Caffeine & Cynicism

It's My Birthday - Stop Being Such A Square

2012-01-31T23:24:00.000+11:00

Oh my God, you guys, how did I blog about Funnel-Web spiders before this??

Never mind.

So here's the thing. I don't know if anyone is aware of this, but exactly 21 years, 11 months and 5 days ago (as of the time of this post), two awesome parents gave birth to an equally awesome little girl*. And then, around 13 days later, my parents gave birth to me.

*Anyone who guesses the identity of the equally awesome little girl will win nothing. I am thousands of dollars in debt.

My point is, the date of my fourth 18th birthday is fast approaching. So you'd better get off the fucking couch and find your Giant Disco Ball costumes, because I am not turning 18 again unless it's in a room full of people who look as stupid as me. Kidding! Actually, I'm not quite sure how I want to celebrate my birthday yet. Should I have a theme? Should I not have a theme? Should we go out? Should we stay in the apartment? Should I bother inviting Wentworth Miller again?

Maybe I could hire a party planner. Party Planners would love me. I would be the easiest client ever. They don't even have to talk to me - I can fit all my party requirements on a post it:

Anyway. March 10th - that's the date. If you like disco, tequila and/or nudity, save it. If not, stop being such a square. It's my birthday.

The Funnel-Web Epidemic

2012-01-31T22:18:00.000+11:00

One of my Mother's favourite and most bizarre habits is calling me up and telling me (in detail) about the most recent wild animal she has found floating in her pool. This is usually pretty enjoyable for me...unless of course the animal in question is one of these:

There's not a lot that scares me these days. That's not to say I'm this super-macho crazy-brave chick who grabs life by the balls and says 'Get me some BBQ sauce and I swear to God I will eat these right in front of you!'

No.

In real life, the fact is that I'm simply too much of an idiot to realise when I'm in a situation where I should be scared. That; and until recently I was the emotional equivalent of a serial killer clown. What? I never said the truth was glamorous! But it's the truth. I feel I should also set the record straight by pointing out that I would never eat balls.

Unless they were served with BBQ sauce.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Spiders. Spiders, on the other hand, DO scare me. So when Mum called up the other week to ramble about the Funnel-Web she found on the swimming pool floor, it had some long-lasting effects. Here's a brief summary of what she told me:

1. 'I found a Funnel-Web in the pool'

Great. Thanks, Mum. This is the pool I grew up swimming around, sunbaking next to, attempting to wind-surf in...and you're only just warning me about the Funnel-Webs now? Top-notch parenting. This only cements my theory that every one of my relatives is or has been trying to kill me for the past 21 years.

2. 'Funnel-Webs can breathe under water'

Fuck. I knew they were dangerous, but I wasn't aware that we were dealing with the Chuck Norris of arachnids. They can BREATHE UNDER WATER? And they're poisonous. THEY CAN BREATHE UNDER WATER AND THEY'RE POISONOUS. It's like a Brown snake had crazy condomless sex with a Great White one Saturday night:

Oh man, and that's the other thing!!!

3. 'No Jacki, Funnel-Webs don't look the way you think they do.'

This might sound weird, especially considering that I've lived in Sydney, Australia for my whole life, but I've never actually SEEN a Funnel-Web in the flesh. I read about them as a kid though, so I was under the impression that they were easily distinguishable based on their main physical traits:

- Huge

- Terrifying

- Using their keen intellect to break through my bedroom window

Turns out I'm wrong, on all three accounts. They're not huge, they're tiny. And (by extension) not really that terrifying. The bedroom window thing I'm actually not 100% on. I installed an extra lock, just in case. My point is, I realised that I have almost no idea what a Funnel-Web actually looks like in person. So now every time I see any spider, I find myself wondering...is that a Funnel-Web?

I know that's irrelevant, and I don't care. All this Funnel-Web talk was starting to get me down. LAPTOP!! Alright, now I think this blog has gone on long enough. To recap:

Funnel-Webs suck
My family are trying to kill me
I have a laptop

Eh. You win some, you lose some.

It's About A Kitchen, And It Fucking Rules

2012-01-30T22:17:00.000+11:00

You guys, something incredible just happened. You know how sometimes you have those moments in life where you think...If only someone was filming me right now, I'd have all the ingredients for a viral hit on YouTube.

We've all had one of those moments.

I've had one.

Have you had one? Think of a moment. Think of it. Okay, got that moment? I'm guessing it's pretty good, right? Well, this is how good my moment was:

MY MOMENT WOULD KICK YOUR MOMENTS ASS!

My moment also needs a serious eyebrow wax, but whatever. Anyway. Unfortunately, I don't have a cameraman following me around 24/7 recording my every move and posting it on the internet. You know...yet. Instead, here is an accurate life drawing of what happened:

I'm calling it Here, Have A Laptop - A Still Life In Paint.

So now we have not one but TWO kickass laptops in the apartment, which is great. Because everyone knows that all the best things come in pairs:

High heels
Married people named Julia and Nathan
Testicles

I'm sure there are more, but those are my favourites.

Speaking of things that are my favourites, does anyone else know what TV show started airing again tonight? Let me give you a hint...it's about a kitchen, and it fucking rules.

My Kitchen Rules is probably one of the best reality series ever, and here's why:

It's funny
It's fast-paced
There's usually at least one team made up of hot guys
I am an idiot who thinks that the meaning of 'osmosis' is 'you can become a chef by watching TV'.

The new season looks to be a pretty entertaining ride. This guy scored points with me right off the bat:

Mostly because he looks like a younger/Greek/well-moustached version of my Dad, but also because I will instantly fall in love with any man willing to shove an entire chilli into his mouth. So this dude = early favourite. This chick, not so much:

I understand that every competition needs a spoilt, bitchy, baby-voiced and condescending character. It's when she also wears pink heels and carries a small dog around in a handbag that really annoys me. This girl did both, and then asked the French judge Manu if 'he was actually French or just pretending to impress everyone'.

...

NOBODY INSULTS MANU.

NOBODY!!!

So she's officially this season's Sun, despite the fact that Sun was about 40 years older and competing on Masterchef, not My Kitchen Rules. Whatever, all I mean to say is that if either or both of them were unfortunate enough to have their heads set on fire in a freak bacon-frying incident, it wouldn't be that great of a loss.

Stay tuned for more hilarious recaps of My Kitchen Rules, most of which will involve me insulting any competitor who isn't wildly attractive or from NSW.

Snake Sex Is So Much Better With Friends

2012-01-26T15:38:00.000+11:00

I know I've already talked about this, but I want to reiterate.
Dolphins SUCK.
And here's why:

Need I say more?

Speaking of YouTube videos that show animals doing absolutely unspeakable things - Elle, Gem, Mischa, Jane, Aaron and I spent the better half of last Saturday night Googling that very phrase. In the middle of Chelsea Bar. While drinking.
Yes. I'm thinking the same thing as you; thank God I found these people in high school. If not, by now I'd definitely be the kind of crazy person who stays home by themselves at night Googling 'Octopus Porn'. And I can't imagine anything worse than having to watch THIS kind of stuff on my own:

Snake sex is so much better with friends.
Thankfully, Roseville College seems to have harboured a group of girls who are just as emotionally retarded as me:

...Maybe more so.

On a completely different note, since Alex and Richie are taking a Central Coast getaway this week, Boyfriend is staying at the Cope Street apartment in a gallant effort to keep me from dying of boredom. Romantic, no?
No.
Here is a brief excerpt from our first night 'living together':

(massive pause)
Boyfriend: Wanna research male escort groups?
Me: Hell yes.

We're an unusual couple.
Anyway.
I know I've never actually lived with a guy before, and I know it's only been a week, but I can already tell you one thing with 100% confidence:

Shaving cream. No no, not just shaving cream. Menthol shaving cream. It felt like my legs were brushing their teeth. I'll admit at first I felt pretty weird about it - mostly because I was also shaving my legs with a men's razor. Remember that time I decided to try buying a guy's razor blade because of my theory that they give a closer shave? They do, and I'm a genius, but still. First the Gilette, now I'm using menthol shaving cream...I'm either on the cusp of discovering the best beauty secret since Sally Hansen's airbrush spray, or I'm a gay guy trapped in a woman's body. Either way, my legs look fabulous.

The Wedding Where Some Crazy Chick Was The MC And It Was Totally Awesome Even If My Sister Doesn't Think So

2012-01-17T22:31:00.000+11:00

And how is it, you may be asking, that I am able to blog at 8:16pm on a Tuesday night?
Well.
ITS BECAUSE ALEX AND I GOT A COMPUTER FOR THE APARTMENT!!!

And alright, if I'm being strictly accurate (which is new for me, so give me some credit), the computer really only belongs to Alex. Plus it's not exactly new...we've had it for about a month.
BUT STILL!
Because really, when you think about it - since Alex is pretty much my wife - I'd like to think that what is hers is mine. And the only people who actually know that it's taken me this long to blog on my OWN computer in my OWN apartment are Catherine and Boyfriend...and both of them think I'm an idiot anyway.
SO IT ALL WORKS OUT!
AND WE HAVE A COMPUTER!

I love having a computer in the apartment. I really do. I think, actually, there are only 4 things I love more than having a computer in the apartment:
1) Toasted cheese sandwiches
2) The feeling of self-satisfaction when I make someone laugh
3) Dirty Dancing
4) Julia and Nathan's wedding.
Huh. Look at that. A perfect segue. Because the next thing I had planned to post about was...

JULIA AND NATHAN'S WEDDING, AKA WEDDING OF THE CENTURY, AKA THE WEDDING WHERE SOME CRAZY CHICK WAS THE MC AND IT WAS TOTALLY AWESOME EVEN IF MY SISTER DOESN'T THINK SO

I've been thinking about how to do this justice. A literary description of Julia and Nathan's wedding, that is. It's pretty important to me, because I'm almost 100% certain that at some point in time this will be read by Ryan Reynolds, and he'll probably be basing his decision of whether or not to seduce me on how much I can make him laugh with my witty anecdotes and charming recounts. Luckily for Ryan, I am the kind of person who works well under pressure.

Let's start with the ceremony. About the ceremony, there are 3 things you need to know:

1) I cried

2) She was the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my life (and I've seen the episode of Home and Away when Hayley married Noah, TWICE)

3) I cried

I'm not usually a cryer (crier?), but there's something about seeing the girl who's been your best friend for the past 16 years in a wedding dress - my face looked like Niagara Falls, only wetter. I think the people behind me actually had to put raincoats on. So that was fun. My other favourite part was the singing...there were 3 or 4 songs performed by a fantastic band (vocals lead by one of my other best friends, Issy), and the entire congregation was expected to sing along. The only problem was that neither I (nor any of the people around me) knew any of the songs. Oh wait, I'm sorry, did I say problem? What I really meant was 'the part that made it completely amazing and memorable'. There is nothing funnier than a large group of people attempting to sing along to a song they have never heard before. It kind of made me wish there was a camera-man focusing on individual people and projecting their images onto a big screen behind the bride and groom.

Oh well.

Maybe at my wedding.

A group of Greenwich Public Alumni after the ceremony. From left to right; Alex, My big sister, me, The Most Beautiful Bride Who Ever Was, Robbie, Jess, Madi, Morto and Issy.

Now, where was I?

Between the ceremony and the reception there was a bit of a gap - most people I know filled this by either drinking at a local pub (e.g. Boyfriend), or by going home to change outfits on account of the fact that they'd acted like a total unco and spilled Red Bull jelly all over their original dress (e.g. Catherine). Being that I was both MC and Totally Eager To Involve Myself In This Wedding As Much As Possible, I had been given the task of transporting Julia and Nathan's bags (for the honeymoon) from the Church to their hotel room - without informing anyone of their hotel room location. And OH MY GOD, did I take my job seriously. Maybe a little too seriously...my Dad had offered to drive me to the hotel in question, but he was a little confused when I informed him that 'the hotel in question' was a secret which I'd promised not to tell. I did end up telling him eventually, but only after he'd promised to give me $8 billion dollars AND the keys to Mum's 4-wheel drive if he ever revealed the location.

He did not.

Now, to the reception.

I was in the middle of my second champagne when I realised that - shit - I was the MC and - shit - I was expected to (eloquently) speak several times in front of a large group of people and - SHIT - both the bride and groom and (come to think of it) the DJ, Photographer and Manager were expecting ME to co-ordinate them for the rest of the evening. Needless to say I put on my 'sensible' cap, stopped drinking champagne, and started taking shots of tequila. I think it worked out well:

Me and Morto; and Our Enthusiasm, which I think deserves its own caption.

Now, I don't wanna make anyone who wasn't sitting on my table feel bad or jealous or that they missed out on some kind of experience or anything, but MY TABLE WAS THE GREATEST TABLE THAT HAS EVER BEEN ASSEMBLED AT ANY WEDDING IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. And that includes the dream wedding that I had to Wentworth Miller where he, I, Freddie Mercury, Baz Luhrmann and Hugh Jackman were all seated together. The best part was that Catherine and Boyfriend had been placed next to each other, and it took about 8 minutes for me to realise that she was kind of in love with him:

The only time my sister has ever been jealous of me.

Speaking of my sister, you know this MUST have been the greatest wedding in history, because she was in a great mood for pretty much the entire night. How great? Great enough to sit still for a photo with me:

Catherine and Jacki Trew; both smiling nicely for the camera at once. A moment in history.

Now on a serious note, remember when I said that Julia was the most beautiful bride the world has ever seen? I forgot to mention Nathan, the gorgeous groom:

A weaker woman would have jizzed their pants at the sight of it. Luckily I have an enormous amount of control.

So, um, what was after the First Dance again? Oh yeah. The bouquet toss. I counted myself out of this particular event, both because I have almost no chance of getting married and because the only thing that scares me more than a huge group of violently shrieking girls is the idea of being murdered by Ivan Milat. So no, I did not catch the bouquet. Neither did Boyfriend. Actually it was my friend Beth. Surprising, considering by that stage she was drunk enough to pretend I was her date for the night:

Beth and I have our 'first dance' as a married couple. It was magical.

Beth wasn't the only one lucky enough to dance with me that night:

5 minutes into my marriage with Beth, I cheat on her with Gemma.

By this stage in the evening, I was pretty much done with my duties as MC. And at around 10:30, the bride and groom made their official exit, so I could feel free to relax and um - how do you say it? Get completely hammered. Screw acting like a mature and responsible adult; if I want to sit on a chair in the middle of the dance floor, I'm gonna do it!!!

This photo was taken about 3 seconds before Beth gave me a lap dance. What did I tell you? Best wedding ever.

Just like I wasn't sure how to start this post, I'm not exactly certain how I should END my recount of The Greatest Wedding In History. Maybe by saying that 'The Greatest Wedding In History' doesn't do this wedding justice? Maybe by telling you that Gemma and I had to be forcibly removed from the dance floor at ten past eleven. Really though, I don't think there's any proper way to do it. Except with this photo:

Because it's cute and I had no excuse to post it anywhere else. Plus, this is my blog and I'll do what I want. Bitches.

Happy Marriage, Julia and Nathan. May you live a long and wonderful life together in your fabulous new apartment; which I plan to crash in every Saturday night from here until the end of eternity. XXX. Jacki.

Jacki Trew: Suggested Google Search

2012-01-10T23:38:00.000+11:00

I'm a little concerned with the manner in which celebrities are naming their kids these days. It's, um, how do I word this delicately? Fucking insane. Beyonce just had her baby, right? Blue Ivy. Blue Ivy? Both nice, normal words - separately. Together, they kind of sound like a euphamism for 'yeast infection'.Here are some of the other crazy celebrity baby names I found on Google:

Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee's son)
Buddy Bear (Jamie Oliver's son)
Blue Angel (The Edge's daughter)
Princess Tiaamii (Katie Price's daughter)
Sage Moonblood (Sylvester Stallone's daughter)
Diva Muffin (Frank Zappa's...I have no idea)

Frankly, this annoys me. I'm annoyed. Don't these famous people realise that there are normal, UNfamous losers out here who would love to give their kids a crazy name too? Now when I name my son Wentworth Danger Austin-Powers Trew, people are gonna think I was just copying Russell Brand or whoever else comes up with it first! Talk about unfair.
...I'm kidding of course. Everybody knows I'm not allowed to have kids.

So I was at my parents house to do a bit of washing the other day ('bit' here meaning 'it probably would have been easier to just go out and buy all new clothes'), and while I was waiting for the second spin cycle to finish, I ended up sitting down and watching Packed To The Rafters for the better half of about 3 hours. I really have nothing else to say about that, except that it's probably the first clear sign that I am turning into my Mother. So if I'm still alive in 30-odd years, I'm gonna be 5 foot 7, addicted to Aussie dramas and a nurse. I'll also have two charming daughters, one of whom will be hugely successful; the other will be a 21-year-old piece of shit who spends her time blogging about how she's addicted to Prison Break and will probably end up just like me. Television addiction - it's a vicious cycle.

Speaking of television, you know what show is the most awkward on TV right now? The most recent series of Kourtney and Kim Take New York. I don't have Foxtel at home, so I see every trip to Mum and Dad's as an opportunity to catch up on my E! channel obsession, and that show seems to be all that's playing right now. I know the Kardashians appear to be filming each other 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, and it gets a little confusing - basically, this particular series is made up of the stuff they filmed between Kim Kardashian's honeymoon...and her divorce. And yes. It is EXACTLY as awkward as that last sentence I typed implies.
Now.
What else can I talk about?
While waiting for a YouTube video to load just now, I decided to Google myself. Yeah, that happened. Which is especially embarassing if you consider that I am neither drunk, nor working on a talk show. BUT. In case you were wondering, here is what happens when you Google 'Jacki Trew':

Is that not clear? Let me just outline what you all need to be focusing on:

That's right, my friends. I...am a suggested Google search.
Look. I know I'm young, I'm not even halfway through my life, there's probably much that I am yet to achieve...fuck that. I'm gonna say it: THIS IS THE GREATEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE. I'm not even sure how this happened, especially since I'm pretty sure the only people who read my blog on a regular basis are Alex, Richie and Jane. And sometimes Boyfriend, if he's too busy to actually see me in the flesh. No matter. I'm on Google! GOOGLE! I've achieved something! I'm a blogger! And - most importantly - I finally have something cool to put on my gravestone:

Wedding Of The Century - Part 1

2012-01-09T19:39:00.000+11:00

Good evening, Blogosphere.
I wasn't invited when Lamar Odom married Kim Kardashian's little sister, and they didn't ask me to MC the reception, so I feel pretty confident in calling Julia and Nathan's nuptials (on Saturday) The Wedding Of The Century. First of all, did you see the weather on Saturday? Stunning. Second of all, has there ever been any couple more suited to marry each other than Julia and Nathan? Meryl Streep and me, maybe. Otherwise no. And third of all:

(I don't know if you can see this, but there's an open bar in the background of that photograph).

Kidding, Julia! It was a beautiful wedding.

But in order to really blog about TWOTC (and to do it justice), I'm gonna have to be 3 things:
1) Using a computer that runs faster than a 3-legged elephant on crutches
2) Using a computer I actually own, and
3) Not drunk
Woops! Thank goodness I'm used to failing tests. Rest assured, there is a wedding blog on the way; and when it arrives, it's going to be long-winded and ridiculously detailed enough that Julia herself won't even want to read it. I mean, more than 3 or 4 times anyway.

2012-01-02T20:07:00.001+11:00

I honestly can't remember the last time I made and actually kept a New Years Resolution. There are 2 main reasons for this:

1) I believe that if you make a resolution, you're pretty much cementing the fact that it won't last/succeed/come true. As soon as you promise yourself something, you will fail. Isn't the saying 'Good things come to those who wait'? Why, then, would you go chasing after your dreams and publicly declaring that they will come true? Keep quiet, I say, and you might have a fleeting chance at happiness. Plus, it's just depressing to hear everyone else talking about how much tequila they're not going to drink with me this year.
2) Fuckin' lazy.

For someone who naturally wakes up at 6:30 on Sunday mornings with enough energy to take down 3 basketball players, I'm almost extraordinarily lazy. Don't believe me? Let's recap on what I wrote a moment ago...

2) Fuckin' lazy.

See what I mean? You know when you can't even be bothered to type the last letter in the word 'fucking', you've got a bit of an issue. Of course, you might say that by typing out a whole explanation as to why I actually wrote fuckin' instead of fuckinG, I've effectively counteracted the whole laziness factor. And that'd probably be true - if I weren't typing this while lying on the couch, watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother out of the corner of my eye because I can't be bothered to focus properly on one thing.
Oh.
And I'm also in my underwear.

Booyah.

Anyway, where was I? New Years Resolutions. Does anyone make them anymore? Last time I did, I was 15 years old and declaring that 2006 would be the 'Year Of Love'. Wanna know what happened in 2006? Well, plenty I guess. But wanna know who I did it with? No one. Year Of Love?
This is why I hate resolutions.

There is one thing that I enjoy about New Years Eve, however, and that's my annual 'It's The End Of The Year, Let's Sum It Up By Answering A Bunch Of Numerous And Seemingly Random Questions' post. I've done this for the past 3 or 4 years running:

In 2008.
And 2009...
Oh. I guess 2010 missed out. Apparently my last post of the Noughties was about the food poisoning I gave myself with a home-made Thai curry. Go figure.

Anyway. To comemorate the ending of one year, and the beginning of another (during which we will apparently all perish with the ending of the world, cheers Mayans), here are 10 random questions - thoughtfully provided by the only people on Earth who come close to being as ridiculous as me. Mum and Dad.

Question 1: Can you bake a cake?
I used to think so, but no. The last time I attempted was way back in October for my Mum's birthday and the result was, um, how do I word this? A colossal failure. Alex had given me the recipe for an English sponge cake which sounded simple enough and had the least amount of ingredients I think I've ever seen for a single dessert. Well, 'simple' was the operative word. 'Operative' here meaning 'A fucking lie'. Despite following the recipe to a T, and leaving it in the oven for the EXACT amount of time specified, the whole thing collapsed as soon as I attempted to flip it out of the tin. Thankfully what I lack in cake-making skills, I more than make up for with the ability to cover my own stupid mistakes, and the English sponge cake became a Violet Crumble and Sponge Cake Trife. Wow, I just realised how long I've been talking about this. To cut a long story short, Violet Crumbles are the answer to 90% of Life's questions - as long as the only thing Life asks you about is your Mother's birthday cake.

Question Two: What was your greatest achievement in 2011?
Moving out. Or finally deciding to deal with my irrational fear of the Post Office.

Question Three: What was the worst thing to happen to you in 2011?
Well on a depressing note, I had my heart broken for the SECOND time, and I lost my mobile phone along with all my contacts, photographs and music. But if you look on the positive side, both of those stories turned out to be hilarious anecdotes that I will probably end up having written on my tombstone. You know. Because even mourners need a good laugh.

Question Four: If you had to - if you had to - make a Resolution for the New Year, what would it be?
I resolve to stop spending all my money on party drinks; straight vodka is much healthier.

Question Five: Where would you like to visit in 2012?
Panama. I don't know why you guys keep asking me this; it's the same answer every year.

Question Six: What was the best day of 2011?
Wow, tough question. Christmas is always up there, and this years was no exception. But then there's also the weekend we spent at the Shangri-La for Alex's 21st birthday to consider. Or the day I moved into my new apartment. Or my 21st birthday, when Elle and Gemma ran to Woolworths for a 30-pack of mini cupcakes and had the whole pub sing Happy Birthday to me. I guess all of those are the 'best days' of 2011. Yeah. Them, or that Wednesday when I found $2 in the keybox of my locker at the gym.

Question Seven: What would you be sadder about? Ben dying, or Nathan moving overseas?
Mum, I don't watch Packed To The Rafters. You know this.

Question Eight: Do you plan on blogging in 2012?
Oh, heck yes.

Question Nine: If yes, will you cut down on the swearing?
Oh, fuck no.

And Finally, Question Ten: Why are you such an idiot?
Oh, that's easy. Because I'm Jacki Trew.

When Conversations With Dad Take An Awkward Turn...

2012-01-02T15:48:00.000+11:00

Scene: Dad and I are sitting on the couch watching a TV commercial for the 'Genie Bra'.

Dad: Okay, wow. I'll take three.
Me: You'll take three of what?
Dad: Three Genie Bras.
Me: Um..why?
Dad: They look great!
Me: I'm glad you brought this up. No, they're not great. They're ugly and pointless and expensive.
Dad: How much?
Me: Like 80 bucks each!
Dad: But...look at them! So versatile! You can use it as a sports bra, a normal bra, a training bra...
Me: Dad do you even know what a training bra is?
Dad: I think so. Do you girls wear training bras?
Me: Dad, I'm 21. We're past the 'training' stage. I play for the All Stars now.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh my God.

2012-01-02T14:07:00.000+11:00

So I know I'm about a week late, but Merry Christmas everyone. And (I suppose), Happy New Year. As anyone who knows me knows, I'm usually pretty anti-NYE, but this year I had a good one. Despite having to wait at Wynyard station by myself for 45 minutes, being locked out of a train and ending up WALKING home from Lavender Bay at 2 o'clock in the morning. While annoying, that stuff is pretty easy to get over if you consider that I also got to sit in a park and drink vodka while watching a guy named Woody try to convince every girl he met to kiss him at midnight with the promise of $10 and no STDs.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, Christmas. Late or not, it's still nice to hear. Plus, I am a firm believer in the idea that Christmas hasn't officially ended until the tree in the living room gets taken down. Which in my case is a task that usually gets left until mid-February. So again, Merry Christmas everyone.
It's gonna last a while.

In Christmas-related news, I'd like to post the following public letter to all books in existance:

Dear Books,
Check out what Mum and Dad got me for Christmas:

SUCK IT.
Regards,
Jacki Trew.

Awesome, right?
Awesome.
RIGHT?! Not that I'll be rushing to throw away the books I already own or anything, but there's something delightfully apathetic about the whole idea of a touch-screen novel. Do you know, you can skip from chapter to chapter with just the touch of a button? And to think, all these years I've been using my hands to turn pages like a sucker. Well no more. From now on, the only workout my fingers are going to get will be from lifting a glass of champagne - and if I can eventually find a long enough straw, they won't even have to do that. The future is bright, my friends. Mostly because of the fluorescent lighting they use at the psychiatric ward I am bound to end up in.

In terms of other Christmas presents, I was spoiled rotten this year. Anyone who's friends with me on Facebook will have already seen the multiple photos I posted of the antique manicure set that Alex got for me. Among other things, I also recieved copious amounts of alcohol and credit for the iTunes music store; perfect gifts for an alcoholic who recently lost her iPhone and every one of the 2000 songs stored on it. What else? Oh! One of my favourite presents came from Boyfriend, who gave me 3 blank notebooks and a copy of Edward Scissorhands on DVD - Edward Scissorshands because I'd mentioned a few days earlier that it was probably my fourth favourite movie of all time, and the blank notebooks (in his words) to 'encourage my writing habit'. This excited me for 2 reasons:
1) Most guys who read anything I've written think I'm either crazy or on some pretty strong medication. And
2) ...Most guys who read anything I've written think I'm either crazy or on some pretty strong medication.
Here's a guy who has not only read most of my blogs AND still agreed to hang out with me after...but he's actually encouraging this madness? I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes. He's crazy. Or on some pretty strong medication.

Alright. Now that I'm done being all disgusting and romantic, lets talk about marriage. For those of you not in the know, two of my mates Julia and Nathan are getting their wed-lock on this Saturday. That in itself is exciting enough news, but there's one more thing that will make theirs the Wedding Of The Century, and thats the 3-tiered wedding cake Julia showed me a photo of last week. Because who doesn't love a good wedding cake, right? Oh, also, I hope you're coming to the reception, because

I'm the MC, bitches!!!

MC. Master of Ceremonies. Do you know what this means? Do you know what this means? Crystal-Meth jokes, and lots of 'em!

Kidding.

One thing it does mean is that I'll be handed a microphone and asked to introduce the newly-married couple as they enter the reception room. In whichever manner I so choose. Right now I'm tossing up between 'Oprah Winfrey' and 'That Guy Who Yells Get Ready To Rumble At The Beginning Of Boxing Matches'. It's a tough call - I think Oprah is the obvious choice, but I'd have to fly up onto the stage via jetpack and start handing out free Cadillacs to all the guests in order to really nail the imitation. Do-able, but I might have trouble getting my hands on a jetpack by Saturday.

The other reason I'm excited is finally having an opportunity to demonstrate my collection of wedding/marriage-related puns and jokes; most of which have been stolen from 90's rom-coms and old episodes of Friends. Knock knock. Who's there?

I'll tell you at the wedding.

Steaks, Razors and Irish People

2011-12-13T01:08:00.000+11:00

A few things I forgot to post about earlier:

Yesterday afternoon we had our work Christmas party at Hurricanes in Darling Harbour.
Try and get me to stop talking about Christmas for the next two weeks, I dare you. Anyway, it was pretty awesome. Has anyone been to Hurricanes in Darling Harbour before? It was great! And for a moderately-sized restaurant, they had a surprising amount of storage space. I mean, I am assuming. Only because there were at least 65 people in there at one time, and ALL of them appeared to be ingesting at least half a cow each. 65 people x half a cow...maths was never my strong suit, but thats a fair few cows, right? I didn't even hear any mooing.
In case you hadn't gathered so yet, Hurricanes is a steakhouse. And when I say 'steakhouse', I mean it - they actually MAKE you wear paper bibs while you eat the food. I couldn't tell if this was to protect the precious table linen or just so the wait staff could get a kick out of seeing us all dressed as toddlers, but I enjoyed it regardless. There is something oddly liberating about wearing a bib and eating with your hands. I felt like a caveman, only better dressed. And I don't know of any cavemen who owned mobile phones that could remind you to buy milk on the way home.

Now, what next?

I had a moment of brilliance in Coles last Thursday night.
We checked out on Monday morning, but it wasn't until about Wednesday that I realised I'd left my razor in our room at the Shangri-La after last weekend. Dammit! Sigh. You are welcome, next people to stay in suite 1907. I know, I'd never seen a purple Schick before either. Pretty cool, huh?
Anyway. As annoying as this was, the silver lining was that it meant I'd have to get myself to the shops and buy a new razor. And when you are as ridiculous as me, getting to buy a new razor is tantamount to, um, you know, winning the lottery. The only thing I find more exciting than buying a new razor is buying a new toothbrush, but I'm not gonna spend too long talking about that because once I start I probably won't be able to stop. I know this is crazy, but I can't help it. Something about toiletries (especially those that come in bright colours with reflective packaging) just drives me to ecstacy. But back to the story at hand.
As a grown woman who has been shaving her legs at least once a week (maybe less in winter) for the last 7 or 8 years, I've bought a fair number of razors in my time. And you know one thing I've always noticed? Guys razors are WAY better than girls. They last longer, they're more durable, the blades are sharper, there are more blades...ladies am I right? I can hear 90% of you agreeing with me. The other 10% have obviously never borrowed their friends brothers Gilette Mach on a camping trip when they were 13 years old and used it to shave their armpits. FYI, that was the smoothest 4 days of my life.
So, you can probably guess where this story is headed. Yes, I went into Coles to get a new razor. And yes, I decided to get a guys one. What? There was nothing to lose! If it turned out to be good, I could spread the word and tell my friends and we'd all have the nicest legs this side of Uluru. If it turned out to be bad? Well, whatever, I could just pretend I'd bought it as a really strange welcome home present for Richie. So...how did it turn out, I hear you asking? I'll let my legs answer that for me.

Alright, moving on.

I had a cab driver the other day ask me if I was Irish.
And I get that this is probably not too exciting for normal people. I mean, I have a co-worker who's Polish, a best friend who's English/Dutch, and a Jordan who'd supposedly be in line for the Scottish royal thrown if they still had one...but I'm Australian, and that's it. My ancestors came over on the convict ship for stealing loaves of bread, decided they liked it, and never left. When someone suggests that there might be the tiniest hint of a foreigner in me, I get excited dammit! It's exciting!! Maybe a little too much...

Cab Driver: So, have you had a good afternoon?
Me: Yeah it was great, and you?
Cab Driver: Not too bad. (pause) Are you Irish?
Me: Sorry?
Cab Driver: Are you Irish?
Me: No. (switching to an Irish accent) Why, do I sound Irish?
Cab Driver: No, you have Irish features.

My favourite thing about this conversation was the last part. See, because what he said was 'No, you have Irish features', but it really sounded more like 'You're a fucking moron'. Erroneous! I do a great Irish accent. And 'Irish features'? I googled that shit, and here's what I got:

Red hair
Blue eyes
Freckles

My personal appearance couldn't be any further from the Irish truth: Brown hair, brown eyes, pale lips, no freckles. Boring! Why do you think I have so many piercings and tattoos? Just trying to spice things up a little. Of course on the other hand, my cab driver probably wasn't referencing my personal appearance at all, and might have just been commenting on my drinking ability (which, admittedly, is on par with the Irish). To which I say cheers, mate. I'll definitely drink to that.

Happy New Year, Cope Street!!

2011-12-12T16:44:00.001+11:00

I don't wanna seem like I'm, you know, a massive brag, but my life is pretty awesome at the moment. Pretty flippin' awesome. Not flipping. Flippin'. With an N. How you like me now, English teachers? The answer to that question is 'We don't like you at all, you illiterate moron'.

So Christmas in two weeks, huh? I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet. Woops! Sorry. You'll have to excuse me for having a full time job and a life! I'm kidding of course. The real reason I haven't done any shopping yet is because I am too lazy and too poor. You are all getting hugs for Christmas. As long as you initiate them.

Christmas shopping is hard, especially if - like me - you are a complete moron. I keep thinking of stuff to buy for my Dad, going to the shops to pick it up, and then forgetting what it is. So I go home. Then I remember again. So I go to the shops, but by the time I get there, I've forgotten. Home. Remember. Shops. Forget. Home. Remember. Shops. Forget. God dammit! Dad, you owe me a $70 petrol voucher.

The one thing I definitely have enough energy for this holiday season is Alex and I buying our very first tree as a married couple. I mean, um, as completely platonic room-mates. I love Christmas trees. I love everything about them - the smell, the lights, the decorations, the presents underneath...and most of all, the fact that at the end of January when it's dead and brown and smells like the inside of a ski-boot, I can throw it over my balcony and completely inconvenience all our dickhead neighbours. Happy New Year, Cope Street!!

When I was still living at home, the whole Christmas-Tree-Decoration phase of the holiday was always left up to me. Mum, Dad and Catherine would literally leave me at home by myself for 4 to 6 hours in order to do it. Of course, what I really mean by 'leave me at home by myself' is 'I kicked them out so they wouldn't get in my way'. This might seem cruel, but it was really in the best interest of Christmas. My sisters method to tree decorating is similar to the fashion in which a blind person might assemble a pavlova - you can see that she's trying, but in the end we just wind up with raspberries and meringue everywhere. As for my parents, well, they aren't much better. I'm convinced my Dad thought tinsel was actually edible at one point. Really, it was just safer for me to take care of the whole thing, and I was more than happy to do it. The only problem is that now I've moved out, and they have no choice but to do it themselves - a thought that fills me with equal parts terror and amusement. It's the same emotion I experience when I let myself think about the idea of Santa Clause for too long. I mean, how do YOU feel about a fat guy and his pet deer breaking into your house at 2 in the morning?

2011-12-12T15:58:00.000+11:00

Oh, hey. Hello. So I was standing around at work just now, looking bored, feeling bored, and thinking Hey..you know what I haven't done in a really long time? Blogged.

Then I thought,

Wow. That's kind of depressing.

Then I thought,

I wish I had more time to blog.

Then I thought,

Well...I'm not really doing anything right now..

Then I thought,

But I'm at work, so I should probably be working.

Then I thought,

Then again, I have been working ALL morning.

Then I thought,

I could probably get fired though.

Then there was a massive pause.

...

Then I thought,

Fuck it. Let's blog.

Cruise, Marry, Shag

2011-11-30T01:16:00.001+11:00

In upsetting news, the computer I saved every completed chapter of my book on is now refusing to function. Like, at all. Fuck! Sorry to swear, I know that's just pointless. What I really mean to say is Hey! Are There Any Computer Experts Out There Willing To Help? I Will Totally Pay You In Sexual Favours And/Or Mention You In The Acknowledgements Page If I Ever Get Published!
Kidding About The Sexual Favours!
Except Not Really!

The only positive thing about this whole situation is that it's 100% typically, well, me, and exactly the kind of story I'll add to the chapter I'm tentatively calling 'Technology, And The Ways In Which Computers Have Fucked Up My Life'.

So at least there's that to be thankful for.

You know what's really annoying about Grey's Anatomy? Everything. No, I'm only joking, it's a great show. All I'm saying is that it might be kind of nice for Meredith to shut her freakin' trap every once in a while. 'Oh, woe is me, I'm a hot doctor who's married to another hot doctor, and I always have perfect hair even after a 10 hour surgery'. I NEVER have perfect hair, and the only contact I've ever had with a hot doctor was during my last sexual fantasy about Chris Havel from Offspring. Screw you, Meredith. Ooh, good question: Who would you rather have? Chris Havel from Offspring or McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy?

Speaking of ridiculously hot celebrities, and the insane notion that I will EVER have my choice of ANY of them...Jordan, Alex and I spent a good portion of last Wednesday night playing a little game some of you may have heard of called Shoot, Shag or Marry. At least thats my version. You know, where someone names 3 people and you have to choose which one you'd shoot, which one you'd have sex with, and which one you'd marry? Alex prefers Cruise, Marry, Shag, where instead of getting to shoot someone, you have to take a year long cruise and spend every waking minute of it with them. This version is especially painful when the combination of names is something like Mickey Rourke, Arnold Schwarznegger, and Jack Nicholson Playing The Joker in Batman.
Or, Fat Bastard, Kermit The Frog and Hook-Weilding Serial Killer From I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Or, The Jonas Brothers.
...
At least if we'd been playing MY version, someone would have had the option of shooting Kevin Jonas in the face. No offence, Kevin. I'm totally against the use of guns, I really am. It's just that your face annoys the shit out of me. Regardless, it was a pretty fun night. We drank, we played, we drank, we played, I think I started dancing at one point, we drank...and before any of us knew what was happening, it was 1:30 in the morning and 6 hours before Jordan had to get up for work, so the three of us turned off the lights and went to bed like good little children and nothing else happened, nothing at all.

Unless you count the orgy.

Kidding, Mum! There was no orgy. Technically, I don't think 3 people even counts as an orgy. Oh my God, why am I still talking about orgys? I need more sleep. Talk to you guys later.

iPhone Home

2011-11-16T14:09:00.002+11:00

And now for your entertainment, I will blog about a little incident I've come to refer to as The Saturday Night I Got Hammered And Lost My Phone. My mates Robbie, Madi and Julia and Jordan probably have their own version of this story locked away for the grandkids: The Saturday Night I Got Hammered And Lost Jacki. Whatever. All I can give you is the clearest account from a brain soaked in Jim Beam and Red Bull...

This actually happened about 2 weeks ago, and I can't believe I haven't posted about it yet. One of the reasons is that I am an idiot. Another is that I don't actually have a computer or internet connection of my own, so the chances I actually get to blog are few and far between. Yes, that is a hint that I would like you to give me a laptop for Christmas. Lets get back to the story though, because it's a good one. It was Saturday night and Alex had plans with Richie, so I decided to meet Madi and Robbie for a couple of drinks at the Longy. Of course, it was SATURDAY night, and it was Madi and Robbie, so what I really mean by 'a couple of drinks' is 'how does my liver still function?'. I think I got to the pub at about 8pm. At around 10:30, we decided to catch a cab over to Mega for a bit of dancing. Here is a visual representation of my behavior during those two-and-a-half hours:

A few drinks later...

And eventually Jordan arrived to find this:

Actually what I think I had said was 'LET'S GET TATTOOS!', but since nobody else was keen for that, we decided on dancing as a consolation activity. In hindsight, that was probably a good call.

So we left and headed to Mega. Here's what happened when we got there:
Bouncer: (peering into my face) How many drinks have you had?
Me: (pausing for like 8 minutes to gather my thoughts) Um. Like, four.
Bouncer: Okay, you're in.

...What? I have no idea. There are only two possible reasons I can think of that this guy actually let me into Mega that night:
1) He was high as a kite
2) One of my boobs was showing.
I really don't wanna think about which one of those is more likely. Nor do I want to think too much about Mega, where I'm pretty sure I did nothing but drink tequila and make an idiot out of myself on the dancefloor. Luckily this was Mega, so pretty much everyone was drinking tequila and making an idiot out of themselves on the dancefloor, but still. I think I was there for about two hours before I (along with the bar staff) decided enough was enough and jumped in a cab.

Here's where the story gets interesting.

My memory of the night from here is pretty average. I got in the cab and gave the driver my Mum's address. Why? I have no idea. I think maybe that last shot of tequila had caused me to forget that I don't actually live there anymore. I got to my Mum's house, dropped all my shit in the kitchen, ate a piece of toast and texted Madi that I was drunk as a skunk and decided to go home. I think that was the point that I looked around myself and realised that I was in the wrong house. I called another cab, got them to drop me at the apartment, crawled up the stairs and went to bed. Boring, right?
Now here is the night according to everyone else:
After kindly being asked by the doorman at Mega to make my way home, I was snatched off the street by a Peruvian murderer who somehow stole my phone and texted all my friends that I was 'fine', when really he was taking me back to his house to make me his love slave. After that, I didn't answer my phone despite being repeatedly called by everyone for the next 3 hours, and was almost officially considered 'missing', until finally I rang everyone back the next morning (from the LANDLINE in my PARENTS house), to inform them that yes I was fine, no I was not being held captive, yes I felt like an idiot, and no I did not know the current location of my mobile phone.
Gutted.
After trying all the obvious stuff (calling it, calling Mum, calling the cab company, crawling around the apartment carpark on my hands and knees), I finally succumbed to the realisation that my beloved phone was gone, and I was going to have to get myself up to Chatswood and purchase a new one. Talk about an inconvenience. I mean on the plus side, my previous contract was up anyway, and Optus had promised to give me one of those fancy new iPhones if I chose to renew with them. But then on the minus side, fuck that! I lost all my music and photos and contacts, and if you know anything about me, you'd know that I'm certainly not the kind of girl who could give two frozen fucks about a fancy new iPhone. Sorry for swearing, but it sucked. I'm over it now, of course. Have you actually used one of those iPhones? That Siri thing? Where you can just hold a button and ask it any question, and it talks back to you? I swear to God, being able to (jokingly) ask my phone for oral pleasure almost makes up for this whole mess.
Almost.

So that's the story of how I got hammered and lost my phone. I hope you enjoyed it. And just so you know, yes, I am still holding onto the hope that my original phone is out there somewhere. It's an iPhone 3 with a bright purple cover that answers to the name 'Jacki's original phone', so if you find it, please bring it back to me. As a reward, I will ask the Siri on my new phone to give you oral pleasure.

2011-11-09T14:37:00.000+11:00

Good afternoon, Sydney-siders. And good evening to a Mr Richard Snowden, who is currently holidaying in San Francisco, and who I promised I would mention on my blog at least once. Hi Richie! How you doing? I hope you and the boys are having fun, and that you aren't missing home too much, and that the weather over there is as delightful as what we're enjoying in Sydney. Because it's freakin' hot. How hot? Freakin' hot. HOW hot??

That's about as close a visual equivalent as I can give you....(because I didn't have any pictures of Hugh Jackman).

So Kim Kardashian's divorce, huh? Yes, I am talking about it on my blog. My stocks on Google just went way up! Now all you have to do is sift through 18-and-a-half million other pages before you find me! In all seriousness though, it really is very sad. 72 days? The woman could only last 72 days? On the plus side, my Dad has since become almost hopelessly addicted to reruns of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and if there is a funnier situation to witness than that...well, it's not one I know about. Still. 72 days? If I were a real Richard Cranium, I'd probably say something about how it's kind of her own fault for internationally broadcasting the whole thing on a shit TV channel like E!. I mean, she could have at least pushed for the Oxygen network. I'm nicer than that though, so I'll say nothing. Let's go for something completely different.

BREAKING NEWS: ALEX AND I HAVE A NEW APARTMENT MASCOT

Shit. I know. Try to contain your excitement as I unleash said mascot upon the world...

We call him Little Lincoln. I think it's pretty obvious why. The resemblance is, after all, uncanny:

The only difference is that Little Lincoln's doors don't actually open, and there aren't 6 dillion parking tickets on the passenger's side floor. Other than that though. Uncanny!!

Now.

What else can I bore you with? I got nothing. Here is a great song:

See ya next week!

The Watermelon Theory

2011-11-09T13:30:00.000+11:00

I'm a little confused about a saying I heard the other day. Maybe you guys can help me out.

RED SKY AT NIGHT, SHEPHERDS DELIGHT.

RED SKY IN THE MORNING, SHEPHERDS WARNING.

Don't get me wrong, I've heard this one before. When Catherine and I were younger, our Mum was always trying to impart wisdom via some ridiculous rhyming sentence. The Red Sky thing was one of her favourites. That, and One More Tantrum And I Will Kick The Crap Out Of You.

...

Sometimes they didn't exactly rhyme.

Anyway, my problem is that I can't remember the meaning of the second line. Shepherd's warning? Warning against what? I wouldn't normally ask, except that when I woke up at 5am this morning to pee, the sky was as red as a sunburnt bum on Christmas. Something's coming, was my first thought. Followed closely by my second, which read something along the lines of...Sunburnt bum on Christmas? I need to stop drinking.

Speaking of Christmas, tell me what you want because I am writing my list. I don't care how expensive it is, or how close we are - just tell me what you want and it's yours. Provided it costs less than 50 bucks and I at least like you a little bit. If you're not sure on that last part, a good way to judge is by answering this question:

Have I Ever Thrown A Watermelon At Your Head Before?

If you answered no, you can probably expect a Christmas present from me.

If you answered yes...I wouldn't hold your breath.

I call this The Watermelon Theory. I plan on using the same system to cull extra guests from my wedding invitation list, seeings as it's basically foolproof. The only person who lives in exception to the rule is my older sister Catherine. I have thrown a watermelon at her head before, but she's also you know...my sister. And as everyone knows, family trumps assault with an over-sized summer fruit. Every time.

Plain Red Door

2011-10-19T09:18:00.000+11:00

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.'

2011-10-19T09:03:00.000+11:00

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.

Tourism In North Korea

2011-10-11T11:23:00.001+11:00

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.

Passed!

2011-10-11T10:53:00.000+11:00

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'.

2011-10-05T15:15:00.000+11:00

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:

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!

The Fallback Plan

2011-10-02T12:48:00.000+11:00

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...

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.

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.

Total Weirdo Magnet

2011-10-02T12:16:00.000+11:00

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.

Baby Talk

2011-09-28T12:27:00.001+10:00

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.

2011-09-28T11:54:00.001+10:00

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

2011-09-07T10:37:00.000+10:00

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

2011-09-07T10:24:00.000+10:00

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

2011-09-07T10:03:00.000+10:00

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!

Awkward Apartment Moments, Volume 1

2011-08-24T10:37:00.000+10:00

So I was watching that movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall at home the other day. Remember that scene where they have really loud sex?
...
The walls of my apartment are, like, paper thin. I can only assume that my neighbours have all come to the conclusion that I'm either watching porn, or starring in porn. Not sure which is worse.

The Baby Whisperer

2011-08-24T10:27:00.000+10:00

The genius of 8-year-old children is something that will never cease to amaze me.
...
Let me start from the beginning.
So I babysat the other night. For the first time in roughly a dillion years. Everyone's babysat before, right? Okay maybe not the guys. If you have a penis, you can disregard this. Everyone's babysay before, right? But it's really one of those things you do in highschool, when you need money but don't have time to get a real job. Or when you actually don't mind being paid 10 dollars an hour. Or when you're 16 and pregnant and practicing for when the real baby comes.
...That was never me, by the way. I'm a 'happy-to-be-paid-minimum-wage' girl; always have been.
Anyway, where was I?
So I babysat the other night - mostly as a favour to an old friend of my Mum's who I can never seem to say no to on account of the fact that she's one of the very few acquaintances of my parents who will actually acknowledge me as Jacki Trew, rather than just The Less Successful Child Of Jane And Phillip. Also I am broke as a joke and needed the cash. But it was mainly the acknowledgement thing.
So it was Friday night. Remember that night last week with all the rain and the wind and the insane amounts of traffic? Yeah, Friday night. Here is how many driving violations I made on the way there:

Kidding. Actually it was only 5. And I'm 80% sure that only 2 of them were my fault. Luckily, once I got to the house, things improved.

...Well...kind of.

Does anyone else have one of those jobs that nobody understands? I mean, does anyone else have one of those jobs that they spend 5 minutes describing only to have people go 'Ohhhh...*confused face*'

I have one of those jobs.

Which I totally get. I get it. I work in a hairdresser but I'm not a hairdresser. I'm technically a receptionist but I also do apprentice tasks. Do I want to work at T&G forever? No. But do I want to quit my job? Hell no. Like I say...I get it. Some people think it's strange. Sometimes I think it's strange. But 8-year-old Grace...

Grace: So are you a hair cutter or a hair checker-inner?

Me: Um..a hair checker-inner.

Nailed it in 6 seconds.

I'm thinking that maybe I should reconsider my decision to never have babies. The only people who understand me all seem to be under the age of 12. Maybe this is my gift. Maybe I'm like the Baby Whisperer. Maybe I could shock everyone and do a totally awesome job of raising my kids! Then again...

Grace: Oh, I like your nosering!

Me: Thanks dude.

Grace: Is that a permanent tattoo?

Me: Yep.

Grace: Did your parents tell you not to do that?

Me: Well technically no...but only because I didn't actually ask them.

Grace: Oh. Cool!

Grace's Mum: *heart attack*

...Maybe not.

Contagious Viral Tonsils

2011-08-14T11:03:00.000+10:00

Hello again!
My apartment has been like a hot box of bacterial infection for the past week and a half. Sexy, I know. Being that I drink too much coffee, don't eat enough apples, and (at 21) am still the kind of idiot who likes to put her immune system to the test by swimming in the rain and piercing my own ears with a sewing kit, I'm never really surprised when I get struck down with something like a cold. Thankfully, that's all I had this time; a common cold. Nothing 2 days on the couch watching Jersey Shore and snacking on Codral tablets won't fix. Poor Alex though, was another story. I won't go into all the gory details now, but there were words like 'contagious' and 'viral' and 'tonsils' being thrown around. Yes, Alex is suffering from Contagious Viral Tonsils. Her tonsils have officially gone viral. We are expecting them to appear on YouTube any day now.

What a terrible joke.

Anyway. Thankfully, Alex's Mum is a brilliant herbalist and Richie's Mum is a brilliant nurse, and the two of them joined forces to save us from certain death. Or - at the very least - a serious case of the runny noses. Within hours of Alex's diagnosis, the apartment was stocked with rosehip tea and lemon, garlic capsules, herbal remedies and chocolate mousse (a well known cure for Contagious Viral Tonsils). I did my part by stopping at our local health food store and asking if they had "some of that magic honey that can, like, practically bring people back from the dead."

It was good with the tea.

Being sick sucks for lots of reasons, but here is the top of my list:

The sneezing

I don't exactly have the closest relationship with my nose. There's no hate between us, but no love either. We simply tolerate each other. And when something like hayfever or a cold forces the two of us to work together, it never seems to pan out. Here is the main reason:

I CAN'T SNEEZE

Alright, an exaggeration. I can sneeze. I just don't do it the way you're supposed to. Ask anyone. No, scratch that. Ask my sister Catherine, who has been teasing me about this for as long as I can remember. Although really it's less 'teasing' and more 'warning me that if I keep sneezing the way I am, I'm going to burst all the blood vessels in my face'.

She's never one to shy away from a painfully graphic description, my sister.

Anyway.

I know you're probably wondering what the hell I'm going on about...but it's hard to describe, this bizarre sneezing technique of mine. It's like something happens between the ahh..and the CHOO!, that causes me to (involuntairly) press my tongue really hard against the roof of my mouth; like it's trying to force the sneeze back into my nose or something. God, even my tongue has behavioral issues. Regardless, it works. So while it sounds like a regular sneeze, nothing ever comes out of my nose. This whole method has the added benefit of ensuring that I never spray snot over anyone, or need a tissue. Plus it doesn't irritate my nose ring. The only downside, really, is that I'm possibly giving myself a miniature brain embolism every time I do it.

Well...you gotta die somehow.

So, hmm, what else? Oh! Masterchef! I'm going to make this quick though, because I've got a load of washing on. And because I know that my extreme love of Masterchef can sometimes cause people to tear their own ears off. So to keep things brief...

Congratulations Kate. I thought you were good, even if my Mum only considered you a less charasmatic version of herself. Don't worry, even she had to admit you can cook better. Michael, I think you're cute. Not 'Hayden' cute, more 'My Dog Oscar' cute. 'My Dog Oscar Without A Beard, Or Cataracts'. Hayden, call me. Matt Preston, I will cook dinner for you any day of the week...as long as you don't mind that we'll be eating toast. And that snowman dessert thing looked incredible. Masterchef rules. Masterchef RULES.

Oh, and PS, who let Cheating Matt back in to watch the finale? Surely he could have just downloaded it on his smartphone.

Back And Better Than Ever

2011-08-14T10:41:00.000+10:00

Shit, bitch!

Sorry, that was rude. What I really meant to say was Wow! Long time no blog! Sorry. Sorry about it. I just haven't had much to write about lately.
LIE.
Truth is, my life is hilarious. And I did mean to post something about it last week (or the week before), but I couldn't get the words right. This is me, about 12 days ago:

...
It wasn't great.
Luckily now I'm back and better than ever. So much has happened since the last time I sat down to write - end of financial year, the Masterchef Australia grand finale, one of my best friends getting engaged...but enough about that shit. Let's talk about my feet.
So you guys remember how it rained like crazy a couple of weeks ago, yeah? I'm talking to anyone who lives in Sydney. For those of you who were out of town, here is a visual:

That's me in the yellow.
The whole thing wouldn't have been so bad - especially considering I work indoors and live on the top floor of my building - except for the fact that, oh yeah, I'm the type of idiot who needs to buy a new bottle of nailpolish every day of the week, but will wear the same scruffy boots for 3 winters in a row...to the point where I'm actually sticky-taping them back together in the staffroom on my lunchbreak. Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't get trenchfoot. Or, you know, hypothermia. My feet were almost permanently wet for the better half of a week. Thankfully though, I didn't suffer alone; turns out Alex is the kind of girl who'll hold onto a pair of shoes for way longer than is hygenically acceptable too. As you can imagine, our apartment smelt gorgeous that week.

Unlucky In Luck

2011-07-06T17:31:00.000+10:00

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.

Anyway.
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.
MISTAKE.
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

2011-07-06T17:01:00.000+10:00

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

2011-07-06T16:33:00.000+10:00

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.
Anyhow.
Milo.
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.

Early Morning Domestic

2011-06-26T13:28:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

Suck It, Television!

2011-06-26T13:14:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

(one week later)

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

(one week later)

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

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

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

Suck it, every other show on television.

Coffee-Addicted Moron

2011-06-15T16:19:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

Chicken In A Tin

2011-06-15T16:09:00.000+10:00

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

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

Peaches
Tuna

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

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

God I hope so.

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

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

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

Dude. Chicks are disgusting.

Happy Birthday Dad

2011-06-08T16:13:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ways To Know Your Roommate Is Awesome - #1

2011-06-05T19:21:00.000+10:00

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

Men In Uniform

2011-06-05T19:19:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2011-06-01T18:16:00.000+10:00

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

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

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

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

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

Carspots And Crazy People

2011-06-01T18:03:00.000+10:00

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

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

Finding The Note

Calling The Agent

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

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

Hello?

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

Click

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

A Great Week

2011-05-25T10:57:00.000+10:00

I watched Spiderman 2 the other night. Wow. Good on Tobey Maguire for sculpting those abs, but the real hero of that movie is Aunt May. Did you see the way she clocked Doctor Octavian in the side of the head with her walking stick? I don't exactly favour getting old, but if there's one thing I'm looking forward to, it's being able to bash people with a stick and get away with it.

Last week was a good one. Here's one of the reasons:

Have you ever seen anything so ridiculously...lovable? I'm the kind of heartless bitch who actually laughs during the last scene of Moulin Rouge (SPOILER ALERT: someone...dies), but even I cant look at this photo without feeling a little fuzzy inside. And that's huge, for me. Pretty much the only other thing that'll cause that reaction is Patrick Dempsey's smile. Or, you know. Tequila.

So the baby hedgehog made it a good week, but something else made it great: Alex and I ordered a set of bright red nonstick kitchen utensils off cooking.com a few weeks ago. By the way, cooking.com? It's the lonely woman's orgasm. I insist you take a look. But like I was saying: Bright red. Kitchen utensils. We were pretty excited about it...for about 30 minutes until we realised that rather than being bright red (as the description implied), they were more of a burgundy colour. Then we realised that while we'd paid $200 for our set, the website also offered similar sets for as little as $79.95. Then we got an email saying there'd been a production error and our order had been cancelled. The whole ordeal was a pain in the ass; now we had to order the stuff all over again. And to make matters worse, they only gave us half our money back. BUT THEN...
What should arrive at my house on Tuesday morning but the very pots and pans that had apparently been lost in production. Did I mention this was AFTER they'd refunded half our money? Score! Half-price pots! This (along with the fact that Tuesday was the day we found out about getting our apartment) was enough cause for celebration. But guess what arrived on Thursday?
Another set of pans.
Let's recap:
TWO complete sets, each valued at $200...all for the low low price of 50 bucks each. See, this is why I'm not afraid of the Rapture. I don't need to be. Nothing says 'God loves you' like a brand new set of pots and pans for practically nothing. My life is incredible.

Speaking of things that make me happy which other people consider ridiculous...Masterchef. I officially retract all negative statements I may have made about this show. No, okay. Not all. I still maintain that it's not as good as My Kitchen Rules. I am a slave to Channel 7 and always will be. But Masterchef is...not so bad. Although it does kind of seem like every time I turn it on, the contestants are doing something with rabbit. Rabbit stew, rabbit mousse, rabbit pie, roast rabbit...one guy was wearing some sort of rabbit-fur hat. I think. Perhaps he just had unfortunate hair. Still. Rabbit? Here is what my Mum had to say on the matter:

Mum: When I was a kid, we ate rabbit all the time. And we turned out okay! More than okay. We turned out awesome! You kids each too much beef.

If there's one thing I'm going to miss about living at home, it's my Mother and her constant pearls of wisdom. What makes me sad about Masterchef is that as excited as I get about attempting to cook like the contestants, I know that it will always end in failure. I am a terrible cook. I know this. And I'm okay with it. I can make clothes, and I can paint nails, and I know practically every word of every song that Michael Jackson ever sung...but I can't cook for shit. This is one of the reasons I'm convinced I should never reproduce. I will make an interesting mother. My children will be the malnourished ones doing Thriller across the playground. With beautiful manicures. Unless I end up in the kind of profession which provides enough money to pay for a personal chef, there is no hope for any of us. I can't even make toast without giving someone salmonella.
Alright. So perhaps that is a slight exaggeration. I can do toast without salmonella. I may burn the house down. But no salmonella...unless the toast comes with eggs or anything. Then there's no telling what would happen.

Looking back, I have just realised that I started this post with the aim to blog about how great my week has been, and now I'm talking about how I will accidentally kill my hypothetical children with poorly-cooked chicken. Ridiculous. Have you ever noticed how Simpsons episodes often start off with one event, and end up focused on something completely different? Like, the opening scene will be the family going to Lego Land, but the rest of the episode will be about Homer's hunger strike to end prohibition? That is the perfect analogy for my blogging style. People often ask me what I blog about, or how I blog it. Now I can tell them. Right? I mean, is that a good comparison or what? I know it's a good analogy for my life, seeing as I started out like, 80% sure I knew what I wanted to do, and now I'm just a broke receptionist whos only talent is making fun of herself on the internet. If anyone knows of a way that I can make a living doing this, please enlighten me. The top two skills I have listed on my resume are: Typing: 90 words per minute, and Self-deprecating sense of humour.
You think I'm kidding?

The End Of The World As We Know It

2011-05-25T10:36:00.000+10:00

Here's how I feel about the Zombie Apocalypse.
Oh, wait. You guys heard about this, right? If you read ninemsn.com.au you would have. I'm not saying I read ninemsn.com.au (especially not at work), but I knew about it. This is the lowdown:
So you know the whole 2012-Mayan-End-Of-The-World business? Apparently that was supposed to happen on Saturday night. Or at least, some crazy guy said it was. Sorry, did I say 'crazy guy'? No, what I really meant was 'talented astronomy scholar who's spent the past 11 years studying planet alignment and hidden messages of the Bible'.
Ie?
Crazy guy.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking astronomy or planets or even the idea of the Bible being one giant subliminal message - what really ruins this dudes credibility is that part of his End Of The World prediction involved all the good children going to heaven, all the bad children going to hell, and all the dead children returning to wander the earth for all eternity.
Or something.
It's the Zombie Apocalypse!
I wasn't really bothered by this prophecy. I don't know how to explain this, but the end of the world doesn't really scare me. Mostly because I've seen enough zombie movies to feel pretty confident in my abilities to fight off at least one gang of them:

And also because even if I am going to hell...I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you there.

If the world had ended on Saturday, I would have been pretty annoyed for two reasons: First of all, I had to work on Saturday. I love my job, but really? I want to spend my last moments making coffee or washing someone elses hair? I think not. And secondly, I didn't even get to move into my new apartment yet. Fine, fine, the Rapture has to happen at some point...I'd just appreciate it if God waited until AFTER I've jumped on the bed and cooked in the kitchen. Is that totally blasphemous? So sue me. It's a really nice kitchen.

What actually weirded me out about this whole apocalypse prediction thing is that I'd been thinking a lot about the end of the world recently; remember my dream about the multiple tsunamis? AND I watched 2012 the other day. FYI, it's shit. It's a shit movie. Even if you love End Of The World movies. Even if you love John Cusack. I love John Cusack, but even he couldn't save this movie for me. You are all better off watching something more intellectual, like Strictly Ballroom. Or Jackass.
The best thing about 2012 is that eventually, it ends. And then you can get back to watching Grey's Anatomy or whatever. So here is my question: Why are End Of The World movies always so terrible? My theory is that there are simply too many of them; one might be okay, two might be tolerable...but there are a dillion. That is no exaggeration. There are a dillion End Of The World movies. And they're all pretty much the same. They neutralize each other. Maybe 'neutralize' isn't the right word. They cancel each other out? Make each other redundant? Basically all I'm trying to say is that you watch one, then another, then another, then another, and then suddenly it's the Rapture and the world really is ending, only you don't care because you already killed yourself to avoid seeing another movie like The Day After Tomorrow.
Even if Jake Gyllenhaal is totally hot.

Apocalypse Now, Baby!

2011-05-19T11:16:00.000+10:00

First things first: WE HAVE AN APARTMENT.
Shit. Holy shit. Holy shit, floating in the giant toilet bowl of life. That made absolutely no sense, so you just know how excited I am. We HAVE an APARTMENT.
I can't decide what the best part is.
Moving away from my parents? Moving in with Alex? Planning multiple housewarmings? Picking out our new furniture? None of the above. I'm mostly psyched about this:

Hello, gorgeous new bathroom. I'm Jacki, nice to meet you. I figured I should introduced myself now, since we're going to be spending a fair amount of time together. And for most of that time, I will be naked. Or taking a dump. Is that a newly-installed vanity I see? Excuse me for one second, I gotta go jizz.

So we found out about being the official tenants of Heaven on Cope Street at around 2pm on Tuesday. Here's how that went down:

Me: Oh my God.
Alex: We got the place.
Me: Oh my God!
(we hug)
(pause)
Alex: Pub after work?
Me: Dude, I started drinking 20 minutes ago.

Okay, not really. But it's Alex and I; obviously we had to celebrate. Obviously at The Longy. And obviously with 2 bottles of champagne. I don't remember what time we left the pub, but at some point Richie showed up and we decided to take a little drive down the road to check out the new digs. We don't actually have the keys yet, so we couldn't go inside...but we circled the carpark like the badass apartment-renting carpark-circlers we are!
I had work at 9am the next morning Thank God (once again) I don't get hangovers. Really, the only issue with sharing 2 bottles of champagne and a Jim Beam is that whenever I drink, I either have insane dreams or wake up ridiculously early the next morning. On Wednesday I did both. Don't believe me? I wrote the draft for this blog on the back of my work contract at 4am. Oh my God, I write drafts for my blog? Yes I am a loser. But more importantly, I am a loser who lives in her own apartment.

Okay, so this dream. Probably the weirdest thing about it was that my grandparents were there. Which wouldn't be so strange except that they both died before I finished highschool. It was very Haley-Joel-Osment-In-The-6th-Sense. Only instead of getting all freaked out, I was just psyched to see them. There was lots of hugging. Oh! It was also kinda weird coz my grandpa was a completely different person. Like, looks-wise. My dream self was totally on board with it, but in reality I was thinking who is this stranger with his arm around my gran? Explain that one, Bruce Willis. I have no idea.
My friend Julia's mum (Deb) was also there. Hey Deb! She was almost as excited to see me as I was to see my grandparents. That's not so strange. I am pretty awesome, after all. We arm-wrestled in the dream. Deb won. Also not strange; she does dragonboating, so she's pretty fit.

Speaking of dreams, I had one on Sunday night that the world was ending. Apocalypse Now, baby! Apparently three meteors were heading towards the earth. I don't exactly know what three meteors heading towards the earth entails, but I assume it would involve multiple tsunamis or something equally as horrible. Sigh. I'm not that afraid of meteors, but multiple tsunamis is definitely not my first preference for method of death. First of all, have you seen my hair wet? Not pretty. And secondly, the worst thing about a tsunami? You have to watch it come towards you before you die. That seems cruel to me. I'd rather just get directly hit by the meteor with no warning. Am I right? As far as I know the world isn't actually coming to an end any time soon, but if and when it does, I'd like that to be arranged. Thanks God.

A Mother's Day Mindfuck

2011-05-04T11:42:00.000+10:00

So what else can we talk about today? I'm on a bit of a blogathon since I'll be at work for the rest of the week and probably won't be able to post. So this will have to tide you over. Don't read it all at once!
I'm kidding of course. Read it, read it all! Then come back and read it again! And would it kill you to click on some of those stupid ads? I don't care if they do fill your computer with viruses and spyware, I make like 4 whole cents each time!
Just kidding.
But seriously.
Okay, Mother's Day. Holy shit, what do I get my mother? I hope she's not reading this right now. I could just ask her what she wants, but I already know what the answer will be:

Mum: I want you to stop mentioning me on that damn blog! You make your father and I seem like a pair of insane technologically-challenged pensioners! And yes, I did read the post about Mother's Day. You moron.

While I love my Mum and am usually quite keen to grant any specific Mother's Day wishes she might have, I can't afford to stop blogging about her and Dad. Are you kidding? They're like half my act! Those two are a goldmine. What other aspiring comedic authors do you know that grew up with a Mum who wouldn't stop talking about a gay iceskater and a Dad who man-crushed on Heath Ledger? I'm lucky to have them and I know it.

If I ever have kids, I'm going to tell them not to buy me anything for Mother's Day - their gift to me will just be leaving me the fuck alone for 24 straight hours. No, I joke. Kids are great. Most people think I'm anti-children, but it's not true. I'm not against kids, I just don't like the idea of my kids. I'm afraid they'll grow up to be a bunch of overly-energetic weirdos who watch too much TV and publish details of their parents private lives on the internet for millions of people to see. Kind of like me, I suppose.
Have you ever had that dream where you're pregnant? I have. I know for sure I'm not ready for kids right now because every time I wake up and realise I don't have a baby, my face goes like this:

Last night I had a dream about building a house, which was even more boring than it sounds. It was disappointing because usually my dreams (or as I like to call them, 'Sleep Escapades') are awesome. One of the craziest I've ever had (I'm sure I've blogged about this before) was about how I got cloned, and then took myself as a date to my own highschool formal. That was probably the biggest mindfuck I've ever experienced. Maybe not the biggest. Top 10 for sure. And my dreams are usually pretty adventurous. You know; action packed. Exciting. I dream about dinosaurs a lot. And deep-sea fishing. Hang-gliding...off Mount Everest...in a pair of short-shorts...while the theme to Star Wars plays in the background. Eat your heart out Indiana Jones, is basically what I'm trying to say. Oh my God, how long have I been talking about this? I think that's all the blog you're going to get for this week, folks. My apologies. I should have stopped at Mother's Day.

Fripples At Work And Far-Fetched Promises

2011-05-04T11:27:00.001+10:00

I've been talking a lot lately about my withdrawals from My Kitchen Rules, and I think it's starting to piss people off.

Me: I miss My Kitchen Rules.
(pause)
Mum: Okay, I didn't wanna be the one to say this, but...if you don't shut up about that damn cooking show, I swear to God I'm gonna straight up choke you to death.

I love you too, Ma!
So last night I attempted to move on by watching an episode of Masterchef Australia. And, well...
No. Just no. You know how...okay. I'll compare it to something everyone knows about: Coca Cola.

Remember the first time you drank Coca Cola? My God, wasn't it wonderful? The colour, the taste, the fizz, the flavour, the way it got the grease out of your Granddad's work overalls? Then came Diet Coke. It was okay. It looked the same, it seemed the same, all the key qualities were there...but it just wasn't as good. Then you tried Coke Zero, and again - it had all the characteristics of the original, but something wasn't right. And finally came Coke's ugly stepsister: Pepsi.
...
So if My Kitchen Rules is Coca Cola, Masterchef is what would happen if someone mixed Pepsi with Hitler's armpit juice.
No offence, Channel 10.
I've come to realise that the only solution to my 'lack of MKR' problem is to invent and host my own cooking show on the Lifestyle Channel. I'll be like Jamie Oliver only better, because instead of just calling myself The Naked Chef, I will actually BE naked while I cook. Whoa, unhygenic! Here are some original recipes I have already tested:

Salmon and cheese slices
Chicken and aioli pizza
Montecarlo milkshakes
The lasange sandwich

You heard correctly. That last one is like my version of KFC's Double Down burger. I have never felt so close to cardiac arrest in my life.
I'm a fairly terrible cook, but I'm determined to not let that get in the way of my success as a celebrity chef. After all, plenty of people are famous for doing the things they suck at:

Britney Spears, singer.
Kevin Costner, actor.
Lindsay Lohan, decent human being.

I'm pretty sure I can make it.
Anyway.
This just in: Alex and I have applied for an apartment. And it...is...FABULOUS. I wish I could be mature and realistic and say things like 'don't get too excited...ALOT of people have applied...we might not get this one...'
Fuck that! If you don't get excited, you're not invited to the housewarming! Speaking of Alex (and Richie, they come as a pair), we had a work thing in the city on Monday night, so it made sense to go for a drink at Bar 333 afterwards. Where I made maybe one of the most awkward comments of our relationship thus far:

Me: I love hanging out with you guys. I never feel like the third wheel. Right? I'm part of it. We're riding a tricycle!

For God's sake. This is almost as bad as the time I admitted my interest in having a threesome with Katy Perry and Russell Brand. For the record, that's not nearly as slutty as it sounds. I only want to make out with Russell Brand. While Katy sings in the background.

So how cold was it yesterday? Brrrr! I had fripples at work - through a padded bra. How does that even happen? The best part was that because I work in an environment that's 80% mirrors, I got to see them from every angle. I think that's one of my favourite things about my job. The mirrors. When you're looking at all your various flaws that much, you kind of learn to accept them rather than hate them. Take my nose for instance. I thought I knew how big it was before I started at T&G...no no. Not until I got 16 different views of it at the same time. Anyway. I know it's a bit lame to talk about the weather, but come on. Really, Mother Nature? With the cold? It's not even winter yet. Just calm the fuck down, alright?
Perhaps hell is freezing over. I hope not. I'd have alot of far-fetched promises to make good on if that were the case:

So hopefully it's just a cold snap.
Now let's talk about this little cutie:

Lately my cat has been sleeping with me - in my bed - all the way through the night. I know some people with cats who would be used to this, but not me. Not my cat. This isn't like her. Normally we get into bed together, she sticks her ass in my face for 20 minutes, then rolls over, gives me a dirty look for hogging the blankets, and leaves. Sigh. Just like every other lover I've had in my life. Anyway, I don't know why she's gotten so snuggly all of a sudden. Maybe it's the freakishly cold weather I was talking about before. Maybe my parents locked her out of their room and I'm a last resort. Or maybe she's finally tuned into the mind-numbing sense of loneliness that radiates from my body 24 hours a day and is only cuddling up to me out of pity. Either way one thing's for sure; considering the state of my personal life, I probably have no right to be as ecstatically happy as I am. But there you go - it really is a wonder, what copious amount of caffeine and Prozac can do.
Just kidding Mum.
(About the caffeine.)

The Royding

2011-05-04T10:44:00.001+10:00

So, a few things.
First the Royal Wedding. I don't know who exactly I was trying to fool, acting like I had no interest in the whole thing. Sure I wore an enormous satin flower headband to work on Friday in honour of the whole British hat-wearing tradition. Sure I paused with consideration when my Mum offered to buy me a 'Wedding' teacup with the royal families faces on it. And sure, I might have actually designed a potential dress for Kate Middleton, just in case she lost her mind at the last minute and asked me to suit her up for the wedding.
But apart from that..I was pretty convinced I didn't give a shit about any of it.
WRONG.
I got home from the gym on friday night just in time to see Kate getting out of the car in her dress. And can we just talk about that for a minute? Normally I'm not a fan of long sleeves on a wedding dress. And I'm not that crazy about lace either - unless it's black or attached to something made out of leather. But that dress is exactly the kind of thing I can see myself wearing when I marry Prince Harry. If I had to live the rest of my life in one outfit and one outfit only, it would either be that dress or the inmates uniform that Wentworth Miller wore in the first season of Prison Break:

Because who doesn't love a good pair of coveralls? Built for comfort and speed.

Speaking of Prince Harry, yum. When he first walked into the church, I completely deserted my aversion to Men In Uniform. Am I the only one that thinks Harry kind of outshone William? Not that it was very hard, considering he was dressed as a toy soldier:

For serious though. Not that I'm looking to completely settle down, but Harry seems to have grown into a lovely, mature and respectable young man...whom I would really enjoy having lots of sex and babies with. I just hope they get my hair. So as you might have guessed, I spent most of Friday at work talking to clients about the Royal Wedding. Or "The Royding" as I shall now refer to it. The best thing about this was that with every client - no matter their age, sex or general appearance - the conversation would inevitably land in the same place. With me, saying something like this:

Jacki: I don't care if he does have red hair, I'm on Team Harry. Are you kidding? I'd show that dirty ranga a good time!

To me, marrying Harry instead of Will is like being the relative of someone with a baby: you get all the fun of playtime without having to deal with the crying and shitstained nappies. Playtime here meaning shopping at Vivienne Westwood and sock-sliding accross Buckingham Palace, and shitstained nappies referring to...actual responsibilities and stuff. That's probably the worst analogy I've ever written, but I stand by it - when else are you gonna hear someone talk about Vivienne Westwood and poo in the same sentence?
So what else?
How about Fergie's daughters?

Check out the pink hat! I'm sure at least some of you are expecting me to go on and on about it, but I've decided not to because I don't think there's any point. I don't want to be mean. I'm taking the high road. There are no words, and so I will say nothing. Except this: It looks like the lovechild of an octopus and a spider monkey...if the spider monkey's vagina were located on Princess Eugenie's forehead.
Now back to the royal couple.
I've never seen a future king and queen get married before, so I was pretty weirded out when they didn't kiss in the church. Talk about disappointing! My ideal scenario would have had them making out against a wall while camera-men slowly circled Queen Elizabeth; capturing the reaction from every possible angle.

Even the back of her head is disgusted!
The kiss on the balcony was real nice, I will give them that...but when I tune into an $80 million dollar wedding, I expect fireworks! When Harry and I get hitched, we'll be consumating our marriage in the Queen's own bed. Probably with her still in it.

No Ovaries, No Chance

2011-04-27T12:07:00.000+10:00

You might remember the time I spoke about the movie Titanic 2, and how excited I was to watch it.
Well, a couple of days ago, my dream came true. And by 'dream', I of course mean 'nightmare'. I like shitty movies as much as the next girl (probably more, at least if my penchant for Elizabethtown and Superbad are any indication), but Titanic 2? There are no words. Except for the ones I am about to type:

The film opens with some random in a wetsuit surfing waves off what appears to be the coast of Antarctica. Of course it does. What makes the scene even more believable is that he is (literally) completely alone - no boat, no jetski, no surfing buddy - so when the nearest icecap collapses into the water causing a 100ft CGI tidal wave, he is swept away without even the slightest chance of a rescue.
...
Cut to modern day Los Angeles, where we meet our main characters:
Bitchy Hostess
Judging by her uniform, this chick has a job aboard the Titanic 2. Her first point of order while boarding the ship is to look around and declare she'd rather "drown than have to deal with giving any of these people CPR". That's the spirit! And exactly the kind of attitude you want from someone PAID to be responsible for upwards of 500 peoples lives.
Bitchy Friend Of Bitchy Hostess
Pretty much the same, only you know she's not as important as the main Bitchy Hostess because she doesn't get a phone call from her father, warning her that the Titanic 2 is 'barely seaworthy'. My guess is that she's just there to up the body count.
Blonde Asshole
I'm not sure exactly what role this guy is supposed to be playing, but he's apparently famous - as indicated by a pair of aviator sunglasses and the swarms of bikini-clad women around him. He and the Bitchy Hostess also make eyes at each other and I decide that if those two don't end up fucking in the last minutes before the T2 is forcibly capsized by a tidal wave from Antarctica, I'm going to headbutt my own TV screen.
Titanic 2
The boat in question. Oh yes that's right: this isn't an actual sequel to the first and wildly successful Titanic film. It's just the name of the boat. Shit, you know this is going to be quality television.
The movie splits itself between two settings: one being the boat, the other being an icy and undisclosed location. Antarctica? Probably. So while Bitchy and Bitchier are busy flirting on the poop deck, a bunch of snow nerds are standing around on an icecap talking about how the next piece that falls into the ocean could be the size of Rhode Island. Then they board a helicopter and make a bunch of phonecalls to the captain and crew of T2, warning them to "stay away from the icebergs".
...
No shit! Where'd these guys go to school, Harvard? I would never have though to avoid the icebergs! Give these guys a medal!
Then the snow-nerds start talking about contacting the Navy, and I tune out. Mum was cooking something that smelled delicious, and I went to investigate what it was. Plus any mention of the word 'Navy' kind of makes me want to shove walnuts into my own eyes.
When I returned, the T2 had ceased movement as 2 of its 5 engines had blown out. Surprise surprise. We also learn there is a tsunami headed towards the ship at an estimated 800 miles per hour. And did I mention that the tsunami has icebergs in it? At this point I half-expected a spaceship full of giraffes to materialise and start probing the remaining passengers. I hear one crew member mutter the phrase 'Looks like history is repeating itself' and think I am going crazy. History repeating itself? Oh, yes. Because if there's one thing I remember about the original Titanic disaster, it's the ship being hit by a tidal wave full of floating icebergs.
Then I looked at the program synopsis and saw that there was still over an hour left to go.
Uhhh!
I can say with 80% honesty that this is the closest I have ever come to ending my own life. An hour? Watching a documentary on midshipmen in the Australian Navy would probably be less painful. Nevertheless, I decided to press on, only in the hopes that something funny enough to blog about would happen. Or that Blonde and Blonder would have sex in a shower somewhere. Hey, what can I say? I'm a lonely woman. This was the next piece of dialogue I heard:

"You better let me into those Goddamn elevators!"

"I'm sorry sir - women only."

Umm, heck yes. 16 and Pregnant kind of freaks the shit out of me, but it's movies like this which make me realise just how thankful I am to have a vagina. As far as I'm concerned - after things like Titanic and Poseidon - you'd have to be pretty stupid to get on a cruiseship anyway, but they should have signs on the lifeboats that you see as soon as you board:

NO OVARIES?

NO CHANCE!

Next time I looked up, Bitchy Hostess's Bitchy Friend had been stabbed in the chest with something that looked like a rubber spatula. Baking cakes has never been so fun! She, Hostess and Hollywood Hottie are somehow trapped in an elevator as the ship sinks around them. The Hostess gets on the phone to her Dad (who turns out to be one of the snow-nerds), and informs him of their predicament. His response?

"Honey...stay away from the lifeboats!"

Right. Uhh, yeah, okay. I decided the Dad (respected snow-nerd though he is) must be almost completely, how do you say it? Fucking retarded. Stay away from the lifeboats? How is that an appropriate response to "I'm trapped in the elevator of a sinking ship with some hot blonde guy and my annoying friend who's been stabbed in the chest with a kitchen utensil"? That's like me calling my Dad to tell him my car has broken down and him warning me not to ride any bikes home.

So I gave up. When the family on TV shows a greater level of stupidity than my own family, I know there's pretty much no hope left. I'm not entirely sure what happened at the end. I think The Bitchy Friend died from spatula-related complications.

The Morning After...

2011-04-22T16:08:00.000+10:00

Holy hangover, Batman!

There were two things I was supposed to blog about today, and I've forgotten both of them. I guess that's what happens when you and your mates decide to ring in Good Friday with Jim Beam and double blacks. Nothing celebrates the death and resurrection of Jesus like cheap alcohol and my shitty dance moves.

So here's what happened yesterday: first off, I had work from 9:15 til 8:30. Or as I like to say when I'm tired and looking for sympathy, I had work from 9 til 9. That was fun, but the real madness began after, when Alex and I walked up to The Great Northern for a drink (or six) with Richie and his mate Simon.
Sidenote: Yes, Simon, I'm talking to you! You refused to believe I actually had a blog and here you are making an appearance on it. Now that's what I call...is there a word for that? I was going to say irony but that doesn't really work. Anyway. Yeah.
So we're at The Great Northern. You know how sometimes when you go out, you just aren't feeling it? Like, you're just not in the mood? You're tired, you're grumpy, you're out of money, and while everyone else wants to go dancing, all you wanna do is find a cab so you can get home and curl up in bed with a grilled cheese sandwich?
This was not one of those nights.
I was feeling it.
I was in the mood.
I'd just worked what pretty much amounts to a 12-hour shift without alot of sleep the night before, so from a normal person's perspective I probably should have been jonesing for the whole bed + grilled cheese scenario, but no. Nothing good ever came from going to bed with a cheese sandwich, I say. Certainly not when the alternative is drinks with Alex, Richie and Simon. I knew straight off the bat it was gonna be a fun night when Richie struck up a conversation comparing Harry Potter characters to that dude I used to hang out with. Nothing spells "night to remember!" like your bestie and her boyfriend revealing that they refer to your ex as 'Voldemort' when you aren't around. Does that make me Peter Pettigrew? I don't even care!
Here's what else we talked about at the pub:

The army
Zumba
People we went to high school with
The idea of shoving a carrot up someone's ass

Yet another reason I'm glad not to be a vegetable.

One of the things I enjoy most about going out is actually the morning after. I'm guessing that's not the case for most people, but I don't care. I love it. It's always such a surprise! I like to look in my wallet first, because I'll always come home with either six times more money than I started with, or nothing but two train tickets and a Gloria Jeans customer card. How does that happen? Then there's that moment when you see yourself in the mirror for the first time and have to figure out exactly how and when you ended up wearing whatever you're wearing. This is one of my favourite post-drinking games to play, despite the fact that 9 times out of 10 I will lose. I once woke up wearing soccer shorts, stockings and a stripey cardigan tied into a crop-top. If I ever figure that one out, I'll let you know.

In other news, I would like to report that my Mother is trying to kill me:

I think that while most people know I'm allergic to nuts, a lot don't really get the extent of how allergic. To combat this, I have drawn up a simple diagram:

So, you know. It's pretty bad. Despite this, my parents never made our household nut-free. In fact, I think we actually have more nuts in our pantry than the average Australian family. Trying to make breakfast is like a fucking battlefield for me. This is one of the reasons I survive mostly on caffeine and lollypops.
I love that there are schools - entire schools - which ban peanut butter because of one kid, yet my own Mother leaves a bowl of Snickers bars on the kitchen bench. I'm going to propose a new house rule until I move out: No Leaving Death-Laden Chocolate Bars Anywhere That Jacki Can Reach Them.
Please.
Most of the time it's coffee and sugar, yes, but I am the kind of girl who occasionally gets hungry at 3 in the morning, will wander downstairs without bothering to switch on the light, and eat the first thing I can find in the dark. For this 'first thing' to be a Snickers bar would not be pleasant. Although having to clean up my corpse in the morning does seem like the ultimate payback for having nuts in the kitchen.
Suck it, Mum! Ps I'd like to be buried in a giant disco ball! You know, if that's at all possible.
...
Have you ever thought about what you want done with your dead body? Morbid! I'm going to donate my organs of course, although I'm not sure how good they'll be. Here is a photo of my liver:

I don't know if I like the idea of being buried. The disco ball thing might be cool, but what I really want my parents to do is have me stuffed and mounted so they can keep me in their bedroom. Preferably in this pose:

Jacki Trew, they will say. She died like she lived: an idiot with 2 thumbs up.

I Have The Title

2011-04-22T15:35:00.000+10:00

My Mum is under the impression that when I move out, I will be leaving my bed behind.
Uh huh.
I don't mean to be crass, but what the fuck? I don't fucking think so! This is her reasoning:

Mum: I need a bed in that room. I'm going to sell the house at some point and if there's no bed, it'll look incomplete. And then no one will want to live here!

Okay Mum. First of all, you are a crazy person. Have you seen my room? Bed or no bed, it's a shitstorm of insanity. If you want a chance in hell of selling the house, you can't let people into my room fullstop. It's crazy. It's me. I know some of you haven't seen it, but to give you a bit of an idea...I have a disco ball, a mannequin wearing a cancan dress, starfish doorhandles and the word fuck painted on my ceiling. Sorry, Mum and Dad. This is what happens when you let an 11-year-old decorate her own room.

So anyway.
You know what show I'm loving at the moment? Home and Away. I've been watching it since I was about 9 or 10, so I know most of the storylines. Some of which - to put it mildly - are crazy as fuck. Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much. My favourite plotline at the moment is the whole Nicole/Marilyn/baby thing. Is anyone else uncool enough to watch Home and Away? Let me break it down:
Nicole is a pregnant 1st year uni student who is giving her baby to Marilyn, the defacto wife of her best friends dad, who she once tried to hook up with. Oh, also, the baby's biological father is a dead serial killer who once tricked Nicole into thinking she had HIV.
Holy shit! What the hell are they smoking in the H+A writers room? And can I have some? The other thing I love is that Nicole went from peeing on a pregnancy test to practically crowning within about 6 weeks. Apparently Summer Bay is set in another dimension, which is unfortunate because I was actually planning to move there following the predicted worldwide success of my book.

Speaking of my book, here is an update:
Writing a book is fucking hard, you guys. Especially when you're writing it about your own life. There's so much stuff to go through! And edit! That's probably the hardest part, because I want the book to be funny. And while I think pretty much every event in my life is hilarious, others disagree and I am an idiot. Plus I keep remembering stuff to include at the most inconvenient moments when there's no way I can write them down. Like in the shower. Or in bed.
I often wake up at 2 or 3 in the morning with something in my head and rush to scribble it down...only because I never seem to have paper, I wind up writing it on myself. And because it's 2 or 3 in the morning, whatever I write doesn't really make much sense. I woke up on Wednesday morning with Mrs Wilson year 8 camp portaloo screaming on my leg. For the record that actually has a great story behind it, but I still looked a little insane.
Anyway.
I have a few days off over Easter so I'm planning on spending at least one of them doing some hardcore writing. Or, as hardcore as it can get when you're writing about portaloos and comparing the nipple size of all the men you've ever seen shirtless.
Spoiler Alert!
One thing I have made progress on is the title. I have the title. I'm going to keep it secret for now, mostly because I'm a paranoid freak who's afraid someone less lazy than me will steal my identity and publish my book before I even get off the couch, and also because having a secret book title makes me feel like a big important author.
Dont worry, I know I'm delusional. And I'm pretty okay with it.
One of the signs that tells me I have no idea of how to act like a legitimate author is that I wrote my acknowledgements before I wrote the book. Normal authors don't do that, right? I'm guessing they don't have their first draft written on a bunch of stapled post-its either, but I can't help that I'm too poor to afford a laptop that actually works. Plus since when do I do things the same way as everyone else?

Bluefit

2011-04-20T11:47:00.000+10:00

So remember how I said I'd joined the gym?
Let's talk about that.

For someone who lives on bubblegum and coffee and considers the 15 minute walk to and from work 'enough exercise for the day', I am seriously surprised by my own enthusiasm when it comes to working out. And not just because I can't think of any place which presents me with more opportunities to make inappropriate vagina jokes than the gym. That's mostly it, but there's also something truly exhilarating about realising you can run on a treadmill for an extended period of time without killing yourself. Plus, the personal trainers are all pretty good-looking, which never hurts. Unless they're the ones taking the cycle class at 6:30 on Friday nights.
THAT one hurt.
Here's what amuses me about the gym:
1) I am in it. Also,
2) They have these huge posters everywhere with Bluefit written on them. That's the name of the gym. Bluefit. Things like:

I don't understand this form of advertising, nor the reasoning behind it. I AM ALREADY IN YOUR GYM. I'm in it! I joined! You got me! What are you doing with the giant Bluefit posters? Are these supposed to be motivating me? Fine. That's all well and good, but as far as I'm concerned there's a time and place for motivational posters. And during the minor heart attack I experience after a 60-minute cycle class isn't it! I'm thinking about printing up my own, more suitable motivational poster for the womens locker room:

Perhaps I should start working out naked.

Now, what is something as ridiculous as the idea of me working out naked?
Zumba.
You know they have Zumba classes at my gym, right? Crop tops, fast-paced music, and dancing. I think that's the perfect combination for someone so uncoordinated they can barely walk in a straight line when sober. So of course Alex and I went along last Monday night. And oh, what a night it was.
Zumba was fun, and enjoyable, and hilarious. And I can say with complete honesty that I have never felt more physically inept in my lifetime. Perhaps that term in Year 10 when I attempted beach volleyball as an elective sport. But apart from that, no. I don't know what it is about me, I just know there is no time I should attempt dancing unless tequila is involved. I'm too gawky. Yes, that's a word.

Gawky: –adjective, gawk·i·er, gawk·i·est.

awkward; ungainly; clumsy.

I'm a gawk. Not to be confused with the term 'dork', although I'm undoubtably one of those too. I think it's my arms. They seem disproportionate to the rest of my body. Like an ape. Or a chimpanzee wearing overalls, only less coordinated. It doesn't help that Alex (who actually danced in highschool) was a total natural. Here's her first Zumba class:

And here's mine:

I'm not too worried though. For what I lack in dancing skills, I totally make up for with a list of numerous and seemingly random talents, such as the ability to ride a bike and eat and icecream at the same time. Also, I have a blog. Once again, line up gentlemen.

I Jizzed My Pants Over A Segway. Line Up, Gentlemen.

2011-04-20T11:24:00.001+10:00

Now, back to television. Are you the kind of crazy person who has a tendency to identify with a certain character in every movie or TV show they watch? Probably not. But I am, and this is my blog, so shut up and listen.
You know The Simpsons? I always thought of myself as a tasteful blend between Milhouse and Groundskeeper Willie. Innocent and lovable with just a hint of mind-blowing insanity.

Last Sunday evening I saw an episode I'd never seen before, and realised just how wrong I was.

Principle Skinner: You destroyed the car I rent from Mother!
Bart: You rent a car from your Mother
Principle Skinner: Rent or own...only thirty five more payments and it's halfway mine!

Holy shit, you guys.
I'm Principle Skinner.
I gotta explain this one: When I was around 19 and on the verge of finally getting my license, I decided I wanted a car. The only problem was, I had no money. Well, okay, that's not entirely true. I just didn't have enough money for a car. I can't explain this. I suspect it might have had something to do with my brief but extreme foray into the world of internet shopping. Anyway, luckily for me, I have the kind of parents who are awesome enough to buy me a car, so long as I promised to pay them back in equal monthly installments. Yes, my parents are amazing. It's truly unfortunat that they gave birth to such an idiot.
See, I was left in charge of determining the value of these 'monthly installments'. And since there are few things I enjoy more than having a laugh at my parents' expense, I thought it would be funny to pay back the total cost of my car...about $20 at a time.
MISTAKE.
In hindsight, there were a few warning signs that this idea would come back to bite me in the ass. Here was the first one:

1) My parents agreed straight away.

And as if that wasn't enough of a red light, there was also this:

2) As they agreed, they were in hysterics.

Turns out, I was so busy congratulating myself on my own hilarity, I failed to realise this 'clever' idea of mine meant I would be paying my parents back for a period of approximately eight thousand years.
Did you hear that?
Paying my parents back for a period of approximately eight thousand years.
Once again.
Parents.
Debt.
Eight thousand years.
...
Fuck!
Sometimes I really resent my own ridiculousness.

While we're on the topic of how ridiculous I am:
I have never wanted to ride a segway more in my life than I do right now.
Outstanding.
They say segways are designed to be ridden by even the most uncoordinated of humans, and that it's pretty much impossible to accidentally fall off one.
I believe I am the exception to this rule. I don't care if a chimpanzee in overalls can do it. I'm the girl who almost fell down a flight of stairs with a cardboard box on her head in high school; if a chimpanzee is able to get itself into a pair of overalls, it's probably smarter than me anyway.
Still.
One of the reasons I love living and working in Lane Cove is that it's a suburb chock-full of crazy characters, one of whom happens to ride a segway. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. I had to put that in capitals because I knew you'd think I was. I don't blame you. The first time I witnessed him whizzing past out doors, well...

Then...

And finally...

Oh yes. Just in case it wasn't obvious enough that I'm probably the coolest person you know; I jizzed my pants over a segway.
Line up, gentlemen.

Studio 69

2011-04-20T10:52:00.000+10:00

Another day, another blogger.
Get it?

So here's my latest idea: you know how (at least, in Hollywood movies and Nicole Richie novels) they have those fancy hospitals out in the desert for people with, um, substance abuse issues? Rehab? They need to invent one for people addicted to TV shows. I'm having serious My Kitchen Rules withdrawals. What? Yes, I am a crazy person. That doesn't make My Kitchen Rules any less incredible. Did you guys see the finale? Did you SEE it? I'm guessing no. I never know how long I should make my rants about MKR because I'm not entirely sure if I was the only one watching it or not, but I will say this: that was the greatest two hours of television I have witnessed in the past 6 months. INCLUDING the double episode of Real Housewives I caught on Arena last weekend.

I think this post is mostly going to be about television.

I saw a Channel 7 news update the other day. Well, I didn't so much see it as I listened to it in the background while putting my makeup on. Usually I have little to no interest in shows like Today Tonight, mostly because they're more 'human interest pieces' than actual news, and also because for me, Matthew White lost all credibility after appearing on Dancing With The Stars. I don't care if the trophy is a giant glass and perspex disco ball, DWTS is for knobs. Or to be more specific, women who are knobs and men who have no knobs.
Wow. I am an idiot.
Anyway, back to what I was saying before: Today Tonight was on in the background and I happened to hear the back end of a report about a runaway bull wreaking havoc at an Easter Show parade this week.
Oh. My goodness. Where to begin?
I think my favourite thing about ths story is the phrase 'runaway bull'. Is there a funnier or more attention-grabbing combination of words in the English language than that?
I say there isn't.
And about the Easter Show: has there even been a parade involving bulls where something didn't go wrong? When are people going to learn? When you put farm animals, fairy floss and upwards of 3000 Aussies in one place, you just know at some point the shit is gonna hit the fan. This is exactly why I haven't gone to the Easter Show since I was 16: if anyone's unlucky enough to get in the way of a crazed bull this holiday season, it's me. Plus it's like 40 bucks just to get in, and (if you don't count the money I've saved for the new apartment), I'm two steps away from living in a cardboard box.

Speaking of the new apartment, I've just made an executive decision that when Alex and I move out, our home should have a name. Alex, are you reading this? Our house is having a name. I made an executive decision. It's happening. And by that I of course mean 'we don't really have to name the house, I'm just the kind of idiot who thinks it would not only be hilarious, but also a great way to confuse our new neighbours. Please don't stop being my best friend'.
Anyway, here is a list I made of possible monikers:

Kitchen HQ
Studio 69
You Wish You Lived Here

So the last one is kind of long. And unless you're as obsessed with My Kitchen Rules as I am, you probably won't understand Kitchen HQ. Personally, I like Studio 69. 69? I will pay you five dollars if you don't laugh at that.

A Royal Mess

2011-04-13T09:54:00.000+10:00

Nothing disgusts me more than the general public's reaction to this whole Royal Wedding business. Well, alright, that's probably a lie. There are things that disgust me more - the smell of Pad Thai, for one thing. Sheep. John Howard's eyebrows. My own self-assurance when it comes to the idea that people are actually reading this blog. And diarrhea. If there is anyone out there who doesn't find diarrhea at least slightly disgusting, please, let yourself be known so I can track you down, kick you in the balls, and force-feed you laxatives until you change your mind.
Much appreciated.
But back to the topic at hand.
I'm sure Kate and William (yes, we are on a first name basis) are lovely. Perfectly lovely in fact, and I'm not just saying that because I would gladly show William's younger brother a good time any day of the week despite the whole Nazi uniform prank thing and him having red hair. Sure that's part of it, but come on. People are obsessed with this wedding. And not just that - people are obsessed with being invited to the wedding. Really, 60-something-year-old lady who lives in my neighbourhood and sometimes makes conversation with me on the street? Sorry, dude. I don't care how many times you iron your 'special-occasion slacks', you're not getting an invite.
Surprisingly, my parents aren't getting too excited about the whole thing. And when I say 'surprisingly', I'm talking about my Mum. The only way a wedding is gonna get my Dad out of his chair is if someone asks him to pay for it. Mum, on the other hand, is the kind of lady who orders collectable Michael Jackson dinner plates from the back page of the TV Guide. I asked her what she thought of the wedding and here's what I got:

Mum: It's true, I don't care that much. When Charles and Diana got married I was glued to the television. GLUED! Do you remember?
Me: Ma, I wasn't even born ye-
Mum: Oooh, and then again when she died, remember that?
Me: Kind of, but I was only like five, and-
Mum: But yeah, this time, not so much.
Me: Right.
Mum: Yeah.
Me: Right.
Mum: Yeah.
(Pause)
Mum: I'm getting a souvenir out of the TV Guide though. For sure.

I didn't have time to laugh at that, because Grey's Anatomy had started, and it was the episode where a school bus crashes and some dude gets a pencil jammed all the way into his eye. Add that to the list of things that disgust me - somewhere between 'corned beef' and 'the smell of vacuum cleaners'.

Dental Dam - Mouth Or Vagina?

2011-04-13T09:43:00.000+10:00

"Boner" is one of the funniest words in the English language.

There are a few things in this world I simply can't see or hear without laughing. No matter how many times I see/hear them. There's one in particular (which actually only happened the other night) that's so good I can't even talk about it here. I'm saving it for the book. But I will give you a teaser and say it involves the words I've punched him in the face three times. Intruiged? I would be.
Anyway.
While we're on the subject of things that happened the other night...I don't know if you guys have heard about this, but I recently joined the gym. I know, it's weird. The gym is for healthy people, right? I honestly can't believe they gave me a membership. But they did, and on Sunday afternoon, Alex and I had ourselves a little workout. Wait, little? No. We sweated for like two hours! At least, that's what I'm telling people in order to justify the fact that we went to the pub afterwards.

[Insert Sheepish Smile Here]

No, you know what? I don't even care. I doubt champagne even has that many calories. Plus it's not our fault that 'one innocent gin and tonic' turned into 'five hours and three bottles with a group of guys we happened to meet'.
The best part about these guys is that the whole five hour (not kidding) interaction started with a conversation about a plastic poncho. If that's not a solid basis for a life-long friendship, I don't know what is. I might be lying about the life-long friendship, but they were alot of a fun. You know those times where you meet someone and feel like you can say whatever you want to them straight away? Within 20 minutes of them sitting down, we were in the midst of a heated debate about dental dams. I am not even joking. I woke up on Monday morning and the search history on my iPhone read: Dental Dam - Mouth or Vagina?

Sigh.
I found my people.
This whole 'dental dam' thing was probably my favourite part of the evening for two reasons:
1) We were kind of getting to the stage where grabbing the bartender and asking him if he knew anything about dental dams (and whether they were intended for mouth or vagina) seemed totally normal. I don't know what kind of training bartenders go through these days, but this guy practically gave us a 30-minute lecture on dental dams, the origin of the dental dam, uses of the dental dam, why it's called a dental dam...I think he may have actually invented the dental dam. At the very least, you just KNOW he has like, 45 of them stuffed in his bedside table. And
2) Using our phones to Google 'dental dam' led to a conversation about Google, which led to a conversation about the internet, which led to this:

Alex: By the way, you guys should totally read Jacki's blog.

Because nothing says 'Great Girlfriend Potential' like 'Not Only Do I Drink Champagne After I've Gone To The Gym, I Also Can't Stop Narrating My Own Life Via The Internet'.

Avoid Nachos!

2011-04-06T19:01:00.000+10:00

I got home late from work last night, but I also knew I didn't have to go in this morning, so I did what any normal person does at 9:30 on a Tuesday - drank four cups of coffee, put Ellen on the TV, and did a little work on the book. I find nothing is more conducive to good writing than day-time talk shows and mass amounts of caffeine; I'm convinced this is how Shakespeare came up with Hamlet.

Anyway.
What to blog about?

I often get requests from friends or family to blog about something specific. And by 'often' what I really mean is 'last night for the first time in my life'. Richie asked me to write about a particular nachos restaurant he and Alex recently ate at; I'm supposed to tell you how shit it is. Well, it's shit! Twenty bucks, and the nachos don't even taste that good. And those guys were drunk. If something doesn't taste good when you're drunk, you know you're either accidentally eating the napkin it came in, or Jacki Trew must have cooked it. The only problem is, I've totally forgotten the actual name of this nachos restaurant. Maybe it wasn't even a restaurant. It could have been a nachos stand. Or perhaps Alex and Richie purchased their nachos from a homeless person. All I'm saying is, if you live in Sydney, avoid nachos.
And homeless people.

Sexmum!

2011-04-02T18:44:00.000+11:00

I just realised I've been completely misusing the word erroneous.
Dammit! This is worse than the time I forgot to thank George Clooney in my Oscar acceptance speech. That never actually happened, but you can imagine how stupid you'd feel, right?

I have really got to give reading the dictionary another try.

In other news, I have decided to act like a giant knob who assumes people actually read her blog, and sign up for AdSense. That's this program that puts commercials on your website so you can make money off it. I think. Maybe. Like, do you only get paid if people actually click on the commercials and read them? And who even runs this company? Suddenly, giving them my home address and phone number doesn't seem like such a smart idea.
Ahh, well.
So after that, I was mucking around on the Blogger dashboard and found some interesting statistics. Check out some of the things people have Googled to find my blog:

1. Gay Easter Bunny
I have no idea. I think it might have something to do with the picture I posted here, but I can't for the life of me figure out why anyone in their right mind would search the internet for an article on the Easter Bunny's sexual orientation. I mean, I'd probably do it, but I am clearly not in my right mind. And I don't even talk about whether or not the Easter Bunny is gay in that post - just whether or not he/she is a dude.
2. Sexmum
Whoa! Talk about two topics you never want to hear in the same sentence. I love how this person hasn't even bothered to separate the two words, either. Like they were in such a rush to find a website full of sexy mothers that they didn't have time to hit the spacebar. Or perhaps 'Sexmum' is some pervy teenage boys idea of the latest superhero. She does the laundry, goes grocery shopping, picks the kids up from school and still has time to pleasure her husband. And on Friday nights she moonlights as a stripper at Bada Bing. Don't ask me why I know the name of an actual strip club in Kings Cross, just go with it. Sexmum!

3. How To Make A Homemade G-String
Well, anonymous internet searcher, you've come to the right place! I don't know whether it's hilarious or depressing, but this is something I can actually give advice on. It was a while ago so most of you probably don't know about it, but as a primary schooler I was involved in an accident with a bus stop, a dumpster, a metal hook and a really old pair of pants. I don't wanna rehash the whole thing. You can read about it here. And let's just say Sexmum doesn't hold a candle to 9-year-old me.

Anyway. This post is pretty boring, but it's been a pretty slow day. My cat even decided to take a bath:

2011-04-02T13:14:00.000+11:00

I woke up feeling a bit crook this morning so I'm home from work. Lame. I know the 'lame' comment sounds weird and a bunch of you probably want to kick my teeth out for complaining about having a day off (yes, Mother, I'm talking to you), but here's the thing:
Having a sick day is not the same as having a day off. Right? Yes. You know it's true because it's in bold. On my day off, I can:

Shop
Go to the movies
Drive to the beach
Have coffee with a mate
Dance up a storm in my living room
Dance up a storm in someone else's living room
Dance up a storm in my front yard
Dance up a storm in someone else's front yard

I do what I want is basically what I'm trying to say. But on a sick day? On a sick day, I can:

Be sick

And blog, I guess, but I'm not even doing it very well. I'm saving all my good material for the book. That is a lie, I just suck at blogging today. I got nothing. Here is the best photo I have seen in my life:

Some client bought their kid into work the other day, and he asked me what my favourite animal was. I really don't have a favourite so I just said the first animal that came to mind - giraffe. And damn, I'm so glad that I did. The best part about this picture is that I got it off a website which is basically some guy ranting about how the theory of evolution is a crock of shit and anyone who looks at a giraffe and says 'evolution did that!' is worth less than a bag of sour dicks. He didn't actually use those words, but I've always wanted people to be able to find my blog by Googling 'bag of sour dicks', and now they can. Maybe this day isn't so bad after all.

Tales Of A Teenage Blogger: Update

2011-03-30T11:00:00.000+11:00

So remember when I said I was going to try writing a book?
Well, that's happening.
It's kind of slow-going at the moment. Mainly because I've got 21 years of ridiculousness to sift through, and also because I don't have a computer, so everythings written on post-its and pieces of scrap paper. Oh, yes. This is what it looks like when Jacki Trew decides to become an author:

I'm nothing if not professional.
Anyway, here's the thing: If you don't want to be in the book, I suggest you let me know now. I don't mean to get all Taylor Swift on everyone's ass, but if I know you and have hung out with you for more than five minutes at some point over the last 21 years, chances are you will make an appearance in the book. If we went to school together, you'll be in the book. If we've broken the law together, you'll be in the book. If you've ever worked with me, gone on holidays with me, given birth to me or been drunk with me, you will be in the book. If you've made me laugh, you will be in the book. And if you've totally fucked me over, you will be in the book.
That last one sounds odd I know, but trust me. If nothing else, I've been blessed with the ability to turn pretty much any situation into an amusing anecdote. Even heartbreak. Actually with heartbreak it's not that hard - you just make self-deprecating jokes and keep repeating the phrase "maybe one day his balls will grow back".

On a related note, part of writing a book includes coming up with a good title. So here's what I've got so far:

Caffeine And Cynicism (which sounds oddly familiar)
Book By Popular Demand (get it? do you get it?)
Maybe One Day His Balls Will Grow Back

I'm only kidding about the last one.
Or am I?

Double Death

2011-03-30T10:52:00.000+11:00

Speaking of food...

I was in the midst of my daily Yahoo perusal yesterday, when I stumbled onto this little article. Good Lord that is one nasty-looking hamburger. And when I say 'nasty', I mean it in every sense of the word. That burger looks like it has a nasty personality. I bet that burger was a bully in high school. It probably makes racist jokes, too. About dead babies. Racist dead baby jokes. It never calls it's mother, even on Christmas or her birthday. And last Halloween, the burger dressed up as Hitler and egged every house in the neighbourhood.

In all seriousness though, what the hell is going on over at KFC headquarters? Colonel Sanders, I'm talking to you. Get it together, dude! Haven't you heard that fast food high in saturated fats can cause health problems like diabetes? This hamburger IS diabetes. I only looked at a photo of it on the internet...I have diabetes now. That's a slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean. All I'm saying is I would think twice before ordering this off the menu, because if and when you do, you're gonna have to deal with a myriad of health problems, the very least of which will be a case of explosive diarrhea.
My favourite thing about the article is the author and his use of the word "horrifying".
"Two-thirds of men and more than half of women are overweight. We don't need more of these sorts of things. It's horrifying," Dr Stanton told News Ltd.

Like the burger has committed homocide. Or has a lead role in a new horror film:
I Know What You Ate Last Summer - starring Tom Cruise and Anne Hathaway. And introducing The Double Downer as 'Creepy Serial Killer In Hooded Cloak'.
Oh. Did I not mention that's what KFC is calling this monstrosity? The 'Double Downer'. If there is a more perfect euphamism for death than that, it's not one I know about.
...
And it doesn't even look good in the promotional picture! I know it's ridiculous that I'm still talking about this, and I don't care. I generally think all fast food is repulsive, but at least McDonalds etc make an effort to trick us into submission with photoshop and good lighting. I know it's not, but if you believe the commercial, a salad sandwich from Maccas actually looks like a salad sandwich. The first thing I thought when I saw the Double Downer was "Did somebody already eat that?". Well, no, okay, that was my second thought. My first was actually "Aaaaand...diabetes."

A Train, Champagne And Me. Setting Myself On Fire.

2011-03-30T10:34:00.000+11:00

Let's get right to it, because I haven't had time to blog since Sunday, and it's been an eventful two days.
Monday...
LADY GAGA'S BIRTHDAY. I, umm...honestly, there is no way to sum up my excitement in just one sentence. On Monday morning, the inside of my head looked like this:

Remember back when I used to celebrate Wentworth Miller's birthday every year? Lady GaGa is the new Wentworth Miller. Only I don't want to bang her, I just think it'd be cool if we hung out and watched Grey's Anatomy every once in a while. GaGa seems like a McSteamy fan.

The best thing about having to go to work on Lady GaGa's birthday is that I work with two particular people:

One is probably one of the most stubborn, opinionated and well-researched men I have ever met in my life, who (after watching the video for Born This Way) decided The Big G had lost her touch, copied Madonna, and completely forfeited originality.

The Other is my best friend and as goo-goo over GaGa as I am.

...

On your marks, get set, argue. And since all three of us are borderline alcoholics (I kid) who love yelling at each other in public, we decided the best way to celebrate March 28th was at the pub, with two bottles of champagne and a heated debate:

Is Lady GaGa One Of The Most Original, Inspiring And Geniunely Talented Artists Of Our Generation? Or Just Some Dick In A Wig With Prosthetic Shoulder Pads?

We didn't stop yelling for an hour and forty five minutes.
All in good fun of course, but towards the end I think even the dude behind the bar was getting a bit fed up. He didn't actually say anything, but when I went up for the third round, it kind of felt like he was screaming at me with his eyes:

"If you three don't shut up about Lady GaGa, I'm gonna straight up murder everyone in this pub.

...

Kidding! Aha! Ahaha! Seriously though, one more comment and you're all cut off."

So we shut up about Lady GaGa. There was no resolution, but at around 7:30 someone randomly brought up Eminem and our debate was forgotten in the rush to find a high-resolution copy of the new Dr Dre video on Youtube. Never in my life have I been more thankful for my short attention span, or the invention of the iPhone 4.

Tuesday...

I didn't plan to bore you all with another rant about My Kitchen Rules, but I gotta say this one thing:

On last night's episode, the contestants challenge was to cook a meal in "the world's tiniest kitchen", aboard the Ghan (which, for those of you living under a rock, is that famous train which travels from Darwin to Alice Springs).

Anyway.

About seven minutes into the show, I heard this come out of someone's mouth:

"The Ghan really is 5-star luxury, and I want to make some 5-star food."

Ahem.

I respectfully disagree.

Is the Ghan nice? I have no doubt. Is it fancy? I'm sure it is. Is the trip 100% enjoyable? Well, you'd have to ask one of the passengers. But 5-star luxury is a term I reserve for the kind of hotel that has 24-hour room service and Hugh Jackman on staff to give me a full-body massage. As nice as it is (and I'm sure it's VERY nice), this train is not 5-star luxury.

Want to know why?

Because it's a train.

And I get that I probably sound like a bit of a snob right now, so let me assure you that isn't the case: this whole thought process went down as I was watching MKR, in my undies, with a six-dollar bottle of wine.

Snob?

I don't think so.

Regardless, it was a pretty impressive challenge, and I give my respect to the contestants. Wholeheartedly. I can only imagine three possible outcomes should I attempt to cook for twelve people in a train kitchen, and all of them involve me accidentally setting myself on fire. I'm lucky if I can manage a meal for one person in my own kitchen without accidentally setting myself on fire. In fact, I'm like 60% positive that's how I will eventually meet my own demise. My tombstone will read:

Jacki Trew, friend to all.

She loved disco,

and accidentally set herself on fire.

...

Moron.

Party Of One

2011-03-27T09:31:00.001+11:00

Alright, alright, alright. I'm sure you've all been waiting for this.
Let's talk about voting.

Like most of NSW, I got my democracy on yesterday morning. Oh, yeah, that is the cool way to tell people that you voted now. Tell them you got your democracy on. Yeah. You like that? I came up with it. But I'm not greedy, so I'll let you guys use it. Go ahead. You are welcome.
So here's what scares me about democracy: I am an idiot. I know this. If you don't believe me, I suggest you re-read the first paragraph of this post. People like me should not be given a say in the future and well-being of this nation. That being said, I'm pretty sure if I wasn't a semi-broke and completely talentless receptionist, I'd at least be in the running for Prime Minister of the Universe. Yes you read that correctly. My first act as PM would be to abolish parking ticket laws. I would then appoint Wentworth Miller from Prison Break as my sexretary. Vote 1 Jacki Trew!!

To me, voting is like...you know how sometimes you get home after a night out, and you're kind of drunk, and you feel like cooking something? And then the next morning you wake up feeling like shit? You feel like shit and there's an empty bowl on the nightstand, so you know you ate something but you're not sure what it was, only that it was probably comprised of 2 or 3 random ingredients that no meal should EVER be comprised of?
That's kind of like voting.
First off, I've got no idea what I'm doing. I'm totally clueless. Totally clueless and yet at the same time, MORE ENTHUSIASTIC THAN I HAVE EVER BEEN ABOUT ANYTHING IN MY LIFE!
Yeah!
Drunk cooking!
I mean, uh, Democracy!
Do you know how early I woke up yesterday morning? It was almost kind of still dark outside! There's very few things that'll get me out of bed at all, let alone at that time of the day. When our fire alarm went off at 12:30 on Saturday morning, this was my thought process:

What is that? Is that an alarm?
...
Is that the FIRE alarm?
...
Ah, fuck it.

And yet there I was, standing in line to vote when the sun wasn't even warm yet.
Now, I'm not the world's greatest cook, but one thing I can say is that I know my way around a kitchen. Unless, of course, I am drunk. At 2 in the morning, the kitchen is a whole different ballgame, and I am NOT one of the most valuable players. Same with voting. Even though I've done it before, I'm never 100% sure of what I'm supposed to be doing. Do I line up? Where's the line? Do I need ID? Did I bring ID? Where do I put the voting ballot? Where do I sign in? Where am I??
The voting ballot thing is completely true. Last time I voted I was so embarassed about not knowing where to go that I waited until the woman next to me had finished filling out her ballot, and then followed her out of the voting room. The worst part is that she turned out to be one of these douchebags who actually reads the whole ballot before filling it out. I mean come on, lady! I don't have time for you to read about Ivan Milat's sisters party for Gun Control. Just tick a damn box!

I make jokes, but voting (like cooking while under the influence) is a serious matter, and an experience that you probably want to keep to yourself. Just like I don't share my receipe for capsicum-banger pasta sauce, I wouldn't go running around Lane Cove telling everyone who I just voted for. Unless it was the Communist Party, because you just know that's the kind of thing that'll go down well with most people.
I kid.
You might be pleased to hear that I once again decided against voting for the Communist Party. Why would I, when there are so many more hilarious parties to choose from?

The Sex Party
The Fishing Party
The Anti-Parking Meter Party
The 'We Like To Party' Party
The 'Jacki Trew's Blog Is Horrendous' Party
The 'Fuck You, My Blog Is Awesome!' Party

I'm pretty sure only two of those are real. But you get the picture.

Sorry I Swore. Shit!

2011-03-27T09:14:00.000+11:00

Usually if I'm blogging about a celebrity, it's only because
a) They bare a slight resemblance to one of my friends, or
b) I'd like to marry them.
Today, I'll make an exception. Because when I was flipping channels in a Redbull/malibu-and-coke induced high last night, I landed on the E! Channel, and a little program entitled..

50 Most Insane Celebrity Oops

I am in heaven. If there's one thing I love more than collecting pointless and seemingly random facts about the celebrities we all know and love, its the knowledge that I am purposefully killing my own brain cells. This show allowed me to enjoy both at once.

So, 50 Most Insane Celebrity Oops - basically just a 2-hour countdown of the 50 funniest screw ups by famous people that have occured over the past 4 or 5 years. To set the tone, I will tell you number 50: That Time Christian Bale Went Ape Shit At A Light And Sound Guy For Walking In Front Of Him On The Set Of Some Movie. And fair enough. I know he was Batman, but Christian Bale scares the living shit out of me. You might remember when I spoke about my fear of Alec Baldwin climbing through a TV screen and murdering me with an axe? I would rather deal with that on a weekly basis than face Christian Bale. Have you seen this guy?

Wait, shit, no. Wrong photo.

Now that's what I'm talking about.

Alot of the show was about celebrity wardrobe malfunctions. Please. My wardrobe malfunctions every morning on the way to work, and nobody ever put me on a TV show. I know I'm not famous or anything, but still. The only difference between an upskirt of me and one of Britney Spears is that I wear undies and don't have an STD. I know what I'd rather look at!
Alright I'm bored of this. Let's talk about magic.
I was at the pub with Alex and her boyfriend Richie last night when the subject of Harry Potter came up. This didn't surprise me, because when Alex, Richie and I are at the pub together, we will invariably end up having one of four conversations:
1) Harry Potter
2) How awesome our apartment will be
3) Whichever one of Richie's friends he is currently trying to set me up with
4) Vagina
Here's something kind of embarassing I admitted after two drinks: When I was a kid, I TOTALLY believed Harry Potter was real. Like, to the point where I was 10 years old and waiting for my letter from Hogwarts. Was anyone else this deluded as a pre-teen? My letter never came (your loss, Dumbledore!), which I guess just makes me a Muggle. Uhh, I mean, idiot. In hindsight it's probably for the best, because I don't think I would have fared very well at Hogwarts - mainly on account of my name (which is fine for everyday life, but sounds totally boring when you're in a classroom with Draco, Hermione and Luna), but also because I can see myself trying to play a game that involves four balls and flying broomsticks, and I know it doesn't end well.

Now back to the Celebrity Oops. You know what else was on there like, at least three times? Singers falling over on stage. Again, please. I also fall over EVERY MORNING on my way to work. And I STILL haven't been offered my own show on the E! Channel. Admittedly though, I did enjoy this part of the show. Especially the dialogue from Pink falling over on stage:

Pink: No, no, no, no! Oh fuck! That hurt like a motherfucker! Sorry I'm cursing, but you know..

Interesting. Here is some similar dialogue that took place between me and my Mum last night, when we were trying to catch the possum caught in our roof:

Me: Fuck!
Mum: What?
Me: No, nothing. Except holy fuck this is a big fucking possum.
Mum: Jacki...
Me: Yeah sorry I swore. (possum makes a squeaking noise) Shit!!

This only cements my theory that I am exactly like Pink and should quit my job to become an aspiring pop/rock star immediately.

Apartment Watch 2011

2011-03-23T12:00:00.001+11:00

I am currently in the market for a 2-bedroom apartment. So if you have one, or know of anyone else who does, let me know. I'll take anything. I'm not fussy. As long as there's a balcony and a carspace, a nice bathroom, and the kitchen decor matches the Maxwell&Williams utensils that Alex and I have already bought, I'll be happy.
As you might have deduced, I'm pretty excited about the prospect of finally moving out. I think (if you're my boss, ignore this next sentence) I spend more time at work on Domain.com than I do actually working. I'm calling this Apartment Watch '11.
Anyway - like I said a few posts ago - I hope to have relocated by the end of May, so if you'd like one last opportunity to come over and swim in my pool, hang out in my childhood room, steal my WiFi, drink my wine and jump on my parents bed, you'd better do it soon. Alternatively, if you are the person who left a pile of laundry and shit in my room around a month ago, you might want to grow some balls and come pick it up. You know who you are; you used to really love it when I wore my purple novelty eyeglasses in public, remember? Yes, you! Come on dude. I barely have enough room for my own laundry and shit.

The best part about Alex and I and our preparations for the big move is how adult we are being about the whole process. For example, we made sure to secure an iceless wine cooler and bottle of champagne to drink on our first night in the new apartment before we even started house-hunting. Clearly, we have our priorities in order.

2011-03-23T11:54:00.000+11:00

Here is an amusing conversation that look place at my work last weekend:

MJ: There's something different about you today.
Me: What?
MJ: I don't know, it's...I can't find the words.
Me: It's indescribable?
MJ: I can't think of the words to explain it.
Me: Oh, so it's ineffable.
MJ: No, I wouldn't say you're uneffable...
Me: In. Ineffable. It means you can't explain something.
MJ: Yeah right.
Me: I swear, that's a real word! Google that shit.
MJ: You just like saying the word 'effable'.
Me: Well who doesn't?
MJ: I know I do!
Phillip: (to a client) I'm really sorry about them.

Working with people whose social boundaries are seemingly limitless is great. There's nothing I appreciate more than honesty, and nothing that feels better than a co-worker informing you that you could use a little plastic surgery:

MJ: My friend got a nose job, it looks great. Want to see a before and after photo?
Me: Yeah! (Sees photo) Oh, okay, yeah. But I kind of like her 'before' nose.
MJ: Well, you're only seeing it from the side. From the front it was huge.
Me: (Jokingly) Like mine?
MJ: (Without a hint of hesitation) Yeah!
Me: (Again, jokingly) Are you saying I need plastic surgery?
MJ: (Sensing things are about to get awkward but unable to stop himself) Well...it wouldn't hurt.

Ouch.
Luckily, I've gotten used to comments like these and am now able to just laugh them off. I have an enormous sense of humour. I keep it in my nose.

Tales Of A Teenage Blogger. By Jacki Trew.

2011-03-23T11:47:00.001+11:00

Would I look like a total idiot with earmuffs?

I kind of want earmuffs.

In other news, I have decided to try my hand at writing book. Again. If you have known me for a while, you will know that I tried this once before, back when I was around 19 years old and not nearly as hilarious* as I am now.

*Here meaning: foolish, desperate for cash.

Unlike my last attempt, I'm convinced this is what will make me my first million. 100%. Kind of. I mean, a bit. The same way I was convinced it was me who came up with the idea for vending machines that dispense clean underwear. Pretty much, I am just pretending to be an author until my brain finally kicks into adult mode and tells me what I actually want to do with my life. Anyway, give me your thoughts - would you pay upwards of $15.95 for a couple hundred pages with my name on the front cover? Here is a potential mock-up to get you in the mood:

2011-03-23T11:35:00.000+11:00

I was drinking a cup of coffee on my balcony last night when I noticed my neighbour had decided to go swimming in his underwear. I really don't have anything else to say about that. It just seems like the kind of thing I would tell you if we were talking on the phone or whatever.

"I just saw my neighbour going for a swim in his underwear."

It's unfortunate that I live next door to an elderly couple.

I'm Talking About Naked Windsurfing

2011-03-23T11:32:00.000+11:00

I often have dreams about cutting my hair off. I suppose I should call these nightmares. Without my hair, I am not what one might call 'good-looking'. That's not to say I am good-looking now, but with long hair at least I have something to cover the majority of my face.

I also have nightmares about being naked in really inappapropriate situations.
Frequently.
Apart from bed, bathroom and Elle and Mischa's living room, there are very few places I feel comfortable being naked. I'm guessing everyone has had at least one 'I'm Naked At High School' dream, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about naked windsurfing. With Mike Tyson. In Hawaii. If you are a dream expert in any capacity, please email me, because I would love to know what this means.

2011-03-23T11:22:00.000+11:00

Good morning, and welcome to another episode of Jacki Recaps Last Night's Episode Of My Kitchen Rules.

So, the couple from Victoria. I can never actually remember their real names, so I just call them The Serial Killers. Nothing against couples or cooks or people from Victoria in general, but watching these two makes me genuinely fear for my own safety. Especially the dude. Every time he picks up a steak knife, I feel like there's a chance he might climb through the TV and stab me with it. And no, there is no hyperbole in that sentence.
Last night's quick-fire challenge was one of my favourites to date. By the way, is it totally annoying that I keep talking about this show? Suck it. Like I was saying, last night was awesome. The first task was to create a canape in 30 minutes, which sounds easy enough except for the twist which was that the teams weren't allowed to cook together. One person was given 15 minutes to start the dish, and the other got 15 minutes to finish. For the 8 dillionth time since I became addicted, I found myself wishing I was a contestant on this show. I imagine my discussion with the judges might go something like this:

French Judge: Ahh, Jacki.
Me: Sup.
Aussie Judge: What have you got for us today?
Me: Well...that white crispy thing right there, that's toast.
French Judge: I see. And what do you call this?
Me: Oh that? That's Vegemite.

A winning combination. The only person I would rather see compete on My Kitchen Rules than myself, is my Dad:

French Judge: Hello Phil.
Dad: G'day.
Aussie Judge: So Phil, what have you decided to serve as your canape this evening?
Dad: What are you, blind? That's called a beer. Drink up boys.