Wednesday, April 27, 2011

No Ovaries, No Chance

You might remember the time I spoke about the movie Titanic 2, and how excited I was to watch it.
Well, a couple of days ago, my dream came true.  And by 'dream', I of course mean 'nightmare'.  I like shitty movies as much as the next girl (probably more, at least if my penchant for Elizabethtown and Superbad are any indication), but Titanic 2?  There are no words.  Except for the ones I am about to type:

The film opens with some random in a wetsuit surfing waves off what appears to be the coast of Antarctica.  Of course it does.  What makes the scene even more believable is that he is (literally) completely alone - no boat, no jetski, no surfing buddy - so when the nearest icecap collapses into the water causing a 100ft CGI tidal wave, he is swept away without even the slightest chance of a rescue.
Cut to modern day Los Angeles, where we meet our main characters:
Bitchy Hostess
Judging by her uniform, this chick has a job aboard the Titanic 2.  Her first point of order while boarding the ship is to look around and declare she'd rather "drown than have to deal with giving any of these people CPR".  That's the spirit!  And exactly the kind of attitude you want from someone PAID to be responsible for upwards of 500 peoples lives.
Bitchy Friend Of Bitchy Hostess
Pretty much the same, only you know she's not as important as the main Bitchy Hostess because she doesn't get a phone call from her father, warning her that the Titanic 2 is 'barely seaworthy'.  My guess is that she's just there to up the body count.
Blonde Asshole
I'm not sure exactly what role this guy is supposed to be playing, but he's apparently famous - as indicated by a pair of aviator sunglasses and the swarms of bikini-clad women around him.  He and the Bitchy Hostess also make eyes at each other and I decide that if those two don't end up fucking in the last minutes before the T2 is forcibly capsized by a tidal wave from Antarctica, I'm going to headbutt my own TV screen.
Titanic 2
The boat in question. Oh yes that's right: this isn't an actual sequel to the first and wildly successful Titanic film. It's just the name of the boat. Shit, you know this is going to be quality television.
The movie splits itself between two settings: one being the boat, the other being an icy and undisclosed location. Antarctica? Probably. So while Bitchy and Bitchier are busy flirting on the poop deck, a bunch of snow nerds are standing around on an icecap talking about how the next piece that falls into the ocean could be the size of Rhode Island. Then they board a helicopter and make a bunch of phonecalls to the captain and crew of T2, warning them to "stay away from the icebergs".
No shit! Where'd these guys go to school, Harvard? I would never have though to avoid the icebergs! Give these guys a medal!
Then the snow-nerds start talking about contacting the Navy, and I tune out.  Mum was cooking something that smelled delicious, and I went to investigate what it was.  Plus any mention of the word 'Navy' kind of makes me want to shove walnuts into my own eyes.
When I returned, the T2 had ceased movement as 2 of its 5 engines had blown out.  Surprise surprise.  We also learn there is a tsunami headed towards the ship at an estimated 800 miles per hour.  And did I mention that the tsunami has icebergs in it?  At this point I half-expected a spaceship full of giraffes to materialise and start probing the remaining passengers.  I hear one crew member mutter the phrase 'Looks like history is repeating itself' and think I am going crazy.  History repeating itself?  Oh, yes.  Because if there's one thing I remember about the original Titanic disaster, it's the ship being hit by a tidal wave full of floating icebergs.
Then I looked at the program synopsis and saw that there was still over an hour left to go. 
I can say with 80% honesty that this is the closest I have ever come to ending my own life.  An hour?  Watching a documentary on midshipmen in the Australian Navy would probably be less painful.  Nevertheless, I decided to press on, only in the hopes that something funny enough to blog about would happen.  Or that Blonde and Blonder would have sex in a shower somewhere.  Hey, what can I say?  I'm a lonely woman.  This was the next piece of dialogue I heard:

"You better let me into those Goddamn elevators!"

"I'm sorry sir - women only."

Umm, heck yes.  16 and Pregnant kind of freaks the shit out of me, but it's movies like this which make me realise just how thankful I am to have a vagina.  As far as I'm concerned - after things like Titanic and Poseidon - you'd have to be pretty stupid to get on a cruiseship anyway, but they should have signs on the lifeboats that you see as soon as you board:
Next time I looked up, Bitchy Hostess's Bitchy Friend had been stabbed in the chest with something that looked like a rubber spatula.  Baking cakes has never been so fun!  She, Hostess and Hollywood Hottie are somehow trapped in an elevator as the ship sinks around them.  The Hostess gets on the phone to her Dad (who turns out to be one of the snow-nerds), and informs him of their predicament.  His response?

"Honey...stay away from the lifeboats!"

Right.  Uhh, yeah, okay.  I decided the Dad (respected snow-nerd though he is) must be almost completely, how do you say it?  Fucking retarded.  Stay away from the lifeboats?  How is that an appropriate response to "I'm trapped in the elevator of a sinking ship with some hot blonde guy and my annoying friend who's been stabbed in the chest with a kitchen utensil"?  That's like me calling my Dad to tell him my car has broken down and him warning me not to ride any bikes home.
So I gave up.  When the family on TV shows a greater level of stupidity than my own family, I know there's pretty much no hope left.  I'm not entirely sure what happened at the end.  I think The Bitchy Friend died from spatula-related complications.

Friday, April 22, 2011

The Morning After...

Holy hangover, Batman!

There were two things I was supposed to blog about today, and I've forgotten both of them.  I guess that's what happens when you and your mates decide to ring in Good Friday with Jim Beam and double blacks.  Nothing celebrates the death and resurrection of Jesus like cheap alcohol and my shitty dance moves.
So here's what happened yesterday:  first off, I had work from 9:15 til 8:30.  Or as I like to say when I'm tired and looking for sympathy, I had work from 9 til 9.  That was fun, but the real madness began after, when Alex and I walked up to The Great Northern for a drink (or six) with Richie and his mate Simon.
Sidenote: Yes, Simon, I'm talking to you!  You refused to believe I actually had a blog and here you are making an appearance on it.  Now that's what I there a word for that?  I was going to say irony but that doesn't really work.  Anyway. Yeah.
So we're at The Great Northern.  You know how sometimes when you go out, you just aren't feeling it?  Like, you're just not in the mood?  You're tired, you're grumpy, you're out of money, and while everyone else wants to go dancing, all you wanna do is find a cab so you can get home and curl up in bed with a grilled cheese sandwich?
This was not one of those nights.
I was feeling it.
I was in the mood.
I'd just worked what pretty much amounts to a 12-hour shift without alot of sleep the night before, so from a normal person's perspective I probably should have been jonesing for the whole bed + grilled cheese scenario, but no.  Nothing good ever came from going to bed with a cheese sandwich, I say.  Certainly not when the alternative is drinks with Alex, Richie and Simon.  I knew straight off the bat it was gonna be a fun night when Richie struck up a conversation comparing Harry Potter characters to that dude I used to hang out with.  Nothing spells "night to remember!" like your bestie and her boyfriend revealing that they refer to your ex as 'Voldemort' when you aren't around.  Does that make me Peter Pettigrew?  I don't even care!
Here's what else we talked about at the pub:
  • The army
  • Zumba
  • People we went to high school with
  • The idea of shoving a carrot up someone's ass
Yet another reason I'm glad not to be a vegetable.

One of the things I enjoy most about going out is actually the morning after.  I'm guessing that's not the case for most people, but I don't care.  I love it.  It's always such a surprise!  I like to look in my wallet first, because I'll always come home with either six times more money than I started with, or nothing but two train tickets and a Gloria Jeans customer card.  How does that happen?  Then there's that moment when you see yourself in the mirror for the first time and have to figure out exactly how and when you ended up wearing whatever you're wearing.  This is one of my favourite post-drinking games to play, despite the fact that 9 times out of 10 I will lose.  I once woke up wearing soccer shorts, stockings and a stripey cardigan tied into a crop-top.  If I ever figure that one out, I'll let you know.

In other news, I would like to report that my Mother is trying to kill me:
I think that while most people know I'm allergic to nuts, a lot don't really get the extent of how allergic.  To combat this, I have drawn up a simple diagram:

So, you know.  It's pretty bad.  Despite this, my parents never made our household nut-free.  In fact, I think we actually have more nuts in our pantry than the average Australian family.  Trying to make breakfast is like a fucking battlefield for me.  This is one of the reasons I survive mostly on caffeine and lollypops.
I love that there are schools - entire schools - which ban peanut butter because of one kid, yet my own Mother leaves a bowl of Snickers bars on the kitchen bench.  I'm going to propose a new house rule until I move out:  No Leaving Death-Laden Chocolate Bars Anywhere That Jacki Can Reach Them.
Most of the time it's coffee and sugar, yes, but I am the kind of girl who occasionally gets hungry at 3 in the morning, will wander downstairs without bothering to switch on the light, and eat the first thing I can find in the dark.  For this 'first thing' to be a Snickers bar would not be pleasant.  Although having to clean up my corpse in the morning does seem like the ultimate payback for having nuts in the kitchen.
Suck it, Mum!  Ps I'd like to be buried in a giant disco ball!  You know, if that's at all possible.
Have you ever thought about what you want done with your dead body?  Morbid!  I'm going to donate my organs of course, although I'm not sure how good they'll be.  Here is a photo of my liver:
I don't know if I like the idea of being buried.  The disco ball thing might be cool, but what I really want my parents to do is have me stuffed and mounted so they can keep me in their bedroom.  Preferably in this pose:

Jacki Trew, they will say.  She died like she lived: an idiot with 2 thumbs up.

I Have The Title

My Mum is under the impression that when I move out, I will be leaving my bed behind.
Uh huh.
I don't mean to be crass, but what the fuck?  I don't fucking think so!  This is her reasoning:

Mum: I need a bed in that room.  I'm going to sell the house at some point and if there's no bed, it'll look incomplete.  And then no one will want to live here!

Okay Mum.  First of all, you are a crazy person.  Have you seen my room?  Bed or no bed, it's a shitstorm of insanity.  If you want a chance in hell of selling the house, you can't let people into my room fullstop.  It's crazy.  It's me.  I know some of you haven't seen it, but to give you a bit of an idea...I have a disco ball, a mannequin wearing a cancan dress, starfish doorhandles and the word fuck painted on my ceiling.  Sorry, Mum and Dad.  This is what happens when you let an 11-year-old decorate her own room.

So anyway.
You know what show I'm loving at the moment?  Home and Away.  I've been watching it since I was about 9 or 10, so I know most of the storylines.  Some of which - to put it mildly - are crazy as fuck.  Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much.  My favourite plotline at the moment is the whole Nicole/Marilyn/baby thing.  Is anyone else uncool enough to watch Home and Away?  Let me break it down:
Nicole is a pregnant 1st year uni student who is giving her baby to Marilyn, the defacto wife of her best friends dad, who she once tried to hook up with.  Oh, also, the baby's biological father is a dead serial killer who once tricked Nicole into thinking she had HIV.
Holy shit!  What the hell are they smoking in the H+A writers room?  And can I have some?  The other thing I love is that Nicole went from peeing on a pregnancy test to practically crowning within about 6 weeks.  Apparently Summer Bay is set in another dimension, which is unfortunate because I was actually planning to move there following the predicted worldwide success of my book.

Speaking of my book, here is an update:
Writing a book is fucking hard, you guys.  Especially when you're writing it about your own life.  There's so much stuff to go through!  And edit!  That's probably the hardest part, because I want the book to be funny.  And while I think pretty much every event in my life is hilarious, others disagree and I am an idiot.  Plus I keep remembering stuff to include at the most inconvenient moments when there's no way I can write them down.  Like in the shower.  Or in bed. 
I often wake up at 2 or 3 in the morning with something in my head and rush to scribble it down...only because I never seem to have paper, I wind up writing it on myself.  And because it's 2 or 3 in the morning, whatever I write doesn't really make much sense.  I woke up on Wednesday morning with Mrs Wilson year 8 camp portaloo screaming on my leg.  For the record that actually has a great story behind it, but I still looked a little insane.
I have a few days off over Easter so I'm planning on spending at least one of them doing some hardcore writing.  Or, as hardcore as it can get when you're writing about portaloos and comparing the nipple size of all the men you've ever seen shirtless.
Spoiler Alert!
One thing I have made progress on is the title.  I have the title.  I'm going to keep it secret for now, mostly because I'm a paranoid freak who's afraid someone less lazy than me will steal my identity and publish my book before I even get off the couch, and also because having a secret book title makes me feel like a big important author.
Dont worry, I know I'm delusional.  And I'm pretty okay with it.
One of the signs that tells me I have no idea of how to act like a legitimate author is that I wrote my acknowledgements before I wrote the book.  Normal authors don't do that, right?  I'm guessing they don't have their first draft written on a bunch of stapled post-its either, but I can't help that I'm too poor to afford a laptop that actually works.  Plus since when do I do things the same way as everyone else?

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


So remember how I said I'd joined the gym?
Let's talk about that.

For someone who lives on bubblegum and coffee and considers the 15 minute walk to and from work 'enough exercise for the day', I am seriously surprised by my own enthusiasm when it comes to working out.  And not just because I can't think of any place which presents me with more opportunities to make inappropriate vagina jokes than the gym.  That's mostly it, but there's also something truly exhilarating about realising you can run on a treadmill for an extended period of time without killing yourself.  Plus, the personal trainers are all pretty good-looking, which never hurts.  Unless they're the ones taking the cycle class at 6:30 on Friday nights.
THAT one hurt.
Here's what amuses me about the gym:
1) I am in it.  Also,
2) They have these huge posters everywhere with Bluefit written on them.  That's the name of the gym.  Bluefit.  Things like:
I don't understand this form of advertising, nor the reasoning behind it.  I AM ALREADY IN YOUR GYM.  I'm in it!  I joined!  You got me!  What are you doing with the giant Bluefit posters?  Are these supposed to be motivating me?  Fine.  That's all well and good, but as far as I'm concerned there's a time and place for motivational posters.  And during the minor heart attack I experience after a 60-minute cycle class isn't it!  I'm thinking about printing up my own, more suitable motivational poster for the womens locker room:

Perhaps I should start working out naked.

Now, what is something as ridiculous as the idea of me working out naked?
You know they have Zumba classes at my gym, right?  Crop tops, fast-paced music, and dancing.  I think that's the perfect combination for someone so uncoordinated they can barely walk in a straight line when sober.  So of course Alex and I went along last Monday night.  And oh, what a night it was.
Zumba was fun, and enjoyable, and hilarious.  And I can say with complete honesty that I have never felt more physically inept in my lifetime.  Perhaps that term in Year 10 when I attempted beach volleyball as an elective sport.  But apart from that, no.  I don't know what it is about me, I just know there is no time I should attempt dancing unless tequila is involved.  I'm too gawky.  Yes, that's a word.

Gawky: –adjective, gawk·i·er, gawk·i·est.

awkward; ungainly; clumsy.

I'm a gawk.  Not to be confused with the term 'dork', although I'm undoubtably one of those too.  I think it's my arms.  They seem disproportionate to the rest of my body.  Like an ape.  Or a chimpanzee wearing overalls, only less coordinated.  It doesn't help that Alex (who actually danced in highschool) was a total natural.  Here's her first Zumba class:
And here's mine:

I'm not too worried though.  For what I lack in dancing skills, I totally make up for with a list of numerous and seemingly random talents, such as the ability to ride a bike and eat and icecream at the same time.  Also, I have a blog.  Once again, line up gentlemen.

I Jizzed My Pants Over A Segway. Line Up, Gentlemen.

Now, back to television.  Are you the kind of crazy person who has a tendency to identify with a certain character in every movie or TV show they watch?  Probably not.  But I am, and this is my blog, so shut up and listen.
You know The Simpsons?  I always thought of myself as a tasteful blend between Milhouse and Groundskeeper Willie.  Innocent and lovable with just a hint of mind-blowing insanity.
Last Sunday evening I saw an episode I'd never seen before, and realised just how wrong I was.

Principle Skinner: You destroyed the car I rent from Mother!
Bart: You rent a car from your Mother
Principle Skinner: Rent or own...only thirty five more payments and it's halfway mine!

Holy shit, you guys.
I'm Principle Skinner.
I gotta explain this one: When I was around 19 and on the verge of finally getting my license, I decided I wanted a car.  The only problem was, I had no money.  Well, okay, that's not entirely true.  I just didn't have enough money for a car.  I can't explain this.  I suspect it might have had something to do with my brief but extreme foray into the world of internet shopping.  Anyway, luckily for me, I have the kind of parents who are awesome enough to buy me a car, so long as I promised to pay them back in equal monthly installments.  Yes, my parents are amazing.  It's truly unfortunat that they gave birth to such an idiot.
See, I was left in charge of determining the value of these 'monthly installments'.  And since there are few things I enjoy more than having a laugh at my parents' expense, I thought it would be funny to pay back the total cost of my car...about $20 at a time.
In hindsight, there were a few warning signs that this idea would come back to bite me in the ass.  Here was the first one:

1) My parents agreed straight away.

And as if that wasn't enough of a red light, there was also this:

2) As they agreed, they were in hysterics.

Turns out, I was so busy congratulating myself on my own hilarity, I failed to realise this 'clever' idea of mine meant I would be paying my parents back for a period of approximately eight thousand years.
Did you hear that?
Paying my parents back for a period of approximately eight thousand years.
Once again.
Eight thousand years.
Sometimes I really resent my own ridiculousness.

While we're on the topic of how ridiculous I am:
I have never wanted to ride a segway more in my life than I do right now.
They say segways are designed to be ridden by even the most uncoordinated of humans, and that it's pretty much impossible to accidentally fall off one.
I believe I am the exception to this rule. I don't care if a chimpanzee in overalls can do it. I'm the girl who almost fell down a flight of stairs with a cardboard box on her head in high school; if a chimpanzee is able to get itself into a pair of overalls, it's probably smarter than me anyway.
One of the reasons I love living and working in Lane Cove is that it's a suburb chock-full of crazy characters, one of whom happens to ride a segway. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. I had to put that in capitals because I knew you'd think I was. I don't blame you. The first time I witnessed him whizzing past out doors, well...

And finally...

Oh yes.  Just in case it wasn't obvious enough that I'm probably the coolest person you know; I jizzed my pants over a segway.
Line up, gentlemen.

Studio 69

Another day, another blogger.
Get it?

So here's my latest idea: you know how (at least, in Hollywood movies and Nicole Richie novels) they have those fancy hospitals out in the desert for people with, um, substance abuse issues?  Rehab?  They need to invent one for people addicted to TV shows.  I'm having serious My Kitchen Rules withdrawals.  What?  Yes, I am a crazy person.  That doesn't make My Kitchen Rules any less incredible.  Did you guys see the finale?  Did you SEE it?  I'm guessing no.  I never know how long I should make my rants about MKR because I'm not entirely sure if I was the only one watching it or not, but I will say this: that was the greatest two hours of television I have witnessed in the past 6 months.  INCLUDING the double episode of Real Housewives I caught on Arena last weekend.

I think this post is mostly going to be about television.

I saw a Channel 7 news update the other day.  Well, I didn't so much see it as I listened to it in the background while putting my makeup on.  Usually I have little to no interest in shows like Today Tonight, mostly because they're more 'human interest pieces' than actual news, and also because for me, Matthew White lost all credibility after appearing on Dancing With The Stars.  I don't care if the trophy is a giant glass and perspex disco ball, DWTS is for knobs.  Or to be more specific, women who are knobs and men who have no knobs.
Wow. I am an idiot.
Anyway, back to what I was saying before: Today Tonight was on in the background and I happened to hear the back end of a report about a runaway bull wreaking havoc at an Easter Show parade this week.
Oh.  My goodness.  Where to begin?
I think my favourite thing about ths story is the phrase 'runaway bull'.  Is there a funnier or more attention-grabbing combination of words in the English language than that?
I say there isn't.
And about the Easter Show:  has there even been a parade involving bulls where something didn't go wrong?  When are people going to learn?  When you put farm animals, fairy floss and upwards of 3000 Aussies in one place, you just know at some point the shit is gonna hit the fan.  This is exactly why I haven't gone to the Easter Show since I was 16: if anyone's unlucky enough to get in the way of a crazed bull this holiday season, it's me.  Plus it's like 40 bucks just to get in, and (if you don't count the money I've saved for the new apartment), I'm two steps away from living in a cardboard box.

Speaking of the new apartment, I've just made an executive decision that when Alex and I move out, our home should have a name.  Alex, are you reading this?  Our house is having a name.  I made an executive decision.  It's happening.  And by that I of course mean 'we don't really have to name the house, I'm just the kind of idiot who thinks it would not only be hilarious, but also a great way to confuse our new neighbours.  Please don't stop being my best friend'.
Anyway, here is a list I made of possible monikers:
  • Kitchen HQ
  • Studio 69
  • You Wish You Lived Here
So the last one is kind of long.  And unless you're as obsessed with My Kitchen Rules as I am, you probably won't understand Kitchen HQ.  Personally, I like Studio 69.  69?  I will pay you five dollars if you don't laugh at that.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

A Royal Mess

Nothing disgusts me more than the general public's reaction to this whole Royal Wedding business.  Well, alright, that's probably a lie.  There are things that disgust me more - the smell of Pad Thai, for one thing.  Sheep.  John Howard's eyebrows.  My own self-assurance when it comes to the idea that people are actually reading this blog.  And diarrhea.  If there is anyone out there who doesn't find diarrhea at least slightly disgusting, please, let yourself be known so I can track you down, kick you in the balls, and force-feed you laxatives until you change your mind.
Much appreciated.
But back to the topic at hand.
I'm sure Kate and William (yes, we are on a first name basis) are lovely.  Perfectly lovely in fact, and I'm not just saying that because I would gladly show William's younger brother a good time any day of the week despite the whole Nazi uniform prank thing and him having red hair.  Sure that's part of it, but come on.  People are obsessed with this wedding.  And not just that - people are obsessed with being invited to the wedding.  Really, 60-something-year-old lady who lives in my neighbourhood and sometimes makes conversation with me on the street?  Sorry, dude.  I don't care how many times you iron your 'special-occasion slacks', you're not getting an invite.
Surprisingly, my parents aren't getting too excited about the whole thing.  And when I say 'surprisingly', I'm talking about my Mum.  The only way a wedding is gonna get my Dad out of his chair is if someone asks him to pay for it.  Mum, on the other hand, is the kind of lady who orders collectable Michael Jackson dinner plates from the back page of the TV Guide.  I asked her what she thought of the wedding and here's what I got:

Mum: It's true, I don't care that much.  When Charles and Diana got married I was glued to the television.  GLUED!  Do you remember?
Me: Ma, I wasn't even born ye-
Mum: Oooh, and then again when she died, remember that?
Me: Kind of, but I was only like five, and-
Mum: But yeah, this time, not so much.
Me: Right.
Mum: Yeah.
Me: Right.
Mum: Yeah.
Mum: I'm getting a souvenir out of the TV Guide though.  For sure.

I didn't have time to laugh at that, because Grey's Anatomy had started, and it was the episode where a school bus crashes and some dude gets a pencil jammed all the way into his eye.  Add that to the list of things that disgust me - somewhere between 'corned beef' and 'the smell of vacuum cleaners'.

Dental Dam - Mouth Or Vagina?

"Boner" is one of the funniest words in the English language.

There are a few things in this world I simply can't see or hear without laughing.  No matter how many times I see/hear them.  There's one in particular (which actually only happened the other night) that's so good I can't even talk about it here.  I'm saving it for the book.  But I will give you a teaser and say it involves the words I've punched him in the face three times.  Intruiged?  I would be.
While we're on the subject of things that happened the other night...I don't know if you guys have heard about this, but I recently joined the gym.  I know, it's weird.  The gym is for healthy people, right?  I honestly can't believe they gave me a membership.  But they did, and on Sunday afternoon, Alex and I had ourselves a little workout.  Wait, little?  No.  We sweated for like two hours!  At least, that's what I'm telling people in order to justify the fact that we went to the pub afterwards.

[Insert Sheepish Smile Here]

No, you know what?  I don't even care.  I doubt champagne even has that many calories.  Plus it's not our fault that 'one innocent gin and tonic' turned into 'five hours and three bottles with a group of guys we happened to meet'.
The best part about these guys is that the whole five hour (not kidding) interaction started with a conversation about a plastic poncho.  If that's not a solid basis for a life-long friendship, I don't know what is.  I might be lying about the life-long friendship, but they were alot of a fun.  You know those times where you meet someone and feel like you can say whatever you want to them straight away?  Within 20 minutes of them sitting down, we were in the midst of a heated debate about dental dams.  I am not even joking.  I woke up on Monday morning and the search history on my iPhone read: Dental Dam - Mouth or Vagina?

I found my people.
This whole 'dental dam' thing was probably my favourite part of the evening for two reasons:
1) We were kind of getting to the stage where grabbing the bartender and asking him if he knew anything about dental dams (and whether they were intended for mouth or vagina) seemed totally normal.  I don't know what kind of training bartenders go through these days, but this guy practically gave us a 30-minute lecture on dental dams, the origin of the dental dam, uses of the dental dam, why it's called a dental dam...I think he may have actually invented the dental dam.  At the very least, you just KNOW he has like, 45 of them stuffed in his bedside table.  And
2) Using our phones to Google 'dental dam' led to a conversation about Google, which led to a conversation about the internet, which led to this:

Alex: By the way, you guys should totally read Jacki's blog.

Because nothing says 'Great Girlfriend Potential' like 'Not Only Do I Drink Champagne After I've Gone To The Gym, I Also Can't Stop Narrating My Own Life Via The Internet'. 

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Avoid Nachos!

I got home late from work last night, but I also knew I didn't have to go in this morning, so I did what any normal person does at 9:30 on a Tuesday - drank four cups of coffee, put Ellen on the TV, and did a little work on the book.  I find nothing is more conducive to good writing than day-time talk shows and mass amounts of caffeine; I'm convinced this is how Shakespeare came up with Hamlet.

What to blog about?

I often get requests from friends or family to blog about something specific.  And by 'often' what I really mean is 'last night for the first time in my life'.  Richie asked me to write about a particular nachos restaurant he and Alex recently ate at; I'm supposed to tell you how shit it is.  Well, it's shit!  Twenty bucks, and the nachos don't even taste that good.  And those guys were drunk.  If something doesn't taste good when you're drunk, you know you're either accidentally eating the napkin it came in, or Jacki Trew must have cooked it.  The only problem is, I've totally forgotten the actual name of this nachos restaurant.  Maybe it wasn't even a restaurant.  It could have been a nachos stand.  Or perhaps Alex and Richie purchased their nachos from a homeless person.  All I'm saying is, if you live in Sydney, avoid nachos.
And homeless people.

Saturday, April 02, 2011


I just realised I've been completely misusing the word erroneous.
Dammit!  This is worse than the time I forgot to thank George Clooney in my Oscar acceptance speech.  That never actually happened, but you can imagine how stupid you'd feel, right?

I have really got to give reading the dictionary another try.

In other news, I have decided to act like a giant knob who assumes people actually read her blog, and sign up for AdSense.  That's this program that puts commercials on your website so you can make money off it.  I think.  Maybe.  Like, do you only get paid if people actually click on the commercials and read them?  And who even runs this company?  Suddenly, giving them my home address and phone number doesn't seem like such a smart idea.
Ahh, well.
So after that, I was mucking around on the Blogger dashboard and found some interesting statistics.  Check out some of the things people have Googled to find my blog:

1. Gay Easter Bunny
I have no idea.  I think it might have something to do with the picture I posted here, but I can't for the life of me figure out why anyone in their right mind would search the internet for an article on the Easter Bunny's sexual orientation.  I mean, I'd probably do it, but I am clearly not in my right mind.  And I don't even talk about whether or not the Easter Bunny is gay in that post - just whether or not he/she is a dude.
2. Sexmum
Whoa!  Talk about two topics you never want to hear in the same sentence.  I love how this person hasn't even bothered to separate the two words, either.  Like they were in such a rush to find a website full of sexy mothers that they didn't have time to hit the spacebar.  Or perhaps 'Sexmum' is some pervy teenage boys idea of the latest superhero.  She does the laundry, goes grocery shopping, picks the kids up from school and still has time to pleasure her husband.  And on Friday nights she moonlights as a stripper at Bada Bing.  Don't ask me why I know the name of an actual strip club in Kings Cross, just go with it.  Sexmum!

3. How To Make A Homemade G-String
Well, anonymous internet searcher, you've come to the right place!  I don't know whether it's hilarious or depressing, but this is something I can actually give advice on.  It was a while ago so most of you probably don't know about it, but as a primary schooler I was involved in an accident with a bus stop, a dumpster, a metal hook and a really old pair of pants.  I don't wanna rehash the whole thing.  You can read about it here.  And let's just say Sexmum doesn't hold a candle to 9-year-old me.

Anyway.  This post is pretty boring, but it's been a pretty slow day.  My cat even decided to take a bath:
I woke up feeling a bit crook this morning so I'm home from work.  Lame.  I know the 'lame' comment sounds weird and a bunch of you probably want to kick my teeth out for complaining about having a day off (yes, Mother, I'm talking to you), but here's the thing:
Having a sick day is not the same as having a day off.  Right?  Yes.  You know it's true because it's in bold.  On my day off, I can:
  • Shop
  • Go to the movies
  • Drive to the beach
  • Have coffee with a mate
  • Dance up a storm in my living room
  • Dance up a storm in someone else's living room
  • Dance up a storm in my front yard
  • Dance up a storm in someone else's front yard
I do what I want is basically what I'm trying to say.  But on a sick day?  On a sick day, I can:
  • Be sick
And blog, I guess, but I'm not even doing it very well.  I'm saving all my good material for the book.  That is a lie, I just suck at blogging today.  I got nothing.  Here is the best photo I have seen in my life:
Some client bought their kid into work the other day, and he asked me what my favourite animal was.  I really don't have a favourite so I just said the first animal that came to mind - giraffe.  And damn, I'm so glad that I did.  The best part about this picture is that I got it off a website which is basically some guy ranting about how the theory of evolution is a crock of shit and anyone who looks at a giraffe and says 'evolution did that!' is worth less than a bag of sour dicks.  He didn't actually use those words, but I've always wanted people to be able to find my blog by Googling 'bag of sour dicks', and now they can.  Maybe this day isn't so bad after all.