Talent Epiphany

So you know how I'm always whinging about how everyone has a talent except for me? Like, some people can play piano, some people can run marathons, some people can perform emergency throat surgery, some people can make really good brownies...etc etc. But try as I might, I can't do any of those things.
Well, except for the throat surgery - I'm a total whizz at throat surgery.
Still, aside from that, there's not much I'm good at. At least, that's what I thought. UNTIL NOW.
Because you know what I've realised? I am talented. I do have talents. Here is my talent epiphany:

I have all the talents that nobody else wants

Right? Right?? Let me explain.

If the world were a department store and talents could be purchased, I would be the crazy bag lady digging through the bargain bin in the corner. While everyone else was toting Intelligence, Musical Talent or Creativity toward the change rooms, I'd be at the checkout buying The Ability To Chew Gum And Eat Chocolate At The Same Time without even bothering to try it on first.

Maybe you know every element on the periodic table. So what? I know the words to every song on Michael Jackson's Thriller album.

Maybe you can sail and windsurf and bodyboard and know how to build your own outboard motor. So what?! I can paint my toenails in a moving car without smudging them.

And yeah, to any normal person, this kind of realisation would probably result in depression rather than excitement. But hey, a talent is a talent. Plus, since when have I been normal?

So, I just heard that the good people of Canberra have officially banned the selling/recreational use of fireworks.
Huh.
Congratulations, Government of Australia - your capital city just got even shittier!

Really though. I don't get it. I don't. I just don't get it. As if Canberra wasn't sucky enough, now they've gone and made the ONLY decent thing to do there illegal. Well, okay, one of the TWO decent things to do; I'm not going to pretend I don't love playing on the Sperm ride at Questacon. But still.
Fireworks.
Canberra.
Illegal.
And it's the worst kind of illegal, too. It's not like j-walking or homocide; you know, those are the types of crimes you can potentially get away with. But illegally setting off fireworks? Give me ONE possible scenario where you could get away with that.
...
...
See? It's impossible! Because there's no way to do it without someone seeing!
Unless, you know, your parents are cool with you setting the house on fire. In that case, grab some Catherine Wheels, lock yourself in the bathroom and go to town.
But just what are the rest of us supposed to do? I guess watching the Harbour Bridge ceremonially burst into flames once every 12 months is going to have to do.

Quote of the CENTURY

Catherine Trew: Okay this is really embarrassing, but the other day I drove past this building with a sign on the front that said 'Aquarium', and I was like, what the hell is an Aqua Reeyum?

WARNING: The following blog is the result of a massive caffeine overdose

Okay, you know what makes me mad?
When the bottom of the strawberry punnet doesn't have holes in it.
Oh. My gosh. It makes me CRAZY!!! Because anyone who's anyone knows that before you eat a strawberry, you have to wash it. Otherwise who knows what you could be eating - Pesticides? Insect feces? Essence of swine flu??? ANYTHING!!
So yeah, you have to wash the strawberries before you eat them. Which I am totally cool with, by the way.
EXCEPT when there aren't any holes in the bottom of the punnet.
See, the easiest way to wash the strawberries is all at once - leave them in the box, and fill it with water. They'll all be washed at the same time, and the water drains out the bottom through these handy little holes. Simple, easy, effective.
EXCEPT when there aren't any holes in the bottom of the punnet.
Because then, instead of letting the water drain out the bottom, you have to tip it upside down, let the water drain, and try to keep the strawberries from falling out ALL AT THE SAME TIME!
It's crazy! CRAZY!!! Like these strawberries I had today. Strawberries from Noosa. What, they think just because they're from Noosa, they don't have to put holes in the bottom of their strawberry punnets? Huh? Huh?
Well guess what?? THEY DO! Because when they don't, it makes me want to gouge out my own eyes and feed them to a pack of rabid dogs.
Huh. Right, okay, no. That might be a bit dramatic. But it's still annoying! Those Noosa strawberry makers need to either put holes in the bottom of their punnets, or make sure the strawberries are pre-washed when I get them. I don't know how they'd do that, but hey - they figured out how to grow strawberries, so I'm sure they can think of something.
Alright, I'm done. End of rant.
For now.

The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory strikes back - for like, the fourth time

Yeah, I'm still talking about The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory. Whatever, man. I don't have a lot going on right now.
Except that actually, I totally do. This just in: I found two more Celebrity Doppelgangers in the last week alone! TWO DG'S IN ONE WEEK! That's crazy talk! Crazy but true.
Kind of like me.
Haha. Get it? Because I'm crazy, and my last name is Trew.
...
I'm pretty sure I've made that joke before, but I don't care. It's still awesome.
Speaking of awesome, here are my two new AWESOME Doppelgangers:

• Mischa Ummmm-I-Don't-Actually-Know-His-Last-Name-But-He's-Elle's-Boyfriend-And-I-Went-To-His-House-This-One-Time-So-You-Know-I-Consider-Us-Tight-Enough-That-I-Can-Write-About-Him-On-My-Blog-Without-Feeling-Awkward-About-It = Mark Ruffalo
• Our waiter at Harbourview Restaurant the other night = Liam Neeson

Well, a young Liam Neeson. A young Liam Neeson with very short hair. Seriously though. Seriously. He had the accent and everything!! I pointed it out like 2 minutes after we sat down, and the four of us spent the rest of the night addressing him as 'Liam'. He probably thought we were all nuts. No, he definitely thought we were all nuts. Which, I guess, we are.
Oh, except me. I'm allergic. I'll be a chickpea.
But yeah, long story short, I think we freaked him out pretty good. Like, there was the whole 'calling him Liam even though his name was actually Steve or whatever' thing. Plus every time he left our table I would start ranting about how The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory was going to win me the Nobel Peace Prize. Then Catherine would start ranting over the top of me about how there is nothing remotely noble or peaceful about The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory. Then Mum would start ranting over the top of Catherine about how it's Nobel, not noble, and that being noble really has nothing to do with it. Then Dad would start ranting over the top of all three of us about how good the calamari was.
Yeah.
All in all, a pretty regular dinner for the Trew family.

I smile because she's my sister. I laugh because there's nothing she can do about it.

So, to continue the tradition I started like 3 weeks ago, and also because she has actually refused - refused - to let me do a speech at her party (even though we both know it would be nothing short of, um, INCREDIBLE), here is my summary of the life and times of one Catherine Trew, in honour of her birthday.
...Which is today.

As much as she’d like to deny it, Catherine Trew is my sister. Yeah, she likes to joke about the possibility that there was an accidental mix-up with me and her real sister at the hospital the day I was born, but my parents are pretty adamant that we’re related.

Huh.

Well, you never know. If any tall, sporty, dark haired 19-year-olds who love sailing and never embarrass themselves in public turn up at our doorstep, we’ll know she was right.

Anyway.

Catherine’s full name is Catherine Elizabeth Trew. The first. She doesn’t get called that much, though. Mostly, she just gets called Catherine. Or Cat, by her friends. Or Cathy, by people who hate her. She also has a fairly sizable collection of ridiculous nicknames, most of them invented by me and/or my friends. They include (but are not limited to): Cathè, Chate, Cat Baloo, C-dog, Wee-Bag, Poo-Bag, Fart-Bag, Dick-Bag and Button. There was also a brief period where I refused to address her as anything other than ‘Bob Swarley’, but that’s a story for another day.

Catherine has lots of hobbies. Well, at least I think she does. I’m not entirely sure what they are, on account of her rule that I stay at least five feet away from her when we’re in public together.

Only kidding – its ten feet, not five.

One of Catherine’s favourite hobbies is sitting in her bedroom with her laptop and ignoring the rest of us. She also enjoys reading The Guinness Book of Records, tennis, and buying me lunch. Oh, and starting arguments. Catherine loves to argue with people, especially me. Which works out well, because I love arguing with her. Especially about stupid stuff, like:

• Whether or not I can be her Maid of Honour
• Which world war Gallipoli was in
• If ears are made of bone or cartilage
• Which one of us is the favourite daughter
• Whether or not coffins have handles on the sides
• Who the best James Bond actor is
• If walking can be considered exercise or not
• Whether or not I’m an idiot
• Whether or not she’s an idiot
• Who is hotter: Wentworth Miller or Michael Vartan

See? Completely stupid. Especially that last one, as everyone knows Wentworth Miller is superior to all other males on the planet.

Catherine always insists she’s winning the argument because she’s older, and therefore has more knowledge of the world. Of course this is ridiculous, since we all know the older you are, the closer you are to being senile and really having no clue about anything. So it’s pretty safe to assume that when Catherine and I are having an argument, I will win.

Sometimes I think Catherine might just be my favourite person in the world. Like when she pays for my coffee or drives me to netball. Other times, she’s just some dork who lives in the room next to me. Like when she tries to convince me to ring up telethons and donate money under the alias ‘Alotta Vagina’.

Yeah, she really did that. She can be kind of a dag when she wants to be – I guess that’s where I got it from.

For someone who can be kind of totally lame sometimes, my sister has some pretty legendary friends. Honourable mentions go out to Daniel ‘Milky Nips’ Watterson, Ali Chapman, Cecil Searle and The Alex’s (both Kerr and Brambley). If you’re one of the friends I didn’t just name, don’t feel bad – it just means you aren’t cool enough.

As far as members of the Trew family go, Catherine is fairly normal. Like, she doesn’t get attacked by exploding mailboxes and trip over random dogs on the footpath, the way some of us do. But when she gives in and temporarily allows my insanity to rub off on her, we have some pretty good times. We once made a four-tiered chocolate and vanilla mint MnM covered easter cake. We convinced our then-5-year-old neighbour to drink a combination of crushed flowers, hose water and lemonade. We invented ‘beaking’ and ‘full bushel’, concepts a little too r-rated to explain here, given that our parents will probably read this.

She taught me how to ride a bike, and plait my hair. I taught her how to paint her toenails without smudging them, and which energy drinks give you the biggest buzz.

I introduced her to The Twilight Series – She introduced me to Prison Break. I convinced her to pee on our lawn once. Well, the term ‘convinced’ might be a bit strong; she pretty much did it on her own. Her excuse was that we were locked out of the house and she hadn’t been to the toilet all day. Whatever! I think really, she just wanted to see what it would be like.

For two people who supposedly came from the same womb, Catherine and I are pretty different.

She likes blue; I like yellow. She’s a freak at geography; I don’t know how to read a street directory. She never wears high heels; I have 11 pairs. She likes sport. Oh, I like it too. I guess the difference there is that she’s actually good at sport, where as I can barely get through a 40 minute game of netball without tripping over the ball/myself/someone else. But yeah. Catherine likes sport.

Mostly sailing. Boy does she love sailing. It’s like she can’t get enough of it. Why doesn’t she just marry her boat and have swarms of human/yacht hybrid children already? I’m pretty sure she would if it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t actually have her own boat at the moment. Plus it might be illegal. I’m not sure. She tried to teach me to sail once, only failing when I developed an irrational fear of 60-foot-long prehistoric sharks in the Lane Cove River, and refused to get into the boat.

That said, we’re similar in some ways. Like two peas in a terrible, terrible pod. We both like mint flavoured ice-cream and watch way too much TV. Our favourite song is Midnight Train by Journey. We love Home and Away and hate Neighbours. We have the same eyes. We would have the same nose, if mine was a little less crooked. And no offence Mum, but we both hate it when you make dinner in the crock pot.

Sometimes I think Catherine and I should have our own reality show. Imagine if we did – half the things that come out of her mouth would end up printed on t-shirts, I’m sure of it. I think it’s because half the things that come out of her mouth are insults directed at me, and for some reason, they always sound really funny:

“I wish you were more like an iPhone”

“You are so dumb it makes me angry”

“Hey Jacki – you’re adopted!”

I like being Catherine Trew’s sister.

I like that she never wears high heels and can’t hold grudges and that her scream sounds like Homer Simpson’s. I like that we have our own special language – nobody understands it when we say things like ‘foot five’, ‘BLTnChee’ or ‘steaksauce!!’, but it makes sense to us. I like that she let me name her car. I like her even though she refuses to listen to Michael Jackson or Nirvana, even though she lives to tease me, even though she hates it when I say ‘I love you!’

Yeah, I like her anyway. How can I not? She’s the Batman to my Robin. The Joey Tribbiani to my Chandler Bing. The Ben Affleck to my Matt Damon. The Lincoln Burrows to my Michael Scofield. Why are we always men? Whatever, not important.

Happy birthday Catherine. I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I babysat with Julia the other weekend, and it was pretty flippin' awesome. I've never babysat with anyone else before, but I've gotta say, it is SO much better than babysitting alone. First of all, it's way easier to put on a puppet show when there's two of you. Also, you don't have the problem of leaving the room for 5 minutes, then coming back to find the kid completely naked and in the process of smearing half their dinner over the living room wall.
Yeah, like I said. WAY better than being alone.
One of the highlights of the evening - for me at least - was the changing of the nappy. Which might sound weird. It should sound weird, because it IS weird. But all the kids I usually babysit are too old for nappies. I've never changed a nappy before! So sue me, I was excited!!
Anyway, Julia was the one who actually did it. I just observed. Like I said, I've never changed a nappy before; if I tried to do it, it would have ended up backwards or inside out, or on the kids head instead of his ass or something. So yeah, Julia was the one who did it. Once it was done, Lucas - that was the kids name, Lucas - ran off screaming, and the two of us stayed sitting on the floor for a few minutes. Then I made everything totally awkward by asking Julia if she'd ever had the urge to put on a nappy. You know, like after Lucas had been put to bed.
Oh, my gosh. Yeah.
I knew as soon as it came out of my mouth that I sounded totally nuts, but since Julia had made a joke about marinating steaks in menstrual fluid earlier in the evening, I figured we were pretty much even.
Anyway, she said no. When I got home, I asked my sister, and she also said no. I asked my Mum and she told me to "quit being so freaking weird all the time".
Interesting. When did my Mum start using the word freaking?
So I'm putting a question out there: Has anyone ever been babysitting, and had the urge to put on one of the kids nappies?
And you should know, I'm not saying that I do. Because I don't. I don't. I totally totally don't. I do NOT have the urge. But if you DO, then you might be almost as crazy as I am. So, like, we should be friends.

6 days til Catherine's birthday, and there's a ghost in my sewing machine. For reals, yo.

First...whoa. Lets take a moment to acknowledge how long its been since I blogged. As much as I'd love to say it's because none of you have been commenting, and I decided the best punishment was withholding posts, we all know the actual reason is that I'm too boring, too lazy and too consumed with the task of sewing 8 kilometres of hideous green velvet curtains for my ex-boss. At least, I have been. UNTIL NOW.
Here's something blog worthy: It's my sister's 21st birthday in exactly...6 days! And her 21st party in exactly 8. Are you invited? All the cool kids are. If you're not, don't feel bad. It just means you aren't cool. And hey, I myself was probably only invited by default. You know, since I LIVE at the venue.
But yeah. Sister. Birthday. 6 days. And I don't wanna talk myself up or anything, but Catherine, if you're reading this you should get excited. Because the present I got for you, well, it might just be the best thing I have ever gotten anyone. It might just be the best thing ever. Like, the best thing in existence. Apart from Wentworth Miller. Wentworth Miller is the best thing in existence. But your present is a close second.

Okay, now that I'm done with my daily pointless-Wentworth-Miller-related-rant, I'm going to tell you about the ghost living in my sewing machine.
Yeah, there is a ghost living in my sewing machine. Or rather, a poltergeist. There is a poltergeist living in my sewing machine. I don't know if there's actually a difference between the two, but the word poltergeist is fun to say, so that's what I'm going with. Right, so, here's what happened. You guys know about how I'm sewing curtains for my ex-boss, right? If you don't, I'll fill you in:
I'm sewing curtains for my ex-boss.
Anyway, the machine I'm using is fairly old and temperamental, and if you leave it on for too long, it tends to get tired and heat up and explode into a thousand tiny pieces, killing everyone and everything within a 2km radius.
So I have to remember to turn it off when I'm not using it.
Right. So the other day I was sitting at the table next to the sewing machine, innocently pinning fabric, when I noticed it was making a sort of whirring noise. Which wouldn't have been so weird, except that it wasn't on. It was OFF.
And okay, that doesn't exactly say poltergeist.
But THEN, the whirring noise started getting louder. And louder. This is when I started to get concerned - Mum was going to be pretty pissed if half our neighbourhood was destroyed in a freak sewing machine explosion accident that I could potentially have prevented from happening. So I not only made sure the machine was switched off, but I turned it off at the powerpoint, and pulled out the plug.
But the whirring noise? IT JUST GOT LOUDER!!! And then?
And then?
And then, THE NEEDLE STARTED MOVING UP AND DOWN, ALL BY ITSELF.
Yeah.
I don't believe in all that supernatural stuff, but if that doesn't spell ghost-trapped-in-the-sewing-machine, I don't know what does.
Oh, and okay, let me just clarify one thing before I go. Yes, I am totally insane. I'm aware of that. Thanks.

The Adventures of Pig the Sloth

My goodness it's been a while since I blogged.
On the off chance that you've all forgotten just how insane I can be, I've found a little something that might remind you:
The other day I was rifling through all my old school work, looking for one of those plastic sleeve folders. You know, the kind you used to put assignments and stuff in? Well I needed one for my college patternmaking assessment, and since I'm too lazy/cheap to actually buy a new one, I figured I'd just take the school work out of an old one and reuse it.
Yeah.
Oh, and when I say 'old one', I really mean 'old one'. Like, really old. Really, REALLY old. It was so old, half the binder rings had snapped off, and the pages were stuck together with cobwebs. I think it was second hand the FIRST time I used it. Like, I think it was the folder that Abraham Lincoln used in high school.
Anyway, I don't know what Abe used it for, but I had a Year 7 art project in there. Oh, and something else...I don't know when or why or how this got in there, but alongside my finger paintings and scraffito art, I found a story written by myself, Kiera Roberts and Julia Hirst, aged 12.
Oh, my gosh. Yeah.
You know when you're little and you play that game where you write like 4 lines of a story and then fold the page over, and pass it to your friend, and they continue it, without looking at what you've already written?
Yeah. Yeah. It was one of those.
Ok, I hadn't even READ the thing yet and I was already excited. Those stories always end up being hilarious - even the ones that aren't written by three of the weirdest pre-teens to have ever graced the planet.
Okay, now. Since I've talked it up, I'm going to have to show you. For the sake of illustrating just who wrote what, I'll use this font for Kiera, this for Julia, and this for myself.
And here we go:

The Adventures of Pig the Sloth, by Kiera, Julia and Jacki

There once was a little sloth called Pig. Pig the Sloth loved eating and sleeping. He would get up in the morning, eat, sleep, have lunch, go back to sleep and eat. But one day, he decided to find out why he was called Pig the Sloth, not Sloth the Sloth or Pig the Pig.
He was called this because one night there was the moon, the stars, the milk, oh the milk, so much milk. Anyway, this resulted in his parents almost being the same age as him. So the only word they knew was 'Pig'. So they called him Pig. This made him sad, so he...
...jumped into a toilet and then he flushed. Pig died right then, or was it right now??? 'Oh well' he thought as he floated up to heaven. Then he got smushed by a plane, and then he died, but he had already died, so he double-died. That's bad.
Pig was sad because he was the only person or pig or sloth to double-die, but no one knew it, so he cried and in Timbuktu it started to rain. 'Ooooh!' said Mr Bob. 'I like rain!'
Webell came from nowhere and asked 'Do you want pie? HAVE PIE!'.
Pig was confused.
Pig was so confused that he died. But he had already died twice, so he triple-died. That's really bad.
Pig turned into a spasm-weirdo and started having spasms, muttering 'Pig, Sloth, Dead, Dead again, ooooh rain in Timbuktu lalalalala'. He went and joined spasm-watchers with Bobette, his spasmy teacher.
Yay! Go Pig Sloth! Everyone cried, and he started to go into a trance.
WEEEEEEEEE!
He went into a trance, and then fell into the Bible. Then he got killed by Jeeeebus.
But Jeeeebus wasn't actually in the Bible, so then he got confused and ran to the Spasm-Watchers Handbook, where 4 x dead Pigs and Bobs and Mrs Teachers and him all started partying.

The End.

Yeeaaahh.
It's probably not surprising that until mid-way through year 8, the only friends we had were each other. And Mel - she might have escaped the embarrassment of being involved in the writing of this story, but she was just as crazy as the rest of us. Is just as crazy as the rest of us.
Or whatever. The point is...well, there is no point. Really, is there ever a point?
No.