Originally published in The Clifton Courier, December 20, 2017

* Obviously, this was written just before Christmas. It was a time when I was absolutely knackered, dragging my half-decaying carcass along the ground to the finish line, leaving a trail of gloopy misery and dignity as I edged towards the end of the year. Perhaps you’ll be able to pick up on that. 

I think I have a problem.

I know what you’re thinking: “well that’s been obvious from the outset, Dannielle – the whole town is quite aware that you’re an absolute mess and this column is doing nothing to help the situation”.  Yes, it’s well documented that I have a whole range of problems. There’s my issue with the ironic over-popularisation of nuggets, financial decision-making, that whole overthinking thing I do, committing to not vomiting and, actually, any kind of commitment at all*.

* I had plenty more, but I felt that five problems was enough for a short column in an otherwise cheery pre-Christmas paper.

But now it seems I have another one to add to the already lengthy list.

I have a new kind of problem and, just like this column, it’s conveniently Christmas-related.

This problem is about my emotional attachment to a ham.

No, this isn’t going to be a heart-warming message of peace and goodwill as a way to cap off the year; it’s 600 words about ham. Sorry, but if you want something deep and meaningful from me, I’m going to need a bottle of Jameson and some ginger ale*.

* I have to admit, this line was largely me fishing for free drinks. It did not achieve the desired result, so I’m going to have to really lay it on thick before the Clifton Show rocks around. I mean, the XXXX bitters go pretty cheap anyway, but a free drink’s a free drink. And, in all honestly, I actually prefer to go with a rounds-based system when I’m out. But it would be nice to snag a free coldie as proof that someone reads my damn dribble.  

I was given a Christmas ham and it was perhaps one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

This statement is a concern. I mean, the fact that I now have sole custody over a large hunk of dead pig is a positive thing. I have a tote bag (I bought it from Cobb and Co and it says “totes”) that is full of meat. If I’m hungry, all I have to do is grab a knife and slice off a hunk of pork.

Yes, this is fortunate. But should it be the best part of my year? Should “this ham is one of the best things that has ever happened to me” be a sentence I can truthfully write? I don’t need to see a psychologist to know that this isn’t a good sign. Heck, even an internet-certified life coach would red flag this.

Secondly, I’m becoming worryingly over-protective of the ham. I’m not yet at the stage of sleeping next to the fridge with a dagger in my hand, but I wouldn’t put it past me.

I was telling a friend how I planned on “not sharing it with any bastard”. Pretty sure he thought I was joking. Then I started asking about how best to deter my people from sneakily hacking at my personal ham.

I began to practice my warning, starting off with “look guys, it’s Christmas time…” My friend expected me to finish the sentence with someone along the lines of “…so in the spirit of the season, let’s all share this delicious ham”. But that’s not what came out of my mouth.

Instead, I thought of words to the effect of: “…we’re all poor as heck from buying presents and we can’t afford groceries so that ham is my main source of protein* – now keep ya grubby mitts off it”. Not exactly the most benevolent of sentiments.

* Not a joke. Meat is spency. I only hope that I have loaded up on enough iron while I was home to get me through to the next pay day. 

This is tied in with my third ham-related problem: I have an overwhelming desire to the whole thing all by myself. I am flying home for Christmas, so it has to be gone by Friday. I mean, I could demolish a “giant” schnitzel just as fast my smug former colleague who apparently can to eat lots because he plays sports (I even ate the leftover chips off my other co-worker’s plates to really show him up) but that’s a lot of pork for one person to eat in five days. I’d literally be sweating brine; I may even require hospitalisation.

But still I want to finish it off on my own.

I don’t know what’s the most worrying motivation behind this: greed, stinginess or the personal validation I would get from telling people I ate a whole leg of ham. Neither option is good.

What started out as a magnificent gift has become a burden. I have the weight of a metaphorical leg of ham on my chest.

So as I come to my already over-stretched word limit, I’ve yet to come up with a solution. I’m usually able to pull some kind of conclusion out of somewhere by this point in the column, but I’ve got nothing. It’s the end of the year. I’m tired. I need a break.

And so the only thing that’s coming to mind now is for me to try to sneak a leg of ham on the plane as carry on luggage*. If you don’t see me at Christmas Eve mass, it’s because I’ve been detained. Merry Christmas, everyone!

* I decided against smuggling the ham under my clothes as a fake pregnancy belly and left it in the fridge. In the end, I became so sick of the ham that even contemplating it now is a thought that curdles in my stomach like hot sushi and room-temperature milk. I left a note pleading for my housemate to take the ham, but when I returned to this stinktown I opened the fridge to discover my salty nemesis waiting for me, mocking me from within its calico cloak. Its skin had hardened and withered, with the contrast between the once succulent hunk of meat I’d left behind and its current form reminiscent of the before and after mugshots government bodies use to scare people from trying methylamphetamines. 

The allure was gone. The curse broken. I knew that I had to finally rid myself of that briney demon forever. I could no longer allow it to haunt my fridge or my mind.

I threw it in the bin.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, December 6, 2017

There are some times when a minute seems to span over a different timeframe than 60 seconds.

Sometimes the unit of time that we call one minute can seem like an eternity. Sometimes it can fly by faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Those 60 seconds aren’t standardised; they’re subjective.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, this sounds like the beginning of a really, really dramatic episode of Grey’s Anatomy (and that’s saying something, because that show once had an episode where a guy had an unexploded bazooka in him with Christina bloody Ricci as a guest star and it wasn’t event the season finale). It sounds like something about love or loss or maybe a poetic combination of both.

But I think we both know that’s not what this column is about.

In fact, this column isn’t about anything. It’s true. When I try to tell people what my column is about, I’m often stumped. Usually, it’s about things that cheese me off or something embarrassing I’ve done recently, and often a nice meaty blend of the two. It’s like a placenta smoothie – hard to swallow, flecked with graphic feminism (well, sometimes I do tone down the uterus talk because we are talking about a small town in Maranoa) and probably should never have existed in the first place.

So when there’s a column that is described as “uh…. I don’t really know… it’s not really about anything”, you shouldn’t expect anything too emotional from it. If you want to hear my emotional thoughts, you’re going to need to shout me several rounds and played Bob Seger’s Drift Away on the jukebox on Christmas Eve*.

* I clearly added this in as a ploy to snag a few free schooners at the pub after Christmas Eve Mass. It’s one of the top nights of the year to be out on the town in Clifton – you get pissed with your old schoolmates’ parents and really top up your hug quota. 

So no, this column isn’t going to reach emotional depths – especially considering the most emotional I’ve been lately was when my friend and I re-enacted various scenes from Titanic on a recreation of the ship’s grand staircase.*

* I can’t recommend this enough. If you’re in Sydney before February 4 and have a spare two hours, have a few beers then get down to the Titanic exhibition. They have the actual Heart of the Ocean (yes, that’s a proper noun) used in the movie and this outdoor deck scene brilliantly embellished with strategic fans for a realistic effect. Make sure you have plenty of memory free on your phone because sweet baby cheeses are you going to take some photos. 

No, this thought about the perception of the passing of time isn’t based on a tender moment, but from when I was waiting in line for the toilet at a brunch spot on Sunday morning.

I was in the line long enough for the girl in front of me to think something along the lines of “nah, bugger this” and walk away.

And if I wasn’t so desperate, I would have done the same.

It seemed as if an age had passed while I was standing there, waiting for that “engaged” sign to switch to “vacant”. I wondered what could possibly be taking someone so long – and of course, the thought did cross my mind that if someone was taking so long in there, perhaps going right in after them was against my best interests.* But then, risking soiling myself in public was also against my best interests. So I waited.

* This is obviously a poo joke, which I’m fairly certain my father would have picked up on. I was going to build on this joke by suggesting that he could have been snorting cocaine but I ran out of room. I like to think that he wasn’t doing lines because it was like 11.50am and who the heck needs coke to get through brunch, but then it was in Sydney, after all. 

And to be honest, I probably wasn’t waiting more than five minutes.

But it seemed so much longer than that. It was then that this idea about the variable passing of time hit me: time moves slowly when your bladder is full.

It made me think about some of the other situations you’re in when one minute could not possibly be 60 seconds. We’ve all been there. We’ve all questioned whether the second hand on the clock was mocking us.

And sure, time is a damn illusion. It’s a mutually agreed upon delusion humanity follows to make things easier for ourselves. And that makes sense, because just imagine how much more frustrating catching the train would be if we all had different ways of measuring time.

But while we can always measure time by the clock, the ticker in our head can drastically  alter our perception of it. And obviously there are scenarios when you want time to stay still and occasions when you want hours to pass in the blink of an eye – like when you wake up a few minutes before your alarm goes off or you’re getting a pap smear.

I guess it comes down to not only the situation, but your attitude to it.

And to prove my point, I’ll use examples that are interchangeable.

Here are some examples of occasions when a minute flies by:

When you’re in a hot car: and you know you’re going to have to get out and brave the Toowoomba drizzle at the next stop.

During exercise: and you have a one-minute break between one set of burpees and another set of something equally as tortuous.

During an ad break: when you’re running to the toilet and you don’t want to miss a thing.

And here’s when a minute drags on:

When you’re in a hot car: usually when your mum gets stuck chatting with someone on the street

During exercise: and the workout regime calls for you to do one minute of anything more strenuous than a stretch.

During an ad break: when you’re waiting to see if the drongo in the hotted-up Commodore blew over the limit.

* I feel like I should have had a concluding sentence to round this out, but honestly, I was just too damn tired. I’m really dragging my half-decaying carcass to the finish line of this year. I’m surprised I’m even managing to wear pants when I leave the house. 

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, November 29

The other day I got to thinking about my funeral.

And no, this thought isn’t borne out of deep, existential reflection. It’s not even from watching Beaches. No, this thought process was fuelled by a combination of extreme self-obsession and my controlling nature.

It came about when I was thinking about my hat, of all things. A dark brown Cattleman; I feel a strong connection to it. I’m yet to write my name in it, but it’s on my to-do list after a tense few hours (and five phone calls) without it after the races.

The thought struck me that it would look great on my casket one day (hopefully a long way into the future… although I do sometimes fantasise about humanity coming together to ensure my immortality) as a symbol of the person I was and the life that I lived; an object that encapsulated my very essence.

The idea of pre-determining what summed up me as person as opposed to leaving to someone else appealed to me. Self-obsessed? Yep. Controlling? You bet.

But you don’t want to get this wrong. Because sometimes people just don’t “get” you. For years people thought one of my sisters was a total diva who loved pink and make-up and whose life goal was to become a professional glamourzon. In truth, her favourite colour is green and she’s an absolute stinker who wants to stand up to the lions of environmental injustice. What people may think would sum you up might not actually fit the bill, so you have to take control yourself.

This got me thinking about other objects that would form an accurate representation of me as a person.

And because I had very little else to do with my Sunday afternoon (my goals for the day included getting out of bed, buying groceries and making a barley risotto, if that gives you any indication as to how I spend my weekends) I decided to write a list.

So here is a non-exhaustive list of things you would need should you want to construct a personal shine to me in your own home:

A lock of my hair: Preferably bound with a tasteful white ribbon, if available. The long, thin strands of my DNA and keratin are perhaps my most iconic assets. Being brown instead of the blonde my three sisters were gifted with, my hair is arguably one of the most significant factors that influenced my identity. It was the colour of poo while my sisters had “hair of gold”. You would think it would have made me develop a shining personality to compensate for this; instead I became a sarcastic show pony.

A belt buckle in the shape of a galloping horse: I bought this from a chain store as a teenager and still wear it today thanks to the leatherwork and friendship of Mr May. It’s now my trademark. You could say it’s a nod to my wild, free spirit bolting across the horizon towards greatness… or you could simply put it down to my childish fascination with horses because they are pretty.

A bunch of carrots: Carrots consist of about 40% of my diet – I like to have something to munch on and carrots seem like the easiest, least destructive option. Aesthetically it would be nice if the shrine carrots still had the leaves attached and were tied an earthy twine bow but, realistically speaking, slapping down a plastic kilo bag of them would be more appropriate.

An extra-strong black tea bag with a jar of ironbark honey: For obvious tea-related reasons.

A recording of the sound I make walking in my thongs, played on a loop: I have a particular rhythm. It’s a unique cycle of clicks, clacks and slaps that sounds from my thongs as I obnoxiously walk from place to place. Once you know it, it can be extremely helpful in locating me in the aisles of a hardware store.

Published in The Clifton Courier November 22, 2017

It’s amazing how the mind wanders.

I love how you can begin with one topic and end somewhere completely different. Like, you might start talking to someone about the weather and find yourself telling them about that time you ate chalk (it tastes exactly the way you’d expect chalk to taste, in case you’re wondering).

I have a tendency to take a lot of detours when I’m telling a simple story, going off on unnecessary tangents and taking what I like to call “the scenic route” of conversation. I believe it’s a hereditary trait, but I’m not pointing fingers at which parent I’ve inherited it from* (I don’t think I need to).**

* Mum bloody LOVED this. 

** This is the kind of joke you can include in your local paper in a township with a population of 1500. The Tinder pool may be very limited, but at least people understand your family jokes. 

Some people find it annoying, but I think there’s some merit to rambling on.  I think it can be a welcome distraction, if you let it. And sometimes a distraction can be as good as a holiday.

So consider me your travel agent. Because I can start with any topic – let’s go with vacuuming – and take it to places that makes you wonder how I got there. Observe:

As far as household chores go, vacuuming is one of the ones I dislike the least.

I tell myself that it is an efficient form of exercise. I like to think that gliding the machine back and forth builds core strength. And the fact that I’m cleaning while sculpting a physique fit enough to be deemed attractive, but not too muscly that I appear threatening (we don’t want anyone thinking women are too strong now) is satisfying.

I love the concept of killing two birds with one stone.

Heck, I’d like to pull off the literal meaning of that phrase too. Being able to chuck a rock in the air and end up with two dead ducks sounds bad-arse. And it would be a handy skill to have in the event of the collapse of civilisation and, subsequently, supermarket food supplies. I’m not sure why I always end up relating everything back to the inevitable crumbling of society, but I like to think it’s because I’m one of the few destined to survive it.

But anyway, back to vacuuming.

So many benefits.

I do like being in a clean room, with the many particles of dirt being safely and hygienically rounded up in a plastic prison/vacuum bag instead of being sucked up into my lungs. Those anti-smoking ads with the lung dissection really imprinted on me as child. And that’s great, I suppose, because I don’t smoke as an adult – despite how cool Kate Winslet looked taking a drag in Titanic. But sometimes I think of polluted air and imagine it coating my lungs like the amount of tar a pack-a-day smoker breathes in every year. I wonder if that’s healthy.

Again, back to vacuuming.

I like it when there’s spilled rice or sand on the floor to clean. I love the sound that comes from the vacuum cleaner as the stuff is sucked up. It’s so damn soothing that I sometimes purposefully spill things just to enjoy the satisfaction of sucking them up. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty odd way to spend one’s time. Depending on how you look at it, it’s either me savouring the simple joys of life or an exemplification of the mundane, miserable existence I lead. I can always get back to this place too – whether I’m choosing to be happy or pointlessly sprinting nowhere on the delusional hamster wheel of life.

Again, I digress – the vacuuming.

I was vacuuming near the bin in the kitchen the other day and saw a bunch of ants. I sucked them up instinctively, but now I’m conflicted about it. Are those ants now dead? Or are they alive and terrified after being sucked into a dusty tunnel of darkness? Will they ever find their way to freedom? Am I some kind of monster for sentencing them to this fate purely because of their audacity to exist within the parameters of my kitchen?

And that’s where the simple topic is vacuuming led me. Questioning whether I was a monster.

I’d apologise for wasting your time with a column about nothing, but at least it had absolutely nothing to do with the state election*, right?

* Yeah. What you just read was a 600-word build up to a joke about how annoying election campaigns are. 

Distractions; just like a holiday.

Sometimes encouragement isn’t all that encouraging.

The other day the exercise app on my phone that tracks my jogs informed me that my afternoon was my 49^th fastest run recorded for that particular distance.

The notification was written in a cheery shade of green and punctuated with an exclamation mark.

I’m not sure if that exclamation mark was mocking me or if it was being genuine in its excitement for my achievement, but either way it’s troubling.

Because being 49^th isn’t often something worth celebrating.

They don’t make ribbons for 49^th place. They make a first, a second, a third and then a generic “good try” ribbon. These “good on you for participating in the activities the Queensland curriculum forces you to take part in” ribbons used to be orange back in my ballgames carnival days. Then one year, they became multi-coloured metallic caterpillars. I’m not sure if this was because the Clifton cluster was suddenly allocated a bigger ribbon budget or if someone complained about orange being the colour of generic mediocrity, but we started getting these whizbang rainbow ribbons and they were honestly better than a boring blue first ones (read into that what you will and perhaps slip it into conversation at your next dinner party when you’re down to the meaty red wines and feel as though your conversation could solve all the world’s problems).

Sure they were pretty, but they meant nothing. And part of me feels as if this green exclamation of my personal running ranking was that patronising caterpillar deluding me into thinking I wasn’t a total failure.

Maybe it was just trying to acknowledge that I’d tried to be active instead of napping in a puddle of my own drool on the wrong end of my bed, like I’d rather have been doing at the time.

And that’s nice, isn’t it? It’s like a virtual cheerleader congratulating me for making good choices.

But, as always, I’m choosing to read more into this throwaway line than is probably necessary. Because if you’ve learned one thing after all this time you’ve wasted reading my overly-wordy dribble, it’s that I have the overthinking power to subvert something totally harmless into something sinister.

So I’ll start with something positive and slowly morph it into an affront.

If you were running in a race against hundreds of other people, coming 49th would be an achievement. Heck, even if you were racing against 49 other people, at least you creamed that one lazy sucker. As long as some other poor bastard went even slightly worse than you did, you’re doing alright. A victory is a victory, however small. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you.

But this race wasn’t against anyone else.

It was a race against myself.

I was unwittingly racing previous, fitter versions of myself and didn’t even realise it.

So when you take this into account, this little green line of text was essentially a reminder that I had done a better job 48 other times. This notice might at first appear to be enthusiastically saying “well done” with its lime green hue, but the subtext was a much more of a deadpan, deeply sarcastic “well done”. If anything, it was more of an “oi you’re sloppy runner, a complete disappointment to yourself and you’ve really let yourself go” than anything else. It was a slap in the face, not a high five.

And I get it; if I’m coming in 49^th against myself, I probably do need a good slap somewhere.

Some people would suggest a positive outlook equals positive results. But in this case, my negative approach boded well. Because after my most recent run, I received a notification informing me that it was my 32^nd best. That’s progress.

Pessimism wins again.