Marks of success according to my younger self are a wee bit different to those I have now.

For example, finally getting to a point where my super is more than my HECs debt is not something 12-year-old Dannielle would have dreamed of, but it’s something 27-year-old Dannielle feels pretty darn smug about.

27-year-old Dannielle thinks that having enough savings for a house deposit is a measure of success. Her goals include having a kitchen stocked with French cast iron cookware in coordinating colours and being able to grow her own potatoes on her hobby farm. She wants a rustic wooden dining table long enough to seat 12 friends. She’d like to write a book. She’d froth a pair of customised RMs.

But success looked a little different to 12-year-old Dannielle. And when I compare my current state to those pre-teen KPIs, I feel pretty good about where I’m at right now:

Having a laptop: Far out, watching people hack into the main frame with a laptop made them seem so badarse back in the day. I really wanted to type something with purpose, like a Charlie’s Angel or a glamorous executive working in fashion with a report due. Needing a computer was the dream, but being the kind of mover and shaker who needed a computer on the go was the pinnacle of greatness.

I have a laptop top now and I don’t exactly feel like Lucy Liu or Christina Applegate (Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Deadwas a formative film for me), but I sure as shit love the sound of the keys making noises as I press them. Sometimes I just write “the the the the the the the the” over and over and over because I love the sound. As I write this, I am using a laptop on my bed. If you could see me now, young Dannielle!

Needing a personal assistant: I used to play “offices” a lot a child. It was my favourite game. I would set up a corner office with a window with lots of papers and a typewriter on my desk, then get to work on some urgent tasks. I was a very important executive with lots of decisions to make and reports to prepare and files to have one people’s desks by five. I was under a lot of pressure, so I needed a person assistant to do some bidding for me. Her name was Channel and she was only available on mobile phone. I would bark orders at her on my toy flip phone, angrily slamming it shut when I had to repeat myself yet again with a simple request.

I don’t have a Channel, but I hope to one day become important enough to require one. I like to think that 27-year-old Dannielle would be more of a mentor than a highly-strung Charlotte Pickles type of boss – not that I have anything against Angelica’s mum. She’s an icon and a role model and I am not ashamed to say it.

Having Austar: If anyone reading this is not a regional Australian born in the early 90s (I know my demographic), Austar was the equivalent of Foxtel, or pay TV. It had shows like Spongebob Squarepantsand Dariamarathons and no ads.

Austar isn’t a thing anymore, but I do have Foxtel, which is even better because it suggests that I’m living the big city life as well as paying for premium entertainment. I got it especially for Game of Thronesbut they’ve really won me over because they have EVERY EPISODE OF GRAND DESIGNS EVER on there at the moment so I’m going to hang on to it for another month or so.

Having a day planner: I mean, these were just so fucking cool. Having things to do and needing to write them in a diary to organise yourself? That’s the funnest.

I’m proud to say that I do have a diary now, which I need to professional and personal purposes. I mean, I do write things in there such as “chatted with Grandma” and I don’t use a pen with a fluffy top, but I feel like I have fulfilled this dream.

Driving a convertible: If you were rich and successful in the 90s, you drove a convertible, most likely a red one. You had a cup holder. You blasted music through the speakers. You drove along like hot shit. Of course I wanted one.

I am currently borrowing my dad’s x-trail because I had to sell my unregistered Camry for $100 and I needed wheels when I moved back from Sydney. It’s a really roomy vehicle. It holds a lot of stuff. I’m not complaining at all. Plus, I feel like my hair would get really knotty if I drove around with the top down.

Being on Better Homes and Gardens: We didn’t have Austar, so our television choices were limited and I loved craft and home decoration tips. It was my ultimate goal to host this show (while being an Olsen twin).

I have let myself down. I mean, I don’t have to be on Channel Seven, I could film my own version on my smartphone and create a YouTube channel. Modern technology makes it totally possible. But still, I ignore my dreams.

Having a double bed: I dreamed of being the kind of young adult who talked on the phone laying on my belly while flipping though magazines, something that looks much more glamorous on a double bed. I wanted the bed to have a funky doona cover and tasteful throw pillows that I could flop on to after having my heartbroken by a square-jawed dreamboat. I wanted fairy lights on the bed head. I wanted it all.

Now I have a queen-sized bed, which is a whole couple of centimetres bigger than a double bed, which would make my 12-year-old self very happy. I have a total of seven pillows, which match my doona cover. I even have a throw blanket that ties the whole look together. I’m a fucking goddess.

Although, I rarely talk on the phone in bed while flipping through magazines – I prefer to go hands-free and do housework while I’m on the phone because it’s more efficient that way.

I’ve done lazy recipes before, but this may be the laziest.

This concoction is, as the title suggests, a low-effort, warming dessert perfect for filling your tum to distract you from the unfillable void in your soul.

It’s three simple ingredients: frozen raspberries, Greek yoghurt and sturdy oats. And it only requires three pieces of equipment for both preparation and serving. You’ll need a cup/mug/non-metallic chalice/bowl, a spoon and a microwave.

Yep, not food processor here. This is Sunday evening snackery at it’s laziest (well, besides just opening a packet of Digestives, which I highly recommend).

Here’s the process:

Get your raspberries out of the freezer. Yes, they do have to have first been frozen. I know fresh raspberries look great in your shopping basket. They look great in the fridge. They look great on a kitchen island. But this isn’t the time to be fancy with your fresh produce like you have all the perks of living in an unrealistically clean but rustic farmhouse without the realities of crippling uncertainty and mud. No, you need the raspberries to have come from a packet in the freezer aisle of a supermarket.

Now, bung them into the vessel of your choice and zap them in the microwave. There’s something about the transition of going from frozen to nuked in a radioactive box that completely fucks up the raspberries, causing them to have a complete breakdown at a cellular level. It all becomes too much that they just totally lose all sense of self and fall apart into a jammy mess.

Tonight, I grabbed about a handful of frozen rasps and microwaved them in the kind of glass tumbler you’d expect to see a spoiled American girl on a teen movie take one sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice out of before skipping breakfast, running out the door and getting tangled in a series of events that changes her whole outlook on life as a popular girl. The berries were on for about one-and-a-half minutes, with a wee bit of stirring in between. Here’s a washing-up-saving tip: stir with the wrong end of the spoon, so you can use the same spoon to dish out your yoghurt later without the risk of cross-contamination.

The next thing you’re going to want to do is grab a small handful of oats and chuck them into the hot, sticky raspberry victims in a manner similar to throwing confetti at your former fling after their wedding, which they conveniently didn’t tell you about until after you gave them a wristy but before they returned the favour (OK, no one is allowed to steal this for the movie script they’re working on, I just came up with it then and it’s my idea).

The whole idea is that the oats will soak up the raspberry’s tortured essence, acting as an instant, albeit slightly soggy, crumble.

Next dollop on a big of yoghurt, to cool the raspberry goo to the point that it won’t burn the arse out of your tongue.

Serve immediately… to yourself.

The other day I was out jogging and nearly fucking died.

I came within like half a metre of being hit by a car, but it was also like I almost hit it the car. I was running along a footpath that had a slip lane running through it. It was one of those lanes where the pedestrian would technically have right of way because the car would have to turn into the pedestrian’s path (it checks out, I just looked it up on the Queensland Government website) buuuut it also would make sense for the pedestrian (i.e. me) to check that no bastard was coming before crossing the road because getting banged up by a car is a huge hassle.

There was this moment of near impact where things looked a little bit like I could have had a very real excuse to skip the gym for a few days.

If we were just two people walking in opposite directions along a hallway, it would have been one of those times when you nearly bump into someone, make that “oooop” noise and shuffle away with a stupid non-confrontational grin in your face.

But when one of those people are in a car, it’s not an awkward encounter, it’s a near death experience.

Like, I’m not angry of anything, I mean, if I died, I’d probs have had to make myself come back as a ghost to tell the driver, “oi, like don’t be too hard on yourself mate, I probs would have done the same thing aye”.

The thing that gets me is that my near death experience would have been more poignant.  I just assumed it would have been a profound moment for me. Like, that a switch inside me would have flicked and suddenly I was super focused and thankful and started milking every once of joy from the dry, chapped teat of life. You see near death experiences on movies and they often tend to change people. They start carpeing diems and embracing love and building something worthwhile.

So after I was gifted a whole extra day on earth, I decided to see how I spent this gift. Here’s a rough outline of my behaviour following the incident:

Immediately after: I kept running for about 30 seconds before needing to deeply inhale and exhale on a park bench. I mean, this could have been more dramatic. I could have been having a full-on freak out, but I was underwhelming in my performance. I just sat on the bench, breathing deeply. To unaware passers-by, it would have looked as if I had tried running too soon after a large bowl of porridge.

Perhaps if I overacted a little more, a charming prince-like character could have come to my aid, whisking me off in his Tesla to get me a calming cup of chai at a quiet coffee shop where we would have a chance to talk. Obviously this would lead to a life-affirming romance where we help one another to evolve for the better but, ultimately, know we could never be together. I haven’t quite worked out where our story ends, but I like to think maybe Prague (his family money has interesting origins and I really want to go back to that little gingerbread shop).

A little after immediately after: I decided to jog at a leisurely pace to my playlist of upbeat female singer songwriters, going through the park to soak up some nature. Only, it was a wee bit cold and the park was pretty much just the green space along the oversized drain running through that side of town. I told myself I would seize the day by treating myself to a decadent chai after finishing.

About 30 minutes after: I decided to try to pinch a few pennies and made myself wait until I got home to make myself a cup of tea. That’s ok though, I do like the tea I make myself.

About an hour after: I’d booked myself a haircut about two months prior after being prodded by my new hairdresser, appalled by my split ends. You’d think this would be the time I’d say, “fudge it, let’s make my hair fairy floss pink” or something, but I actually quite like the colour of my hair and I don’t have the energy to maintain an edgy bob so I just got a trim. I mean, I did crumble and buy the shampoo my hairdresser suggested, because apparently the stuff I was using was coating my hair in silicone, so that’s something. Life’s too short to have your hair coating in silicone.

About three hours later: I went a little wild and made myself some pasta for dinner – I lashed out and finally used that low-carb, high-protein pulse pasta I’d bought on special months ago. I even used the last of my goats cheese. It was delicious and, as far as I’m deluding myself, super healthy. I mean, if I was going to live on and, hopefully, get entangled in a life-transforming romance, it’s best to keep a tight rig.

About three-and-a-half hours later: I started watching Gavin and Stacy as per a friend’s recommendation.

About six hours after: I went to bed at a reasonable hour because I had work early the next morning.

About 12 hours after: I woke up, washed my face and had a cup of tea. I usually don’t eat until mid-morning when I work early shifts, but today I went wild and had a small, measured portion of bran and oats with yogurt.

About 15 hours after: I went outside for my break after I was urged to “go outside and stroll in the sunshine for 15 minutes” by a work friend who I swap gardening and cooking tips with. I came back inside about seven minutes because it was brisk and my ankles weren’t covered.

About 16 hours after: I had second breakfast, being my boiled eggs and kale office special. I used a lot of butter, but that wasn’t a you-nearly-died-so-treat-yourself kind of thing. I always have had a lot of butter in my life.

About 20 hours after: I bought myself two sticks of kanagaroo salami at a fancy deli. Then I shopped around for the cheapest veggies, finding my way to a store with an interesting international food section. Out of all the options, I selected a rhubarb and ginger preserve.

About 22 hours after: I ate the leftover pasta and finished watching The Bodyguard (the TV series, not the Whitney Houston epic).

About 24 hours after: I decided not to go to the gym.

Yep, that’s depressing.

But I would like to point out that I intend to make up for this slack seizing of the day today by observing Margarita Wednesday, a glorious holiday where my nursing friend and I find ourselves with the same Wednesday off, so we celebrate by getting margaritas.

Today, we’re also incorporating Wing Wednesday into the festivities, where we go to a joint that sells chicken wings for 25 cents a piece and become human stains.

Happy Margarita Wednesday everyone!

This week I’ve got a serious case of the s’pose’das.

The s’pose’das is a term first introduced to the world via that episode of The Simpsons where the family move to Cypress Creek and Bart is put in a remedial class. He points out that he’s supposed to be in the fourth grade and the teacher responds with “sounds like someone’s got a case of the s’pose’das”.

It’s a nice, fun term to use instead of the slightly confronting terminology to describe the unrelenting standards schema that rules my thoughts, behaviour and life. In a nutshell, a schema is a pattern of thought and behaviour that stems from an unmet childhood need. It can manifest into a dominating and unhealthy way of thinking, which makes things kinda unpleasant in the old thinkbox.

The schema compels me to be as productive as inhumanely possible, often fuelling an irrational desire to keep ticking off to-do lists when the only box I should be ticking off is “relax”.

It’s especially dominant when I have days off, because there’s voice in my head drilling into me that I should be utilizing my days off the best way I can, but getting a whole lotta stuff done. Remember Brian’s mum at the start of The Breakfast Club? That voice is kind of like her, except this fictional character which exists only in my head is much better dressed.

One of my biggest s’pose’das is to be consistent with my blog posts, keeping to the Wednesday and Sunday schedule. It’s usually not too demanding, especially because my shift work means I have a lot of downtime can’t be used for socialising.  But sometimes, things get away from me. I had planned on posting something on Wednesday, but then I went out for burritos and returned home far too late to be posting anything online. As I went to sleep on Wednesday night, I resolved to post something on Thursday afternoon, following a well-earned sleep-in and a hardcore gym session. However, after doing the bare minimum at the gym, buying groceries and putting my sheets out on the line, I didn’t feel like doing much. I had a nap and woke up feeling a little more “nah” than “yeah”.

I considered doing something productive, but instead ended up bingeing on five episodes of Dead to Me, watching the last three-quarters of Double Jeopardyand sitting through the entirety of The Holiday, while finishing off a bottle of red wine I’d opened weeks ago and a small bottle of dessert wine that, by the taste of it, was bought at the very end of a wine tasting trip when I was quite sauced. I mean, I cleared much-needed space in the fridge and felt fairly relaxed by the end of the evening, but I had a terrible sleep.

Sure, you could say that the staring at a TV screen in a dark room for hours and the sleep-disrupting properties of cheap wine disturbed my slumber, but I blame a violent case of the s’pose’das for those tosses and turns. I’d not posted anything. I’d abandoned my responsibility. I turned my back on duty. And it was excruciating. So, some time around 1am, I got out of bed and scribbled a note on my hand to alleviate the symptoms I was suffering. The thought process was that even a few scribbled words was better than nothing.

Of course, in the light of day, the erratic script on my hand is quite difficult to read, but can just make out what I intended to say. And that very important message which could not wait until morning was: “no dramies, chicken parmies”.

It’s a cutesy spin on “no dramas”, incorporating rhyme and Strayn’ pub feed culture. It communicates to the receiver the general message of “no worries” and impresses upon them that I enjoy breaded chicken topped with tomato sauce, ham and cheese.

I don’t know if it’s as powerful as the wonderful phrase of Hakuna Matata, but it seemed to do me some good. So in case you’re in need of a cheeky chicken-related saying, I’m passing it on to you.

Well, I feel like complete poo.

I am still significantly hungover and very much unable to function. My brain hurts. My mouth is full of pre-vom saliva. I somehow got a stitch from getting up and walking to the kitchen just now. I am not in a good way.

And yet, here I am, sticking to my commitment to myself to make a contribution to the literary world.

I chose to do so in the form of another self quiz, again pillaging the Bumble conversation prompters I would never actually use myself.

If I had an extra hour in the day I would: Still take ages to text people back. Let’s be honest, I’d spend that time staring at the wall, ruminating on something I did several years ago. I would not use it as wisely as I’d like.

If I were famous, it’d be for: My cook booklet. Obvs.

Favourite quality in a person: An appreciation of Cougar Town.

We’ll get along if: You’re a member of the Outback Club.

Go-to song is: Outback Club, Lee Kernaghan

I’m most grateful for: Tampons and indoor plumbing. Honestly, just think about it for a moment. How good is running water? How great is not having to sit on a bed of sawdust to soak up your uterine lining? People say we’re living in dark times but at least we’re not weeing into buckets.

If I could guest-star on a show, it’d be on: Midsomer Murders. I just recently followed them on Instagram and the suggestions that were thrown up as “more like this” were fantastic.

Ideal night out: Right now, as I’m still hungover from more than 24 hours ago, I really don’t want to think about doing anything that would require me to put on shoes and support my head with just my neck.

But I would have to suggest something in a natural amphitheatre setting, enough room for interpretive dancing, whimsical lighting and perhaps some fire.  I’m wearing comfortable shoes and no one has tried to steal my hat. The weather is warm enough to be wearing shorts but cool enough for a flanny. Fireworks would be great.

My mother would describe me as: Her best fucking friend. Of course, she wouldn’t use the F word, but I felt it was appropriate there.

Must-see movie: Drop Dead Gorgeous. There are so many layers of hilarity. It’s just bloody perfection.

If I would eat only one meal for the rest of my life it would be: Right now I’d say that salmon and rice dish I told you about a few Sundays ago.

My secret skill: I can make fart noises with my neck.