Back And Better Than Ever

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

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

I can't believe I haven't blogged about this until now, but I recently watched the entire first season of Underbelly.  Judging by the reactions of people I've already announced this to, I am probably the last person in Australia to jump on board with this show.  With the exception of my Mum, who refuses to watch anything on TV except Grey's Anatomy and Relocation: Down Under.
For me, the best part about Underbelly is the cast - an amusing mix of Australian soap opera alumni.  Say what you like about shows like Neighbours and Heartbreak High, they produce some quality actors!  Of course, the other side of the coin is that it's a little hard to be 100% intimidated by infamous drug dealer Tony Mokbel when you usually know him as Doctor Sid from Home and Away.  But I did my best to ignore that.

Speaking of TV, I'm watching this movie right now called The Crazies.  It's, well, interesting.  Apparently it's actually a remake - the original was made in the 1970's or something.  What?  Who knew they even had horror movies like this in the 70's?  No, The Exorcist doesn't count.  Even my Mum - who can't get through Jaws without almost wetting her pants - doesn't think The Exorcist counts as a scary movie.  Saw? She wet herself.
Amityville Horror? Wet herself.
The Ring? Wet herself. 
But Exorcist?  No problem.
I've adapted this into a Horror Film Rating System: if Mum hasn't peed on the couch yet, it's not that scary.

Anyway, The Crazies.  Basically it's about some small town in the middle of nowhere (aren't they always?) that's overcome by a virus which turns everyone into a robot serial killer.  It makes them crazy.  They become The Crazies.  Good to see inventive film titles are as important as ever in Hollywood.  But being that I am probably one traumatic life experience away from becoming a robot serial killer myself, I actually enjoyed the movie.  It's kind of a cross between 28 Days Later and The Signal, with a little Resident Evil thrown in.  Perhaps 28 Evil Signals would have been a more appropriate title.
I should get a job in entertainment.

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

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

Milo, And Lots Of It

I think I've drunk more Milo in the past 2 weeks than I have in my entire life.  I have no idea why this is.  Maybe it's a random craving.  Or maybe (more likely) it has something to do with us having nothing else in the house but avacado dip, wine and mojito mixer.  Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of mojito mixer - but for breakfast?  Even I will admit that's not always appropriate.
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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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.)