The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory strikes back - for like, the fourth time

Yeah, I'm still talking about The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory. Whatever, man. I don't have a lot going on right now.
Except that actually, I totally do. This just in: I found two more Celebrity Doppelgangers in the last week alone! TWO DG'S IN ONE WEEK! That's crazy talk! Crazy but true.
Kind of like me.
Haha. Get it? Because I'm crazy, and my last name is Trew.
...
I'm pretty sure I've made that joke before, but I don't care. It's still awesome.
Speaking of awesome, here are my two new AWESOME Doppelgangers:

• Mischa Ummmm-I-Don't-Actually-Know-His-Last-Name-But-He's-Elle's-Boyfriend-And-I-Went-To-His-House-This-One-Time-So-You-Know-I-Consider-Us-Tight-Enough-That-I-Can-Write-About-Him-On-My-Blog-Without-Feeling-Awkward-About-It = Mark Ruffalo
• Our waiter at Harbourview Restaurant the other night = Liam Neeson

Well, a young Liam Neeson. A young Liam Neeson with very short hair. Seriously though. Seriously. He had the accent and everything!! I pointed it out like 2 minutes after we sat down, and the four of us spent the rest of the night addressing him as 'Liam'. He probably thought we were all nuts. No, he definitely thought we were all nuts. Which, I guess, we are.
Oh, except me. I'm allergic. I'll be a chickpea.
But yeah, long story short, I think we freaked him out pretty good. Like, there was the whole 'calling him Liam even though his name was actually Steve or whatever' thing. Plus every time he left our table I would start ranting about how The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory was going to win me the Nobel Peace Prize. Then Catherine would start ranting over the top of me about how there is nothing remotely noble or peaceful about The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory. Then Mum would start ranting over the top of Catherine about how it's Nobel, not noble, and that being noble really has nothing to do with it. Then Dad would start ranting over the top of all three of us about how good the calamari was.
Yeah.
All in all, a pretty regular dinner for the Trew family.

I smile because she's my sister. I laugh because there's nothing she can do about it.

So, to continue the tradition I started like 3 weeks ago, and also because she has actually refused - refused - to let me do a speech at her party (even though we both know it would be nothing short of, um, INCREDIBLE), here is my summary of the life and times of one Catherine Trew, in honour of her birthday.
...Which is today.

As much as she’d like to deny it, Catherine Trew is my sister. Yeah, she likes to joke about the possibility that there was an accidental mix-up with me and her real sister at the hospital the day I was born, but my parents are pretty adamant that we’re related.

Huh.

Well, you never know. If any tall, sporty, dark haired 19-year-olds who love sailing and never embarrass themselves in public turn up at our doorstep, we’ll know she was right.

Anyway.

Catherine’s full name is Catherine Elizabeth Trew. The first. She doesn’t get called that much, though. Mostly, she just gets called Catherine. Or Cat, by her friends. Or Cathy, by people who hate her. She also has a fairly sizable collection of ridiculous nicknames, most of them invented by me and/or my friends. They include (but are not limited to): Cathè, Chate, Cat Baloo, C-dog, Wee-Bag, Poo-Bag, Fart-Bag, Dick-Bag and Button. There was also a brief period where I refused to address her as anything other than ‘Bob Swarley’, but that’s a story for another day.

Catherine has lots of hobbies. Well, at least I think she does. I’m not entirely sure what they are, on account of her rule that I stay at least five feet away from her when we’re in public together.

Only kidding – its ten feet, not five.

One of Catherine’s favourite hobbies is sitting in her bedroom with her laptop and ignoring the rest of us. She also enjoys reading The Guinness Book of Records, tennis, and buying me lunch. Oh, and starting arguments. Catherine loves to argue with people, especially me. Which works out well, because I love arguing with her. Especially about stupid stuff, like:

• Whether or not I can be her Maid of Honour
• Which world war Gallipoli was in
• If ears are made of bone or cartilage
• Which one of us is the favourite daughter
• Whether or not coffins have handles on the sides
• Who the best James Bond actor is
• If walking can be considered exercise or not
• Whether or not I’m an idiot
• Whether or not she’s an idiot
• Who is hotter: Wentworth Miller or Michael Vartan

See? Completely stupid. Especially that last one, as everyone knows Wentworth Miller is superior to all other males on the planet.

Catherine always insists she’s winning the argument because she’s older, and therefore has more knowledge of the world. Of course this is ridiculous, since we all know the older you are, the closer you are to being senile and really having no clue about anything. So it’s pretty safe to assume that when Catherine and I are having an argument, I will win.

Sometimes I think Catherine might just be my favourite person in the world. Like when she pays for my coffee or drives me to netball. Other times, she’s just some dork who lives in the room next to me. Like when she tries to convince me to ring up telethons and donate money under the alias ‘Alotta Vagina’.

Yeah, she really did that. She can be kind of a dag when she wants to be – I guess that’s where I got it from.

For someone who can be kind of totally lame sometimes, my sister has some pretty legendary friends. Honourable mentions go out to Daniel ‘Milky Nips’ Watterson, Ali Chapman, Cecil Searle and The Alex’s (both Kerr and Brambley). If you’re one of the friends I didn’t just name, don’t feel bad – it just means you aren’t cool enough.

As far as members of the Trew family go, Catherine is fairly normal. Like, she doesn’t get attacked by exploding mailboxes and trip over random dogs on the footpath, the way some of us do. But when she gives in and temporarily allows my insanity to rub off on her, we have some pretty good times. We once made a four-tiered chocolate and vanilla mint MnM covered easter cake. We convinced our then-5-year-old neighbour to drink a combination of crushed flowers, hose water and lemonade. We invented ‘beaking’ and ‘full bushel’, concepts a little too r-rated to explain here, given that our parents will probably read this.

She taught me how to ride a bike, and plait my hair. I taught her how to paint her toenails without smudging them, and which energy drinks give you the biggest buzz.

I introduced her to The Twilight Series – She introduced me to Prison Break. I convinced her to pee on our lawn once. Well, the term ‘convinced’ might be a bit strong; she pretty much did it on her own. Her excuse was that we were locked out of the house and she hadn’t been to the toilet all day. Whatever! I think really, she just wanted to see what it would be like.

For two people who supposedly came from the same womb, Catherine and I are pretty different.

She likes blue; I like yellow. She’s a freak at geography; I don’t know how to read a street directory. She never wears high heels; I have 11 pairs. She likes sport. Oh, I like it too. I guess the difference there is that she’s actually good at sport, where as I can barely get through a 40 minute game of netball without tripping over the ball/myself/someone else. But yeah. Catherine likes sport.

Mostly sailing. Boy does she love sailing. It’s like she can’t get enough of it. Why doesn’t she just marry her boat and have swarms of human/yacht hybrid children already? I’m pretty sure she would if it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t actually have her own boat at the moment. Plus it might be illegal. I’m not sure. She tried to teach me to sail once, only failing when I developed an irrational fear of 60-foot-long prehistoric sharks in the Lane Cove River, and refused to get into the boat.

That said, we’re similar in some ways. Like two peas in a terrible, terrible pod. We both like mint flavoured ice-cream and watch way too much TV. Our favourite song is Midnight Train by Journey. We love Home and Away and hate Neighbours. We have the same eyes. We would have the same nose, if mine was a little less crooked. And no offence Mum, but we both hate it when you make dinner in the crock pot.

Sometimes I think Catherine and I should have our own reality show. Imagine if we did – half the things that come out of her mouth would end up printed on t-shirts, I’m sure of it. I think it’s because half the things that come out of her mouth are insults directed at me, and for some reason, they always sound really funny:

“I wish you were more like an iPhone”

“You are so dumb it makes me angry”

“Hey Jacki – you’re adopted!”

I like being Catherine Trew’s sister.

I like that she never wears high heels and can’t hold grudges and that her scream sounds like Homer Simpson’s. I like that we have our own special language – nobody understands it when we say things like ‘foot five’, ‘BLTnChee’ or ‘steaksauce!!’, but it makes sense to us. I like that she let me name her car. I like her even though she refuses to listen to Michael Jackson or Nirvana, even though she lives to tease me, even though she hates it when I say ‘I love you!’

Yeah, I like her anyway. How can I not? She’s the Batman to my Robin. The Joey Tribbiani to my Chandler Bing. The Ben Affleck to my Matt Damon. The Lincoln Burrows to my Michael Scofield. Why are we always men? Whatever, not important.

Happy birthday Catherine. I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I babysat with Julia the other weekend, and it was pretty flippin' awesome. I've never babysat with anyone else before, but I've gotta say, it is SO much better than babysitting alone. First of all, it's way easier to put on a puppet show when there's two of you. Also, you don't have the problem of leaving the room for 5 minutes, then coming back to find the kid completely naked and in the process of smearing half their dinner over the living room wall.
Yeah, like I said. WAY better than being alone.
One of the highlights of the evening - for me at least - was the changing of the nappy. Which might sound weird. It should sound weird, because it IS weird. But all the kids I usually babysit are too old for nappies. I've never changed a nappy before! So sue me, I was excited!!
Anyway, Julia was the one who actually did it. I just observed. Like I said, I've never changed a nappy before; if I tried to do it, it would have ended up backwards or inside out, or on the kids head instead of his ass or something. So yeah, Julia was the one who did it. Once it was done, Lucas - that was the kids name, Lucas - ran off screaming, and the two of us stayed sitting on the floor for a few minutes. Then I made everything totally awkward by asking Julia if she'd ever had the urge to put on a nappy. You know, like after Lucas had been put to bed.
Oh, my gosh. Yeah.
I knew as soon as it came out of my mouth that I sounded totally nuts, but since Julia had made a joke about marinating steaks in menstrual fluid earlier in the evening, I figured we were pretty much even.
Anyway, she said no. When I got home, I asked my sister, and she also said no. I asked my Mum and she told me to "quit being so freaking weird all the time".
Interesting. When did my Mum start using the word freaking?
So I'm putting a question out there: Has anyone ever been babysitting, and had the urge to put on one of the kids nappies?
And you should know, I'm not saying that I do. Because I don't. I don't. I totally totally don't. I do NOT have the urge. But if you DO, then you might be almost as crazy as I am. So, like, we should be friends.

6 days til Catherine's birthday, and there's a ghost in my sewing machine. For reals, yo.

First...whoa. Lets take a moment to acknowledge how long its been since I blogged. As much as I'd love to say it's because none of you have been commenting, and I decided the best punishment was withholding posts, we all know the actual reason is that I'm too boring, too lazy and too consumed with the task of sewing 8 kilometres of hideous green velvet curtains for my ex-boss. At least, I have been. UNTIL NOW.
Here's something blog worthy: It's my sister's 21st birthday in exactly...6 days! And her 21st party in exactly 8. Are you invited? All the cool kids are. If you're not, don't feel bad. It just means you aren't cool. And hey, I myself was probably only invited by default. You know, since I LIVE at the venue.
But yeah. Sister. Birthday. 6 days. And I don't wanna talk myself up or anything, but Catherine, if you're reading this you should get excited. Because the present I got for you, well, it might just be the best thing I have ever gotten anyone. It might just be the best thing ever. Like, the best thing in existence. Apart from Wentworth Miller. Wentworth Miller is the best thing in existence. But your present is a close second.

Okay, now that I'm done with my daily pointless-Wentworth-Miller-related-rant, I'm going to tell you about the ghost living in my sewing machine.
Yeah, there is a ghost living in my sewing machine. Or rather, a poltergeist. There is a poltergeist living in my sewing machine. I don't know if there's actually a difference between the two, but the word poltergeist is fun to say, so that's what I'm going with. Right, so, here's what happened. You guys know about how I'm sewing curtains for my ex-boss, right? If you don't, I'll fill you in:
I'm sewing curtains for my ex-boss.
Anyway, the machine I'm using is fairly old and temperamental, and if you leave it on for too long, it tends to get tired and heat up and explode into a thousand tiny pieces, killing everyone and everything within a 2km radius.
So I have to remember to turn it off when I'm not using it.
Right. So the other day I was sitting at the table next to the sewing machine, innocently pinning fabric, when I noticed it was making a sort of whirring noise. Which wouldn't have been so weird, except that it wasn't on. It was OFF.
And okay, that doesn't exactly say poltergeist.
But THEN, the whirring noise started getting louder. And louder. This is when I started to get concerned - Mum was going to be pretty pissed if half our neighbourhood was destroyed in a freak sewing machine explosion accident that I could potentially have prevented from happening. So I not only made sure the machine was switched off, but I turned it off at the powerpoint, and pulled out the plug.
But the whirring noise? IT JUST GOT LOUDER!!! And then?
And then?
And then, THE NEEDLE STARTED MOVING UP AND DOWN, ALL BY ITSELF.
Yeah.
I don't believe in all that supernatural stuff, but if that doesn't spell ghost-trapped-in-the-sewing-machine, I don't know what does.
Oh, and okay, let me just clarify one thing before I go. Yes, I am totally insane. I'm aware of that. Thanks.

The Adventures of Pig the Sloth

My goodness it's been a while since I blogged.
On the off chance that you've all forgotten just how insane I can be, I've found a little something that might remind you:
The other day I was rifling through all my old school work, looking for one of those plastic sleeve folders. You know, the kind you used to put assignments and stuff in? Well I needed one for my college patternmaking assessment, and since I'm too lazy/cheap to actually buy a new one, I figured I'd just take the school work out of an old one and reuse it.
Yeah.
Oh, and when I say 'old one', I really mean 'old one'. Like, really old. Really, REALLY old. It was so old, half the binder rings had snapped off, and the pages were stuck together with cobwebs. I think it was second hand the FIRST time I used it. Like, I think it was the folder that Abraham Lincoln used in high school.
Anyway, I don't know what Abe used it for, but I had a Year 7 art project in there. Oh, and something else...I don't know when or why or how this got in there, but alongside my finger paintings and scraffito art, I found a story written by myself, Kiera Roberts and Julia Hirst, aged 12.
Oh, my gosh. Yeah.
You know when you're little and you play that game where you write like 4 lines of a story and then fold the page over, and pass it to your friend, and they continue it, without looking at what you've already written?
Yeah. Yeah. It was one of those.
Ok, I hadn't even READ the thing yet and I was already excited. Those stories always end up being hilarious - even the ones that aren't written by three of the weirdest pre-teens to have ever graced the planet.
Okay, now. Since I've talked it up, I'm going to have to show you. For the sake of illustrating just who wrote what, I'll use this font for Kiera, this for Julia, and this for myself.
And here we go:

The Adventures of Pig the Sloth, by Kiera, Julia and Jacki

There once was a little sloth called Pig. Pig the Sloth loved eating and sleeping. He would get up in the morning, eat, sleep, have lunch, go back to sleep and eat. But one day, he decided to find out why he was called Pig the Sloth, not Sloth the Sloth or Pig the Pig.
He was called this because one night there was the moon, the stars, the milk, oh the milk, so much milk. Anyway, this resulted in his parents almost being the same age as him. So the only word they knew was 'Pig'. So they called him Pig. This made him sad, so he...
...jumped into a toilet and then he flushed. Pig died right then, or was it right now??? 'Oh well' he thought as he floated up to heaven. Then he got smushed by a plane, and then he died, but he had already died, so he double-died. That's bad.
Pig was sad because he was the only person or pig or sloth to double-die, but no one knew it, so he cried and in Timbuktu it started to rain. 'Ooooh!' said Mr Bob. 'I like rain!'
Webell came from nowhere and asked 'Do you want pie? HAVE PIE!'.
Pig was confused.
Pig was so confused that he died. But he had already died twice, so he triple-died. That's really bad.
Pig turned into a spasm-weirdo and started having spasms, muttering 'Pig, Sloth, Dead, Dead again, ooooh rain in Timbuktu lalalalala'. He went and joined spasm-watchers with Bobette, his spasmy teacher.
Yay! Go Pig Sloth! Everyone cried, and he started to go into a trance.
WEEEEEEEEE!
He went into a trance, and then fell into the Bible. Then he got killed by Jeeeebus.
But Jeeeebus wasn't actually in the Bible, so then he got confused and ran to the Spasm-Watchers Handbook, where 4 x dead Pigs and Bobs and Mrs Teachers and him all started partying.

The End.

Yeeaaahh.
It's probably not surprising that until mid-way through year 8, the only friends we had were each other. And Mel - she might have escaped the embarrassment of being involved in the writing of this story, but she was just as crazy as the rest of us. Is just as crazy as the rest of us.
Or whatever. The point is...well, there is no point. Really, is there ever a point?
No.

Cloverfield, swine flu and the art of piercing your own ears

So, my sister got home from Indonesia the other day. Oh. Wait. I think I forgot to blog about the fact that she even left.
Well, my sister went to Indonesia. And now she's home.
Okay I think my favourite thing about Catherine going to Indonesia is the pirated DVD factor. She bought SO many pirated DVD's. I'm pretty sure technically, our house can now be considered a pirated DVD store. Anyway. I haven't had time to watch them all yet, but I know from the titles that they're all awesome.
Except for Bruno; that movie is worse than cancer.
Unfortunately for Catherine, in between buying all the DVD's, she contracted swine flu. Huh. Sucks for her. Still, I think it's totally worth it, because one of the DVD's she brought home was Cloverfield, and anyone who knows me knows that Cloverfield is one of my favourite movies of all time on account of the fact that the two main characters remind me of Michael and Sara from Prison Break.
So thanks Catherine! You're the best! Oh, and sorry about the swine flu thing - tough break man, really.

On a completely different note, the other night I had a total Parent Trap moment, got bored and decided to pierce my own ears.
Four times.
Okay and wait! Just wait! Before you pass me off as a TOTAL crazed delinquent, it wasn't actually that risky...First of all, I'm not completely inexperienced in this area - I totally re-pierced my friend Lexi's ears in the girls bathrooms one lunchtime in year 6. Plus I Googled the whole thing before I even started. And besides, the ability to pierce my own ears is practically written into my DNA since my Mum did her own ears when she was my age. Yeah, let's just not mention the fact that because she was a nurse at the time, she was able to bogart local anaesthetic and rubbing alcohol from the hospital. But hey, take it from me: a tray of icecubes and a barbeque lighter will work just as well.
So yeah.
Anyway.
The whole thing started when I realised that the 3rd holes in each of my earlobes had closed over. What?! I mean...that's just unacceptable, right? Well, to any other person, probably not. But to me? There's a reason I have so many holes in my ears, people! I own literally SIX THOUSAND pairs of earrings - If it weren't for the fact that I can wear 5 pairs at a time, I'd never be able to use them all!! So yeah - that's how the first two piercings came about.
See? I'm NOT crazy!!
After that, the adrenaline was pumping, Dirty Dancing was on in the background (you know how much that movie excites me) and I was so totally jazzed about not killing myself with the first two piercings, I decided to give myself another.
Two.
Through my ear cartilage.
...
Okay, okay. You now have permission to label me insane.
Still, despite the lack of sterile materials, my natural clumsiness and the fact that this happened at 2.30 in the morning, I must have been doing something right, since it all worked out fine.
The only thing I regret, actually, is not Twittering the whole thing.
Twitting the whole thing?
Tweeting the whole thing?
Whatever, not important. But it does seem like the kind of thing one should Twitter about: @jjjacki Just chillin' in my bathroom and hey there's a hot needle in my ear! You know. It's important for my friends to know these things about me.
Well, I guess that's what blogs are for :)

Mel Amon - A Dedication

Here's a post dedicated to the lovely Miss Mel Amon for her twentieth birthday.

Mel.
Mel.
Mel might be the coolest person I know. She's loud and funny and beautiful and makes really good brownies. I mean it. Those things are amazing. My arteries are clogging right now just thinking about them. Ohhh baby.
Mel is my favourite person to go shopping with. She knows where all the good op shops are, plus she has this talent for finding really fantastic jeans. It's really handy, especially for people whose legs are so hideously short that finding jeans which actually fit is pretty much impossible, like me.
Mel has great hair. It's brown. And long. And she has a fringe. And she cuts it herself. She cut my hair once. I remember it well. We were eating chocolate and sitting on towels and Julia was watching in the background looking very nervous and I remember thinking Mel was probably the only person I would trust to cut my hair for me.
Apart from an actual hairdresser, I mean. Though I don't trust all of them - especially the ones who hold unwarranted grudges against me *COUGH* Wendy from the Greenwich hairdresser *COUGH*. Anyway, that's not the point.
Mel and I have nicknames for each other. Hers is Vagina Geldoff. Geldoff because her little brother Cameron once made out with Bob Geldoff's youngest daughter, and Vagina because, well, Vagina is just a funny word. Mine is Mitchell Potter. I don't exactly know why, but I think it has something to do with the fact that Harry Potter and our Ancient History teacher Miss Mitchell are both legends.
Yeah. Yeah, that must be it.
What else? Let's see.
Mel has introduced me to heaps of cool stuff over the years, like The OC and Damien Rice and Light n Tangy chips. And key lime pie. And Black Forest chocolate! Mel loves food. Well, of course she does, she's a Roseville girl.
Mel and I have good times. Great times. Grand times. I've got heaps of stories about Mel. My favourite is probably this one time when we were at her house and we made toffee, only instead of putting it in patty pans like you're supposed to, we poured it onto a dinner plate so it dried all flat and round. Like a sort of 'Toffee Frisbee', if you can imagine. Anyway we ate a bit, but it was kind of gross, so we threw it out the window and it landed on her cats back.
And got stuck there.
Ha! That was awesome.
Mel likes painting. And Seattle. And shopping. And Hannah Montana. And heaps of other stuff too.
There are probably a thousand other things I could tell you about Mel, but I won't, because I think you should just go and get to know her yourself. Because she. Is. Awesome.
So yes.
Happy Birthday woman! I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
More than Wentworth Miller (and I don't say that to just anyone).

The Best Worst Movie EVER!!

Well, okay. Maybe that's overselling it a little. Still, as far as terrible 80's horror films with little-known actors and over-dramatic soundtracks go, Nightmare On Elm Street is pretty flippin' awesome. And I'm not just saying that because I love them. Crappy slasher movies from before I was born, that is. Although I do. I really do.
Not only are they hilarious and entertaining as hell, but they actually make me feel smarter. They do. They do! Like, alot smarter. Like, hey-I-just-built-a-spaceship-wrote-a-ten-thousand-page-novel-and-found-a-cure-for-cancer smart. Mainly because all the characters are complete morons.
I don't get it. I really don't get it. Why are these people so stupid? How are they so stupid? And how come they all live in the same place? Is that just a coincidence? Or are there special towns in America for people who have no common sense?

Welcome to Ogdenville: Idiots Only!

Seriously though, these people are totally brainless. It's like they're asking to be killed. Actually asking. Really, I mean, it's not that hard to keep yourself alive.
The rules are simple: If you think someone is after you, DO NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE ALONE AT NIGHT.
Don't do it.
Just don't do it!
Or, if you feel that you really really have to, at least make sure you're wearing pants. I'm not kidding - half the characters that went looking for the murderer did it in a t-shirt and undies. And nothing else.
Call me crazy, but if I was venturing out into a dark alley to confront a disfigured serial killer who has serated knives where his fingernails should be, I'd want to be wearing pants. Just, you know. I'm all for showing off your legs and everything, but that seems like the kind of situation where you don't wanna be bare-assed.
Maybe that's just me though.
Anyway, now I'm going to stop, because I've been going on about wearing pants/not wearing pants for so long, I've kind of forgotten what the point of this post was.

Attention Blog Readers!!!

THIS might be the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life:

The roof, the roof, the roof is on FIRE! And I mean that quite literally

So apparently now there are two animals stuck in the roof. One, a slowly rotting rat carcass trapped in the crawl space between my room and the outside of the house. The other, an overly energetic possum that's somehow managed to sneak in, remove all the insulation material from the walls and stuff it behind the down-lights in my ceiling.
Which wouldn't be so bad, except that I have this thing where I actually like to use the lights in my bedroom. See, insulation material is flammable. And when lights are left on, they tend to heat up.
Alot.
So.
The obvious solution is to climb into the roof, crawl across to the lights, and pull the insulation away from the bulb. Except there's no way anyone is going to volunteer to do that, on account of the whole rat-corpse situation, and the fact that entering the roof above my room without a gas mask and a full-body suit means almost certain death.
Well, this is just great. Either I'll leave the lights off, trip over something in the darkness and end up impaling myself on my mannequin stand, or I'll accidentally fall asleep with the lights on and the house will burn down.
...
My Dad says not to worry. He says I can leave the lights on if I want.
Huh.
Yeah, no offense Dad, but I find it hard to put confidence in the opinion of a guy whose answer to the question "Won't that start a fire?" is "Well, maybe. But I don't think so. Wait, no. I do think so. I don't...well, I don't really know. You know what? It actually might. Probably not though."

The Mystery Smell, The Magic Doona, The Mist

For some reason, earlier this evening I was feeling rather shite, so I took a nap in the guest bedroom.
Yeah, I'm living in the guest bedroom now, on account of the fact that my whole room still smells like dead dogs. I'm not kidding. I actually went looking for Oscar's corpse in there one afternoon - that's how convincing the smell is. I can't be bothered to tell the story again, so if you want to know about the stench and where it came from, you can read about it here. Otherwise, on with the story...
No, wait. Not on with the story. I want to talk about the guest bedroom for a little longer. Yeah, it sucks that my actual bedroom, my sanctuary, my safe haven, my favourite place to dance naked in front of the mirror and make out with my life-size poster of Wentworth Miller (did I type that out loud?) smells like such a lethal combination of rat poison, ceiling insulation and, well, dead bodies, that I can't even bear to open the door, let alone go in there. I mean, apart from the occasional mission for clean undies or nail polish - and even then I have to wear goggles and hold my breath the whole time.
Still. Having to live in the guest bedroom is definitely the upside of this whole situation. Because living in the guest bedroom means I get liberal use of the guest bedroom bed. And, more importantly, what's on the guest bedroom bed - The Magic Doona.
Oh, The Magic Doona. Have I told you about The Magic Doona? I don't think so. Here's the 411:
It's a doona.
It's magic.
I mean it. The best nights of my life have all been spent in the company of this doona. I never sleep as good as I do when I'm all snuggled up in that white downey goodness. Not even in Michael James, my own bed (yeah, I named my bed. What of it?), which anyone who knows me knows is probably my favourite possession of all time. Honestly though, I would die a happy woman if I could spend every night of the rest of my life with this doona. And Wentworth Miller.
Oh, my goodness, can you imagine Wentworth Miller wrapped in The Magic Doona?
Alright, enough. Enough! Let's stop before I lose conciousness.
And so ends my rant about the guest bedroom. Now where was I?
Oh yeah. So I just woke up from my nap and now I'm sitting here drinking a ridiculously large cup of coffee and watching The Mist, some terrible low-budget interpretation of a Stephen King novel. It's corny, it's gruesome, it's laughable, and I love it.
Love it, love it, love it.
I love The Mist. I love it. Did I say that already? Well, whatever.
It takes all the weirdest, craziest, funniest and most maniacal elements from other movies and packs them all together to form 2 hours and 5 minutes of car-smashing, tentacle-stabbing, gun-shooting, flame-throwing, head-exploding, Lord-Of-The-Flies-style fun.
I definitely recommend a viewing. Warning, though: It gets kind of disgusting. I mean kind of really disgusting. Like, face-getting-ripped-off-by-a-giant-tentacle-with-claws disgusting. It helps if, like me, you watch so many movies and so much TV that you're permenantly de-sensitised to violence.
Speaking of being permenantly de-sensitised to violence, the other day my Mum watched me sit through the whole of Saw 4 without batting an eyelid, and now she thinks I'm a robot.
And I quote:

"This movie is horrible! How can you watch this? Are you dead inside? Or a robot? Phillip!! Our daughter is a robot!!"

Oh, okay. Now I know which side of the family I inherited CRAZY from.
Really, though, it made me think. Am I a robot? Or have I just seen too many episodes of Bones? I'm not sure, all I know is that a corpse could roll out from under the couch and start coughing Malaria in my face right now, and I probably wouldn't even blink.
I'm not sure whether that's totally cool or completely depressing. Either way, I'm pretty sure I can make a career out of it.
So it's all good.

Mum: What happened to your hands? Jacki: I tripped over a dog today.

Let's add "Longueville" to the list of people, things, animals or places that are trying to kill me.
That's right, Longueville. I think it fits in nicely, right between "History Teachers" and "Every Type Of Spider On The Planet". I know some people might think it's a little unfair that I have an entire suburb after me, in addition to the spiders and the history teachers, my sister, bus drivers, the magpies in the park and all serial killers currently incarcerated at Goulburn Correctional Centre, but it's not such a big deal.
I learnt to deal with it a long time ago - I think right around the time I was awarded 'Most Likely To Be Killed By Ivan Milat' by my classmates at the year 10 formal.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, right.
Yeah, Longueville is trying to kill me. I know it sounds crazy; that's probably because it is crazy. But it's also true. It's crazy AND true. Kind of like me.
Haha. Get it? Because my last name is Trew. And I'm totally insane! Ahahaha!
Ok, but seriously. It seems like every time I leave my house but stay in the vicinity of Longueville, something bad happens to me. But not just regular bad - ridiculous bad. Absurd bad. Impossible bad. And also, admitedly, hilarious bad.
Proof?
How about my infamous nighttime-running-slash-fence-jumping incident which resulted in a trip to the ER, 7 stitches and a scar which officially ended my arm-modeling career for life.
There's the time I was brutally attacked by band of middle-aged women and their teacup poodles. Or the story about how I was almost permentantly maimed by an exploding mailbox while delivering the North Shore Times on Kenneth Street. And lets not forget how I ended up as the Lane Cove Over 40 Soccer Team's afternoon entertainment after accidentally walking over an ants nest barefoot.
Well now I can add another incident to the list: Today on my afternoon walk (the single 40 minutes of freedom I have in a day otherwise filled with college assessments and curtain sewing), I tripped over a dog on the footpath and took all the skin off my knuckles.
...
There are two things that seriously concern me about this:
1) If I think that skinned knuckles hurt now, I don't even want to know what it's going to feel like when the wounds scab and I'm unable to straighten my fingers. And
2) Who trips over a dog?!

What is with me? I swear, I have the worst luck ever. I am like the guy in that movie Just My Luck. You know, all this bad shit keeps happening to him until Lindsay Lohan's good fortune mechanism is transfered into his body after he makes out with her at a masquerade ball?
Is that my destiny?
Is that the only solution?
I have to make out with Lindsay Lohan or forever suffer the wrath of Longueville? In all honestly, I think I'd rather take the wrath. At least it gives my family a laugh:

Mum: What happened to your hands?
Jacki: I tripped over a dog today.
Mum: Sigh. I think we need to stop letting you out of the house.

Naked at netball

So in the middle of our netball game tonight, my skirt decided to fall off.
Brilliant!
I love being half naked in front of 20 or so middle-aged women I've never met.
Alright, that's a lie. I don't love it. Still, I've ended up half-naked in front of a group of strangers so many times now, I can't help but laugh when it happens.
The best part about this particular incident, was that for some reason, I felt the need to announce it to my opposing player. Who just gave me this look like 'Well, what do you want me to do about it?' and remarked "Oh...yeah, that happened to me once."
Thanks for the help, lady! Although really, what did I want her to do about it?
The second best part about this particular incident is that it took me literally 10 minutes to get the skirt back on. After struggling for the first 30 seconds, I ran over to Issy, who was standing on the sideline trying desperately not to laugh at me, and asked her if we could change.
...
Here's where things went from bad to worse. See, when I said 'change', I meant change positions. As in, Issy would come on and play Wing Defence in my place, and I would slink off to the bathrooms and attempt to settle down enough to put my skirt back on. Thus, I took my WD bib off. Meanwhile, Issy, making the incorrect assumption that my skirt clasp was actually broken, and I was requesting that we change outfits, had begun taking off her own skirt, so I could put it on.
Oh, man.
Needless to say, the rest of our team, the opposing team, both the umpires and the handful of spectators that had shown up were very much entertained by the sight of two red-faced giggling teenage girls hurriedly undressing in the middle of a netball game.
So on the minus side, everyone saw my undies tonight.
On the plus side, though...well, they were nice undies.

Why do these things always happen to me?!

Ok.
Does anyone remember me blogging about my sister's room starting to smell, and all of us thinking that some poor animal had died in the crawl space above her bed? If not, you can read it here. If yes, well...I'll continue.
So yeah. Like 3 months ago, Catherine's room started to smell like crap. Not just regular crap, either. I'm talking dead-body-hidden-under-the-bed crap. It was so bad, I honestly might have suspected Catherine of being a closet serial killer and having a corpse stuffed in her undie draw, except for the fact that I was still alive, and we all know that if my sister is ever going to snap and murder anyone, it's going to be me.
Still.
The smell was horrendous, but because it seemed to be isolated to Catherine's room alone, I took it upon myself to make several (thousand) bad-smell jokes are her expense. And last week, it came back to bite me in the ass.
Oh, did it bite me in the ass. I don't think I've ever been bitten so hard - including the time I went snorkeling and a Neighbour fish mistook my toe for a piece of bread. Anyway, not the point. The point is, last week...
MY room started to smell.
Oh, great. At first I thought maybe I'd just accidentally left a sandwich in my room somewhere, and it was slowly decomposing. But alas, a thorough search revealed no sandwiches. Then I thought maybe the smell would go away if I turned the fan on and left the window open. Nope, that didn't work either, and when I woke up the next morning my legs were frozen together. Huh, what do you know, turns out it's winter!
Anyway when Mum noticed the smell (and the fact that I had begun sleeping in the guest bedroom), she called some pest-control guy, who came over at 730 in the morning (730. In the morning) and poked around the roof for an hour or so, only to reveal that yes, there certainly was a dead animal stuck in the crawl space, but it was in such a position that he couldn't possibly get in and remove it.
Um.
What?
Basically, we just have to wait for the body to rot away completely. And until then, my room smells worse than an old man's asshole.
Ugh. Corpses suck!

Rove's Final Five, Originally Intended For...Gyton Grantley

5. Have you ever been caught naked in public?
In real life, no. In dreams, thousands of times. I mean, come on. What is it with me and dreaming about catching the bus naked? Or going to school naked? Or turning up to a job interview naked? I'm serious! Seriously disturbed! Mostly because in the dreams, I don't seem to be that phased by my nakedness. Oh, everyone else is totally freaking out of course, but me? Its like uh, yeah, I'm naked. Whatever.

4. Do you have a sister named Girlton?
I wish I had a sister named Girlton, if only because her nickname would probably be 'Girl', and to annoy her, I could stretch it out and make it sound all ghetto, like this:
"GUUUUUUURRRRLLLLL!"

3. If I looked in your glove box, what would I find?
Okay since I don't have a car, this question sucks. And, since I'm lazy, I can't be bothered to think of a replacement question. Well, suck it - none of you ever comment anyway!

2. What's your hidden talent?
Ok I don't think I have any hidden talents left. In my bid to become famous, I've publicly showcased pretty much every talent I have, no matter how insignificant. One thing I've recently discovered I totally kick ass at, though, is blowing bubbles with bubble gum. Yeah. I'm sure that's going to get me really far.

1. What's the first thing you think of when you see this:Whoa. I really like her glasses.

Sometimes I love being a brunette

"It's true. I do have a certain fondness for women that have dark hair."

- Wentworth Miller

Here's something you won't give a crap about:

I'm totally not as tall as I thought I was!
This whole time, I've been telling the whole world (or, at least, anyone who asked...which is pretty much nobody, but whatever) that I'm 5 ft 8.
Well, I'm not! I'm not going to get into why I decided to measure myself (because it's kind of totally dorky and embarrassing), but as it turns out...
I'm only 5 ft 7.
5 ft 7? 5 ft 7! So I'm either crazy, illiterate or shrinking. Wait, that's not totally accurate. Let me reword: I'm either crazy and illiterate, or crazy and shrinking. I can't decide which is more likely.
Huh.
However on the plus side, me being shorter increases the likeliness of Wentworth still being taller than me when I wear my highest heels to our wedding. How many inches are in a foot? 10? 12? 12. So he's...6 inches taller than me now!
Wowzer.
Oh just so you all know, yes, I realise this post is completely ludicrous. It's just that I've had 7 cups of coffee and 2 Red Bulls today, and I think typing is the only thing keeping my heart from exploding.
Oh dear.

And that's why I'm The King

Hey, remember when I used to embarrass myself all the time? And then blog about it? Like, there was the time I ended up naked in a swimming pool in front of my whole class. And the home-made g-string incident. Or how about all those awkward phone calls?
Anyway, I haven't written any blogs like that lately, so it probably seems like I haven't had an embarrassing moment for a while.
But don't be fooled.
I've still got it.
I still humiliate myself on a daily basis.
When it comes to embarrassing moments, I'm still The King.
Yeah, I said it - The King. Not The Queen. The King. I think technically you have to be a dude in order to be King of something, but I don't care. Try to find a guy on this planet who has had more embarrassing moments than me - I dare you. I dare you. And until you do, I am The King.
Here's some proof:
So today, as I said in the post below, I was home by myself and decided to do a little baking. Because, you know, who doesn't love anything baked? Hello, why do you think they're called baked goods? It's because they're so freaking good! Although if you ask me, they should be called baked greats.
Ha!
Ok that was terrible. I apologise.
Anyway, so I was home, by myself, baking, in my pajamas (more about those later), with my iPod connected to some speakers and the volume turned up way too loud. I have this playlist on my iPod, and I don't wanna brag or anything, but it's pretty much the most incredible playlist ever. It's called The Get Psyched Mix.
Oh man, it's good. It's great. It ups my levels of psychitude more than almost anything else. Pretty much the only thing that gets me more excited than this playlist is, well, Wentworth.
Ha - you thought we were going to get through one post without me mentioning Wentworth, didn't you? Guess again, my friends, guess again.
Anyway, so yeah, I'm listening to The Get Psyched Mix. And yeah, I'm getting psyched. And I was just beating some egg whites when Thriller came on.
Thriller.
Oh, my gosh, Thriller. Which everyone who knows me knows is my second favourite song of all time, right after Midnight Train by Journey. Anyway, not important.
The point is, I love Thriller. And listening to Thriller. And most of all, doing the Thriller dance. So yeah, of course I put down the egg whites, and started dancing around the kitchen.
Oh yeah, I danced. I busted a move, yo. I shook my groove thang. And I kept shaking it, right up until the point where I looked up and saw a random guy standing in my backyard, staring at me through the living room bay windows. That's when I remembered this:

On the phone, earlier that morning:
Mum: Baisy, I'm just calling to remind you that a man from the garbage disposal place is coming over today to pick up some dead trees and stuff.
Jacki: 'Kay

Oh, no.
Ok, so as if it isn't bad enough that this guy has caught me Thriller-ing around the kitchen...remember how I said I was wearing my pajamas? Here's the thing about my pajamas - they're kind of ridiculous. I have these thermal pants that I bought from an Anaconda outlet store for five bucks and I love them, but they make me look nuts. I mean first of all, they're thermals. And they're stripey - and bright green and white. Also it probably doesn't help that they're mens, so they sit kind of low in the crotch area. Kind of really low in the crotch area.
Sigh. I'm betting this garbage guy was pretty entertained by the sight of me in these crazy pants, a 100% Ladies Night Pub Crawl tshirt, knitted armwarmers and Catherine's Peter Alexander ugg boots which are about 7 sizes too big for me, singing, laughing and doing the Thriller dance while simultaneously trying not to trip over my own crotch.
Not to mention the fact that I am kind of totally uncoordinated and awkward, so when I do the Thriller dance, even though I know all the moves, it just ends up looking jerky and weird and well, completely retarded.
So yeah, that's what happened to me today. I feel like I should point out though, that as far as my embarrassing moments go, this one was kind of tame.
And that's why I'm The King.

I'm about to rant about something completely pointless

Just thought I'd warn you.

You know what really gets up my goat?
Ok, first of all, it's that expression. "Gets up my goat". What does that even mean? I mean, I know what it means, but who came up with it? It's completely ridiculous. I've been sitting here thinking about it for the past 15 minutes, and I still can't figure it out. What is a goat? Is it part of the human anatomy, or are they talking about an actual goat? And if its the latter, am I even allowed to say it? Because, you know, I don't HAVE a goat.
A dog, yes.
A cat, yes.
A goat?
No.
You know what? Whatever. That's not what I was going to rant about anyway - I was going to rant about how stupid White Wings cake mixes are.
They are!
They are stupid! Delicious but stupid. Because ok, today was the one day I've had at home this week, right? So I decided to have myself a little bake-a-thon. Mainly because I felt like eating cake, but also because I love the word bake-a-thon. Luckily, my Mum went shopping yesterday and bought these two White Wings mini cupcake mixes, one strawberry and one chocolate.
Well, I mean.
I thought it was lucky, until I discovered how stupid White Wings cake mixes are. Now I think maybe it was the worst grocery-related decision my mother has ever made. Apart from the time she bought these Smiths red rock deli imitation chips that were trying really hard to be sweet chili flavoured, but actually just tasted like vomit. But that's another story.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, right. Here's why White Wings can suck my White Ass:
First of all, the box says the ingredients will make 18 cupcakes. That's fine. That's great. Except they give you 21 patty pans. 21. It's true - I counted them. Why would they give you 21 patty pans, and only enough mixture to fill 18? It's just wrong. It's just cruel. You're either left with 3 sad empty patty pans at the end, or (if you attempt to fill all of them) the cupcakes are all runty and small. Which would be ok, except that these cupcakes are ALREADY mini. If you make them any smaller, they pretty much don't exist!
Ok and you know what else? The icing. The icing is - there's no other way to say it - COMPLETELY INFURIATING. It won't spread! It just kept sticking to the fracking knife! At first I thought maybe there was something wrong with the knife, but you know what? There wasn't! Because I changed the knife. TWICE! It's the icing. The icing, I tell you! It took me like 10 minutes to finish each cupcake - 10 minutes per cupcake, and there were 18 cupcakes.
...
DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG THAT IS?
DO YOU?
DO YOU?!
I felt like I was taking crazy pills!
Oh, but the torture didn't end there - because after I spread (or, at least attempted to spread) the icing, I had to put the sprinkles on. Which I thought would be easy and fun and exciting and about a thousand other things like that, but of course it wasn't. I'm not going to go into it (because I risk having a coronary), let's just say that more sprinkles made it around the kitchen, onto the floor and into the sink, the bin, the dog's mouth and my hair than on the actual cupcakes themselves.
There. That's it. I hope you all boycott White Wings from now on.
And now I'm going to stop talking about this, because I think I've embarrassed myself enough for one day.

I forgot to blog about this earlier.
So I guess Tahnee won Australia's Next Top Model. Yay! Or nay! Yeah, I'm conflicted. I mean, on one hand you've got Tahnee - mature, professional, beautiful and charming in that I'm-a-total-bumbling-fool-and-don't-you-just-love-it? kind of way. But on the other hand you've got Cassie, and well...there are few things I find more entertaining than a total bogan attempting to morph into a fashion model. Very few. In fact, here's the list:

• Naked Wentworth

Uh, yep. That's pretty much it.
So yeah - yay or nay. Or whatever. I can't really make up my mind. To be honest, TV kind of lost all meaning for me the minute Michael Scofield was killed off.

Most Offensive Comment EVER

Jacki: You'll all be sorry when I'm dead!
Dad: Why?

T-Bag is in town!!

Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh.
I just found out Robert Knepper, also known as T-Bag, the one-handed super villain from Prison Break (Prison Break! PRISON BREAK!!!) is in Sydney.
As in Sydney, Australia.
As in Sydney, Australia, WHERE I LIVE!
Um, ARGH!
How is it that I'm only finding out about this now, when he's leaving for Melbourne in a couple of hours?! If someone told me sooner, I could have been out all day looking for him! I would have had more time to find him, kidnap him, and force him to take me to Wentworth Miller's house! I could have convinced him to cut off his own hand, autograph it, and give it to me as a parting gift!
Oh, the disappointment. It consumes me.

On another note, I'm watching the Michael Jackson - Last Time concert on TV right now, and having just about the best time of my life. I know he's dead and all, but there's something about seeing Michael Jackson and Slash from Guns n Roses on the same stage that melts my little black heart. I mean it. The only way it could get better is if I was marrying Wentworth Miller while watching this concert. Actually, I think I've gotten myself a little too excited:

Jacki: If he doesn't do Thriller, I'll shit my pants on your bed. And then eat it.
Catherine: (Pause) I really don't want that to happen.
Jacki: Oh me neither, my friend. Me neither.


Jacki: I really like his knee-pads.
(Michael is crouching down on the stage covering his eyes with his arm)
Catherine: What is he doing?
Jacki: Maybe weeping? He might be overcome. With emotion. He's a very emotional person, you know. Oh, was a very emotional person. Oh gosh, I think I just died inside, saying that.


(N'Sync comes on stage and does a duet with the Jackson 5)
Jacki: Oh my - is that JT?
Catherine: It's not just JT, its all of N'Sync.
Jacki: I just orgasmed.

WANTED: Embarrassing photos of my sister

Today was officially my first day of holidays.
Yay me!
I say 'officially', because the last day of college was Friday, so technically my first day of holidays was on Saturday. But since Saturday is part of the weekend, and weekends don't count as holidays (on account of the fact that I have license to live like a slob every weekend, so there's nothing that special about them once actual holidays role around), I'm making today the first day.
Wow. I sounded pretty moronic right then. Oh well.
Anyway, I woke up to find Wentworth whispering sweet nothings in my ear, and saw 2 huge boxes of photos at the end of my bed. Alright, that was a lie. Actually, I woke up to a phone call from my ex-boss, asking me if I had any spare time during the holidays, and if I could possibly sew her some curtains.
Huh.
Can I ask, is anyone's life as weird as mine? Who else has an ex-boss asking them to make curtains for her? Anyone?
Anyway, so while (sadly) I didn't wake up to Wentworth, the thing about the boxes was actually true - there were 2 of them, huge ones, filled with photographs, at the end of my bed.
Oh, that's right. My Mum told me she was going to leave them there, so I could spend all day going through them and picking out the most embarrassing ones for this scrapbook she's making Catherine for her birthday. Yeah and when I said 'all day', I really meant 'all day'. That's how long it would take to go through all our family photos. No, I take that back.
It would take longer than all day. It would probably take longer than all year.
We have so many family photos, there's a special storage room in our house dedicated to them. You know how people always say if their house was on fire, the first thing they'd save would be their photo albums? Yeah, we couldn't do that, because in the time it would take to gather them all together and cart them out, the house would have burned to the ground. I am not even kidding - if you took a photo of something every 5 seconds for the rest of your life, you would still not have as many family photos as we have.
It's mainly my Dad's fault. He's a doctor, but I think he secretly wants to be a photographer. Or maybe its not so secret, since he takes photos of everything.

Anyway. To continue the train of thought I was on before the massive rant about family photos...My sisters birthday is coming up. It's on August 26th. The 26th of August. As far as I know, it's not the same birthday as anyone from Prison Break, but it's still a pretty good day. A pretty great day, actually. Because it's not just any birthday, it's her 21st birthday.
Oh, yeah. The big 2-1. You know what that means: booze, cake, loud music and me giving an absurdly long-winded speech in which I reveal the most embarrassing and hilarious details about my sister and her life to date.
This is it - the moment I've been preparing for my whole life. Or at least it was, until Catherine told me the one condition she had for her 21st: NO SPEECHES.
Which is of course completely ridiculous, since we all know you can't turn 21 without manning up, eating some cake, and listening to your little sister embarrass the shit out of you.
Well, whatever. I'm not worried. I've had years of practice convincing various family members to do stuff they don't want - I'm nothing if not a talented con woman. Plus, on the off chance that she refuses to let me do the speech at her actual party, I'll just film myself saying it, and then broadcast it all over the internet.
(Insert evil laugh here)
So, Catherine, dear sister of mine. Who's going to hear my speech? 50 of your closest friends - OR THE WHOLE WORLD?
Your choice.

My Bucket List

I just watched the episode of Scrubs where JD turns 30, and he gets all emo about it because when he and Turk were in college, they wrote a list of all the things they want to accomplish by the time they turn 30, and he hasn't done any of them.
That made me think.
Dude. Dude. 30 is OLD.
Also, it might be fun to write a list of things I want to accomplish.
A 'Bucket List', if you will.
I'm excited. Mostly because I feel like this is the kind of thing that will totally crack me up when I come back to read it in my old age.
...
Ok, you know what? I am so not waiting another 11 years to laugh at myself, so I'm just writing a list of things I want to accomplish - nay, things I WILL accomplish by the time I'm 20.
Which is in...9 months.
Oh holy crap.
I'm 20 in...in 9 months?!
This sucks! Why didn't anyone warn me?? Dammit!!
Here's the list:

THINGS TO DO BY THE TIME I TURN 20

• Build a time machine
• Have something named after me
  
• Finish knitting the blanket I started 6 years ago
  
• Invent a card came so good they play it in Vegas
• Convince my hair to start growing again
• Get the family of possums out of my roof
• Somehow persuade one of my friends to have a dress-up themed birthday party, so I can put fake tattoos all over the top half of my body and go as The Female Michael Scofield
• Learn how to make an origami flower
• Star in a Baz Luhrmann movie and win the Oscar for best actress. Ok, maybe thats a bit far-fetched. I'll just be in the movie - the Oscar is optional
• Figure out how to stop myself from aging
• Be on an episode of Rove
• Learn how to ride a pogo stick
• Teach my cat how to ride a pogo stick
• Bring Michael Jackson back from the dead
• Get through my P's test without killing anybody
• Sail around Panama
• Have my book published
• Steal a pair of scrubs from North Shore Hospital - dammit they look so comfortable!
• Get Catherine to admit that I'm right about something
• Ride a shopping trolley down the giant hill on River Road
• Learn how to do one of those wicked-cool iceskating spins
• Spend a whole day at The Wardrobe trying on costumes
• Finally finish reading The Tomorrow Series
• Get people to start calling me something cooler than Jacki, like 'JT' or 'The Jack-Attack'
• Make the perfect cappuccino
  
• Find a hairstyle that actually works for me

and of course...

• Meet Wentworth