Ohh Heaven, have mercy.
I don't know which words'll describe how sick I'm feeling right now, but "as a dog" just isn't gonna cut it. What animal gets sicker than a dog? Cat? Ferret? Great White Shark with a rope around its tail being dragged backwards though the Pacific Ocean?
That'll do it.
I'm sick as a Great White Shark with a rope around its tail being dragged backwards through the Pacific Ocean. And for the second time in one week? Let me explain...
In a bid to gain some semblance of culinary skill that - no point in lying about it - I can use to impress The Navy Man next time he's over for dinner, I've become a little more creative with my cooking lately. I don't know what made me think I could get away with this. Really? Really I'm the kind of person who shouldn't even be allowed IN a kitchen, let alone left in charge of any meal which doesn't involve the words "ham" and "sandwich". And I learnt this the hard way, on Saturday night, when my attempt at Thai red curry and rice with brocolli and potatoes left me wrapped around the toilet at 2 in the morning.
Worst.
Food poisoning.
Ever.
Naturally, I decided to try again last night. And the results? Well on the plus side, I can now modify my potential career search to exclude the entire food industry. Or any industry involving chickens. On the negative side though...well, you can guess the negative side.

So I had to work late last night. Lucky for me, Scream 2 was playing on Movie Extra by the time I got home. And if there's anything that puts me in a better mood than shitty slasher movies from my early childhood, it's not something I know about. Scream 2 made me think:

1) Whose idea was it to colour Courteney Cox's hair like that? She looks like a human Cherry Ripe.

2) Why don't they make films like this anymore?

...

What's with the lack of horror at the movies these days? You know what I mean? And I'm not talking about Saw horror, with the chainsaws and the blood and the severed limbs and creepy old dudes and storylines so complicated you need a high-speed internet connection and a degree from Harvard University just to keep up. That stuff is awesome, but when there's no sorority house, corny theme music or cameo appearance by Sarah Michelle Gellar, I just don't feel like I'm getting what I paid for. Is this just me?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person who still likes scary movies. Is there anyone else? Is it you? Because I don't even care if you're a mask-wearing serial killer yourself...I swear to God I will quit my job and invite you over for a 2-day marathon right now. As long as we can watch Prison Break afterwards.

I don't know if it's due to the fact that I've seen just about every slasher movie out there (including the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre - twice) or just because I happen to be dead inside, but it takes alot to actually scare me these days. The last film I remember giving me a really good fright was The Exorcism of Emily Rose back in 2005. Oh, I know, how cliche. And weird, because - apart from being on the verge of shitting my pants in the damn cinema - the only thing I actually remember about Emily Rose is that I completely ruined it for everyone else by talking the whole time about how "The killer is an omnipresence. An omniprescence!! You can't escape from that shit!!"

Huh.

Aaaand starting to realise why nobody wants to watch horror with me anymore...

In other news...Aah, I got nothing. Oh, wait. We had our work Christmas party this weekend. Yeah, Toni & Guy! I'm starting to really love working for this company. Especially since in the land of T and G, the term "Work Christmas Party" is synonymous with "30 People, No Lifejackets, And A Yacht Full Of Booze". Luckily by the time I fell overboard, the boat wasn't in motion. Unluckily however, the dude in charge of this boat's infastructure apparently wasn't aware that I'm the kind of physically-challenged individual who falls down staircases while sober...since the pathway to the bathroom looked something like this:

Yeah. Just in case I don't already resemble a human dalmation from the waist down, let's add a bruise on my left ass cheek the size of...well, my left ass cheek. Oh, yes, of course I'm an idiot. Hadn't you figured that out yet?

Check. And. Mate.

Hello Sydney-siders.

I've got alot to blog about and not alot of time to do it in, so this might have to be quick. You're just going to have to get over it. I know - I know - I've been totally slack in the blogging department lately, and I know - I know - I keep saying I'm going to do something about it and then don't, and I know - I KNOW - I'm going to get countless complaints about it (that's right, Navy Man, I'm talking to you), but the fact is that these days, I'm far too busy and important to sit on the internet narrating my own life.

Alright, that was a lie.

The real fact is that I'm lazy and a piece of shit. A lazy piece of shit is what I am. Also, my internet hasn't really been working for the past fortnight. And I'm working pretty much 24 hours these days. Mostly though, it's the piece of shit thing, which you'll have to forgive me for. Or not. Hey, I'm a lazy piece of shit - what do I care?

So this past week. I don't wanna oversell it or anything, but have you ever time-travelled to the 60's, been hit on by Wentworth Miller at Studio 54 and then given a cheque for 10 million dollars? My week was better than that. Are you kidding? My week would kick that weeks ass all over the playground and put bubblegum in it's hair. Here's how it begins: Tuesday night, drinking champagne at Dalton House. If there is a better start to the week than that, it's not one I know about. And I'm not just saying that because I dream of living on the rooftop of Dalton House and my blood type is champagne. Although that's probably most of the reason. Anyway, we were at Dalton House for the Toni & Guy new collection launch, which was - surprise surprise - awesome. Not as awesome as the next morning though, when I was dragged out of bed at 5am and had to drive through the pouring rain in my sorry excuse for a car all the way to Sydney airport on less than 10 dollars worth of petrol. Which (even though it might not sound like it) I was totally psyched to do, by the way. Because guess what was waiting for me at Gate 31?

Well...pretty much, anyway.
So then came around 24 hours of very official Navy business which I'm not allowed to talk about. "Very official Navy business which I'm not allowed to talk about" here meaning "My parents read this blog, do you really think I'm going to post all the details of a reunion that was 3 months in the making on the internet?". No, no I'm not.
Maybe later.
On Thursday morning I - by some miracle - actually got to work on time. And then it was only 8 and half hours of towel-folding hell until Thursday night, AKA Alex's birthday celebrations at the pub, which may or may not have lasted until 230 in the morning and culminated with all of us being forcibly removed from The Longueville Hotel. May or may not. I'm not saying anything. But, uh, yeah, they kicked us out. And it was hilarious.
On Friday I had work again, and this time was surprised at about 3 in the afternoon with a little visit from The Navy Man himself. The Navy Man himself and 2 huge bunches of flowers. The Navy Man himself and 2 huge bunches of flowers and one of them was for Alex because it was her birthday. Did I mention that this was a surprise? Or that The Navy Man and Alex have never actually met before? Yes, I hit the jackpot alright. If you didn't already hate me for penning such a ridiculous blog, you might want to start now for somehow snagging the Macquarie Dictionary's definition of a perfect man. Don't believe me? Well you will. Because on Saturday night I went to a dress-up 21st as (who else?) Lady GaGa:

And he went as my backup dancer.
Check. And. Mate.

Boys And Bikinis

Just for a second, can we talk about how much of a freaking mission it is to buy a bikini these days?Holy balls.
Don't get me wrong, I love summer. And bikinis. And shopping. And any excuse to combine all three. But lately it's like...somewhere along the line, bikini shopping became less of a fun and exciting experience, and more of a covert mission to get in and out of the changing room as fast as possible without succumbing to the urge to kill myself. I don't know who decided that fluorescent lighting was the perfect choice for a room where women spend the majority of their time half naked and standing in front of a mirror, but I would love to find out.
Sigh.
Then, on top of the whole 'I'm-starting-to-resemble-some-sort-of-overweight-deep-sea-creature-and-these-dressing-room-lights-aren't-doing-anything-to-help-my-feelings-about-it' thing, they have GUYS milling around the store to help you choose. Which wouldn't be so bad. Except that the guys in the store I happened to choose all looked like this:

I mean, come on. Talk about a need to impress.
Ha.
I'm kidding of course - there's only two men in my life I feel the need to impress; and since one of them is currently 4000km away and the other is a gay fictional character from a TV show that ended almost 3 years ago, I wasn't that worried about the dude trying to sell me a bikini. I'm just saying.

Holy crap, so much to blog about. Promotions at work, the possibility of me moving out, Navy Man's homecoming...let's start with this though:

Colgate Wisp. Have you guys heard about these? They're like mini toothbrushes with built-in toothpaste that you carry around in your handbag. What? Why? Who buys these? Woman who want to have dinner at The International House of Garlic and Tuna Fish and then make out with their boyfriends afterwards, I guess. Maybe they're intended for anyone with a teeth-cleaning-related OCD. Or maybe for this guy:

Regardless, it's hard to imagine a product more ridiculous than this. I mean, mini-brush with freshening bead?? Normally I am a huge fan of any person, place or thing that comes with the prefix 'mini', but this is going too far. Have you seen the commercial? With the girl brushing her teeth in the middle of a nightclub? Please. I'm not a violent person by nature, but if I ever saw someone actually using one of these things in public...well, they wouldn't be using one ever again, if you know what I mean.
They wouldn't have any reason to be using on ever again, if you know what I mean.
I'd rip their teeth out of their fucking head, if you know what I mean.

Anyway. Now that I'm done talking about that, let's have a laugh at my expense. Does anyone else ever find themselves so amusing that they take screencaps of their own text message conversations and post them on the internet? Yeah, me neither. Except for right now:

If this hairdressing thing doesn't work out, I'm definitely investigating a career in reality TV. After all, if Paris Hilton can get America to sit through an entire season of her pretending to find a new best friend, there's gotta be at least 10 people in the world who are bored/stupid/inebriated enough to watch me and my sister strap a size 35 Officer's Cap to our dog's head and march him around the house while humming the theme song to Sea Patrol. Not that we actually did that. I'm just saying.

Holy Shit, Jersey Shore!

So apparently I have MTV now. What? I don't know. My parents bit the bullet and signed us up for Foxtel like 6 years ago, but never have I ever experienced the wonder that is MTV. I guess our Foxtel package just didn't include it. Shocking, I know. The worst part was that even though we didn't have access to MTV, it still showed up on the on-screen TV Guide; so I knew when there was going to be a 16 and Pregnant marathon followed by four episodes of Room Raiders, but I still couldn't enjoy it. And if there is a worse form of torture than THAT, it's not one I know about. Now, though, that's all in the past..and today I sat down and wasted the first half of my Monday morning with this:

Holy shit, Jersey Shore. I almost feel like that's what they should change the name to. Holy Shit, Jersey Shore. Because every time one of these total Freak Of The Weeks opens their mouth to say anything, THAT'S what I'm thinking. How can REAL 20-something-year-old people be so stupid? So superficial? So...mind-numbingly ridiculous??!!
I have never felt love like this in my life.
I want to build some sort of size-alteration machine, shrink these people down to ant-size, and carry them around in my purse. Especially Pauly D. I know everyone loves Snooki, but Pauly D is my favourite. How can he not be? Having a name like 'Pauly D' is a pretty big victory in itself, and then you consider his hairdo:Who needs bench space when you can carry something like that around in your handbag? I'd never have to ask for a coaster again!

Anyway.
That's about all I've got for today. I do have another exciting piece of info up my sleeve, but in the interest of not jinxing myself and ruining the whole thing, I'm not gonna say too much. Just this:

Let's talk about how hot it is.

...

It's pretty g-darn hot! I don't wanna get all dramatic on everyone's ass, but pretty much:

Poor Aunt Suzie. She never saw it coming.
Nah, I'm joking of course. Aunt Suzie didn't melt. I actually don't even have an Aunt Suzie. That I'm aware of. But you get it. If I did have an Aunt Suzie, I'm pretty sure she would have never seen it coming. And I'm even more sure that she would have melted. Today. Because of the heat. Because it is THAT g-darn hot.

My God, I'm an idiot sometimes.

Speaking of idiots, Justin Bieber. Beiber? Beeber? Who gives a crap. Speaking of idiots, That Annoying 12-Year-Old Who Thinks He Can Sing. Honestly? I mean, honestly? Thinking about people like Justin B-Whatever and the fact that he's making three hundred and fifty billion dollars a minute (I'm assuming) to fly around the country singing about babies and girls and making babies with girls and girls making babies with other girls (or whatever it is the kids are singing about these days) makes my soul weep into its cornflakes every morning. Three hundred and fifty BILLION dollars? A MINUTE? I'm sure he's not completely talentless - I'll concede that he can sing better than me, though that's not really a fair test since plastic lawn gnomes can sing better than me - but that's ridiculous. I can only hope he uses some of that money to buy himself a clue. And a haircut that doesn't require his mother's largest cooking bowl.

Now what else can we talk about? I guess this is usually the part where I [insert sarcastic comments about how great it is to make less than $260 a week working full time] but I'm actually loving work at the moment. What can I say? The place makes me happy, despite having a surface area that's 89% reflective. I mean, NOBODY should have to look at themselves that much, let alone someone with a face like mine. But for reals yo, I'm pretty keen on T&G lately. And no, it's not just because of the iTunes playlist Alex and I created on the reception computer that's pretty much ALL Florence And The Machine/Michael Jackson. It's also because there's a pub across the road that serves Slate and Cokes.

On a semi-related note, this is the third and next-to-final time I'm gonna ask you all what you want for Christmas. I say semi-related because what I would like is to have lots of sex and babies with Florence And The Machine, who I was just talking about. Or, you know, at least see her in concert. But yeah. Requests? Suggestions? Straight-out demands? Get in quick, before I spend next weeks pay on another piercing. Seriously, my Mum will REALLY appreciate it.

Everyone Knows My Mum Prefers Coke

Hey world. Me again.
So two things:
First of all, sorry; because I know - I know - it's been a disgustingly long time since my last update. For that I apologise. And secondly, sorry again; for being enough of a dick to assume that anyone is affected whatsoever by my blogs or lack thereof.

Apart from the people I pay, of course.

So I've been having a lot of whacked-out dreams lately. And if reading that last sentence is giving you a bit of deja-vu, don't freak out. You're not mad, you're not crazy. I've blogged about this before. Twice. So probably I should get off my ass and go find new blog material, but whatever. It's Sunday. I'll get off my ass tomorrow.
Anyway, I don't know what it is, but I seem to be in the middle of what I've come to know as My Demented Dream Cycle. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that Demented Dream Cycles are apparently the kind that last for 8 years at a time. My God. Is this just part of my gradual descent into total madness, or has Mum been lacing my cereal with crystal meth again? I don't know. All I have to say is that if MTV knew how many times Dream Jacki has been pregnant, arrested, stalked by serial killer clowns or medically transformed into a man, they would SO be giving me my own reality show right about now. And I'm kidding about the crystal meth - everyone knows my Mum prefers coke.

Speaking of my Mum (and, by extension, my Dad)...the two of them went to Orange this weekend and left me in charge of the house. Wow. Trust. I'm feeling it. And what better way to celebrate than by blowing a week's wage on alcohol and inviting half of Longueville over for a pool party? I'm kidding of course. I mean, I did have Gem, Kat and Janey over, but half of Longueville? Please. My neighbours are three hundred years old. And nothing says 'party pooper' like dentures and a custom-made walking frame. Although I'm sure they really enjoyed our backyard rendition of Baz Luhrmann's Elephant Love Medley at 2 in the morning. And listening to conversations like this:

Kat: Damnit, why don't my parents ever go away for the weekend? It's like they don't like each other enough to spend that much time together alone.
Jane: Mine either, it's so annoying.
Jacki: Yeah, I guess I'm just lucky - my parents love each other, it's just me and Catherine they wanna get away from.
(pause)
Jacki: Okay, to be fair...it's mostly me.

Quote Of The Day

"Um, can I ask a question? Why no blog lately? I'm not angry...just disappointed."

He loves me.

Another Navy Man

Apparently my family have agreed not to do 'big' Christmas presents this year - and I for one, am completely on board with the idea. I've never been the kind of person to give expensive and extravagent gifts. It's just not my style. If you ask me, Christmas is becoming way too commercial these days. What with the TVs and the DVDs and the iPods and the digital cameras...whatever happened to just giving someone a good old hug? That's all I gave my Dad for his last birthday, and he didn't even seem that pissed off about it! Well, okay, maybe a little...but it's important to remember the TRUE meaning of Christmas, which is that Jesus died for us, not that my sister needs a new straightener. Plus, I already spent all my money on tattoos and vodka.

Anyway.

I know I'm always complaining about how much I work and how little I'm paid and making claims that I'll probably be living in a cardboard box by the age of 25, but the truth is, my life is kind of awesome. And apart from an occasional run-in with The Navy Man, I want for nothing. So when my Mum sat me down this morning for her annual 'Tell Me What You Want For Christmas, And NO, I Can't Fly Wentworth Miller Over For The Weekend So Don't Even Bother Asking' lecture, I really didn't know what to say. Her response? Was to hand me a copy of the December Avon catalogue and tell me to circle whatever I wanted.
Well, shit. Thanks Mum. I honestly don't know what's more depressing - already owning half the makeup in the Avon catalogue, or the fact that your mother thinks you need more.

In other news, HOLY SHIT SEA PATROL IS AWESOME. I know, it's weird, and mostly because not 4 posts ago I had only just watched my first episode and described it as 'um, kind of surprisingly entertaining', but since then I've discovered seasons 2 and 3. And this guy:

I mean come on. Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks Billy 'Spider' Webb looks kind of familiar. And not just because of the uniform.

Blame It On The Vodka

Did everyone have a good Saturday night? I sure did, despite not going out for once. Being that I'm 20 and broke and paid $6 an hour and am in the midst of saving for TWO summer holidays, I decided to stay in. So I don't know what you guys did, but I had fun. Though I won't say what I did; I certainly didn't spend the better half of three hours lying on the couch, drinking vodka and watching episodes of Sea Patrol while wearing part of The Navy Man's uniform, if that's what you're implying.

Alright, okay. That's exactly what I did. In my defense, there is something extremely entertaining about pretending to be in the Navy while watching a TV show about other people pretending to be in the Navy. In terms of defense, that's about all I've got. I'm not going to even bother blaming the alcohol. Vodka or no vodka, we all know I'm the kind of person who physically can't pass up an opportunity to showcase her ridiculousness. Why else do you think I have this blog?

Speaking of opportunities to showcase my ridiculousness...work. I've been at this job for almost 7 months now, so it's safe to assume that 'The Crazy' has well and truly been released in the presence of all my co-workers. Including my boss. Which I'm actually totally okay with; because nothing says 'job security' like calling random clients in the middle of the day to congratulate them on having a great surname and not getting fired for it. I don't know what else I can say about Toni&Guy Lane Cove, except HOLY CRAP IT'S LIKE THEY FOUND THE ONLY FIVE PEOPLE ON PLANET EARTH WHO FIND JACKI TREW AMUSING AND STUCK THEM IN THE SAME HAIR SALON. To me, there is nothing more satisfying than than the sound of your friends laughing at a joke you've just told - pity laughter is about the only thing that comes close, and I don't even get that much anymore. But going to work is fast becoming a bigger confidence-booster than those circus mirrors at Luna Park that make your legs look all long and skinny. For example, that weird habit I have of leaving random notes around for other people (including myself) to read?

(Well yeah, of course I do it at work). Only when I do it at work, stuff like this happens:

I know. I am literally in awe of these people. And whatever-it-is that they've been smoking. That is all.

So I come home from work tonight, and my parents are having dinner with some strange woman in our dining room. That's not even the weirdest thing that's happened to me so far today, but I thought I'd lead with it anyway. No one ever eats dinner in our dining room. I honestly don't know why it's there. We hardly even go in there on account of the fact that the table is so damn big you practically have to crawl over it to get from one side to the other. And any space that isn't taken up by table is stacked with piles and piles of my Mother's precious china plates, the silver cutlery she never uses, and a collection of mis-matched egg cups from around the world.
...
My family is kind of retarded.
Anyway, yeah. Dining room = practically a ghost town. The last time I remember ANYONE eating in there was about 4 months ago when The Navy Man's family came over for dinner, which I guess makes sense, since I think my parents were hoping that the egg cups would distract them from the fact that their only son was knowingly dating a crazy person. I'm not too sure that it worked.
'The Strange Woman' turned out to be an old friend of Mum's from Western Australia. Excellent. I love it when my parents invite their old friends over for dinner. Mostly because there's always some sort of dessert involved, but also because 'old friends' tend to ask questions about your children. And while my parents have no difficulty with talking about Catherine-The-Golden-Child-Trew, they never seem to know quite what to say about me...

The Strange Woman: And what about your other daughter...Jacki?
Mum: Oh, she...
Dad: She...
Mum: She likes fashion.
Dad: Yes! That's right, fashion! She likes fashion!
The Strange Woman: And is she any good at it?
Dad: Oh, well, yes. I suppose. She always chooses interesting outfits. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't...
(Awkward pause)
Mum: She likes to write.
Dad: She has this internet blog, have you heard of blogging?
The Strange Woman: Oh, yes. But I never quite understood why people did it.
Dad: Yeah, neither do we. She kind of just narrates her own life. She has a very...strange sense of humour.

Thanks, Dad! Feeling the love. Although I guess in the grand scheme of things, hiding in the kitchen and eavesdropping on your parents dinner conversation so that you can later publish it on the internet is probably one of those things that most people would consider strange.
So fair call.

Speaking of things that most people would consider strange, I watched an episode of Sea Patrol on the Universal channel this morning, and now I'm hooked. This is confusing for two reasons:
1) Australian-made dramas are pretty high on my list of 'Shit That Makes Me Want To Stab Myself'. Also,
2) Sea Patrol? No offense to anyone protecting the country from asylum seekers or illegal fisherman or whatever; I'm sure your job is EXTREMELY interesting...but if I'm going to sit down and sacrifice an hour of my life for anything on TV, it better involve David Tennant time-travelling in a little blue box, or one of the Kardashians.
Still. I thought I'd give it a go, mostly in a last-ditch attempt to become more Navy-Literate. Seeings as I have both a sister and a boyfriend in the Navy, it's getting kind of embarassing that I get confused between 'port' and 'starboard'. Not to mention the fact that I still can't say the words 'seaman' or 'rear admiral' without giggling. Although that's not really a fair test - seaman is hilarious. Anyway, despite my pre-concieved notions, Sea Patrol turned out to be surprisingly entertaining. Although I suspect that has less to do with the whole 'Navy' aspect, and more to do with the fact that I'm only a few episodes in and two of the officers are already hooking up. After all, if life (and my 5-year obsession with Prison Break) has taught us anything, it's that there's nothing I enjoy more than a good love story...except a good 'Lets Bone Even Though We're Not Supposed To' story.

Another Week, Another Amazing Weekend

To me, the best part about my job is that it makes absolutely no sense for me to enjoy it...and yet, I do. Let's look at the specifics:

• I'm not learning a skill
• There's no chance of promotion
• I'm on my feet for 9+ hours a day
• I'm constantly exhausted
• I have to deal with bitchy clients, and
• The pay is $6 an hour

Still...the people I work with, the music we play, and the fact that just going to work means I can drink as much of the salon's coffee as I want somehow makes up for it. I just can't help myself.
I fucking LOVE my job.
Of course, knowing (as I now do) that my parents plan on selling our house and moving to Avalon makes me realise that yeah, eventually I'll have to locate my last shred of self-respect and get a job that actually pays above minimum wage. For now though, I'll take the 6 bucks an hour. Especially since it means I get to enjoy perks like this:

On Sunday, Toni&Guy sent Alex (stylist extraordinnaire) and I to the Sydney premiere of Fame! The Musical. For free.
Fame! The Musical. For free.
One more time? That's Fame! The Musical.
For FREE.
I can say with 85% honesty that I have never been more excited about anything in my life. I feel like 85 is pretty fair: 10% belongs to The Navy Man's homecoming, and 5 is for the first time I tasted peach schnapps. Still, you get it - I was pretty g-darn psyched for this musical. And I was certainly not disappointed. The dancing was awesome, the singing was amazing, the music was disco...mostly though, it was about this: Did someone say frozen daquiris that came served in flashing martini glasses which we proceeded to steal from The Capitol Theatre? Yes, yes they did. And that someone was me. Did I say 85% excited? This may have just bumped it up to 90. Then, after the excitement that was Fame! The Musical, Alex and I decided to do what any sophisticated 20-year-old employees of one of the largest and most lucrative hairdressing companies in Australia would do...we went to the pub and drank Jim Beam out of our stolen glasses. Because nothing says 'sophisticated' like bourbon and coke, especially when you're sipping it from a plastic battery-powered martini glass that glows in the dark.

But the night didn't end there.

2 hours and around 5 (by which I mean 'closer to 7...or 8') drinks later, we ended up at The North Sydney League's Club in Cammeray. This was hilarious for several reasons:
1) Have you been to The North Sydney League's Club? For your sake, I hope not. Besides employees, the only people in there are gambling addicts who want to waste thousands of dollars on the pokies but have been systematically banned from every other casino in Sydney. Or alcoholics who come to hit on women and - after realising that there are none - end up drowning their sorrows at the bar. Or...Alex and I. It's honest to God the most depressing place I've ever been in my life. The music was depressing. The bitch at the front desk was depressing. The poor excuse for a beer garden was depressing. Even the decor was depressing. I've never even considered the idea of suicide, but just stepping through the front doors of this place had me making a list of quick and painless ways to end my own life. And so naturally...
2) I became a member.
$10? Totally worth it. This act of stupidity is going to keep me amused for at LEAST 12 months. Which, coincidentally, is the exact length of membership time I recieved for said $10. And did I mention the members-only discount? There's a members-only discount! Sure, having this card means I'll be sacrificing a little more of my dignity each time somebody opens my wallet and sees it sitting there...but hey. I've been spending every weekend since my 17th birthday chipping away at my dignity anyway, right? So this doesn't really make that much of a difference.

Pardon My Poor Photography Skills, But Is That A Jagermeister Tattoo?

Like any pair of self-respecting and well-adjusted 20 year olds about to attend a music festival, Gemma and I decided to have vodka for breakfast.
I can't decide my favourite part...that we listened to Cut Copy and watched How I Met Your Mother while doing so, that the vodka was fairy floss flavoured and fluorescent pink, or that my Mum and Dad sat back and watched the whole thing happen without batting an eyelid - except at around 11am, when they suggested we cut the vodka with a bottle of champagne.

Now that's good parenting.

To give you some idea of just how amazing Parklife 2010 was, let me tell you this: we slept in, got a ride there, got through the front gate with barely any wait, then spent the first 25 minutes dancing to Flight Facilities in a pseudo-cave while drinking free bottle of peach ice tea.

Then I found these:

When God created these sunglasses, he was either thinking of me, or some sort of Minnie Mouse-themed drag queen. I'm just glad I found them first. Next stop, Midnight Juggernauts. The best part about these guys was that one of them decided to dress up as Jesus. Appropriate? Probably not, but they were entertaining as hell - and not just because the dude's Jesus robe had sleeves so long it made him look like a double amputee.
Although that's mostly it.
After Midnight Juggernauts, we considered swimming across Kippax Lake to get to the Jagermeister Tent, but ended up walking instead. The lake looked pretty dirty. And wide. Plus there were a myriad of signs posted around it promising that anyone who so much as looked at the water would be escorted off the premesis. Immediately. I don't know if there's a word for 'the opposite of disco fabulous', but I'm pretty sure getting kicked out of Parklife BEFORE the Jager Tent would be a perfect definition. Anyway, Casa de Jagermeister was everything you'd expect it to be and more. And by 'more', I mean this:

Pardon my poor photography skills, but is that a Jagermeister tattoo?
Yes.
Yes it is.
After Jager, before dinner and just around the time the sun went down came the highlight of my life - aka Missy Elliot - where we were groped by/lifted onto the shoulders of the three random dudes in front of us, and then watched as Miss E and her glow-band wearing backup dancers made a musical tribute to Michael Jackson and that chick from TLC who died in a plane crash. At this point we were onto our 6th consecutive hour of dancing and were being fuelled by little more than German alcohol and Red Bull, and we didn't even care. If there is a stronger natural stimulant than Missy Elliot wearing a sequined Michael Jackson t-shirt, it's not one I know about.
About an hour and a half later, we decided to finish the night off with Groove Armada. I'm a bit tired and this post is turning out to be kind of epic, so I'm not going to go on and on about it - except to say that I woke up at 10am on Monday morning, and my ears were still ringing. And there were lasers. And it rained. As we were dancing. To Groove Armada. With lasers. In the rain.
It was in that moment I discovered a profound truth; a penis is not necessary to achieve an orgasm. Twice.

After that, we were - to put it eloquently - pretty much fucked. And so, in the perfect ending to the perfect day, we packed up our sunglasses and what little money we had left, had one last drink, and caught the train back to St Leonards while reading a free copy of FHM we'd picked up. It was strangely insightful.
Until next year, that's about it. Parklife Sydney, October 3rd. Greatest day of 2010.

(Until The Navy Man comes back).

Me again.
So, just because I have nothing else to blog about right now (the EPIC post detailing every second of Parklife will come later, when I've had more sleep and less Jagermeister), here are are a few phrases that I personally feel should never be said by any human raised or living in a 'regular' environment. All have come out of my mouth at some point during the last 24 hours.

"Can somebody wipe the cat hair off the stove? I'm trying to cook dinner."

"I want Flight Facilities to play at my wedding reception. Couples will be boning on the dance floor and I won't even care."

"If it's any less disgusting, I WASHED his undies before I wore them as pajama pants."

"Do you want Captain Morgan's in yours, or are we having a sober lunch?"

"If it's between The Ugly Truth and The Bounty Hunter, I choose The Ugly Truth. I had a threesome dream involving Jennifer Aniston the other night, so watching her on TV makes me feel VERY uncomfortable at the moment."

When Parents Finally Give Up On Their Children, Part 1

So, my parents are currently obsessed with The Lifestyle Channel. At first it was funny, but now it's starting to scare me. They have this show about couples attempting to buy and sell houses...I'm not sure what it's called. Perhaps something along the lines of, Couples Attempting To Buy And Sell Houses. Or maybe Television So Boring You'll Want To Kill Yourself. Either would be appropriate. Anyway, this show is on my parents TV literally 24 hours a day. Not that their TV is turned on for 24 hours a day. But you can bet that when it is, this show will be playing.
I wake up in the morning - it's on TV.
I come home after work at night - it's on TV.
I stumble down for a toasted ham and cheese at 3am - it's on TV.
The second worst part is that it's hosted and narrated by these two British dudes. Normally I'm a huge fan of British people and all they have to offer, but these guys and their snotty accents make me wanna take those ham and cheeses I was just talking about and SHOVE them into my EARS. And the first worst part? Well it was playing this afternoon (of course it was), and I happened to catch one of the hosts talking about a couple who'd sold their family home in 2006 and spent the last 4 years trying to find another one which measured up. And then THIS happened:

Dad: Well if they loved their old family home so much, why did they move in the first place?
Jacki: Because they're dumb as fuck, that's why.
Mum: Jacki!
Dad: No, dear, it's okay. (Sighs heavily) She's right.

Is there anything better than the knowledge that - after tolerating two straight decades of poor language - your parents have finally given up on you?
I feel so proud.

30 Days Alright

One of my favourite things about having Foxtel is that pretty much every Sunday afternoon without fail, there seems to be a crappy horror movie playing on at least one channel. I love watching these horror movies. I've made a little habit out of it. Being that Sunday is one of the only days I get off work, what better way to spend my time than by sitting in front of the TV for 2 hours absorbing some terrible movie that no one else has ever seen or will be able to dicuss with me?

Yeah.

Just for the record, I already know I'm an idiot, so there's no need to remind me. I'm talking to you, Owen. It's pretty obvious. Actually I think the only way I could be a bigger idiot right now is if I admitted to googling these movies both before and after I watch them, and then stalking each of the starring actors on IMDb.com.

So let's just pretend I don't do that.

Today's movie was a little diddy by the name of 30 Days Of Night. It's a vampire movie, but don't let that turn you off; when I say 'vampires', I mean 'real vampires', not 'Twilight vampires'. These vampires were pretty flippin' badass, and that's putting it mildly. If given a choice between marrying Bella Swan and drinking her blood, you can bet none of them would be walking down the aisle. Or they might, but they'd be planning on violently dismembering every guest at the wedding. If any of you playing at home are actual fans of Bella Swan or the Twilight franchise, I wouldn't recommend this movie. Because no offense, but watching it might cause you to ruin the couch in your parents living room. And by that I mean you would totally shit your pants all over it. Since I'm the kind of genetic super freak who's seen all the Saw movies and makes serial-killer jokes on a daily basis, I don't count. But I'm guessing that any normal person would find 30 Days at least semi frightening; mostly because of Josh Hartnett's weird facial hair. Also because of this:Well. They're certainly no Cullen family.
Honestly, I can't understand why more vampire movies don't turn out like this. Sharp teeth, severed heads, and cars being lit on fire. When I think 'vampire movie', that's what I see. But apart from this one, the last THREE that I've seen have had an underlying story about - of all things - love. Please. If I wanted to sit and listen to two people pretending to fall in love, I'd just watch The Bachelor like everyone else.
Anyway.
I really don't have anything left to say about this movie, so now I'm going to talk about high school. Elle, Jane and I were listening to Stars the other night and thinking about how funny it would be to time-travel back to 2007 and watch our past selves struggling through year 12. Because as moronic as I am now, I'm pretty sure it doesn't hold a candle to what I was like in high school:
1) I didn't drink coffee
2) I wrote an essay on Prison Break for my HSC English exam
3) I didn't drink coffee

Pfft. What an idiot, right? But it's okay.
I'm way more smarter these days.

Engaged?

Hello, world.

So I guess it's not a fully productive week at work until I've wasted at least 7 hours devising a ridiculous plan to totally freak out one of our regular clients. Before I tell you that story though, I want to talk about last night. And how I am now engaged to be married.

Being that it was a Friday and I am the kind of idiot who forgets that she'll have to be up for work at 730 on Saturday morning, I got pretty drunk last night. Not too drunk. Not so drunk that I ended up standing shirtless on the roof of Dante's apartment singing Journey songs to his neighbours. Not this drunk. Just drunk enough that when I woke up this morning there was $70 missing from my wallet, a large bruise on my leg, and a copy of Nicole Richie's first novel lying facedown on the bed beside me.

Ahh.

The perfect amount.

Gem, Elle, Kat, Jane and I had congregated at Elle and Mischa's apartment to drink, chat, watch movies and just enjoy each other's company. By which I of course mean 'ingest a copious amount of high-percentage alcohol and dicuss the idea of boning via text message'. 5 Roseville girls and 2 bottles of Jagermeister? This is exactly the kind of situation that usually winds up with me drunk-dialing one of my highschool history teachers. And while I didn't do THAT last night, I did make a pact with Jane that should neither of us have found a husband by the time we're 40, we'll just turn lesbian and marry each other. Ellen Degeneres would be so proud. Anyway, I can say with complete honesty that I have almost no idea how I got home last night. I know there's an extremely pissed off cab driver somewhere out there who now harbours a desire to kill me on account of the fact that I kept accidentally giving him the wrong directions, but that's the extent of my knowledge. Good times.

Now, for my original story. We have this client at work called Tom, and everyone loves him. 'Everyone' here meaning 'Alex and I'. And I suppose - if I'm being honest - it's more accurate to say that we don't really love him so much as we thoroughly enjoy confusing him with our hairdressing mind games. Why? Well because we're idiots. And it's fun. And since he's probably the only teenage boy ever to come into Toni&Guy for a haircut and NOT act like a total douche-bag, it only seems appropriate to pretend like we think he's a blonde version of, well, The Navy Man.
He's not, but I'm an excellent actress.

Anyway, about a week ago Alex and I were standing at reception and laughing at all the crazy names in the computer address book (yes, we take our work extremely seriously), and Tom walked past, all excited because the next day was his 17th birthday. Oh, bless. I love that there are boys out there still innocent enough to believe that turning 17 is something to be proud of. It gives me hope for the human race. It also gives me acute anxiety about being almost 21, but I try to focus on the hope thing. Tom eventually left, but - long story short - the two of us decided that since we didn't have much going on at the moment, acting like 2 crazed cougars the next time he came in for a haircut might be a fun thing to do. Not in a weird, creepy way though. I mean, it's not like we made a countdown chart until his next appointment:

And crossed the days off one by one until it was One Hour Til Tom Time!:Okay, so we're total weirdos. And you know what? I think Tom sensed it...because 45 minutes - 45 MINUTES - before his scheduled appointment, he called to cancel.
Sigh. All that insanity, just wasted. I'd probably be more upset about this whole thing if my insanity supply wasn't unlimited, but still. Good one, Tom. Thanks to you, I had to spend my day at work actually working. I hate it when that happens!

In other news, I'm watching The Matrix Reloaded right now, and trying to imagine something more uncomfortable than having sex with those weird matrix-y plugs all over your body.

Nothing springs to mind.

On A Final Note...

I've got time for one last blog (probably this week, on account of me being such an unwilling workaholic), and it's going to be a good one. Here's the situation:

LADY GAGA IS RELEASING A PERFUME

Normally, I don't care for celebrity fragrances; mostly because they're generally all crap, and also because I simply don't have the money to afford them. But the opportunity to smell like Lady GaGa is too damn good to pass up. For those of you deliberating over what to get me for Christmas, the search is over - I wouldn't even be bothered if every single solitary person who reads this blog runs out and buys me a bottle. Are you kidding? A lifetime supply of Eu De GaGa? The only gift I can think of that might possibly surpass THAT is a job which actually pays more than 6 dollars an hour. And since there's little to no chance of that ever happening, you know what to get me.

A Message For Navy Man Which Elle, Mischa And Julia Will Also Appreciate...Jane, You Won't Be Impressed

I forgot to say this yesterday, but thanks to a little rescheduling at work, I get two days off in a row this week. Sunday and Monday. It's not exactly the most amazing thing to ever happen to me, for sure, but TWO days? In A ROW? I'm not even ashamed to say I practically jizzed in my pants when I found out. And when I say 'practically', I mean 'yeah, I jizzed, and it was a bit awkward'.

Luckily, we keep a mop in the staffroom for these kind of mishaps.

Anyway.

After going out on Friday, working on Saturday, having a 21st on Saturday night and spending a large part of Sunday wandering aimlessly around Chatswood in the hopes of finding a bikini that actually looks good on me (FYI, this feat is yet to be achieved), I felt a little bit worn out. And fair enough, I say. It's been quite a while since I had a weekend where I just stopped and sat and quietly reflected on my life as an almost-ex-apprentice hairdresser who gets paid 6 bucks an hour, can't drive for shit, loves banana bread, has a Navy Man halfway across the world and harbours a not-so-secret desire to drop everything and move to Panama. So that's what I did. Well, for about 6 seconds anyway. Then the whole 'reflecting' thing got a bit boring, so I did what any almost-ex-apprentice hairdresser who gets paid 6 bucks an hour, can't drive for shit, loves banana bread, has a Navy Man halfway across the world and harbours a not-so-secret desire to drop everything and move to Panama would do...

I watched Doctor Who.

If you're new to this blog, you're forgetful, or you're just the kind of idiot who doesn't do what they're told, I'm going to say it again...Doctor Who is amazing and you must watch it. While I'm being all bossy and domineering, I'll also tell you that anything by Florence + The Machine might just be the best music I've ever heard in my life (behind Michael Jackson, Journey, The Bravery and Guns N Roses of course), but mainly I want to talk about the doctor. To put it frankly, I haven't been able to love television like this since Prison Break broke my heart back in 2009. But Doctor Who (despite the fact there's no Wentworth Miller, no inbred serial killers, no full-upper-body tattoos and very little making out) is on a whole other level. I'm not saying it's BETTER, but if any show was going to have even the slightest chance of bringing me back from entertainment heartache, it'd be this one.

Or maybe The Real Housewives of NYC - cause that shit is hilarious.

The only downside to DW, really, is how freakin' complicated it can get. I read books and send emails and can use a calculator with the best of them, but I'm not exactly the brightest crayon in the box, you know? And lately I've been feeling as if every episode leaves me with more questions than answers. Like, how come the Daleks (otherwise known as possibly the greatest threat to the universe) have household appliances in place of arms?

And what about the Weeping Angels theory, that any statue on Earth could potentially be coming to life whenever it's not being looked at? It's supposed to be terrifying, right? And it IS...until you consider that the statue in question could just be, well, this:
Headless man in business attire? Call me crazy, but I don't exactly feel threatened. It sounds like I'm mocking the hell out of this show, but really, I'm not. These are just the kinds of thoughts I have; I genuinely am this stupid. Luckily for me, I have a Navy Man who is both enough of a nerd to know the answers to all these questions, AND enough of a law-abiding citizen to know that he legally can't kill me for asking them.

Much as he might like to.

Speaking of The Navy Man, mine just left for a 6-week tour (tour? I've been watching too many old-school war movies) to a country I can't tell you the name of on the slight chance that you are a terrorist with plans of world domination. What I can tell you is that he won't have access to a phone or email or Facebook, and has instructed me to send him 'secret messages via my blog' so that we can communicate.

I guess I misunderstood his use of the word 'secret'.

A Message For NM

I was watching the last two episodes of season four just now, and oh man...Three things:

1) The Doctor/Rose reunion? When I saw the bit where they run towards each other in the street, I was imagining that we could totally re-enact it at the airport when you come home. Except that it was cold, she was carrying a gun, and he gets shot by one of the Daleks. So, really, I hope it's nothing like that at all.

2) I understand now that the REAL doctor would never piledrive a dinosaur (EVEN if it was holding his companion hostage) because he's anti-violence and everything...but what about the half-doctor-half-human who ends up staying with Rose? Dude, he killed all the Daleks. And nothing says 'pro-violence' like a single handed genocide. Also,

3) The Weeping Angels thing was a joke. Don't kick my ass.

So that's it. Hope you're having fun at an undisclosed location!

P.S Did you google the swallow bird? I did. It's pretty awesome.

Karma's A Bitch

So anyway.
I made a real commitment to eat a proper breakfast every single day last week. Which doesn't really sound like that big of a deal, as far as real commitments go. But it will. Once I explain how my body works.

HOW JACKI TREW'S BODY WORKS

I need caffeine to live. And that pretty much sums it up. I know my driver's license classifies me as an organ doner, but I'm not so sure that it should - all they're gonna find when they cut me open is a bunch of lollypop wrappers and an empty Starbucks takeaway cup. And maybe that giant piece of strawberry bubblegum my sister convinced me to swallow when I was nine.
Anyway, you get it. So seven days of healthy eating was a pretty big deal. The only problem is that in my bid to become more healthy and less of a poster child for caffeine addiction, I've become completely dependant on breakfast food.
Sigh.
Trust me to take something as regular and mundane as eating breakfast and turn it into yet another ridiculous obsession. But I can't stop! You know what I had for breakfast yesterday? Cereal. And for lunch? Raisin toast. And for dinner?!? Well, I didn't have dinner, I was at a 21st. But when I got home and felt like a snack?? VEGEMITE TOAST. So, conclusion? I'm an idiot. What else is new?

Speaking of me being an idiot, I'm sitting at home on my day off right now and watching Pearl Harbour. Which, considering the fact that I'm, let's say, extremely close to not one but TWO people in the Navy is either the dumbest thing I could possibly do or...no, that's it. It's the dumbest thing I could possibly do. What, watching The Hurt Locker wasn't traumatising enough, I have to track down an actual Navy-related war movie? Where both of the main characters DIE? And sure, one of them miraculously comes back from the dead - only it's the WRONG ONE! It just goes to show that karma really is a bitch, and that you can't love two guys at once; even if you truly believe that one of them's dead. Especially if the two guys in question are childhood friends. And ESPECIALLY if there's a war going on. I don't know what other messages the director of Pearl Harbour was trying to get across, but I heard that one loud and clear.

People I Need To Track Down And Kick In The Ass

So apparently Oprah Winfrey is coming to Sydney. You'll notice that I call her Oprah Winfrey rather than just Oprah. I dislike it when people think of themselves as BEYOND having a last name. Yeah, that's right. I'm talking to you, Cher. We've all got last names, whether we embrace them or not. Sure, not everyone gets one as awesome as Trew, but we can't all be winners. The point is...I forgot the point.
Cher is a douche.
So yeah, Oprah Winfrey, coming to Sydney. And bringing 300 of her 'closest personal viewers' with her. If there is a better definition for oxymoron than 'closest personal viewers', I'd like to know about it. Oprah Winfrey, you are an idiot.

The worst part about this whole thing (I mean, aside from the fact that no matter which city she chooses to broadcast her show from, I will probably be able to hear her screaming at the audience from my house) is that I just heard 2 radio announcers talking about how this is "the greatest event relating to Australian tourism in the last 26 years".
Alright. I don't know where they got the figure 26 from, but that's erroneous. THE GREATEST EVENT RELATING TO AUSTRALIAN TOURISM IN THE LAST 26 YEARS??? ARE THEY KIDDING??
At first I thought they were. I even laughed. There's nothing like a little afternoon sarcasm at Oprah Winfrey's expense to put a smile on my face. But then they kept talking! Talking about how amazing it was, how fortunate it was, and how generous of Oprah Winfrey to allow our teeny tiny country to take part in her apparent quest for universal domination. I don't know who these radio announcers were, but the two of them are now about as high on my People I Need To Track Down And Kick In The Ass list as Cher. I swear to God that when one of them compared Oprah Winfrey's trip down under to the Sydney 2000 Olympics, part of me died. Really? Oprah Winfrey is the same as ours being "the best Olympics ever"? REALLY?!

Honestly - and I don't even care if this makes me sound less like a woman than the time I told my boyfriend that the easiest way to have a threesome was to 'bone a pregnant chick' - I could care less about Oprah Winfrey. OR her day-time talk show. The only way her visit to Sydney is going to ignite any amount of interest in me is if she somehow manages to transfigure herself into Wentworth Miller before she gets on the plane. I don't exactly know why I'm being so mean about this, but I'm alone, practically broke, have no idea what I'm doing with my life and still owe $900 on my car payments, so I feel like everyone should just roll with me today.
Oprah Winfrey? I don't think so. On the other hand, if it was Ellen Degeneres...

I Am Woman

A slow beginning to the week; the most interesting event so far probably being the mini-meltdown I had last night when my hair elastic broke and I couldn't find any new ones. Which, as insane as it seems, I actually rather enjoyed - because to be honest, it was kind of getting to the point where I was questioning my own level of femininity. I mean, how many other 20-year-old girls do you know that make fart jokes, dislike children, couldn't care less about marriage, and spend their free time thinking up ridiculous word-game competitions to play with their boyfriend, like "Who can think of the most offensive slang terms for their own genetalia?"
Which, by the way, I totally won.
Still. There's nothing like finding yourself on the brink of a nervous breakdown on account of something utterly trivial and meaningless to remind you that yes, you are in fact a woman.
...
Having breasts also helps.


On a completely unrelated note, has anyone here seen The Hurt Locker? I'm inexplicably curious about it. I don't know; something about the way it completely destroyed Avatar at the Oscars this year just makes me go hmmm...And have you seen this promotional poster??

It doesn't happen often, but whenever the words 'fire' and 'orgasm' happen to cross paths in my mind, that's what it looks like. I gotta see this movie. Which I know sounds weird, especially considering my total abhorrence for war/guns/violence, but hey. Just because I hate automatic weapons doesn't mean I won't enjoy watching some hot guy playing with one. Why do you think I found a boyfriend in the armed services? And any movie that's in direct competition with James Cameron/Avatar is pretty high on my list of priorities. I know the whole Avatar craze was almost a year ago now, but in between work, sleep, and watching every episode of Dr Who in an attempt to out-nerd The Navy Man, I don't have alot going on in my life right now.
So yeah. If you've seen The Hurt Locker, give me a call. And if you haven't, give me a call anyway. I'm so desperately lonely.

Christmas Come Early

Oy. So much to blog about, so few people to care that I have so much to blog about. Did that make sense? I didn't think so.

So apparently it's September. No, not just September. It's mid-September. Would somebody care to explain how that happened? Because I sure as hell don't know. One minute it's so cold I'm toying with the idea of wearing thermals under my jeans to work, the next it's warm enough for me to start sleeping naked again.
...Which, incidentally, I love.
But still! Mid-September? That's practically October. Which is mid-Spring. And mid-Spring? That's practically Summer.
And my legs are not ready for Summer.
On the plus side, Summer does mean one thing I love even more than sleeping nude, and that's Christmas. Oh, hell yeah. Tis the season, bitches. And I am pretty effing jolly. If there's anything negative about Christmas, it's not something I'm aware of. Chocolate for breakfast, presents, fairy lights, hot weather, the giant tree at Town Hall, Jesus...say something bad about Christmas. I dare you. And on a related note, I'm currently taking gift requests. I know it's early, but getting my Christmas shopping done now means more time to lie next to my pool and do nothing later. So tell me what you want, or all you'll be getting is a hug and a home-made card.
Not that that would be such a terrible punishment.
My hugs are awesome.

Shower Thoughts #39

So, Will and Jada Pinkett Smith named their kids Jaden and Willow.
...
I JUST realised how weird that is.

The Hills With Eyes That Took A Wrong Turn And Ran Red

Two amazing things just happened.

The first is that I invented a new hot beverage. That's right. Step aside, Gloria Jeans, because hot chocolate and a chai latte just made a porno together, and I was holding the video camera. I call it...The Hot Chaicolate.
The second is my discovery of the 2009 horror movie The Hills Run Red. This movie is so insane, I don't even know how to begin describing it. Here's what the Foxtel synopsis box had to say:

A film fanatic's obsession with finding the complete print of an infamous horror movie leads him and his friends to the woods where the picture was shot; but will they be it's next stars?

Okay. Obviously, this is going to be incredible. But, as I always do before surrendering myself to the television for 2 or more hours, I decided to consult IMDb.com for a little more info. Not that I really needed to; not only does the title/synopsis make this film sound like the love child of Wrong Turn and The Hills Have Eyes, but it also fills all three of my "Best Shitty Horror Movie" prerequisites:
1) Takes place in the woods
2) Straight to DVD, and
3) Stars Australian pop-star-turned-actress Sophie Monk as a drug addicted stripper.
Ha.
Haha.
I'm only joking about that last one being a 'prerequisite'. That was just a hilariously depressing bonus. And as if that's not enough, the killer is a physically mutilated recluse who runs around the woods wearing a porcelain dolls-head mask and is known to the public as 'Babyface'.
There are no words. As you can imagine, I was pretty psyched to watch this movie. There are so many questions! Sophie Monk, really? Why does the killer always have to be physically mutilated? And which chromosomally challenged writer came up with the porcelain dolls-head idea?
Sigh.
I get that I'm a bit of a dunce in the intelligence department, but even I don't understand why I keep watching these movies. If it weren't for my ongoing quest to find one that actually scares me (thus proving that I am indeed human and not dead on the inside, as some have insinuated), I would totally give up on horror movies altogether. Every time I see one, it's like a little more of my faith in humanity getting flushed down the toilet.
I mean, come on. It's the 21st century. You would think that by now, people might have enough sense to stay out of the fucking woods. Or - if they really feel the need to go camping in the middle of nowhere - they should at least bring a satellite phone. And a blow torch. But no. I've lost count of how many 'We Took A Weekend Trip To The Woods And Ended Up Being Chased Around By An Axe-Wielding Maniac' movies I've seen, but they're always the same. And the characters are always dumb enough to believe that all they need to survive is a video camera and a couple of tents.
Yeah.
Because as we all know, when you find yourself on the run from a serial killer, the first thing you wanna do is film yourself hiding from him in a tent.

There is one thing I'll give these horror movies though, and that's that they always make me think. One thought in particular - what the hell does Babyface do during his downtime? I'm assuming that 'The Woods' aren't exactly teeming with crowds of confused but attractive teenagers waiting to be chopped into pieces. Maybe in a perfect serial killers world, but not today. So what do Babyface and The Inbred Mutants from Wrong Turn do in between mass murders? Cook? Knit? Use Polly Pocket figurines to act out their favourite scenes from Prison Break? I don't know what's more disturbing, the fact that I don't know, or the fact that I want to know. It doesn't matter. They're both overshadowed by the fact that I saw the end of the movie, and it turns out that the physically mutilated 'Babyface' is actually Sophie Monks inbred son.
...
It's like I said. There are no words.

White wine and a Mars Bar for dinner. Life is looking up.

So here's a question: Would anyone like to hire me? Hmm? Of course, by 'anyone', what I really mean is 'my current boss'. And by 'hire me', all I'm really saying is 'allow me to continue working at Toni&Guy under the pretence of being a studying apprentice, when really all I do is sweep the floors, drink coffee, read gossip magazines and fantasise about the look on The Navy Man's face should he return from his posting to find that I've cut off all my hair and dyed it turquoise
FYI, I imagine that would go something like this: Better not risk it.

In other news...I got nothing. That's literally how boring my life is at the moment. Even my parents have more going on than me. Oh, well that's not entirely true - this week, I discovered two things that the rest of the world was already aware of. The first is that the Dr Who television series is legendary.
Really.
I don't know how this happened, but I have somehow become addicted to a TV show that doesn't star Wentworth Miller. And is British. And about time travel. And that doesn't star Wentworth Miller. And did I mention that since it's on at 7 in the morning, I have to get up a whole HOUR earlier than I normally would, just to watch it? So you know it's gotta be good. And unlike most of the TV I watch, you actually have to use your brain to understand it; since it's so damn complicated, I can actually feel myself getting smarter with every new episode. It's like the cheapest school ever! Plus now I'm learning shit I can actually USE, like How To Save The World Should It Be Taken Over By One Of The Last Remaining Time Lords Who Is Posing As The Prime Minister Of Britain And For Some Reason Turned The Future Human Race Into A Fleet Of Flying Robots.
Always a handy skill to have.

The second thing I've discovered is that banana bread is the most delicious food in this universe. I know (mostly in part to a childhood viewing of Moulin Rouge) I always said I'd never allow myself to fall in love, but there are some things in life you just can't fight. And the undeniable connection between myself and banana bread is one of those things. If there is a more depressing sentence in existance than the one I've just written, I'd like to know about it. And yet, I don't care. So, since I hate uni and I can't join the armed forces and I've recently decided that my current apprenticeship just isn't for me, it has become my greatest ambition in life to bake a banana bread couch, and sit on it while I watch every episode of Dr Who ever made.
Good luck to me!

Random Dude: So, busy day today?
Me: Yeah. We're fully booked for the rest of the afternoon.
Random Dude: Yeah...I bet you do alot of blow jobs here, don't you?
MASSIVE PAUSE
Me: You...you mean blow dries?
Random Dude: Yeah. Yeah, that's what I meant.

Sometimes, I fucking love my job.

What up, my bitches?

So.

I was standing in the staff room at work earlier, and happened to notice this cardboard box sitting behind the recycling bin:

Well! I thought. Isn't that nice? A thoughtful warning for those of us who possess less-than-satisfactory coordination when it comes to sharp objects! If only this had come a week earlier, before I accidentally took a chunk out of my bicep with the box-cutter while unpacking an order of shampoo. But still. Very thoughtful. Very very thoughtful.

Then I took a look at the writing below the 'warning':
Schibello.
As in, Schibello Coffee.
As in, This box is packed with plastic bags of Schibello Coffee.
As in, This box is packed with plastic bags of Schibello Coffee; don't use a knife to cut the box, or else you will probably break one of the bags and coffee will fly everywhere.
As in, These are simple unpacking instructions. NOT a health and safety warning. Jacki Trew, you are a moron. Learn how to handle a knife, you dunce.
...
Ever get the feeling that you've just been outwitted by a cardboard box? It's not pleasant.

Oh, how have I not blogged about this sooner?
Did anyone else catch the last 5 minutes of Today Tonight before Home and Away started (yes, clearly I have my priorities sorted) and happen to catch that thing about Ivan Milat and another dead body being found in the Belangelo State Forest?
Let me say that again.
IVAN MILAT. And ANOTHER BODY. In the BELANGELO STATE FOREST.
...
Alright.
Everyone's thinking it, I'm just gonna say it: IS IVAN MILAT VOLDEMORT'S TWIN, OR WHAT? I mean come ON! The man is two hundred years old. And he's been in prison for what, half that time? HOW IS HE STILL KILLING PEOPLE??
Okay, and yes, I know. It's not that he's still killing people, it's just that they haven't found all the people he killed before they caught him yet. I'm smart enough to have figured that out. Not smart enough to realise that Voldemort isn't actually real, but hey, you can't win every battle. That doesn't worry me. No, what I'm actually concerned about is that my second thought when I first saw this news piece (I mean, AFTER the whole Ivan/Voldemort comparison) was something along the lines of Hey, weren't you voted Most Likely To Be Killed By Ivan Milat in high school? Huh? Wasn't that you, Jacqueline Sarah Trew? Wasn't it? Closely followed by my third thought, which went a little like this: Aww, shit.

If there is a worse way to die than being slaughtered by Ivan Milat, I'd like to know about it. I'm sorry, did I say 'know about'? What I really meant was 'volunteer for'. Anything, anything is better than death-by-Ivan. Fire? No problem. Suffocation? Whatever. Sharks? No big deal. I would literally soak my legs overnight in a soy sauce marinade and offer them to the next Great White I came across if it meant avoiding an encounter with Ivan Milat. That sounds crazy, right? WRONG. It doesn't sound crazy. And if you disagree with me, then you are an idiot who has clearly never sat through Wolf Creek. Watch that - then get back to me.

Don't Call Me Ma'am

Initially, I wasn't going to blog about this because I thought it might get me in trouble. But hey. It's my day off, I'm bored, I'm waiting for Home and Away to start, and (let's be honest) I'm the kind of idiot who doesn't care about trouble, as long as it gives her a laugh.
So here we go.
This probably sounds weird coming from someone who works in hospitality/publishes her every thought on a public blog/craves human attention/is thinking about starting a hug schedule with her friends...but sometimes I hate people. Well...hate is such a strong word. So maybe I don't hate them as much as I want to punch them repeatedly in the groin every 8 seconds for the next 14 years. It's not all the time. In fact, I hardly ever hate people at all. But sometimes, maybe twice a year, I'll have a day where I come across someone who is enough of an asshole that I would gladly stab myself in the face with a blunt pencil just to avoid all interaction with them.

Today was that day.

Being that The Navy Man is very busy saving the world, and I am a lowly hairdresser's assistant's assistant, today I had some errands to run that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the Naval Uniform store on Cowper Wharf Rd. Also known as 'Glendinnings Menswear'. Yes. I don't understand the name, and I'm not going to pretend that I want to. It is what it is. Anyway, the whole escapade started off well enough, mostly due to the fact that I somehow managed to navigate myself all the way there without getting lost ONCE. AND I found a parking spot within 5 minutes. From the moment I walked through the door, though, it all went downhill. Because this was me:
Jacki: Good morning!
And this was the facial expression of every dude in that place:
Ha.
Haha.
To be fair, I don't exactly look like the kind of girl who belongs in a Naval Uniform store. But to be even fairer, these guys were total dicks. It took me almost 20 minutes to convey that all I needed was a white officer's shirt and a replacement badge for one of NM's hats (which I even offered to pay for, EVEN THOUGH it was a REPLACEMENT for the BROKEN badge they had already given him), and another 20 for the guy behind the counter to figure out how the eftpos machine operated. And then, just when I thought the horror was over, this happened:

Dude: Anything else?
Jacki: Oh yeah. My boyfriend asked if you could pin the new badge onto the hat for him.
Dude: Sorry ma'am, can't do it. It just pins on. If your boyfriend can't figure out how to do it, he shouldn't be in the Navy.

Okay.
First of all dude, you are a hundred years old. Don't call me ma'am. Second of all, if it's that easy, why can't you do it for him? And third, kindly shove your head up your ass. The only reason you work in this store is because YOU weren't smart enough to actually be in the Navy. 20 minutes to work out the eftpos? Give me a break.

I don't know why this is getting me all riled up. I think it probably has more to do with the fact that I'm still waiting for my dinner to be ready than anything else. I've also had quite a bit of sugar today. I've just remembered I have to go to work tomorrow. And I kind of have to pee. Still, there was one positive thing amongst this whole mess, and that's that the badge they gave me to replace NM's broken one? Was also broken. Which I know doesn't sound like a positive thing...but now I can say that even though I spent all afternoon trying to fix it myself and at one point accidentally super-glued my hand to the couch, I'm still smarter than the uniform store guy.
And that's something.