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Three Things I Learned That, Deep Down, I Already Knew:

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 17, 2018

Yes, it’s been while since I’ve forced my thoughts down the throats of Clifton Courier readers like rambling corn kernels jammed down the necks of foie gras ducks, but that reprieve is now over.

Delightfully, it has left me with a few spare columns I’ve not yet posted online, which means that I don’t have to pretend to have thought/done anything interesting to write about for today. 

I’m hoping to eventually get back into my weekly Wednesday and Sunday posting sched, but given I’m now a shift worker who is still living out of suitcases, it may take a while until I’m in a regular rhythm. 

Please bear with my though this strange, it’s-ok-I’ll-just-buy-Guzmen-again-instead-of-preparing-meals-for-work time. 

There are few times when saying “I bloody knew it!” to yourself is a positive thing.

These rare occasions are usually right after someone whose belly you’ve been watching with suspicious interest makes a pregnancy announcement or when you picked the killer half-way through an episode of Midsomer Murders.

Usually an “I bloody knew it!” follows an unfavourable occurrence. They’re times when you could just kick yourself for not listening to your gut, like when you were going to order the seafood fettuccini but, against your better judgement, ordered the boring cheese spaghetti, which came in a much smaller serving size. It’s painful, not just because of the outcome, but because you should have known better.

And, with that in mind, I’m going to recount my weekend in a collection of short stories I like to call Three Things I Learned This Weekend That, Deep Down, I Already Knew:

Jäger bombs belong in 2010 –  There was a time when the combination of a energy drink and hard liquor was a great idea. It was about the same time LMFAO was a commercially-successful musical act and skin-tight bondage dresses were cool. But those days are behind us.

Now, with the blessing of hindsight, we know dresses that resemble glittery bandages are uncomfortable, extremely unpractical and result in constant self-conscious tugging at both ends. We have realised lyrics such as “Party Rock! Yeah! Wooo! Let’s go!” pehaps isn’t poetic genius at work. And we know that mixing dark, syrupy liquor and caffeinated devil juice creates a hateful elixir that will make you feel as if your blood has been replaced with puddle water from a petrol station.

It’s a terrible, terrible concoction that will only bring misery.

And I absolutely already knew this. It has been at least five years since I last ingested such a potion of pain. And yet, over the weekend, I became reacquainted with it, despite my knowing it was poison.

It was a strange series of events which lead to this unhappy reunion, which started with a casual Friday afternoon trip to the pub*. Add to the mix the pomp of Eugenie’s wedding, a brown leather jacket and someone actually being generous/stupid enough to shout the entire group a round of drinks and there I was, guzzling pure, concentrated regret with what might as well have been lighter fluid.

* It was the first of my two work leaving dos, farewelling me from Sydney. I had to have two because some of my top tier colleagues were going to be away for my actual leaving do, but also because I’m that extra of a person. Nigella Lawson says that life is there to be celebrated, and I follow her gospel.

And then I was transported back to my 2010 self, who couldn’t hold things down, who felt way too uninhibited in public and who abruptly sent herself home from social outings. After seeing my extremely nutritious dinner (which comprised of wedding-style red velvet cake, two types of slice and hot chippies) for the second time, I found myself sitting on the wet footpath dialling for a lift home shortly after the (Jäger) bomb went off. And I had only myself to blame.

That ICE could easily be misconstrued as something else –  So, in my column last week, I mentioned a line about the Maguire House contact in my phone ending with the letters ICE. In this case, ICE is an acronym, standing for “In Case of Emergency”. I’m not sure if that’s a universally-known acronym, but someone else I know had that next to the important contacts in their phone, so I decided to do the same.

However, acronyms can be subverted and misconstrued all the time. LOL, for example, can mean “lots of love” and, as it’s more commonly known, “laugh out loud”. A great demonstration of LOL mix up going around the internet is a text from someone’s mother telling them something along the lines of “You great aunt Emily died, LOL”. Of course, we assume the mother meant “lots of love” in this instance. But the younger person, to whom LOL is used as in expression of amusement, clearly didn’t read it that way.

So, when I said “ICE”, I meant to convey that the Maguire household should be informed if I end up in hospital after slipping on a banana peel or something. But after a chat with Dad on the phone on Sunday, I was reminded that others might have read it as a reference to something else. I knew I should have clarified what the ICE really stood for, because I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

I mean, what if someone thought it said “Maguire House… Is Coloured Ecru”? That would be a total lie; it’s more of a beige.

I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise for any confusion caused in regards to the Maguire House.

Eating two chocolate biscuits right before going on a run is a bad idea –  This is especially true if you haven’t gone for a run in a while and you’re already feeling a little on the sloppy side. Choc-backed Digestives are not in the energy bar aisle for a reason.

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Three things I miss about living in Sydney

I’ve been back in the Sunshine State for a little while now, so the dazzling I’m-finally-home glow has turned into sunburn, flaked and peeled off in tiny figurative flecks of skin. With a dermis layer shed, I can now view the reality with clarity.

And, shockingly, there are some things I look back upon with fondness.

Obviously I miss the friends I left behind and drunkenly try to coerce into starting a new, more affordable, life the Great Southeast, but that’s not the point of this list.

No, this list is about the small things I grew accustomed to in the old Steak and Kidney which, without me realising, apparently burrowed its way into my heart like a parasite.

Brown rice sushi: I mean, look at the name of this list. Of course things were going to get all first-world-problems-y.

I understand that, traditionally, sushi is made with white rice. And I get that people like white rice.

But I like to pretend I’m healthy, so I like to make sure most of the carbs I ingest are brown and have words such as “whole” or “grain” thrown in somewhere.

Aside from the occasional luxurious lump of coconut rice, eat only ever brown rice. And after a few years of eating it, I have grown to love it. That nutty, chewiness is so bloody satisfying to me. It’s the kind of rice that has a bit of go about it; you have to really give it a good grinding with your teeth. So when I have white rice, I feel like I am stuffing my mouth with tiny clouds of diabetes that disappear on my tongue but spend eternity attacking the innards of the temple that is my body.

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In Sydney, there are so many wankers like myself that there’s a viable market for brown rice sushi. There were a whole bunch of varieties at the fancy, fancy food court that was below the white-collar cesspool that was my old office building. But even the cheap, basic sushi joints had brown rice options.

I never knew I had it so good, until I was walking around South Bank trying to find a salmon and avo roll that I could feel smug about.

Alas, there were none.

It turns out that brown rice sushi isn’t really a thing here, and it’s devastating.

Getting praise for just turning up at stuff: When you travel interstate for an event, you’re pretty much the guest of honour wherever you’re going. You get a special mention in speeches for having travelled so far. People are bloody thrilled to see you. You automatically take out the most-committed friend award.

In this day and age, where I like to wear pyjamas for most of the day and am past the age when my achievements are classed as “impressive for such a young person”, being lauded for just turning up is the self-esteem boost I needed to stop me from being aware of my own meritocracy.

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People treat you like you came all the way from the wilderness of Alaska just to drink wine on a Sunday morning. It’s almost as if you had to scale a mountain, take shelter in a hollowed-out bear carcass and cross an icy rapid to be there. In reality, I got to feel like a boss by going to the Qantas terminal, stare blankly out at the sky and eat luxurious cookies (yes, cookie – I’m not a fan of the very American word replacing the superior Australian term “biscuit”, however, those baked treats fell under the definition of “cookie” due to their size and decadent properties. I only use the word “cookie” in certain contexts. Subway cookies are cookies, but you would never call, say, shortbread or an Anzac bickie a cookie.)

Yes, travelling interstate costs waaaaay more than a trip up the range and it can be quite disruptive to your weekend, but I did enjoy the acclaim for my mere attendance.

Now when I turn up to things, I’m just a regular old guest. I’m no longer the special crockery, but just one of the mismatched dinner plates with a chip in the edge.

It’s not that I’m complaining, but I also kind of am.

The proximity to emotionally-indulgent rocky coastal walks: Sydney has some cracking coastal cliffs you can use as a backdrop if you’re ever in the mood to be moody. If you want to look off into the distance and think deeply about something, a coastal rock face is the place to do it.

You can look out to sea and watch storms brewing, not unlike the dark clouds gathering in your heart. The wild, crashing ocean mirrors the unsettled feeling deep in your soul. The endless horizon is in your sights but beyond your reach, like the love you yearn for.

I mean, looking out at the mud flats of Nudgee is probably a more fitting metaphor for your stanky, stagnant and underwhelming love life. But when you’re searching your soul for answers, you want the possibility of interpreting a breeching whale or a leaping dolphin as a sign to go for it; that everything’s going to be ok.

No matter how you try to spin it, a muddied empty bait bag blowing across the silty sand just doesn’t have the same uplifting qualities.

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Remember my last… Part Two

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 10, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Relax, don’t do it

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, October 3, 2018

Relaxation can be far from relaxing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I decided to put it behind me.

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

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

I’d managed to burn my hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe relaxation might just be too stressful for me.

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Three things – part one

This, I feel morally obliged to warn you, is not my best stuff.

I decided to keep this running list going saved in a Word Doc on my desktop for a day when I really, truly felt as though I had nothing worth scooping out of the innards of my skull and arranging into a column. A day when I can’t even scrape off a few dried, caked on shavings from my head and present them as anything.

I knew I’d have this day, because I’ve had many of them before. Some people would call it writers’ block, whereas I would refer to it more as a paralysing realisation that I nothing worthy to write.

When this happens, I usually like to distract myself by completing other mindless, practical tasks to make myself feel accomplished, distract myself with junaty, light-hearted entertainment and practise self care.

By the end of that, I reason, I’ll have experienced something that I can unpack, overanalyse and fashion into something someone might find entertaining.

And that’s what I did today.

The mindless tasks were easy: I made lunch goo. I bought groceries. I pulled part the vacuum cleaner, emptied the filter and ripped out clumps of my hair from the rotor. But even though I love emphasising my I’m-just-so-weird-LOL-telling-it-like-it-is I am, I couldn’t even pull something out of my arse about how much I love pulling long, filthy clumps of hair out of the vacuum cleaner.

I watched all the new episodes of The Good Place, and was unable to stitch together even a weak piece about how I am essentially a mix between the self-absorbed white girl and the guy who suffers from decision-making dysfunction, weighed down by the what-ifs of life and the possibly meaningless doom we’re all facing.

And I even put some cold teabags on my eyes and couldn’t even punch out a think-piece detailing all the hilarious, quirky things that went through my head when I was forced to spend time alone with only my thoughts (because I’m such an over thinker haha LOL).

Nothing.

So I’ve turned to a Word Doc saved on my desktop, squirrelled away for when I was at my most useless. Although I do feel I’ve been in much worse shape for today, I’m far too lazy to think up anything else. And so, after that rather lengthy intro I wrote about having nothing to write about (I’m so meta), please enjoy this lukewarm literary dish I’ve reheated for you. Please, if you don’t mind, imagine me saying the below in an impressive tone while running my hand along an imaginary title in the air, right in front my face:

“Things I like that I used to not like”

Yep, inspiring, right? This was supposed to be an ongoing list I’d add to as time went by, banking up stuff for when I was really creatively skint. And yet, I only had three entries. All of them food. There was nothing juicy about sex positions or illicit substances or anything to indicate that I was in anyway interesting. This might be the most mild list ever. Prepare to be underwhelmed.

Cherry tomatoes: Not really sure why I was  against these guys. I mean, I liked tomatoes. I liked cherries. I liked the idea of mini foods. But I just never got around the cherry tomato.

I’ve had a life without cherry tomatoes and so I’m still learning how to eat them, much like a toddler being introduced to cutlery.

Because I’m not totally used to them, I bit into one the other day at my desk. I had no idea you couldn’t just bite into them like any other salad ingredient. I had no idea about the projectile nature of these bad boys. I sprayed tomato guts all over my keyboard and computer screen. It was carnage.

Red wine: I’ve already written about this. Long story short: I used to be an uncultured swine who only drank wine as a last resort to get pissed, I matured slightly, I went to a winery and now I like red wine.

Mashed potato: I love potato, but I used to be dead against it in mash form. It was too gooey. It was too gunky. It felt too much like vomit or some other yucky slop going down my throat, making me gag. I mean, really, there aren’t many gloopy, chunky mushes you encounter in life that are actually good. They’re usually bad things – like pus or Grandma’s depressing mushy peas or a build up of pond scum. I didn’t like the idea of that going down my throat.

But then, I had it with steak. And hooooy boy, did that change things. I suddenly realised that mashed potato was more than an off-white confusing mixture between liquid and solid, it was a gift to humanity. I mean, it’s butter and potato, for heaven’s sake. I really should have opened my heart to it earlier.

I still find it difficult to eat without the presence of a good steak, but I have made a complete turnaround when it comes to mashed potato. I’m a changed woman.

* Yeah, this title has a “Part One” in it, which suggests there might be a Part Two. Or even a Part Three. Perhaps a Part 17. The point is that this title implies a follow-up of some kind. Now, I’m going to go ahead and assume there will be another Sunday in the not too distant future when I don’t have any cracking ideas to write about and will instead lazily fall back on the crutch of a mediocre, pre-prepared idea. I propose to keep this idea of challenging myself to come up with a list of three things, any three things, and justify why they should be grouped together. Of course, it is possible that I never need to rely on such a lame back up again. However, given my recent track record, I’m going to go ahead and assume Part Two will be delivered next weekend. 

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Forgetful

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 26, 2018

I forget something on pretty much every trip I take.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Strawberries on toast

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Yeah, that’s right.

This is a recipe for strawberries on toast. It was inspired by me, scrolling through my own Instagram photos like the narcissist that I am, revelling in my own social media genius the way a Marvel villain would look back at the path of destruction they created (except, instead of being decked out in a fabulous, form-fitting costume, I was wearing a pair of stale pyjamas).

I posted a photo of my brilliant dessert idea, being strawberries on toast, during a time when people were posting a whole bunch of strawberry-related foods on social media in the wake of the needle scandal. People on social media love to support the farmers, and because my whole persona is built up on the fact that I grew up in the country (I mean, I was technically a townie, but my Condamine-stained Akubra suggests otherwise), backing the berry farmers was in line with my brand.

So on the bandwagon I hopped. I nobly took up arms and joined the ranks of kitchen crusaders across the country. I too wanted to use my super influential, totally commodifyable social media presence to make a difference. People were posting strawberry shortcakes and berry tarts. I have one extremely impressive friend who, immediately after preventing an unjust deportation, rushed home to make a vat of jam, pour it into quaint-as-fuck little jars and sell them to her workmates so she could donate the sales to a drought relief farmer appeal.

Meanwhile, I put strawberries on a piece of toast and posted a photo of it on Instagram.

I’d written “recipe to come” in the caption as a bit of a laugh, because obviously you don’t need a recipe for something so straightforward.

But, here we are.

I’m staring down the barrel of a long weekend and want to smash something out quickly so I can enjoy my spring freedom, but the gears in the old think box aren’t exactly ticking along at the same pace as usual. I’m coming off the back of a nasty, clingy cold that has rendered my brain to mush. If you scroll down to Wednesday’s post, you’ll see I didn’t give the bastard a title. I didn’t even realise. And now I’m keeping it like that, obviously, because it now is part of a joke and adds weight to my illness claims.

And with that, I’m going to launch into my recipe.

This is the kind of dish that perfectly emulates all the good things about an ordinary pancake with minimal labour. Of course, it’s no substitute for a banana porridge pancake or a carrot cake pancake but, in a pinch, it does stand in for a run-of-the-mill standard batter sufficiently enough. Because, when you’re tucking into one of these plain pancs, you’re really only ever in it for the toppings, right? I mean, the pancake just acts as a fluffy excuse for eating syrup and ice cream before 11am, much like the juice in a mimosa makes champagne a socially acceptable breakfast beverage.

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I started making this when I had a hankering for the pancake experience, but the distinct lack of effort to mix up a batter and chuck it in a frypan. So I decided that toast was a reasonable, low-effort stand-in as a platform from which to eat my favourite pancake toppings: melted butter and strawberries.

This is a dish you can serve at any time of the day, because if you’re reading this, chances are you live in a country with uncensored Internet and therefore are a free citizen. Being free means you can express your political opinions without fear or observe whatever religion you chose. It also means you can serve a slapdash dish without having to conform to the oppressive culinary norms that dictate the time of day during which a particular food should be eaten. I mean, fuck’s sake, eat an egg for dinner if you like. No one is going to drag you off to prison. The Anzacs fought for our freedom, you may as well enjoy it.

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That being said, I do tend to enjoy it as a dessert, with the sweet, buttery treat perfectly filling the emptiness in your life between dinner and the sweet release from reality that comes with sleep. It’s so easy, you can make this without really thinking about it, making it perfect for times when you’re spiralling into a pit of despair and don’t want to disrupt your dark, irrational thoughts by focusing on weighing flour or tempering chocolate. You’re free to carry on with you existential crisis.

Step 1: Proudly grab a punnet of strawberries, demonstrating your defiance against health and safety warnings with strong, bold movements. Dramatically remove the punnet from the fridge, brazenly bringing it down on the counter with conviction. You are the master of your destiny. You laugh in the face for fear.

Step 2: Slice and dice the strawbs, because, actually, you really don’t want to put up with a pierced oesophagus.

Step 3: Keep going until you’ve got a good fist-sized pile of safely-prepared fruit.

Step 4: Fetch yourself a piece of bread, the style of which depends on your mood. I tend to go with a nice light rye because it has the texture of a white bread while still having the air of a loaf made from an intimidating flour that makes it feel as though it’s judging you, even though you know perfectly well that ground grains don’t posses the cognitive awareness required to form an opinion about your choice of carbohydrates.

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Step 5 :Bung that bread in the toaster, gurlfrand! But make sure you check your setting. The whole idea about this is that the bread becomes warm enough to melt the butter, but not so cooked that it becomes darker than a fake tan at a Year 10 formal. I mean, you want it to be cooked enough to transition from warmed bread to toast, but only just. Like, the adolescence of toast, if you will.

Step 6: Prepare yourself for the second the toaster pops. You have no time to lose once that toast comes out – you must get the butter on there before the bread cools down. Get you butter knife ready. Remove the lid from the butter dish. Find your focus.

Step 7: Butter that toast with the speed of the gods.

Step 8: Once you think you have a reasonable amount of butter, coat that butter in another layer of butter, until yellow puddles form on the bread.

Step 9: Dump the chopped strawberries on the toast, tumbling the fruit in a rustic, artisanal way.

Step 10: Eat your pancake replacement on your own, luxing it up with a plate, knife and fork and a scented candle on the dining table, Norah Jones playing on your phone. Be sure to post your treat on social meda. Or, you could be true to the slapdashery of this dish by shovelling it into your mouth over the kitchen sink before cocooning yourself in a doona and blacking out the world. Up to you.

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This one made it to print

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 19, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, my strategy hasn’t changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I went and got myself a recovery mojito.

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This one made it to print

Keepin’ tabs

Originally published by the Clifton Courier, September 12, 2018

Spending too much time on your phone is a problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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This one made it to print

Skillz

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 5, 2018

We all have special talents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s more than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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