Baby Talk

Children are interesting to me.  On the one hand, I'm not that great with them; I can't do baby talk, and the idea of me actually giving birth to anything not resembling the spawn of satan is pretty laughable.  But on the other hand...

Awwwww!
I don't imagine myself with kids.  It's not that I don't like them or whatever - I have plenty of friends that I can easily envision with the whole 'Grown Up' scenario.  You know; husband, twins, house in the suburbs.  And I'm always there too, as the crazy aunt who gets drunk on Christmas.  Alex and Richie are one couple who know this is in the cards for them.  I've already reserved a bedroom in their hypothetical-future-mansion.

The baby talk thing is a real issue with me.  I didn't even do baby talk when I was a baby.  True story.  Ask my Mum.  Apparently I went from sucking my thumb in silence to full-blown conversations.  I don't know.  I imagine it went something like this:

Mum: Baisy, can you say Mama?  Mama?
Me: (Blank stare)
Dad: How about Dada?  Can you say Dada??
Me: (Blank stare)
Catherine: Can she say my name?
Me: Will you three get out of my face?  I'm six days old.  God damn.

Hey!  In other exciting news, we got a new candle for the bathroom.  Finally, I can take showers in the dark again.  Washing my hair has never been so romantic.  Plus it's a scented candle, which only makes everything more enjoyable.  As if Alex and I didn't already have the most desirable apartment in the Lane Cove area.  We haven't actually had our housewarming yet, so feel free to consider this your official invitiation:

I need to start inviting people over more often.
Actually.
I'm almost convinced this is the reason I'm still single.  If more men saw the inside of my house and how awesome it is, they'd probably be able to look past my love of disco music, obsession with Freddie Mercury, lack of career direction, terrible dance moves and addiction to all-things-caffinated.  Line up, gentlemen!  If you can deal with the crazy thing, I'm really not a hard woman to please.  I don't need a diamond ring.  Just stock the fridge with Red Bull and don't expect me to have kids.

Home and Away has been really depressing lately.  That's pretty much all I got.  Yes, I still watch Home and Away.  Is that totally lame?  Kiss my ass.

So my week was actually coming along quite nicely until yesterday afternoon.  Work was busy, it had stopped raining, my hair was doing that thing where it doesn't resemble a birds nest full of old snakes...and then:

Lucky I'm with AAMI?  I respectfully disagree:

Is it totally stupid and irresponsible to post pictures of personal insurance bills on the internet?  I don't care.  I'm too busy crying into my cereal at the idea of having to give up my beloved car.  Dude.  DUDE.  This sucks.  Who knew car insurance could cost so much?  So what if I'm 21!  This is where the whole AAMI car insurance thing really annoys me; the part where they just assume that everyone under the age of 50 is a shit driver.  Hello?  My Dad is over 50 and way more reckless behind the wheel than I am.  Where do you think I learned it?  My Mum seems to think the inflated bill price has less to do with my age, and more to do with the fact that I single-handedly caused a 3-car accident on the way home from the airport one morning.  Whatever!  That was almost a YEAR ago!  And TOTALLY not my fault!
Alright, maybe a little bit.  I maintain that the driving instructors at L Trent need to focus less on actual driving skills, and put more emphasis on the fact that texting on the highway is never a good idea.  I probably wouldn't have tried it otherwise!
(Yes, I am an idiot).
Anyway.  Yes, this whole situation blows, but never fear.  I'm probably not going to have to sell my car.  My plan is to pay my insurance and registration bills at the same time and then quit eating for 6 months.  I may also have to rent out my room and start sleeping in a cardboard box on the balcony.  It's called priorities, people!

Good Hair Day

Has anyone else been watching the new season of Underbelly?  Have I already talked about this?  Can't remember.  But yeah, Underbelly.  Or if we're being technical about it, Underbelly Razor.  Awesome.  I love that just because it's set in Sydney, I have this weird connective feeling about the whole thing; like it's my personal claim to fame.  Forget that I'm in no way actually related to any of the characters, all of whom lived a good 80 years before I was even born. 
Sydney! 
Sydney! 
It's my claim to fame!
This is exactly the same kind of thing I feel about stuff like the Matrix movies, and Baz Luhrmann.  I know it's ridiculous.  And I don't care.  Besides, I'm pretty sure Baz Luhrmann checks my blog on a daily basis.

So what else was I going to talk about?

I had this dream the other night about a pot plant being run over by a truck.  Which would have been just as boring as it sounds, except that the pot plant was alive - like, it had a face and everything - AND was best friends with one of the guys I work with.  What?  I have no idea.  As in real life I progress into adulthood, my dreams only seem to be getting more child-like.  Hello, irony!  I can only assume this has something to do with my meth addiction.  Kidding, Mum!  Actually I have no idea what this is about.  And what else is new?  If being crazy was an Olympic sport, just about the only thing that could knock my dreams out of first place would be my hair.  Russell Brand knows what I'm talking about.

Speaking of meth addictions, we were at the pub the other day when some woman came up to me and started talking about her ex-boyfriend and his drug habit.  Whaaaat?  I love people like this, because they provide all situations with a 94% chance of becoming awkward.
94%.
That's a real statistic.
Anyway, as everyone who knows me knows, I am a huge fan of awkwardness; I thrive on it.  So imagine my delight at discovering someone who can give it to me on a silver platter:

Woman:  Hi.  Mind if I sit here?
Me: Oh no, go ahead.
Woman.  Thanks.  Nice day, huh?
Me: Yeah.  Yeah, nice.
(Pause)
Woman: So, my ex-boyfriend was addicted to ice.

Not even kidding.
NOT EVEN KIDDING.
Alright, so I'm kind of kidding.  She sat with us for about 10 minutes before the ice-addiction thing came up.  But it was still awkward!  Let's be honest, the topic of ice addiction is always gonna be kind of awkward.  There's really no other way to spin it:

Woman: So, my ex-boyfriend was addicted to ice.
Me: Oh...that's a shame.  But you know what, I bet he had a great personality.

Fail.

BLACKOUT, 2011

First of all, let's pretend it's still Sunday so I can say Happy Father's Day to all the Dads in the world.  Especially mine, because he is superior to all others in like, 9 different ways.  Hey - he created me and Catherine, didn't he?

Good job, Papa.

So today is probably going to be one of those days where I ramble on about nothing.  Kind of like every other day.  The only reason I'm warning you now is that I just had a second champagne brunch with my parents and watched Jersey Shore, and I think I'm a little drunk.  So prepare yourselves for that.
Oh!  You know what exciting event happened this week?

BLACKOUT, 2011!

This is the first time we've had a real blackout in our apartment since moving in.  Yes, I have been waiting for it.  There was one night a few weeks back where I thought it might be happening, but that turned out to be a false alarm; I mean, who knew having the TV, stereo, DVD player, heater, fridge, kettle, kitchen lights and toaster all on at the same time could cause a fuse to blow?

I sure didn't.

The best part about BLACKOUT, 2011 was that it happened on Friday night at about 11:30pm.  When I just so happened to be home, alone, watching Fight Club.

Dude.

If this had happened ten years ago, 11-year-old-me probably would have offed herself just to avoid the Brad-Pitt-Serial-Killer-Lookalike she was sure had orchestrated the whole power failure and was now systematically moving through each apartment in the building, killing all in his path.  But 21-year-old-me?

Meh.

The only thing that really had me worried was that our fridge had turned off and all our food was going to spoil.  I got over that pretty quickly when I opened it and remembered all we actually have in there is alcohol and avocado dip.  Truthfully, I'm just glad it was me at home by myself when this happened, and not Alex.  Though a fearless woman in many ways, Alex is not a fan of the dark.  Which I get.  I totally get the whole "Scared Of The Dark" thing.  A cupboard is just a cupboard, right?  Right.  But turn off the lights, and you never know what might be hiding in there.  I personally am saved by the logic that, whatever weird and fucked up creature is lurking under the bed cannot be more weird and fucked up than me.  But I don't think that works for everybody.  So yeah, I get it, being scared of the dark.

This posed a dilemma though: Alex was at the pub with a few of her mates, and probably wouldn't get home until late.  Usually in this situation I would leave a light on (so she didn't have to fumble around in the dark), but tonight I obviously couldn't.  So what would be scarier for her?

a) Walking into a dark apartment completely alone, or

b) Finding me sitting in the dark waiting for her?

...

I was seriously stumped for like 15 minutes.  In the end I called my Mum for advice:

Mum: Hey Baisy, what's up?

Me: Oh hey Mum.  Quick question.  We're in the middle of a blackout right now, and I -

Mum: Are you alright?!

Me: Yeah, I'm fine, the serial killers haven't reached out apartment yet.

Mum: What?! What serial killers?  There's no serial killers!

Me: I know Mum, it was just a joke.

Mum: There's no serial killers!

Me: ...Anyway, I'm fine, but Alex isn't home yet and she's a bit scared of the dark.  So what do I do?

Mum: I don't know.  Why don't you send her a nice text?  And make sure to tell her again how much you loved the roast she made on Monday night.

Oh, SIDENOTE: I've never been a fan of roast dinners, but Alex made one earlier that week that was off the chain.  I made the mistake of telling Mum (who's roasts I'd always refused to eat) all about it.  Several times.  She's a bit jealous.

Me: Yeah, okay, but then what?  Do I wait in the dark like a weirdo or just go to bed?

Mum: Maybe...did you hear the thing I said about the roast dinner?

Me: (Sigh) Goodnight, Mother.

Honestly. 

And they think I'm the dramatic one?

Happy (Belated) Birthday

So it was my sister's birthday last Friday.  Happy Birthday, Catherine!  Your present is in the mail.  It's a box of dildos.
Kidding!
It's a box of condoms.  Hello, you're in the Navy and surrounded by men; I'm just being practical.
...
Could I be any more inappropriate?
Anyway, I had planned to write some crazed essay about Catherine and our family, and all the ways in which I am tormented by Catherine and our family, but then I realised I've already done that.  Last year.  Or was it the year before?  Regardless, you can all read it by clicking here, while I spend my time doing something more productive.  Like watching Offspring.
Happy Birthday!