Tofu And Chocolate

So, tonights episode of My Kitchen Rules featured a quick-fire challenge wherein the contestants had to cook winning dishes using ingredients commonly hated by children.  Ie: blue cheese, olives, sardines, tofu and brussell sprouts.  I don't know - is this really that hard?  While I may technically be 22, I've got both the intellectual quality and taste buds of a 12-year-old, and the only one of these that I actually hate is brussell sprouts.  Plus they could use as many other ingredients as they wanted; it's pretty easy to create a delicious meal out of something as boring as tofu when you're allowed to stuff it with pork mince and salt.

The most annoying thing about MKR quick-fire challenges are the teams who don't have to compete.  Mostly because if I'm watching a show about competitive cooking, I want to be the only one who doesn't have to cook.  Also because they stand on the sidelines and make comments about the other dishes, like this:

Guy Who Doesn't Have To Compete:  There's too much lemon in that!  You won't be able to taste the brussell sprouts!

In my opinion, having enough lemon to hide the taste of brussell spouts is the smartest decision a potential chef could make.  For two reasons:

1) Brussell sprouts are fucking disgusting.

2) Brussell sprouts are fucking disgusting.

I think I should apply to be a judge on the next season of My Kitchen Rules.

In a complete 180, the second challenge of the night involved an ingredient that everyone loves - chocolate.  Again, how is this hard?  The only way to make chocolate taste bad is to mix it with something as foul as...well, brussell sprouts.  And even then I'd probably chow down like there's no tomorrow.

This is the one MKR test that I feel I'd be poor at judging.  I eat chocolate when I'm happy.  I eat chocolate when I'm sad.  I love chocolate so much, I sometimes dream of marrying it and having babies that I can snack on when I get hungry.  A contestant could literally serve me melted Cadbury in a bowl made out of paper towels and I'd give them at least a 7.  And I'd eat the paper towels too.

Sex Encyclopedia

Here is a question for the universe:

Why do people call toilets 'rest rooms'?

 I don't understand.  Do you see anybody resting in this room?  I don't know about you guys, but there are times when I work harder in the bathroom than I do at my actual job.  Like say, after Mexican food.  I don't feel awkward about it.  Everybody poops.

I have never related to a television show more than the time I watched that episode of How I Met Your Mother where Marshall is too embarassed to take a shit at work.  More often than not, I will go out of my way to avoid using the work toilet for anything heavier than a onesie.  Like, to a point where it's probably unhealthy.  What?  I refuse to be judged for trying to maintain a pleasant environment for my colleagues.  I tend to experiment with odd food combinations.  And there are some smells that no amount of vanilla air freshener can cover.

But enough about poo.  I want to talk about sex.

MUM, LOOK AWAY.

Back when MJ still worked on Mondays, he and I would often be left alone in the salon for long stretches of time with nothing to do.  Nothing except talk about sex, that is.  Being almost 7 years older than me and the ex-boyfriend of some pretty big weirdos, MJ's sexual history is...encyclopedic.  He's got an answer for every question, I've got the dirtiest mind this side of Uluru - we're perfect together.  And I could probably write a book on what I've learned about testicles.

One of MJ's main theories when it comes to sex is that the guy is always in control.  I don't agree with this by any means, but am usually happy to go along with whatever MJ says - partially because of the entertainment factor, but also because I'm too much of a lazy git to bother arguing.  Exhibit A:

MJ: I thought New Years Eve was a pretty good movie.

Me: You're kidding, right?

MJ: No, see because -

Me: You win.

Anyway, every once in a while he'll actually come out with something I can use.  Exhibit B:

MJ: Guys love it when you wake them up by, you know...touching.

Has anyone else heard this?  Is it actually true?  The last time I tried testing it was at 6 in the morning when I was still drunk from the night before, and I ended up getting lost and fondling the bottom right hand corner of my own doona.  Boyfriend didn't even wake up.  The only thing I learnt from that life lesson is that no one is a bigger idiot than me.

And that my doona likes it rough.





My Birthweek

First things first: Yesterday, I turned 18 for the 5th time.  If you're one of my good friends or a member of my family, you will already know this.  Mostly because I am lucky enough to have the most amazing friends and family in the world, and can always count on them to remember the dates that are important to me, like March 10 (my birthday), June 2 (my cats birthday) and February 8 (the day Katy Perry's divorce was finalised and Russell Brand came back onto the meat market).  Also because I haven't shut up about it for the past 2 weeks.

I tend to get very excited about my birthday.  Anyway I don't want to go on about it too much, except to say that March 10, 2012 may well have been THE GREATEST DAY IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD.
Wow.  Might be overselling it a bit.  OR NOT!  So what if I had to work?  I also got a midnight musical phone call from Nathan and Julia, 2 champagne breakfasts, a brand new clock for my bedroom, a shopping spree (yes you should be jealous that he's my Boyfriend and not yours) and vodka red bulls bought for me all night long.  OH!  And the best part was that I actually looked like a semi-respectable excuse for a female the whole time thanks to Alex's rad make-up skills.

The whole experience was so enjoyable that I've decided to extend my birthday into a birthweek.  Seeing as my birthday party isn't until next Saturday, I'm technically allowed to do this.  Plus I'm pretty sure it took my Mum almost a week to push me out anyway.  My skull was kind of disproportionate as a baby.  It wasn't a big deal medically or anything, just a bit strange-looking.  I was a human bobble-head, okay?  I don't wanna talk about it.  BIRTHWEEK!

I have recently re-discovered my love for mayonnaise.  More importantly though,

MERYL STREEP JUST WON AN OSCAR.

Meryl Streep - like mayonnaise - is wholesome, lovable and delicious on almost every occasion.  Oh.  And she's also a stone cold fox:

The word 'love' gets thrown around a lot in society these days, which I don't appreciate.  It's kind of like diamonds, or sex - it won't be worth anything if you just start giving it to everybody.  Unless you're a prostitute, I guess.  But that's a debate I can't even be bothered to have with myself.

Anyway, like I was saying.  It's partially the diamond/sex thing and partially my naturally icy demeanor which makes me quite hesitant to love anybody.  The people I do love usually fit into one of three categories:

1) The ones I fell in love with instantly

2) The ones I grew to love over time

3) Meryl Streep

Meryl gets her own category because (with the exception of my unborn nephew) she is the only person I have ever loved without actually meeting before.  I don't feel weird about it, because I'm pretty sure if she knew who I was, she would say the same thing about me.  Alright, that's not true - she would probably say nicer things.  Because she's Meryl Streep.  And everyone knows Meryl Streep is nice.

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if the two of us actually did meet.  I'm not exactly sure, but I can tell you now it would be ridiculous, embarrassing, and could quite possibly cause some sort of electrical fire.  On Meryl's part of course - I on the other hand, would be a picture of maturity.

Speaking of the Oscars, I don't know if I'm happier that Meryl Streep did win, or that George Clooney didn't.  I've never been able to explain this problem I seem to have with Clooney.  On paper he seems like someone I could have a really good time with, but in person?

I have never wanted to smack someone more in my life.  

Well...maybe Angelina Jolie.

Working 9 til....7:30?

One thing I've learnt since leaving school and beginning full-time work is that the term '9 to 5 job' is never strictly accurate.  Certainly not in my line of work, anyway.  It would probably be more reasonable to say something like 9 to any time between 5:30 and 6.  Or 9 to (leave space blank).  Or in my case, 9 to...I'm not sure what time you left, but by the time you got home you'd already missed Home and Away and the first 15 minutes of My Kitchen Rules.

Yesterday was Monday.

On Mondays, I'm rostered to start work at 10am, and finish at 6pm.  And - to be fair - this usually works out pretty well.  Mondays are never insanely busy at my work, so I'm usually able to complete all my tasks with time to spare, finish at 6, go to the gym, and be home in time to see some middle-aged Army mates screw up a creme brulee.  Clearly, I'm living a pretty full life at the moment.  But yesterday was no regular Monday, and (as much as I hate to admit it) unfortunately I only have myself to blame.

Well no, that's not true...I also blame MJ.  Let me tell the story:

My boss is very organised, so at my work we have a system that involves a list of specific jobs being completed in the last week of each month.  Every employee has their own list of different jobs.  Stuff like:

• Check there is enough coffee for the next four weeks
• Buy new magazines for the clients to read
• Clean the display shelves
• Talk Jacki out of killing herself and everyone else in the building

Being a lowly receptionist, most of my tasks just involve basic admin stuff and cleaning.  And - not to toot my own horn - I always do a pretty good job.  I'm not a neat freak by anyone's standards, but there is a certain feeling of satisfaction that comes with spending half your week cleaning a hair salon. I know not everyone is lucky enough to work in a hair salon, but try vacuuming your apartment after shaving the fur off three fully-grown sheep dogs in the living room and you'll know what I'm talking about.

There's only one area even I've never dared to try cleaning though, and that's the shelves under the reception desk.  Mostly because it's a terrifying mess of power points, computer towers, electrical wires and USB cords, but also because no one has EVER cleaned the shelves under the reception desk - and I'm not one to break tradition.  I think most people would agree with my reasoning.  Most people...except MJ.

Being second in charge, one of MJ's monthly jobs is to inspect every aspect of the salon and complete a survey detailing how it might appear to the client.

Basin area - is it clean, satisfactory, or dirty?

Display shelves - are they appealing or understocked?

Chairs - are they presentable?

Magazines - are they current?

Jacki - is she still functioning normally, or has she passed the threshold into complete insanity?

Anyway.

Everything was going FINE, until (at 6pm on the dot) MJ sidled up to calmly inform me that if I didn't clean all the dust and hair out from under the reception desk, we'd probably both be fired.  This didn't really worry me too much at first.  Being that I'd completed the rest of my jobs at such an efficient pace, I'd had almost 2 spare hours at the end of the day to do as I pleased.  Obviously I used it the way I always use my free time at work - to come up with long-winded speeches about why I shouldn't be fired.  So I'm set.

But if MJ got fired, I'd miss him.  I'd have to get to know a brand new Style Director.  And most importantly, I'd have no one to argue about the pros and cons of anal sex with.

I need that guy.

So - FINE - I agreed to clean the damn desk.  I don't want to talk about it too much because like I said, the desk hasn't been cleaned by ANYONE in the past 2 years.  I saw things behind those computer towers that will haunt my dreams for all eternity.  On the plus side though, MJ was kind enough to help me by pulling everything out before I vacuumed and wiped all the dust away.  Was anyone else in the Lane Cove area between 6 and 7pm last night?  If you were and you'd happened to walk past my work, you would have seen two full-grown idiots and a red vacuum cleaner kneeling behind the reception desk in a fit of giggles.  MJ delighted in telling me about the lovely case of plumber's crack he had going on.  Or, as he calls it in an adorable Polish accent - 'tradie's ass'.  I love foreigners.

So by around 6:30, we'd finished cleaning the desk.  Result!  The only remaining problem was the USB cords.  Oh my god, I totally forgot to mention this earlier...because whoever installed all the computers and register and stuff in the first place is a complete dunce, the cords are too short to reach the front of the desk.  It's hard to explain this without a visual, but basically?  When we pulled the computer towers out, we pulled about half the USB cords out too.  Luckily, I had a quick solution:

MJ: Uh oh.  The USB cords came out.

Me: I don't give a fuck.

It wasn't until we put everything back in the desk and were packing up to leave that we realised none of the keyboards or scanners were working.  By this stage it was past 7, and I was almost tempted to leave the whole situation as it was and just pretend I had nothing to do with it.  In hindsight, this probably wouldn't have worked anyway.  Whenever stuff like this happens, I'm always the one people look to first.  Maybe because I'm the receptionist.  Maybe because I'm an idiot.  Either way they're right - it's almost always completely my fault.  But if there's one thing I'm good at (I mean, other than screwing stuff up), it's un-screwing the things that I so skillfully screwed up in the first place.  The computers needed fixing - dammit, I was gonna fix them!

Cut to 25 minutes later, and MJ has fully removed half the reception drawers in an attempt to access the computer towers from another angle.  To any normal person, this probably sounds like the stupidest solution we could possibly have come up with - because it is.  And then we couldn't get the drawers back in.

By this time I was past annoyed or angry and well into the stage of just laughing hysterically every time something else went wrong.  This is what experts call 'a slow descent into madness'.  Or in my case, 'a further descent into madness'.  Originally I'd planned to hit the gym for a good hour after work - now all I could think about was getting home and taking a bath in vodka and lemonade.

Finally - at close to 7:30 - we found that if I lay on my stomach behind the desk, I was able to jam my hand behind the computer and reconnect the USB from there.  Even this was pretty difficult - mainly because the computer itself was blocking my view, so I really had no idea what I was sticking where and could have been electrocuted at any second.  Also because MJ was kneeling 2 feet away making dirty jokes.  But in the end we got it done.  And my god this has turned into a long story. With an important lesson:  I said from the beginning that we shouldn't bother to clean under the desk.  And was I right?  I WAS RIGHT.  So there's your moral:  I may be an idiot, but I'm also right.

Unless we're talking about anything that doesn't involve cleaning the reception desk.  Then I should be ignored at all costs.

I can't tell you how many times I have heard some variation of this line spoken in the last few episodes of My Kitchen Rules:

Contestant: I looked at the meal they put in front of me and I thought...wow.  Better do a Maccas run on the way home.

Yes, I have some thoughts.

First of all, shut up.  You're getting a three-course home-cooked meal, drinks included, for FREE.  I don't care if the entree is a Vegemite Sao.  If someone took the time to cook me a three-course meal,  I'd be thankful enough to eat it without complaining.  And Vegemite Saos are fucking delicious.  

Secondly...for a group of individuals who claim to know almost everything about cooking and are only too happy to judge every  edible item that's placed in front of them...these people sure do like their McDonalds.

What else?

To continue yesterdays post about the ridiculousness of Australian politics at the moment, I can tell you I completely forgot about Labour's re-election until it was announced that Julia Gillard had won...during a commercial break for My Kitchen Rules.  I'm not entirely sure what this means; either I need to seriously reconsider my priorities, or Julia Gillard should be fired in favour of a celebrity chef.

Sometimes I can't believe that we only have a federal election once every four years.  Doesn't the public realise that in four years, the right mix of power, responsibility and screen time on free-to-air television can turn even the most sane and rational of people into a complete nut-bag?  And I hear it takes even less time for politicians.  Plus you have to compensate for dickheads like me - at 19, I thought wasting my vote on The Fishing and Lifestyle Party was both hilarious and awesome.  It took only 2 years for me to realise how wrong I had been, and how my careless youthful attitude to politics could possibly affect the future of the nation.  Thankfully now that I'm 21 and a proper adult, I can see how wrong I was.  

It's voting for the Help End Marijuana Prohibition Party that will make people laugh.

Birthday Countdown 2012 has officially begun.

That's right, motherlovers!!  It's now less than 2 weeks until my birthday.  Less than 2 weeks until the anniversary of my birth.  In less than 2 weeks, we shall come together to celebrate that fateful day, just 18 (and then some) years ago, when a 7 pound baby to be named Jacki sprang from the womb and entered a world so naive and unsuspecting, the doctors didn't think to stuff me back in again.  I couldn't actually find any pictures of the moment I was born, but I imagine it went something like this:

I've had that expression on my face for almost 22 years now.

Anyway.

I decided yesterday to get my act together and organise a Facebook event for what I'm calling THE PARTY OF THE FUCKING CENTURY, BITCHES.

It was actually Alex's idea that instead of another 18th (it'd be my 5th in a row), I should have a Bucks Night to celebrate. I jumped on board immediately because while I love all activities involved in a traditional Bucks 'do, I'm rarely if ever invited to them.  I think it might have something to do with me not being engaged.  Or you know, a man.  Whatever.  We'll be starting with drinks at the Longy on March 17th around 7:30pm and ending with me attempting to crash the stage at Showgirls around 3.  I'm guessing.  Come one, come all, come watch me make a fool of myself.  It happens every year without fail.

Thinking about planning my birthday party these last few days has had me remembering what I did last year to celebrate.  Although I was calling it my fourth 18th, I guess technically I turned 21.  

I love a good crazy 21st as much as the next borderline alcoholic, but I'm not really the type of girl to invite 150 people into my parents living room so we can all annoy the neighbours with loud music and witness my Dad passing out on the lawn at four in the morning.  That was a tempting option, but in the end I decided there would be much less of a clean-up if we all just got hammered at the pub instead.  Alex, MJ and I went straight from work - arriving at about 6:30pm - and within 25 minutes I had a glass of champagne in each hand and was watching porn on MJ's camera phone.  What is is about birthdays and champagne?  I'd invited about 30 people to this party, and every time someone arrived they felt compelled to buy me a glass.  I mean, I'm assuming that all 30 did this.  I can really only remember the first 6 or 7 - after that I started seeing flying Chinese babies.

There are a few things you can always count on from Drunk Jacki:

1) She wants to dance but is too lazy to actually stand, so will just awkwardly move her shoulders up and down to the beat of the music.

2) She will constantly mess up her own hair.  On purpose.

3) She will try to convince you to get a tattoo.

4) And/or piercing.

5) She is better at putting on make up than Sober Jacki.

6) She wants to kiss everyone.

This last one is something I have never properly been able to explain.  Probably something to do with my pathologically low level of self-esteem.  Or perhaps I'm just a whore.  Either way, this little habit totally worked out in my favour that night, because one of the 30 people I'd invited to celebrate 21...was Boyfriend.

A little background on Boyfriend:

 Boyfriend and I have actually known each other for about 6 years now.  I was 16 when we first met, and he was known as Crush.  For a while he was Potential Boyfriend, and when I was 17 he was Formal Date, but by the time I'd turned 18 and finished school, he was just Friend.  Or to be more accurate, That Friend You Always Kind Of Have A Thing For.  You know what I'm talking about - I'm not the only one this has happened to!  If life and the final 3 seasons of Gilmore Girls have taught me anything, it's that a relationship will always taste better if you leave it in the slow-cooker for 5 or 6 years before making a move.  

Unfortunately for me, at the time of my 21st birthday, Boyfriend had a different nickname: Someone Else's Boyfriend.  Fortunately for me though, it was my 21st birthday.  I do what I want.

In my defense, I'm pretty sure the whole kissing situation was only brought on by a game of Suck N' Blow.  (I can't be 100% certain - those Chinese babies kept blocking my vision).  In any case, he wasn't the only person I kissed that night.  I think even my cab driver got a little sugar.  I know my friend Ellen certainly did.  It was completely innocent.  No tongue.  Clothes stayed on.  Big group of friends.  I guess what I'm really trying to say is DON'T JUDGE ME, DRUNK JACKI IS A CHEEKY WHORE WHO SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED NEAR GOOD-LOOKING YOUNG MEN.

Luckily for men, pub owners and humanity in general, Friend I Always Kind Of Had A Thing For later turned into Boyfriend and Cheeky Whore Jacki became Just Some Idiot Who Blogs About Every Aspect Of Her Life In The Hopes That One Day Someone From Random House Ltd Will Read It And Give Her 8 Billion Dollars For The Rights To Publish.

Hey, I can dream can't I?

Smoke Monster For PM

I am more confused by Australia's current political situation than I was by the last season of Lost.  Who did Kate love, Jack or Sawyer?  And what was up with that crazy old dude living by himself in the woods?  What was the truth in the end, that they'd all died in the plane crash and gone to hell?  Intense.  Mostly though, I'd like someone to justify the Smoke Monster.  Smoke Monster.  Prime time television hasn't seen a villain this ridiculous since that nerdy kid from Bones decided to become a cannibalistic serial killer.  And I swear I saw one episode where it ATE somebody.  Smoke can't eat people - everybody knows that.

Anyway.

As of tomorrow morning, Kevin Rudd might be our Prime Minister.  Again.  I'm sure there's a very simple explanation for how and why this has happened, but what you have to understand is that I am the kind of douche bag who will honestly spend an extra 15 minutes in a voting booth trying to decide whether it's funnier to support the Sex Party or the party for Communism.

Political knowledge isn't exactly my strong suit.

So other candidates for PM are able to step forward, but realistically it's between Kevin and Julia Gillard, am I right?  Sigh.  Kevin and Julia seem to have been locked in an all-out battle for national domination since she first stole the position off him way back in 2010, despite the fact that they're both members of the same party and generally disliked by most of the population.  I'll say it again.  POLITICS DO NOT MAKE SENSE.  If someone can explain to me why we can't just overthrow both these idiots and appoint Hugh Jackman as supreme ruler of the universe, I will be extremely grateful.  Also if you could walk me through the Lost finale, that would be great.

I Always Promised My Mother I'd Never Get A Credit Card. I May Have Lied.

I'm thinking about applying for a credit card.

WAIT!

DON'T JUDGE!

To an outsider ('outsider' here meaning 'any smart and/or sane member of the human race'), the idea of Jacki Trew getting a credit card probably seems like the worst life decision since Robert de Niro agreed to do Little Fockers.  But here is my reasoning:

1) I'll only use it for the most emergent of emergencies.

2) I won't keep it in my wallet, but in a solid block of ice at the back of my freezer.

3) My greatest fear in life is not being able to pay the rent.

Alright, well that last point isn't strictly true.  My greatest fear in life is being trapped in an aquarium pool with a pod of male dolphins, obviously.  But not being able to pay the rent definitely makes the top 5.  And while I've gone almost 22 years without missing a payment so far, I've learnt to accept the reality that the stock market is an unpredictable thing, people can't always afford luxury services like the ones provided at the company I work for, and at any minute I could be fired, broke, and living in a cardboard box behind my parents' garage.  For the record I would love to try that for experimental purposes anyway, but being that I'm 21 and part of Generation Y I'm not sure that my body would actually survive more than 24 hours without Facebook.

My Mother has always warned me against getting a credit card - whether this is because she doesn't want me to become trapped by hidden fees and interest-laden repayments like so many others, or simply because she knows I am the kind of idiot who would consider it 'free money' and run out to buy 18 pairs of Christian Louboutins as soon as the card arrived in the mail, I'm not sure.  To me, getting a credit card is one of the key indicators that a person is finally an adult.  There are actually 5 signs in total:

 - The credit card thing

 - Chest hair

 - Owning your own house

 - Engaging in sexual activity with Hugh Jackman

 - Death

 Don't worry.  You don't have to do them all at once.

So - to credit card or not to credit card?  That is the question.  If I don't think about it too hard (not difficult for me), the obvious answer is a resounding YES, as long as I keep it well-hidden from my Mother.  The only problem is I keep thinking about that movie Confessions Of A Shopaholic where Isla Fisher signs up for 12 dillion credit cards, goes on a major shopping spree, and ends up being chased around New York by a debt collector with terrible hair.  While on the one hand I don't live in New York and don't know of ANY banks that would approve me for 12 dillion credit cards, on the other I'm definitely a bigger idiot than Isla Fisher and would surely get myself into an even more dire situation without trying.  For one thing Sydney is way smaller than New York, so it'd be much harder for me to hide from the bank than it was for Isla; all she had to do was run down the fire escape.  My building doesn't have a fire escape, so my only option would be a suicide swan-dive off the balcony - and I live on the 3rd floor.  And even if I survived that, the debt collector would almost definitely be tipped off by the 3 new Ferraris sitting in the carpark.   

So even though it's only 7:30 in the morning (on a Sunday), I'm sitting on the couch blogging in my undies, and there's a 67% chance I'm still drunk from last night, I'm going to say no to the credit card for now.  I'm a bad candidate, it's a bad idea, and there will be terrible consequences.  Right? 

Right. 

End of discussion.

Then again...it would be nice to own 18 pairs of Christian Louboutins.

Here is how I will win the next season of My Kitchen Rules:

1. Without using an electronic cooking utensil of any kind

Has anyone else noticed that at least 4 teams have totally stuffed up their Instant Restaurant because of a malfunctioning oven?  This is simultaneously gut-wrenching and hilarious to witness - and I don't think saying that makes me a terrible person.  What?  They wouldn't put it on television if they didn't think people would enjoy it.  I said that about Channel 9's Ivan Milat special, and I'm saying it again now.

2. With Alex as my team mate

One of the best parts about MKR is that it's a team competition.  I like to spend the first couple of weeks deciphering the dynamics of each pair; because in most cases, there is one clear role for each person to play:  There's the Alpha - the sexy good-looking one, who flirts with the judges and can make perfect guacamole.  Then there's the Omega - the one with strange hair, who doesn't really say much but always proves pretty helpful in the kitchen.

Should Alex and I compete on My Kitchen Rules, she would be both the Alpha AND the Omega.  I would be the girl sitting in the corner eating mangoes.

3. By acting super-nice in front of the camera and then murdering all other contestants in their sleep

Speaking of lame reality television, has anyone else seen that new show Please Marry My Boy?  I actually haven't, but as far as I'm aware it revolves around a man's future wife being chosen for him by his over-controlling mother.  What a healthy basis for a long-lasting relationship.  Still.  I like the idea because it seems like the kind of show that could end in a serious case of heartache, and assholes like me live for that sort of thing. 

Anyway.

Just like with My Kitchen Rules, I think Please Marry My Boy would benefit from having me as a castmember.  Only not as one of the girls.  I'm not the kind of girl a mother would look at and think 'She's daughter-in-law material'.  Mothers look at me and think 'She will corrupt my son and destroy our family'.  Whatever.  I suggest that next season channel 7 take the show in a new direction with me as the central girl, and my Dad choosing my future husband from a group of shirtless dudes.  

'Please Marry My Girl.'

Only in our case, something along the lines of 'Please Take This Girl Off My Hands' would probably be more accurate.  I think those were actually the first words out of my Dad's mouth when he met Boyfriend.

Boyfriend: How come even though the bathroom is the room you spend the least amount of time in, it's always the dirtiest in the house?

Me: Huh.  I really don't know.

LIE.

Here is the reason:  It's because I am the kind of idiot who drains a can of tuna over the vanity since I'm too lazy to walk the extra 8 feet to the kitchen.  Don't ask me what I was doing with a can of tuna in the bathroom.  Honestly, I think we should all be more concerned with the fact that I'm using my camera phone to take photos of a mans deodorant can while sitting on the toilet.

Jacki Trew: Legitimate Author

In a bid to project myself as a legitimate author, I've decided to branch out from writing about stuff like sex and fart jokes and my own ridiculous existence.  If I want other people to start taking me seriously, I've got to start taking MYSELF seriously.  Right?  So here goes that idea:

Reading on the toilet...is awesome.

(baby steps, okay?)

Listen though - because reading on the toilet is pretty amazing.  They wouldn't have invented those bathroom-sized magazine racks if it wasn't.  I don't actually HAVE a bathroom-sized magazine rack at my house (a girl can only dream), but it doesn't matter - I always manage to find something I can take a gander at while I'm...you know...

Taking out the garbage.

Dropping the kids off at school.

Making a deposit with no return.

...

I like having something to read to distract me from the fact that I'm taking a dump is basically what I'm trying to say.  Hello, I'm a girl.  Girls don't want to think about something as disgusting as poo, even when it's coming out of us.  That's one of the first things they teach you at an all-chick high school like the one I went to - right before childbirth and just after the fastest way to unwrap a tampon.

Anyway. 
Here's an example of the last bit of light reading I did:

My photography skills aren't great, so let me translate that:

Proven to work at 58 degrees Celsius, the hottest temperature recorded on earth.

Okay.  Just to clarify, this was written on the back of a can of deodorant.  Here are my questions:

• Is 58 degrees Celcius really the hottest temperature recorded on earth?
• Who recorded it?
• Do you really think they gave a shit about whether or not their deodorant was working?

Maybe this is just me, but if I was standing in the middle of a 58-degree heatwave, I'd be less concerned with the state of my armpits and more focused on trying to keep my head from exploding.  Apparently the manufacturers of Rexona Sport disagree.  Still, I wanted to find out if this figure of 58 degrees was completely accurate; luckily, thanks to the invention of 3G internet and the iPhone, idiots like myself can now feel free to Google whatever they want, whenever they want. 
For example: 
Boyfriend recently announced that he has some special post-Valentine's Day surprise planned for me.  And since he won't give me any clues as to what it is, I spent half of Saturday night trying to figure it out by searching Wikipedia for 'ways a guy might surprise you the week after Valentine's Day'.  For the record, Wikipedia would make a TERRIBLE boyfriend.   To a girl the word 'surprise' means something special, fun, romantic or exciting - not just an activity we didn't see coming.  Anal sex?  Doesn't count.