Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Steaks, Razors and Irish People

A few things I forgot to post about earlier:


Yesterday afternoon we had our work Christmas party at Hurricanes in Darling Harbour.
Try and get me to stop talking about Christmas for the next two weeks, I dare you.  Anyway, it was pretty awesome.  Has anyone been to Hurricanes in Darling Harbour before?  It was great!  And for a moderately-sized restaurant, they had a surprising amount of storage space.  I mean, I am assuming.  Only because there were at least 65 people in there at one time, and ALL of them appeared to be ingesting at least half a cow each.  65 people x half a cow...maths was never my strong suit, but thats a fair few cows, right?  I didn't even hear any mooing.
In case you hadn't gathered so yet, Hurricanes is a steakhouse.  And when I say 'steakhouse', I mean it - they actually MAKE you wear paper bibs while you eat the food.  I couldn't tell if this was to protect the precious table linen or just so the wait staff could get a kick out of seeing us all dressed as toddlers, but I enjoyed it regardless.  There is something oddly liberating about wearing a bib and eating with your hands.  I felt like a caveman, only better dressed.  And I don't know of any cavemen who owned mobile phones that could remind you to buy milk on the way home.

Now, what next?

I had a moment of brilliance in Coles last Thursday night.
We checked out on Monday morning, but it wasn't until about Wednesday that I realised I'd left my razor in our room at the Shangri-La after last weekend.  Dammit!  Sigh.  You are welcome, next people to stay in suite 1907.  I know, I'd never seen a purple Schick before either.  Pretty cool, huh? 
Anyway.  As annoying as this was, the silver lining was that it meant I'd have to get myself to the shops and buy a new razor.  And when you are as ridiculous as me, getting to buy a new razor is tantamount to, um, you know, winning the lottery.  The only thing I find more exciting than buying a new razor is buying a new toothbrush, but I'm not gonna spend too long talking about that because once I start I probably won't be able to stop.  I know this is crazy, but I can't help it.  Something about toiletries (especially those that come in bright colours with reflective packaging) just drives me to ecstacy.  But back to the story at hand.
As a grown woman who has been shaving her legs at least once a week (maybe less in winter) for the last 7 or 8 years, I've bought a fair number of razors in my time.  And you know one thing I've always noticed?  Guys razors are WAY better than girls.  They last longer, they're more durable, the blades are sharper, there are more blades...ladies am I right?  I can hear 90% of you agreeing with me.  The other 10% have obviously never borrowed their friends brothers Gilette Mach on a camping trip when they were 13 years old and used it to shave their armpits.  FYI, that was the smoothest 4 days of my life.
So, you can probably guess where this story is headed.  Yes, I went into Coles to get a new razor.  And yes, I decided to get a guys one.  What?  There was nothing to lose!  If it turned out to be good, I could spread the word and tell my friends and we'd all have the nicest legs this side of Uluru.  If it turned out to be bad?  Well, whatever, I could just pretend I'd bought it as a really strange welcome home present for Richie.  So...how did it turn out, I hear you asking?  I'll let my legs answer that for me.
Alright, moving on.

I had a cab driver the other day ask me if I was Irish.
And I get that this is probably not too exciting for normal people.  I mean, I have a co-worker who's Polish, a best friend who's English/Dutch, and a Jordan who'd supposedly be in line for the Scottish royal thrown if they still had one...but I'm Australian, and that's it.  My ancestors came over on the convict ship for stealing loaves of bread, decided they liked it, and never left.  When someone suggests that there might be the tiniest hint of a foreigner in me, I get excited dammit!  It's exciting!!  Maybe a little too much...

Cab Driver: So, have you had a good afternoon?
Me: Yeah it was great, and you?
Cab Driver:  Not too bad.  (pause)  Are you Irish?
Me: Sorry?
Cab Driver: Are you Irish?
Me: No.  (switching to an Irish accent) Why, do I sound Irish?
Cab Driver: No, you have Irish features.

My favourite thing about this conversation was the last part.  See, because what he said was 'No, you have Irish features', but it really sounded more like 'You're a fucking moron'.  Erroneous!  I do a great Irish accent.  And 'Irish features'?  I googled that shit, and here's what I got:
  • Red hair
  • Blue eyes
  • Freckles
My personal appearance couldn't be any further from the Irish truth: Brown hair, brown eyes, pale lips, no freckles.  Boring!  Why do you think I have so many piercings and tattoos?  Just trying to spice things up a little.  Of course on the other hand, my cab driver probably wasn't referencing my personal appearance at all, and might have just been commenting on my drinking ability (which, admittedly, is on par with the Irish).  To which I say cheers, mate.  I'll definitely drink to that.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Happy New Year, Cope Street!!

I don't wanna seem like I'm, you know, a massive brag, but my life is pretty awesome at the moment.  Pretty flippin' awesome.  Not flipping.  Flippin'.  With an N.  How you like me now, English teachers?  The answer to that question is 'We don't like you at all, you illiterate moron'.

So Christmas in two weeks, huh?  I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet.  Woops!  Sorry.  You'll have to excuse me for having a full time job and a life!  I'm kidding of course.  The real reason I haven't done any shopping yet is because I am too lazy and too poor.  You are all getting hugs for Christmas.  As long as you initiate them. 
Christmas shopping is hard, especially if - like me - you are a complete moron.  I keep thinking of stuff to buy for my Dad, going to the shops to pick it up, and then forgetting what it is.  So I go home.  Then I remember again.  So I go to the shops, but by the time I get there, I've forgotten.  Home.  Remember.  Shops.  Forget.  Home.  Remember.  Shops.  Forget.  God dammit!  Dad, you owe me a $70 petrol voucher. 
The one thing I definitely have enough energy for this holiday season is Alex and I buying our very first tree as a married couple.  I mean, um, as completely platonic room-mates.  I love Christmas trees.  I love everything about them - the smell, the lights, the decorations, the presents underneath...and most of all, the fact that at the end of January when it's dead and brown and smells like the inside of a ski-boot, I can throw it over my balcony and completely inconvenience all our dickhead neighbours.  Happy New Year, Cope Street!!
When I was still living at home, the whole Christmas-Tree-Decoration phase of the holiday was always left up to me.  Mum, Dad and Catherine would literally leave me at home by myself for 4 to 6 hours in order to do it.  Of course, what I really mean by 'leave me at home by myself' is 'I kicked them out so they wouldn't get in my way'.  This might seem cruel, but it was really in the best interest of Christmas.  My sisters method to tree decorating is similar to the fashion in which a blind person might assemble a pavlova - you can see that she's trying, but in the end we just wind up with raspberries and meringue everywhere.  As for my parents, well, they aren't much better.  I'm convinced my Dad thought tinsel was actually edible at one point.  Really, it was just safer for me to take care of the whole thing, and I was more than happy to do it.  The only problem is that now I've moved out, and they have no choice but to do it themselves - a thought that fills me with equal parts terror and amusement.  It's the same emotion I experience when I let myself think about the idea of Santa Clause for too long.  I mean, how do YOU feel about a fat guy and his pet deer breaking into your house at 2 in the morning?
Oh, hey.  Hello.  So I was standing around at work just now, looking bored, feeling bored, and thinking Hey..you know what I haven't done in a really long time?  Blogged.
Then I thought,
Wow.  That's kind of depressing.
Then I thought,
I wish I had more time to blog.
Then I thought,
Well...I'm not really doing anything right now..
Then I thought,
But I'm at work, so I should probably be working.
Then I thought,
Then again, I have been working ALL morning.
Then I thought,
I could probably get fired though.

Then there was a massive pause.

...

Then I thought,
Fuck it.  Let's blog.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Cruise, Marry, Shag

In upsetting news, the computer I saved every completed chapter of my book on is now refusing to function.  Like, at all.  Fuck!  Sorry to swear, I know that's just pointless.  What I really mean to say is Hey!  Are There Any Computer Experts Out There Willing To Help?  I Will Totally Pay You In Sexual Favours And/Or Mention You In The Acknowledgements Page If I Ever Get Published!
Kidding About The Sexual Favours!
Except Not Really!

The only positive thing about this whole situation is that it's 100% typically, well, me, and exactly the kind of story I'll add to the chapter I'm tentatively calling 'Technology, And The Ways In Which Computers Have Fucked Up My Life'. 
So at least there's that to be thankful for.

You know what's really annoying about Grey's Anatomy?  Everything.  No, I'm only joking, it's a great show.  All I'm saying is that it might be kind of nice for Meredith to shut her freakin' trap every once in a while.  'Oh, woe is me, I'm a hot doctor who's married to another hot doctor, and I always have perfect hair even after a 10 hour surgery'.  I NEVER have perfect hair, and the only contact I've ever had with a hot doctor was during my last sexual fantasy about Chris Havel from Offspring.  Screw you, Meredith.  Ooh, good question:  Who would you rather have?  Chris Havel from Offspring or McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy
Speaking of ridiculously hot celebrities, and the insane notion that I will EVER have my choice of ANY of them...Jordan, Alex and I spent a good portion of last Wednesday night playing a little game some of you may have heard of called Shoot, Shag or Marry.  At least thats my version.  You know, where someone names 3 people and you have to choose which one you'd shoot, which one you'd have sex with, and which one you'd marry?  Alex prefers Cruise, Marry, Shag, where instead of getting to shoot someone, you have to take a year long cruise and spend every waking minute of it with them.  This version is especially painful when the combination of names is something like Mickey Rourke, Arnold Schwarznegger, and Jack Nicholson Playing The Joker in Batman
Or, Fat Bastard, Kermit The Frog and Hook-Weilding Serial Killer From I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Or, The Jonas Brothers.
...
At least if we'd been playing MY version, someone would have had the option of shooting Kevin Jonas in the face.  No offence, Kevin.  I'm totally against the use of guns, I really am.  It's just that your face annoys the shit out of me.  Regardless, it was a pretty fun night.  We drank, we played, we drank, we played, I think I started dancing at one point, we drank...and before any of us knew what was happening, it was 1:30 in the morning and 6 hours before Jordan had to get up for work, so the three of us turned off the lights and went to bed like good little children and nothing else happened, nothing at all.

Unless you count the orgy.

Kidding, Mum!  There was no orgy.  Technically, I don't think 3 people even counts as an orgy.  Oh my God, why am I still talking about orgys?  I need more sleep.  Talk to you guys later.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

iPhone Home

And now for your entertainment, I will blog about a little incident I've come to refer to as The Saturday Night I Got Hammered And Lost My Phone.  My mates Robbie, Madi and Julia and Jordan probably have their own version of this story locked away for the grandkids: The Saturday Night I Got Hammered And Lost Jacki.  Whatever.  All I can give you is the clearest account from a brain soaked in Jim Beam and Red Bull...


This actually happened about 2 weeks ago, and I can't believe I haven't posted about it yet.  One of the reasons is that I am an idiot.  Another is that I don't actually have a computer or internet connection of my own, so the chances I actually get to blog are few and far between.  Yes, that is a hint that I would like you to give me a laptop for Christmas.  Lets get back to the story though, because it's a good one.  It was Saturday night and Alex had plans with Richie, so I decided to meet Madi and Robbie for a couple of drinks at the Longy.  Of course, it was SATURDAY night, and it was Madi and Robbie, so what I really mean by 'a couple of drinks' is 'how does my liver still function?'.  I think I got to the pub at about 8pm.  At around 10:30, we decided to catch a cab over to Mega for a bit of dancing.  Here is a visual representation of my behavior during those two-and-a-half hours:
A few drinks later...
And eventually Jordan arrived to find this:
Actually what I think I had said was 'LET'S GET TATTOOS!', but since nobody else was keen for that, we decided on dancing as a consolation activity.  In hindsight, that was probably a good call.
So we left and headed to Mega.  Here's what happened when we got there:
Bouncer: (peering into my face) How many drinks have you had?
Me: (pausing for like 8 minutes to gather my thoughts) Um.  Like, four.
Bouncer:  Okay, you're in.



...What?  I have no idea.  There are only two possible reasons I can think of that this guy actually let me into Mega that night:
1) He was high as a kite
2) One of my boobs was showing.
I really don't wanna think about which one of those is more likely.  Nor do I want to think too much about Mega, where I'm pretty sure I did nothing but drink tequila and make an idiot out of myself on the dancefloor.  Luckily this was Mega, so pretty much everyone was drinking tequila and making an idiot out of themselves on the dancefloor, but still.  I think I was there for about two hours before I (along with the bar staff) decided enough was enough and jumped in a cab.


Here's where the story gets interesting.


My memory of the night from here is pretty average.  I got in the cab and gave the driver my Mum's address.  Why?  I have no idea.  I think maybe that last shot of tequila had caused me to forget that I don't actually live there anymore.  I got to my Mum's house, dropped all my shit in the kitchen, ate a piece of toast and texted Madi that I was drunk as a skunk and decided to go home.  I think that was the point that I looked around myself and realised that I was in the wrong house.  I called another cab, got them to drop me at the apartment, crawled up the stairs and went to bed.  Boring, right?
Now here is the night according to everyone else:
After kindly being asked by the doorman at Mega to make my way home, I was snatched off the street by a Peruvian murderer who somehow stole my phone and texted all my friends that I was 'fine', when really he was taking me back to his house to make me his love slave.  After that, I didn't answer my phone despite being repeatedly called by everyone for the next 3 hours, and was almost officially considered 'missing', until finally I rang everyone back the next morning (from the LANDLINE in my PARENTS house), to inform them that yes I was fine, no I was not being held captive, yes I felt like an idiot, and no I did not know the current location of my mobile phone.
Gutted.
After trying all the obvious stuff (calling it, calling Mum, calling the cab company, crawling around the apartment carpark on my hands and knees), I finally succumbed to the realisation that my beloved phone was gone, and I was going to have to get myself up to Chatswood and purchase a new one.  Talk about an inconvenience.  I mean on the plus side, my previous contract was up anyway, and Optus had promised to give me one of those fancy new iPhones if I chose to renew with them.  But then on the minus side, fuck that!  I lost all my music and photos and contacts, and if you know anything about me, you'd know that I'm certainly not the kind of girl who could give two frozen fucks about a fancy new iPhone.  Sorry for swearing, but it sucked.  I'm over it now, of course.  Have you actually used one of those iPhones?  That Siri thing?  Where you can just hold a button and ask it any question, and it talks back to you?  I swear to God, being able to (jokingly) ask my phone for oral pleasure almost makes up for this whole mess.
Almost.


So that's the story of how I got hammered and lost my phone.  I hope you enjoyed it.  And just so you know, yes, I am still holding onto the hope that my original phone is out there somewhere.  It's an iPhone 3 with a bright purple cover that answers to the name 'Jacki's original phone', so if you find it, please bring it back to me.  As a reward, I will ask the Siri on my new phone to give you oral pleasure.

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

Good afternoon, Sydney-siders.  And good evening to a Mr Richard Snowden, who is currently holidaying in San Francisco, and who I promised I would mention on my blog at least once.  Hi Richie!  How you doing?  I hope you and the boys are having fun, and that you aren't missing home too much, and that the weather over there is as delightful as what we're enjoying in Sydney.  Because it's freakin' hot.  How hot?  Freakin' hot.  HOW hot??
That's about as close a visual equivalent as I can give you....(because I didn't have any pictures of Hugh Jackman).


So Kim Kardashian's divorce, huh?  Yes, I am talking about it on my blog.  My stocks on Google just went way up!  Now all you have to do is sift through 18-and-a-half million other pages before you find me!  In all seriousness though, it really is very sad.  72 days?  The woman could only last 72 days?  On the plus side, my Dad has since become almost hopelessly addicted to reruns of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and if there is a funnier situation to witness than that...well, it's not one I know about.  Still.  72 days?  If I were a real Richard Cranium, I'd probably say something about how it's kind of her own fault for internationally broadcasting the whole thing on a shit TV channel like E!.  I mean, she could have at least pushed for the Oxygen network.  I'm nicer than that though, so I'll say nothing.   Let's go for something completely different.
BREAKING NEWS: ALEX AND I HAVE A NEW APARTMENT MASCOT
Shit.  I know.  Try to contain your excitement as I unleash said mascot upon the world...

We call him Little Lincoln.  I think it's pretty obvious why.  The resemblance is, after all, uncanny:

The only difference is that Little Lincoln's doors don't actually open, and there aren't 6 dillion parking tickets on the passenger's side floor.  Other than that though.  Uncanny!!
Now.
What else can I bore you with?  I got nothing.  Here is a great song:

See ya next week!

The Watermelon Theory

I'm a little confused about a saying I heard the other day.  Maybe you guys can help me out.

RED SKY AT NIGHT, SHEPHERDS DELIGHT.
RED SKY IN THE MORNING, SHEPHERDS WARNING.

Don't get me wrong, I've heard this one before.  When Catherine and I were younger, our Mum was always trying to impart wisdom via some ridiculous rhyming sentence.  The Red Sky thing was one of her favourites.  That, and One More Tantrum And I Will Kick The Crap Out Of You.
...
Sometimes they didn't exactly rhyme.
Anyway, my problem is that I can't remember the meaning of the second line.  Shepherd's warning?  Warning against what?  I wouldn't normally ask, except that when I woke up at 5am this morning to pee, the sky was as red as a sunburnt bum on Christmas.  Something's coming, was my first thought.  Followed closely by my second, which read something along the lines of...Sunburnt bum on Christmas?  I need to stop drinking.

Speaking of Christmas, tell me what you want because I am writing my list.  I don't care how expensive it is, or how close we are - just tell me what you want and it's yours.  Provided it costs less than 50 bucks and I at least like you a little bit.  If you're not sure on that last part, a good way to judge is by answering this question:
Have I Ever Thrown A Watermelon At Your Head Before?
If you answered no, you can probably expect a Christmas present from me.
If you answered yes...I wouldn't hold your breath.
I call this The Watermelon Theory.  I plan on using the same system to cull extra guests from my wedding invitation list, seeings as it's basically foolproof.  The only person who lives in exception to the rule is my older sister Catherine.  I have thrown a watermelon at her head before, but she's also you know...my sister.  And as everyone knows, family trumps assault with an over-sized summer fruit.  Every time.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Plain Red Door

So in other news, my Mother is crazy and thinks there is a brothel in Lane Cove now.
Wha - ?  Sigh.  I can't even be bothered to deal with this sort of thing right now.  Does anyone else have parents this nutty?  At least I know for sure that I'm not adopted, but still.  Really, Ma?  Lane Cove Brothel is not something I want to have on my internet search history. 

I regret ever teaching her how to use an iPhone.

So, this brothel.  (Why not, right?  I've already been talking about it for a paragraph).  Is it real?  Anyone?  According to my Mum, the entrance is a plain red door on the street, somewhere between Toni&Guy and the Two Dollar shop on Longueville Road.  This is disturbing to me for 2 reasons:
1) I've worked at that Toni&Guy for the better half of 18 months and I've never seen any such door. 
2) Now I can never paint my front door red
It's true, I've never seen this door.  Not that I've been looking or anything, but you'd think I might notice some queer red door in the middle of a busy suburban street.  Nope.  Are my peripherals really that bad?  The answer to that question is 'Yes.  You almost got hit by a bus yesterday.  Again.' 
Let's talk about the rugby.

Yes, I know about sports!  One thing most people don't know about me is that I was well on my way to becoming an Olympic sports commentator before I changed direction and decided to become a receptionist.  I thought it was a better use of my talents.  Plus, the pay is infinitely better.
So, the semi-finals on Sunday.  Of course we all knew the Kiwi's would dominate, but did it have to be so...brutal?  It was bad.  Not just because of the loss, but also because I was watching it with my sister Catherine, and she kept comparing every Australian misfortune on the field to anal rape:

(New Zealand recieves another penalty)Catherine: What?!  We're getting raped out there!!

(Australia fumbles the ball)
Catherine: Oh, fuck me in the ass!

(I come back from the bathroom and ask for an update)
Catherine: There's a penis in the bottom of every Australian in the world right now.

Calm down, ya Navy freak!
Anyway, we lost.  Luckily for me, I'm not that invested in this particular game; if Geelong had gone down to Collingwood in the AFL Grand Final 2 weeks ago, I would have set my apartment on fire.  But since this was only Union, I just punched a hole in the TV and threw my dog off a balcony.

Pretending I know anything about Rugby Union reminds me of an amusing anecdote from my high school days.  One day my friend Pat (who used to play for Riverview) turned up to my house with a broken arm.  What followed was what I like to call one of my 'Blonde Moments'.

Me: Pat, what happened to your arm?
Pat: A prop fell on me.
Me: Oh!  Are you in a play?

Think about it.  Think about it.
I am a moron.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Tourism In North Korea

Good morning, Sydney-siders!  It's a beautiful day to blog about North Korea, word?

Word!

For those of you who are new to this blog, there's a bit of background information you'll need to understand the following story:

1) I have an older sister named Catherine
2) Catherine is in the Navy
3) Catherine thinks I am a complete idiot
4) I am a complete idiot

Now let's begin.
So I was sitting at the kitchen table with Mum and Catherine last night about 11pm, discussing possible locations for Catherine's upcoming summer holiday.  Yes, like I said, Catherine is in the Navy - her biggest dilemma at the moment is having to choose between Thailand and Hawaii.  Not that I'm envious or anything; I will be spending my holiday sunbaking in our carpark. 
Anyway.
Somewhere between Phucket and Vanuatu and Hawaii and Fiji, the idea of Catherine holidaying in North Korea came up.  I can say with 100% honesty that I have no idea how this happened.  Alright.  That is a lie - I'm the one who brought it up.  I am an absolute blast at family gatherings.  After all, nothing says 'easy conversation' like 'the possibility of nuclear warfare and communism'.  So I piped up with my little suggestion for Catherine's holiday.  Then this brilliant piece of dialogue took place:

(silence)
Mum: North Korea?
Catherine: I'm pretty sure the Navy wouldn't actually let me travel to North Korea.
Me: Why not?
Catherine: It's too dangerous.
Me: Well you said that about Bali too, and we've ALL been there.
Catherine: Do I really have to explain the difference between Bali and North Korea to you?
Me: I'm just saying.  Quick trip to NK.  You know.  See the sights.
Catherine: See the sights?
Me: Every country has sights!
Catherine: I don't think North Korea has sights.
Me: They have to!  I mean, people live there, don't they?
Catherine: Yes.  But they're all dead.
Me: I'm googling Tourism In North Korea.
Catherine: Oh, my God.
Me: Shut your mouth!

(5 minutes later)

Me: You know, it doesn't seem like there's much tourism in North Korea.
Catherine: You're an idiot.

I love how every time I start a conversation with anyone in my family, it will invariably end up with the conclusion that I am an idiot:

Catherine: Do they have conscription in North Korea?
Mum: Yes I think so.
Catherine: That sucks.
Me: They used to have conscription here!
Catherine: Yeah and if anyone starts a war you can bet that'll be the first thing they bring back.
Me: Really?
Catherine: Uh huh.
Me: Well I've got nothing to worry about.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: I'm not getting conscripted.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: Well one, because I'm a woman.  And two, because I'm an idiot.

(pause)

Mum: You know, she's got a point.
Catherine: I wasn't going to even bother arguing.

Passed!

You might remember a few days ago, when I spoke about how my car was due for new registration?  Well as it turns out, registering a car isn't as easy as just paying the bill.  Not that that's even easy in my case, seeings as my bill was over $600, and I'm broke as a joke after spending all my money on vodka and facial piercings.
Kidding, Mum!
Anyway, before you even think about forking almost two weeks rent over to the sadistic bitches at AAMI, you have to undergo this whole 'Registration Check' thing to make sure the car is actually roadworthy.  Not a big deal.  Fortunately for me, my mechanic (having known Mum and Dad for years) is practically part of the family.  Unfortunately for me, my car looks like this:
The absence of front wheels can be a bit of a hinderance.  On the plus side though, I never have to deal with the inconvenience of opening a car door.
So anyway.  Long story short, I stayed at Mum and Dad's last night for dinner, and also because our mechanic is right across the road from their house and only performs rego checks between 7 and 8 o'clock in the morning.  Obviously, he is a crazy person.  Not just because of the whole 'early morning rego check' situation.  But also because by some miracle, he decided to pass my car for registration.  What?!    I can say with complete honesty I have no idea how that happened.  And I didn't stick around to find out; I just got the heck out of there before this dude realised my little Barrina was made out of cardboard and changed his mind.
'My Mechanic Is An Idiot', is what I'm calling this story.  Either that or, 'Show Enough Cleavage And You Can Get Whatever You Need'.

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Me again!
This is just blogging-out-of-boredom, by the way, so don't expect anything too groundbreaking.  I'm actually just killing time while my washing dries.  Nothing new to report.
Except, OH YEAH:
I'M GOING TO BE AN AUNTIE...AGAIN.
This is exciting news for everyone.  My brother, who's getting another son.  My Mum, who loves buying baby clothes.  My Dad, who is inundated with so many grandchildren he doesn't know what to do with himself.  And me!  Because who doesn't love being an auntie?  I believe the Oxford English Dictionary definition reads:

Auntie: All the advantages of an adorable new-born baby without having to deal with poo.

I'm not a fan of poo.  I'm not exactly what one might call 'kid friendly' either, but I will gladly choose a child over someone else's excrement any day of the week.

So what else?  The whole 'car' situation continues to weigh on my mind.  Last week I worked out that it was going to cost me around $1000 all up to keep the thing going.  Obviously, that sucks.  And it doesn't help that I knocked off my rear-vision mirror while reversing out of the carpark on Sunday morning.  Now, more than ever, I wish that the TV show Pimp My Ride was still in production.  If anyone who worked on that show is reading this right now, I implore you - bring back PMR.  Even if it's just for a special one-off episode, titled 'Pimp My Ride Downunder: When Idiot Australians Try To Drive'.  I'm not even asking for anything special.  They don't have to install subwoofers or a dashboard-candy-dispenser.  Maybe if they could just vacuum the boot and replace my windscreen wipers.  Or I can do that stuff, and Ludacris can pay my Greenslip for me.  Perhaps MTV should invent a show called Pimp My Insurance.

In other news...man, is my washing dry yet?  I'm running out of blog ammo.  I went to the gym today.  Yes, I still go to the gym.  You can't have double-door mirrors the size of the ones I have in my room and not be motivated to go to the gym.  There is no escaping my love handles.  Or as I like to call them, 'acquaintance' handles - they ain't love handles if nobody loves ya!

Sunday, October 02, 2011

The Fallback Plan

I'm interested to see how having an actual computer in our apartment will go.  Our internet reception is pretty shithouse.  What?  Yes.  You would think this to be annoying, but I disagree.  Slow internet reception has its perks:
1) It totally puts a lock on my drunk internet shopping habit.  And
2) Having the archives page on my blog load so slowly kind of makes me feel famous.  Right?  Because so many people are trying to look at it?  Right?  There's no clearer indication of fame than a slow-loading archives page.  I'm just thinking of all those die-hard fans trying to read what I posted about men's underwear doubling as pajama pants back in 2009.  Man, I'm good.

Alright, topic change.
Can someone tell me what time it is?  The only clock I have in the house is my iPhone, and I don't know if it has the technology to update itself or not.  Fuck, I hate daylight saving.
Ahh, daylight saving, huh?  It's that time of year again.  I suppose it's a fairly simple process when you explain it, but daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around.  Most people know this.  Probably because I announce it every year.  "Daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around", I will say.  I'm paraphrasing.  Usually it's more like "I'm losing an hour of sleep tonight?  What the fuck?"
Anyway.
Like any person who is socially retarded, if there is something in this world that confuses me, I will try to strike up a conversation about it with as many people as possible.  I can hear you wondering if this ever goes well for me.  The answer is yes.  Except on days ending in 'y'.  Still, I have fun with it.  This is where having a job at a hairdresser comes in handy.  I see 8 dillion people a day, and I get to have the same conversation with all of them!  I know.  Leaving this job is going to be pretty hard.

Speaking of leaving my job...While I realise that's going to have to happen eventually, I'm at a bit of a loss as to what I'll do next.  I'm not one of these people whos greatest ambition in life is to have a career.  I'd like to dabble in a little of everything.  Within reason; obviously I won't be getting any work as say, a doctor.  Not until I finish watching the entire ER series box set.  I've got a lot of experience making coffee; maybe I could be a professional barrista.  My coffee's not that great though, so probably not.  I think it's my general lack of, um, skills that's holding me back.  I saw this motivational poster the other day that read something along the lines of...

IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING!

No offence to Mr Motivation, but I respectfully disagree.  Really?  I believe in myself, and I can't do shit!
Wow, that was a poor choice of phrasing.  Anything.  I can't do anything.  Anything.
...
I'm not constipated.

Anywho.  All I can say, is thank God for my fallback plan, which has been the same thing since I was about 16.  It was around that time that I began to feel an inkling of my future as a talentless hack.  Way to go, 16-year-old me!  Could have been a psychic!  Also a lie.  If I actually had any psychic abilities, I might have been able to see that half the haircuts I've had in my lifetime weren't going to work out.

You know what I always thought would be fun?  Hosting a radio show.  I'm pretty unrealistic about it; I assume it's all fun and games and music and getting paid $17 million to take a 'gap year'.  But I definitely have a face for radio, which I'm sure will mean more to Nova or 2dayFM than any university degree.  Wait, scratch that.  I probably couldn't work for 2dayFM on account of them already having a Jacki on staff.  Even if she does spell her name with an e.  Maybe I could start my own radio station; all Queen hits, all the time.  With the occasional Journey song thrown in.  And sound bites of me reading excerpts from my own blog.  If I got to pick my own co-host, it would have to be either the dude who played Sandy Cohen on The OC, or Hugh Jackman.  Sandy seems like a chilled out guy, plus he's got great eyebrows.  Jackman would just sit in silence and give me something pretty to look at.
I also feel like I could probably do well on a reality show.  I've blogged about this before, but it's still true.  I've even got a sales pitch: a show where I sit on a couch getting drunk, watch a bunch of movies, and do the commentary for them.  Hilarious!  If Alex and Richie think it is, so will the rest of Australia.  I can't even tell you how much they enjoyed watching the last Lord of the Rings film with me.
Now that's a motivational poster I can get on board with.

Anyway, what was I talking about?  Oh, the fallback plan.  Foolproof.  So, when I'm done with hosting radio and starring on MTV - or on the off chance that whole doctor thing doesn't work out - I'll be moving to Panama and opening my own fruit shop.  I know, I know, I'm an idiot.  Whatever.  You'll all miss me when I'm gone.

Total Weirdo Magnet

Wow, another blog already?  You are welcome, Universe.  Feel free to send me $88 in the mail as a thankyou present.  I got a parking ticket yesterday and I'm poor as shit.

I can't really think of how to start this post, so I guess I'll just start typing and see where it takes me.  I just chugged a whole bottle of water in one go and I've kind of got the huge 'water baby' faux-pregnancy belly thing going on.  It's pretty distracting.  But here goes:
Oh!  Happy Birthday Richie!  For yesterday.  You are now 22 and that's pretty old, but you're way younger than both my parents.  Feel good about that.
So last night (both in celebration of Richie's birth, and Geelong's crushing victory over Collingwood in the AFL grand final), a bunch of us went to Cabana.  Good times.  Great times, actually.  They have this cocktail on the menu called a 'Jimmy Chew'.  Clever, no?  See what they did there?  Because Jimmy Choo is a brand of shoes loved by women all over the world?  And they changed it to Chew because...wait, actually, I'm kind of unclear on that.  Can anyone else explain this?  Chew?  Regardless, it was a great cocktail.  My favourite part of the night, though, was calling a cab to get there.  It went something like this:

Guy: Taxis Combined, how can I help you?
Me: Hey, I just want to book a ta-
Guy: Heeeyyy, Jacki!

(What?  How does this dude know my name?  I had no idea.  I just went with it.)

Me: Yeah!
Guy: Where are you?
Me: Uhhh, Lane Cove.  In Cope Street.
Guy: And where you going, girl?

(...Girl?)

Me: St Leonards, please.  Cabana Bar.
Guy: Ooh, Cabana.  Is that good?
Me: Yeah, sure.
Guy: You must be thirsty.
Me: ...??

(I don't know.  "??".  That's what the silence sounded like.)

Guy: Okay, so you want to go now?
Me: Yep.
Guy: Alright.  And I'll organise a special text, just for you.  Wink.

(Not kidding.  He actually said 'wink'.)

Me: Thanks.
Guy: Have a good night, sexy.
Me: I will.  And maybe we can meet up later.
Guy: Oh yeah?  Sure!
Me: I've got your number.  133 300, right?
Guy: You got it.
Me: Great.  Can't wait to kick you in the balls for being such a nutjob.

I made up some of that last part, but still.  What?!  Weirdest cab booking ever, only cementing my theory that I am the strongest 'abnormal cab driver' magnet in the universe.  This was almost as bad as the time my cabbie tried to get me to smoke weed with him on the way home.  True story.  I know!  I told you - total weirdo magnet.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Baby Talk

Children are interesting to me.  On the one hand, I'm not that great with them; I can't do baby talk, and the idea of me actually giving birth to anything not resembling the spawn of satan is pretty laughable.  But on the other hand...
Awwwww!
I don't imagine myself with kids.  It's not that I don't like them or whatever - I have plenty of friends that I can easily envision with the whole 'Grown Up' scenario.  You know; husband, twins, house in the suburbs.  And I'm always there too, as the crazy aunt who gets drunk on Christmas.  Alex and Richie are one couple who know this is in the cards for them.  I've already reserved a bedroom in their hypothetical-future-mansion.

The baby talk thing is a real issue with me.  I didn't even do baby talk when I was a baby.  True story.  Ask my Mum.  Apparently I went from sucking my thumb in silence to full-blown conversations.  I don't know.  I imagine it went something like this:

Mum: Baisy, can you say Mama?  Mama?
Me: (Blank stare)
Dad: How about Dada?  Can you say Dada??
Me: (Blank stare)
Catherine: Can she say my name?
Me: Will you three get out of my face?  I'm six days old.  God damn.

Hey!  In other exciting news, we got a new candle for the bathroom.  Finally, I can take showers in the dark again.  Washing my hair has never been so romantic.  Plus it's a scented candle, which only makes everything more enjoyable.  As if Alex and I didn't already have the most desirable apartment in the Lane Cove area.  We haven't actually had our housewarming yet, so feel free to consider this your official invitiation:

I need to start inviting people over more often.
Actually.
I'm almost convinced this is the reason I'm still single.  If more men saw the inside of my house and how awesome it is, they'd probably be able to look past my love of disco music, obsession with Freddie Mercury, lack of career direction, terrible dance moves and addiction to all-things-caffinated.  Line up, gentlemen!  If you can deal with the crazy thing, I'm really not a hard woman to please.  I don't need a diamond ring.  Just stock the fridge with Red Bull and don't expect me to have kids.
Home and Away has been really depressing lately.  That's pretty much all I got.  Yes, I still watch Home and Away.  Is that totally lame?  Kiss my ass.

So my week was actually coming along quite nicely until yesterday afternoon.  Work was busy, it had stopped raining, my hair was doing that thing where it doesn't resemble a birds nest full of old snakes...and then:
Lucky I'm with AAMI?  I respectfully disagree:
Is it totally stupid and irresponsible to post pictures of personal insurance bills on the internet?  I don't care.  I'm too busy crying into my cereal at the idea of having to give up my beloved car.  Dude.  DUDE.  This sucks.  Who knew car insurance could cost so much?  So what if I'm 21!  This is where the whole AAMI car insurance thing really annoys me; the part where they just assume that everyone under the age of 50 is a shit driver.  Hello?  My Dad is over 50 and way more reckless behind the wheel than I am.  Where do you think I learned it?  My Mum seems to think the inflated bill price has less to do with my age, and more to do with the fact that I single-handedly caused a 3-car accident on the way home from the airport one morning.  Whatever!  That was almost a YEAR ago!  And TOTALLY not my fault!
Alright, maybe a little bit.  I maintain that the driving instructors at L Trent need to focus less on actual driving skills, and put more emphasis on the fact that texting on the highway is never a good idea.  I probably wouldn't have tried it otherwise!
(Yes, I am an idiot).
Anyway.  Yes, this whole situation blows, but never fear.  I'm probably not going to have to sell my car.  My plan is to pay my insurance and registration bills at the same time and then quit eating for 6 months.  I may also have to rent out my room and start sleeping in a cardboard box on the balcony.  It's called priorities, people!

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

Good Hair Day

Has anyone else been watching the new season of Underbelly?  Have I already talked about this?  Can't remember.  But yeah, Underbelly.  Or if we're being technical about it, Underbelly Razor.  Awesome.  I love that just because it's set in Sydney, I have this weird connective feeling about the whole thing; like it's my personal claim to fame.  Forget that I'm in no way actually related to any of the characters, all of whom lived a good 80 years before I was even born. 
Sydney! 
Sydney! 
It's my claim to fame!
This is exactly the same kind of thing I feel about stuff like the Matrix movies, and Baz Luhrmann.  I know it's ridiculous.  And I don't care.  Besides, I'm pretty sure Baz Luhrmann checks my blog on a daily basis.

So what else was I going to talk about?

I had this dream the other night about a pot plant being run over by a truck.  Which would have been just as boring as it sounds, except that the pot plant was alive - like, it had a face and everything - AND was best friends with one of the guys I work with.  What?  I have no idea.  As in real life I progress into adulthood, my dreams only seem to be getting more child-like.  Hello, irony!  I can only assume this has something to do with my meth addiction.  Kidding, Mum!  Actually I have no idea what this is about.  And what else is new?  If being crazy was an Olympic sport, just about the only thing that could knock my dreams out of first place would be my hair.  Russell Brand knows what I'm talking about.
Speaking of meth addictions, we were at the pub the other day when some woman came up to me and started talking about her ex-boyfriend and his drug habit.  Whaaaat?  I love people like this, because they provide all situations with a 94% chance of becoming awkward.
94%.
That's a real statistic.
Anyway, as everyone who knows me knows, I am a huge fan of awkwardness; I thrive on it.  So imagine my delight at discovering someone who can give it to me on a silver platter:

Woman:  Hi.  Mind if I sit here?
Me: Oh no, go ahead.
Woman.  Thanks.  Nice day, huh?
Me: Yeah.  Yeah, nice.
(Pause)
Woman: So, my ex-boyfriend was addicted to ice.

Not even kidding.
NOT EVEN KIDDING.
Alright, so I'm kind of kidding.  She sat with us for about 10 minutes before the ice-addiction thing came up.  But it was still awkward!  Let's be honest, the topic of ice addiction is always gonna be kind of awkward.  There's really no other way to spin it:

Woman: So, my ex-boyfriend was addicted to ice.
Me: Oh...that's a shame.  But you know what, I bet he had a great personality.

Fail.

BLACKOUT, 2011

First of all, let's pretend it's still Sunday so I can say Happy Father's Day to all the Dads in the world.  Especially mine, because he is superior to all others in like, 9 different ways.  Hey - he created me and Catherine, didn't he?
Good job, Papa.

So today is probably going to be one of those days where I ramble on about nothing.  Kind of like every other day.  The only reason I'm warning you now is that I just had a second champagne brunch with my parents and watched Jersey Shore, and I think I'm a little drunk.  So prepare yourselves for that.
Oh!  You know what exciting event happened this week?
BLACKOUT, 2011!
This is the first time we've had a real blackout in our apartment since moving in.  Yes, I have been waiting for it.  There was one night a few weeks back where I thought it might be happening, but that turned out to be a false alarm; I mean, who knew having the TV, stereo, DVD player, heater, fridge, kettle, kitchen lights and toaster all on at the same time could cause a fuse to blow?
I sure didn't.
The best part about BLACKOUT, 2011 was that it happened on Friday night at about 11:30pm.  When I just so happened to be home, alone, watching Fight Club.
Dude.
If this had happened ten years ago, 11-year-old-me probably would have offed herself just to avoid the Brad-Pitt-Serial-Killer-Lookalike she was sure had orchestrated the whole power failure and was now systematically moving through each apartment in the building, killing all in his path.  But 21-year-old-me?
Meh.
The only thing that really had me worried was that our fridge had turned off and all our food was going to spoil.  I got over that pretty quickly when I opened it and remembered all we actually have in there is alcohol and avocado dip.  Truthfully, I'm just glad it was me at home by myself when this happened, and not Alex.  Though a fearless woman in many ways, Alex is not a fan of the dark.  Which I get.  I totally get the whole "Scared Of The Dark" thing.  A cupboard is just a cupboard, right?  Right.  But turn off the lights, and you never know what might be hiding in there.  I personally am saved by the logic that, whatever weird and fucked up creature is lurking under the bed cannot be more weird and fucked up than me.  But I don't think that works for everybody.  So yeah, I get it, being scared of the dark.
This posed a dilemma though: Alex was at the pub with a few of her mates, and probably wouldn't get home until late.  Usually in this situation I would leave a light on (so she didn't have to fumble around in the dark), but tonight I obviously couldn't.  So what would be scarier for her?
a) Walking into a dark apartment completely alone, or
b) Finding me sitting in the dark waiting for her?
...
I was seriously stumped for like 15 minutes.  In the end I called my Mum for advice:

Mum: Hey Baisy, what's up?
Me: Oh hey Mum.  Quick question.  We're in the middle of a blackout right now, and I -
Mum: Are you alright?!
Me: Yeah, I'm fine, the serial killers haven't reached out apartment yet.
Mum: What?! What serial killers?  There's no serial killers!
Me: I know Mum, it was just a joke.
Mum: There's no serial killers!
Me: ...Anyway, I'm fine, but Alex isn't home yet and she's a bit scared of the dark.  So what do I do?
Mum: I don't know.  Why don't you send her a nice text?  And make sure to tell her again how much you loved the roast she made on Monday night.

Oh, SIDENOTE: I've never been a fan of roast dinners, but Alex made one earlier that week that was off the chain.  I made the mistake of telling Mum (who's roasts I'd always refused to eat) all about it.  Several times.  She's a bit jealous.

Me: Yeah, okay, but then what?  Do I wait in the dark like a weirdo or just go to bed?
Mum: Maybe...did you hear the thing I said about the roast dinner?
Me: (Sigh) Goodnight, Mother.

Honestly. 
And they think I'm the dramatic one?

Happy (Belated) Birthday

So it was my sister's birthday last Friday.  Happy Birthday, Catherine!  Your present is in the mail.  It's a box of dildos.
Kidding!
It's a box of condoms.  Hello, you're in the Navy and surrounded by men; I'm just being practical.
...
Could I be any more inappropriate?
Anyway, I had planned to write some crazed essay about Catherine and our family, and all the ways in which I am tormented by Catherine and our family, but then I realised I've already done that.  Last year.  Or was it the year before?  Regardless, you can all read it by clicking here, while I spend my time doing something more productive.  Like watching Offspring.
Happy Birthday!

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Awkward Apartment Moments, Volume 1

So I was watching that movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall at home the other day.  Remember that scene where they have really loud sex?
...
The walls of my apartment are, like, paper thin.  I can only assume that my neighbours have all come to the conclusion that I'm either watching porn, or starring in porn.  Not sure which is worse.

The Baby Whisperer

The genius of 8-year-old children is something that will never cease to amaze me.
...
Let me start from the beginning.
So I babysat the other night.  For the first time in roughly a dillion years.  Everyone's babysat before, right?  Okay maybe not the guys.  If you have a penis, you can disregard this.  Everyone's babysay before, right?  But it's really one of those things you do in highschool, when you need money but don't have time to get a real job.  Or when you actually don't mind being paid 10 dollars an hour.  Or when you're 16 and pregnant and practicing for when the real baby comes.
...That was never me, by the way.  I'm a 'happy-to-be-paid-minimum-wage' girl; always have been.
Anyway, where was I?
So I babysat the other night - mostly as a favour to an old friend of my Mum's who I can never seem to say no to on account of the fact that she's one of the very few acquaintances of my parents who will actually acknowledge me as Jacki Trew, rather than just The Less Successful Child Of Jane And Phillip.  Also I am broke as a joke and needed the cash.  But it was mainly the acknowledgement thing.
So it was Friday night.  Remember that night last week with all the rain and the wind and the insane amounts of traffic?  Yeah, Friday night.  Here is how many driving violations I made on the way there:
14
Kidding.  Actually it was only 5.  And I'm 80% sure that only 2 of them were my fault.  Luckily, once I got to the house, things improved.
...Well...kind of.
Does anyone else have one of those jobs that nobody understands?  I mean, does anyone else have one of those jobs that they spend 5 minutes describing only to have people go 'Ohhhh...*confused face*'
I have one of those jobs.
Which I totally get.  I get it.  I work in a hairdresser but I'm not a hairdresser.  I'm technically a receptionist but I also do apprentice tasks.  Do I want to work at T&G forever?  No.  But do I want to quit my job?  Hell no.  Like I say...I get it.  Some people think it's strange.  Sometimes I think it's strange.  But 8-year-old Grace...

Grace: So are you a hair cutter or a hair checker-inner?
Me: Um..a hair checker-inner.

Nailed it in 6 seconds.
I'm thinking that maybe I should reconsider my decision to never have babies.  The only people who understand me all seem to be under the age of 12.  Maybe this is my gift.  Maybe I'm like the Baby Whisperer.  Maybe I could shock everyone and do a totally awesome job of raising my kids!  Then again...

Grace: Oh, I like your nosering!
Me: Thanks dude.
Grace: Is that a permanent tattoo?
Me: Yep.
Grace: Did your parents tell you not to do that?
Me: Well technically no...but only because I didn't actually ask them.
Grace: Oh.  Cool!
Grace's Mum: *heart attack*

...Maybe not.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Contagious Viral Tonsils

Hello again!
My apartment has been like a hot box of bacterial infection for the past week and a half.  Sexy, I know.  Being that I drink too much coffee, don't eat enough apples, and (at 21) am still the kind of idiot who likes to put her immune system to the test by swimming in the rain and piercing my own ears with a sewing kit, I'm never really surprised when I get struck down with something like a cold.  Thankfully, that's all I had this time; a common cold.  Nothing 2 days on the couch watching Jersey Shore and snacking on Codral tablets won't fix.  Poor Alex though, was another story.  I won't go into all the gory details now, but there were words like 'contagious' and 'viral' and 'tonsils' being thrown around.  Yes, Alex is suffering from Contagious Viral Tonsils.  Her tonsils have officially gone viral.  We are expecting them to appear on YouTube any day now.

What a terrible joke.

Anyway.  Thankfully, Alex's Mum is a brilliant herbalist and Richie's Mum is a brilliant nurse, and the two of them joined forces to save us from certain death.  Or - at the very least - a serious case of the runny noses.  Within hours of Alex's diagnosis, the apartment was stocked with rosehip tea and lemon, garlic capsules, herbal remedies and chocolate mousse (a well known cure for Contagious Viral Tonsils).  I did my part by stopping at our local health food store and asking if they had "some of that magic honey that can, like, practically bring people back from the dead."
It was good with the tea.

Being sick sucks for lots of reasons, but here is the top of my list:
  • The sneezing
I don't exactly have the closest relationship with my nose.  There's no hate between us, but no love either.  We simply tolerate each other.  And when something like hayfever or a cold forces the two of us to work together, it never seems to pan out.  Here is the main reason:

I CAN'T SNEEZE

Alright, an exaggeration.  I can sneeze.  I just don't do it the way you're supposed to.  Ask anyone.  No, scratch that.  Ask my sister Catherine, who has been teasing me about this for as long as I can remember.  Although really it's less 'teasing' and more 'warning me that if I keep sneezing the way I am, I'm going to burst all the blood vessels in my face'.
She's never one to shy away from a painfully graphic description, my sister.
Anyway.
I know you're probably wondering what the hell I'm going on about...but it's hard to describe, this bizarre sneezing technique of mine.  It's like something happens between the ahh..and the CHOO!, that causes me to (involuntairly) press my tongue really hard against the roof of my mouth; like it's trying to force the sneeze back into my nose or something.  God, even my tongue has behavioral issues.  Regardless, it works.  So while it sounds like a regular sneeze, nothing ever comes out of my nose.  This whole method has the added benefit of ensuring that I never spray snot over anyone, or need a tissue.  Plus it doesn't irritate my nose ring.  The only downside, really, is that I'm possibly giving myself a miniature brain embolism every time I do it.

Well...you gotta die somehow.

So, hmm, what else?  Oh!  Masterchef!  I'm going to make this quick though, because I've got a load of washing on.  And because I know that my extreme love of Masterchef can sometimes cause people to tear their own ears off.  So to keep things brief...
Congratulations Kate.  I thought you were good, even if my Mum only considered you a less charasmatic version of herself.  Don't worry, even she had to admit you can cook better.  Michael, I think you're cute.  Not 'Hayden' cute, more 'My Dog Oscar' cute.  'My Dog Oscar Without A Beard, Or Cataracts'.  Hayden, call me.  Matt Preston, I will cook dinner for you any day of the week...as long as you don't mind that we'll be eating toast.  And that snowman dessert thing looked incredible.  Masterchef rules.  Masterchef RULES.
Oh, and PS, who let Cheating Matt back in to watch the finale?  Surely he could have just downloaded it on his smartphone.

Back And Better Than Ever

Shit, bitch!

Sorry, that was rude.  What I really meant to say was Wow!  Long time no blog!  Sorry.  Sorry about it.  I just haven't had much to write about lately.
LIE.
Truth is, my life is hilarious.  And I did mean to post something about it last week (or the week before), but I couldn't get the words right.  This is me, about 12 days ago:

...
It wasn't great.
Luckily now I'm back and better than ever.  So much has happened since the last time I sat down to write - end of financial year, the Masterchef Australia grand finale, one of my best friends getting engaged...but enough about that shit.  Let's talk about my feet.
So you guys remember how it rained like crazy a couple of weeks ago, yeah?  I'm talking to anyone who lives in Sydney.  For those of you who were out of town, here is a visual:

That's me in the yellow.
The whole thing wouldn't have been so bad - especially considering I work indoors and live on the top floor of my building - except for the fact that, oh yeah, I'm the type of idiot who needs to buy a new bottle of nailpolish every day of the week, but will wear the same scruffy boots for 3 winters in a row...to the point where I'm actually sticky-taping them back together in the staffroom on my lunchbreak.  Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't get trenchfoot.  Or, you know, hypothermia.  My feet were almost permanently wet for the better half of a week.  Thankfully though, I didn't suffer alone; turns out Alex is the kind of girl who'll hold onto a pair of shoes for way longer than is hygenically acceptable too.  As you can imagine, our apartment smelt gorgeous that week.