I have recently re-discovered my love for mayonnaise.  More importantly though,

MERYL STREEP JUST WON AN OSCAR.

Meryl Streep - like mayonnaise - is wholesome, lovable and delicious on almost every occasion.  Oh.  And she's also a stone cold fox:

The word 'love' gets thrown around a lot in society these days, which I don't appreciate.  It's kind of like diamonds, or sex - it won't be worth anything if you just start giving it to everybody.  Unless you're a prostitute, I guess.  But that's a debate I can't even be bothered to have with myself.

Anyway, like I was saying.  It's partially the diamond/sex thing and partially my naturally icy demeanor which makes me quite hesitant to love anybody.  The people I do love usually fit into one of three categories:

1) The ones I fell in love with instantly

2) The ones I grew to love over time

3) Meryl Streep

Meryl gets her own category because (with the exception of my unborn nephew) she is the only person I have ever loved without actually meeting before.  I don't feel weird about it, because I'm pretty sure if she knew who I was, she would say the same thing about me.  Alright, that's not true - she would probably say nicer things.  Because she's Meryl Streep.  And everyone knows Meryl Streep is nice.

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if the two of us actually did meet.  I'm not exactly sure, but I can tell you now it would be ridiculous, embarrassing, and could quite possibly cause some sort of electrical fire.  On Meryl's part of course - I on the other hand, would be a picture of maturity.

Speaking of the Oscars, I don't know if I'm happier that Meryl Streep did win, or that George Clooney didn't.  I've never been able to explain this problem I seem to have with Clooney.  On paper he seems like someone I could have a really good time with, but in person?

I have never wanted to smack someone more in my life.  

Well...maybe Angelina Jolie.

Working 9 til....7:30?

One thing I've learnt since leaving school and beginning full-time work is that the term '9 to 5 job' is never strictly accurate.  Certainly not in my line of work, anyway.  It would probably be more reasonable to say something like 9 to any time between 5:30 and 6.  Or 9 to (leave space blank).  Or in my case, 9 to...I'm not sure what time you left, but by the time you got home you'd already missed Home and Away and the first 15 minutes of My Kitchen Rules.

Yesterday was Monday.

On Mondays, I'm rostered to start work at 10am, and finish at 6pm.  And - to be fair - this usually works out pretty well.  Mondays are never insanely busy at my work, so I'm usually able to complete all my tasks with time to spare, finish at 6, go to the gym, and be home in time to see some middle-aged Army mates screw up a creme brulee.  Clearly, I'm living a pretty full life at the moment.  But yesterday was no regular Monday, and (as much as I hate to admit it) unfortunately I only have myself to blame.

Well no, that's not true...I also blame MJ.  Let me tell the story:

My boss is very organised, so at my work we have a system that involves a list of specific jobs being completed in the last week of each month.  Every employee has their own list of different jobs.  Stuff like:

• Check there is enough coffee for the next four weeks
• Buy new magazines for the clients to read
• Clean the display shelves
• Talk Jacki out of killing herself and everyone else in the building

Being a lowly receptionist, most of my tasks just involve basic admin stuff and cleaning.  And - not to toot my own horn - I always do a pretty good job.  I'm not a neat freak by anyone's standards, but there is a certain feeling of satisfaction that comes with spending half your week cleaning a hair salon. I know not everyone is lucky enough to work in a hair salon, but try vacuuming your apartment after shaving the fur off three fully-grown sheep dogs in the living room and you'll know what I'm talking about.

There's only one area even I've never dared to try cleaning though, and that's the shelves under the reception desk.  Mostly because it's a terrifying mess of power points, computer towers, electrical wires and USB cords, but also because no one has EVER cleaned the shelves under the reception desk - and I'm not one to break tradition.  I think most people would agree with my reasoning.  Most people...except MJ.

Being second in charge, one of MJ's monthly jobs is to inspect every aspect of the salon and complete a survey detailing how it might appear to the client.

Basin area - is it clean, satisfactory, or dirty?

Display shelves - are they appealing or understocked?

Chairs - are they presentable?

Magazines - are they current?

Jacki - is she still functioning normally, or has she passed the threshold into complete insanity?

Anyway.

Everything was going FINE, until (at 6pm on the dot) MJ sidled up to calmly inform me that if I didn't clean all the dust and hair out from under the reception desk, we'd probably both be fired.  This didn't really worry me too much at first.  Being that I'd completed the rest of my jobs at such an efficient pace, I'd had almost 2 spare hours at the end of the day to do as I pleased.  Obviously I used it the way I always use my free time at work - to come up with long-winded speeches about why I shouldn't be fired.  So I'm set.

But if MJ got fired, I'd miss him.  I'd have to get to know a brand new Style Director.  And most importantly, I'd have no one to argue about the pros and cons of anal sex with.

I need that guy.

So - FINE - I agreed to clean the damn desk.  I don't want to talk about it too much because like I said, the desk hasn't been cleaned by ANYONE in the past 2 years.  I saw things behind those computer towers that will haunt my dreams for all eternity.  On the plus side though, MJ was kind enough to help me by pulling everything out before I vacuumed and wiped all the dust away.  Was anyone else in the Lane Cove area between 6 and 7pm last night?  If you were and you'd happened to walk past my work, you would have seen two full-grown idiots and a red vacuum cleaner kneeling behind the reception desk in a fit of giggles.  MJ delighted in telling me about the lovely case of plumber's crack he had going on.  Or, as he calls it in an adorable Polish accent - 'tradie's ass'.  I love foreigners.

So by around 6:30, we'd finished cleaning the desk.  Result!  The only remaining problem was the USB cords.  Oh my god, I totally forgot to mention this earlier...because whoever installed all the computers and register and stuff in the first place is a complete dunce, the cords are too short to reach the front of the desk.  It's hard to explain this without a visual, but basically?  When we pulled the computer towers out, we pulled about half the USB cords out too.  Luckily, I had a quick solution:

MJ: Uh oh.  The USB cords came out.

Me: I don't give a fuck.

It wasn't until we put everything back in the desk and were packing up to leave that we realised none of the keyboards or scanners were working.  By this stage it was past 7, and I was almost tempted to leave the whole situation as it was and just pretend I had nothing to do with it.  In hindsight, this probably wouldn't have worked anyway.  Whenever stuff like this happens, I'm always the one people look to first.  Maybe because I'm the receptionist.  Maybe because I'm an idiot.  Either way they're right - it's almost always completely my fault.  But if there's one thing I'm good at (I mean, other than screwing stuff up), it's un-screwing the things that I so skillfully screwed up in the first place.  The computers needed fixing - dammit, I was gonna fix them!

Cut to 25 minutes later, and MJ has fully removed half the reception drawers in an attempt to access the computer towers from another angle.  To any normal person, this probably sounds like the stupidest solution we could possibly have come up with - because it is.  And then we couldn't get the drawers back in.

By this time I was past annoyed or angry and well into the stage of just laughing hysterically every time something else went wrong.  This is what experts call 'a slow descent into madness'.  Or in my case, 'a further descent into madness'.  Originally I'd planned to hit the gym for a good hour after work - now all I could think about was getting home and taking a bath in vodka and lemonade.

Finally - at close to 7:30 - we found that if I lay on my stomach behind the desk, I was able to jam my hand behind the computer and reconnect the USB from there.  Even this was pretty difficult - mainly because the computer itself was blocking my view, so I really had no idea what I was sticking where and could have been electrocuted at any second.  Also because MJ was kneeling 2 feet away making dirty jokes.  But in the end we got it done.  And my god this has turned into a long story. With an important lesson:  I said from the beginning that we shouldn't bother to clean under the desk.  And was I right?  I WAS RIGHT.  So there's your moral:  I may be an idiot, but I'm also right.

Unless we're talking about anything that doesn't involve cleaning the reception desk.  Then I should be ignored at all costs.

I can't tell you how many times I have heard some variation of this line spoken in the last few episodes of My Kitchen Rules:

Contestant: I looked at the meal they put in front of me and I thought...wow.  Better do a Maccas run on the way home.

Yes, I have some thoughts.

First of all, shut up.  You're getting a three-course home-cooked meal, drinks included, for FREE.  I don't care if the entree is a Vegemite Sao.  If someone took the time to cook me a three-course meal,  I'd be thankful enough to eat it without complaining.  And Vegemite Saos are fucking delicious.  

Secondly...for a group of individuals who claim to know almost everything about cooking and are only too happy to judge every  edible item that's placed in front of them...these people sure do like their McDonalds.

What else?

To continue yesterdays post about the ridiculousness of Australian politics at the moment, I can tell you I completely forgot about Labour's re-election until it was announced that Julia Gillard had won...during a commercial break for My Kitchen Rules.  I'm not entirely sure what this means; either I need to seriously reconsider my priorities, or Julia Gillard should be fired in favour of a celebrity chef.

Sometimes I can't believe that we only have a federal election once every four years.  Doesn't the public realise that in four years, the right mix of power, responsibility and screen time on free-to-air television can turn even the most sane and rational of people into a complete nut-bag?  And I hear it takes even less time for politicians.  Plus you have to compensate for dickheads like me - at 19, I thought wasting my vote on The Fishing and Lifestyle Party was both hilarious and awesome.  It took only 2 years for me to realise how wrong I had been, and how my careless youthful attitude to politics could possibly affect the future of the nation.  Thankfully now that I'm 21 and a proper adult, I can see how wrong I was.  

It's voting for the Help End Marijuana Prohibition Party that will make people laugh.

Birthday Countdown 2012 has officially begun.

That's right, motherlovers!!  It's now less than 2 weeks until my birthday.  Less than 2 weeks until the anniversary of my birth.  In less than 2 weeks, we shall come together to celebrate that fateful day, just 18 (and then some) years ago, when a 7 pound baby to be named Jacki sprang from the womb and entered a world so naive and unsuspecting, the doctors didn't think to stuff me back in again.  I couldn't actually find any pictures of the moment I was born, but I imagine it went something like this:

I've had that expression on my face for almost 22 years now.

Anyway.

I decided yesterday to get my act together and organise a Facebook event for what I'm calling THE PARTY OF THE FUCKING CENTURY, BITCHES.

It was actually Alex's idea that instead of another 18th (it'd be my 5th in a row), I should have a Bucks Night to celebrate. I jumped on board immediately because while I love all activities involved in a traditional Bucks 'do, I'm rarely if ever invited to them.  I think it might have something to do with me not being engaged.  Or you know, a man.  Whatever.  We'll be starting with drinks at the Longy on March 17th around 7:30pm and ending with me attempting to crash the stage at Showgirls around 3.  I'm guessing.  Come one, come all, come watch me make a fool of myself.  It happens every year without fail.

Thinking about planning my birthday party these last few days has had me remembering what I did last year to celebrate.  Although I was calling it my fourth 18th, I guess technically I turned 21.  

I love a good crazy 21st as much as the next borderline alcoholic, but I'm not really the type of girl to invite 150 people into my parents living room so we can all annoy the neighbours with loud music and witness my Dad passing out on the lawn at four in the morning.  That was a tempting option, but in the end I decided there would be much less of a clean-up if we all just got hammered at the pub instead.  Alex, MJ and I went straight from work - arriving at about 6:30pm - and within 25 minutes I had a glass of champagne in each hand and was watching porn on MJ's camera phone.  What is is about birthdays and champagne?  I'd invited about 30 people to this party, and every time someone arrived they felt compelled to buy me a glass.  I mean, I'm assuming that all 30 did this.  I can really only remember the first 6 or 7 - after that I started seeing flying Chinese babies.

There are a few things you can always count on from Drunk Jacki:

1) She wants to dance but is too lazy to actually stand, so will just awkwardly move her shoulders up and down to the beat of the music.

2) She will constantly mess up her own hair.  On purpose.

3) She will try to convince you to get a tattoo.

4) And/or piercing.

5) She is better at putting on make up than Sober Jacki.

6) She wants to kiss everyone.

This last one is something I have never properly been able to explain.  Probably something to do with my pathologically low level of self-esteem.  Or perhaps I'm just a whore.  Either way, this little habit totally worked out in my favour that night, because one of the 30 people I'd invited to celebrate 21...was Boyfriend.

A little background on Boyfriend:

 Boyfriend and I have actually known each other for about 6 years now.  I was 16 when we first met, and he was known as Crush.  For a while he was Potential Boyfriend, and when I was 17 he was Formal Date, but by the time I'd turned 18 and finished school, he was just Friend.  Or to be more accurate, That Friend You Always Kind Of Have A Thing For.  You know what I'm talking about - I'm not the only one this has happened to!  If life and the final 3 seasons of Gilmore Girls have taught me anything, it's that a relationship will always taste better if you leave it in the slow-cooker for 5 or 6 years before making a move.  

Unfortunately for me, at the time of my 21st birthday, Boyfriend had a different nickname: Someone Else's Boyfriend.  Fortunately for me though, it was my 21st birthday.  I do what I want.

In my defense, I'm pretty sure the whole kissing situation was only brought on by a game of Suck N' Blow.  (I can't be 100% certain - those Chinese babies kept blocking my vision).  In any case, he wasn't the only person I kissed that night.  I think even my cab driver got a little sugar.  I know my friend Ellen certainly did.  It was completely innocent.  No tongue.  Clothes stayed on.  Big group of friends.  I guess what I'm really trying to say is DON'T JUDGE ME, DRUNK JACKI IS A CHEEKY WHORE WHO SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED NEAR GOOD-LOOKING YOUNG MEN.

Luckily for men, pub owners and humanity in general, Friend I Always Kind Of Had A Thing For later turned into Boyfriend and Cheeky Whore Jacki became Just Some Idiot Who Blogs About Every Aspect Of Her Life In The Hopes That One Day Someone From Random House Ltd Will Read It And Give Her 8 Billion Dollars For The Rights To Publish.

Hey, I can dream can't I?

Smoke Monster For PM

I am more confused by Australia's current political situation than I was by the last season of Lost.  Who did Kate love, Jack or Sawyer?  And what was up with that crazy old dude living by himself in the woods?  What was the truth in the end, that they'd all died in the plane crash and gone to hell?  Intense.  Mostly though, I'd like someone to justify the Smoke Monster.  Smoke Monster.  Prime time television hasn't seen a villain this ridiculous since that nerdy kid from Bones decided to become a cannibalistic serial killer.  And I swear I saw one episode where it ATE somebody.  Smoke can't eat people - everybody knows that.

Anyway.

As of tomorrow morning, Kevin Rudd might be our Prime Minister.  Again.  I'm sure there's a very simple explanation for how and why this has happened, but what you have to understand is that I am the kind of douche bag who will honestly spend an extra 15 minutes in a voting booth trying to decide whether it's funnier to support the Sex Party or the party for Communism.

Political knowledge isn't exactly my strong suit.

So other candidates for PM are able to step forward, but realistically it's between Kevin and Julia Gillard, am I right?  Sigh.  Kevin and Julia seem to have been locked in an all-out battle for national domination since she first stole the position off him way back in 2010, despite the fact that they're both members of the same party and generally disliked by most of the population.  I'll say it again.  POLITICS DO NOT MAKE SENSE.  If someone can explain to me why we can't just overthrow both these idiots and appoint Hugh Jackman as supreme ruler of the universe, I will be extremely grateful.  Also if you could walk me through the Lost finale, that would be great.

I Always Promised My Mother I'd Never Get A Credit Card. I May Have Lied.

I'm thinking about applying for a credit card.

WAIT!

DON'T JUDGE!

To an outsider ('outsider' here meaning 'any smart and/or sane member of the human race'), the idea of Jacki Trew getting a credit card probably seems like the worst life decision since Robert de Niro agreed to do Little Fockers.  But here is my reasoning:

1) I'll only use it for the most emergent of emergencies.

2) I won't keep it in my wallet, but in a solid block of ice at the back of my freezer.

3) My greatest fear in life is not being able to pay the rent.

Alright, well that last point isn't strictly true.  My greatest fear in life is being trapped in an aquarium pool with a pod of male dolphins, obviously.  But not being able to pay the rent definitely makes the top 5.  And while I've gone almost 22 years without missing a payment so far, I've learnt to accept the reality that the stock market is an unpredictable thing, people can't always afford luxury services like the ones provided at the company I work for, and at any minute I could be fired, broke, and living in a cardboard box behind my parents' garage.  For the record I would love to try that for experimental purposes anyway, but being that I'm 21 and part of Generation Y I'm not sure that my body would actually survive more than 24 hours without Facebook.

My Mother has always warned me against getting a credit card - whether this is because she doesn't want me to become trapped by hidden fees and interest-laden repayments like so many others, or simply because she knows I am the kind of idiot who would consider it 'free money' and run out to buy 18 pairs of Christian Louboutins as soon as the card arrived in the mail, I'm not sure.  To me, getting a credit card is one of the key indicators that a person is finally an adult.  There are actually 5 signs in total:

 - The credit card thing

 - Chest hair

 - Owning your own house

 - Engaging in sexual activity with Hugh Jackman

 - Death

 Don't worry.  You don't have to do them all at once.

So - to credit card or not to credit card?  That is the question.  If I don't think about it too hard (not difficult for me), the obvious answer is a resounding YES, as long as I keep it well-hidden from my Mother.  The only problem is I keep thinking about that movie Confessions Of A Shopaholic where Isla Fisher signs up for 12 dillion credit cards, goes on a major shopping spree, and ends up being chased around New York by a debt collector with terrible hair.  While on the one hand I don't live in New York and don't know of ANY banks that would approve me for 12 dillion credit cards, on the other I'm definitely a bigger idiot than Isla Fisher and would surely get myself into an even more dire situation without trying.  For one thing Sydney is way smaller than New York, so it'd be much harder for me to hide from the bank than it was for Isla; all she had to do was run down the fire escape.  My building doesn't have a fire escape, so my only option would be a suicide swan-dive off the balcony - and I live on the 3rd floor.  And even if I survived that, the debt collector would almost definitely be tipped off by the 3 new Ferraris sitting in the carpark.   

So even though it's only 7:30 in the morning (on a Sunday), I'm sitting on the couch blogging in my undies, and there's a 67% chance I'm still drunk from last night, I'm going to say no to the credit card for now.  I'm a bad candidate, it's a bad idea, and there will be terrible consequences.  Right? 

Right. 

End of discussion.

Then again...it would be nice to own 18 pairs of Christian Louboutins.

Here is how I will win the next season of My Kitchen Rules:

1. Without using an electronic cooking utensil of any kind

Has anyone else noticed that at least 4 teams have totally stuffed up their Instant Restaurant because of a malfunctioning oven?  This is simultaneously gut-wrenching and hilarious to witness - and I don't think saying that makes me a terrible person.  What?  They wouldn't put it on television if they didn't think people would enjoy it.  I said that about Channel 9's Ivan Milat special, and I'm saying it again now.

2. With Alex as my team mate

One of the best parts about MKR is that it's a team competition.  I like to spend the first couple of weeks deciphering the dynamics of each pair; because in most cases, there is one clear role for each person to play:  There's the Alpha - the sexy good-looking one, who flirts with the judges and can make perfect guacamole.  Then there's the Omega - the one with strange hair, who doesn't really say much but always proves pretty helpful in the kitchen.

Should Alex and I compete on My Kitchen Rules, she would be both the Alpha AND the Omega.  I would be the girl sitting in the corner eating mangoes.

3. By acting super-nice in front of the camera and then murdering all other contestants in their sleep

Speaking of lame reality television, has anyone else seen that new show Please Marry My Boy?  I actually haven't, but as far as I'm aware it revolves around a man's future wife being chosen for him by his over-controlling mother.  What a healthy basis for a long-lasting relationship.  Still.  I like the idea because it seems like the kind of show that could end in a serious case of heartache, and assholes like me live for that sort of thing. 

Anyway.

Just like with My Kitchen Rules, I think Please Marry My Boy would benefit from having me as a castmember.  Only not as one of the girls.  I'm not the kind of girl a mother would look at and think 'She's daughter-in-law material'.  Mothers look at me and think 'She will corrupt my son and destroy our family'.  Whatever.  I suggest that next season channel 7 take the show in a new direction with me as the central girl, and my Dad choosing my future husband from a group of shirtless dudes.  

'Please Marry My Girl.'

Only in our case, something along the lines of 'Please Take This Girl Off My Hands' would probably be more accurate.  I think those were actually the first words out of my Dad's mouth when he met Boyfriend.

Boyfriend: How come even though the bathroom is the room you spend the least amount of time in, it's always the dirtiest in the house?

Me: Huh.  I really don't know.

LIE.

Here is the reason:  It's because I am the kind of idiot who drains a can of tuna over the vanity since I'm too lazy to walk the extra 8 feet to the kitchen.  Don't ask me what I was doing with a can of tuna in the bathroom.  Honestly, I think we should all be more concerned with the fact that I'm using my camera phone to take photos of a mans deodorant can while sitting on the toilet.

Jacki Trew: Legitimate Author

In a bid to project myself as a legitimate author, I've decided to branch out from writing about stuff like sex and fart jokes and my own ridiculous existence.  If I want other people to start taking me seriously, I've got to start taking MYSELF seriously.  Right?  So here goes that idea:

Reading on the toilet...is awesome.

(baby steps, okay?)

Listen though - because reading on the toilet is pretty amazing.  They wouldn't have invented those bathroom-sized magazine racks if it wasn't.  I don't actually HAVE a bathroom-sized magazine rack at my house (a girl can only dream), but it doesn't matter - I always manage to find something I can take a gander at while I'm...you know...

Taking out the garbage.

Dropping the kids off at school.

Making a deposit with no return.

...

I like having something to read to distract me from the fact that I'm taking a dump is basically what I'm trying to say.  Hello, I'm a girl.  Girls don't want to think about something as disgusting as poo, even when it's coming out of us.  That's one of the first things they teach you at an all-chick high school like the one I went to - right before childbirth and just after the fastest way to unwrap a tampon.

Anyway. 
Here's an example of the last bit of light reading I did:

My photography skills aren't great, so let me translate that:

Proven to work at 58 degrees Celsius, the hottest temperature recorded on earth.

Okay.  Just to clarify, this was written on the back of a can of deodorant.  Here are my questions:

• Is 58 degrees Celcius really the hottest temperature recorded on earth?
• Who recorded it?
• Do you really think they gave a shit about whether or not their deodorant was working?

Maybe this is just me, but if I was standing in the middle of a 58-degree heatwave, I'd be less concerned with the state of my armpits and more focused on trying to keep my head from exploding.  Apparently the manufacturers of Rexona Sport disagree.  Still, I wanted to find out if this figure of 58 degrees was completely accurate; luckily, thanks to the invention of 3G internet and the iPhone, idiots like myself can now feel free to Google whatever they want, whenever they want. 
For example: 
Boyfriend recently announced that he has some special post-Valentine's Day surprise planned for me.  And since he won't give me any clues as to what it is, I spent half of Saturday night trying to figure it out by searching Wikipedia for 'ways a guy might surprise you the week after Valentine's Day'.  For the record, Wikipedia would make a TERRIBLE boyfriend.   To a girl the word 'surprise' means something special, fun, romantic or exciting - not just an activity we didn't see coming.  Anal sex?  Doesn't count.  

Packed To The Trews

So anyway.  To further the aim of earning some extra money in my free time, I've spent the afternoon researching paid drug trials in the Sydney area.  And in related news, I've decided that 'risk of anal leakage' is probably the funniest phrase I have ever heard in my life.  Perhaps 'medical guinea pig' isn't the next dot point I want on my resume.

Hey!  Did anyone else watch the new season of Packed To The Rafters last night?  Is it totally lame that I watch Packed To The Rafters now?  I don't care.  I'm addicted.  Here is my reasoning:

1) It's my Mother's favourite show.

 There is nothing more entertaining than watching television with my Mum, especially when it's a show that she enjoys.  I've deliberately been avoiding shows like Rafters and All Saints and Winners or Losers for the best part of about 6 years now - mainly because I'm way too busy and important to watch that much TV, and also because (for me) Australian drama has a higher cringe-factor than the last 20 minutes of Saw VI.  Nevertheless, I know how much my Mum loves it, so I bought her the 1st season of PTTR on DVD for Christmas last year.  Aaaand then I happened to pop over to her house one afternoon while she was watching it.

MISTAKE.

Like I said, there's nothing more entertaining than watching TV with my Mother.  Here's a summary of the first 5 minutes:

Me: Hey Mum, what are we watching?

Mum: Rafters.

Me: Oh, God, aren't you over this show ye - hey...that guy is pretty hot!

Mum: I know.

Me: And so is that one!

Mum: I know.

Me: Even the Dad is pretty good looking!

Mum: I know.

Me: And the Mum!

Mum: I know.

Me: And don't they bang and get pregnant at some point?

Mum: Yep.

Me: That's hot!

Mum: I know.

Me: Are ALL the guys on Rafters this good looking?

Mum: Yep.

Me: And is there always this much sex?

(pause)

Mum: Why do you think I watch it?

My Mother is brilliant.

Anyway.

Here's the second reason:

2) This guy:

Sure, he's not the best-looking man on the show (especially not if you compare him to Hugh Sheridan)...but the thing I like most about this guy is that when I was standing at the desk at work the other day, he came in and asked me for some advice on hair product.

...

Let me say that again.

HE CAME INTO THE SALON...AND ASKED ME FOR ADVICE.  On hair product.

ME.  ADVICE.  Hair product.

ME.   

ADVICE. 

Hair product.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that one of the biggest turn-ons in life is when a guy considers you intelligent enough that he will come into your place of work and ask your advice on something.  Also that I don't care that much about hair product.

Sometimes I wish my life was more like a reality-tv version of Packed To The Rafters, and that strange men with cameras and microphones would follow me/various members of my family around all day long capturing the loving and meaningful moments we share together on film.  Only instead of strange men, I would probably make Alex and Boyfriend do it.  And instead of loving and meaningful moments, they'd probably just be getting footage of my sister and I trying to kill each other.  Nevertheless, I think it would make for brilliant television.  Right?  Right?  Am I right?  I'm right.  New life goal: Packed To The Trews.  Yes, that's what our reality show will be called.  The title makes no sense - just like us.

Happy Valentine's Day, bitches.  And guess what?  For the first time in almost 22 years, I'm not alone on February 14th.

I don't care.

Valentine's Day is still a crock of shit.

I don't want to go on about this for too long - firstly because I talk about it EVERY year and I figure people are getting a bit bored...and secondly because you guys might start thinking that the real reason I refer to Boyfriend as 'Boyfriend' and not his real name is because I've just made him up and can't be bothered to think of a backstory.  For the record, that's not true.  He is real.  I just have to pay him.

Anyway, here's my beef:

1) How come only people who have someone to love get their own day?  

What about lonely people?  Or people who hate everyone?  What about couples who've just started dating and haven't decided they love each other yet?  Screw you, Valentine.  Thanks for making everything super awkward.

2) How come it's only expected that the DUDE will buy presents?

I'm no bra-burning feminist, but this really annoys me.  Why shouldn't I be able to internet-order ridiculous printed t-shirts for my Boyfriend and force him to wear them in public on the basis that they were 'special Valentine's Day presents'?  To prove my point, I have done this exact thing anyway.  More proof that Boyfriend does exist: he'll be the next guy you see wearing something like this:

3) Since when does Valentine's Day get 'holiday' billing?

Has anyone else noticed this?  February 14th isn't February 14th anymore.  It's actually referred to as Valentine's Day.  Not such a big deal...until you consider the fact that this means it pretty much has equal billing with stuff like Christmas and Australia Day.  NOT COOL.  Want to know the difference between Valentine's and Christmas?  I can't tell you.  Because that would require me to list every awesome thing about Christmas, and if I did that, THIS BLOG WOULD CONTINUE FOR ETERNITY.  February 14th is February 14th - if you want to buy 12 roses or dress up as Hugh Jackman for your girlfriend on that particular day, go for it.  But it doesn't mean the rest of us have to.

Alright.  Enough about...February 14th.  I was going to post about something else but it's almost midnight and (amongst other things) I'm pretty drunk.  And tired.  Happy Valentine's Day everyone.  For the record, here is the most romantic thing I heard today:

Boyfriend: I love you, you fucking bitch.

It just comes naturally to him.

The Time I Met Jigsaw

The thing I’ve found about watching the Saw movies is that unless you’re a complete emotional cripple, the chances of getting through them without crying, fainting or choking to death on your own vomit are quite low. Thankfully, if there’s one person I know who’s as cold on the inside as I am, it’s Boyfriend. Here’s what we’ve accomplished in the last week:

I’ve never been to university, but I’m pretty sure this qualifies me for a degree in serial killing. They list positions for that on Seek, right?

I’ve been speaking a lot about careers lately. I think getting a job interviewing serial killers like the one from Saw could be quite interesting. Plus it would combine my interest in the human mind with my love of asking inane and ridiculous questions. Here’s how I would interview Jigsaw:

Me: So, Jigsaw, tell me...were you really married to that blonde chick from the drug clinic?

Jigsaw: Yes

Me: Really? But she’s like...15 years younger than you.

Jigsaw: I can see how you might think that, but -

Me: And kind of a babe!

Jigsaw: I really don’t see how that’s releva -

Me: Is it coz you’re rich? I mean, you’re pretty rich, right? You said something in the 6th movie about having loads of money...

Jigsaw: I’m sorry..shouldn’t we be talking about the fact that I kill people?

Me: Oh yeah, you’re a real monster. Hey! What was it like working with the dude who played Luke in Gilmore Girls? I used to have such a crush on him.

Jigsaw: Are you kidding me with this shit? This is ridiculous. I’m not young anymore, okay? I’ve been thinking of the worst ways to kill people for 25 years now, and you know what? I’m tired. And as you so kindly pointed out before, I’m old. All I wanted to do today was play bridge, make a cup of tea, and maybe watch someone chainsaw their own legs off. But no, no, my agent dragged me down here for this ‘important’ interview - and now all you want to do is talk about Luke from Gilmore Girls. Incidentally, he was even more handsome in real life. But that’s not the point! Now, are you going to ask me some decent and intelligent questions or not?

(pause)

Me: If you end up making another Saw movie, would you consider involving sharks with laser beams attached to their heads?

Jigsaw: Can I say something?

Me: Sure

Jigsaw: I want to play a game.

I have a feeling that career choice might be short-lived. Literally.

Here's an interesting conversation I just had with one of the chicks at our local beautician:

Chick: Do you wear this eyeliner every day?

Me: Pretty much, yeah.

Chick: You should get a tattoo.  Much easier.

Me: Haha!  Yeah, why not?

(pause)

Me: Wait..

See, the worst part about having your eyebrows done (which was the actual reason I was in the beautician) is that you have to lie on this table, arms by your sides, with your eyes closed - they could have done ANYTHING to me.  Not that they strap your wrists to the table or anything, but I'd just finished a 90-minute session at the gym, so I was knackered - after 2 kilometres on a rowing machine, letting someone tattoo my eyeliner on would probably have been less painful than attempting to fight back.  Thankfully, this particular eyebrow-waxing chick was pretty decent, so she left my eyelids alone.

I mean, I am assuming.  I haven't actually looked in a mirror yet.

Joint Showers, Hotcakes and The Superbowl

So anyway.

In news that nobody but my therapist could possibly want to know about, last night I got to share a 12-minute shower with this little guy:

 Dammit.  That photo did not come out the way I intended, at all.  That's a giant fly by the way.  I realise from here it really just looks like I don't clean my shower properly, but it's a fly.  Promise.  And when I say 'giant', I mean it.  This is probably a better representation of what was sitting in my bathroom last night:

There was barely enough room in there for me! And as if that wasn't bad enough, it kept buzzing around my head in that disgustingly loud way that flies buzz around...I'm not a huge fan of insects in general, but this guy was a real asshole.  If you're in the shower with me and you come near my head, you better be either offering to wash my hair or feeding me pizza.  Don't get me wrong, I'm all  for joint-shower situations...but from now on I think I'll be limiting my companions to the human species. 

And maybe cats.

Hmmm.

Oh!  Here's another pointless musing I wanted to inflict upon the world:  Has anyone else heard the saying 'They're going like hotcakes'?  I have, and I don't get it.  Why?  Because as far as I know (and thanks to the invention of Wikipedia, I know pretty far these days), when people refer to a 'hot cake', all they're talking about...is this:

Apparently the saying was invented by an American McDonalds employee.  In Australia we call them 'pancakes'.  And sure, they're nice.  Great.  Delicious, some might even say.  But the whole idea behind the phrase going like hotcakes is that whatever's going is, um, how do I phrase this?  THE GREATEST FUCKING THING IN THE WORLD.  Pancakes?  Like I said, delicious.  But the greatest thing in the world?  I wouldn't even call them the greatest food in the world.  And in accordance, I propose the saying 'going like hotcakes' be changed to one of the following:

• Going like tequila
• Going like blogs
• Going like Christmas
• Going like competitive-cooking-based reality television

Preferably that last one.  It just rolls off the tongue doesn't it?

So the Superbowl was today, apparently.  I say 'apparently' because I know absolutely nothing about the Superbowl, and I think I care even less.  But now that I've mentioned it on my blog, I'll probably get around 500 more hits on Google.  This is what they call 'Making The Internet Your Bitch'.  On the off-chance that you are one of these hits and you HAVE come here searching for news about the Superbowl, the New York Giants beat the New England Patriots, Madonna was there, and the best half-time commercial showed Ricky Gervais running away from a hand-grenade and a pack of zombies.  How that advertises Time Warner Cable I will never know, but there you go.  And I'm sorry you had to read about shower pizza and pancakes before getting here.

Career Change - Why Everyone Should Avoid Tafe

For someone who's only JUST about to turn 18 (for the fourth time), I've had a lot of different ideas about what career I would like.  The first thing I can ever remember wanting to be was a nurse.  There were 2 main reasons for this:

1) Cute hats

2) Mum was a nurse

I was 5.  Every 5-year-old girl wants to be like their Mum, don't they?   But by the age of 11, nurse was out.  Again, there were 2 main reasons:

1) 11-year-old Jacki was a particularly heinous breed of rebellious pre-teen (much like present Jacki, a particularly heinous breed of idiotic post-teen).  I didn't want to be like my Mum; I didn't want to be like ANYONE'S Mum!  I wanted to quit school and live on an island, spending my days drinking UDL and smoking a bong (whatever that was).  Finishing university and becoming a nurse was the last thing on my mind.

2) Blood

When I was around 14 I spent a good afternoon obsessing over the idea of becoming a chef, until I remembered an incident from earlier that morning wherein I had almost set our kitchen on fire while attempting to cook toast.  Woops!  Although when I think about it, most of my career endeavors have ended in this manner:

• I considered getting into hotel management until I remembered I'm not interested in hotels
• I was going to study interior decoration until I realised that nobody else would want their house decorated with palm trees motifs and novelty-sized disco balls
• I wanted to be a fitness instructor until I remembered I am neither fit nor good at giving instruction
• I thought about becoming a supermodel until I...oh, yeah, I'm Jacki Trew

Other things I have tried and failed at include: retail sales manager, wedding stylist, fashion warehouse assistant, and hairdresser.  To date I haven't actually tried moving to Panama and opening a fruit shop on the beach, so I don't consider that a failure.  Yet.

Anyway.  This is all getting a bit long-winded.  I guess all I really wanted to put out there was SCREW YOU MUM AND DAD, I'M 21 AND I DON'T WANT TO BE A LAWYER!!  Kidding.  My parents can be eccentric, but neither of them is naive enough to believe in the idea that someone would hire me as their lawyer.  FYI, this is how that situation would go down:

Me: So...did you kill the guy?

Criminal: Yep.

(pause)

Me: Ah, shit.

So no, I've never felt any pressure to be a lawyer.  Actually what I really wanted to talk about was Tafe.

If you're a person or household animal and you've had at least one face-to-face conversation with me over the last 6 months, you probably would have heard something about my plan to attend Tafe this year to study professional make-up artistry.  No?  If not, I'll catch you up to speed:

I'm Jacki, and I had a plan to attend Tafe this year to study professional make-up artistry.

It's not university, and I'm not curing cancer.  But the idea of me actually getting a qualification in something (and by extension not wasting my life away as a receptionist slash alcoholic-in-the-making) had my parents jumping up and down with the type of enthusiasm neither of them had felt since my older sister Catherine was born.  It was all very exciting.  They were excited.  I was excited.  Tafe was excited.  And we all lived happily ever after.

Almost.

The only problem was with Tafe - a great institution for education and everything.  It's just that they sometimes have this tendency to stick their heads up their asses and CANCEL the course I'd already enrolled in and paid for without any notice.  Nothing against any of them personally, I'm just saying they're all terrible terrible people and should probably think about attending an Assholes Anonymous meeting as soon as possible.  As for me?  Basically, I have two options:  forget Tafe, continue working full-time at Toni & Guy, and begin an illustrious moonlighting career as a phone-sex operator...OR actually start listening to people like Alex and Boyfriend who have been nagging me to get off my ass and write a book since the first time they read this blog. 

...

And so begins my attempt at being an author DON'T LAUGH.  I'm serious.  Have I not been talking about doing this for the last 7 years???

...Alright.  So I haven't been talking about doing this for the last 7 years.  But I've been THINKING about talking about doing this, really.  That's authors for you.  We can't get out of our own heads.

My point is, I'd appreciate some support - mostly because, you know, it's always scary taking on a new career path.  Also because this is what happened when I told my Mum:

Great parenting.  For the record Mum (I know you read this), I've been happily working minimum wage and making jokes about how awesome it will be when I move into my cardboard box for the last 2 years now.  Do you really think money is the highest priority on my list?