The Beginning Of A Very Childish Adulthood

I know I'm not saving the world or anything, but I'm gonna go ahead and say I have a pretty good job.  Pretty great job:

• Recent payrise
• We play Michael Jackson over the sound system
• I can claim all the clothes I buy on tax
• I get Sundays off
• It's walking distance to my house
• It's walking distance to the pub
• It's walking distance to the greatest hot chips this side of the Harbour Bridge

There are perks.  In fact, the whole job is pretty much one giant perk.  With an exception...

Anyone who pretends to know me knows I'm afraid of two things:

1) Post Offices
2) The idea of being trapped in an ATM vestibule with Sylvester Stallone.

I'm kidding about the second thing of course.  Everyone knows I could totally kick Stallone's ass if the situation ever presented itself.  But Post Offices are no joke, and neither is the fact that as part of my job, I make trips there on a semi-regular basis.  Take yesterday for example...
At Toni&Guy we have clients, who, sometimes, come in for a cut or colour and never come back.  This is unfortunate.  On the plus side, these same clients are the ones stupid enough to leave their home address on the customer info questionnaire we put in front of them.  Which means as well as stalking them on our days off, we can send them 50% discount vouchers in the mail, in a generous bid to lure them back to the salon.  See where I'm going with this tangent?  So as the receptionist, it's my job to print out these vouchers.  Which I don't mind.  Nor do I mind having to hand address all of them.  I don't even care about using up half my daily portion of saliva by licking stamps for the damn things.  (Except that I kind of do, only because have you ever noticed the way stamps kind of taste like the inside of a tennis ball?  Or at least what I imagine the inside of a tennis ball would taste like.  Plus I accidentally swallowed about four, which doesn't seem like something my body is gonna thank me for.)  That's irrelevant.  The real issue is having to go - actually STEP INTO - the Post Office in order to mail the vouchers.
Oh.  My God.
Let's get this straight: my fear of the Post Office is totally irrational.  I get that.  Have you BEEN in a Post Office?  There's plenty of stuff to love.  They sell wall clocks there for like, eight dollars.  I don't know why that's exciting, but it is.  Plus there's always a huge line, which doesn't seem like something you'd put on the pro side of a pro-and-con list, except that it totally gives me time to subtly-not-so-subtly check out the hot guy who works behind the counter and told me he liked my hair that one time.
What was I talking about again?
Oh yeah.  Still, wall clocks and Hot Hair-Liking Guy aside, the Post Office is the stuff of my nightmares, even though I can't seem to pinpoint exactly why.  I think probably it has something to do with the manager totally hating me because I always bring the wrong change and/or specially request (ie demand) the 60 cent fighter jet stamps on account of them reminding me of Top Gun, which by the way is like the 7th greatest movie of all time.  Plus there was my experience with trying to get a new passport.  You wanna talk about traumatising, let's talk about that.  I won't go into it now, I'm just saying...between this and the whole 'living with family members who are sometimes shockingly cavalier about my Level 5 allergy to nuts' thing, it's a wonder I haven't ended up in therapy yet.
Yet.

On a completely different note, I have a birthday coming up.  Ahh, 21.  Or as I like to call it, "Oh my God I'm old."  Anyway, I'm having a celebration and hoping you'll come.  Will you?  I've sent out a few invites already - if you didn't get one, don't feel bad.  It's probably just because you don't have Facebook.  Or it's quite possible that I think you're an asshole.  Maybe both.  Either way, you're invited to ring in the beginning of a very childish adulthood with me at The Longueville Hotel on Saturday the 12th of March.  No presents or theme, although anyone who comes dressed as a disco ball will be rewarded appropriately.  And be prepared to drink tequila.  That is all.

Keen As Vegemite

Hey.
So remember the time I blogged about that Selling Houses Australia show on the Lifestyle Channel which my parents are addicted to?
Yeah.
I just saw an ad on TV for a new season, titled 'Selling Houses Australia - EXTREME'.  This is interesting to me.  Extreme?  I'm having mental images of realtors in purple spandex jumping out of aeroplanes.  Or, you know, houses with glow-in-the-dark wallpaper that shoot lasers from the front door.  Is this realistic?  Probably not, but one thing is for sure, and that's that my parents are gonna have a joint-freaking-heart-attack when they find out.  Things are about to get interesting in the Trew household.  Selling Houses Extreme??  This is gonna be bigger than the time Dad learned how to use predictive text on his mobile phone:

Lets talk about mustard.
I'm confused; first of all, what is it exactly?  With most spreads, I can think about them, I can deduce what they're made of, and I can decide whether or not I wanna eat them:

It's a simple enough process.  Except with mustard...

My second issue is with the phrase 'keen as mustard'.  Because that just does not make sense to me.  Probably the only thing that annoys and confuses me more than this is the way I find it almost IMPOSSIBLE to unstick the first square on a new roll of toilet paper.  Yes, my life is ridiculous.  Regardless, I fail to see how mustard is in any way keen.  It's not.  Proof?  Here is a list I comprised of all mustard's well-known qualities:

• Yellow
• Questionable

You may have noticed that 'keen' was not on the list.  This is because mustard is not keen.  Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying mustard can't be considered keen just because it's nothing but a savoury condiment.  You wanna talk about condiments, let's talk about Vegemite.  Not just because I'm Australian and therefore harbour a secret desire to cover myself in Vegemite and have Hugh Jackman lick it off.  That'd be a fun weekend, but Jackman or no Jackman, eating Vegemite is like getting punched in the mouth by Alf Stewart while you're standing on top of Uluru wearing a flag-print bikini.  It's pretty flippin' Aussie and it's pretty flippin' keen.  And yes, I'm well aware that the fact I've been talking about mustard for two and a half paragraphs is crazy.  I get it.  Crazy.  All I'm saying is if and when I take over the world, changing the phrase 'keen as mustard' is the first thing on my to-do list.  No, make that second.  First is to arrange the whole Hugh Jackman/Vegemite situation.

**UPDATE:  So (as with most things in life that make no sense to me), I've consulted Google Images on the whole 'keen as mustard' issue.  Houston, we have an answer:

Whatever.  Have you ever eaten mustard by itself?  There's no way Hugh Jackman is gonna be down for that.

Cupid's Holiday

Because the idea of actually writing a Valentine's Day post on Valentine's Day was simply too depressing for consideration, here is my annual 'I Hate Love' blog, 2 days after the fact.  Oh, and don't get your knickers in a knot - I don't really hate love.  Just everyone in it.
Happy Valentine's Day, assholes!

I've always hated Valentine's Day.  And I mean always.  And before you say it - no.  It has nothing to do with me being almost 21 and totally alone.  I know this because I started labelling Cupid's "holiday" a crock of shit years ago - way before I grew up and died on the inside.

When we were young and cute and too stupid to know better, Mum used to buy my sister and I a heart-shaped cookie bouquet every Valentine's Day.  This was nice.  As a four-year-old I was loud and energetic with a chocolate milk moustache and permanently skinned knees.  It was almost impossible to find a date.

Thankfully, my parents - while crazy enough to consider pink cookies a legitimate cure for a four-year-old with man issues - were also smart enough not to flaunt their own romantic exploits in front of me.  It was a lukewarm holiday in the Trew household.

Mum stopped buying the cookies when I was about 15, by which time I was in high school and throwing "Black, Black Like My Heart" parties every year with my friends.  You could tell my parents were super-psyched to have raised an emotionally dead Red-Bull addict who laughed at dead baby jokes...I just thanked God they sent me to a school where there were at least 17 other people as twisted as me.

Now that I'm out of school and pretending to be a grown up living in the real world, I'm surprised (and comforted) by how many people actually couldn't care less about Valentine's Day - I worked from 9 til 6 on the 14th and not once did I hear anyone talking about girlfriends or cupid or romance or (vomit) love.  Oh, except this one guy who came in to buy a gift voucher:

Me: So...is this a birthday present?

Guy: Well, sort of.  It's also for Valentine's Day.

Me: Fuck you.

Just kidding.  My boss would totally have my ovaries on a platter if she heard me talk to a client like that.  I actually didn't even bother responding; I just punched him in the balls and took my lunch.  Anyway, I've pretty much exhausted this topic, so I think I'll stop before this post gets even more ludicrous.  To sum up: Valentine's Day is good for nothing.  Unless you can use it as an excuse to kick some guy you just met in the balls.  Then it's awesome.

Killer Wedgie

I didn't have the greatest sleep last night.  Which is weird, for me.  Usually I'm an excellent sleeper.  I've had alot of practice, after all.  And it's not like I've got an excuse for crappy sleep; especially since my parents got me a double bed of my very own, finally allowing me to act out my life-long fantasy of sleeping diagonally accross the mattress.
Yes - it's more comfortablethan you'll ever know.
Anyway, last night.  The worst part was that even though I didn't have to wake up until half past eight, my internal alarm clock went off at five.  And I hate my internal alarm clock.  Cause when it goes off, it sounds like this:

WAKE UP! YOU'VE GOT A KILLER WEDGIE! YOU FEEL COLD AND ACHEY AND WEIRDLY NAUSEAS! BETTER GO STARE BLINDLY AT YOURSELF IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR FOR TEN MINUTES BEFORE YOU REALISE YOU DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE T BE AT WORK FOR ANOTHER FIVE HOURS! HAHAHA!

What.  A bitch.
Anyway, after that, I couldn't get back to sleep.  That's the thing about me and waking up - it always goes one of two ways:
1) If someone else wakes me up, I remain almost completely comatose.  I'm asleep with my eyes open, and in this state I'll agree to pretty much anything - especially if the outcome is more sleep, and especially if it involves chocolate.  My sister has witnessed this phenomenon on several occasions and finds it hilarious.  But sometimes...
2) I wake myself up.  And when that happens, I NEVER get back to sleep.
This is especially annoying when I'm in the middle of an awesome dream.  And let's face it, all my dreams are awesome.  Before all this early-morning madness, I'd been having one where I was best friends with a military dude who happened to look just like Patrick Swayze, and the two of us lived together in this Army station that also functioned as a gym, ping pong arena and all-boys high school where the wearing of uniforms wasn't mandatory.  I was living in a men's locker room is basically what I'm trying to say.  I have no idea; I think someone's been putting meth in my coffee again.

Hello world.
Unless you've never been here before, you will have noticed some changes in my blog recently.  We're no longer Insanity Has A Website, nor Just Jacki.  Nor are we going to continue referring to ourselves in the third person, having auto-music players in the sidebar, or repeatedly posting identical pictures of little-known Australian actors just because they happen to bare a slight resemblance to people we used to hang out with.  Welcome to Caffeine & Cynicism.

The Heart Of Jersey

Sigh.
Okay, you guys. This is probably going to be short and pointless, but I'm bored out of my skull and there's nothing on TV. At least, not for another hour and a half. That is, until 9:30. When I plan on watching, um...Jersey Shore.
DON'T JUDGE ME!
Remember that time I blogged about Jersey Shore, and how they should really change the name to Holy Shit Jersey Shore, because every time I watch it, I find myself repeating that phrase over and over in response to the cast members and their crazy behavior? I changed my mind. Sure, Holy Shit Jersey Shore is appropriate with the added benefit of being hilarious, but if any words are gonna get tacked onto the original title, it's these three:

DON'T.

JUDGE.

ME.

I can say with 87% honesty that I have never experienced a higher level of ridicule and judgement IN MY LIFE since I admitted to watching/enjoying/wishing I was a cast member of Jersey Shore. Yeah. Really? I was addicted to Big Brother for almost 19 months back in high school and nobody so much as batted an eyelid, but for this they pull out the big guns? Pair that with the whole depleting ozone layer thing or the fact that my boobs have somehow shrunk by an entire cupsize over the past 6 months, and it's no wonder I've lost all faith in humanity.

One thing I've noticed about people who make fun of Jersey Shore Don't Judge Me is that - in general - none of them have ever bothered to watch a single episode. This explains a lot. I mean, if you judge solely by the commercials, the whole damn show is about a 4 ft 9 Italian girl getting drunk at the beach. And sure that's most of it, but if you don't tune into the actual episodes, you're never gonna see the heart:

Right?

This is the exact same issue I had with the hot chocolate/chai latte hybrid I invented a couple months back. Or to be more specific, convincing the staff at Gloria Jeans to start selling the hot chocolate/chai latte hybrid I invented a couple months back, and paying me the royalties. Because from the outside, I just look like a hyperactive young girl with crazy hair, and The Hot Chaicolate just sounds like something that could do your reproductive organs some serious damage. It might, but in reality it's probably also one of the best non-caffeinated/non-alcoholic beverages I've ever tasted. And I'm a hyperactive young girl with crazy hair...and HEART. See?On a completely different note, I'm sick of my blog layout and want a change. If you have any ideas or suggestions, please email them to me so I can come up with something better and throw it in your face.

That's all. :)

"No Hot Dogs!" - Another Ridiculous Story From My Past

I had this dream the other day while I was awake (not a medical hallucinatory condition, this is just my way of saying I spend alot of time at work standing behind the reception desk and totally zoning out while others work dilligently in the background), and when I woke up, I was somehow reminded of a hilarious story from my childhood. My first thought was something along the lines of 'Oh, man! I can't wait to share this on my blog!', closely followed by my second, which was 'Hey, uh...what?'.
To cut a long explanation short, I have a bowl of NutriGrain and two cans of Red Bull in place of a memory gland, and therefore tend to forget every event in my life about six seconds after it occurs. Which, you know, kind of sucks since it pretty much makes me the 20-something female human equivalent of the fish that Ellen Degeneres did the voice for in Finding Nemo. On the plus side however...what was I talk about again?
Huh.
I'm not quite sure what the point of this post was. So I can't remember this 'hilarious' childhood memory of mine. Nevertheless, here is another ridiculous story from my past...

When I was around 8 years old and still living in The Greenwich House, my parents won a coin-operated jelly bean machine at some charity auction they went to. What charity? I don't care. What parents? I don't care. I was 8 years old and there was a jelly bean machine in my house. And the best part was this: the machine came with a years supply of Jelly Belly jelly beans. I am not even kidding - every month, Jelly Belly would deliver a box of beans in every flavour imaginable to our house. After four or five months, our pantry was comprised of 30% real food, 15% booze and 55% jelly beans. It was more than we could handle, and to be honest becoming too much. Until one day, when Lexi came over.
Lexi and I had known each other since kindergarten, and were the kind of friends for which the phrase 'double trouble' was invented. If either of us came up with some crazy hairballed scheme, the other was bound to go along with it - no questions asked, and no matter how painfully obvious the consequences. As far as we were concerned, the more painfully obvious, the better. 8 year old girls can be moronic that way. You'll be relieved to hear that Lexi has since matured into a respectable and honest adult. I, on the other hand...well, you know.
Anyway.
I don't remember exactly how the afternoon went down, but the long-story-short version begins with me showing off the enormous bucket of jelly beans in our kitchen. Lexi was impressed.

"Can we eat some?"
"Sure, take a handful."

There was a pause.

"Why don't we just take the whole bucket?"
"The WHOLE bucket?"
"Sure. We'll take it up to your bedroom and if your Mum comes in, we can just hide it under the bed."

I was conflicted. On the one hand, this went against every rule my Mother had set regarding my daily sugar intake, and the idea of eating dessert before dinner. On the other hand though...

"Okay!"

I don't know if it was Lexi's intention that we actually consume the entire container of jelly beans. I certainly didn't think we had it in us. But two hours later, when my Mum came up to see if we wanted a snack, there we were. Two slightly dehydrated 8 year olds in the throes of what can only be described as a sugar embolism. The only thing I remember is my Mum's face turning the same shade of red as a Tutti Frutti flavoured jelly bean, and how hilarious it was that I had made that comparison. The rest of the afternoon is completely lost to me, but apparently I re-enacted several scenes from Aladdin before running to my neighbours house so I could ask his Dad why he didn't "have a veejay like Lexi and me".
Oh, man.
My parents don't believe in grounding, and didn't start swearing around me and my sister until we were at least 11, but that afternoon they made it pretty clear that I was in trouble, and I recieved the signature Trew Family Punishment: Lexi was sent home, the neighbours were apologized to, and I was told there would be no hotdogs for dinner until my Mother had forgiven me.

So there you go. And I'm not naming names, but those of you who sometimes feel entitled to have a go at me about my extremely laidback attitude to life can suck on it. How can you blame me, really? It's not my fault that I grew up in a household where 'No Hotdogs' was considered on par with capital punishment.

Uber-Vamp VS The Abominable Anaconda

I'm guessing about a thousand people have blogged about this already, so I'm about to be the thousand-and-first. Has anyone else heard about this yet?Okay, two things:

1) Ha! I laughed out loud for literally eight whole minutes when I saw this. And

2) It took eight minutes of out-loud laughter to make me realise...I have no idea what VD means.

And I mean, okay. Obviously I know what it means. It's an STD, right? But what do the letters 'VD' actually stand for? I racked my brains for an extra minute or two and all I came up with was 'Vaginal Disease'. Which, you know, makes sense, but for some reason - aside from the obvious - just doesn't feel right. Ah, well. Regardless, I think this advertising campaign (which is for the TV show The Vampire Diaries, in case you were wondering) is not only hilarious, but brilliant. That show is marketed at young adults, right? And you know young adults these days - if it's not about Facebook, Robert Pattinson or vaginal disease, we're just not interested.

~~

I bought a new pair of shoes recently. It's only been a week or so, and they're really only a pair of shoes, but I think I'm in love. Ha. Not really of course. But they are pretty amazing, as far as shoes go. In light of recent events, I've decided to name them my 'Fuck You! And My Shoes Are Amazing!' shoes. They were originally just my 'Fuck You!' shoes on account of the fact that the day I bought them, those were the only two words running through my head. I tacked on the second part when I put them on the for the first time and experienced an emotion greater than Nirvana, or that feeling you get after finally plucking an ingrown hair out of your knee. Not that I've ever had something as unladylike as an ingrown knee hair.

I'm just saying.

So back to The Vampire Diaries. I know I'm a little late on this, but what the hell is humanity's obsession with vampires these days? Twilight, True Blood, The Daybreakers, Vaginal Disease, Underworld, Blade...I don't know how much more I can take! God knows I have no objection whatsoever to the idea of some hot shirtless dude with fangs chewing the crap outta my neck, but there's only so many times you can watch Kristen 'Bella Swan' Stewart umm and aah her way though a red carpet interview before you crack and wind up in the bathtub eating your own hair. You know what I'd like to see more of? Those epic, low-budget, we-cross-bred-like-four-different-species-of-animal-half-of-which-are-either-fictional-or-extinct-and-pitted-them-against-each-other-in-a-glorious-battle-to-the-death movies. Mega Shark VS Giant Octopus ringing any bells? How about DinoCroc VS The Super Gator?

Legit. I can only imagine the result of a Twilight/Mega Shark crossover film. Uber-Vamp VS The Amobinable Anaconda seems like the kind of movie Hollywood executives would use to take over the world:

My Holiday

Good God I hate romance movies.


Now, being that I'm extremely important and sought-after and busy treading the line between 'amusingly self-deprecating' and 'self-loathing and destructive to a level that's almost pathological', it's not often that I get a spare moment to sit down and watch TV. When I do, I'm usually clever enough to spend it on cinematic genius, like 16 And Pregnant, or Chelsea Lately, or one of those spin-off shows the E! Channel seems to keep giving to all Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriends.
Not last night.
Because last night, I found not just one but one hundred and twenty seven spare moments to watch TV. And I wasted them...on this:

I know what you're thinking, but no - not even the presence of Jack Black could save this movie. Not even the presence of Kate Winslet could save this movie. And God knows I love me some Kate Winslet; mostly because of the whole British accent thing, but also because she seems like the kind of person I could head-butt and then still be friends with afterwards. Which I think is a rarity, in Hollywood. Regardless, this movie sucked. Dick. Only not very well. Read that again and it'll make more sense, I promise. Seriously though? I don't wanna spoil the ending for anyone...but what the hell with the ending?? Huh? Where's the resolution? So they get to spend New Years Eve together - so what? I don't mean to offend the writers. All I'm saying is that if you're a script writer and you helped write the ending of The Holiday, you might wanna pull your head out of your ass and have a serious think about what you just did. And then if possible, please head-butt Kate Winslet and get back to me - I really gotta know if that works!

Is this just me? Am I the only heathen slash twin-sister of the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz, so jaded and cynical and worn out from what life keeps throwing at me that I really think of love as a fairytale and sometimes find myself entertaining the idea that I really might be happy/content to live alone or with fifteen (Oh my God, if I got fifteen I could name them after the principal cast of Grease) cats??
Well, I didn't think so. Until THIS little conversation, which took place during The Holiday and with my sister, who I'd kind of always hoped was just as cynical as me:

Dude: Blah blah blah.
Chick: Blah blah blah.
Dude: Blah.
Chick: Blaaaah.
(they kiss)
Catherine: Awww (smiles)
Me: I hope they move into that digusting cottage together and contract something incurable.
(silence)

Now...I'm not so sure.

What The Fuck, Mother Nature?

Oh my God, so long time no blog. Soz. Soz about it. Not as 'soz' as I am for just using the word soz twice within the space of one-and-a-half sentences, but still. Forgive and forget? Forget and forgive? Or I guess you could do neither and go fuck yourselves. Either way, I will continue my existance as a certifiably insane almost-hairdresser-almost-receptionist who is in the habit of constantly narrating her own life via the internet.
So it makes no difference to me.
Anyway.
So much to talk about! Can you believe how much shit has gone down since the last time I posted anything? Christmas holidays, my promotion at work, the insanity that is Queenslands weather pattern at the moment...but enough about that stuff. Let's talk about washing machines.

I'm not gonna pretend that my ongoing love affair with household appliances is a secret to anyone. Well, no, wait. Let's scratch that. Because love is such a strong word, especially when applied to someone who possesses two stale jellybeans and a lump of coal in place of a heart. Aha! I'm only kidding of course. I have a heart. Totally:

Still. The point is, I'm almost 90% sure that if I wasn't dead on the inside and actually did harness the ability to feel human emotion...well, the first thing on my Love List would be household appliances. Namely those with a high-powered motor. Namely namely, washing machines. What? Why? Well, mainly because of this:

Holy shit stain. Did you guys see that? Did you see it? Yeah. But just in case, lets see it again:

I don't know if that's the best video I've seen on YouTube. I don't even know if it's the best thing I've seen this week. But I'm pretty sure I just orgasmed, twice. And in the unlikely event that I ever save enough money to actually buy my own washing machine, I sure as hell know how I'm celebrating.
You're all invited.

So anyway. If you live in Sydney like me, you might have heard talk recently about this heatwave we're having. Hmmm? Yes? Heard talk? Alternatively, you may have stepped outside your airconditioned house at any point during the last five days and found yourself bursting into flame.
What. The fuck. Mother Nature?
Please explain. This heat is getting ridiculous. I've spent the past four nights sleeping naked on our living room floor. Why? Well because it's made of tiles, and tiles are cool. And because there's a hole in our blow-up mattress, so I couldn't sleep in the pool like I'd originally planned.
I don't deal well with extreme heat. I can't really explain why; it might have something to do with me being 40% tequila and 60% coffee, but who knows. Regardless, I haven't been well this week. And by 'haven't been well', what I really mean is 'you don't wanna go into our upstairs bathroom....for a while.'
The worst part is that my Mum is being totally unsympathetic about the whole thing. Really! She's all "Get up!" and "Drink some water!" and "Go to work!" and "When I was a kid, there was no such thing as air conditioning, and we had a tar pit instead of a swimming pool, and if one of my friends burst into flame they didn't COMPLAIN about it, they just bloody well hosed themselves off in the backyard!"
Well sorry, Mum. But we can't all grow up in the west. I heard last night was the hottest Sydney night on record...since they started making records. There is literally nothing anyone can say that will trump that. I don't care if you were trying to light a cigarette one-handed and accidentally set your own head on fire; unless you were in Sydney, there's no way you were as uncomfortable as me last night. Thankfully, I also heard that there's a cold front coming in this afternoon. All I gotta say about that is, it better be coming - because I actually watched an episode of The Real Houswives of Atlanta this morning...and ENJOYED it. Clearly, the heat is affecting my mental health.