Early Morning Domestic

What's happened to my book?  Well the short answer is, 'I'm still working on it'.  The long answer?  'Please give me money so I can buy a computer'.
Since moving out I haven't been able to write much, only because I used to do all my writing on Dad's computer, and Dad's computer is well...with Dad.  So as it turns out, my estimated completion date might be a little later than I originally thought.  Please, publishers, try not to act so devestated.

In other news, on Tuesday night I fell victim to one of the wackiest dreams I've had for a while now.  It started off with me going on holidays with my friends Julia and Emma, and ended with my sister and I forming an alliance as bank-robbing serial killers.  Bonnie and Clyde style.  Only we're both girls, so I guess it's more like Thelma and Louise.  Except without Brad Pitt.  Look, there isn't a movie that perfectly reflects the relationship I have with my sister, okay?  Alien vs Predator is probably as close as it gets.

Anyway.  After that, I woke up at like 4:30am (thanks to our neighbours and their candid decision to have an early-morning domestic) and couldn't get back to sleep.  Damn it!  I suppose it could have been worse, considering Wednesday was my day off so I was actually able to stay in bed until 12, but still.  This sucked.  Probably the worst part was that I couldn't even use a book to read myself back to sleep.  I'm reading this book at the moment called Second Glance.  It's a Jodi Picoult book where there's no under-paid lawyers and no one dying of cancer.  I know, I was surprised too.  It's actually about ghost hunting, which is why I couldn't read it.  Not that I've got a massive phobia of ghosts or anything, but there's a time and place to read about haunted houses, and alone in a dark room at 4:30 in the morning isn't it.  For all my claims about 'loving horror movies' and 'not being scared of anything', if there is anyone on this planet destined to be murdered by some sort of flesh-eating ghost, it's me.  I think that's what they call irony.

When I finally did get back to sleep (at around 7), I had another dream.  All I really remember about this one is being licked on the face by some kind of bulldog.  For an extended period of time.  What?  I have no idea.  Obviously my subconcious is scoring way stronger weed than I am.  Kidding, Mum!

Let's talk a little more about these neighbours of mine.  God and everyone else knows that I'm a fan of the dramatic, and would usually have no problem with the couple next door having a swearing competition loud enough for me to judge.  But at 4:30?  In the morning?  And we're the one's getting noise complaints?  I sure hope that bitch on the floor below who tells us to shut up from her balcony every Friday night gave these people an equally hard time.  Though I doubt it.  Being new, and young, AND practically the only renters in the building (everyone else owns), Alex and I have fallen victim to a little bit of apartment-block bullying since we moved in.  Ridiculous.  We're not too phased by it; Alex has enough confidence to be sure that we haven't really done anything wrong.  And while I may take the term 'self-doubt' to a whole new level, I also grew up with Catherine Trew.  Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter.  That doesn't mean I don't know how to fight.

Suck It, Television!

I have recently learnt the hard way that it is never a good idea to stay at someone else's house after a big night out.  Sure, when it's 2am and the person sitting next to you has a car and a spare bedroom, you're all for it.  But what about the next morning?  I woke up last Sunday with no makeup, no toothpaste, no phone battery and no dignity.  The dignity thing I'm used to, but no toothpaste?  So not okay.  Thank God there seems to be a never ending supply of miniature mentos at the bottom of my handbag.  I have no idea how old they are, nor how they got there in the first place - but since when has that stopped me when it comes to individually wrapped lollies?  I should probably learn to exercise more caution with the things I put in my mouth.
Haha.
Dirty.
So you know what else I was missing?  Deodorant.  Ah!  The toothpaste of the armpits.  I wanted to cry.  The only thing I can think of that's worse than leaving the house without deodorant is leaving the house without underwear - and that's only if you're wearing a miniskirt or polyester pants.  Or planning to do the Sydney Harbour Bridge climb.  Thankfully, I was able to locate an old can in the bathroom, so on it went.  Lucky, right?  Wrong.  Here's the kind of deodorant I usually use:

And here's what I'd found in the bathroom:

Don't get me wrong, I love the smell of men's deodorant.  On a man.  On me, not so much.  Every time I lifted my arms I had flashbacks to every guy I have ever made out with.  Some good.  Some not so good.  Not that it mattered; I'm pretty sure the woman reaching for Vegemite next to me at Woolworths caught a whiff and thought I was some kind of teenage drag queen.  You could tell she was just dying to ask me how I shave my beard so close.

Has anyone else been watching that show Offspring?  Yeah, me neither, except for every Monday at 8:30pm on Channel 10.  And now on Wednesdays too!  I also like to replay certain scenes in my head when I'm supposed to be acting productive at work.  It's all part of the fictional love-affair I'm having with this guy:

Regardless of Doctor Hotstuff there, it's a pretty good show.  Are you reading this, Mum?  I've been trying to convince my Mother to watch for the past month.  So far, I'm not doing well:

Me: Hey Ma, do you watch Offspring?
Mum: No, when's it on?
Me: 8:30, on Mondays.  Make sure you watch it, okay?  We can talk about it next week.

(one week later)

Me: So, did you watch it?
Mum: What?
Me: Offspring!
Mum: Oh!  No, darling, sorry.  I completely forgot.  When's it on again?
Me: 8:30 on Mondays.  Don't forget!

(one week later)

Me: So, Mum, Offspring?
Mum: I was...working?
Me: You were working.
Mum: Yes.
Me: At 8:30.
Mum: Yes.
Me: On a Monday.
Mum: Yes.
Me: Are you lying?
Mum: ...Yes.  When's it on again?

Mum, you don't know what you're missing.  Truly.  Trewly.  And to anyone else who doesn't watch Offspring, I seriously recommend it. 

Alright, that's a lie.  But this is 100% fact:

Suck it, every other show on television.

Coffee-Addicted Moron

So, okay.  Last night - after work training - I thought it might be fun to drink 5 cups of coffee and watch Sweeney Todd before going to bed.  This confirms three suspicions I have had for a while now:

1) Johnny Depp is pretty fantastic
2) Coffee before bed gives me better dreams
3) I am a fucking idiot

Last night I had a dream where I went op-shopping and found a ton of great stuff.  It was awesome, but as much as I love these dreams, I hate them aswell.  That feeling of waking up and realising that a) You don't have a cupboard full of vintage clothing, b) You don't have the money for a cupboard full of vintage clothing, and c) someone in the apartment below you thinks it's okay to use a powerdrill at 8:30 in the morning...well, it's not pleasant.
So the coffee thing.  Yes, I'm a moron.  But I'm a coffee-addicted moron; I'm a moron who is used to consuming large and potentially unhealthy amounts of caffeine at a time.  So I figured 5 cups - while excessive - probbly wouldn't harm me as much as a regular person.  Right?  Because I'm not a regular person.  Right?  I'm a super-person.  Right?  A super-caffeinated-person.  Right.
WRONG.
I woke up at around 5:30.  Groggy, incoherant, freezing, and 100% certain that something in my stomach was alive and trying to eat its way out.  Honest to God...I have never felt tummy pain like that in my life.  Alright, that is a lie.  I have eaten my own cooking on several occasions, after all.  But seriously?  It was pretty bad.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to vomit, pee, or wake up Alex to call an ambulance.  In the end I decided to forgo all three and just curled into the fetal position to cry.  Damn you, Blend43!  Not for as long as I live shall I ever let you pass my lips again!  Again, that is a lie.  I'm actually drinking some right now.  What can I say?  Coffee-addicted moron.

Chicken In A Tin

I had a bit of a quiet one last week; there wasn't too much excitement.  So I'm just going to talk about canned food.

Have you guys walked down the tins-and-jars aisle at Woolworths recently?  Is this just me?  The number of food types which are available in cans fills me with equal parts astonishment and fear.  I don't want to come across as some kind of food snob, but sweet chilli chicken?  In a tin?  No.  Here is a list of foods is it acceptable to serve in canned form:

• Peaches
• Tuna

That's it.  That's all I've got.  And I don't even know that I can justify those two.  'Peaches' was just the first physically can-able food that popped into my mind.

Tuna barely makes the list.  Normally, the idea of any meat-and/or-fish product being canned would have a worse affect on my gag relflex than consecutive shots of tequila, but let's be honest.  When was the last time you saw tuna that wasn't served in a can?  Plus those who know me know that I'm morally opposed to dolphins, and I hear that canned tuna is somehow related to knocking those assholes off.  Is that actually true?

God I hope so.

So like I was saying.  Tuna = acceptable.  But chicken?  Cheese?  Vegetables?  Milk?  Sausage?  Unless you're an astronaut (or maybe in the armed services), there's really no excuse for consuming that many food groups from a tin.  My sister actually is in the armed services, and when she first joined she had to do this 6-week boot camp where they got fed nothing but curried sausages and tinned cheese.  Literally.  No exaggeration.  Alright, slight exaggeration.  They were probably given vegetables at some point.  Still, the fact that tinned cheese was even on the menu shows that the situation was pretty dire.  Catherine brought some home once, so I can tell you from experience - this cheese is the kind of thing that can cause your bowel to perforate.  Just by LOOKING at it.  Of course she tried to convince me to east some, but I respectfully declined.  I like my bowels the way they are, thanks.  And if life has taught me anything, it's to keep all things Navy-related away from my mouth.  Yes, that comment was meant to sound dirty.
Moving right along.

So my parents went away last weekend, and asked me to come around on Saturday just to feed the animals.  No problem!  This was okay with me because I needed to pick up my shoes anyway.  Plus, who doesn't like to feel needed every once in a while?  Even if it is by a household pet.  My cat Nala chose to thank me by taking a big dump on the laundry floor before I left.
Sensational.
It's a little strange going back to my parents house.  Yes, I am referencing the fact that I have just moved out.  Again.  If this annoys you, you will have to get over it.  Or come to my new house and give me something more exciting to blog about.  It would be great if you could also bring a washing machine, since we don't have one and I'm getting a bit sick of washing undies in the sink.  But like I was saying.  Parents house.  Weird.  Every time I pop in, it feels a little less like 'home' and a little more like 'hmmm, this place seems kind of familiar...'.  Of course it doesn't help that Mum put all the shit I left behind in boxes, and is planning on tearing down all my photos to repaint as soon as possible.  What, Mum, you couldn't even wait a full month?  I find this wildly offensive, especially if you consider my older sister, whose room (even though she moved out more than a YEAR ago) has been kept in pristine condition.  I suspect this might have something to do with her being on the way to Australian Naval Officer Of The Year, and me being, you know, a complete fuckwit.  I've taken to calling Catherine's old bedroom The Shrine To The Golden Child.  No I'm not bitter.  Not even a little bit.

The other thing that surprises me is the upstairs bathroom, which in recent weeks has looked cleaner than I have ever seen it.  This is the bathroom my sister and I used to share, so for around 9 years it was in a state of permanent disarray - no matter how many times our Mother tried to clean it.  There were cupboards and drawers we actually refused to open, only beause there was no telling what might jump out and kill us if we did:

Dude.  Chicks are disgusting.

Happy Birthday Dad

It was my Dad's birthday this past weekend.  No, I do not know how old he is.  When you're a 21-year-old idiot like myself, everyone else simply falls into one of three categories:

1) Younger than me
2) Older than me
3) Dead

I like to think of my Dad as one of the founding members of Group 2, although he likes to act as if he's part of Group 1.  Maybe that's where I get it from.

Anyway.  On Sunday afternoon, I went over to my parents house to help Mum with a special birthday dinner.  One of the fifty-two similarities between my Mother and I is that like me, she too is addicted to shows like Masterchef and My Kitchen Rules.  And - like me - this addiction has caused her to become overly ambitious in the kitchen.  For Sundays dinner, she'd planned a 4-dish menu:

• Greek lamb and mint yoghurt
• Ham and potato bake
• Roast garden vegetables stuffed with a vegetarian mince
• Chocolate mud cake

Now when I say 'overly ambitious', I don't mean it in a bitchy way.  I had no doubt in my Mum's ability to totally nail this dinner.  My only real concern was the roast vegetables - because she'd never done it before.  And to me, vegetarian mince sounds like the kind of dish that can result in either taste sensation or chronic diarrhea.  Luckily for all of us, it worked out.  I don't think '18 consecutive trips to the bathroom' was at the top of my Dad's gift list.  Not this year anyway.

Before I moved out, I always joked about how much my parents were going to 'miss me when I'm gone!'.  When my older sister Catherine left home it wasn't so bad, because I do a killer impersonation of her and could pull it out every night at the dinner table.  Plus she is a nightmare to live with and none of us liked her that much anyway.  Kidding!  Catherine we love you.  Oh yes, the secret is out: I know you read my blog.  And I know you're not the only one.  Anyway, like I was saying.  "You'll miss me when I'm gone!" I always said to Mum and Dad.  Turns out, I underestimated.  They don't just miss me.
They're going crazy.
It's been like a week and a half, right?  My Mum has baked three cakes.  AND a lemon meringue pie.  And Mum's a busy lady!  She works.  She cleans the house.  She runs every morning and does paddling on weekends.  When the hell did she find time to make all these desserts?  On her lunch break?  Or maybe she's becoming a sleep-baker and is doing all of this in some hypnotised state at four in the morning.  Either way, my Dad - the original chocoholic himself - is in his element.  It's good to know if the nursing thing doesn't work out, my Mum has a definite career as a trainer on The Biggest Gainer.

So there's the obsessive cooking.  Also?  They've both become addicted to Grey's Anatomy.  Which I guess isn't so strange in my Mum's case, but Dad?  Here is one of the most disturbing conversations I have had in my life:

Mum: Oh, Meredith.  Who hasn't she slept with?
Me: She never slept with McSteamy.
Mum: Oh yeah.
Me: Or Alex!  She never slept with Alex either.
Dad: Who in their right mind would sleep with Alex?  Hello, manwhore.

Hearing the word 'manwhore' come out of my Dad's mouth, well...that's an experience I'm not likely to forget any time soon.  Coming across as both inadvertantly hilarious and mind-blowingly inappropriate at the same time seems to be a Trew family trait these days.  With the exception of my sister, who lives in a state of perpetual humiliation, and moved all the way to Darwin to get away from us.

Ways To Know Your Roommate Is Awesome - #1

Alex: I think I've had enough Sea Patrol for one evening.
Jacki: Yeah that was a lot.  How many episodes was that?  Three in a row?  That's most Navy action I've had in months.
Alex: I should hope so!

Men In Uniform

Me again.  I want to talk about Masterchef for a second.
...
What is this, a competition for morons?  Obviously I'm kidding, since those people are pretty incredible and I struggle with toasted sandwiches.  But there are times when watching Masterchef that I am genuinely baffled by the contestants lack of knowledge when it comes to the English language.  I don't know; maybe it's the pressure of cooking.  Maybe it's having ten cameras shoved in their face.  But honestly?  There is a basic level on which you'd expect any educated Australian over the age of 9 to be able to communicate.  And this isn't it:

Random Contestant: I hope to cook something good for the judges today, because now that I've gotten to know them, I feel that not cooking good isn't something they're going to appreciate.

Perhaps I am paraphrasing, but basically?  I have heard that sentence (or some version of it) come out of at least seven people's mouths since I started watching the show.  Yes, you are on a program about competitive cooking.  Cooking well is probably what you should hope to achieve.  Congratulations; you have just graduated to 'Complete Dumbass'.

On a more positive note...while I may (jokingly) question the intelligence of the people on Masterchef, there is no doubt that at least some of them are pretty genius in the kitchen.  Did you guys see the 'tinned and frozen food' challenge?  I don't know what that chick's pink sugary foam dessert was made out of, but I wanted to lay down in a bed of it and roll around.  While eating that other dude's Milo chocolate mousse, and making out with Hayden.  Hayden is the only contestant whose name I can be counted on to remember because he is the hottest, and I am as shallow as the wading pool at Macquarie Leisure Centre. 
Kidding.
Actually the only reason I can remember Hayden is because my friend Julia once compared him to a golden retriever, and that is a memory hilarious enough to stick with me forever.  As for the other contestants, try not to be offended by the fact that not only do I not know your names, I will probably never bother to learn them.  For me, part of the fun of shows like Masterchef is inventing my own names for the contestants, based on their cooking style or personal appearance.  Did we learn nothing from The Serial Killer Cooks of My Kitchen Rules?
I am a terrible person.

So Alex and I have recently become obsessed with Channel 9's sub-par Navy-themed TV show Sea Patrol.  By which I of course mean, "I've always been a little obsessed, and now I am forcing Alex to watch it with me".  It's one of those shows I just don't enjoy watching by myself.  Fortunately the abundance of shirtless men that appear means it's never hard for me to find a female watching companion.

Umm...what was I talking about again?
Shirtless men are immensley enjoyable, but the best thing about watching Sea Patrol with Alex is that more than actually listening to/following what's happening on the screen, we prefer to invent our own storylines.  Mostly ones which involve us hooking up with whichever character we happen to be in love with at the time.  Did someone say 'juvenile'?  Thanks for that input.  I am aware that it's lame and childish, but I think having our own house together gives us enough Adult Points to counteract a faux relationship with one of these guys:

Plus, I am a sucker for a man in uniform and always will be.

I still haven't gotten over how cool my new house is.  I know this is a tad pathetic, and I don't care.  I spent a good 45 minutes at this family lunch I went to last Sunday talking about how much I love our bathroom.  I'm pretty sure no one was listening, but I babbled away nonetheless.  If that doesn't say 'I know I'm pathetic and I don't care', I'm not really sure what does.  I think having such a great apartment has improved my self-esteem.

FYI, the roommate situation is going great.  I love Alex.  Even calling her a 'roommate' feels weird.  She's really more like my wife.  Or is she my husband?  It's hard to say because she has all the qualities of a functional married couple:

• She can cook
• She cleans
• She has an amazing wardrobe
• She put together our dining room chairs

All conveniently combined into one amazing person.  As a roommate, I'm not exactly sure what I bring to the table: I had a go at putting together one of the dining room chairs myself, and it didn't go well.  When I realised I'd attached the whole seat back-to-front I just gave up and made a plate of shortbread in an act of consolation.  Yes, I am the kind of person who thinks homemade biscuits will make up for the fact that one of our guests will have to eat dinner on the floor.  Thank God Alex agreed to move in with me; when she eventually gets married and leaves, I will be alone forever.

On a related note...Now that I've moved out, I no longer have the constant luxury of being able to use my parent's 5000-year-old computer.  Eventually I hope to make a million dollars by mass-marketing The Clean Underwear Vending Machine (which I am convinced is an idea that was stolen out of my brain by someone in Japan), but until then you'll have to survive on one or two blogs a week.  My parents are enjoying an empty house for the first time in 22 years, and until I can afford my own computer, I have to sneak over in the afternoons and use theirs.  They pretend they're happy to see me, but I think it's starting to annoy them:

Carspots And Crazy People

Whoa!  I'm back!
So as of this moment, I'm all moved out.  Kind of.  Well, mostly.  In case you were wondering, moving out is incredible.  Here are three things that aren't:
1) Trying to get a fridge up 5 flights of stairs
2) Being accused of stealing someone else's car spot
3) Realising you left all your shoes at Mum and Dad's house
Ah, well.  Footwear is overrated.

About the car spot thing: what the hell?  If you know me, you know I'm the kind of person who hates pissing anyone off.  Unless you're my sister Catherine and it's intentional.  Otherwise, no.  So when I woke up to an angry windshield letter on Monday morning, I wasn't exactly psyched about it.  'Car spot Thief' isn't exactly the kind of thing you want on your rental history.  Plus the foyer in our building gets pretty dark at night; plenty of chances for a neighbour to sneak up and stab me.  They would probably stash the body under my car out of spite.
Anyway as it turns out, I had nothing to worry about.  A quick call to our real estate agent confirmed that we were in fact parking in the right spot, and it was The Angry Note Leaver in the wrong.
You know those times when someone accuses you of breaking the rules and makes you feel all shit about it, until you realise you haven't done anything wrong at all?  Talk about a rollercoaster of emotion.  This was me within the space of about 30 minutes:

Finding The Note

Calling The Agent

Realising I Just Got Bullied By My New Neighbour For No Reason

I mean.  What a bitch!  This is assuming we're talking about a girl here.  I suppose it could be a guy.  In that case, what a dick!  The worst part about this whole thing is that they didn't even leave their name or phone number.  So there's no way for me to call them up and rub it in their face:

Hello?

It IS my carspot you toolbag!  And don't even THINK about killing me in the foyer. 

Click

Don't be fooled by the newfound independance, people.  I am as idiotic as ever.