hilarious statuses on Facebook. Lost in a world of one-dollar-one-pieces, I wandered off without even acknowledging her existence. It wasn’t until I was considering buying 20 five dollar dressing gowns that it struck me that I was more willing to chuck her a like on the internet, than I would be interpersonally. And as someone who (unfoundedly) likes to think of herself as a social genius, this stung a little.

So I challenged myself to give her a verbal thumbs up. It didn’t go well. There I was, clutching my unethically priced item, baring my soul to a very uncomfortable girl who had been ambushed in the slippers aisle. I thought I was being an encouraging stranger, making her day, while she thought I was a jittery creep. It became very obvious that controlling how the receiver interprets a message is much easier via text, when their wide-eyed reaction can’t throw you off your game.

Luckily, I have a column. And while others have to process their social ineptitude and verbal clumsiness in conversations critical to their self confidence, I get to lie to myself that it was all for research. Maybe I thought about writing a column on this topic before I went up to her, maybe I didn’t, but that’s a problem for my subconscious to deal with. And perhaps my future therapist.

Published in On Our Selection News June 19, 2014

I really don’t think people should have to function in winter.

In the past few days, it feels like winter is taking out revenge on us after lulling us into the warm stupor of false security. We all thought winter was gentle and kind, letting us have barbecues and wear shorts. But then the relationship soured with the power of ten thousand lemons. It has untagged us in its profile pictures and poked its tongue at us behind the teacher’s back. The friendship is over. But it can still manipulate us into doing things that will hurt us even more. The cold has gone beyond an excuse to wear cute cardigans and straight into double socking territory.And when things get this bad, it’s hard to behave in a productive or socially presentable manner. Winter is secretly pulling our strings, puppeteering our actions to create misery.

I went to the football on Saturday and due to an unfortunately timed jegging wash, I was unable to wear boots because the only other pair of socially appropriate pants I own can only be pulled off with flats. I hadn’t worn those particular shoes in some time, and it was not until I could feel the painfully icy water from the puddle stepped in seep through my soles into my socks that I remembered why. I came to take pictures of a couple of things, and getting snaps at the Ladies Day function was the last on my list. Unfortunately, I got my times mixed up and had to wait an extra hour for said ladies to arrive. So I sat biding my time in the grandstand while my feet slowly froze. Usually in this situation I would wrap my hair around my neck like a scarf or even keep my face warm through creating instant sideburns by securing my hair in a classic under-the-chin ponytail – but I was sitting in a row on my own and didn’t want to come off as the weird girl in the class who doesn’t talk to anyone and eats the paste.

So I sat there in a perfectly ordinary fashion cursing the cold, and the even colder restraints of society. I was so grumpy that I could barely enjoy the fact that someone had brought a pet lamb along to the match – even his doggie coat did little to warm my icy mood. When I finally got over to the ladies, the top third of my feet were numb, and I felt like I was walking with the flat feet of a duck to keep them devil shoes from falling off my feet.

That was three days ago, and things have not changed. Today’s story is even worse. I decided to come a little earlier today and immediately questioned my decision-making processes. Our building is somewhat not insulated, walking into it first thing in the morning almost hurts. My fingers were so cold that I was about as productive at the keyboard as a hairless house cat with attention issues and six centimetre long acrylic fingernails. When faced with the notion of getting up and going to the bathroom, I actually considered wetting myself for the brief three minutes of warmth it would provide and to avoid facing the cold of the outdoor toilet. This is not right. Later on, I had to walk across the street and when someone asked how I was and I actually responded with “Don’t talk to me, I can’t function right now!” I’m hoping that my tone suggested it was a friendly exchange, but seeing my words in print makes me think that perhaps I have some apologies to make. But it’s not my fault – winter made me do it!

Published in On Our Selection News June 12, 2014

It is always interesting to hear what words people use to describe you when they’ve forgotten your name.

As a child, your name never really counts to many of the adults you encounter, as demonstrated by the general “and family” label/slap in the face that features on Christmas cards from my parents’ friends. While families with only one sibling have to put up with being called their brother’s or sister’s name, children from a larger litter are often referred to by characteristics they vaguely embody. Their entire being is whittled down to one generalised observation that may or may not be correct. Just as Marcia was the pretty one, Jan was bland and Cindy was the cute one, the Maguire girls each had their labels. My oldest sister was “The Smart One” (proof that generalised observations are not always correct), my second oldest sister was “The Pretty One”, and my youngest sister was “The Cute One”. All of them have hair of gold, except Dannielle, who was blessed with brown. The colour of my hair, apparently was my defining characteristic because it made me stand out from the blonde brood I hung out with.

While it is satisfying hearing a younger cousin guess my name right first go after struggling with my sister’s name, the victory is soon soured by the stab to the ego that is the admission that she knew you because “you’ve got the brown hair” – wounds that are clearly still oozing with disdain and crusting over with the yellowing infection of disappointment after being inflicted just last weekend. All I have to offer this world is my brownness. While my three sisters’ attributes are very positive, mine is incredibly bland. Brown is the colour of cardboard boxes and dirt. If you were to ask 100 people what their favourite colour was, I guarantee you that no one will mention brown. While it’s not the best label, it is the most effective, with 99 per cent of distant relations being able to guess my name correctly compared to my fair-haired womb-mates.

“The Brown One” is a label that has stuck, despite my best efforts. Whether it was dying my hair red or competing in a gluestick eating race when my group of friends went through our Jackass stage (as a side note, I did manage to beat my opponent, but looking back I don’t think any of us were winners in the end…), I made numerous ill- informed attempts to shape my identity. I fear this desire may have very much informed my actions at a subconscious level, which actually really explains a lot about my personality. As such, I have always been a believer in the old saying “Don’t judge a book by its cover”, mostly because if the cover is just “brown”, that book isn’t going to be much of a ripping read. Thankfully, as you get older, I’ve noticed people get better at labelling you.

These days, our labels are a little more attuned to who we are. There’s the nurse (fine, I suppose she had to be somewhat intelligent to get through uni), who can be spotted eying-off people’s veins for cannulation practice; the greenie, who can seen hoarding paper waste from work to recycle in her bin at home; the book worm, who reads in front of the TV; and the cynical journo, who can be spotted sitting in a corner judging people, and making generalised observations about them…

Published in On Our Selection News June 5, 2014

There’s a reason people say that you can’t go home again.

After four years of having another residential address, I am living back under my parents’ roof, and I must say that the experience has been challenging. I’m not just talking about the looks you get when you decide that a batch of black bean brownies is an acceptable choice for dinner (because you can eat it straight from the baking dish and then have the leftovers the next night, obviously). I’m talking about things that never used to be a big deal becoming a point of furious contention.

The simple placement of a toothbrush can be a declaration of opposition, the location of couch pillows an expression of dominance. Previously meaningless household items become weapons in a play for power. Currently, there’s a silent war raging between my father and I. As with many wars, the conflict stemmed from claims on resources, and this particular resourse is more valuable than gold and more useful than oil – bananas. They are located in no man’s land – the fridge – meaning anyone can make claim to their riches. When they are plentiful (after our beloved fruit man comes to town) there is peace – smoothies are blended and lunchboxes are filled and there is harmony in the region. However when the resource dwindles, things turn ugly and the situation becomes hostile. While going to the shops to buy more may be an option, neither party wants to lose face – no one wants to be seen giving in to terrorist demands. And so, bananas are smuggled into unchartered territory (behind the butter, out of the line of sight) and smuggled into secret stashes (inside an esky). In the interest of keeping relations diplomatic the issue is not mentioned, however when the resource is totally depleted, famine is avoided by striking a truce with joint funding initiatives. Eventually, we simply started ordering more bananas, and an armistice has been in place, securing peace.

But now, the war has escalated on the most controversial of issues – the placement of the kitchen bin. As a flag-waving freedom fighter, I believe it should be in a corner. My father’s fascist views involve placing the bin against cupboard doors. This means the lid bangs on the doors when he’s disposing of rubbish, loudly proclaiming to the entire house that he’s “taking out the trash” – which I can only assume is some kind of fear-inducing propaganda. My sister and mother carry on with their lives oblivious to the carnage, possibly because the degree of rotation of a bin actually makes no difference in their lives whatsoever or possibly because our attacks are so sophisticated. We engage in guerrilla tactics to undermine our opponent, choosing opportune times to strike, usually under the cover of darkenss. If I wake in the middle of the night, I will strike. By the time I’m up the next day, it has been shifted back into its oppressive position.

This kind of combat has been continuing for weeks, and there appears to be no end in sight without third party involvement. I suspect this may be on the cards, as my mother is making a roast, assumedly to facilitate peace talks as both parties will be at the table. Although this may backfire, as there could be tensions over the gravy jug.