So in other news, my Mother is crazy and thinks there is a brothel in Lane Cove now.
Wha - ? Sigh. I can't even be bothered to deal with this sort of thing right now. Does anyone else have parents this nutty? At least I know for sure that I'm not adopted, but still. Really, Ma? Lane Cove Brothel is not something I want to have on my internet search history.
I regret ever teaching her how to use an iPhone.
So, this brothel. (Why not, right? I've already been talking about it for a paragraph). Is it real? Anyone? According to my Mum, the entrance is a plain red door on the street, somewhere between Toni&Guy and the Two Dollar shop on Longueville Road. This is disturbing to me for 2 reasons:
1) I've worked at that Toni&Guy for the better half of 18 months and I've never seen any such door.
2) Now I can never paint my front door red
It's true, I've never seen this door. Not that I've been looking or anything, but you'd think I might notice some queer red door in the middle of a busy suburban street. Nope. Are my peripherals really that bad? The answer to that question is 'Yes. You almost got hit by a bus yesterday. Again.'
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Let's talk about the rugby.
Yes, I know about sports! One thing most people don't know about me is that I was well on my way to becoming an Olympic sports commentator before I changed direction and decided to become a receptionist. I thought it was a better use of my talents. Plus, the pay is infinitely better.
So, the semi-finals on Sunday. Of course we all knew the Kiwi's would dominate, but did it have to be so...brutal? It was bad. Not just because of the loss, but also because I was watching it with my sister Catherine, and she kept comparing every Australian misfortune on the field to anal rape:
(New Zealand recieves another penalty)Catherine: What?! We're getting raped out there!!
(Australia fumbles the ball)
Catherine: Oh, fuck me in the ass!
(I come back from the bathroom and ask for an update)
Catherine: There's a penis in the bottom of every Australian in the world right now.
Calm down, ya Navy freak!
Anyway, we lost. Luckily for me, I'm not that invested in this particular game; if Geelong had gone down to Collingwood in the AFL Grand Final 2 weeks ago, I would have set my apartment on fire. But since this was only Union, I just punched a hole in the TV and threw my dog off a balcony.
Pretending I know anything about Rugby Union reminds me of an amusing anecdote from my high school days. One day my friend Pat (who used to play for Riverview) turned up to my house with a broken arm. What followed was what I like to call one of my 'Blonde Moments'.
Me: Pat, what happened to your arm?
Pat: A prop fell on me.
Me: Oh! Are you in a play?
Think about it. Think about it.
I am a moron.
Yes, I know about sports! One thing most people don't know about me is that I was well on my way to becoming an Olympic sports commentator before I changed direction and decided to become a receptionist. I thought it was a better use of my talents. Plus, the pay is infinitely better.
So, the semi-finals on Sunday. Of course we all knew the Kiwi's would dominate, but did it have to be so...brutal? It was bad. Not just because of the loss, but also because I was watching it with my sister Catherine, and she kept comparing every Australian misfortune on the field to anal rape:
(New Zealand recieves another penalty)Catherine: What?! We're getting raped out there!!
(Australia fumbles the ball)
Catherine: Oh, fuck me in the ass!
(I come back from the bathroom and ask for an update)
Catherine: There's a penis in the bottom of every Australian in the world right now.
Calm down, ya Navy freak!
Anyway, we lost. Luckily for me, I'm not that invested in this particular game; if Geelong had gone down to Collingwood in the AFL Grand Final 2 weeks ago, I would have set my apartment on fire. But since this was only Union, I just punched a hole in the TV and threw my dog off a balcony.
Pretending I know anything about Rugby Union reminds me of an amusing anecdote from my high school days. One day my friend Pat (who used to play for Riverview) turned up to my house with a broken arm. What followed was what I like to call one of my 'Blonde Moments'.
Me: Pat, what happened to your arm?
Pat: A prop fell on me.
Me: Oh! Are you in a play?
Think about it. Think about it.
I am a moron.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Tourism In North Korea
Good morning, Sydney-siders! It's a beautiful day to blog about North Korea, word?
Word!
For those of you who are new to this blog, there's a bit of background information you'll need to understand the following story:
1) I have an older sister named Catherine
2) Catherine is in the Navy
3) Catherine thinks I am a complete idiot
4) I am a complete idiot
Now let's begin.
So I was sitting at the kitchen table with Mum and Catherine last night about 11pm, discussing possible locations for Catherine's upcoming summer holiday. Yes, like I said, Catherine is in the Navy - her biggest dilemma at the moment is having to choose between Thailand and Hawaii. Not that I'm envious or anything; I will be spending my holiday sunbaking in our carpark.
Anyway.
Somewhere between Phucket and Vanuatu and Hawaii and Fiji, the idea of Catherine holidaying in North Korea came up. I can say with 100% honesty that I have no idea how this happened. Alright. That is a lie - I'm the one who brought it up. I am an absolute blast at family gatherings. After all, nothing says 'easy conversation' like 'the possibility of nuclear warfare and communism'. So I piped up with my little suggestion for Catherine's holiday. Then this brilliant piece of dialogue took place:
(silence)
Mum: North Korea?
Catherine: I'm pretty sure the Navy wouldn't actually let me travel to North Korea.
Me: Why not?
Catherine: It's too dangerous.
Me: Well you said that about Bali too, and we've ALL been there.
Catherine: Do I really have to explain the difference between Bali and North Korea to you?
Me: I'm just saying. Quick trip to NK. You know. See the sights.
Catherine: See the sights?
Me: Every country has sights!
Catherine: I don't think North Korea has sights.
Me: They have to! I mean, people live there, don't they?
Catherine: Yes. But they're all dead.
Me: I'm googling Tourism In North Korea.
Catherine: Oh, my God.
Me: Shut your mouth!
(5 minutes later)
Me: You know, it doesn't seem like there's much tourism in North Korea.
Catherine: You're an idiot.
I love how every time I start a conversation with anyone in my family, it will invariably end up with the conclusion that I am an idiot:
Catherine: Do they have conscription in North Korea?
Mum: Yes I think so.
Catherine: That sucks.
Me: They used to have conscription here!
Catherine: Yeah and if anyone starts a war you can bet that'll be the first thing they bring back.
Me: Really?
Catherine: Uh huh.
Me: Well I've got nothing to worry about.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: I'm not getting conscripted.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: Well one, because I'm a woman. And two, because I'm an idiot.
(pause)
Mum: You know, she's got a point.
Catherine: I wasn't going to even bother arguing.
Word!
For those of you who are new to this blog, there's a bit of background information you'll need to understand the following story:
1) I have an older sister named Catherine
2) Catherine is in the Navy
3) Catherine thinks I am a complete idiot
4) I am a complete idiot
Now let's begin.
So I was sitting at the kitchen table with Mum and Catherine last night about 11pm, discussing possible locations for Catherine's upcoming summer holiday. Yes, like I said, Catherine is in the Navy - her biggest dilemma at the moment is having to choose between Thailand and Hawaii. Not that I'm envious or anything; I will be spending my holiday sunbaking in our carpark.
Anyway.
Somewhere between Phucket and Vanuatu and Hawaii and Fiji, the idea of Catherine holidaying in North Korea came up. I can say with 100% honesty that I have no idea how this happened. Alright. That is a lie - I'm the one who brought it up. I am an absolute blast at family gatherings. After all, nothing says 'easy conversation' like 'the possibility of nuclear warfare and communism'. So I piped up with my little suggestion for Catherine's holiday. Then this brilliant piece of dialogue took place:
(silence)
Mum: North Korea?
Catherine: I'm pretty sure the Navy wouldn't actually let me travel to North Korea.
Me: Why not?
Catherine: It's too dangerous.
Me: Well you said that about Bali too, and we've ALL been there.
Catherine: Do I really have to explain the difference between Bali and North Korea to you?
Me: I'm just saying. Quick trip to NK. You know. See the sights.
Catherine: See the sights?
Me: Every country has sights!
Catherine: I don't think North Korea has sights.
Me: They have to! I mean, people live there, don't they?
Catherine: Yes. But they're all dead.
Me: I'm googling Tourism In North Korea.
Catherine: Oh, my God.
Me: Shut your mouth!
(5 minutes later)
Me: You know, it doesn't seem like there's much tourism in North Korea.
Catherine: You're an idiot.
I love how every time I start a conversation with anyone in my family, it will invariably end up with the conclusion that I am an idiot:
Catherine: Do they have conscription in North Korea?
Mum: Yes I think so.
Catherine: That sucks.
Me: They used to have conscription here!
Catherine: Yeah and if anyone starts a war you can bet that'll be the first thing they bring back.
Me: Really?
Catherine: Uh huh.
Me: Well I've got nothing to worry about.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: I'm not getting conscripted.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: Well one, because I'm a woman. And two, because I'm an idiot.
(pause)
Mum: You know, she's got a point.
Catherine: I wasn't going to even bother arguing.
Passed!
You might remember a few days ago, when I spoke about how my car was due for new registration? Well as it turns out, registering a car isn't as easy as just paying the bill. Not that that's even easy in my case, seeings as my bill was over $600, and I'm broke as a joke after spending all my money on vodka and facial piercings.
Kidding, Mum!
Anyway, before you even think about forking almost two weeks rent over to the sadistic bitches at AAMI, you have to undergo this whole 'Registration Check' thing to make sure the car is actually roadworthy. Not a big deal. Fortunately for me, my mechanic (having known Mum and Dad for years) is practically part of the family. Unfortunately for me, my car looks like this:
The absence of front wheels can be a bit of a hinderance. On the plus side though, I never have to deal with the inconvenience of opening a car door.
So anyway. Long story short, I stayed at Mum and Dad's last night for dinner, and also because our mechanic is right across the road from their house and only performs rego checks between 7 and 8 o'clock in the morning. Obviously, he is a crazy person. Not just because of the whole 'early morning rego check' situation. But also because by some miracle, he decided to pass my car for registration. What?! I can say with complete honesty I have no idea how that happened. And I didn't stick around to find out; I just got the heck out of there before this dude realised my little Barrina was made out of cardboard and changed his mind.
'My Mechanic Is An Idiot', is what I'm calling this story. Either that or, 'Show Enough Cleavage And You Can Get Whatever You Need'.
Kidding, Mum!
Anyway, before you even think about forking almost two weeks rent over to the sadistic bitches at AAMI, you have to undergo this whole 'Registration Check' thing to make sure the car is actually roadworthy. Not a big deal. Fortunately for me, my mechanic (having known Mum and Dad for years) is practically part of the family. Unfortunately for me, my car looks like this:
So anyway. Long story short, I stayed at Mum and Dad's last night for dinner, and also because our mechanic is right across the road from their house and only performs rego checks between 7 and 8 o'clock in the morning. Obviously, he is a crazy person. Not just because of the whole 'early morning rego check' situation. But also because by some miracle, he decided to pass my car for registration. What?! I can say with complete honesty I have no idea how that happened. And I didn't stick around to find out; I just got the heck out of there before this dude realised my little Barrina was made out of cardboard and changed his mind.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Me again!
This is just blogging-out-of-boredom, by the way, so don't expect anything too groundbreaking. I'm actually just killing time while my washing dries. Nothing new to report.
Except, OH YEAH:
This is just blogging-out-of-boredom, by the way, so don't expect anything too groundbreaking. I'm actually just killing time while my washing dries. Nothing new to report.
Except, OH YEAH:
I'M GOING TO BE AN AUNTIE...AGAIN.
This is exciting news for everyone. My brother, who's getting another son. My Mum, who loves buying baby clothes. My Dad, who is inundated with so many grandchildren he doesn't know what to do with himself. And me! Because who doesn't love being an auntie? I believe the Oxford English Dictionary definition reads:
Auntie: All the advantages of an adorable new-born baby without having to deal with poo.
I'm not a fan of poo. I'm not exactly what one might call 'kid friendly' either, but I will gladly choose a child over someone else's excrement any day of the week.
So what else? The whole 'car' situation continues to weigh on my mind. Last week I worked out that it was going to cost me around $1000 all up to keep the thing going. Obviously, that sucks. And it doesn't help that I knocked off my rear-vision mirror while reversing out of the carpark on Sunday morning. Now, more than ever, I wish that the TV show Pimp My Ride was still in production. If anyone who worked on that show is reading this right now, I implore you - bring back PMR. Even if it's just for a special one-off episode, titled 'Pimp My Ride Downunder: When Idiot Australians Try To Drive'. I'm not even asking for anything special. They don't have to install subwoofers or a dashboard-candy-dispenser. Maybe if they could just vacuum the boot and replace my windscreen wipers. Or I can do that stuff, and Ludacris can pay my Greenslip for me. Perhaps MTV should invent a show called Pimp My Insurance.
In other news...man, is my washing dry yet? I'm running out of blog ammo. I went to the gym today. Yes, I still go to the gym. You can't have double-door mirrors the size of the ones I have in my room and not be motivated to go to the gym. There is no escaping my love handles. Or as I like to call them, 'acquaintance' handles - they ain't love handles if nobody loves ya!
Sunday, October 02, 2011
The Fallback Plan
I'm interested to see how having an actual computer in our apartment will go. Our internet reception is pretty shithouse. What? Yes. You would think this to be annoying, but I disagree. Slow internet reception has its perks:
1) It totally puts a lock on my drunk internet shopping habit. And
2) Having the archives page on my blog load so slowly kind of makes me feel famous. Right? Because so many people are trying to look at it? Right? There's no clearer indication of fame than a slow-loading archives page. I'm just thinking of all those die-hard fans trying to read what I posted about men's underwear doubling as pajama pants back in 2009. Man, I'm good.
Alright, topic change.
Can someone tell me what time it is? The only clock I have in the house is my iPhone, and I don't know if it has the technology to update itself or not. Fuck, I hate daylight saving.
Ahh, daylight saving, huh? It's that time of year again. I suppose it's a fairly simple process when you explain it, but daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around. Most people know this. Probably because I announce it every year. "Daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around", I will say. I'm paraphrasing. Usually it's more like "I'm losing an hour of sleep tonight? What the fuck?"
Anyway.
Like any person who is socially retarded, if there is something in this world that confuses me, I will try to strike up a conversation about it with as many people as possible. I can hear you wondering if this ever goes well for me. The answer is yes. Except on days ending in 'y'. Still, I have fun with it. This is where having a job at a hairdresser comes in handy. I see 8 dillion people a day, and I get to have the same conversation with all of them! I know. Leaving this job is going to be pretty hard.
Speaking of leaving my job...While I realise that's going to have to happen eventually, I'm at a bit of a loss as to what I'll do next. I'm not one of these people whos greatest ambition in life is to have a career. I'd like to dabble in a little of everything. Within reason; obviously I won't be getting any work as say, a doctor. Not until I finish watching the entire ER series box set. I've got a lot of experience making coffee; maybe I could be a professional barrista. My coffee's not that great though, so probably not. I think it's my general lack of, um, skills that's holding me back. I saw this motivational poster the other day that read something along the lines of...
Now that's a motivational poster I can get on board with.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, the fallback plan. Foolproof. So, when I'm done with hosting radio and starring on MTV - or on the off chance that whole doctor thing doesn't work out - I'll be moving to Panama and opening my own fruit shop. I know, I know, I'm an idiot. Whatever. You'll all miss me when I'm gone.
1) It totally puts a lock on my drunk internet shopping habit. And
2) Having the archives page on my blog load so slowly kind of makes me feel famous. Right? Because so many people are trying to look at it? Right? There's no clearer indication of fame than a slow-loading archives page. I'm just thinking of all those die-hard fans trying to read what I posted about men's underwear doubling as pajama pants back in 2009. Man, I'm good.
Alright, topic change.
Can someone tell me what time it is? The only clock I have in the house is my iPhone, and I don't know if it has the technology to update itself or not. Fuck, I hate daylight saving.
Ahh, daylight saving, huh? It's that time of year again. I suppose it's a fairly simple process when you explain it, but daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around. Most people know this. Probably because I announce it every year. "Daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around", I will say. I'm paraphrasing. Usually it's more like "I'm losing an hour of sleep tonight? What the fuck?"
Anyway.
Like any person who is socially retarded, if there is something in this world that confuses me, I will try to strike up a conversation about it with as many people as possible. I can hear you wondering if this ever goes well for me. The answer is yes. Except on days ending in 'y'. Still, I have fun with it. This is where having a job at a hairdresser comes in handy. I see 8 dillion people a day, and I get to have the same conversation with all of them! I know. Leaving this job is going to be pretty hard.
Speaking of leaving my job...While I realise that's going to have to happen eventually, I'm at a bit of a loss as to what I'll do next. I'm not one of these people whos greatest ambition in life is to have a career. I'd like to dabble in a little of everything. Within reason; obviously I won't be getting any work as say, a doctor. Not until I finish watching the entire ER series box set. I've got a lot of experience making coffee; maybe I could be a professional barrista. My coffee's not that great though, so probably not. I think it's my general lack of, um, skills that's holding me back. I saw this motivational poster the other day that read something along the lines of...
IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING!
No offence to Mr Motivation, but I respectfully disagree. Really? I believe in myself, and I can't do shit!
Wow, that was a poor choice of phrasing. Anything. I can't do anything. Anything.
...
I'm not constipated.
Anywho. All I can say, is thank God for my fallback plan, which has been the same thing since I was about 16. It was around that time that I began to feel an inkling of my future as a talentless hack. Way to go, 16-year-old me! Could have been a psychic! Also a lie. If I actually had any psychic abilities, I might have been able to see that half the haircuts I've had in my lifetime weren't going to work out.
You know what I always thought would be fun? Hosting a radio show. I'm pretty unrealistic about it; I assume it's all fun and games and music and getting paid $17 million to take a 'gap year'. But I definitely have a face for radio, which I'm sure will mean more to Nova or 2dayFM than any university degree. Wait, scratch that. I probably couldn't work for 2dayFM on account of them already having a Jacki on staff. Even if she does spell her name with an e. Maybe I could start my own radio station; all Queen hits, all the time. With the occasional Journey song thrown in. And sound bites of me reading excerpts from my own blog. If I got to pick my own co-host, it would have to be either the dude who played Sandy Cohen on The OC, or Hugh Jackman. Sandy seems like a chilled out guy, plus he's got great eyebrows. Jackman would just sit in silence and give me something pretty to look at.
I also feel like I could probably do well on a reality show. I've blogged about this before, but it's still true. I've even got a sales pitch: a show where I sit on a couch getting drunk, watch a bunch of movies, and do the commentary for them. Hilarious! If Alex and Richie think it is, so will the rest of Australia. I can't even tell you how much they enjoyed watching the last Lord of the Rings film with me.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, the fallback plan. Foolproof. So, when I'm done with hosting radio and starring on MTV - or on the off chance that whole doctor thing doesn't work out - I'll be moving to Panama and opening my own fruit shop. I know, I know, I'm an idiot. Whatever. You'll all miss me when I'm gone.
Total Weirdo Magnet
Wow, another blog already? You are welcome, Universe. Feel free to send me $88 in the mail as a thankyou present. I got a parking ticket yesterday and I'm poor as shit.
I can't really think of how to start this post, so I guess I'll just start typing and see where it takes me. I just chugged a whole bottle of water in one go and I've kind of got the huge 'water baby' faux-pregnancy belly thing going on. It's pretty distracting. But here goes:
Oh! Happy Birthday Richie! For yesterday. You are now 22 and that's pretty old, but you're way younger than both my parents. Feel good about that.
So last night (both in celebration of Richie's birth, and Geelong's crushing victory over Collingwood in the AFL grand final), a bunch of us went to Cabana. Good times. Great times, actually. They have this cocktail on the menu called a 'Jimmy Chew'. Clever, no? See what they did there? Because Jimmy Choo is a brand of shoes loved by women all over the world? And they changed it to Chew because...wait, actually, I'm kind of unclear on that. Can anyone else explain this? Chew? Regardless, it was a great cocktail. My favourite part of the night, though, was calling a cab to get there. It went something like this:
Guy: Taxis Combined, how can I help you?
Me: Hey, I just want to book a ta-
Guy: Heeeyyy, Jacki!
(What? How does this dude know my name? I had no idea. I just went with it.)
Me: Yeah!
Guy: Where are you?
Me: Uhhh, Lane Cove. In Cope Street.
Guy: And where you going, girl?
(...Girl?)
Me: St Leonards, please. Cabana Bar.
Guy: Ooh, Cabana. Is that good?
Me: Yeah, sure.
Guy: You must be thirsty.
Me: ...??
(I don't know. "??". That's what the silence sounded like.)
Guy: Okay, so you want to go now?
Me: Yep.
Guy: Alright. And I'll organise a special text, just for you. Wink.
(Not kidding. He actually said 'wink'.)
Me: Thanks.
Guy: Have a good night, sexy.
Me: I will. And maybe we can meet up later.
Guy: Oh yeah? Sure!
Me: I've got your number. 133 300, right?
Guy: You got it.
Me: Great. Can't wait to kick you in the balls for being such a nutjob.
I made up some of that last part, but still. What?! Weirdest cab booking ever, only cementing my theory that I am the strongest 'abnormal cab driver' magnet in the universe. This was almost as bad as the time my cabbie tried to get me to smoke weed with him on the way home. True story. I know! I told you - total weirdo magnet.
I can't really think of how to start this post, so I guess I'll just start typing and see where it takes me. I just chugged a whole bottle of water in one go and I've kind of got the huge 'water baby' faux-pregnancy belly thing going on. It's pretty distracting. But here goes:
Oh! Happy Birthday Richie! For yesterday. You are now 22 and that's pretty old, but you're way younger than both my parents. Feel good about that.
So last night (both in celebration of Richie's birth, and Geelong's crushing victory over Collingwood in the AFL grand final), a bunch of us went to Cabana. Good times. Great times, actually. They have this cocktail on the menu called a 'Jimmy Chew'. Clever, no? See what they did there? Because Jimmy Choo is a brand of shoes loved by women all over the world? And they changed it to Chew because...wait, actually, I'm kind of unclear on that. Can anyone else explain this? Chew? Regardless, it was a great cocktail. My favourite part of the night, though, was calling a cab to get there. It went something like this:
Guy: Taxis Combined, how can I help you?
Me: Hey, I just want to book a ta-
Guy: Heeeyyy, Jacki!
(What? How does this dude know my name? I had no idea. I just went with it.)
Me: Yeah!
Guy: Where are you?
Me: Uhhh, Lane Cove. In Cope Street.
Guy: And where you going, girl?
(...Girl?)
Me: St Leonards, please. Cabana Bar.
Guy: Ooh, Cabana. Is that good?
Me: Yeah, sure.
Guy: You must be thirsty.
Me: ...??
(I don't know. "??". That's what the silence sounded like.)
Guy: Okay, so you want to go now?
Me: Yep.
Guy: Alright. And I'll organise a special text, just for you. Wink.
(Not kidding. He actually said 'wink'.)
Me: Thanks.
Guy: Have a good night, sexy.
Me: I will. And maybe we can meet up later.
Guy: Oh yeah? Sure!
Me: I've got your number. 133 300, right?
Guy: You got it.
Me: Great. Can't wait to kick you in the balls for being such a nutjob.
I made up some of that last part, but still. What?! Weirdest cab booking ever, only cementing my theory that I am the strongest 'abnormal cab driver' magnet in the universe. This was almost as bad as the time my cabbie tried to get me to smoke weed with him on the way home. True story. I know! I told you - total weirdo magnet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)