Introducing Wenlock and Mandeville

Okay.

All I have to say is, thank you GOD I have an unexpected day off today. Because I would have had to end my own life if I didn't have the time this morning to blog about these intruiging and adorable creatures:

Meet Wenlock and Mandeville (no, I'm not even kidding), the official mascots of the London 2012 Olympic Games.

Right? Right? Intruiging and adorable, no? Of course, if by 'intruiging' and 'adorable' what you really mean is 'hideous' and 'terrifying, absolutely terrifying, the kind of horror that will ensure sleepless nights for months on end'.

As if you need any more proof that members of the London Olympic Mascot Committee need to take a good long look at themselves and then begin punching each other in the ovaries, let's take a look at the Sydney 2000 Mascots:And now back to London:

And now compare them side-by-side:

I rest my case. Mascot Committee, you may assume punching each other in the nads. That is all.

My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours

One of the worst things about having a sister/boyfriend in the armed services is that no matter how hard you try, you will never win the 'My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours' game. Because - even if you have to trek across 4 suburbs in the pouring rain, rinse permanent colour through the wrong woman's hair, trip and spill searing hot coffee all over your new skirt and unwillingly get high off Domestos fumes and end up shaving your co-workers head (not that I would do something crazy like that, I'm just saying) - unless you are working at some rare hairdresser slash guns and ammo store, there's very little chance that you're going to get, you know, SHOT at work. Here's how it usually goes when I play My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours:

Me: Oh my gosh, that was the longest day in the history of the universe. It was long. So long. It went forever. I actually feel like I'm still living it. I'm half expecting someone to burst in and demand that I shampoo an old ladies hair at any minute. It's like torture. Extended torture. The kind of torture you can't escape even when it's over. Do you know what happened to me today? Do you even know? Okay, let me tell you. Well first of all -
Catherine/Owen: I got shot at today.
(pause)
Me: Ah, shit. You win again.

So far the score is somewhere around eight dillion to zero. I'm hoping for a late comeback.

In other news, Jess Morton (also known as Spesh, Special Jessie, Jessie Bear or Jessica Ann Morton Healy Q) was officially the first of my high school friends to turn 21 this week. Or ever, really. But her birthday was this week. So that explains that. Happy Birthday JB. I would go on to write a rambling non-sensical post about you and your face and the crazy things you and your face do together, but if you'll recall, I already wrote one about 3 years ago. Here it is, for those of you who are interested. Please ignore my terrible grammer - and that means you Beth.

Hello all.
Well, not much to blog about in terms of the last week. My life is pretty boring. So for now I'm just going to talk about thumbs.
Okay, remember when I said I had that theory about me not being 100% human and therefore immune to weak human diseases like Bird Flu? Yeah, that theory is back. Except this time it's not because I don't have Bird Flu.
It's because I don't have finger prints.
Let me explain. At my work we have this weird super-high-tech, super-high-irritating computer system that you have to use your finger print to log into. Oh my gosh. I am not even kidding. There's literally a sensor pad thingie next to the computer, and you have to hold your thumb on it every time you want to use the computer. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. It's very Charlie's Angels. Or at least it would be, if it weren't the most annoying thing on the planet. And I think the thing that makes it MOST annoying is the fact that for some reason, it refuses to accept my finger print. It just doesn't pick it up. Or read it. Or whatever. Even my boss is baffled. It's like, just in case I'm not enough of a weirdo, let's add the fact that I (apparently) don't have finger prints.
Brilliant.
I suppose the whole thing wouldn't be so bad, except that every time someone calls or drops by to make an appointment and I'm the only one at the desk, I have to stand there and explain to them why I can't help because I'm half-alien and can't be identified by human software. And that always goes down well. I love my job.

Blue Car

Okay, I totally wasn't going to blog about this, but to be honest - even though it might be one of the most humiliating things to ever happen to me, including the time I walked across a crowded Chatswood car park with my skirt blown up and pink floral undies on full display - it's also so damn funny I couldn't resist.

I failed my P's test today.

And wait. Because that's not the funny part. I mean, I know what you're thinking - how many people fail their P's tests every day? A dillion? Probably more than a dillion! Yeah, I agree with you there. But how many people fail their P's test before they've even left the garage underneath the RTA?
Probably not as many.
In fact, probably just one.
If you think about it though, it's really the RTA's fault. Who put that stop sign there? It's practically invisible. How am I expected to scan my surroundings, hit the accelerator, keep a firm hold on the steering wheel AND look for hidden stop signs at the same time? What do they take me for, a GOOD driver?
Other than the hidden stop sign debacle, I think my favourite part was my reverse park. Mainly because (in contrast to the rest of the test) I totally freakin' rocked it. But also because it went something like this:

Dude: Okay, now what I'd like you to do is a reverse park behind this blue car.
Me: (Squinting) Blue car?
Dude: Yes, that blue car.
Me: You...you said blue car right?
Dude: Yes, (pointing) that blue car.
Me: (Feeling awkward) Sorry, but I don't think...
Dude: The blue car.
Me: (Slowing down next to a random grey car) This car?
Dude: I said the blue car, didn't I?
Me: But -
Dude: Here! Here, behind this BLUE car!
Me: Okay, geez!
(Insert perfect reverse park by me. Then, as I'm driving away...)
Dude: Oh, you know what? That car was actually grey. Sorry about that.

What. A dick.

It was one of those days where absolutely everything went wrong, only instead of getting all emo about it, I could only laugh at myself.
It was that bad.
No, okay, it wasn't that bad. It was worse. Do you know how many things can go wrong if you happen to work in a hairdresser? And do you know how many MORE things can go wrong if you happen to work in a hairdresser and be the kind of girl who does stuff like accidentally stab herself in the hand with a coathanger?
So I was working at Mosman again today. They've been 'borrowing' me from Lane Cove for the past week on account of half their regular apprentices quitting and the other half being 11 months pregnant. Or something. But yeah, Mosman. And all I have to say is, after today I'm guessing they won't be inviting me back. Ever. Oh, maybe if a freak round of Bird Flu passes through the Toni&Guy Academy and kills every apprentice in Sydney except for me (because I don't know, maybe I wasn't at the Academy that day. Plus there is that whole theory I have about being half-alien and therefore immune to weak human diseases like Bird Flu). Maybe then they'll invite me back. Until then though, I'll just be remembered as That Girl Who Spilt Hair Dye On A Clients Face One Day.
Black Hair Dye.
What's with me? Why am I such an idiot? I don't know. I guess it's just one of life's great mysteries. Like, 'why do people keep making movies out of Nicholas Sparks novels?'. There is no answer.
Of course not everything that went wrong today was my fault. I can't be blamed for what happened with the bathroom floor. That was simply due to the horribly filthy excuse for a mop I found behind the washing machine and was expected to use. It was ancient. It was historic. I'm pretty sure the hair stuck to the bottom of this mop once belonged to the old lady from Titanic. And I was supposed to use this thing? On the bathroom floor? It was like trying to clean the wax out of your ear with a used tampon - unaffective, unappealing, and I was fighting to the urge to vomit from every orifice of my body the entire time.

More Cushion For The Pushin'

Ah.
First off, sorry for being such an Absent Blogger lately. If you know me (and my blog) then you'll be aware of my disdain for people who post less than once a fortnight or so - and now I am one of them. Well, almost. Well, not really, especially considering the massive influx of blogging I went through before this brief hiatus. Get off my freakin' back about the whole blogging thing! is basically what I'm trying to say.

Anyway.

The following photograph was recently brought to my attention:
In case the red shirt threw you, let me help you out - that's Wentworth Miller. Future Fiance/Husband/Provider Of Lots Of Sex And Babies To Jacki Trew. He sure has come a long way since the first season of Prison Break:
I hear tattoo removal is a bitch.
Anyway, I'm not usually one to blog about celebrity gossip, but after seeing this photo (and hearing words like chubby and porky being thrown around) I just gotta say it:

More Cushion For The Pushin'

That's all. And yes, I am aware that sounds completely disgusting. I'm okay with it.

On a brief sidenote, my next-door-neighbours recently started the house renovations they've had in the plans for about 4 years now. They conveniently decided to temporarily relocate during the building, leaving the rest of the neighbourhood to deal with asscrack-baring builders who think it's appropriate to start using jackhammers and singing AC/DC at 7 in the morning. FYI guys, it's not. The silver lining though, is that one of them is extremely hot/tanned/fond of wandering around the roof with no shirt on. I'm not calling myself a perve or anything, just saying that lately I've found myself making constant excuses to 'get something from the car', or 'check whether or not the mail has arrived'. In a totally normal, civilised, non-creepy way of course. Well, as normal, civilised and non-creepy as one can be while undressing someone with their eyes. The point is, if you're feeling low and looking for a pick-me-up, there's a shirtless one sitting on my neighbours roof. Entry is free.