Originally published in The Clifton Courier, June 7, 2017

I had a very emotional day last week.

It was a Monday. It was cold. I hadn’t found $400 on the ground on my way to work. So it was already not the best day.

But then it came to lunchtime, and things took a turn for the worst. I looked in the fridge for the container I’d placed there earlier that morning. It wasn’t there. I looked again. I looked in the other fridge. And then I saw the washing up pile, and noticed my container sitting there, empty.

I knew it was my container because there were traces of my lunch remaining. A scraping of hummus. A spec of spinach. The oil from my roasted sweet potato.

Then it hit me: my lunch was gone.

Look, logic tells me was probably an accident. I highly doubt my container was maliciously emptied because I like to think humanity isn’t capable of that level of evil.

But that didn’t change the fact that my lunch was no more.

I went downstairs to the food court under my building and walked around in a daze.

I was lost. I was broken. I was empty – literally, I’m not sure how long it takes the human stomach to send food on its way down the digestive tract, but as I’d had breakfast at 6am and it was now 2pm, I’d be willing to wager there wasn’t much left in the tank.

My building is circular, so I was actually walking in circles at that point. I almost started to cry. I considered calling Mum.

Knowing nothing the takeaway food outlets surrounding me could replace what was lost, I ended up buying some protein balls and slumped back to my desk in defeat.

“You hear of these things happening to other people,” I actually heard myself saying afterwards, “but you never it expect it to happen to you.”

Dramatic? Sure.

Trite? That’s generally who I am.

Insulting to people who have actual real problems? Probably.

But I was hungry. Show me one person who doesn’t get melodramatic, devoid of original thought or slightly offensive when they’re hungry, and you’ll show me a liar. I didn’t have the fuel to power brain to be aware of how much of a stain I was.

So, what’s the moral of this story? Maybe there isn’t one. Sometimes things don’t have a rhyme or reason.

But I’m determined to take something away from this, because I can’t accept that fact that I lost my lunch AND missed out on a life lesson.

So here is what I’ve learned. I held it together. I didn’t call Mum sobbing… unlike I did that time I was hit by a magpie. I didn’t even let one single tear drop from my eyes. I didn’t snap. And I carried on.

I also got a column out of it, so in a way I really should thank whoever was behind this.

Whoever you are, know that you’re forgiven.

I took myself out for breakfast the other day, and spent the whole time texting.

And no, I wasn’t texting a bunch of flakey friends who weren’t turning up or a steamy love interest. I was texting myself.

Since I am a woman and have an ABN, I am technically a businesswoman. And I decided to do what businesswomen do: have a working breakfast. They get things done while breaking the fast. They order coffees and set up their laptops and wear power suits with badarse nonchalance.

So I decided to be one of those women.

Unfortunately I was without a laptop. I had no manila folders. I was wearing my workout gear instead of a tailored blazer. And I also can’t handle coffee (last time I had it, it gave me the actual jitters – it was just before I was about to hop on a plane too, and looking skittish at an airport tends to make security staff think you’re smuggling things in your butt).

But I was determined to make this a “work thing”. Not only because it took away the awkwardness that for some reason seems to be attached around a person eating alone, but because I’ve become a fiend for wanting to get tax write offs. I’m a very by the book person, so I’m going to go to an actual media accountant this year and see what I can claw back from the government. I have a fairly limited understanding of the federal tax system, but in my head, things I write about can also be write-offs. By that logic, if I were to write about my breakfast, I could write it off.

So I preceded to text myself – something that I find actually quite useful for stringing together blog posts and columns when I have jack shit to write about. So here are the messages I sent myself:

I have just finished a jog and promptly celebrated by taking myself out to a nice breakfast at the fancier of the cafes at the park.

And I feel like everyone knows my hoodie was bought as part of a costume for a hen’s party sports day (that, admittedly never happened because we were all too hungover to move and ended up getting tie dyed shirts at the markets instead)

I wonder if I would have felt different if I had have worn my UQ hoodie – because despite how scummy I may be, at least people would know that I at least went to a university long enough to purchase branded goods.

Also, I would like to point out that I am currently wearing Lorna Jane running shorts. If that doesn’t qualify me to turn up to fancy cafes to spend far too much money on granola and green drinks, I really don’t know what will.

And yes, I know have been a bit anti-active-wear-with-inspirational-slogans in the past, but my college merch ruggers had been worn down so much that there were holes big enough to shove a newborn piglet through on the inner thighs. I wanted to keep running to achieve what a dear friend of mine of would call a “fergilicious” bod, so I had to invest in other shorts.

And maybe I’ve been in NSW too long but ever since I read Lorna was all “fuck everyone, I’m keepin’ my office in Brisbane and you can all go to buggery” (NOTE: that’s how I imagined it going down, so it could have possibly been a slightly less bogan statement), I’ve warmed to her a little bit.

I have a newfound respect for someone who chooses industrial Brisbane over the wankery of Sydney. I mean, I’ll still continue wearing the free shirts I got from bars while I exercise, but she’s alright hey.

Back to breakfast. I just finished my granola which for some reason came with a panacotta – in case you didn’t already know this place was fancy as fuck.

This is where my texts to myself stopped, because I became too distracted by Instagram.

I had taken a photo of my meal after I used the leftover milk from my pot of tea to pour on my granola. I am trying to take more photos to use as visual aids to explain my life to my parents, plus I also thought I could make a good Insty post about it. My caption would have read something along the lines of: “another positive of enjoying my tea as dark as my soul is being able to use your leftover milk for oat soaking purposes”.

However, I didn’t want to give this place the satisfaction of knowing that I’d grammed their food, so instead I posted something about a bunch of geese I nearly ran into.

After I’d posted the geese photos (it was actually a very moving series of images that told an emotive story using carefully-planned compositions), I became acutely aware of how much of this meal I had spent on my phone. I then became aware how it would have looked like I was extremely uncomfortable dining out by myself and was compensating by texting – or, even worse, pretending to text people. I didn’t want these people to think I cared about what they thought. I wanted them to think I was an independent, self-assured woman who could confidently eat alone if she damned well wanted to.

And yes, I see the irony in wanting people to think that you don’t care what they think and actively modifying your behaviour to give someone the impression that you’re not doing anything to impress them, but that’s just the way it is. And maybe me admitting to it so openly means I really don’t care what people think..?

But I digress, I realised I was texting too much, looked too nervous and then put my phone down to “be mindful” and “take it all in”. At least, that’s what I hoped it looked like I was doing.

Anyway.

Long story short is that I asked for the receipt upon paying and plan on taking it to my accountant, arguing that it was a work expense and subtracting the cost of my douchey muesli from my financial contribution to building this country.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 31, 2017

I’m facing another State of Origin in New South Wales, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

I don’t have my father’s selection of Maroons supporter jerseys from various decades to steal from this year, so I’m going to have to make do with the lint-covered XXXX Gold promotional t-shirt I snagged from the uni bar a couple of a years ago. I wear it while jogging in Sydney because I like to think it will attract other Queenslanders for me to be friends with, like a sweat-soaked flame for all the tastefully bogan moths out there who have found themselves far from the motherland. So far I’ve yet to have anyone stop to invite me around to sink a few tinnies with them; but maintain hope.*

* We don’t have to smash the beers – I’d settle for a post-jog smashed avo or even a nice cob loaf which, by the way, is apparently something people in Sydney have never experienced. I’m basing this huge generalisation on the fact that a handful of people at work didn’t know what a cob loaf was when I brought it up in conversation. As someone who once brought themselves a personal full-sized cob loaf to work for her birthday lunch, this was hard to stomach. I pity you, Sydney. I really do.

I usually relish the idea of being the unruly obnoxious Queenslander in a bunch of sore loser southerners, but my experience over the weekend has given me qualms.

I went to watch the Queensland Firebirds play the NSW Swifts, which was it’s own State of Origin clash with less obscenities hurled from the crowd.

Being in New South Wales, I found myself surrounded by far more Swifts fans than Firebirds fanatics. And by this I mean, there were about five other people who weren’t part of the Firebirds support team in the stadium backing the birdies.

I was outnumbered.

The last netball match I went to was in Brisbane, where people were a step below painting their entire bodies in team colours. There’s a lot of Queensland spirit at those games, and it’s intoxicating. You cheered as one, making you feel that you aren’t totally alone in this cold, cruel world.

But in enemy territory, I didn’t get the same vibe.

Wearing the conveniently correct shade of maroonish purple in a sea of blue and red, it was clear I was not going to use the hashtag #letsgoswifts in any of my social media posts that night.

My solitary applause when the Queenslanders sunk goals (a cheeky 19 more than the home team, might I smugly add) practically echoed.

And while I wasn’t likely to be punched as a result of obnoxious banter, I kept a lid on it to avoid piercing glare from a netball mum – something tells me I don’t want to get on the wrong side of a netball mum.*

* They take no shit. They have strong limbs. And they often have whistles. 

It was kind of intimidating.

My questionably loud choices of bold, high-waisted pants from op shops would suggest I have an unquenchable thirst for attention – partly true – but there’s a difference between being an insufferable show pony and sticking out like a sore thumb. Because no one likes a sore thumb; they make grabbing things painful and arduous.

And in this case, I wasn’t just a sore thumb, but a thumb with crusty scabs where the nail used to be. I really stuck out. Because, for a while there, either side of me was an empty seat.

It would have looked as if the people to my left and right could smell the Queensland on me, and moved away to get away from the dank, meaty scent* emitting from my pores.

* That’s the smell of success, sunshine and wet sorghum.

Again, usually I would love this – especially because I really value my personal space. Yet I found it uncomfortable. I felt exposed. I was in the wrong state, but I was also in the wrong headspace.

But tonight I’m not going to be intimidated.

I’m going to yell about how “togs” is a much better term for swimwear than “cozzies”. I’m going to scream about the stupidity of Daylight Savings. And you better believe I’m going to rant about how much better it is to live in a state where you don’t have to pay for an ambulance in an emergency.*

Because I would gladly cop the half-rate chimes from a bunch of drongos in sky blue jerseys and cobalt wigs over the icy glare of a netball mum any day.

* Yeah, I ended up having a head banger (which is a slang term for “headache” I made up today which I think it really going to catch on) and was asleep in bed with a wheat pack by 8pm. There’s always next game, right?

I have several apologies to make.

My first is for not posting yesterday. I broke my strictly self-imposed Sunday posting schedule thanks to a very slightly delayed flight from Darwin (where, yes, I did eat crocodile schnitzel). I used this minute change to justify my decision to indulge in bran and milk rather than fulfil my personal obligations.

My second is for the late hour of this post. I am well aware that it is well past 9pm.

My third apology is for my actual apology, which is implied in he rambling rubbish below.

But I’ve got a thumper of a headache at the moment, so I can’t really be expected to make much sense.

It feels like someone has somehow managed to get their foot inside my skull and is jamming their great, dirty big toe out of my left eye socket.

I realise that this must read quite graphic, but I want to be precise here. I want my readers to have an acute understanding as to why I haven’t prepared a long, rambling piece for them like the luscious duck lasagna Jamie Oliver had done on one particularly indulgent episode of Comfort Food.

Instead, you bloody kids are getting microwaved fish fingers and you’ll be jolly lucky to have it, too.

Yep, this is a literary fish finger, sodden and limp from the lazy manner in which it was prepared, which only accentuates its lack of substance.

But while that must make me the woman who wears visors with a perm as she ducks out for bingo, I have to accept that. Unfortunately I chose neither books, looks or am married to Danny DeVito.

Do you see what’s happening here? Did anyone else predict the reference to Matilda coming at the start of this post? Because I sure as shit did not.

I’m merely pressing buttons because I like the way they sound when my rhythm is fast and because it makes me feel productive enough to warrant the second cup of tea I’m already planning to have as I upload this to the internet with tepid triumph. My victory party will, I can already tell, climax with my jotting down in my diary a note about having made this little written contribution to a world that doesn’t much care for it. I will highlight it in orange and feel the unfounded sense of superiority I have come to crave shoot around my major and minor arteries until it makes complete a full loop around my circulatory system and returns to my heart as the cold reminder of the dull, damp dishcloth that is my life. Then I will be free to shut off the lights and wait until sleep comes for me like a merciful angel.

Sometimes people think I am dramatic and pitifully angsty, but I don’t see that.

Update on the headache sitch? Staring at a computer screen, surprisingly, did nothing to help. In fact, it now feels as if the metaphorical little toes need a serious pedicure as they imaginarily scratch at the hollow of my forehead. And while I shouldn’t be able to tell, in my mind (which is were they are anyway), they are yellowed and flaky.

Now my ear hurts.

Clearly, I need to hit the proverbial hay.

Sorry guys. So much sorry.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier May 26, 2017

I just realised how boring I am.

The other weekend my sister and her husband visited me in Sydney, and I was tasked with showing them the sights and showing them all the fun stuff I do now that I live The Big City Life.

I pointed out the Harbour Bridge, which led to a discussion about how much better we liked a bridge in Brisbane (in case anyone around us couldn’t tell we were Queenslanders). I directed their gaze to the Opera House. I showed them the building a work in. I showed them the library I once pretended to study in so I could charge my phone. I even took my sister on a personal tour of the dump shoot where I dispose of the rubbish I passive aggressively empty from the kitchen tidy every time it is overfilled with recyclable items (not that I’m bitter or anything).

I’d like to think there were some fun sights I’d forgotten to include on the tour, but the only place I forgot to point out was the bar that didn’t kick my friend and I out for licking up overflowed tequila off the bar using our fingers. And while that would hint at me actually doing something fun, it speaks more to just how stingy I am.

I was hoping to give my guests an idea of the super glam big smoke life I lead here. I wanted them to get the Sydney experience, Dannielle style.

And looking back at the weekend, I don’t know if I could say I gave them an all too thrilling idea of just how I spend my days in this overcrowded cesspit of douchebaggery.

The first thing we did was eat burgers at a place in my neighbourhood. An over-ordering of side dishes later, we went back to my flat for drinks. We got through less than a third of a bottle of wine before we decided to calm down and go to sleep. We’d played two rounds of a Scrabble knockoff game, after all.

The next day we took a long walk around the coastline and paid far too much for acai bowls (it’s like a thick smoothie with artfully-placed fruits, super foods and other wankery sprinkled on top). Then, deciding we had nothing else to do, we walked a further five kilometres back to my place so we could eat cake and sit down.

Unfortunately, this was an all-too accurate representation of my usual Saturday. Except instead of cake, I would be hoeing into an entire batch of a clean-eating spin on brownies. And instead of sitting down, I would be napping on my bare mattress as my sheets dried.

That eventing, despite all the restaurants and bars in Sydney, we ended up eating takeaway in a hotel room, drinking mineral water and treating ourselves to scratchies as a bit of a thrill. On the ride home, I carefully hid from my driver the fact that I had just spent three hours watching sitcoms instead of gallivanting about, deceptively telling him I’d “had a big day” to save face.

Usually my Saturday nights aren’t too different, except I don’t have to pretend to be cool in front of Uber drivers because I haven’t left the house.

Thankfully the next day was taken up with my sister’s premeditated plans, but when the afternoon rolled around we were left trying to fill time before their flight and it was up to me to come up with the goods.

We ended up watching dogs play in the park and getting right into House Hunters: Renovation.

And you know what? That was actually one of the highlights of the trip. And I don’t even mean that in a negative sarcastic way.

Perhaps it’s because the company you keep is more important than doing fancy, exciting things. Perhaps it’s because family is a bond stronger than any other. Or perhaps it’s because nothing brings people together like dogs or making fun of other people’s interior design choices.

Note to self: If you’re going to be a total creep, you need to start wearing more muted colours.

Maybe try to blend in more. Maybe do your best to be as forgettable as possible. Because you don’t want to stick out in someone’s mind enough for them to remember you and turn your awkward encounter into a hilarious tale. If you’re rocking the neutral look – and I’m not talking about beige explicitly, but more a beige vibe – then you might be easily forgotten in the avalanche of other people they met that day.

This is a strategy I wish I had thought up before I went to get books signed at a writers festival.

Because I was foolish enough to think that, because I’m a seasoned journo who has met important people before, I wouldn’t turn into a giant creep when meeting an author.

So it didn’t occur to me that I would be a creep, and therefore didn’t compensate for that by wearing smart casual jeans, rocking a white top and sporting a normal haircut.

It’s only now, sitting in the safety of my lounge room, that I remembered my seasoned journalism career has only spanned five salty years. I also recall now that most of my encounters with important people were peppered with more cringe moments than my avo toast is peppered with literal pepper (and that’s a shitload of pepper, mind you).

So of course this things got weird this morning.

And I wore an over-sized statement yellow jacket with a bold pattern that features the confusing repetition of the number 83. Which is not exactly blending in. If the somewhat repulsive mustardy yellow shade didn’t stick out in anyone’s mind, the riddle as to why I deemed 83 such a significant number that I needed to pay homage to it through fashion surely would.

I don’t want to go into too much detail, but I kind of pounced on an author whose book I impulse bought after her signing session finished. I saw her walking around afterwards and ran at her with what I can only imagine was the intensity of that guy in the ad for Get Out (I don’t know his name or back story because I’m too much of a chicken to watch horror movies). I can’t recall the exact details of the now blurred conversation, but I reckon I could clock the physically cringing I did afterwards as an ab workout, so it’s fair to say it was so bad my subconscious did me a solid and immediately repressed it so I would never have to think of it again.

In fact, the whole signing line up thing is very uncomfortable. I thought I would need to have seven redheaded children before I would identify with Mrs Weasley, but it turns out all it took was for me to be confronted with the author of Looking for Albrandi (not that I’m saying Melina Marchetta is like Gildory Lockheart in anyway).

Yeah good.

Despite having an actual fucking communications degree, it turns out that I’m pretty rubbish at it. I mean, I read the literal textbook for interpersonal communication. From memory, I even received fairly decent grades for that course. I should not be this bad at it.

Sometimes I think my desire to be “quirky” or need to create uncomfortable moments to turn into humorous anecdotes for column material subconsciously forces me to stumble through social interactions. Then other times I’m certain I’m just a blabbering idiot who doesn’t know how to do the talking properly. Either option asserts the assumption that I am simply just not normal.

But what even is normal anyway?

Normal isn’t really a finite thing. It’s a concept. A mathematical one. It would be more apt to use the words “average” or “mode” instead of normal, I reckon. Because when we’re saying normal, we’re more describing something that is most common.

It’s simple statistics.

Say you’ve got a group of six people. Four of them have blue eyes, one has green and another has brown. Three of these people have brown hair, one is blonde and two are redheads. Five of these people have dogs, one has a cat. Three are really good at maths, two are average at maths and one failed maths. Four love milk, while two hate milk. Five of them are Linkin Park fans, one is not. Four are girls, two are boys. There are endless other factors I could write out, but I don’t have the brain power on this Sunday afternoon (hence why “loves milk” and Linkin Park were included as traits in this example).

If you were to describe the “normal” (AKA average) person from this group, they would be a blue-eyed, brown-haired, dog owning, maths class nailing, milk-loving, Linkin Park fangirl.

That would be a true representation of this group, based on the data. If you’re a member of this group, it would be “normal” for you to love Linkin Park. According to the statistics, it would be unusual for you not to like this pop fusion of rap and hardcore music.

But while this is statistically correct, in actual fact, not one person in this group falls into the majority for every single category. They may have brown hair and blue eyes, but they also hate milk and are shit at maths. They may love milk and be a whiz with numbers, but they’re a green-eyed ranga. They may tick all the boxes except the box about having a box (because they are a boy).

So while the representation of the group may be statistically true, there is no actual blue-eyed, brown-haired, dog owning, maths class nailing, milk-loving, Linkin Park fangirl.

The “normal” person for this group doesn’t actually exist.

And when you upscale this example and apply it to the world’s population and factor in the millions of other traits about people that can exist (whether they’re a Seventh Heaven fan, whether they’re nail polish wearers, whether they knew their grandfather, whether they like capers, whether they have irritable bowel syndrome, whether they have vomited on a bus… the list is pretty much endless), you’d probably again find a “normal” person doesn’t exist.

You could look at each of these specific these traits and definitively state which were the most common, but there are so many millions of different combinations of these traits that it would be bloody hard to find one person who ticked every last box of the statistical average human. You know?

Like even if you found five people who all happened to have each individual factors line up with the representational average, there are how ever many billions of other people on earth who aren’t like these people.

Therefore, it’s unusual to be the average. It’s not normal to be normal.

This is all a very pretentious, long-winded way of assaying “normal” isn’t actually a thing.

It’s a myth.

So I feel that I don’t need to worry about being normal.

But maybe I should tone down the retina-burning colours and ironic op shop buys, just in case.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 10, 2017

I am conflicted about the merits of a bath.

Yes they’re good for you and are supposedly relaxing, but the concept is also yucky. And I’m not very good at relaxing.

To a normal person a bath is a luxury. To a chronic overthinker like myself, a shower seems to be a more efficient way of cleaning oneself.

When baths are concerned, the human body is like a giant teabag. Except instead of infusing the water with the soothing essence of green tea and jasmine, you’re leaching out dead skin cells and the pollution your pores soaked up during the day. And once all this grime seeps into the water, you spend a good 20 minutes soaking in it.

Not cute.

But I have the eczema, which wages war on my left hand and turns it into an itchy, flaky, oozing mess. I try my best not to scratch it, but I find myself scratching in my sleep. This is a problem, because when you scratch the affected area it seeps out this sweaty gunk, which is really unappealing. And sometimes things get stuck to this gluey excretion. Which is even more unappealing.*

* I told this to a colleague once, and he actually dry retched. Thankfully I had already won him over as a lifelong friend, but I can’t say if he respects me in any way. But I don’t think a relationship built on office sassery and the tendency to drink leftover wine from strangers’ tables at work awards nights needs that much respect to begin with. We get each other, you know? Even if I do disgust him from time to time.

I’m not telling you this to gross you out (although I think I would have well and truly achieved that goal). I promise it is relevant to the bath concept.

Because I have recently discovered the amazing healing powers of a bicarbonate soda soak. It stops the itching. It even minimised my wart (wow, I’m really not selling myself here). I can’t speak highly enough of bicarbonate soda. And if any bi-carb soda reps are reading, yes, I would be open to promoting your product.*

* Seriously, I can’t ever seeing myself being the target of a sponsored post. I mean, I’d love to be influential enough to be sent a free box of Doughnut Time selections but I’m just not good enough with my lipliner to pull that off. Plus, the only flatlays I’ve done on my Instagram account have been heavily Queenslander themed, which apparently doesn’t make me a high-value influencer to brands. 

Therefore, I have a choice. It’s either soak in my own filth or cop the shame of getting tissues stuck to the pus on my hand and live with the constant itching (and unfortunately having a relentlessly itchy palm has nothing to do with receiving money, despite the promising superstitions).

So I chose the bath option. Even though I have ranted against it before. Even though sitting in a tub for 20 minutes means I’m alone with my own thoughts for 20 minutes – which is as antagonising as you would imagine.

So I endeavoured to find a way to make it bearable, even enjoyable. And the trick was drinking tea while soaking.

For some reason it felt decadent; like I was doing something forbidden.

I don’t know if this is because I couldn’t do this back home without being ridiculed or because tea is my ultimate indulgence.

I treat tea the way most people treat wine. While my housemate in Armidale would come home from work and have a glass of sauv blanc to take the edge off, I would make a very strong cup of tea after a particularly stressful day. Except while she would sip her wine quietly, I would let out a sexually suggestive groan and repeatedly say “geeeeeez I love tea” in a voice that had much more grunt than my usual speaking voice.

Now in Sydney, I make my new housemate think I’m really cool by giggling devilishly as I flick the kettle on for the second time that night, saying, “oh I might just have one more”.

So I made myself a cuppa to dull down the overthinking while in the tub.

And being completely starkers, floating around in warm water with a comforting tea in hand almost felt like being back in the womb again (not that I remember too much about the experience).* I emerged from the tub relaxed, rejuvenated and itch-free.

* Just to clarify, I didn’t sip the tea through an umbilical chord drinking straw nor was it filter through a placenta – just in case you sickos were taking my foetal simile too literally. 

With one cup of tea, a bath turned into a treat.

And meditating on the tea bag in the tub gave me an excellent metaphor for the giant human dead skin infuser to use in my column.

My feelings about baths may be lukewarm, but a cup of tea will always be my… cup of tea. *

* That’s right Dannielle, finish strong with a play on words. Go out with a bang. You’re just like Carrie fucking Bradshaw you clever, clever shrew. 

I’ve just burned all the way to the bottom of a scented candle.

At the risk of sounding trite, it’s bitter sweet. It’s bitter because it means my waxy pumpkin pie dream is over. But it’s an achievement in a way, because I have a tendency to be too frugal with candles. I have a candle from four years ago smaller than your average lunchbox popper that is only halfway through. There’s some innate aversion inside me screaming at me not to waste them, which makes me worry I might be turning into my father.

However, I’m trying to suppress my desire to save. And what with this looming nuclear conflict, the fact that there’s an enquiry into the current “crisis” of journalism and that whole climate change drama, I’m thinking my future is too unstable not burn expensive scented candles. I may not actually like coffee enough to buy it and I make much better avo toast at home than those snooty cafes, but scented candles may just be the reason I can’t afford a home right now (LOL since moving to Sydney I can’t afford candles either).

Also, I want to use the candle container for other things. I like the idea of being able to store unnecessary items in unnecessary glass containers which project that I’m a classy woman who values herself but wouldn’t hate a bit of financial backing on account of what some may call “unsound economic decision-making” (which I think sends the right message to the right acutely-analytical potential suitor/silent partner who finds himself using my bathroom for some reason).

Anyway, the fact that I’ve burned a candle all the way down means I’ve dedicated a fair hunk of time to relax from the stresses of my job, where I spend most of my day being sarcastic and watching cute animal videos (I know, tough gig, right?). It means I’ve really dedicated time to taking a journey to me.

To cut a long story short (something I absolutely did not do here), after my candle was burnt up, I turned it upside down and discovered there were a bunch of rules written on the base that I had no idea about. And because I’m scrounging around for blog post idea, I figured you’d like to read my reactions to them (because I don’t know, maybe you’re waiting in a long queue and your Instagram isn’t refreshing or something).

Never use water to extinguish a candle: that seems obvious. This is a candle, not a fire on a medieval thatched roof house.

Ensure wicks are trimmed to 7mm: I’m guessing this warning is purely for legal purposes to negate any responsibility of the manufacturer in the case of a fire and everything, but come on. Do they really expect people to whip out a ruler, measure their wicks and trim them like bonsai trees?! And how did they come up with the weirdly specific length of 7mm?

Never burn the candle for less than an hour or more than four hours: I understand the one hour rule, because you deserve more time for yourself. Don’t just settle for a lousy 15 minutes, go the whole hog – both figuratively and literally, because burning a nice scented candle while cutting thick, salty slices off your own personal leg of ham sounds like a damn good way to take the edge off a rough day.

The four-hour rule is a problem though. You shouldn’t put a time limit on treating yourself. This is especially true if your version of treating yourself involves finishing off the leg of ham. That takes time (but please seek medical advice beforehand).

Never move a burning candle. Extinguish and ensure wax is solid before handling: True that. Especially if you have carpets and don’t enjoy intense burning sensations on your skin.

Burn candle on an appropriate flat heat-resistant surface: Again, good advice. Resting a candle on a bean bag is a silly idea.

Avoid using in drafty areas, near and open window, air duct or fan: That would defeat the entire purpose of having lit a scented candle. The whole idea is to Dutch oven yourself; closing off all nooks, crannies or entry ways where other people can come in and spoil your solitude. You want to trap this fine-smelling candle fart in wherever you are to mask the scent of reality and make yourself believe, if only for a short while, that you don’t live in a total shithole. So yeah, keep that bloody window closed.

Burn within sight: Or make sure you keep a nose out for the smell of smoke. Because without my sense of smell, I would have lost the rustic vintage ladder I use instead of a bedside table because I am both frugal and a design queen. Now said ladder has a singe mark, but that only adds to the charm. So I guess only leave your candle unattended on salvaged novelty furniture.

Keep away from things that catch fire: But you can leave it by your hopes and dreams, because they went up in flames years ago.

Keep away from children: Excellent safety advice.

I have a gripe.

I know, that’s nothing new, right? But humour me. Also, the saying “that really gives me the gripes” is rooted in slang for sharp intestinal pain usually associated with irritable bowel syndrome. I know this because we looked it up at my first real newspaper job. My boss said it often and it soon rubbed off on the rest of us. Once we whipped out the dictionary though, there was a noticeable decline in the frequency of its use. So up there when I said that I had a gripe, I meant the figurative gripe. Because apparently revealing information about your bowel movements to strangers is off putting. Go figure.

Anyway, I was lost in my own thoughts today when I realised that I had been quietly engaged about something for a good few weeks now. I figured I should probably turn it into a professional showcase of my skills (ahahahahaha haha hah… professional) before I incoherently ramble it to a stranger at the pub or, failing that, it emulsifies itself into a burning ulcer of repressed anger in the pit of my stomach.

In my head, big ideas were brewing. I was thinking I could do some kind of regular themed posts about me complaining and call it something along the lines of “yeah but why?” or “things that shit me to tears”. I mean, I could launch a segment based purely on ranting, but that would require me to then create content that isn’t based on my dissatisfaction with something and that’s basically all I’ve got.

Maybe I should just revive my “yeah nah; nah yeah” segments, because then that at least forces me to find something vaguely positive out of a rancid onion of a situation.

But before I make any big decisions, I might just launch into “what shits me to tears” for the moment. And that thing, currently, is this idea that women want to have soft feet.

There are all these ads in women’s magazines and infomercials about pumice stone innovations that marry traditional methods with technological advances to give people foot skin like a baby’s bottom. They try to convince you to scrub off years of built-up, tough skin just so you can caress your heels without starting a friction fire. Sure it feels nice, but it’s bloody bullshit.

Because unless you’re living the kind of hippie luxe existence those moisturiser ads would have us believe Jennifer Anniston is living, you can’t really get by without wearing shoes. Because you are not Jennifer Anniston; there will be times when you have to use a dank public toilet with unexplained puddles. There will be times when you need to leg it across hot bitumen to get to the bottle-o. And you’re never going to escape traipsing over a batch of bindis. You’re going to need to wear shoes at some point of your life.

And if you’ve got baby arse skin on your feet, those shoes are going to give you hectic bloody blisters. “Bloody” is not me proving to you how Aussie I am with stereotypical slang (well not in this instance, but please note how Australian I am every other time I’ve inserted local lingo into my pieces because boganism is trending still and I need to build up a fan base). Your blisters would bleed.

Maybe this is just me waving the feminist flag again (it is a pale pink and has Zena the Warrior Princess complete with breast plates emblazoned on it) but there’s this weird idea that women should have perfectly smooth feet, when there’s no similar call to men. I find this odd, because women are also supposed to be way more obsessed with shoes than men (I do enjoy snazzy footwear but that’s not the point here). And the kind of shoes women are supposed to go bonkers over often give you fuck off blisters.

That tough, crackling skin we’re supposed to get rid of is exactly the kind of skin that should protect your feet from blisters. And it’s a beautiful thing. Because the foot has built up a harsh outer shell as a result of exposure to the outside world as a protective mechanism so you don’t get slowed down by bullshit – that’s something we should aim to emulate for our entire beings, not flake off with bits of coral.

My big point? Why isn’t there a buffer than can rough up your feet? That’s what I would go out and buy. Because I don’t really need soft ankles, but I would like to be able to wear a pair of shoes without stashing a pair of socks, emergency thongs and several bandaids in my bag. Innovate a way to apply spot callouses on my feet so I can’t feel the shoes rubbing up against my skin, allowing me to spend more time focusing on burning the patriarchy or perfecting my pumpkin scones. I’d happily part with 20 bucks for that kind of freedom.

And yeah, maybe this rant came from a place of deep frustration over how a simple pair of flats could render me basically immobile and the disgust that came from developing blisters inside my blisters after stepping up my jogging, but I think there’s something in this. I’m not saying I don’t love the feeling of a nice soft foot, but having nice soft feet only work if you’re living some magical existence where you only ever wear thongs, slippers or spend your days barefoot in your spacious home office surrounded by lush gardens.

Otherwise, you end up limping to work in your corporate shoes or resort to wearing your old comfy jazz shoes every day despite the fact their soles are millimetres from having holes ground into them. Of course I’m going with the latter option, but there’s only so long I can pull of the “corporate novelty” look before I start looking like an overly-involved art teacher.

Things need to change.