Wednesday, May 25, 2011

A Great Week

I watched Spiderman 2 the other night.  Wow.  Good on Tobey Maguire for sculpting those abs, but the real hero of that movie is Aunt May.  Did you see the way she clocked Doctor Octavian in the side of the head with her walking stick?  I don't exactly favour getting old, but if there's one thing I'm looking forward to, it's being able to bash people with a stick and get away with it.

Last week was a good one.  Here's one of the reasons:
Have you ever seen anything so ridiculously...lovable?  I'm the kind of heartless bitch who actually laughs during the last scene of Moulin Rouge (SPOILER ALERT: someone...dies), but even I cant look at this photo without feeling a little fuzzy inside.  And that's huge, for me.  Pretty much the only other thing that'll cause that reaction is Patrick Dempsey's smile.  Or, you know.  Tequila.

So the baby hedgehog made it a good week, but something else made it great: Alex and I ordered a set of bright red nonstick kitchen utensils off a few weeks ago.  By the way,  It's the lonely woman's orgasm.  I insist you take a look.  But like I was saying: Bright red.  Kitchen utensils.  We were pretty excited about it...for about 30 minutes until we realised that rather than being bright red (as the description implied), they were more of a burgundy colour.  Then we realised that while we'd paid $200 for our set, the website also offered similar sets for as little as $79.95.  Then we got an email saying there'd been a production error and our order had been cancelled.  The whole ordeal was a pain in the ass; now we had to order the stuff all over again.  And to make matters worse, they only gave us half our money back.  BUT THEN...
What should arrive at my house on Tuesday morning but the very pots and pans that had apparently been lost in production.  Did I mention this was AFTER they'd refunded half our money?  Score!  Half-price pots!  This (along with the fact that Tuesday was the day we found out about getting our apartment) was enough cause for celebration.  But guess what arrived on Thursday?
Another set of pans.
Let's recap:
TWO complete sets, each valued at $200...all for the low low price of 50 bucks each.  See, this is why I'm not afraid of the Rapture.  I don't need to be.  Nothing says 'God loves you' like a brand new set of pots and pans for practically nothing.  My life is incredible.

Speaking of things that make me happy which other people consider ridiculous...Masterchef.  I officially retract all negative statements I may have made about this show.  No, okay.  Not all.  I still maintain that it's not as good as My Kitchen Rules.  I am a slave to Channel 7 and always will be.  But Masterchef is...not so bad.  Although it does kind of seem like every time I turn it on, the contestants are doing something with rabbit.  Rabbit stew, rabbit mousse, rabbit pie, roast guy was wearing some sort of rabbit-fur hat.  I think.  Perhaps he just had unfortunate hair.  Still.  Rabbit?  Here is what my Mum had to say on the matter:

Mum: When I was a kid, we ate rabbit all the time.  And we turned out okay!  More than okay.  We turned out awesome!  You kids each too much beef.

If there's one thing I'm going to miss about living at home, it's my Mother and her constant pearls of wisdom.  What makes me sad about Masterchef is that as excited as I get about attempting to cook like the contestants, I know that it will always end in failure.  I am a terrible cook.  I know this.  And I'm okay with it.  I can make clothes, and I can paint nails, and I know practically every word of every song that Michael Jackson ever sung...but I can't cook for shit.  This is one of the reasons I'm convinced I should never reproduce.  I will make an interesting mother.  My children will be the malnourished ones doing Thriller across the playground.  With beautiful manicures.  Unless I end up in the kind of profession which provides enough money to pay for a personal chef, there is no hope for any of us.  I can't even make toast without giving someone salmonella.
Alright.  So perhaps that is a slight exaggeration.  I can do toast without salmonella.  I may burn the house down.  But no salmonella...unless the toast comes with eggs or anything.  Then there's no telling what would happen.

Looking back, I have just realised that I started this post with the aim to blog about how great my week has been, and now I'm talking about how I will accidentally kill my hypothetical children with poorly-cooked chicken.  Ridiculous.  Have you ever noticed how Simpsons episodes often start off with one event, and end up focused on something completely different?  Like, the opening scene will be the family going to Lego Land, but the rest of the episode will be about Homer's hunger strike to end prohibition?  That is the perfect analogy for my blogging style.  People often ask me what I blog about, or how I blog it.  Now I can tell them.  Right?  I mean, is that a good comparison or what?  I know it's a good analogy for my life, seeing as I started out like, 80% sure I knew what I wanted to do, and now I'm just a broke receptionist whos only talent is making fun of herself on the internet.  If anyone knows of a way that I can make a living doing this, please enlighten me.  The top two skills I have listed on my resume are: Typing: 90 words per minute, and Self-deprecating sense of humour.
You think I'm kidding?

The End Of The World As We Know It

Here's how I feel about the Zombie Apocalypse.
Oh, wait.  You guys heard about this, right?  If you read you would have.  I'm not saying I read (especially not at work), but I knew about it.  This is the lowdown:
So you know the whole 2012-Mayan-End-Of-The-World business?  Apparently that was supposed to happen on Saturday night.  Or at least, some crazy guy said it was.  Sorry, did I say 'crazy guy'?  No, what I really meant was 'talented astronomy scholar who's spent the past 11 years studying planet alignment and hidden messages of the Bible'.
Crazy guy.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking astronomy or planets or even the idea of the Bible being one giant subliminal message - what really ruins this dudes credibility is that part of his End Of The World prediction involved all the good children going to heaven, all the bad children going to hell, and all the dead children returning to wander the earth for all eternity.
Or something.
It's the Zombie Apocalypse!
I wasn't really bothered by this prophecy.  I don't know how to explain this, but the end of the world doesn't really scare me.  Mostly because I've seen enough zombie movies to feel pretty confident in my abilities to fight off at least one gang of them:

And also because even if I am going to hell...I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you there.

If the world had ended on Saturday, I would have been pretty annoyed for two reasons:  First of all, I had to work on Saturday.  I love my job, but really?  I want to spend my last moments making coffee or washing someone elses hair?  I think not.  And secondly, I didn't even get to move into my new apartment yet.  Fine, fine, the Rapture has to happen at some point...I'd just appreciate it if God waited until AFTER I've jumped on the bed and cooked in the kitchen.  Is that totally blasphemous?  So sue me.  It's a really nice kitchen.

What actually weirded me out about this whole apocalypse prediction thing is that I'd been thinking a lot about the end of the world recently; remember my dream about the multiple tsunamis?  AND I watched 2012 the other day.  FYI, it's shit.  It's a shit movie.  Even if you love End Of The World movies.  Even if you love John Cusack.  I love John Cusack, but even he couldn't save this movie for me.  You are all better off watching something more intellectual, like Strictly Ballroom.  Or Jackass.
The best thing about 2012 is that eventually, it ends.  And then you can get back to watching Grey's Anatomy or whatever.  So here is my question:  Why are End Of The World movies always so terrible?  My theory is that there are simply too many of them; one might be okay, two might be tolerable...but there are a dillion.  That is no exaggeration.  There are a dillion End Of The World movies.  And they're all pretty much the same.  They neutralize each other.  Maybe 'neutralize' isn't the right word.  They cancel each other out?  Make each other redundant?  Basically all I'm trying to say is that you watch one, then another, then another, then another, and then suddenly it's the Rapture and the world really is ending, only you don't care because you already killed yourself to avoid seeing another movie like The Day After Tomorrow.
Even if Jake Gyllenhaal is totally hot.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Apocalypse Now, Baby!

First things first: WE HAVE AN APARTMENT.
Shit.  Holy shit.  Holy shit, floating in the giant toilet bowl of life.  That made absolutely no sense, so you just know how excited I am.  We HAVE an APARTMENT.
I can't decide what the best part is.
Moving away from my parents?  Moving in with Alex?  Planning multiple housewarmings?  Picking out our new furniture?  None of the above.  I'm mostly psyched about this:
Hello, gorgeous new bathroom.  I'm Jacki, nice to meet you.  I figured I should introduced myself now, since we're going to be spending a fair amount of time together.  And for most of that time, I will be naked.  Or taking a dump.  Is that a newly-installed vanity I see?  Excuse me for one second, I gotta go jizz.

So we found out about being the official tenants of Heaven on Cope Street at around 2pm on Tuesday.  Here's how that went down:

Me: Oh my God.
Alex: We got the place.
Me: Oh my God!
(we hug)
Alex: Pub after work?
Me: Dude, I started drinking 20 minutes ago.

Okay, not really.  But it's Alex and I; obviously we had to celebrate.  Obviously at The Longy.  And obviously with 2 bottles of champagne.  I don't remember what time we left the pub, but at some point Richie showed up and we decided to take a little drive down the road to check out the new digs.  We don't actually have the keys yet, so we couldn't go inside...but we circled the carpark like the badass apartment-renting carpark-circlers we are!
I had work at 9am the next morning  Thank God (once again) I don't get hangovers.  Really, the only issue with sharing 2 bottles of champagne and a Jim Beam is that whenever I drink, I either have insane dreams or wake up ridiculously early the next morning.  On Wednesday I did both.  Don't believe me?  I wrote the draft for this blog on the back of my work contract at 4am.  Oh my God, I write drafts for my blog?  Yes I am a loser.  But more importantly, I am a loser who lives in her own apartment.

Okay, so this dream.  Probably the weirdest thing about it was that my grandparents were there.  Which wouldn't be so strange except that they both died before I finished highschool.  It was very Haley-Joel-Osment-In-The-6th-Sense.  Only instead of getting all freaked out, I was just psyched to see them.  There was lots of hugging.  Oh!  It was also kinda weird coz my grandpa was a completely different person.  Like, looks-wise.  My dream self was totally on board with it, but in reality I was thinking who is this stranger with his arm around my gran?  Explain that one, Bruce Willis.  I have no idea.
My friend Julia's mum (Deb) was also there.  Hey Deb! She was almost as excited to see me as I was to see my grandparents.  That's not so strange.  I am pretty awesome, after all.  We arm-wrestled in the dream.  Deb won.  Also not strange; she does dragonboating, so she's pretty fit.

Speaking of dreams, I had one on Sunday night that the world was ending.  Apocalypse Now, baby!  Apparently three meteors were heading towards the earth.  I don't exactly know what three meteors heading towards the earth entails, but I assume it would involve multiple tsunamis or something equally as horrible.  Sigh.  I'm not that afraid of meteors, but multiple tsunamis is definitely not my first preference for method of death.  First of all, have you seen my hair wet?  Not pretty.  And secondly, the worst thing about a tsunami?  You have to watch it come towards you before you die.  That seems cruel to me.  I'd rather just get directly hit by the meteor with no warning.  Am I right?  As far as I know the world isn't actually coming to an end any time soon, but if and when it does, I'd like that to be arranged.  Thanks God.

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

A Mother's Day Mindfuck

So what else can we talk about today?  I'm on a bit of a blogathon since I'll be at work for the rest of the week and probably won't be able to post.  So this will have to tide you over.  Don't read it all at once! 
I'm kidding of course.  Read it, read it all!  Then come back and read it again!  And would it kill you to click on some of those stupid ads?  I don't care if they do fill your computer with viruses and spyware, I make like 4 whole cents each time!
Just kidding.
But seriously.
Okay, Mother's Day.  Holy shit, what do I get my mother?  I hope she's not reading this right now.  I could just ask her what she wants, but I already know what the answer will be:

Mum: I want you to stop mentioning me on that damn blog!  You make your father and I seem like a pair of insane technologically-challenged pensioners!  And yes, I did read the post about Mother's Day.  You moron.

While I love my Mum and am usually quite keen to grant any specific Mother's Day wishes she might have, I can't afford to stop blogging about her and Dad.  Are you kidding?  They're like half my act!  Those two are a goldmine.  What other aspiring comedic authors do you know that grew up with a Mum who wouldn't stop talking about a gay iceskater and a Dad who man-crushed on Heath Ledger?  I'm lucky to have them and I know it.

If I ever have kids, I'm going to tell them not to buy me anything for Mother's Day - their gift to me will just be leaving me the fuck alone for 24 straight hours.  No, I joke.  Kids are great.  Most people think I'm anti-children, but it's not true.  I'm not against kids, I just don't like the idea of my kids.  I'm afraid they'll grow up to be a bunch of overly-energetic weirdos who watch too much TV and publish details of their parents private lives on the internet for millions of people to see.  Kind of like me, I suppose.
Have you ever had that dream where you're pregnant?  I have.  I know for sure I'm not ready for kids right now because every time I wake up and realise I don't have a baby, my face goes like this:
Last night I had a dream about building a house, which was even more boring than it sounds.  It was disappointing because usually my dreams (or as I like to call them, 'Sleep Escapades') are awesome.  One of the craziest I've ever had (I'm sure I've blogged about this before) was about how I got cloned, and then took myself as a date to my own highschool formal.  That was probably the biggest mindfuck I've ever experienced.  Maybe not the biggest.  Top 10 for sure.  And my dreams are usually pretty adventurous.  You know; action packed.  Exciting.  I dream about dinosaurs a lot.  And deep-sea fishing. Mount a pair of short-shorts...while the theme to Star Wars plays in the background.  Eat your heart out Indiana Jones, is basically what I'm trying to say.  Oh my God, how long have I been talking about this?  I think that's all the blog you're going to get for this week, folks.  My apologies.  I should have stopped at Mother's Day.

Fripples At Work And Far-Fetched Promises

I've been talking a lot lately about my withdrawals from My Kitchen Rules, and I think it's starting to piss people off.

Me: I miss My Kitchen Rules.
Mum: Okay, I didn't wanna be the one to say this, but...if you don't shut up about that damn cooking show, I swear to God I'm gonna straight up choke you to death.

I love you too, Ma!
So last night I attempted to move on by watching an episode of Masterchef Australia.  And, well...
No.  Just no.  You know how...okay.  I'll compare it to something everyone knows about: Coca Cola.
Remember the first time you drank Coca Cola?  My God, wasn't it wonderful?  The colour, the taste, the fizz, the flavour, the way it got the grease out of your Granddad's work overalls?  Then came Diet Coke.  It was okay.  It looked the same, it seemed the same, all the key qualities were there...but it just wasn't as good.  Then you tried Coke Zero, and again - it had all the characteristics of the original, but something wasn't right.  And finally came Coke's ugly stepsister: Pepsi.
So if My Kitchen Rules is Coca Cola, Masterchef is what would happen if someone mixed Pepsi with Hitler's armpit juice. 
No offence, Channel 10.
I've come to realise that the only solution to my 'lack of MKR' problem is to invent and host my own cooking show on the Lifestyle Channel.  I'll be like Jamie Oliver only better, because instead of just calling myself The Naked Chef, I will actually BE naked while I cook.  Whoa, unhygenic!  Here are some original recipes I have already tested:
  • Salmon and cheese slices
  • Chicken and aioli pizza
  • Montecarlo milkshakes
  • The lasange sandwich
You heard correctly.  That last one is like my version of KFC's Double Down burger.  I have never felt so close to cardiac arrest in my life.
I'm a fairly terrible cook, but I'm determined to not let that get in the way of my success as a celebrity chef.  After all, plenty of people are famous for doing the things they suck at:
  • Britney Spears, singer.
  • Kevin Costner, actor.
  • Lindsay Lohan, decent human being.
I'm pretty sure I can make it.
This just in: Alex and I have applied for an apartment.  And  I wish I could be mature and realistic and say things like 'don't get too excited...ALOT of people have applied...we might not get this one...'
Fuck that! If you don't get excited, you're not invited to the housewarming!  Speaking of Alex (and Richie, they come as a pair), we had a work thing in the city on Monday night, so it made sense to go for a drink at Bar 333 afterwards.  Where I made maybe one of the most awkward comments of our relationship thus far:

Me: I love hanging out with you guys.  I never feel like the third wheel.  Right?  I'm part of it.  We're riding a tricycle!

For God's sake.  This is almost as bad as the time I admitted my interest in having a threesome with Katy Perry and Russell Brand.  For the record, that's not nearly as slutty as it sounds.  I only want to make out with Russell Brand.  While Katy sings in the background.

So how cold was it yesterday?  Brrrr!  I had fripples at work - through a padded bra.  How does that even happen?  The best part was that because I work in an environment that's 80% mirrors, I got to see them from every angle.  I think that's one of my favourite things about my job.  The mirrors.  When you're looking at all your various flaws that much, you kind of learn to accept them rather than hate them.  Take my nose for instance.  I thought I knew how big it was before I started at T& no.  Not until I got 16 different views of it at the same time.  Anyway.  I know it's a bit lame to talk about the weather, but come on.  Really, Mother Nature?  With the cold?  It's not even winter yet.  Just calm the fuck down, alright?
Perhaps hell is freezing over.  I hope not.  I'd have alot of far-fetched promises to make good on if that were the case:
So hopefully it's just a cold snap.
Now let's talk about this little cutie:
Lately my cat has been sleeping with me - in my bed - all the way through the night.  I know some people with cats who would be used to this, but not me.  Not my cat.  This isn't like her.  Normally we get into bed together, she sticks her ass in my face for 20 minutes, then rolls over, gives me a dirty look for hogging the blankets, and leaves.  Sigh.  Just like every other lover I've had in my life.  Anyway, I don't know why she's gotten so snuggly all of a sudden.  Maybe it's the freakishly cold weather I was talking about before.  Maybe my parents locked her out of their room and I'm a last resort.  Or maybe she's finally tuned into the mind-numbing sense of loneliness that radiates from my body 24 hours a day and is only cuddling up to me out of pity.  Either way one thing's for sure; considering the state of my personal life, I probably have no right to be as ecstatically happy as I am.  But there you go - it really is a wonder, what copious amount of caffeine and Prozac can do.
Just kidding Mum.
(About the caffeine.)

The Royding

So, a few things.
First the Royal Wedding.  I don't know who exactly I was trying to fool, acting like I had no interest in the whole thing.  Sure I wore an enormous satin flower headband to work on Friday in honour of the whole British hat-wearing tradition.  Sure I paused with consideration when my Mum offered to buy me a 'Wedding' teacup with the royal families faces on it.  And sure, I might have actually designed a potential dress for Kate Middleton, just in case she lost her mind at the last minute and asked me to suit her up for the wedding.
But apart from that..I was pretty convinced I didn't give a shit about any of it.
I got home from the gym on friday night just in time to see Kate getting out of the car in her dress.  And can we just talk about that for a minute?  Normally I'm not a fan of long sleeves on a wedding dress.  And I'm not that crazy about lace either - unless it's black or attached to something made out of leather.  But that dress is exactly the kind of thing I can see myself wearing when I marry Prince Harry.  If I had to live the rest of my life in one outfit and one outfit only, it would either be that dress or the inmates uniform that Wentworth Miller wore in the first season of Prison Break:
Because who doesn't love a good pair of coveralls?  Built for comfort and speed.

Speaking of Prince Harry, yum.  When he first walked into the church, I completely deserted my aversion to Men In Uniform.  Am I the only one that thinks Harry kind of outshone William?  Not that it was very hard, considering he was dressed as a toy soldier:
For serious though.  Not that I'm looking to completely settle down, but Harry seems to have grown into a lovely, mature and respectable young man...whom I would really enjoy having lots of sex and babies with.  I just hope they get my hair. So as you might have guessed, I spent most of Friday at work talking to clients about the Royal Wedding.  Or "The Royding" as I shall now refer to it.  The best thing about this was that with every client - no matter their age, sex or general appearance - the conversation would inevitably land in the same place.  With me, saying something like this:

Jacki: I don't care if he does have red hair, I'm on Team Harry.  Are you kidding?  I'd show that dirty ranga a good time!

To me, marrying Harry instead of Will is like being the relative of someone with a baby: you get all the fun of playtime without having to deal with the crying and shitstained nappies.  Playtime here meaning shopping at Vivienne Westwood and sock-sliding accross Buckingham Palace, and shitstained nappies referring to...actual responsibilities and stuff.  That's probably the worst analogy I've ever written, but I stand by it - when else are you gonna hear someone talk about Vivienne Westwood and poo in the same sentence?
So what else?
How about Fergie's daughters?
Check out the pink hat!  I'm sure at least some of you are expecting me to go on and on about it, but I've decided not to because I don't think there's any point.  I don't want to be mean.  I'm taking the high road.  There are no words, and so I will say nothing.  Except this:  It looks like the lovechild of an octopus and a spider monkey...if the spider monkey's vagina were located on Princess Eugenie's forehead.
Now back to the royal couple.
I've never seen a future king and queen get married before, so I was pretty weirded out when they didn't kiss in the church.  Talk about disappointing!  My ideal scenario would have had them making out against a wall while camera-men slowly circled Queen Elizabeth; capturing the reaction from every possible angle.

Even the back of her head is disgusted!
The kiss on the balcony was real nice, I will give them that...but when I tune into an $80 million dollar wedding, I expect fireworks!  When Harry and I get hitched, we'll be consumating our marriage in the Queen's own bed.  Probably with her still in it.