Published in On Our Selection News January 30, 2014 

There’s more to Australia Day than beer.

I see Australia Day as a celebration of the freedom we enjoy. If we want to wear a ratty koala poncho and not much else, then we are well within our right to do so. But what comes with our own freedom is the freedom of others, meaning those who chose get Southern Cross tattoos and shout “Straya” all day are allowed to do so. Australia Day, from my experience, is about beer AND democracy.

Perhaps the best example of this would be Andrew Laming. Not only could the addition of “ton” on the end of his last name make him an iconic Aussie dessert, but this guy seems to have “Straya” down pat. I don’t know what this man stands for, but if he can stand upside down while hastily consuming a can of ale, I can bet you that he just won over hundreds of supporters. Because while that may not make him an exceptional politician, it sure makes him seem like an exceptional bloke.

Another combo of beer and democracy is Triple J’s hottest 100 Countdown, which lists the best 100 songs from 2013 as voted by the people. People listen in, beer in hand, waiting to hear the result. Just like the Federal Election, the result of this nation and worldwide vote is often met with controversy. Every year the number one song is debated, and there is outrage over the songs that didn’t make the top spot. There’s nothing that riles up young, alternative-minded hipsters quite like music and its pop- ularity. And after a day of liberal ale consumption, words like “mainstream” are thrown around on Facebook like molotov cocktails and the quality of songs is debated in the same fashion that Laurie Oaks discusses proposed legislation.

Number one is often called a crap song by the not so keen alternative music fans, and is torn apart by being too mainstream by the very keen alternative music fans. There’s a winning song, but it never really wins – much like actual democracy. The process is a win in itself. Because the thing about democracy is that everyone is given a vote. And while some people take music and/or politics seriously, there are others who don’t care as much. Or people who just don’t know their stuff. One girl was disappointed that Robin Thick’s Blurred Lines didn’t make it in – but even though she spelt “thought” as “thort”, her opinion is still valid. She, like everyone, was still allowed a vote. What is clear is that popularity and merit don’t always correlate. There are times when the most popular song or politician just isn’t as good as the less popular ones. Popular songs aren’t necessarily terrible, and whether or not a song is “good” – like politicians – is entirely subjective. If you hate country music, then you’re hardly going to rate Lee Kernaghan’s new CD.

But the beauty of events like countdowns and elections is that they give us an opportunity for discussion. And by discussion, I mean complaints. The mere act of complaining is a political act in itself. Complain loudly and to a big audience, and you’re doing a fair bit for democracy. We’re not all able to agree all of the time. And we shouldn’t. Lorde might be better than Vance Joy, and Daft Punk may be just a little overrated. But as Australians these are the discussions that we’re able to have, and enjoy. And on Australia Day, we’re able to do it with a beer in hand. 

Published in On Our Selection News January 23, 2014

All my life I have been lied to about how fun the beach is.

From movies to picture books, spending a day at the beach has been romanticised to give us unrealistic expectations. Throughout my childhood I was brainwashed with images of Bec Cartwright smiling in the Summer Bay surf, and lied to via interactive flap-books such as Spot Goes to the Beach. We’ve been led to believe that the seaside is fantastic. And after myweekend beach experience, I think it’s time the truth be told. Dannielle Goes to the Beach sounds like it would be a great picture book, possibly with lift-up-flaps and fun textures to feel. It would be a great book to sit on the kindy bookshelf. However Dannielle Goes to the Beach would be a harrowing tale of one girl’s transformation into a salt riddled, sub-human creature.

Now, the trouble with picture books is that they can’t convey the actual saltiness of the water. You forget that sting and instead remember the cool of the waves. This is why my book would be accompanied with a spray bottle of saltwater so the reader can repeatedly squirt themselves in the eyes to get the full experience. On Saturday, my eyes decided to be extra sensitive to the salt, causing my eyelids to burn with the fire of a thousand suns. Not only did this make it impossible to see, but also made my nose run like a tap, which resulted in constant sniffing and some super attractive heavy mouth breathing. That page would invite the reader to pull a lever illustrating the mucus intent on escaping the heroine’s nose. Then there would be a cardboard cutout of the girl that the reader could drag across the page in a curvy track to mimic the disorientated walk of the heroine as she attempted to find fresh water, hampered by blurry eyes and bare feet on hot cement.

My posture stooped and as I wiped my nose on my arm, I also wiped away any pride that remained. I stumbled to a sink and splashed my eyes for at least five minutes, still struggling to breathe through my nose. That page would have a lever to scrunch up the faces of passing tourists into disgruntled looks of disgust, and prompt the reader to mimic the sound of a vacuum cleaner trying to suck up wet cement (otherwise known as: “Dannielle trying to breathe post-ocean swim”). My next move was to find toilet paper to blow my nose with. This would be illustrated with a public toilet door flap to open, which would reveal a damp, torn pair blue Bonds men’s briefs crumpled on the floor next to a suspicious looking puddle. “Pull the lever to lower Dannielle’s faith in mankind!”, the book would instruct the reader.

Despite all this, the book would end with the girls’ sinuses clearing eventually. Little Dannielle would reason to herself that she must have just had a bad day as she gazed at the sunset sky over the beach. She’s enjoyed the beach before – this was a one-off bad experience. She doesn’t hate the beach, just feel how soft it made her skin! The book has a seemingly happy ending, with the final words being “to be continued.” The reader is then told to look out for the sequel – Dannielle Discovers Severe Scalp Sunburn and Endures a Week of Sickening Head Peel. 

Published in On Our Selection News January 16, 2014

Hot cross buns are apparently very important.

I know this because, thankfully, my mother likes to listen to the world’s most annoying radio station that discusses the pressing issues affecting the world today. One morning a few days ago, I awoke to the sound of people trash talking a packet of what is essentially mini bunloaves with bland icing. It’s a serious debate that warrants the attention of the nation, and seems to really rile people. And it’s not just on the radio – you overhear comments in the shopping aisles and between friends at lunch. They ask the big question: is it too early for hot cross buns? It’s not whether or not 2013 being the hottest year on record is something to be concerned about or the federal school funding model or even if Geoff and Brynne Edelsten are actually getting a divorce. The time of year that hot cross buns are sold is apparently the issue worth debating here. Hot cross buns come out “early” ever year, and yet people are still shocked and appalled by it. Every. Damn. Year. Flour, water and a few sultanas have never been more offensive. “We just got over Christmas and now they’re shoving Easter down our throats?!” is a common response.

First off, “just got over Christmas”?! Is Christmas really that tortuous of an ordeal for you? Were the presents, the astounding variety of sweet foods rolled into bite-sized balls and the general feeling of cheeriness too much for you to handle?! Holidays are fun – even if you’re single and hate spending time around your family. They’re fun because they make things different to jazz up what would have otherwise been a mundane work day. They give you an excuse to wear a silly hat or tell someone that you love them. “But it’s just so commercial!” you say to me. Yes. People want to make money. Accept it. Commercialisation is a symptom of the capitalist society we live in. A baker selling hot cross buns in January is no more of a shallow cash grab than a grocer stocking their shelves with apples. Commercialisation doesn’t make a holiday less special, it just provides multiple options of ways to celebrate. Because a holiday isn’t food. It comes without presents. It comes without tags. It comes without packages, boxes or bags – haven’t you ever seen The Grinch? Holidays are only “commercial” if you choose for them to be.

Secondly, the only thing going down your throat is a nice baked item, not the crucification and resurrection of Christ (luckily, as I imagine that would leave splinters in your oesophagus). It’s physically impossible to have a holiday shoved down your throat.

My final point is that, unless you’re being kidnapped and force- fed hot cross buns as some kind of fabulous torture, said baked goods are probably not being shoved down your throat. Most likely, you’ve got to be the one to walk into the store, purchase the offensive bun and feed it to yourself. As Captain Planet said, “the power is yours”. If you don’t want to eat a hot cross bun, you really don’t have to. And if you’re not into Easter, just view it as a fluffy sultana (or choc chip) laced treat that happens to have two very bland strips of some kind of vague icing substance which intersect at a 90 degree angle. Is it really that big of a deal? 

Published in On Our Selection News December 12, 2013

Gift buying can be an incredibly daunting experience.

Recently, my workplace engaged in the classic office activity of Secret Santa. We interact with each other on a daily basis, so you’d think it shouldn’t be that difficult to find something under $20 that they wouldn’t hate. Surprisingly, this was not the case. Everyone, it seems, had trouble with this novelty task. It’s just a matter of walking into a store, picking something from the shelves and remembering to bring it on the day, right?

Wrong. Because nothing reveals how little you know about a person quite like having to buy them a gift.

The point of a present is generally to show someone that your feelings towards them are somewhat amicable, so it is the norm to gift someone with something they would enjoy. This all sounds rather simple, but if you think about (like I have) you’re really handing over your assumptions and judgements about a person, all wrapped up in a neatly wrapped (or crappily wrapped – that also says a lot) package. Your relationship is summed up by the boxed object you’re presenting to the person. Here’s an example: Gift giver – “Oh I just though you would ADORE this pink wallet – it just screams you!” The receiver responds with “thanks”, but the inner monologue is going something along the lines of “I hate pink. Pink is the colour that vapid bimbos love. Aunty Cheryl thinks that I’m stupid and shallow. She will not be invited to my wedding and I hope her soul burns in hell.”

Just as food comas and choosing inappropriate topics for family conversations as the beers dwindle are sacred Christmas traditions, so too is the festive analysis of gifts. Once the break- fast dishes have been washed, me and my siblings gather to pick apart our gifts and work out who was the best giver of gifts. It’s a little competitive in fact. Winning as the gift giver is fantastic, but being told that you come off as dumb via a pleather wallet is slightly less fantastic. Yes, it sounds ungrateful, wildly stereo- typical of vapid bimbos and reads far too much into the colour pink. You’ve just gained a wallet and Aunty Cheryl did spend her money on you instead of another bottle of wine (although I’m sure that there are some Aunties out there where the latter option would be a gift for the whole family) but if you unpack it, the gift that someone chooses to give you can say a lot.

Being the receiver can sometimes mean being the receiver of a metaphorical slap in the face. And if you keep this in mind, it can make the role of gifter much more troubling. Particularly because if you’re close enough to someone that it would be awkward if you didn’t get them a Christmas present (i.e. family), then it is expected that you know a few things about them. But it’s not enough to know the basics – they love chicken nuggets, or they love Avril Lavigne – because that would result in a soggy package of melted globs of processed chicken offcuts under the tree or someone playing Sk8ter Boi on repeat.

If you’ve got to live with these people, you must be strategic in your gift buying. Go with something they’ve asked for or perhaps, buy a DVD you both enjoy, or a big box of chocolates they’ll feel obligated to share. Just don’t wrap it in pink paper.

Published in On Our Selection News December  5, 2013

Having an overactive imagination is harmful.

Last night, I spent the night in the house by myself. Spending the night alone in my uni accommodation townhouse in Brisbane is totally fine, but for some reason the old family house is a potentially life threatening situation. As far as I know, there are no Indian graves under the house, nor were there patients who died during from that (fictional) time our house was converted into a makeshift war hospital.

I blame the family portraits. Not only were they horrific to sit for, but as someone is getting violently hacked to death in a crime show, the camera inevitably pans to the family portraits that get sporadically splattered with blood before it cuts to the opening credits. That and all serial killers that feature on these shows tend to have a family complex that makes them murder nice families.

I shouldn’t be freaked out. I turned on Sex and the City in the hope that I would feel like a sassy, independent woman who isn’t afraid of anything, but instead all I felt was annoyed at how many times the main character says a variant of “I wondered…” and made everyone assume that anyone with a pair of ovaries has a crippling obsession with shoes.

Before that, I put up the Christmas tree and decorated the house. It looks like Santa had too many rum balls and vomited up all things Christmas in my lounge room. It’s so wholesome that there are even the fifteen year old crappy decorations we made as kids that my hoarder family can’t bring themselves to throw away. But then I turned out the light to go to bed, it looked somehow slightly sinister. This is the exact sequence that would make for a great crime show “Christmas special”.

The whole scenario just seemed like the start of an episode of Criminal Minds to me. There are shaky shots of me hanging decorations in the window where the camera is in amongst some bushes and there’s someone wheezing in the background to get that “scary stalker breath” effect. Then a struggle ensues and it results in me wrapped up in tinsel with a neatly slit throat. He’ll take a lock of my hair because that indicates some kind of psych- related business and will require the brilliant mind of Dr Read.

The truth is that I’m not writing this at the safety of my work desk with three other colleagues who could be killed first, acting as decoys, allowing me to get away to safety. I’m writing from the vulnerable position of my bedroom. That bit at the start about “last night” was a lie.

I made the scenario of me collapsing dead by the Christmas tree due to a neat slit of the throat to save myself the agony of a long and painful death that you often see on Criminal Minds. I don’t know how this night will end. Sure, I have the light above the stove on to frighten the serial killers and I’ll pull the doona up over my head, but as foolproof of a security system as I may have in place, I worry that it may not be enough.

I knew that I should have watched Home Alone instead of The Grinch. At least then I would have felt like turning my home into a comical deathtrap and getting a bowl cut instead of fearing that Jim Carrey was going to break in to my house.

Published in On Our Selection News november 28, 2013

Why do some men feel the compulsion to photograph large machinery?

As a weary 17 year old battling the post-Schoolies flu/ depression many moons ago, I was eagerly looking forward to opening the little paper document wallet containing the photos development from my formal. I wasn’t really concerned with the classic parents-and-dolled-up-offspring-in-front-of-the- sweet-ride photo, I was more concerned about images from by grand arrival emerging from said sweet ride.

So when I finally got the pile of glossy images in my hands, I was bitterly disappointed with what I had in front of me. There was one measly picture of me arriving at was the pinnacle of my meaningless high school existence, while there were five of my close friend’s entrance. Why? Because Dad was on photo duty and my friend rocked up in a big shiny prime mover.

This story doesn’t stem from suppressed rage brought to the surface thanks to the formal pictures that are everywhere lately (although, maybe it’s not a good sign…), but because a couple of my Facebook friends went to the open day at the Wellcamp airport, and of course my newsfeed was littered with photos of excavators, which got me thinking about what drives this secret desire to photograph machines. I just don’t understand what these guys do with these pictures. Do they look at them at night after too many wines with Celine Dion blasting and think about the good times? I can kind of understand that some people need to post them on INTERAMA when they’re working at the mines, but it’s those who take the time to get them developed that I don’t understand.

Mostly, this stems from being perplexed at my father, who is known for doing this. He’s not a typical car nut – he doesn’t wear a Holden or Ford jersey and talk about “sick body kits” around the barbecue with mates (thank goodness, or else we’d never hang out), but he has this weird habit of taking photos of trucks and cars for no apparent reason at all. Family trips to museums were always documented with one or two photos featuring the beloved ladies in his life, while the rest are of his apparent other love, being other transport machinery.

Dad is a real traditionalist when it comes to technology. A man who was very skeptical and suspicious of the microwave, he hasn’t taken to the digital camera as kindly as his younger counterparts. He prefers to take real photos and have them developed so he can get them in the little paper envelope folder thing and hold them in his hands. He’s basically your original hipster (he even prefers teapots to teabags).

But what does he plan to do with those photos? I’ve asked him on many occasions, but an explanation has always alluded me. There must be something I’m not seeing here. Perhaps these men are secret artists who are able to see the beauty in inanimate machines. Perhaps they are conveying the inevitable truth that we will all one day by useless and lay unused while we are still capable of making a difference. Perhaps Dad is deeper than I thought, maybe he really is a hipster.

Published in On Our Selection News November 14, 2013

I have a speech to write.

But it’s not just about writing a speech, it’s about winning. That’s right, there is a lot that I need to achieve with this speech. Sure, I’ve written speeches before, I’ve even done them off the cuff. I had two really close friends’ speeches to do in the month of October. One of those speeches had to be repeated twice because my friend had a second “family” 21st party, which meant more people to embarrass her in front of, and more cake for me.

I usually love speeches. I did one at my cousin’s wedding a few years back. It was quick, witty and ended with my giving the bride and groom personalised underwear with my face on it (it’s a family thing I started, don’t read too much into it, expect that it’s not weird. Promise). I even had the honour of doing the “funny speech” at the end of Year 12 (my emphasis on our past love of raa-raa skirts earned me a standing ovation). But none of that matters now. My speech giving past isn’t worth a damn – not unless I can out-speech this girl.

You see, she gave a speech at my 21st. It was awesome – it was funny and it was damn well researched – did you know that on the exact day I was born, President Bush vomited into the lap of a Japanese Prime Minister? Well this girl did. And she made it excruciatingly funny and even a little bit touching. That’s what my speech has to go up against. I need to pulverise her. However, this is going to be a task because not only is this girl an amazing public speaker – she won a mooting competition, those things are HUGE – but she also has really expressive eyebrows. The kind of brows which would have made her an outstanding candidate to place Hermione Granger had she been in England at the time – I’ve always harboured a violent jealousy over that trait. My eyebrows are barely visible. In fact, I’ve been told that it looks like someone had glue on their thumb, smeared it on my brow and threw little pieces of hair at it. Yeah. My brows do not compare.

It’s not like I don’t have material on her. I was with her on the first night she was ever drunk. I can go into cahoots with her sister to snag the audio file of her talking about wanting to, “hang with the boys on the fence because that’s where cool people go” to play and refer to. I remember her hair-do on the first day of high school. I know about her love of Tweety Bird and stupid animal pillows. I have endless supplies of ammo.

But it’s not good enough. I want to make her cry, not only from being touched emotionally, but also because I showed up her speech – big time.

I don’t know what this says about our friendship. Going over what I’ve written, it reads a little aggressively to the untrained eye, but I think there’s something beautiful about friends wanting to metaphorically beat the other to a pulp with the clever stringing together of anecdotes. Friendship is supposed to improve the lives of both parties, so if she gets a heart-warming, hilarious speech and I get the satisfaction of knowing I beat her, than surely that’s a win-win. Isn’t that what this whole “friendship” thing is supposed to be about?

Published in On Our Selection News October 24, 2013

Manners are important.

I was at the print shop at uni the other day and had to I ask the lady behind the counter for some print assistance. I didn’t think that I was being overly polite, but the lady commented several times how glad she was that I was using manners.

I felt really sorry for her. At this point in the year, there would be hundreds of exhausted and stressed out students printing out their theses which, according to my pysch friends, can be a harrowing experience (when you’ve worked on a report for a whole year and the printer screws up the margins in a graph, it’s pretty dramatic). Tempers would have been short and manners would have disappeared along with the thesis printer’s standards for hygiene and will to live.

I’ve always been a big advocate for manners to a point where I come off as perhaps a little bit intimidating. I don’t really make it my business to be around small children, but when I do I guarantee you that I will make them say “please” and “thank you” before passing them the treat they asked for. Yes, I use my advantage of height (note: this is the ONLY situation in which I have a height advantage) to force them into politeness.

But it’s not just children. Many moons ago, I was in the magical role of customer service in the fast food industry. As glamorous as it seemed on the outside, you would be surprised to read that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows (in fact on one of my first late night close shifts, I discovered that one of the impossibly hairy-chested employees preferred to wash up without a shirt, which was rather uncomfortable). I learned that people can be remarkably rude. Thankfully, this didn’t crush my spirits, as eventually my sass and disregard for my job kicked in and I began to realise that as the person who has the food, I had the upper hand – much like the situation with the child at a family party. And while it was perhaps not genuine, the “thanks” I received while maintaining eye contact and sternly saying “you’re welcome” while maintaining a firm grip on manner-less person’s bag of grease was satisfying enough.

I also hate it when I’m with a friend who doesn’t use their manners when talking to someone behind a checkout. I have one friend who is particularly unfriendly to checkout people, and I find it this excruciating. I find myself over compensating for this by being extremely friendly to a point where I come off as plain creepy to the teenage cashier who feels uncomfortable.

I know that “please” and “thank you” are just words, but damn it they are important words. Look at these two phrases: “could you pass the salt!” and “could you please pass me the salt?” The difference is that one is a demand, and the other is request. It’s an acknowledgement that the other person is doing you a favour, even if it is their job. And a “thanks” is just as important. It says “hey, you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment, but I’d really like that salt and I appreciate you giving up your time to ensure my meal is sufficiently seasoned – you’re a kind soul.” Surely that sentence is much more of an effort to say than just a simple “please” and “thank you”.

Published in On Our Selection News October 17, 2013

I love a good “first meeting” story.

A very good friend of mine had a 21st over the weekend, which means a couple of things – free terrible tasting wine (as someone who’s first introduction to white wine was sourced from a silver sack that came out of a box, all white wines taste terrible in comparison…), bored younger cousins being forced to carry around platters of fried food to guests and embarrassing stories coming out in speeches.

As I had a fair bit of embarrassing ammunition to shoot out of the truth gun, I nominated myself to speak. The tale of our first meeting was a good one. I won’t go into the details, but it involved a sweet 16th, an unusual projectile and some incredibly bogan antics on both of our parts. Now we can all look back and laugh at how feral we were, but as someone now officially classed as an adult, I fear that similar humiliating first meetings won’t result in lifelong friendship – they will merely make you an hilarious anecodote at dinner parties.

The filthy days of youth are gone and now all that’s left are good impressions and sensible conversation. Which is sad, because thinking back to all the times I first met my nearest and dearest, they were all pretty damn unsightly or creepy.

On several occasions, I’ve photographed friends before I became friends with them. Yes really. I was at an Australia Day event demonstrating the awesome water-proofness of my new camera by dunking it in jugs of beer and taking submerged photos, which then resulted in me forcibly taking selfies with impressed patrons. A month or so later, a girl I’d taken photos of was moving into the room around the corner from mine, and we were instant friends. I’ve also got a snap of another friend playing with string in the background of a I’d picture taken at a concert. Another friend and I first bonded over a big manky scar on his neck, and due to a questionable initiation process, I’ve met countless friends by going up to them to mock their horrendously choppy shaved heads.

These are the friendships that have perhaps been the most rewarding, and while I wouldn’t put it down to just an hilarious and filthy meeting, the first meeting story definitely helps. Perhaps it’s because embarrassing situations break the ice for you. Because we all know that when you’re dressed up as Jesus and every other girl is wearing a cute fairy costume (Year 9 Dannielle didn’t get the memo), you’re going to be less closed off when someone extends an arm of friendship.

Now, as a judgemental young adult, it would take someone with a heckload more personality traits than a dank neck scar to strike me as a potential buddy. But I do hope my newfound notion of maturity doesn’t deter me from forming the strong bonds of creepily founded friendship. I hope that my wisdom is less of a friend-blocking fence, and more a friend selection filter that helps me sieve out the weirdos with hearts of gold from the plain weird. And taking into account my preference for wearing “odd” costumes, I sure hope my fellow judgemental youth are much the same.