This one did not, Three things

Three, two, one

It’s Sunday evening, and I’ve already squeezed all the sassy juice from my brain by writing my newspaper column, but I love the tip-tappy sound of my fingers bashing the keyboard with purpose so I’m continuing to write.

Plus, I’ve just been watching You on Netflix, which glamourizes being a writer to the extent that I feel the urge to wring out my parched brain a little more to get that smug high.

I’ve set myself up with my laptop out on the deck, which has fairy lights (the straight-laced, no bullshit yellow kind, not their tacky, multi-coloured relatives) strung up around the railing. I’ve lit a citronella candle. And I’ve poured myself a stiff glass of milk over ice in one of my fancy crystal glasses.

I’ve just Snapchatted my setup, that’s how lush it looks.

It’s pretty fucking ideal.

The breeze is nice. The sunset is lovely. There are two possums hanging out in our front garden, nibbling native fruits that would probably give any human severe diarrhoea. I almost don’t want to leave this set up.

But then, I’m pretty tired, it smells like someone just lit up a cigarette on street below and there are mozzies stabbing my big toe, robbing me of my blood and essence. I want to write, sure, but I want to get this over with in a timely manner. I mean, I’ve got goujons in the oven.

And so, I’m leaning towards my Three Things genre, where I pull tiny titbits of scattered thoughts together rather than using my brain to actually fashion a single, coherent column.

But, because I’m an edgy, creative writer who appreciates soft lighting, I’ve added a twist to the basic Three Things formula.

Instead of listing three things within a single category, I’m using it as a countdown. A three-two-one kinda deal. The points are smaller, less challenging to flesh out and, despite appearing to be quite a lot of writing when they’re all grouped together, easy to digest. Pour yourself an ice cold glass of calcium and drink it in:

Three things I bought at the supermarket that weren’t on my list:

  1. One kilo of chicken goujons: I already had half a packet in the freezer, but these bastards were on a half-price special and I wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that pass me by.
  2. A ten-dollar tub of extremely low calorie coconut ice cream: I was feeling weary and gluttonous. I feel like this choice was a victory, given my condition.
  3. A punnet of blackberries: These berries are often tossed into a frozen mixed berry mix and they’re pretty much trash after they’ve spent time in a freezer. But get them fresh and you’re in heaven. As far as berries go, these guys seem like the most unnecessary of them all. And you never really go into a shop with a hankerin’ for blackberries. But I recently bought a punnet on a whim when they were dirt cheap and, far out brussles sprout, I am hooked.

Two things I congratulated someone for today:

  1. For not being pregnant:we may have entered the age when your first reaction to pregnancy isn’t to “accidentally” loose your footing down a flight of stairs. And we’re probably way better equipped to be bringing future people into the world than our parents. But no one wants to be kicked in the guts with an inconvenient pregnancy. I mean, what if you and your partner were planning to buy a speedboat? You don’t want to spend your speedboat dollars on nappies and nipple pads. I mean, the overwhelming, all-consuming rush of love would be great and all, but tubing is also really, really fun.
  2. For sneaking vodka into a Craig David concert in a water bottle: This very intelligent woman had a mission and she executed it with skill and ingenuity.  And she doesn’t have to pay $17 for a watered down Pimms. God bless her.

One thing I apologised for today: 

  1. “My inflections are all over the shop today”. I usually have a sarcastic sounding tone that makes it difficult to extract the true meaning from my words, but today it wasn’t clear whether I was asking a question or making a statement. It was a weird day for me.

 

 

Standard
This one made it to print

We can make sandwiches…

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 23, 2019

I’ve been challenged to write about sandwiches.

Of course, when I say challenged, I mean the subject matter was lightly suggested to me after I found myself without a column topic and begged the girls in my group chat for guidance.

At first I was sceptical of the topic, but the conversation in my Snapchat coven quickly lit up, ranging from revelations about the preferred butter ratio (one woman, whose identity has been supressed for ethical reasons, reckons sangas don’t need butter) to suggestions for new sandwiches to try (I’ve added Vegemite and Doritos to my to-do list). But the most intriguing line of conversation was the discussion about sandwiches of our pasts.

We all used to eat things we might not necessarily put between two slices of bread now, which is an extremely interesting thought when you’re desperately scraping the barrel to fill a newspaper column.

Driven by a desire to make something from nothing, I continued to unpack that thought. If I looked back at my sandwich history, what would I learn about myself?

So I began to list all the sandwiches I’d ever loved before and things got a little weird*:

* It’s at this point that I’d like to point out that I began writing this at about 1.20am, when I had literally no other ideas. I tried nutting out a few others – some were about my chequered dental past, others were about heaven knows what. I couldn’t settle on an idea and my tired, panicky brain flitted all over the place like a scared little mouse. I don’t recall what time I finally decided that misleadingly metaphoric sandwiches was the direction I was taking my column this week, but I didn’t go to bed until just before 4am. So, please, bear that in mind before you read on. 

Roast lamb, potato and gravy: I have referenced potato/hot chippie sandwiches far too often. So I’ll refrain from singing their praises to avoid sounding as if I’m starting a potato-based cult, adding a little lamb to mix things up. I recently made a batch of these for a shared Christmas lunch, using red wine from my glass for the gravy like a grown up and mini dinner rolls instead of everyday bread to make things extra festive – nothing’s more festive than a dinner roll. And, look, I don’t want to big note myself, but they were super popular (I had four).

sanga 3

Pizza shapes and strawberry jam: My childhood best friend and I were a quirky pair. We were wild and whacky and our sandwich choices reflected that. I didn’t mind if people thought we were different, in fact, enjoyed it. So when people recoiled at my lunch, I loved it.

Only, I can’t help but think my desire to seem zany outweighed my enjoyment of this combination. I convinced myself I liked it, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t for me.*

* If you’re reading between the lines here, you’ll assume that these bready insights into my past could be euphemisms for a long trail of lovers. And, heck, that’s fair to assume. But I have a rule about writing about my gentlemen callers. Not that I judge other writers for doing so, but I have never felt a need to write about them nor would I feel comfortable doing so. Perhaps one day my opinion on the matter will change, but I think writing about them would be quite unfair. Plus, it’s the only thing keeping me from typifying the tragic Carrie Bradshaw copycat stereotype.

Two Minute chicken noodles on white bread with a slathering of butter: Whenever I publicly admit to eating this, people react as if I’d used a slice of Wonder White to mop up the sides of a sullage pit. And I can understand that. The addition of bread to a highly-processed noodles seems extremely unnecessary. The whole things sounds like a soggy, claggy mess. And it was. But seven-year-old Dannielle, who had a zest for life, carbs and no nutritional understanding whatsoever, loved them.

sanga 5

I know I should be repulsed by the idea of this sandwich, but I just can’t be. Sure, it wasn’t great for me, but at the time it was everything I wanted.*

* Yep, maybe you also have a Maggi two-minute Chicken Noodle man in your past. I don’t. But can I just say, with no expertise or authority whatsoever, if you happen to run into this fellow while going “back home” for the weekend, don’t drunkenly hook up with him. If you run into him, suggest a nice, sober cup of something generic and warm, allowing you to calmly reassess whether he really was the one who got away or if you’ve suddenly become aware that you’re facing five weddings without a plus one.

Ice cream sandwiches: These were not dollops of gourmet ice cream wedged between soft biscuits. No, this was a scoop from a family-sized bucket of vanilla smeared on just-cooked toast. It was a favourite at my friend’s house. Her and her sister would bang on about it like it was the coolest thing since crimped hair.

sanga 4

And I went along with it for a while, but I eventually realised that this wasn’t some whizbang dessert revolution, it was just runny ice cream on soggy toast. And I was better that.*

* So are you, girl. Be better than milky toast. Accept better than milky toast. You’re at least worth a Maxibon, so don’t settle for sog.   

Egg and lettuce: I once absentmindedly declared that egg and lettuce sandwiches were better than… something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever*. Obviously, this led to an onslaught of justly deserved jokes from those within earshot. And while I may not stand by my exact wording, I do stand by the sentiment. Eggy letty sangs are great. But if you want to make them greater, I’d recommend adding a layer of crushed salt and vinegar chips for a bit of extra crunch**.

sanga 1

* I thought I was very clear that I’d said “egg and lettuce sandwiches are better than sex”, but a few friends told me they thought the something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever was sliced bread. And that’s good, because hopefully the rest of Clifton will also interpret it that way and not equate my sex life to a sandwich you can get at a servo. 

** When you see it through the “better than sex” interpretation, this sounds like I’m advocating for getting kinky with a sensible, egg and lettuce sandwich of a lover. And that’s probably very good advice. But I’m not telling you to go out and buy a gimp mask; I’m honestly imploring you to try putting salt and vinnie chippies on your sanga. 

Bega cheese and strawberry jam: I credit this sanga for preparing my for my gourmet days of smearing goats’ cheese on crusty baguettes with a bit of a quince paste. I recommend all parents start feeding these sandwiches to their kids if they want them to grow up to be the kind of adults who eat cheese platters as a weeknight dinner. Go ahead, make the world a better place!

sanga 2

*** Another thing to come out of my writing this column was the rediscovery of this song, after I suggested to my Snapchat coven that we could have a sandwich dinner party where everyone brings their fave sanga. It not only was hilariously relevant, but it took us back to a time when we watched movies taped from the TV on the VCR. It was at the end of an Austin Powers movie, recorded by the oldest sister in the group, who was way, way cooler than us. 

Standard
This one made it to print

Tray biscuit

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 16, 2019

Sometimes your “good enough” turns out better than your best.

It’s rare, but it happens.

I recently hosted a picnic, making a flippant remark about putting on a few trays of slice when I proposed the event. In my mind, I’d whip up tray after tray of impressive food in slice form while maintaining an aura of calm, like a competent mother in a baking paper commercial.

But, as a normal person would expect from making 10 trays of slice, it didn’t pan out that way. I was up late. I got distracted and whoooooy boy did I get sweaty. The output was very different to how I’d envisaged it, but no recipe was as different as my attempt at lemon slice.

Instead of a fudgy, zingy icing-topped treat, I ended up with a large golden brown crisp. But, amazingly, it was the most popular “slice” of the day. I don’t know if this was because it was actually super tasty or because it happened to be located closest to the hungriest picnickers who didn’t feel like extending their reach to fill their gastric voids, but it quickly disappeared.

And, because I’ve learned nothing else over the holiday period, I’m choosing to pass on my wisdom to you, should you ever desire presenting your guests with a impractically-large biscuit.

Step 1: Select a packet of bickies that are somewhat sugary, but so plain you would always pick them last if they were in an assorted packet. If these mild biscuits took a human form, they’d be that person who always turns up at barbecues on time and is polite enough, but who never really has that much to add to the conversation. Have this person in mind when you’re perusing the biscuit aisle. One of my guests was allergic to nuts, so I paid special attention to the list of ingredients when selecting my packet of underwhelming biscuits to insure she wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock, thus stealing all the attention away from me.

tray bickie 3

Blitz up your inoffensive bickies in a food processor and tip into a mixing bowl.

Step 2: Note the recipe pitifully suggesting 100 grams of butter and scoff, knowing you’re not going to all the effort of using kitchen scales* or settle for such a small amount of butter. Plonk seven decent tablespoons of butter into small saucepan, then tip in half a can of sweetened condensed milk.

* Getting out and putting away the kitchen scales is one of those things that really irks me. I don’t understand why it is, but I find it infuriating. Perhaps there’s some undressed trauma there I need to explore.

Step 3: Become infuriated the recipe doesn’t call for a whole can, because you’re not going to be able to resist the temptation of an open tin of sweetened condensed milk in the fridge. You just know you’re only going be rid of it once you inevitably cut your hand on the rim of the tin while dipping in a finger, bleeding into the enticing milky elixir. Then you’ll have to explain to people how you injured your hand. “Ah, yes, well you see this half-empty can of sweet, sticky milk called to me from inside the fridge, bewitching mind, body and soul – turns out I couldn’t resist the power of an inanimate can.” It’s the deepest form of shame.  Resolve to use the remaining milk in another type of slice within the next hour to maintain your dignity.

tray bickie 4

Step 4: Slowly heat the saucepan until the butter has melted, stirring to blend the two sinful substances as one.*

* Feel free to cackle here, if you like. I don’t think there’s enough opportunities for witch-like cackling and stirring, so do take up the chance to do so wherever you can.

Step 5: Attempt to zest a lemon, despite not owning a lemon zester. Try all sides of the cheese grater until you find a side that doesn’t also zest your skin. Add zest to the mixing bowl. Decide to use the word “zest” as often as possible.

tray bickie 4

Step 5: Add about half a cup of shaved coconut to the zesty crumb mix, feeling defiant by not levelling out the cup measurement, thus adding an incorrect amount to the mix. You don’t live life by the rulebook and this rebellious spirit is reflected in your slice.*

* You could reasonable cackle here too, you free, untameable spirit. 

Step 7: Pour the buttery mixture into the bickie crumbs, mixing until you have a grainy gunge.

Step 8: Press into a shallow slice tin, place in the fridge to set and pledge to ice it later.

Step 9: Realise the summer heat will melt the slice, which is so weak-willed it cannot maintain its own structure.

Step 10: Angrily slam it into a moderate oven for about 20 minutes so it will firm up and get some backbone.

Step 11: Place it on the bench to cool overnight, pledging to make an icing for it in the morning.

Step 12: Sleep soundly, waking up later than you originally planned the following morning.

Step 13: Decide you cannot be bothered with icing and that it’s good enough as it is.

tray bickie 1

Step 14: Chuck oversized biscuit on the picnic rug, declaring to your guests that it’s a non-sliced slice designed to be picked at, like it’s some kind of baked revolution.

Step 15: Revel in its popularity. The taste of success is lemony. Savour its zest.*

* Yet another chance to cackle; your plan worked!   

Standard
This one did not, Three things

To do and to did

I’ve been super productive today and feel like bragging about it. So, instead of simply reposting the column from last week’s paper, I wrote up a triple-whammy Three Things post about how busy I’ve been. Technically, this post is a Nine Things, but there’s no way I’m making that a genre because there’s no way I’d be able to sustain it.

Three things I’ve done today that has been on my to-do list for a while:

Went grocery shopping: I’d gotten down to just eggs, bread and my emergency cheese platter supplies. For the past few days I’ve eaten nothing but eggs on toast, pancetta straight out of the packet and goat’s cheese sandwiches. And, look, it was pretty divine. But I’d eaten basically no vegetables in that time and the only fruit I had consumed was quince paste.

I had to act.

to do 3

Posted a photo of some forgotten chicken sandwiches on Instagram: I saw this terribly sad sight while I was out walking last week. Two lovingly-prepared sandwiches laying in the gutter, spoiled by the hot Brisbane sun. It was pretty hard to see. I could guess from the coating of the chicken strips that these weren’t just any chicken strips, they were salt and vinegar chicken strips. From the way they were positioned, I could tell they had fallen out of someone’s vehicle before the unwitting worker headed off for the day. To add insult to injury, the sandwiches were made using soft bread rolls.

There was nothing I could do – it was after 5pm and they’d clearly been there all day. There was no point knocking on the nearest homeowner’s door, the sandwiches would have to be discarded, but there were no bins in sight. I took a photo of them then decided that, as a sensitive street photographer, I should leave the subject where it lay, knowing the unfortunate worker would return home to see their abandoned lunch (and, probably, fall to their knees and sob on the lawn).

I had planned to post the photo on Instagram, cashing in on the misery of another person to boost my social capital, but I’d forgotten all about it by the end of my walk.

When I saw the photo while scrolling through my camera roll a few days later, I was reminded of my missed opportunity to show everyone on social media how funny I was, so I made a mental note to post it when I needed a little self esteem booster.

Got rid of my dying birthday flowers: I bloody love bunches of flowers, but there are few things that remind of your ever-aging mortal vessel and the never ending march of time quite like the sight of decaying flowers that were fresh not a week ago.

I ended up buying a tiny cheap bunch from the supermarket and blended them with the filler flowers from the old bunch that still looked  quite alright dried and crispy. I figure that buys me at least of week of being able to marvel at how pretty the flowers are, thus distracting me from my inevitable decline.

to do 2

Things I’ve done today that weren’t on my to-do list:

Washed my sheets: These bastards definitely needed washing – there were breadcrumbs and twig fragments and unidentified granules in there. And I’ve been sleeping on them for about a fortnight in the muggy Brisbane heat. My whole body skin becomes like armpit skin in this weather, which means these sheets cocooned a human sack of stink for many nights. And, yet, washing my sheets wasn’t on my to-do list? I’m disgusted in myself.

Bought one kilo of goji berries: Why would this ever be on someone’s to-do list? I’m really not sure what happened when I was at the supermarket, I just saw this bulk package of dried berries for what I deemed a reasonable price and was like “I’m getting paid tomorrow, I can treat myself”. Umm, excuse me, but who the shit treats themselves to one kilo of goji? Who needs that? I’ve already invited my housemates to go to town on them, but I can tell that I’m going to be lugging them around to each new place I move to, slowly trying to use them up as the years go by.  I’m probably going to start handing them out to house guests as wellness-inspired party bags. Thankfully, I still have the paper nugget packets I was given that time I won 18 kilos of dino nuggs, so I’ll hand them out in those.

to do 1

Put out my fancy decanter glasses in the glassware cabinet: Yep, we have a glassware cabinet. It’s built into the kitchen, which already has a surplus of storage, so my housemates decided to display their wine glasses. I have a few nice glasses I was given by my sisters for my 21st birthday, which have been sitting in a box for years. But today I decided to live for the now, carpe-ing the diem by making fancy glasses easily accessible. I believe they’re meant for whiskey and what have you, but I can see myself fixing a stiff glass of milk on the rocks in them after a tough day at the office.

Things that are still on my to-do list:

Finish the vodka that comes in a skull-shaped bottle: I really want to use it as vase, but I rarely drink at home. Perhaps I should start.

Complete my birthday crossword scratchies: I’m just waiting for the right moment, when I truly feel like scratching a scratchie. I don’t know when that feeling will hit me, but I’m going to be ready for it.

Christmas shopping: My family is doing FebMas (also known at PretendMas and FakeMas) this year, meaning we’re having Christmas in February because it was the only time we could get everyone together. I’ve got a lot to buy.

Standard
This one did not

New year, new lunch

I’m back, with the same old insecurities, delusions and failings I had before, only they’re slightly less cute now I’m at the pointy end of my 20s.

I am starting of my year with a recipe, because I have been working all holidays and don’t really have any wild stories to regale you with. Honestly, this summer hiatus has not been because I went off to some fancy holiday destination practicing self care. I haven’t been finding myself on some island or anything, I haven’t even been to Coolangatta for fuck’s sake. The only reason for my self-imposed “holiday period” was because I was too busy being a piece of shit to dedicate 45 minutes to sharting out a rant on the internet.

And so, with that, I present you a recipe that really shouldn’t be a recipe.

This little gem might be the new lunch goo for me. It’s cheap, quick and mostly vegetable matter, so I imagine it’s better for your body than rocking up to work with a tube of raw piecrust mixture to mung on (but a buttery cylinder may just be better for the soul – further study is needed).

zucc 4

The list of ingredients is small. Firstly, you’ll need two decent-sized zucchini. I guess it doesn’t matter if you go large but, when selecting your veggies, go for zuccs no smaller than a size you’d feel deeply uncomfortable about putting in your shopping basket along with only a tub of Vaseline. You’ll also need pesto, a vegetable peeler, a microwave and a big scoop of apathy.

Ready?

Let’s begin.

Step 1: Whittle your zucchini down into thin, nourishing ribbons of health using a veggie peeler. Yep, a veggie peeler. I would recommend it over a zucchini spiralizer because A) I don’t have one and B) then they won’t technically be called “zoodles”, thus freeing you from using the term and deluding yourself into thinking these strips are going to taste anything like something made from wheat.

In fact, the first step for this recipe should be “lower your expectations” because this dish  will not trick your mind into thinking you’re eating pasta. I’m sorry, I want it to be true, but it never will be. We have to admit it to ourselves. Zucchini will never be pasta. And I’d like to say right now that, sometimes, you really should choose pasta. There are going to be times in your life when you actually do need strands of gluten to feed your troubled little soul and this recipe is not the recipe you should be turning to at a time like that. At a time like that, put on Paddington Bear (it doesn’t matter if it’s the first or the second movie, they’re both tonic for the spirit), pour yourself a glass of red wine and curl up with a bowl of garlic, chilli and olive oil pasta and savour each bite.

But if you’re trying to feel healthy after a big weekend or want a decent work lunch you can’t be arsed to cook, this is the recipe for you.

zucc 6

Step 2: Dump your shaved zucchini into a microwavable container, making sure you can find the lid that goes with it before dirtying a lidless container you’ll then have to rinse.

Step 3: Dollop two heap teaspoons of pesto into the container. Now, I’m not usually one to promote a particular brand or anything, but considering how laughably unwise of an investment it would be for a company of any nature to sponsor this post, you can rest assured that I have not been bribed to suggest this to you. I’ve made zucc pesto multiple times, but this particular brand gave me the most pleasurable results. It’s a brand called Barilla and it has a blue label. It’s apparently a basil and rocket pesto, which I guessed by its green colour instead of reading the label, which appears to be written in Italian, so that can only be a good thing. I hadn’t come across it before, but it was the only type available at the tiny IGA on my route home from the gym, so I took a chance. And, oi, it’s a creamy bitch. I have no idea how high the salt content or the fat content or the general sin content is*, but considering you’re going to be eating only zucchini for lunch instead of 12 sweaty pork riblets from a hot box, you’re probably allowed to feel good about this choice.

zucc 5

Step 4: Put on the lid and microwave for one-and-a-half to two minutes. Because you’ve peeled that zucc so thin, it doesn’t take much to cook. And the high water content (I say this with absolutely know dietary knowledge or any idea of the actual water content of zucchini) means you don’t need to add any water to the container to get the steam treatment happening.

Step 5: Give that greenery a good mixin’, microwaving again if you need to.

Step 6: Enjoy smugly, within eyeshot of your colleagues so if one of them asks what you’re eating, you can gloat about how healthy you are. Because if you don’t brag about your good choices, what’s the point of making them?

BONUS OPTIONAL STEP: I reckon some roast chookie would go down a treat in this, just in case you’re super hungry or if the idea that the only good thing about your monotonous work day – lunch – consists of just vegetables and good intentions makes you want to peel your own face off. I mean, mix through some fried chicken if you want, but I can’t say how that would pair with the pesto. Listen you your hearts, guys.

* Ok, so I just Googled the pesto brand to make sure it hadn’t been discontinued or anything, and the ingredients list includes cashews. So if you’re allergic to nuts, you’re going to have to put your own personal safety above my recommendation. 

Standard
This one made it to print

Things I actually want for Christmas

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, December 21, 2018

I thought I’d take the opportunity to post this before I head to work while I wait for my kale to cook. I’m currently in an empty house, sipping a cup of tea from the cat-face-shaped mug I gifted myself  for Christmas. I thought I may as well use the morning to be productive rather than watching Christmas breakfast television, so I’m gifting you, dear readers, with a bonus Christmas column still warm from the oven, smelling of gingerbread and quiet desperation. Not only does mean this Christmas content is hyper relevant, it also means I can write something in my new diary that I’ve been holding off writing in until Christmas for a little treat. 

I realise this all sounds a little sad but don’t worry, I’m about to have a mango. 

Merry Christmas ya filthy animals. 

People often ask you what you want around this time of the year.

It’s not an aggressive “whatta YOU want!?”  or a probing “what do you really want?”, but a perfunctory request for gift ideas as the social norms for this time of year commands an exchanging of tangible tokens of affection with one’s inner circle.

We make suggestions that we know the well-intentioned gift-giver can afford, choosing items that aren’t too difficult to acquire.

If you were to say what you really, really wanted, you’d be burdening your loved ones with a list of unrealistic demands. It would make you look like a diva, while revealing the deepest, most pitiful parts of your soul. It would a combo of “a mint-condition Barbie Fold’n’Fun House” and “someone to be around to have a cup of tea with me when I feel lonely”.

However, we don’t say that. Usually the answer is a polite “I don’t need anything” or “a few more pairs of socks wouldn’t go astray”.

But if you were able to ask for anything for Christmas, with no price limits or requirements for the gifts to be something one can actually give, what would be on your list?

It’s an interesting question to ask yourself, and makes for a lively discussion around a dinner/dessert/chips-and-dip table.

Here’s my list of things I actually want for Christmas:

World peace: As this is a magic list of things I can wish into existence, I feel I should be somewhat benevolent. People would be pretty cranky with me if I wasted my mystical powers on myself. So I figure I may as well through the world a bone with a blanket wish that generally solves all the big problems while making me look good.

A few days of good, soaking rain: Again, this is partly due to my desire to appear as a selfless person who derives her joy from the happiness of others. But this is a self-serving wish.

I would love a few days of the sound of rain hitting a tin roof. It’s such a marvellous sound. It drowns out my inner monologue and creates a feeling of cosiness that a noisemaker app could never achieve.

And a few days of rain would put a slight chill in the air, which would allow me to wear an oversized sloppy Joe while lounging around the house. I think relaxing is best done in an aged jumper, as is having an emotional breakthrough after a period of quiet self-reflection brought on by some mild emotional trauma.

A few days off to enjoy the few days of good, soaking rain: I love the rain but I don’t really love having to be a productive human being in it. It just makes things a trickier – you have to drive slower, your thongs flick puddle water up the back of your thighs and you get foggy glasses.

I hate having to work while there’s fantastically depressing weather happening outside. That kind of weather must be savoured, like the last Tim Tam in the packet. You don’t want to be thinking about emails or accounts while there’s fog rolling in and rain lashing the windowpanes. You want to be rehashing the events of the past until you come to some kind of enlightening conclusion.

Some mild emotional trauma: Because you need something to mull over during a period of quiet self-reflection in order to achieve your emotional breakthrough.

Some mulled wine: Because, after you’ve done all that mental mulling, the best way to celebrate your emotional breakthrough is by redirecting your mulling energy towards cinnamon-y alcohol.

A cast iron skillet and casserole dish from this really, really fancy cookware brand: I’ve entered a period of my life where cookware is a status symbol. I mean, I would love to be able to sear a perfect steak before finishing it off in the oven or bake bread in a tasteful pot, but I would also love for people to note that I can afford pricey cookware and make the assumption that I have my life in order. I wouldn’t tell them the fancy, fancy frypan appeared in my kitchen as the result of some undeserved magical intervention rather than being purchased by me, a successful adult who makes financially-sound decisions. They don’t need to know that.

For microwaves to have silent switches: We have sent man to the moon. We have cloned sheep. We have created machines that allow us print in three-dimensions. And yet, we still don’t have microwaves that don’t beep obnoxiously at us when our noodles have cooked.

For zoodles to actually have the taste and texture of pasta: I am a fan of using zucchini in the place of pasta, don’t get me wrong. It tastes fine. But you are lying to yourself if you believe zucchini ribbons are able to replicate the delights of those carb-dense strips of starchy heaven.

A few more pairs of socks: Because they never do go astray.

Standard
This one made it to print

Hand baggage

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, December 12, 2018

Earlier this week I cleaned out my handbag.

I cleared out the half-used tissues, wrappers and receipts expecting my load to be considerably lightened. But, despite clearing quite a bit of rubbish out of there, it seems I was still luging around quite a bit of baggage*.

* And before you ask, only some of it was emotional. 

I had been a reformed handbag user not a year before, restricting myself to a large clutch which could be casually slung over my shoulder as I flounced out into the world handsfree and carefree. I had room only for my phone, wallet and keys. I had taught myself to travel light, with no handbag weighing me down.

But after getting fed up about carrying a separate bag every time I wanted to bring lunch to work, I upgraded to something with a bit more room.

And even though I technically should have stuck with the same wallet, keys, phone philosophy, I found my principles weakening. Because with more space apparently begets more shit.

I told myself I’d stick to the essentials, but it seems my list of bare necessities is a little longer than it used to be. I’m still uncertain about what is superfluous and what is a fundamental need, so I invite you to examine the inventory of my handbag and make your own judgement:

A blank notebook: I generally feel uncomfortable without a few blank sheets of paper handy, which makes me feel like a free-spirited Jack Dawson (without the smoking habit and, hopefully, the unfortunate fate of going to all that trouble to survive the Titanic’s sinking only to freeze to death hanging on to a door). Should inspiration ever strike me, I’ll be able to scribble down my brilliant thoughts before they dissipate into the fog of inconsequential thoughts misting up my brain. I don’t want to be hit with the sudden urge to write the great Australian novel (or at least the equivalent of The Very Hungry Caterpillar) while sitting on a train or waiting for the loo without the means of jotting it down. So I keep a notebook in my handbag, poised for poignancy. However, I’ve been carrying around that notebook for months and it’s still empty.

Pens: The pen is mightier than the sword, and I’m always packin’. Partly because I need an implement with which to write the aforementioned literary classic, but mostly so I can write notes on my hand to “buy milk and strawbs” so my mushy Weet-Bix glob of a brain remembers to go to the shops.

A stubby holder: I hate hot beers and love novelty slogans on synthetic rubber cylinders, so these things are pretty much an essential. I now make sure I’m carrying at all times, in case of an emergency.

Blank calling cards: I bought these ages ago thinking they would be a classy way to let someone know I rocked up at their joint and missed them. I envisaged a Holly Golightly-esque version of myself using an old-style calligraphy pen to write notes for my friends. A woman of style and substance I’d be, wearing a well-tailored outfit. Instead, they’ve remained in the box, jammed in an overstuffed pocket of my bag. I haven’t even used them to make with bogus business cards, such as “Dannielle Maguire: Human Stain and Living Reminder That You’re Not Doing So Bad” or “D-Magz: Professional Mad Dawg”. I’m disappointed in myself.*

* Between writing this and republishing it online, I did use one of the cards. I let the friend I was staying with know I was ducking out but would return within the hour. My language was sloppy, My handwriting was clumsy. And I was wearing a baggy oversized gym t-shirt so I didn’t even have that going for me. I must work on this – my handwriting, my vocab and my general attire. Perhaps my New Year’s resolution will be to change myself completely. 

Hand cream: Because my delicate lady hands need attention.

Eczema cream: Because my delicate lady hands sometimes get inflamed and scaly and I scratch them in my sleep and sometimes a gross liquid oozes out and lint gets stuck to my weeping pores.

A mini-torch: In case of a blackout/spooky story circle that requires me to shine a light up my face for dramatic effect. Admittedly, I don’t have any spooky stories and really, really don’t want to hear any.

A deck of Greek Ancient Lovers playing cards: I figure it’s probably better to have nudie playing cards than no playing cards at all. I mean, what if I get stuck in a lift with a few people and need we something to pass the time while we wait to be rescued? I doubt my fellow trapped humans will care about the obscene imagery when we’ve run out of things to spy in I Spy.

A plastic bag: It’s in a similar vein to the whole being-trapped-in-an-elevator thing, but this item is for containment rather than entertainment. I also think it’s handy to have plastic to act as a rain guard for a smart phone or, in extreme cases, to gather water like the kid from Life of Pi. You really just never know.

Deodorant: In case I’m stuck in a lift for days without access to a shower.

Moroccan oil: In case I’m stuck in a lift for days without access to leave-in conditioner.

Standard
This one made it to print, Three things

Three things I have to get used to again

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, December 5, 2018

Now that I’m back in Queensland, there are few things I need to start getting used to again.

It’s not that I completely forgot who I was while I was away. I didn’t need the head of a deceased, stately lion to form in the clouds telling me to remember who I was. I hadn’t had a Queensland summer for four years, however, I didn’t feel as if I’d been away for that long.

But, after a few weeks at home, I’m realising there were certain aspects of life in the Sunshine State that I’d forgotten:

Driving

I relied on the Sydney public transport system and share riding apps to get me around in NSW, so I didn’t need a car. And, more importantly, it was cheaper not to have one.

Because I was used to someone else doing the driving, I slowly began to forget what it meant to be a motorist. The price of fuel meant nothing to me. I did not have to confront my inability to tell left from right*. I never had to think about who had right of way.

* I’m hoping this flaw means something remarkable. Like, I may not be able to tell right from left without making an L shape with my finger and thumb, but that’s only because the space in my brain required for this particular skill is being taken up by something much more useful than a sense of direction. I’m hoping it’s a marvellous ability that is yet to show itself because otherwise I imagine that space is being taken up with the lyrics to the Shrek The Halls Christmas CD we have. I mean, sure, I like being able to sing the Shrek-ified version of 12 Days of Christmas, but I’m rather hoping I have a little more to give. 

But now I am back behind the wheel, I’ve had to start paying more attention.

I had forgotten which streets lead to what neighbourhood and have been relying on a global positioning system to get me from one end of the town to another. It’s taking a few trips to the supermarket, but slowly I’m starting to remember vague directions and can almost feel the neuron pathways building up again.

I’ve also rediscovered the joy of being in a mobile box of solitude in which it’s perfectly acceptable to practise one’s Mariah Carey impersonations. Incidentally, I’ve also rediscovered my old Christmas playlist.

Sweat

Now I’m not saying I didn’t sweat in Sydney. I got plenty sweaty, let me tell you. I mean, my skin excreted salty body water to cool me down when my core temp rose, just like every other person with a functioning self-regulatory system (and by this I am referring purely to a biological self-regulatory system, because I suspect by verbal self-regulatory system could do with some fine tuning).

But this is a different level of sweat – you get because you decided to spend an extra 10 minutes outside after 7.34am.

I’d forgotten what it was like to have to hastily push in a chair under the table if you were sitting in it for longer than 14 minutes so no one can see the huge puddle of perspiration that pooled underneath your thighs. I’d also forgotten that the reason you so hastily push in your chair isn’t so actually so that other people didn’t see it, but so you don’t get a chance to take a look for yourself and be confronted by the startling outline of your thighs.

Washing my feet in the shower

Now, I realised this makes me sound like a bit of a grot, so I will begin by confirming that I do shower properly – I soap, I lather, I use the alone time to mentally revisit every time I failed to stand up for myself and pretend I said something really, really cool.

I’m just like you.

But when I was in Sydney, I never had to scrub my feet. In fact, just standing in the tepid, soapy puddle on my probably-mould-ridden shower tiles was enough to cleanse my soles.

Because I was always wearing shoes outdoors.

Now I know that wearing shoes outdoors sounds pretty standard – there are bindies and hot bitumen and used Bandaids on the ground outdoors. We don’t want the stuff touching our supple, silky feet. That’s why we put a shoe between us and the ground.

But for all that practical sense behind shoe-wearing, I don’t seem to be doing as much of it in Queensland.

Maybe it’s because I’ve suddenly converted into a carefree bohemian who wans to connect with the earth, but I suggest it has more to do with the presence of actual yards in this state.

And so, with more time outside, I find the bottom of my feet need more attention when showering.

Incidentally, that might have something to do with the increased level of sweat – my feet have been somewhat stained thanks to my sweat mixing with the tan in my leather sandals, which has leeched into my foot skin, making me look like I have the most pointless spray tan in history.

Standard
This one made it to print

Reinstated

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.

Standard
This one did not, Three things

Three things I did for the first time this week that, at first, make me sound like I have my life together*

* but, when you think about it a little more, it becomes decidedly less impressive

I made pesto kale

And when I say “I made pesto kale”, what I really mean is “I added pesto to some pre-chopped frozen kale”.

I have been buying the frozen cubes of this stuff for some time now in a bid to up my veggie intake of a morning. If I eat them with eggs for breakfast, I’ve got a running start. And while I love fresh kale fried in olive oil, I don’t really rate the chopped, frozen stuff. Sure, it’s convenient, but it tastes like sad, yucky grass.

I persevere with it, hoping to one day consume enough so that I look like the kind of girl who could easily flog teeth whitening treatments as an Instagram influencer but chose to take the high road by having a full-time job.

Into my mouth I would begrudgingly shovel the stuff, telling myself it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever had in there.

But those days are now behind me. The other day I was hit by inspiration like a non-stick frypan to the face.

I’d bought some basil pesto in a jar for an eye-rollingly healthy zoodle dinner and was apparently still buzzed from it. Wanting to get a hit elsewhere, it became apparent that I could peso-late my breakfast while loading up on them antioxidants (I think that’s what’s good about kale? I don’t really know).

I microwaved a few of the grassy ice clumps in the microwave, stirred in a teaspoon of pesto and mixed the two together. I even made my curly-haired friend (and current landlord) taste it, like I was a goddamned Michelin chef.

“Try it!” I said, as if it was the first person on earth to discover pesto.

I tipped it out into a little mound, eating it with boiled eggs on toast, pleased I had found yet another way to trick myself, a grown up, into eating vegetables.

I took myself to the dentist and was able to pay my own bill without borrowing money or putting it on my credit card

Now, this does sound rather good on my part, but there are a few facts to consider:

  • First of all, it was the first time I’d been to the dentist in five years.
  • Secondly, I don’t currently earn enough to warrant private health insurance a necessity to avoid paying the Medicare levy.
  • Thirdly, I have been couch surfing for weeks, paying next to no rent.
  • Fourthly, I am nearly 27-years-old and have been working fulltime since I was 19.

Add all these things up together and it becomes less of a celebration and more of a wakeup call.

The questions these facts raise are confronting, but valid: How did you let yourself get this bad? How come you can’t budget? Why did you chose such an unstable, financially volatile career path? Should the court appoint you with a power of attorney to keep your affairs in order?

However , leaving worrying life choices to one side, when I was able to tell the delightful receptionist/dental nurse that I was putting it on “savings, please”, I felt like a financial success.

I went on the stair master

A stair master is those sets of automated stairs you see at gyms that look like mini escalators. And while the thought of climbing up an endless circle of meaningless steps while getting nowhere sounds as if it would send you into a sweaty, nihilistic spiral of depression, it seemed kind of fun to me (read into that what you will).

I thought I cold handle it. I mean, I’ve been going to the gym for ages. I’m young. My skin is still supple. My age means my body is at its peak performance.

I managed for all of five minutes.

Standard