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.