Howdy, Planet Earth.
Long time no blog, huh?

Today was a slow one at work. One of those days that are so slow, you end up looking around and seeing shit you'd never notice ordinarily. Like this old lady I saw sitting opposite me at the library on my lunch break, who I swear to God was either asleep, unconcious or dead. Literally. I didn't know whether to tap her on the shoulder or call triple zero. In the end I went with my gut feeling and did nothing. I sincerely hope I don't find her sitting in the same seat tomorrow.
Anyway.
I haven't had time to blog about this yet, but last weekend was probably one of the funniest I have had in a while. The original plan - for an innocent Beverly Hills 90210 marathon at Ellen and Mischa's new apartment - somehow turned into a night of jello shots, card games, midnight runs to Woolworths, disco music and a new favourite activity of mine that I like to call "dancing with Jane du Toit while wearing a camp light on my head and rapping to Amii Stewart".
I'm looking forward to a repeat this Saturday night.
Then on Sunday morning we reconvened (is that a word?) to eat McDonald's and watch Buffy. Or to be more specific, The Episode Of Buffy Guest-Starring A 20-Something-Year-Old Wentworth Miller. Or to be even MORE specific, Jacki Trew Having An Orgasm. Bliss. It was so good I still had a smile on my face the next morning at work.
Speaking of work, I gotta get to it in about 8 hours, so this is all I've got time for. With any luck there won't be as much of a gap between this and my next blog. But just in case, here is something hilarious to tide you over:

Alot Of Talk About Feet

"You're so bloody young, I could still wipe the after-birth off you!"

Umm. Yeah. Phrases one does not expect to hear at work first thing in the morning. Just one of the many perks that come with a profession that's semi-dominated by gay men, I suppose. Another perk? I don't have to worry about getting sore arches from my high heels anymore, since after 3 days of following the Toni&Guy 'no sitting' rule, my feet are officially wrecked. And oh, my gosh.
I have never felt pain like this in my life. Although to be honest, it fluctuates. Daily, I go through four stages of what I like to call 'foot grief'.
Stage One: First Thing. At 7 or 8 in the am, they don't feel too bad. Sure, I have to fight the urge to scream when I first put my shoes on, but as I'm walking to work I get used to it.
Stage Two: Mid Morning. A dull aching sensation begins at around 11. At first I attempt to combat this by only walking with one foot at a time - or pretty much, hopping - but I don't think the clients appreciate this too much, especially if I'm bringing them hot tea or coffee. I usually end up hiding behind the broom cupboard for 5 seconds at a time, leaning against the doors and lifting my feet off the ground to relieve the pressure.
Stage Three: Lunch. Oh how I look forward to these precious 30 minutes. Not only because they give me an opportunity to recharge on Red Bull and jelly beans, but also because I get to enjoy them alone. As much as I love the people I work with, having to take separate lunch breaks means I don't have to be embarassed at all about what I really want to do - which is sneak a large chai latte into Lane Cove Library, curl up on a couch in the reading section and sandwich my feet between two cushions. Oh, but then comes...
Stage Four: Closing. By this time, my feet are on fire. No, it's worse than that. It's like they've been chopped off, sewn back on, and then lit on fire. By a surgeon who doesn't hold a medical degree. At this point, I'm seriously considering lighting some other part of my body on fire, just to distract myself from whats going on below my ankles. I'm literally hobbling from one end of the salon to the other - and making sounds similar to that of a wounded bush pig as I go.

Aaah. If my boss ever lets me go early, I'm half sure it's because she likes me, half wondering if it's only because I'm freaking the fuck out of every client in the place. And to be honest, the latter is probably more likely.

Phillip Trew Vs. Technology

One of the best things about the way my house is designed is that even when I'm sitting in my bedroom with the door closed, I can still hear all the way down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen, where my Dad is having a full-on domestic with our telephone. This may also have something to do with the fact that my Dad speaks about 15 decibels louder than the average person. But still. Whatever it is, I'm thankful for it. Because Phillip Trew Vs. Technology is one battle that never ceases to amuse:

(Phone rings)
Dad: Hello?
(Phone continues to ring)
Dad: What the - ? Hello?
(Pause)
Dad: Hey, Rick! How's it going?
(Pause)
Dad: Hello? Hello?
(Pause)
Dad: Hello? Baaah!
(Dad redials Rick's number. While he is doing this, the phone rings)
Dad: Oh for crying out loud. Hello?!
(Pause)
Dad: Yeah, it's me. Sorry. This phone is a piece of shit.

Oh, yes. I'm sure it was the phone at fault.

Normal Activity

I have alot of weird, time-consuming and entirely useless habits, one of which involves looking up horror movies on Wikipedia and reading about their critical reception. I also enjoy telephoning expensive hotels in the city and enquiring about the price of their honeymoon suites. Today though, I decided to go with the horror movie thing. Here's one critics review of Paranormal Activity:

"It doesn't sound very scary, but Peli (the director) manages to make it terrifying. If you aren't white-knuckling your armrest at least once or twice while watching it, you probably don't have a pulse."

So apparently - according to this person - I am dead. Or at least I don't have a pulse, which I can't imagine being any good for my health. Seriously? The scariest thing about watching Paranormal Activity was that my cat threw up all over my couch while I was doing so. And there is no way anyone who was actually involved in the making of the film can take credit for that. The movie's only redeeming quality is that it was readily available for illegal download off the internet while still playing in cinemas; if that doesn't make for at least one star, then I honestly don't know what does.

For the most part (I mean, with the one exception of my Mum, who is weirdly fond of The Exorcist), my family are not huge fans of the horror genre. Of course when I say 'my family', I don't include myself - mostly because anyone who actually enjoys the Saw movies can't really be considered a human, but also because if you have an older sister who tells you 'you're adopted!' enough times, you kind of start to believe her.
Still.
I consider it part of my mission in life to find and watch a scary movie that actually scares me.
Thus, I have seen alot of shitty horror films. Oh, I've seen all kinds. 3D, Black and White, Direct-To-DVD, Featuring Paris Hilton. You name it, and if it involves a beat-up sorority sister being chained to the front of a jeep and driven around at high speeds, I've probably seen it. It's kind of a morbid obsession. I think part of it is just me making up for lost time, because for the first 9 or 10 years of my life, I was - no exaggeration - the wimpiest kid on the planet. I was literally scared of everything. I was scared of monsters. I was scared of aliens. I was scared of clowns. I was scared a clown was going to kill me. I was scared a clown was going to kill someone else and make me watch. Then one day it was like a switch flicked, and BAM - I became a robot.
Really. Like the Six Million Dollar Man. Only instead of saving the world, I sit around eating toasted sandwiches and watching The Ellen Degeneres Show. By the way, I am in no way trying to talk myself up with this. Not being scared by a scary movie doesn't make me any cooler. Actually, I think it makes me less cool. Who wants to marry a robot? I'll probably die alone.
Then again, maybe not. I'm sure there is a nice clown out there who is perfectly willing to let me watch while he kills other people. Call me!

My Mum and I both had this morning off, so I woke up with the intention of doing some pretty serious female bonding. You know. Knitting, baking, practicing our curtsies, braiding each others hair. Or whatever-the-hell normal girls are doing while I'm busy watching Prison Break and stalking Wentworth Miller via YouTube.
Anyway.
It started well enough - with coffee and painted nails and a viewing of Breakfast at Tiffany's - but eventually our Trew family genes got the better of us, and we wound up talking about drunk people and the hilarious things that they do. My Mum had a great story for me about the head manager of her old work who totally wrote himself off at the last company Christmas party. Apparently he went missing like half-way through the night, and they later found him riding a shopping trolley down some highway at 2 in the morning.
Ha! Okay to be fair, it was funnier when she told it. I don't think my sub-par writing skills can truly do it justice. In any case, it's good to know there are grown men out there who are just as stupid as me.

How I Heard My Mother Swear In Front Of Me For The Very First Time

Oh, man. I literally can't remember the last time I was awake this early. I think possibly the morning of my birth. But, since my cat decided that 6.40 in the morning is an appropriate time to come into my bedroom and attempt a manoeuvre that I can only describe as "milking my face with her claws", I'm up.

So.
Here's a story that is both sad and hilarious:
I recently heard the news that my Year 6 teacher (who I won't mention by name here, just in case he happens to read this and then oh, I don't know, sue me afterwards), was forced to retire because of his age.
Oh, my. Let us just pause to reflect on what a poorly constructed sentence that was. Forgive me Shakespeare, I beg of you.
Anyway, yeah.
This guy was probably one of the best teachers I've had in my lifetime. Which - if you know me and my track-record with teachers - is actually saying alot. He was awesome. It's sad. What makes it hilarious is that I guess he really didn't want to leave or something, since he got another job there...as the school groundskeeper.

Dude! Talk about trading down. This guy was actually the principle at one stage - albiet of a pretty crappy school, but still! - and now he's what? Raking the oval?
The worst part is, all these new kids coming through the school aren't going to know how great he is! Was. Is! They'll have no idea that he was once a legend of the North Shore Crappy Primary School Community. They'll just assume that because he's the groundskeeper, he's a crazy ex-serial killer who has no family and lives under the school.
And I know! Because when I was at school there, the groundskeeper's name was Leo, and we all assumed that he was a crazy ex-serial killer who had no family and lived under the school.
Haha.
Kids can be so cruel.

Speaking of kids and being cruel...before getting up and actually acting like a productive member
of society, I think I have time for one more childhood story.
Ahh, childhood. When I was little, I was allergic to everything. You name it, and if it exists on planet Earth, then I was probably allergic to it. Vegetables, wheat, dairy, most fruits, nuts, household pets, several kinds of grass, Goulburn Valley syrup, toothpaste, water, oxygen...everything. I was like Jake Gyllenhaal in Bubble Boy, only without the bubble. Something my family was pretty alarmingly relaxed about - my Mum thought nothing of letting me make a pine-cone bird feeder out of seeds and peanut butter, despite our doctor's insistence that both things could potentially kill me. But hey, at least the birds were happy!
Still. While my parents may have been careless with my life, I can at least say with confidence that it wasn't on purpose. My sister on the other hand...
Having allergies is always fun, especially when you have an older sister who will stop at nothing in her attempts to end your life. I'm honestly surprised I've survived this long. She was pretty ruthless. But I will have my revenge. I don't know when, where or how, but you can bet it will involve spray paint, marshmallow fluff, a box of ants, and me shaving my sister's head.
Or some combination thereof.
Catherine, you have been warned.
Anyway, this whole allergy rant leads to the story of How I Heard My Mother Swear In Front Of Me For The Very First Time.
Always a crowd-pleaser.
It was the Autumn of 1994. Catherine and I had been invited to our friend Mackie's for a look at his new cubbyhouse. Oh man, remember cubbyhouses? I wanted to LIVE in one. They were awesome, and this one was no exception. It had windows and a slide...awesome. Anyway, in the midst of all this awesomeness, Mackie produced a packet of biscuits from somewhere, and Catherine offered one to me. Keep in mind that at the time, I was only 4. Catherine would have been 6 - definitely old enough to realise that what she was about to feed me would probably cause my head to explode. But in the true Bitter Eldest Sibling spirit, she fed it to me anyway.
Sigh.
The plus side was that it actually tasted pretty good. The minus was that within 60 seconds, my throat had closed up. So I did the only thing I could think of - I ran to Mum. Since our Mum and Mackie's Mum were friends, they had been sitting inside the whole time, drinking tea or baking cakes, or doing whatever-the-hell it is Mums do as their children attempt to murder each other in the backyard. Here's how it went down:

My Mum: Mmm, nice cake.
Mackie's Mum: Totally.
(I run in, mouth wide open and arms flailing wildly)
Me: Arnggghhhhh.
My Mum: Oh FUCK!

And that is the story of How I Heard My Mother Swear In Front Of Me For The Very First Time. Oh, and I guess also the story of How My Sister Tried To Kill Me For The Very First Time (That I Am Aware Of).
It was a busy day.

And All Was Right With The World Again

Aaaaaah, life is good again. Again? I hear you ask.

Let me explain.

I don't know what I did to piss off the big guy upstairs, but last week was one of the shittiest weeks I have had for a long time. It was weird; usually my life is pretty shit-free. And not just because I suffer from chronic constipation. Ha! I joke, I joke. But seriously, I have a great life. You should be jealous of me. Or...whatever. But last week, it was literally like...I don't want to go off on too much of a tangent here, but imagine that someone took a giant dump, right in your face. And then they took a photo of your dumped-on face and posted it all over the internet. And then Wentworth Miller happened to see it, and immediately ruled you out as future-wife material. And then to top it all off, after you had cried yourself to sleep, your sister shaved your head and tattoed a picture of Voldemort onto the back of your skull. Can you imagine all that?

Well.

Last week, I was actually praying for something like that to happen to me - and it would have been the high point of my day.

It just seemed like everything was going wrong.

First of all, I was sick with a cold, which is apparently the only illness on Earth they haven't invented a cure for yet. I don't get it. 80-year-old dudes can still get hard, but there's nothing that'll fix a runny nose? Buck up, science! Then second of all, I got all psyched up for my driver's license test which my instructor FAILED to book for me. Also he is completely insane and for some reason thinks I should be able to drive, listen to him talk about airbags, read the road rules manual and anticipate the movement of every other driver on the road at the same time.

Oh yes. As you can imagine, lessons with him are extremely relaxing. Oh, and also, my own car decided to break down as I was driving to Coles.

THEN, as if my week wasn't bad enough, I got a phone call from my work saying that I was needed in Mosman, and would have to work there instead of Lane Cove for the next 8 weeks. No! First of all, Mosman? I'm the girl who just turned 20 and still laughs at fart jokes. I so do not fit in in Mosman. And also, can ANYONE picture me successfully navigating the morning traffic on Military Road?

I didn't think so.

So, yeah. I think that's it. Driving test (or lack there of), runny nose, broken car, having to work in Mosman. Crappy, crappy week.

UNTIL.

Well, I got my car back today. And what else? A phone call from Jacinta (my boss) saying some girl had been fired (or maybe she quit, I'm not certain on the specifics) from Toni&Guy Lane Cove which means - HELLO - I get to come back to work there! And what ELSE? Well, so my nose is still running. And so I haven't done my driving test yet. Both facts were overshadowed by what was on TV at precisely 4.31pm this afternoon...

THE EPISODE OF BUFFY GUEST-STARRING WENTWORTH MILLER AS A DOUCHEY HIGH-SCHOOL SWIMMER WHO MORPHS INTO A KILLER CREATURE FROM THE

BLACK LAGOON:*swoon*

My life is complete. And all is right with the world again.

Haha!

One of the most amusing things in the world to me, is when stupid-looking people unintentionally appear in the background of photographs. Exhibit A:

Okay this person doesn't look stupid so much as incredibly creepy. And the fact that I can't work out whether it's a man or woman only adds to that. Also, check out his/her right eye, which appears to have been replaced with some sort of laser. My only conclusion is that he/she is a terminator robot sent from the future to destroy us all.

Exhibit B:

I remember the night this was taken. It was the Playboy Bunny party at Chelsea Bar last Easter. That's right, I said Chelsea Bar. Which is in Chatswood, not Kings Cross. So there is absolutely no reason for this girl to be dressed - as she is - like a 2 dollar whore. I get that it was the Playboy party, but come on - even Hugh Hefner's disgusting girlfriends don't dress this poorly. Still, even more frightening than this chick's fishnets is the guy on the left, in the black and purple tshirt. Check that shit out! It's like he's staring into my soul! I don't think he was actually even at Chelsea that night. He might be a ghost. He's like the bartender from The Shining, only with white eyes and a crappy haircut.

Exhibit C:

Oh, alright, I lied. There is no Exhibit C. I just like this photo because my fringe is defying gravity. And look how happy I am, despite just suffering the worst billiards defeat in history. Good times.

Hey all.
Wow, so it's been a while, huh? Like 3 whole days. And so much has happened since I last blogged! The Polish PM's death, Chelsea Handler's 500th show, that whole traffic thing on the F3...but enough about that stuff. Let's talk about toilet paper.
I have this thing about public toilets. Actually it's not so much public toilets as it is any toilet but my own. I don't like them. And why? I mean it's not like I'm afraid of invisible STDs or those weirdly massive paper dispensers or even toilet snakes. Well, okay, maybe toilet snakes a little. But really, I just think they're disgusting and - to cut a long rant short - I would rather eat my own face than pee in one. The problem is that as much as I love my own bathroom, it's sort of retarded. I'm not pointing fingers at whoever designed it (*cough* Mum *cough*), but what's with the layout? The toilet roll holder thingie is practically BEHIND the toilet - I have to turn almost the whole way around to reach it! And believe me, blindly attempting to turn around mid-pee is never fun. Honestly, it's times like this that make me wish I were a man. Or a woman with a penis. Whatever.

Sigh. What's up with Twitter? Twitter has become so controversial as of late - I just heard some guy got arrested (or something) for calling Barak Obama a 'monkey' on his account.
Yeah. Okay.
Don't get me wrong - Barak Obama seems like a nice enough guy, and calling someone a monkey is never cool...but who gives a shit? Wow, some loser with a laptop expressed an opinion that most of the world won't agree with. That is so not news! Meanwhile, there are 20-year-old girls ranting about public bathrooms who get no attention at all.
What is this crazy world we live in?!
Well, that's pretty much all I have to talk about today. Stay tuned for more meaningless crap, coming soon! And in the meantime, check out the best belated birthday present I have ever recieved.

Yep, That's A Penis

So I know Easter was like a week ago and everything, but apparently people are still talking about it. I just heard a debate on the radio about whether The Easter Bunny is a boy or a girl:

Dude 1: What do you think, is The Easter Bunny male or female?
Dude 2: I think male.
Dude 1: Why?
Dude 2: I'm not sure...wasn't the bunny originally a chicken? A chicken would have been female, so I think the bunny is a male.
Dude 1: That makes no sense.
Dude 2: Well fine, it's a girl then. What do you think?
Dude 1: Duh. The Easter Bunny is asexual.
Jacki: *Heart attack*

Okay. Putting aside the fact that this might be the most disturbing conversation I have ever witnessed in my life, I still wanted to be part of it. So I sided with Team 'The Easter Bunny Is A Boy'. I'm not really sure why. It might have something to do with this:

I feel violated.
On a completely different note, some of you may be wondering how I went on my drivers license test today. Well, the answer is that I didn't. I didn't go on my drivers license test today. As it turns out, my instructor (who I had specifically asked to book my test for the hour after my lesson) is the biggest wanktard in the universe. Here's what happened:

Jacki: Good morning, John.
John: Good morning.
Jacki: So...it's the big day!
John: Er, what?
Jacki: My test. My test is today. You booked it for me, right? Remember when I called you, and asked you to book it for the hour after my lesson? And then I texted you, to make sure you knew what I was talking about?
John: Ohhh...I...didn't know that's what you wanted me to do...
Jacki: You mean I don't have my test today?
John: No, sorry.
Jacki: You mean I've psyched myself up for nothing?
John: Yes, sorry.
Jacki: You mean I read the entire Driver's Handbook from cover to cover last night, and it was completely pointless?
John: I'm afraid so.

10 minutes later

John: So...have you been driving regularly, with your mum and dad?
Jacki: Don't talk to me.

Right? Right? Asshole! On top of that, my car is in the shop with engine problems, my work just transferred me to Mosman for the next 2 months, and although it's 10pm on a Saturday night, I'm sitting at home blogging on account of the fact that there is less than $15 in my wallet. Bliss.

One Of My Favourite Friends-In-The-Woods-Are-Stalked-Attacked-And-Killed-By-A-Group-Of-Mutated-Mountain-Men-For-No-Apparent-Reason Movies Of All Time

Happy Easter readers!

So since it's the long weekend and I'm extremely lazy, I'm now going to blog a whole lot of stuff I already talked about on Facebook today. If this bothers you, you will have to get over it. If it doesn't bother you, it means you haven't added me on Facebook yet. Asshole.

Anyway.

Long weekend + laziness + empty wallet = four days of sitting on my ass and watching movies. This afternoon I watched a little diddy by the name of Deliverance. If you've never seen nor heard of it, let me break it down for you:

A bunch of dudes go on a weekend canoeing trip in the middle of the Georgian wilderness only to be accosted by a feral band of inbred hillbillies who stalk them with shotguns and crossbows in the hopes of kidnapping, raping and/or killing them.

I know, right? Who wouldn't jump at the chance to watch something like this? Like I said to Gemma earlier, it's pretty much just a primative version of Wrong Turn, which everyone knows is one of my favourite Friends-On-A-Holiday-In-The-Woods-Are-Stalked-Attacked-And-Killed-By-A-Group-Of-Mutated-Mountain-Men-For-No-Apparent-Reason movies of all time. Literally the only difference that and Deliverance is that the Deliverance hillbillies are slightly less inbred than the Wrong Turn hillbillies. And that one of them plays the banjo. Other than that though...it's awesome. And if you watch it with your eyes half-closed and are enough of a desensitised robot that you can block out the guns and crossbows and broken bones and rape and murder and basically just focus on the fact that it stars Bert Reynolds when he still looked like this? Then you'll probably enjoy it.

In other news, I recently had one of the craziest dreams I have ever had. Just re-telling this dream makes me sound crazy. Or I guess crazier, since I am obviously already crazy. But still. Even the sanest person on the planet could re-tell this dream and sound like a complete loon. For that reason - as well as the fact that it's long winded and filled with some weird references to pop culture - I decided not to post it here, but on the Uncut, Unrated, Unreasonable version of my blog instead.

Anyway, that's it. Enjoy your chocolate. I hope this guy isn't the one delivering it:

Exploding Mailboxes, Breadstick Wars, Stripped Pubic Hair And An Elderly Lesbian Couple

Dang flabbit! Remember that post I did not so long ago about not being able to get to sleep? Well get ready for round two, folks. Are you ready? You better get ready! Are you ready? You better be! If you're not though, here's some time:Are you ready now?
Alright.
Here's something funny that happened to me at work today:

Irish Girl I Work With: So I just moved to Sydney like, 9 weeks ago.
Me: Oh, wow!
Irish Girl I Work With: Yeah, guess where I live.
Me: Um...I don't...Is it close to here?
Irish Girl I Work With: Well, no not really...come on, it's where all the Irish people in Sydney live!
Me: Oh! Um...is it...um...the pub?
(MASSIVE SILENCE)
Irish Girl I Work With: No, it's Bondi.

Well, I'm fired.
Come on though! Irish people drink alot, a pub is a well-known supplier of alcohol...that joke was hilarious! Whatever. I guess I, like Christina Aguilera, am just underappreciated.
Speaking of jobs and being fired, I've just heard about this trend that went around Blogger.com about 3 years ago, where people talk about the jobs they have had in their lifetime. Well 3 years ago, I was still writing blogs like this:
"Have you ever noticed that eating pineapple kind of feels like rubbing the inside of your mouth with sandpaper and then gurgling sulfuric acid? I'm literally dying here."
So you'll excuse me if I didn't have the time/intelligence to write about the jobs I'd had in my lifetime. Nowadays, however...

Jobs Jacki Trew Has Had In Her Lifetime, Most Of Which She Now Sincerely Regrets

Newspaper Delivery Girl: Ohhhh, mercy. I had this job for about 3 months when I was 13, and too young/innocent/naieve to know how heinous it would be. And then once again when I was 18 and desperate for some cash. I would never ever, under any circumstances, recommend this job to anyone. It is worse than being homeless.

Delightful Baker: I worked at Bakers Delight for a year when I was 15. Oh my gosh, did I really? Yes, yes I did. Everyone wanted to work at Bakers Delight when I was 15. It was like the job to have. You wanted it, didn't you? Yes you did! And if you didn't, then you are a dickhead. And you are lying. As much as I complained about it at the time (and for about 2 years afterwards), this job was kind of completely awesome. For the most part I just spent my time making paper airplanes and eating cream cheese filling out of a bucket in the store room. And free bread! Free bread! That's totally worth having to clean a 6ft industrial oven with what I'm now fairly certain was toxic cleanser.

Receptionist: Oh no. Oh no. This is, was, and will always be the WORST job I have ever had in my life. It was so scarring and traumatic that I don't even want to talk about it. Except to say these words: Used. Waxing. Strips. With. Pubic. Hair. Attached. In. A. Plastic. Bag. Which. I. Had. To. Pick. Up. And. Carry. To. The. Dumpster. Downstairs.

Sales Assistant: This job was pretty blah. My previous jobs were filled with stories of exploding mailboxes and breadstick wars and bags of stripped pubic hair, but this one? The most entertaining thing I can ever remember happening was when an elderly lesbian couple came in looking for matching underwear. Needless to say, they left empty-handed.

Anyway. That's about it. I sure am glad Bakers Delight didn't have this scary-ass mascot when I was working there:

Jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com Joins The Workforce

What is up my sisters?
You guys, I totally couldn't get to sleep last night. It was annoying, so annoying. I tried everything I could think of; I read, I counted sheep, I played relaxing music, I watched the Paula Abdul E! True Hollywood Story...nothing. To make matters worse, I think I've contracted a cold or something, because my eyes were watering like a mother-humper the whole damn night. And I kept sniffing, you know, those disgusting cold-specific sniffs that make you feel like you're shooting a litre of snot and phlegm into your brain? Boy am I painting a pretty picture of myself or what? To sum up, it was a crappy night.
It wouldn't have been such a big deal, except that I had my first day of work today and I wanted to breeze through those front doors looking nothing less than petal-fresh and daisy-smooth. That had been the plan. Instead, I walked in looking like...well, this guy:


Only not as sexy.
Dang nammit!
Anyway. What was the point of this blog again? Oh yeah - It's true! You read correct! I finally found a job! Say hello, planet earth (should that be capitalized?), to Toni & Guy's newest 1st year apprentice.
Um, yeah. I'm guessing - since I've never thought/considered/talked about hairdressing before - that most of you are making a face like this right about now:

Caption: WTF?!

Hahaha. I love that kid - nice green shirt, dude! But here's the thing: I actually went into Toni & Guy to apply for the receptionist position, only I noticed some stuff about the hairdressers:

• They weren't stuck behind a desk
• They were allowed - nay, encouraged - to talk talk talk all day long
• They get to play with GHDs
• They all had fantastic hair
• They could wear jeans

and most importantly:

• Piercings and tattoos? A-Okay.

Is this the perfect job? I say it is. Or at least, it could be - I'll let you know in 4 to 6 weeks.