Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Unlucky In Luck

So, alright, lets talk about Masterchef again.  I work late some nights, and also have a life - so I don't get to watch MC nearly as much as I'd like.  Thus, I'm a little unclear on the actual layout.  As far as I know, it goes like this:
  • Group challenge
  • Immunity challenge
  • Pressure challenge
  • Masterclass
  • And every once in a while there seems to be an episode where all the contestants are driven to an obscure location (ie Matt Moran's Dad's farm) and forced to cook in semi-ridiculous conditions.  I mean how many chefs do you know that actually had to dismember a lamb carcass within 60 seconds while fighting off a thunderstorm in the middle of the bush?  Just saying.  Anyway, where was I?
Until last Friday night, the only way I knew about the Masterclass episodes was though word-of-mouth, because I refused to watch them.  We all know I can't cook and will probably never learn how.  Why, then, would I want to watch someone else learn how to make 3 kinds of French desserts?  By which I really mean 'flirt shamelessly with the French pastry chef from Patisse'.  Not that I would want to watch someone else doing that, either.  Hello?  That's like watching someone else get married to Wentworth Miller from Prison Break.
French pastry chefs are HOT.
But back to the topic at hand: Masterchef.  Has anyone else heard that Mat was kicked off the show for cheating?  Apparently he used an iPhone to Google recipes when no one was looking.  What?  Since the contestants make out as if they're being filmed 24/7, I can only assume he did this in the bathroom.  It makes me feel good to know that the people from Masterchef Google things while sitting on the toilet too.  Celebrites - they're just like you and me!
But yeah.  Since the show is filmed ahead of time, Mat is still appearing on my TV screen night after night, even though in reality he was eliminated more than 2 weeks ago.  This is now the basis of Masterchefs appeal for me.  I could care less about the actual cooking; I just tune in in the hopes of witnessing Mat's dramatic eviction.  I'm also hoping for a kitchen incident involving grease fire and Sun's head.  Too mean?  Whatever, Sun annoys me.

So my car broke down the other day.  If you have driven in/complained about my car before, (or you are one of my sister's charming Navy buddies who feel inclined to comment on the fact that yes, I drive a beat-up Barrina from '97 with a disco ball hanging from the rearview mirror), you will probably find this hilarious.  You are probably glad you drive a 2003 Golf.  You are probably fighting the urge to say 'I told you so'.
Suck it!  I'm a bloody receptionist!  Do you know how much money we make?
...Okay, more than enough.  But I'm also a receptionist who pays rent and harbours a severe addiction to vintage clothing.  "Saving money" isn't exactly at the top of my list of priorities.  "Saving money for a new car" isn't even on my radar.  Besides which, I love the Barrina.  Underachieving pieces of shit gotta stick together, right?  My car and I were made for each other.
I think my favourite part about the whole 'car breakdown' scenario is that it happened in front of my parents house.  This was ideal for 2 reasons:
1) I was able to ask Dad for a ride home, and
2) It wasn't in the middle of a 6-lane freeway
I don't know if anyone else who reads this blog is the owner of a Holden bubble car from 1997...just in case, here is a visual:
It's a bit like driving a pram made out of cardboard.  This is the reason I'm so often caught breaking the limit - in my car, the only way to survive on the road is to speed away from everyone else.

So my beloved Lincoln (yes I named my car after a Prison Break character...what else did you expect?) died last Tuesday.  Thankfully, I had Wednesday off and was able to spend the morning fixing the engine with my Dad.  Alright, that's a bit of a stretch.  I was able to spend the morning standing around pretending to look interested while Dad explained the pros and cons of 3 different motor oil brands.  I'm still not 100% sure what I want to do with the rest of my life, but at least now I know a future in motor vehicle mechanics is out of the question.
After replacing the oil, the car seemed to be working okay, so Dad decided it would be safe for me to drive home.  And I trust my Dad, vehemently.  But more than that, I was bored out of my skull and wanted a shower.  So it didn't take much convincing.
Unfortunately, Lincoln soon decided that new motor oil wasn't the answer, and broke down again.  Fortunately though, he made this decision at the exact moment that I was pulling into our car spot at home.  Am I the luckiest unlucky person alive?  I say yes.  Who else has a car that'll break down multiple times in one week, but always in a convenient location?  I like to think this is God's way of making up for me being a complete fuckup in all other aspects of life.

A Purple Sparkly Gift

I can't believe I haven't blogged about this until now, but I recently watched the entire first season of Underbelly.  Judging by the reactions of people I've already announced this to, I am probably the last person in Australia to jump on board with this show.  With the exception of my Mum, who refuses to watch anything on TV except Grey's Anatomy and Relocation: Down Under.
For me, the best part about Underbelly is the cast - an amusing mix of Australian soap opera alumni.  Say what you like about shows like Neighbours and Heartbreak High, they produce some quality actors!  Of course, the other side of the coin is that it's a little hard to be 100% intimidated by infamous drug dealer Tony Mokbel when you usually know him as Doctor Sid from Home and Away.  But I did my best to ignore that.
Speaking of TV, I'm watching this movie right now called The Crazies.  It's, well, interesting.  Apparently it's actually a remake - the original was made in the 1970's or something.  What?  Who knew they even had horror movies like this in the 70's?  No, The Exorcist doesn't count.  Even my Mum - who can't get through Jaws without almost wetting her pants - doesn't think The Exorcist counts as a scary movie.  Saw? She wet herself.
Amityville Horror? Wet herself.
The Ring? Wet herself. 
But Exorcist?  No problem.
I've adapted this into a Horror Film Rating System: if Mum hasn't peed on the couch yet, it's not that scary.
Anyway, The Crazies.  Basically it's about some small town in the middle of nowhere (aren't they always?) that's overcome by a virus which turns everyone into a robot serial killer.  It makes them crazy.  They become The Crazies.  Good to see inventive film titles are as important as ever in Hollywood.  But being that I am probably one traumatic life experience away from becoming a robot serial killer myself, I actually enjoyed the movie.  It's kind of a cross between 28 Days Later and The Signal, with a little Resident Evil thrown in.  Perhaps 28 Evil Signals would have been a more appropriate title.
I should get a job in entertainment.

So I'm at my parents house today.  I just dropped by to pick up some shoes and ended up being sucked into The Crazies.  And then I decided to blog a little.  I guess that's the general appeal of this place for me now: shitty movies and an internet connection.  It doesn't hurt that Mum insists on baking a lemon cake every time I come over, either.  Anyway, remember when I blogged about Mum's plan to use my old bedroom as the new Guest Room?  Well, that happened.  The first thing Dad said when I walked through the front door was 'Don't go upstairs!'.  Of course I immediately did - half out of curiosity and half because at heart I'm still 12 years old and think it's hilarious to do the exact opposite of what my parents tell me.  Wow.  I kind of wish I listened to Dad:

Right now I'm past being 'offended that they only waited 3 weeks to destroy what I spent 11 years building', and halfway into the 'amused at the idea of Mum clearing all my old stuff out, because to be honest there's no telling what she might have found' phase.  I'm not even 100% on what I'd left behind in there.
Alright, that's a lie.
About a week and a half after we moved in, I remembered one thing I hadn't bothered to bring with me; the thought of the expression on my Mother's face should she happen to find it was simulaneously terrifying slash the most hilarious thing ever.  I'll say no more about the item - this whole scenario (especially since I'm now almost completely certain she did find it) is so fucking funny I'm going to save it for my book.  But just in the interest of leaving you hanging, I'll tell you it was purple, sparkly, and a gift from someone whose name I no longer remember.

Milo, And Lots Of It

I think I've drunk more Milo in the past 2 weeks than I have in my entire life.  I have no idea why this is.  Maybe it's a random craving.  Or maybe (more likely) it has something to do with us having nothing else in the house but avacado dip, wine and mojito mixer.  Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of mojito mixer - but for breakfast?  Even I will admit that's not always appropriate.
And lots of it.
You know I've had to throw away two empty cans already?  Before this, I don't think I'd ever even seen the bottom of a Milo tin before.  When we were kids, Mum would just get the insanely-extra-large size tin from Coles, and it'd sit in our pantry for months on end (occasionally being used) until the Milo solidified into a powdered-chocolate brick and had to be thrown away.  At which point we'd head back to the supermarket for another extra-large tin.  Brilliant, I know.  I think this is actually the basis of my ridiculous shopping ethic.