Atomic Wedgie

So I have this giant mosquito bite on my ass cheek right now.
'Ass cheek' is probably generous.  It's pretty much right on the anus.  Oh my god have we talked about how much of a lady I am?  Sorry, Mum.  
You know what's really awesome about having a giant mozzie bite on your butt?  Nothing.  There are no redeeming qualities whatsoever.  It's not cute, it hurts to sit down, and every time I try to itch it looks like I'm plucking the world's most atomic wedgie.

Anyway I can't sleep right now.  It's 3:27 am.  I don't think this has anything to do with the giant ass bite, but you never know.  Anything is possible in this day and age, and I caught a glimpse of this thing with a tiny mirror I found in my handbag - don't ask me what position I had to contort myself into to make that possible - but it seriously looks large enough to power a small African country.  What if that energy is being subtly rerouted to my brain and keeping me awake?  
On the other hand, it might be the copious amounts of caffeine I consumed earlier today.  I drink a lot of coffee and guarana.  Hmmm.  Nah.  Pretty sure it's the bite.

To me, the best part about having a Fiance is having someone to look at the giant mosquito bite near my anus.  I mean, what if I hadn't found that tiny mirror in my bag/done gymnastics in high school?  The bite may have remained a mystery forever!  I suppose I could have paid a doctor to look at it for me, but I am always weary of letting doctors near my ass since I heard they sometimes stick thermometers up there.  Okay, I actually heard that about a vet.  And it wasn't a human ass, it was my cat.  I think probably this is a practice you rarely see in humans, but you can never be too safe I say.  Have I really been talking about my anus for the last two paragraphs?   This blog is really going down the toilet.

In other news, Christmas is just around the corner and I finally finished all my shopping today.  Did I get you a present?  I don't know, it depends who you are.  The safe answer to assume would be 'no'.  I am 22, broke, and trying to save for a wedding.  If you have a problem with this, I invite you to suck on it.  If you are lucky, next year you will receive the gift of attending my wedding.  I think this is pretty legit because we are paying for everyone's booze.  And like I always say, nothing celebrates the birth of Jesus like alcohol and   the matrimony of two idiots living in sin.

The End Of The World As We Know It

I like to think that anyone who knows me well thinks that I'm pretty nice.  A total loon, maybe, but pretty nice.  I try my hardest to be a good girl.  I don't trip people in the street.  If I make fun of you, I'm probably joking.  I would never steal, cheat or lie (unless we're playing a game of Monopoly in which case you should definitely expect it).  And one thing I pride myself on never subjecting another person to, is rubbing it in their face when I am right and they are wrong.  Like, saying 'I told you so.'  I wouldn't pull that crap on anyone.  Ever.  Never.

Except for today.

...
Wait.  So it wasn't John Cusack who made an apocalyptic prediction three thousand years ago?  Huh.

I'm kidding of course.  I can be dumb, but secondary education and the invention of Wikipedia means there's no way I could be that dumb.  I just didn't want to run the risk of telling the Mayans to 'suck it', in the unlikely event that one of them read it and have me arrested for a hate crime.

Fuck you Mayans.

I believe that when the world does end, it will be one of six ways:  Hurricane, tidal wave, bushfire, super-tornado, zombie apocalypse, or some combination thereof.   
Lucky for me, living in a 2-bedroom apartment on the top story of a building in Coogee means that if/when the world does end, I won't have to worry about it:
Hurricane: Hurricane, schmurricane.  Point one, I'm pretty sure there are no records of any hurricane ever having taken place in Coogee.  Really think the end of the world would change that?  Doubt it.
Tidal Wave: You might think practically living on the beach would make this one the biggest threat of all.  Well, you would think wrong, idiot.  Coogee, while not the number one surfing capital of Sydney, has got to be at least top five.  I may not know how to surf now, but I'm 100% confident that should the occasion arise, my Coogee-genes would totally kick in and allow me to drop in on a 100ft monster.  100ft monster, is that right?  I'm not even sure if 'drop in' is a legitimate surfing term.  But it doesn't matter.  Because I live in Coogee.
Bushfire: I live near the water, I am immune to fire.  Duh.
Super-Tornado:  First of all - as far as I'm concerned, the only difference between 'Hurricane' and 'Super Tornado' are those crazy windy super twisty tubes that come down from the sky like in The Day After Tomorrow.  Second of all - as if that doesn't look like the funnest roller-coaster of all time.  Except you don't have to wear seatbelts.
Zombie Apocalypse:  This is probably the easiest.  Since Fiance bought a Playstation 3 and I bought Black Ops II, the two of us have been playing so much survival in Zombie Mode together that I'm honestly confident I could single-handledly save the world.  I mean, Fiance could be there and all.  But I could probably do it on my own.  Actually, I would probably prefer to do it solo.  There is no bigger confidence booster than single-handedly saving the world.  Plus everyone knows it means never having to pay for your own drinks again.

Booyah.

I Married A Laptop

So in other exciting news, I am now the owner of a brand new Sony Vaio E Series laptop.

Internal Memory: 4GB
Colour: Pink
Necessity: None
Fabulousness: Infinite

And before you say anything, I know what you're thinking.  A new laptop?  Jacki?  Jacki Trew?  Is this really the best idea?  Do I really not recall how many laptops/desktops/hard drives/portable hard drives/hair straighteners/hair curlers/DVD players/iPods/iPhones/Other mobile phones/Foxtel Box Tops/USBs/household pet microchips etc I have destroyed in the past?

Yes, I remember.  Thank you.  And at the same time, fuck off.  Here is my theory:
I have screwed up a lot of technology in the past.  Laptops and desktops, inevitable.  Hair straighteners, unfortunate.  Household pet microchips, regrettable.  But while it's easy to just write me off as a part-alien destroyer of electronics, sent here from the future to end planet Earth one iPhone at a time...you should know that there are some fancy gadgets I haven't yet ruined - and the ones that still survive all have something in common.  They have all been gifts from Fiance.
My iPad?  A gift from Fiance.
My DJ-Standard headphones?  A gift from Fiance.
My iPhone?  Well...technically not a gift from Fiance.  But when the home button broke and Siri kept activating every 6.5 seconds, it was Fiance who took it to the Apple store for replacement.
And the brand new Sony Vaio E Series laptop?  A gift from Fiance.

So I am convinced.  Never mind that the main basis of this theory is that Fiance will leave me to become a crazy lonesome cat woman forever should I ruin my new computer.  I AM CONVINCED.

We're The Shit

For two 22-year-olds who consider themselves mature enough to get married, my fiance and I sure talk about poo a lot.

A lot.

And alright, technically Fiance is 23.  But still.  Emotionally I'm still 18, so I think that gives us a median age of 22.  Here is an excerpt from a conversation we had three days ago:

Fiance: Should we go to bed?

Me: Yeah, bed.

Fiance: Okay.

(2 minutes later)

Fiance: You comfortable?

Me: ...Yeah.

Fiance: Are you?

Me: Yeah, but my tummy kind of hurts.

Fiance: What kind of hurt?

Me: Well I don't want to go to sleep right away coz I'm kind of worried I'm gonna poo the bed.

Fiance: Hahaha.

Me: Don't laugh. I'm seriously concerned.

Fiance: ...Well now so am I!

For the record, I didn't poo the bed.  But I definitely think it is time to stop drinking Red Bulls after 7pm.

For me, the best thing about being in a committed (re: engaged) relationship is the love.  Love is amazing.  But the second thing for sure, is the access I now have to men's underwear.  Oh, my god.  I have never experienced anything so comfortable in my life.  I live in men's underwear.  It's like wearing pajama pants all the time - except you don't have to wear undies underneath.  I can finally feel the wind on my privates, and isn't that every girls dream?  I say it is.  Hello?  I'm a girl.  And I remember being young:

Santa:  Alright little girl, and what would you like for Christmas?

Me:  Well I don't know Santa..

Santa: Oh come on.  There must be something.

Me: Okay. Is there any way I can get the general support of a Kaiser Brazilian-cut brief without the feeling that my underwear is going up my butt?

Santa:...Yes.  Yes there is.

It's weird.  Honestly though, I feel like the only people who really don't appreciate the freedom with which Fiance and I discuss our bowel movements are Nicole (our roommate) and my parents:

Me: Did I tell you, Jordan made Mexican food the other night.

Mum: Wow.

Me: It was really awesome.

Dad: Sounds good.

Me: Yeah it was.  Except we both totally got diarrhea afterwards. 

The couple that shits together sticks together.  

I'm back.

So, oh my god.

First of all, sorry for not blogging.  Second of all, sorry for assuming that people care enough about me to notice that I'm not blogging.

Still.

There's a few things:

1) New job.
That's right.  After 2 years, 2 months, 1 day and what felt like about 11 hours, I was done.  No more Toni&Guy.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't absolutely devastated to leave my beloved co-workers and (more importantly) staff discount behind...but not having to wash old people's hair anymore?
I was fucking pumped.  One booze-fueled leaving party and lazy-ass Sunday later, I was on my way to my new job, as a campaigns development assistant at Buyinvite Australia.  The job title makes no sense, but I can break it down by saying that Buyinvite is an online shopping club, and my role was to upload all sale info - photo, product details, pricing, inventory etc.  It was exactly as much fun as it sounds like: none.
Luckily, about 2 months into that job, Buyinvite merged with another online shopping club (which you may have heard of) called Ozsale.  Combined, we're the number 1 retail company in the country...I think.  Probably?  Look, I don't really give a shit if the stuff I say on my blog is 100% accurate or not.  Ozsale does well for itself.  End of story.  After merging with Ozsale, I my job title was altered to 'Merchandising Assistant', and I was specifically assigned to the children's category.

HELLO, IRONY.

On the minus side, you probably couldn't find someone who relates less to people under the age of 16 than me.  On the plus side though  - I GET TO PLAY WITH TOYS ALL DAY!!
Also on the plus side, I guess the childrenswear buyer from Ozsale liked the look of me, coz after a few weeks of MA-ing for Buyinvite, I was invited to interview for the Assistant Buyer role at Ozsale.
And I got it.

2) New house.
Finally - FINALLY - I got off the north shore.  No longer work there, no longer live there.  As an AB for Ozsale I'm based in the head office at Brookevale.  And since Alex and Richie became totally loved up and have moved in together, I'm now living with Boyfriend at a kick-ass apartment in Coogee.  Which kind of leads me to my next point...

3) Boyfriend = Fiance.
Did I not mention this earlier?
I'm getting married.

More coming soon (I actually promise I'm back this time)
xx Jacki

Barney The Gay Dinosaur

Children's programming has become way more disturbing in the last 10 years.  I noticed this the other day when I was standing in line at the bank.  I know.  Between the bank, the gym, and the two plasma screens we have at work, I probably spend more time watching TV in public places than I do in my own home.  But you know at the bank how they sometimes have a TV on the wall to distract people from the fact that they're, well, waiting in line?  Well it was about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and they had it set to ABC - so there we were, standing together, watching some kids show - an old guy, the girl from the fish and chip shop, and me.  This pretty much sums up what I saw:

WHOA!  What kind of pot-smoking 6-year-olds are enjoying this stuff?  And can I get the number of their dealer??  When I was growing up, the most progressive thing on kids TV was the gay Teletubby - and we didn't even know he was gay!

In other news, last Saturday night we all went out for my works 2nd Year Anniversary party.  Holy shit, my work has officially been open for two years.  But holy shit more than that, I've officially been working there for two years.  We went to a Brazilian BBQ restaurant on William Street.  I chose to celebrate by getting drunk and falling down our concrete driveway on the way home:

Boyfriend and I were talking about alcohol the other day, and how it can enhance certain human activities.  Boyfriend is convinced he is a better athlete when drunk.  I don't know about this, but one thing I know for sure is that vodka enhances my abilities.  I am convinced I am a better writer when I have been drinking.  And when I say 'writer', what I really mean is 'person'.  Is this the part where my mother stages an intervention?  Please.  If I ever end up in rehab, I'm sure I'll be seeing most of you there.


Whenever I see or hear the word 'rehab', I can only think of two things:
1) The Amy Winehouse song
2) That episode of The OC where they send Kirsten to that super-fancy rehabilitation centre and tell everyone else she's on 'vacation'.
Amy Winehouse being dead is still too sad for me to talk about, so lets go with The OC thing.
One of the best parts about moving in with my best friend is that we both have the same size feet.  Hello, two shoe collections.  The other best part was that Alex brought the first 3 seasons of The OC on DVD with her.  This was around mid-2011 and I hadn't watched an episode of OC for a good 3 years...so I went to TOWN on those bad boys.  I remember one day off work where I just shut all the blinds and sat in our living room watching it all day.  The only time I left the apartment was to walk up the road for a bottle of Gatorade.  By the time Alex got home, not only was I convinced that the people in this show were real - I thought I was one of them.  What?  You don't remember Jacki, the fifth member of the Harbour group?
When my friend Madi and I were about 16, we went through this weird phase of obsessing over similarities between people we knew and the characters from our favourite movies or TV shows.  Don't ask.  I think the whole thing got started when we noticed how much this kid we went to primary school with looked like Danny Zuko from Grease.  Anyway.  I don't remember who I got, but I remember my other friend Julia was always assigned to whichever female lead from The OC was currently sporting the largest...um...how do I say this without offending her husband?
Boobs.
Of course Madi and I have matured into responsible adults since then.

But some things never change.

My Epic Life Fail

In a perfect illustration of the direction my life is heading in, my car broke down on the way to work yesterday morning.  Before you all start feeling sorry for me though, the situation was totally not as bad as it could have been.  Three reasons:
1) My car is 15 years old.  The fact that this is the FIRST time it's broken down on the way to work is somewhat of an achievement.
2) I live and work in the same suburb - even if my car broke down 5 feet from my house, I'd still be able to make it to work in 20 minutes or less.
3) Having to get out and walk meant I felt totally justified in skipping that Monday evening spin cycle class at the gym.
...
SUCK IT, BLUEFIT!
The fact that there's actually nothing wrong with my car is also somewhat of a relief - the only reason it broke down was because I'd run out of petrol.  Yes, I am that idiot who runs out of petrol.  This would probably be more embarrassing for me if I wasn't already the kind of moron who doesn't even know how to turn her high-beams off.  (I don't even know how I managed to turn them on).  Plus, how many of you can say you've ridden in the front seat of a North Sydney tow-truck?  BECAUSE I HAVE!  The best part about opting to purchase a 3-door car that's almost as old as you are is that, somewhere down the line, it will always result in getting to ride in the front seat of a North Sydney tow-truck.  My favourite bit about the whole experience was the expression on Tow-Truck Guy's face when he pulled up next to my Barina.  It was like, So where am I taking this thing?  Your place or the wrecking yard?
Of course, Alex and I made a solid attempt to document the whole thing on our iPhones, but the insanely powerful flashing lights on the back of the truck made it kind of difficult to secure a clear picture.  They also alerted everyone in Lane Cove to the fact that I am a fucking dumbass.  I swear to god, it felt like I was living the last 15 minutes of E.T.

Tow-Truck Guy (to his credit) didn't make fun of me over the whole petrol thing at all.  Actually, once he got over the initial shock that I choose to drive a car from earlier than 1999, we got on pretty well.  He kept shouting out 'Barina' every time he completed a task.  He'd take the hand brake off - BARINA!  He'd wrap the chains around my front wheels - BARINA!  He'd start lifting the car up - BARINA!  I think he was mentally challenged or something.  That, or being in the tow-truck business for so many years eventually just turns your brain into mush.  He did tell us this awesome Dad joke:


Girls, if you ever decide to travel, remember - never fly Virgin.


Why?


Because they don't go all the way.


Zing!


So after we spent 10 minutes taking photos of this guy struggle to chain my car onto the back of his truck, we all hopped in the front seat together and drove down the road to a petrol station - which was packed with a group of 20-something-year-old guys waiting to fill up.  This is typical.  Of course the day I have to have my car TOWED to the petrol station, there are a thousand people waiting to witness my Epic Life Fail.  A thousand hot people, who are guys, and 20-something-years old, and hot.  I can't tell you how many times I've used that actual petrol station, and there's never anyone there to appreciate the fact that I am driving myself.  But the one time I'm not?



I am a magnet for embarrassing moments.

I Am Not A Miniature Schnauzer

I had this dream last night where I gave birth to a baby.

WHAT.  THE FUCK.

If you know me, or anyone I'm friends with, or you read this blog, or you're friends with anyone who reads this blog, you will know that the last thing on Earth I would ever want to do is give birth to a baby.  And yet, I'm the girl who always dreams about babies, and pregnancy, and lactating, and I don't know - baby related stuff.  This makes no sense to me.  Dream gods, I'm talking to you.  GIVE ME SOMETHING ELSE TO DREAM ABOUT.  

So in this dream.  The weirdest part was that I didn't even realise I was pregnant until I was in labour.  And even then, it wasn't that bad.  It was kind of like having a mild stomach cramp.  Or, you know, taking a large dump.  Out of a different hole.  My point is, woman around the world have obviously been lying through their teeth for the last 20-odd thousand years, because if my dream is anything to go by, giving birth is TOTALLY not that hard. 

 I had a girl.  The best part about the whole dream is that I had a girl.  Not because I'm secretly super-obsessed with babies and actually wish that one day I could have a little girl of my own...the best part was the best part because I had a girl, and I named her Sully.

Sully.

As if I need another reason never to have kids - this just in - I am TERRIBLE at giving names.  And technically, I don't even think Sully is an actual name.  Perhaps I was going for a cross between Sally and Scully.  I know 'Scully' isn't an actual name either, but she was a character on X Files which is good enough for me.  I know.  Scully is good enough for me?  I told you I was terrible at giving names!

Sometimes I wonder if I am too liberal on this blog.  Do I blog about too much?  The other day I had someone ask me, if my boyfriend broke up with me would I write about it?   Hell yes.  Not because I'm bitter and twisted and want to post hate messages all over the internet - but because I am the kind of person who can take any situation make it amusing.  Nobody wants to read about some chick getting her heart broken...but a girl making testicle jokes about all the guys who've ever screwed her over?  Now that's entertaining! 

...

In other news, I recently became an aunty for the seventh time.  WHAT?  Apparently, the rest of my family are huge fans of procreation.  I find this both amusing and convenient as it means that I can probably choose to never have children, because no one would notice.  I don't even know if my Dad can tell the difference between all his grandchildren.  Don't get me wrong, he's an amazing grandfather - but I'd be lying if I said he hasn't referred to me as 'Oscar' at least once in my life.

Oscar is the family dog.

I'm going to put this down to a bad memory and choose NOT to assume it's because I resemble a 13-year-old miniature schnauzer with skin problems and bad breath.  When he mixes my older sister up with Oscar that's totally what it is.  But with me, it's just bad memory.

Soap Operas, Annoying Chicks, Macaroons and Vampires

Lets talk about TV.

One of the best things about finishing work at 4pm on a Thursday is that by the time I get to the gym and hop on the treadmill, The Bold and The Beautiful is juuuust about starting.  While an addict of Home and Away since the age of 9, I've never actually shown any interest in this brand of American soap opera.  My friend Julia used to watch Passions in high school and always raved about it, but it's never been my thing.  I never even bothered to tune in because I dismissed it as lame, over the top and idiotic.  As of today, I think this is the biggest Life Fail I have ever committed.  What?

THE BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL IS FUCKING AWESOME.

Have you guys watched this show before?  I'm prone to hyperbole but I swear to god there is no exaggeration when I say The Bold and The Beautiful is probably...I don't want to undersell this...probably the greatest thing that has ever been invented, in the universe, ever.  Well, second best to toasted cheese sandwiches.  But apart from those, GREATEST INVENTION EVER.

I'm kidding of course.  This show is insane.  And - unlike Charlie Sheen, Home and Away, and the amount of alcohol in these new Smirnoff Double Blacks With Guarana that I've recently discovered - not insane in a good way.  Here is a summary of everything I saw in the first 5 minutes:

• Some dude proposing to another dude's wife
• The wife saying yes
• The husband seeing a vision of the whole thing via tea leaves

There are no words.  In all honesty, I would have changed channel straight away if it wasn't for this guy:

Speaking of TV and insanity, Those Two Chicks I Can't Stand won the grand final of My Kitchen Rules on Tuesday evening.  There are no words to describe how upset this makes me. Except these ones: 

A Little Bit

If I'm honest - as much as I love My Kitchen Rules - I kind of stopped caring after Steve and Helen were kicked off.  First of all, Steve was like a Greek version of my Dad.  And secondly, they were the ones who made THIS:

Eliminate a team like that and you will lose all credibility in my eyes.  Do you hear me, French Judge?  Jacki Trew thinks you made a poor life decision!!!

So the MKR final ended up being between The Annoying Chicks and The Hot Dudes.  Seeings as it was the final and I had to pick one, I ended up going for The Hot Dudes (mainly because they're hot, and they're dudes - it's not rocket science), but I'm not surprised that they lost.  Their desert had macaroons in it.  Macaroons.  Hello?  The bright colours are pretty and I'm sure they're delicious, but the first and only thing I've ever noticed about these biscuits is that if you turn one on its side, it TOTALLY looks like a vagina.  This is the main reason I have never eaten one.

What else?

So I watched the latest movie in the Twilight series the other day.  OH MY GOD HOW HAVE I NOT TALKED ABOUT THIS YET?  I'm guessing most people have seen this movie by now, so I'm probably not breaking any new ground with this statement, but I don't care.  I'm gonna put it out there anyway.  

The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part 1 might be...the worst movie I have ever seen in my life.  

Okay, exaggeration.  It's bad, but it's not THAT bad.  It's terrible, but it's not THAT terrible.  It's corny, but it's not THAT corny.  I'm being pretty generous by the way.  Just in case you're one of the tens of people living on Earth who HASN'T seen this movie, I implore you - don't.  Don't see it.  You don't need to see it, you don't want to see it.  It is bad, and terrible, and corny.  The only reason I can say with complete honesty that it's NOT the worst movie I've seen in my life is because I am an idiot who actively searches for and watches bad movies.  Don't believe me?

Fuck Your Shower!

So this morning I woke up to find my car had been blocked in by a builder`s minivan - because apparently someone on the floor below us decided it'd be a great idea to have their shower screens re-installed.  At 8:30 in the morning.  Fine.  Fine.  I like to think of myself as a pretty tolerant person, and normally I wouldn't have a problem with something like this.  It's just that this morning was Monday morning, and as with most people,  Monday mornings have the tendency to turn me into a complete fucking asshole.

By the time I got to work I was running about 10 minutes late, I hadn't had coffee, and I knew I'd be alone for the first 45 minutes of my shift seeings as my boss was at a colour course and Alex didn't start until 10.  This sort of thing doesn't happen often, but when it does I can never seem to decide if I like it or not.  Normally I am the sort of idiot who would jump at the opportunity to be left alone in a building full of hair products and reflective surfaces, but on the other hand this is exactly the kind of situation that could end with me being robbed at gunpoint...where I would no doubt do something to piss off the robbers.  Probably involving hair products.

Thankfully that didn't happen.
While I was standing at the desk pondering my next move (shall I do some actual work or just Google 'Ryan Reynolds naked' again?) I came to the worst realisation yet: this week is End Of Month.  Or as I like to call it, 'I Would Rather Be Punched In The Crotch'.  You may remember when I spoke about having to get down on my hands and knees and clean hair out from behind the reception desk - well, that was because of End Of Month.  That was an End Of Month Duty.  And this week, I'm expected to do that all over again.  Great.  Now I'm kind of wishing I HAD been held at gunpoint when I first came in this morning.  Surviving that kind of thing would make a person so grateful to be alive...they'd probably pay someone else to let them clean a reception desk.  Thanks a LOT, phantom robbers.  First I get parked in, I don't get my morning coffee, I didn't have enough coins for the car park ticket machine and now I'm NOT being held at gunpoint.  It wasn't even 9:30 and this was already shaping up to be the worst day of my life by far.

Enough about work.
My Mother called me up yesterday afternoon because she and Dad are going on holiday at the end of the week and they need me to come over and feed the animals.  This is exactly how it went down:
Me: Hello?

Wait, let's pause for a second because I've got to say something.  We live in the age of iPhones and Skype and Galaxy Quests (or whatever-the-fuck those Nokia iPhone imitations are called) right?  There is literally no possibility of receiving a phone call and NOT knowing who's on the other end before you pick up.  It's not just Caller Id anymore.  You get the name, a picture, an individually chosen ringtone - these phones can do everything.  I don't even use my voice when I talk to people, I just have my iPhone talk for me.  My iPhone also does my laundry and services my Boyfriend.  The point is with todays technology - among other things - I ALWAYS know who is calling.  I know if it's Mum.  I know if it's work.  I even know if it's my dentist since I programmed his number in for the specific purpose of screening it.  I ALWAYS KNOW WHO IS CALLING.
And yet I still answer the phone like this:

Me: Hello?

I am an idiot.  Moving on.

Mum: Hello, darling.  Have a good week?  Listen, on Friday your Father and I are going to Victoria for a couple of days.  Do you mind coming round to feed the animals every afternoon?  I'm sorry if it's a hassle but there's no one else to do it and I don't fancy coming home to two dead house pets.  Alright the dog I wouldn't mind so much, but I've grown rather fond of the cat.  So will you do it?  Fantastic.
Jane Trew: Dog Killer.

I think she was probably joking.  That dog has been in our family since I was 10; he's like the third sibling. A really hairy sibling who doesn't have teeth and shits on the lawn.  As much as I love my dog and think the absolute world of him...I get it when others disagree.  I GET it.  People (even mothers) have a tendency to gravitate away from Oscar because physically he's um, revolting.  I'm not being mean, it's just true.  Between the cataracts, the moles, the bad breath, the teeth he had removed and the ingrown toenails...it's a lot to take.   The saddest part is that as a puppy, he was totally adorable.  He's like those celebrities you see on E!'s Cutest Child Stars: All Grown Up.  Like Macaulay Culkin.  Remember Macaulay Culkin?  From the Home Alone movies?  Remember how cute he was?  Boy, was he cute!  I just wanted to eat him up.  I just wanted to put him between two pieces of bread and eat him up.  I just wanted to take photos of him, and have them blown up into poster size, and then frame the posters.  And I wanted to hang the posters around my house so that every day, I would be surrounded by framed, poster-sized pictures of Macaulay Culkin that I had taken myself.  That's how cute he was.  He was that cute.  He was that cute.  That's how cute he was.

My dog is the canine version of adult Macaulay - the only difference being that Oscar has never been arrested for possession.  You know, that I am aware of.

Anyway.

While I was on the phone to Mum, she also let it slip that Catherine was in the middle of some hardcore PT exercise at work (she's in the Navy for you newcomers) and had a...chest explosion?  That's not exactly how she described it, but it was the funniest visual that my mind conjured up.  At least until I pictured her wearing a chest cast:

 Pretty sure that picture is medically accurate.
Apparently she's broken her chest cartilage - that's the white crunchy stuff that connects your ribs to your sternum.  Can you imagine breaking that?  Ow, ow, fuckety ow!  Lucky for Catherine she is the kind of individual who will rarely show any signs of physical weakness.  I think that comes with working in an industry that's pretty much male-dominated; it toughens you up.  I accidentally slammed a car door on her arm once - didn't even flinch.  She just punched me in the groin and drove off.
Anyway, both Mum and Boyfriend (who I was talking to about it later) had the exact same reaction to Catherine's little incident, and it made me laugh.

Mum/Boyfriend:  I can't believe it wasn't you!

This is so true I am not even going to pretend that I'm insulted.  I know it, you know it, the ER nurses who've stitched me back together on 3 separate occasions know it - I'm clumsy to the point where it's life threatening.  If there's something sharp in the carpet, I will step on it.  If there's a nail sticking out of the wall, I will scratch myself on it.  Of course it doesn't help that as well as being clumsy, I'm also a moron.  If there's a 4-foot barbed wire fence in front of me, I won't feel satisfied until I've attempted at least one 'run-and-jump'.

I suppose this is where Catherine and I differ, though.  She tends to get these serious injuries through sport and exercise - you know, broken bones and shit.  I've never broken a bone in my life (touch wood), but can turn something as simple as grabbing a metal coat hanger out of my cupboard into a trip to hospital.  I think between the two of us we've managed to pre-maturely age my parents by about 20 years.  Which would make my Mother forty-three.  What's the bet this is the only one of my blogs she doesn't read? 

Why Neither Titanic, Nor Hugh Jackman Should Ever Be Remade

So the makers of Downton Abbey have made their own version of Titanic?
...
I don't mean to be rude, but what the fuck?  That is a bad fucking idea, and here is why:

 There is no such thing as a better-looking couple than the original Jack and Rose.  I said it in 1997, and I'm saying it again now - They're hot.  I'm not that into the idea of a threesome, but if Jack and Rose asked me?  There would be no hesitation.  Yes, I said that in 1997.  When I was 7 years old.  When Catherine and I were kids, our parents used to let us watch pretty much whatever we wanted on television - it's not our fault if we were sexually over-stimulated.

But back to Titanic.  As a narcissistic emotional corpse, it's against my nature to like or enjoy anything that involves romance...but the original Titanic is probably one of my favourite films of all time.  I can't help it!  And I don't feel bad about it.  Everyone loves Titanic - it's against the law not to.  The only way I differ from everyone else is that MY favourite bits of Titanic are the bits that no one else likes; like when Rose jumps out of the lifeboat. 
Or when Cal goes crazy with that pistol and tries to shoot everyone. 
Or when the ship sinks.

The best part though - the BEST PART - is the part at the end where they're in the water and Rose is laying on the door while Jack hangs in the water. 
There is nothing I enjoy more than yelling obscenities at a TV screen, and no scene in film history that invites this sort of behaviour more than the bit in Titanic where Rose hogs the whole door.  Unless you've never seen this movie (in which case you should probably crawl out of the cave you've obviously been living in for the past 2 decades and buy a fucking DVD player), you will know what I'm talking about.

Here is a brief excerpt of conversation from the last time I watched Titanic:


Me: Oh here it comes.
Boyfriend: What?
Me: The best part of the whole movie, that's what.
Boyfriend: You're gonna start yelling at the TV, aren't you?
Me: I'll try to control myse - LOOK AT THAT!  LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT DOOR!  THAT DOOR COULD EASILY SUPPORT TWO PEOPLE.  MAYBE THREE.  WHAT A BITCH!  JACK, I WOULD TOTALLY SHARE THAT DOOR WITH YOU.
Boyfriend: I think Jack's actually dead.
Me: Oh!  Did you SEE that?  She FLIPPED it!  She TOTALLY FLIPPED IT!
Boyfriend: Are we watching the same movie?  
Me: Get the remote, we're playing this shit in slow-mo.


Notice that Rose is also the one wearing the life jacket?  If she was going to take up the whole floating door, the LEAST she could have done was give him the life jacket.  But no.  That is a whole new level of selfishness right there.  And don't even get me started on the 'I'll never let go' scene.  We will literally be here all day.


Anyway, the main point I wanted to get across in this post is that any remake of a film as awesome as Titanic is destined to fail, for the same reason that Hugh Jackman will never get plastic surgery - you can't improve something that's already perfect.  Also:


Alex: What is this?
Me: Oh it's some remake of Titanic.
(pause)
Alex: Why is the guy playing Jack so ugly?


Case.  In point.

Detox

Boyfriend and I were talking about doing a detox this week.  And by 'detox', I don't mean one of those weird lemon-juice-and-cayenne-pepper liquid diets that all the celebrities seem to try at one stage or another.  I mean we just decided not to drink until next Saturday night.  To normal people, this idea may not seem like that much of a stretch.  What normal people need to understand is that the main component of my makeup is a 50/50 mix of Sierra tequila and shame.  Boyfriend isn't much better.

 

Needless to say, we didn't do very well.  I think Boyfriend made it til Tuesday - and no, I don't mean Tuesday night.  I just mean Tuesday.  I decided that today (Thursday) was a good day to break the fast.  So I didn't make it to Saturday, but I'm still pretty proud of myself.  Sunday til Thursday?  There's a good 5 days without alcohol in there!  So maybe we're both alcoholics.  Don't worry about it.  We like us like this.

Now for my tri-weekly post about My Kitchen Rules.  One of the other reasons I decided to drink tonight was due to my current devastation over the fact that BOTH of my favourite teams were eliminated this week.

Is it just me, or has this season of My Kitchen Rules absolutely flown by?  It's Grand Final week already!!  Obviously I'm upset about it, mostly because after this Sunday I'll have no excuse to sit in front of my TV yelling sub-par culinary advice at a group of complete strangers - which a lot of you will know is one of my absolute favourite past times.  But also because now that Steve, Helen and The Army Boys have been kicked off, I have to choose a new favourite from a group of complete bores.  I don't mean any personal offense to the four remaining teams - it's just that watching them cook makes me want to kill myself and everyone around me.

Bit harsh?

I'm exaggerating of course.  But how ironic is it that the four teams left in the Grand Final are the only ones without personalities?  They're just so...forgettable.  I've actually forgotten their names.  I only refer to them by the ridiculous nicknames I have made up based on their cooking styles and/or personal appearances:

• The Hot Guys
• The Sisters
• The Bogans
• Those Two Chicks I Can't Stand

Okay...so maybe it's mostly about their personal appearances.

Speaking of reality shows, I was watching TV at the gym earlier today and saw that this week on Deal Or No Deal, the major prize is a Winnebago.  For those of you not in the know, here is what a Winnebago looks like:

 ...

Sorry, but that is retarded.  Deal Or No Deal is filmed in Sydney, and from what I have seen, few or none of the contestants are 85-year-old couples looking to travel cross-country in a home on wheels.  This is the worst major prize ever.  It might be cool for like, a week.  Until you realise 

a) This monstrosity will never fit down any street in Sydney, and

b) It will cost 800 million dollars every time you fill up with petrol

WORST PRIZE EVER!  Who's idea was this?  The only thing more ridiculous than competing on Deal Or No Deal to win a caravan is the fact that I was watching TV at the gym.  Again.  Whatever!  At $39 bucks a month, I figure that's the cheapest way to get access to Foxtel anyway.  Plus if you watch crap TV while running on a treadmill, you only lose like half the amount of braincells you normally would.  Everyone knows that.

Go Steve And Helen!!

Alex and I have been watching a lot of Gossip Girl recently.  GG is one of those TV shows I was avid about for the first couple of seasons, and then completely gave up on.  Usually this happens because I have the attention span of an under-developed wombat, and therefore can't be bothered waiting more than 3 years for a leading couple to actually hook up...exactly the problem I had with Bones, which I stopped watching after Brennan rejected Booth's advances for the 3rd time.  Evidentally I'm okay with this kind of behavior when it comes to my own social life - as Boyfriend could tell you - but when it involves two fictional characters who otherwise have no significant impact on any aspect of my existance whatsoever - UNACCEPTABLE.  Everyone knows there are only 3 reasons to watch television these days:1) Sex
2) Music
3) Comedy
2 out of 3 is acceptable, but I'd really rather be hitting the trifecta.  Otherwise there's just no point!  If I wanted to watch the leading lady NOT hooking up with the guy of her dreams, ignoring her professional life and basically running herself off the rails to the point where it actually becomes comical, I wouldn't have to turn on the TV.  I'd just remember my own life between the ages of 17 and 21. 
Anyway, Gossip Girl.  It kind of annoys me the way none of the characters can be bothered pronouncing any name with more than 2 syllables - preferring instead to just refer to each other as V, or J, or S, or whatever-the-hell first letter their name starts with.  Can you say obnoxious?  Plus the way they all swap sexual partners can't be hygenic on any level.  But the first three or four seasons were surprisingly entertaining, especially the second time around.  And not just for me - I even convinced Boyfriend to spend one morning watching it with me in bed.  Mainly with the promise that a threesome occures somewhere around episode 60, but still.  I'm pretty sure he was into it anyway:

Speaking of TV, I'm loving the way My Kitchen Rules is going at the moment.  Most recent to compete in the Sudden Death Cook-Off were early favourites Steve and Helen, and Simon and Meg who I dislike based on principle seeings as they're the only team from New Zealand.  IF IT'S NOT RACIST TO ROOT FOR THE WALLABIES OVER THE ALL BLACKS, THEN THIS ISN'T RACIST EITHER.  I missed most of the episode, but tuned in just in time to see the presentation of dessert.  Helen and Steve went with a classic orange cake trifle and in my eyes, won it immediately.  Alcohol, custard, mess - what's not to love about trifle?  Simon and Meg on the other hand, decided to try individual devils food cakes, which they struggled to even get out of the tins.  This appears to be a theme with them, at least if the episode last Sunday (where they made individual white chocolate mud cakes...which they also struggled to get out of the tins) is any indication.  They of course blamed the tins, using the excuse that they were not non-stick as described.  I used the excuse that Simon and Meg are fucking idiots who do not know how to cook. 
About 45 nail-bitingly tense seconds later they DID get their cakes on the plate, and - to my utter dismay - the judges actually enjoyed them.  What kind of professional chef ARE you, Karen Martini?  Don't you know Meg forgot to spray those tins with olive oil??  Regardless, the prize of the night still went to Helen and Steve who had apparently done something incredible with squid ink during the entree.

I was elated.  This was definitely the most ideal outcome, especially considering I'd promised to put my foot through the TV if Steve and Helen had not been the team to progress to the next stage of the competition.  Great for New Zealand, not so great for me and my foot.  Or, I suppose, the TV.  Go Steve and Helen!!

In other news, last night was the night of my 22nd birthday party/bucks night extraordinairre.  I don't wanna give away too much seeings as I'll probably do a longer post on it later - when I'm not still half drunk and battling with the combo of Red Bull and meatball sub that I just put in my stomach.  But it was more awesome than the penthouse suite at Caesar's Palace Las Vegas.  I'm assuming.  I've personally never stayed in the penthouse suite at Caesar's Palace Las Vegas, but I heard it's only kind of incredible.  My 22nd birthday party/bucks night, on the other hand, was completely off the chain.  It was so far from the chain, we couldn't even see the chain.  The chain was merely a speck in the distance.  I think it was actually staying in the penthouse suite at Caesar's Palace Las Vegas.
Anyway, like I said I'm not going into it too much right now.  But here are a few highlights to tide you over:

Me: Sorry if I'm making you feel awkward.
Yoni: Oh, trust me, you can't.  It's impossible to make me feel awkward.
Me: Oh really?
Yoni: Yeah.
Me: Oh really?
Yoni: Yeah.
Me: I talk to my parents about anal sex sometimes.
Yoni: (silence)

Me: Where were you guys?
Boyfriend: At Showgirls.
Me: Oh, did you get a lapdance?
Boyfriend: No.
Me: Oh my God, because you really love me?
Boyfriend: ...I ran out of money.

Elle: So anyway, as I was saying -
(Random Irish guy sits down)
Random Irish Guy: Oh hello! Mind if I sit down here?
Elle: I guess not.
Random Irish Guy: Oh that's lovely.  Tell me, I don't mean to be forward, but are any of you girls looking for love?
Elle: Umm..
Me: Nope.
Gem: No.
Elle: Kat is!
Kat: (Shaking head)
Random Irish Guy: Oh, you know, I don't mean to be forward.  I'm actually involved myself.  But, you know, it is St Patricks Day, so...
(Silence)
Random Irish Guy: Okay, I'll just go. (Gets up and leaves)
(Again, silence)
Me: Was that guy a leprechaun?

Boyfriend: Hey man, we're going to Lane Cove, can you take us?
Cabbie: Not going that way.  Sorry.
Boyfriend: Alright, thanks anyway.
Me: Please?  Can't you please take us? (Trying to smile nicely)
Cabbie: I'm sorry darling, I ca -
Me: FUCK YOU!

More later.

Tofu And Chocolate

So, tonights episode of My Kitchen Rules featured a quick-fire challenge wherein the contestants had to cook winning dishes using ingredients commonly hated by children.  Ie: blue cheese, olives, sardines, tofu and brussell sprouts.  I don't know - is this really that hard?  While I may technically be 22, I've got both the intellectual quality and taste buds of a 12-year-old, and the only one of these that I actually hate is brussell sprouts.  Plus they could use as many other ingredients as they wanted; it's pretty easy to create a delicious meal out of something as boring as tofu when you're allowed to stuff it with pork mince and salt.

The most annoying thing about MKR quick-fire challenges are the teams who don't have to compete.  Mostly because if I'm watching a show about competitive cooking, I want to be the only one who doesn't have to cook.  Also because they stand on the sidelines and make comments about the other dishes, like this:

Guy Who Doesn't Have To Compete:  There's too much lemon in that!  You won't be able to taste the brussell sprouts!

In my opinion, having enough lemon to hide the taste of brussell spouts is the smartest decision a potential chef could make.  For two reasons:

1) Brussell sprouts are fucking disgusting.

2) Brussell sprouts are fucking disgusting.

I think I should apply to be a judge on the next season of My Kitchen Rules.

In a complete 180, the second challenge of the night involved an ingredient that everyone loves - chocolate.  Again, how is this hard?  The only way to make chocolate taste bad is to mix it with something as foul as...well, brussell sprouts.  And even then I'd probably chow down like there's no tomorrow.

This is the one MKR test that I feel I'd be poor at judging.  I eat chocolate when I'm happy.  I eat chocolate when I'm sad.  I love chocolate so much, I sometimes dream of marrying it and having babies that I can snack on when I get hungry.  A contestant could literally serve me melted Cadbury in a bowl made out of paper towels and I'd give them at least a 7.  And I'd eat the paper towels too.

Sex Encyclopedia

Here is a question for the universe:

Why do people call toilets 'rest rooms'?

 I don't understand.  Do you see anybody resting in this room?  I don't know about you guys, but there are times when I work harder in the bathroom than I do at my actual job.  Like say, after Mexican food.  I don't feel awkward about it.  Everybody poops.

I have never related to a television show more than the time I watched that episode of How I Met Your Mother where Marshall is too embarassed to take a shit at work.  More often than not, I will go out of my way to avoid using the work toilet for anything heavier than a onesie.  Like, to a point where it's probably unhealthy.  What?  I refuse to be judged for trying to maintain a pleasant environment for my colleagues.  I tend to experiment with odd food combinations.  And there are some smells that no amount of vanilla air freshener can cover.

But enough about poo.  I want to talk about sex.

MUM, LOOK AWAY.

Back when MJ still worked on Mondays, he and I would often be left alone in the salon for long stretches of time with nothing to do.  Nothing except talk about sex, that is.  Being almost 7 years older than me and the ex-boyfriend of some pretty big weirdos, MJ's sexual history is...encyclopedic.  He's got an answer for every question, I've got the dirtiest mind this side of Uluru - we're perfect together.  And I could probably write a book on what I've learned about testicles.

One of MJ's main theories when it comes to sex is that the guy is always in control.  I don't agree with this by any means, but am usually happy to go along with whatever MJ says - partially because of the entertainment factor, but also because I'm too much of a lazy git to bother arguing.  Exhibit A:

MJ: I thought New Years Eve was a pretty good movie.

Me: You're kidding, right?

MJ: No, see because -

Me: You win.

Anyway, every once in a while he'll actually come out with something I can use.  Exhibit B:

MJ: Guys love it when you wake them up by, you know...touching.

Has anyone else heard this?  Is it actually true?  The last time I tried testing it was at 6 in the morning when I was still drunk from the night before, and I ended up getting lost and fondling the bottom right hand corner of my own doona.  Boyfriend didn't even wake up.  The only thing I learnt from that life lesson is that no one is a bigger idiot than me.

And that my doona likes it rough.