A Strange Breed Of Human

This is kind of a stupid thing to blog about, but still. It has to be said. Sometimes those Foxtel TV Synopsis things are ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. Here's one I just read for an episode of Sex and The City: Carrie goes out on a date with Mr Big, still enjoying having fun with him. Charlotte and Trey go to dinner party together where he gets her in the coatroom and has sex with her.
Okay.
Where do I start? 'Still enjoying having fun'? That in itself is a grammatical disaster. Somewhere out there, my year 12 English teacher just exploded. Also is it just me, or does the last half of the second sentence kind of sound like a victim's courtroom description of rape? I'm not saying this is an episode about sexual assault, I'm just saying that if I somehow ended up inside a coatroom with a guy called Trey...it'd be against my will.
What else?
Apparently Charlotte and Trey are going to dinner party. Not a dinner party. Just dinner party. I guess according to Foxtel, there's some unwritten rule that in this galaxy, only one dinner party may take place at a time. Huh. I didn't know about that one. Thank goodness I'm not in the habit of throwing impromptu dinner parties - who knows what kind of universal crisis I may have caused! Honestly, the way that thing was written - along with the fact that someone got paid to write it - really makes me question the fate of humanity. I mean, 'enjoying having fun'? We are all doomed.

So speaking of television and whatnot, there's a marathon of classic Girls Of The Playboy Mansion episodes playing on the E! channel right now. Oh how I've missed those girls. Or to be more specific, how I've missed Holly Madison. I can't say how faithful a blog-reader you are or if you'll remember this, but the last time I posted about Holly Madison, it was to say that she could literally take a dump on my front lawn and I would still love her. How odd that while I haven't written about her since then, I have written about other people taking dumps on my front lawn. Several times. I certainly am a strange breed of human.
Speaking of strange breeds of human...this lady. Yikes. I can't tell you how disappointed I was to see she hadn't made it onto YouTube yet, because trust me - this is one phenomenon you have to see live in order to really appreciate.
Speaking of phenomenons you have to see live in order to really appreciate...ah, I got nothing. Instead, here's another semi-amusing work-related anecdote:

Another Semi-Amusing Work-Related Anecdote, by Jacki Trew

Like any hair salon, we offer treatments at Toni&Guy. I'm not gonna get into a full description of how they work (if you wanna know, you can pay $31.00 like everyone else, asshole), but one of the steps involves wrapping the clients head in hot towels.
I know what you're thinking. 'But Jacki, we have to know - how do you get the towels to be hot??' Is that what you were thinking? It was, wasn't it? Was it? I sure hope so, because that's what I'm going to talk about. We used to have a towel-warming machine, but it didn't work very well. So for a while we just poured boiling water over them and wrung them out. Until one day when I got to work and discovered that the kettle had gone missing - apparently there was a new and improved way to heat up the towels which involved wetting them, wrapping them in a plastic bag and then microwaving them for 3 minutes.
This story is dragging.
Well, to cut a long rant short...while attempting to heat up 2 towels on Saturday afternoon, I pretty much soft-boiled my hands. Oh, my goodness. I have never felt pain like that in my life. I mean, apart from when I got caught on a barbed wire fence. Or from that time I cut my hand open on a coathanger. Or from last Monday, when I made and ate that spicy-tomato-meatball-and-cheese-dorito toasted sandwich. But apart from those. Luckily I dont think anyone noticed, except for the client whose face I was silently crying onto. Yeah. Needless to say, there was no tip from her.

Not that I condone smoking or anything, but here's what I don't get:

How come they only put health warnings on cigarette packets? Don't smoke. Don't do it! We're serious. If you smoke, you WILL die. You WILL. Not a joke. You will die. Don't smoke.

Okay, and I get it. Cigarettes do people damage. But hey - so do plenty of other things. And yet I NEVER see stuff like this in the supermarket:

Least of all the MOST obvious one:

Sigh. Why can't the rest of the world be as brilliant as me?

Speaking of things I just don't get, can someone please tell me what the appeal of Matthew McConaughey is? I'm seriously at a loss. Between the greasy hair, the C-grade movies and the fact that I had to Google his last name in order to find out the spelling...maybe I'm lazy, but it just seems like too much effort. Ha! I say as if Matthew McWhateverItsJustTooDamnHard would ever look at me twice.

Running Bare-Assed

I was going to post about this as a response to someone's status update on Facebook. But since I don't actually know them that well, I thought it might be a bit embarrassing. Yes, I thought, it makes much more sense to just blog about it for millions and millions of strangers to see.
...
I'm an idiot.
Anyway.
Did anyone watch State Of Origin just now? Yeah, neither did I. I get that it's patriotic and entertaining and important to like 80% of the male population, but I just have no interest in seeing the state of NSW being humiliated like that. Again. Plus the guys aren't even that hot. I will say this though: the fights are pretty damn funny. When that first one broke out about 20 minutes in, I may or may not have run bare-assed from the bathroom to the lounge in order to see it.


Speaking of running bare-assed...aah, I'm just kidding. I can only wish my life was interesting enough that I would have something else to say about the topic of running without pants on. As it is, I do not. Speaking of pants though, I wore some to work today. And speaking of work (worst segue ever?)...it's been almost 3 months since I began work at Toni&Guy, and I'm finally at the stage where I really feel that I fit in. Or to be more accurate, where I really feel that it's appropriate for me to make jokes like this:


My Boss: Jacki, have you had a look at the printer?
Me: Uh, no...why?
My Boss: Well it's jammed. And it says that the jam is in this ink cartridge that nobody can find...So do you think you could have a look, see if you could find it?
Me: Oh sure, no worries.
My Boss: Cool. I mean, everyone else has had a look, so you may as well too, right?
Me: Sure. And if I do find it, you'll give me a raise, right?
My Boss: Hahaha.
Me: Hahaha.
My Boss: Hahaha. No.

My iPhone Addiction

I am honestly concerned by my addiction to the following three things:

• Coffee
• Toasted sandwiches
• iPhones and all iPhone-related-products.

Toasted sandwiches? Fairly harmless. And while 4 cups of caffeine per day can't exactly be considered healthy, I learned long ago that life would be more enjoyable for everyone if I just allowed myself to drink coffee.
So let's talk about iPhones.
My iPhone has been out of action for the past 2 weeks. I know! How is it possible that I haven't blogged about this yet? Well, there are 2 main reasons - the first is this thing I have called my job. And the second is that every time I thought about the very fact that my iPhone was out of action, I was overcome by the desire to rip my own face off. Oh, my gosh. My Mum thinks I'm an idiot. How disgusting that I can't last 14 measly days without a 130g computer that not only holds all my music, photos and phone numbers, but also allows me to access internet, email, weather updates and stock market information whenever and wherever I am, AND (through the magic of the iTunes application store) provides me with endless entertainment 24/7. I must be CRAZY.
No, okay.
In all fairness, I do rely a little too much on Apple. I get it. I'm currently looking into a 12-step program in order to deal with my Apple addiction. It doesn't reflect well on me that after just 24 hours, I found myself experiencing 'iPhone withdrawal symptoms'. Nor that I would like to touch intimately with whoever invented the touch screen. My only saving grace is that I can say with all honestly that I have never and will never feel the urge to purchase an iPad.
iPad? What's the deal? It's like a barely-functioning laptop time travelled to 2002 and had drunken sex with a Nokia 3315. Only even they wouldn't be stupid enough to name their bastard child something as ridiculous as the iPad. If Bill Gates were dead, he would be rolling over in his grave right now. As it turns out he is probably just rolling over in bed. Or rather, rolling around in a pile of 100 dollar notes. I'm assuming he uses the 100's as bedsheets; the 20's are for wiping his ass.

Pepsi Less

I could literally punch myself in the face right now, because I just cooked one of those meals you know are going to cause you some sort of pain in the near future, and then ate it anyway. I'm an idiot. Since my parents abandoned me for a holiday in Canada I've actually been pretty responsible in terms of breakfast, lunch, etc. I actually MADE a Caesar salad the other day. But tonight I was consumed by the spirit of a crazy person who thought two chocolate milkshakes and a toasted tomato-spicy-meatball-and-cheese-Dorito sandwich would be appropriate for dinner.
My insides are on fire.
I didn't know this, but apparently since the last time I ate any, Doritos have started making their chips out of pure asbestos. That's the only thing I can imagine would make me feel this ill. I may vomit. I may die. I may give birth to some form of food baby. In any case, I sure am glad I live alone this month.
On a completely different note, I recently bore witness to what is probably the best, funniest and most accurate description of Pepsi Max I have ever heard.

The Navy Man: If Coca Cola was at work all day, went to the gym, came home and then took a leak, it's pee would taste like Pepsi Max.

That sounds insane, but you know it's right. Pepsi Max should not be legal. At least, not for kids under 18 - we don't want young developing bodies ingesting that crap. What I don't get is how Pepsi Max is sold everywhere, but those weird sour watermelon Fanta drinks (also known as Taste Orgasm In A Bottle) were taken off the market after only a few months. Huh? How does that make sense? This is exactly the same issue I had with Prison Break being cancelled. Kind of. Not really, but you know what I mean.
Why is it even called Pepsi Max? Max? There's no sugar, right? I fail to see how REMOVING sugar could maxemise the flavour of anything, let alone a cola drink that already tastes like crap. As a firm believer in honesty being the best policy, I truly think Pepsi would have greater success with a more accurate name. Perhaps Pepsi Less, or Shit Pepsi. It's important that customers know exactly what they're paying for, after all.

The Long Weekend

Long Weekend you crazy blog-readers. Did everyone have as good of a time as I did? I sincerely doubt it. Because unless your weekend started with the world's best cocktail and ended with a cable-car ride across Taronga Zoo, it doesn't even come close to mine. To be honest, I wasn't even going to blog about it. It was that good. It was that good. And my decidedly sub-par writing skills probably aren't going to do it justice. But my good friend - and arguably the biggest fan of this series of seemingly insane rants I call a website - Jane du Toit asked me to. And God knows that whenever Janey asks me to do something, I find it nearly impossible to resist. Even weird stuff. Even crazy stuff. Even dirty stuff.
Oh, who are we kidding?
Especially dirty stuff.
So here goes.
Saturday.
I count saturday as part of the weekend. I mean, obviously. But usually I don't, since while everyone else is sleeping in or making eggs or driving to netball, I go to work on saturday mornings. So for me the weekend usually begins on a sunday. It also happens to end on a sunday, but that's a bitter and slothful rant I'll save for another time. This weekend however, began on saturday. Yeah I still had to work - but I was so amped up about the impending awesomeness of saturday night that (between surfing YouTube and pounding the cuppaccinos) I got hardly anything done. At the end of the day it kind of just felt like I'd been hanging out in a hairdresser for 9 and a half hours. And then came saturday night. The first leg of Ellen's 21st birthday marathon weekend. After a brief pre-party at Ellen and Mischa's apartment (where I may or may not have invented my very own cocktail; aptly named 'The Incredible Hulk' on account of the fact that it's bright green) we headed to Toko on Crown Street for dinner and drinks. Okay, so Toko. Putting aside the fact that there's a martini on the menu with fairy floss in it, this place is one of my favourite bars in Sydney. Why? Because Lady GaGa went there. And anyone who knows me knows that if it were physically possible to remove another persons skin and wear it as a jacket, I would be zipping up my GaGa coat right now.

Sunday.
So after an early morning start, I picked up Madi, Tegan and The Navy Man (yeah, did I mention he was in town?) and headed to one of my other favourite places in Sydney. The Illustrated Man. Um, yeah. Hi Mum! Hi Dad! I guess this is as good a time as any to let you know I've been thinking about getting another tattoo for a while now...if it's any consolation, it's really more of a continuation of one I already have. It's easily hidden. And I am totally okay with you just pretending you can't see it. Moving on.
After that little adventure, The Navy Man and I headed back to Elle and Mischa's for a baking/cocktail/V-Energy-Shot-and-lolly-pop party. Then at around 9 we drove to Kit&Caboodle to meet up with two more of my favourite people, Jane and Dante. I know what you're thinking - can this night get any better? Well, when you factor in the $5.00 drinks at Kit&Caboodle and The Navy Man's weirdly hilarious fixation with Dante's facial hair, I'd say yeah. It can. I'm not going to divulge too many details; partly to respect the dignity of those involved, and mostly because you'll probably find photographic evidence of the whole thing on Facebook soon anyway. But here's a small teaser:

• 7 dollar pizza
• Disco music
• Tequila
• A birthday dance
• A hilarious trip to the bathroom
• A ridiculously intense conversation about the pros and cons of lipstick
• Jane's tongue

Monday.
Ellen's actual birthday. Ellen! 21! All grown up! And what better way to celebrate the official entry into adulthood than with a trip to Taronga Zoo. Despite the fact that collectively we'd all had less than 6 hours of sleep, by 10am we were rearing to go. I personally hadn't visited any zoo since the age of about 13 so I'd kind of forgotten - but animals are pretty flippin' cool. Even on a public holiday when you're surrounded by long lines, crying babies and pram-weilding mothers who take the term 'crazy bitch' to a whole other level. My favourite part? Probably the bird show. Not only because it starred a bow-legged vulture named Lesley whose main act seemed to involve awkwardly hobbling from one side of the stage to the other, but also because we were making jokes about the birds being cocaine-addicted robots the whole time. I know. Very adult.

So there you have it. My long weekend. Did I get everything down? Obviously not. The past few days have included so many crazy-enjoyable moments, it'd be impossible to tell you all of them. Plus there's that whole thing about me being incredibly lazy and forgetful. Oh, and the fact that my parents will probably read this. But at least I've given you the highlights - so enjoy them. Write them down. Tell them at parties. If nothing else, you'll at least get a few laughs...and maybe an Incredible Hulk request.

I will never take living with my parents for granted again.
Oh, my gosh.
I get that I'm 20 and I have a job and I can drive and I should really know all the stuff that typical grown-ups know, like that you have to BUY food, that leaving the TV on all night will probably piss off the neighbours, and that if your cat decides to take a giant dump in the middle of the living room, she's not very well going to clean it up herself - you have to clean it up. But as it turns out, I'm an idiot. Who knew living by yourself was such hard work? I sure didn't. Well, except for the cat poo thing. That's pretty much a given. But the other stuff?
I'm living like a homeless person. The only difference being that I'm not actually homeless. Still, I feel that at this point a cardboard box on the street would probably be more comfortable than my freezing pig-sty of a bedroom. Trust Mother Nature to wait until my parents leave me alone for 3 weeks to unleash the coldest winter in 400 years. That bitch has had it in for me for years.

In other news, I just heard about Australia's horrendous loss to Germany (Germany? Yeah, Germany) in the Fifa World Cup. 4 nil? As if that's not bad enough, Tim Cahill was sent off and Harry Kewell didn't even play! What's that all about? Now, I'm no expert on soccer...but it seems pretty obvious to me that a team who leaves their best looking player on the bench has no chance of winning whatsoever. I mean, that's just simple physics. Get it together Australia!

The Dancers Should Win. That's All I'm Saying.

So I went to the doctor today. And the Apple Store, but since the dudes at Apple were total douche-bags to me, I'm not going to grace them with a mention on my blog. Except to say this: the dudes at Apple in Chatswood are all douche-bags. Don't go there.
Moving on.
So I went to the doctor. Well, technically not the doctor. I suppose a doctor is more accurate, since I am assuming there is more than one doctor in existance. Then again, perhaps not. This is a crazy messed up world we live in. Anyway, this doctor I went to see was a plastic surgeon, cause - you guessed it - I've finally decided to bite the bullet and upgrade my chest to a pair of bangin' double ds.
Okay, that's a lie. I would never get breast implants. Plus we all know I've already got bangin' double ds. No, the real reason was to start getting the scar on my hand reduced - even though if you were to ask, it doesn't bother me that much. Mostly I'm just doing it to appease my Mother and her fear that "no man will ever put a ring on that hand!"
Mum, come on. Let's be honest. A little scar isn't the reason that won't be happening. Actually I think it has more to do with me being less than 10 months away from my 21st birthday and still making boob jokes on the internet.

So I'm watching Australia's Got Talent right now. The Grand Final episode. Yep, I am living the high life alright. Still, whether or not you would like to witness host Grant Denyer being crushed by an avalanche of poorly-constructed toilets (is there a more humiliating death than that?), you have to admit those people do have talent. I was disappointed when Watermelon Man didn't make the finals, but the others have grown on me. I especially like the dancers. I especially don't like the father and son who both got in as separate acts. Ugh. Separate acts. Ugh. They keep talking about how they 'don't feel like each others competition'. The dad wants to son to win and the son wants the dad to win. And everyone keeps aahing and awwing like this is the most selfless thing in the world, which it's NOT - the kid is only 16, people. It doesn't matter which one of them wins, they're both gonna end up watching the same flat screen TV bought with AGT prize money. Yes most of this hostility comes from the fact that I'm not a finalist on Australia's Got Talent, but still. The dancers should win. That's all I'm saying.

Shower Thoughts #38

First, you should know that while in the bathroom just now I had probably the best Shower Thought I have ever had. Witty. Intelligent. Insightful. Thought-provoking.
But then I forgot it.
Man, I've really gotta cut down on all the weed-smoking I do*.
Anyway, that's why you're getting this second-rate Shower Thought: In Twilight, how come Bella's looks completely change when she becomes a vampire, yet in all the flashbacks, Edward still looks like Edward?
I know it's stupid. Still, I'd like to know. If you have time, I'd also like a pony and a trillion dollars. That is all.

*I'm kidding Mum. Seriously, I'm kidding. It's meth, not weed - you know that.

This is going to be pointless, but I'd like to post once more before I have to go back to work for another week and can only dream about blogging pointless things.

Okay, so, Today Tonight.

I get that - despite labelling itself as a news and current affairs program - TT is supposed to focus more on human interest pieces than actual news, but would it really be so difficult for them to take one night off from reporting about suburban termite infestations and inflated grocery prices and tell me something I actually want to know? Yes, Coles is screwing me over. I get it. You only had to say it once.

Ugh.

I've noticed lately that I am infinitely more bitchy on my blog than I am in person. I don't know why this is, but in case you've never actually met me, you should know - I don't hate everything. Actually, it's fair to say I don't really hate anything. Except for you, of course.

I'm kidding. I couldn't hate someone I've never met! And when we do eventually meet each other, I'll do my best to disguise it.

So last Friday night I went to see Sex And The City 2 with Ellen after work. Yay! It's not great, but after 9 hours of shampooing, answering phones and sweeping up hair, I was in no position to complain about a whole 120 minutes where all I had to concentrate on was shoes and clothes. And the complimentary mini-bottles of champagne that came with our tickets. Afterwards (and despite the fact that I had work at 8am the next day), Ellen convinced me to join her at Chelsea Bar for a drink.

One drink. And it was only 10pm. That's not so bad, right?

4 hours, 5 Jager Bombs, 2 lollypops and a glass of white wine later, I was starting to reconsider. But it was Jagermeister Night and every time I thought about finding a cab, the Jager Girls would walk by with scratchies and offer me a chance to win something else. So on the plus side, I went home with a keyring, a camera and a t-shirt. On the minus side though, I went home looking like this:

It's times like these I'm really thankful to be young and female and 70% caffeine. Because I'm sure at least one of those has something to do with my ability to skip hangovers.

Anyway, like I said to Ellen earlier, I was way chirpier on Saturday than I had any right to be. Perhaps too chirpy. Actually, I'm sure a few of the clients assumed I was high or something - especially the young man I offered to make 'cea' or 'toffee' for. Aah, good times.

So yesterday was my Dad's 100-and-somethingth birthday. Oh, I'm kidding. I think. Anyway, it was also the day after he and my Mum left for a 3-week trip to Canada. Only apparently he told his work he was taking sick leave rather than a holiday, since I got like 5 phone calls from concerned family members. I couldn't decide what was weirder - that they knew he had taken sick leave, or that they waited until his birthday to call and ask him about it. The fact that I had no freakin' clue what any of them were talking about made me look like a great daughter I'm sure. Well, whatever. I'm just glad they didn't actually drop around, cause even though Mum and Dad've only been gone for like 3 days our house is already trashed. Completely. I'm actually thinking about moving just to avoid cleaning it up. One lesson I've learnt from all this: I can never live alone. Or if I do, it'll be without food, clothing or pets.

Well. Something to look forward to I guess.

Twins?

I have never been more disturbed or terrified by the idea of giving birth than I am right now. Mostly because of the whole having-to-force-something-the-size-of-a-watermelon-through-my-vagina thing, and partly due to photos like this and the possibility that they could be real. But also because I have made an interesting discovery as of late. Are you ready for it? Here it comes:

I am going to be a terrible mother.

And I'm not even being hard on myself. Let's look at the facts:

1) Food-wise, I can only master two things: Italian, and baked goods.

Or as I like to call them, baked greats. Still. Chocolate chip cookies and spaghetti for dinner? Every night? My kids are gonna be fat. And not ph fat. Regular fat.

2) I don't know shit about science.

Kids are ALWAYS asking questions about science. Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green? How do telephones work? Why is Mummy's hair falling out? I'm the girl who almost failed Year 10 Science, okay? I don't know shit about science. I don't know shit about shit! And on that note...

3) I swear too much.

Really, does anyone want their child's first word to be a curse? Fuck no! Plus I think the fact that I'm perfectly content to sit and stew and do nothing about this makes me a terrible person. Amused and happy, but terrible. Also,

4) I have weird theories that I'm constantly trying to force on other people.

Not The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory. Once the rest of the world catches on, my offpring'll be living off the benefits from that for years. But while it's okay for me to know better, I'd just feel bad for any Australian kid who avoided the ocean every summer for fear of being attacked by gang-rapist dolphins. Even if they are real and a legitimate danger. And finally,

5) I plan on naming my first son 'Wentworth'.
And while I think it's nice, others disagree and I'm an idiot. Wentworth? How long do you think it'll take him to get bashed in the schoolyard? 5 minutes? 6?

I rest my case. I'm not saying I'll be abusive or neglectful or one of those parents who forgets their daughter's allergy and sends her to school with a peanut butter sandwich (*cough* Phillip Trew *cough*), I'm just saying that if sanity and any vestige of common sense were prerequisites for having children...I probably wouldn't be getting any. Since they aren't though, I'll probably end up with 5. Gold.

On a completely different note, I had a minor celebrity-sighting on Saturday morning when Tony Abbott had coffee at the cafe next to my work. At least I would have, had I actually known who Tony Abbott was. Luckily, one of our clients who was waiting for a shampoo and haircut was perfectly willing to fill me in. Granted, he made me feel like a complete idiot while doing so ("Tony Abbott. The future Prime Minister of this country?"), but still. And while I'm enough of an ignorant asshole that I couldn't really tell you the difference (politically) between Kevin Rudd and this Tony guy, it's nice to know our next possible PM doesn't resemble the O RLY? Owl:

Twins?
You know I'm right.

My Torrid Love Affair Continues

Yeah, I'm at it again.

So I was watching Twilight: New Moon on DVD last night (as all the cool kids do on a Saturday evening) when I realised something. I am neither Team Edward NOR Team Jacob. And I don't know...maybe this is just the result of over-exposure to Taylor Lautner's abs, maybe it's because I've been living on caffeine and Mi Goreng noodles for the past 72 hours...but last night, I found myself siding with THIS dude:

Right? RIGHT? Screw vampires and warewolves, I'm all for Team Mike. Not just because it continues the weird fixation I have that's caused me to fall in love with almost every Mike/Mick/Michael I've known since I was 11, but also because dating him is pretty much the only option that won't result in death or a cross-species pregnancy.
Of course, since by some bizarre twist of fate I've managed to convince the best-looking man in the Australian Navy that dating me would be a good idea, the whole thing is a moot point. I'm just saying.

Speaking of the best-looking man in the Australian Navy...yeah, I'm not allowed to. Apparently internet blogging and matters concerning the defence of our nation don't exactly mix. So in case you ever wonder why I spend all of my time writing about television and how bad I am at my job instead of him, that's the reason. It's not because he doesn't exist. Or because he does exist but only hangs out with me when my Mum pays him to. Although if you saw us standing next to each other, I could understand how you might think that. I'm kidding! No, I'm not. My point is...I don't have a point. Isn't that always my point? Moving on.

We Have Sex With Our Ponytails!

Well howdy there.

I know it's been like a week since I updated, but still. Not much to post about today. Except for the fact that I think this might be the best photograph I have ever taken:

Or that anyone has ever taken. And they say I'M the crazy one in our family?
Anyway.
I realise you guys are probably sick of these by now, but between sleeping and trips to the dentist I don't spend much time anywhere else...so who wants to hear another 'Jacki Messed Up At Work And It Was Hilarious' story?
The day was Wednesday. The time was mid-afternoon. And I'd just been asked to put a toner through some woman's hair. For those of you who don't have experience in the glamorous world of apprentice hairdressing, toner is a conditioner-like cream that we apply after foils or highlights to neutralise the difference between the new colour and the natural colour of the hair. You can either mix it yourself, or use Colour Fresh, which is pre-mixed and comes in a yellow bottle. There's 3 kinds of Colour Fresh: one for blondes, one for redheads and one for dark brunettes. Get it?
You get it.
Anyway, since I'd had a pretty incident-free day, when I was asked to do the toner, I took it upon myself to choose which one to apply. At random, I chose Colour Fresh 12/13. For dark brunettes.
My client was blonde.
Needless to say, I don't think 'murky purple' was the colour she asked for. And with good reason. I am an idiot.

Speaking of idiots...James Cameron. That was a terrible segue, but I don't really care. I'm watching Avatar right now, and starting to take back some of the shit I said about it around Oscar-season. It's not so bad. Sure it's long, it's predictable and it's an obvious rip-off of Pocahontas, but I think my real problem is with James Cameron. That, and the whole we-have-sex-with-our-ponytails thing. Coz that's just weird.

Ew. Dentists. Ew.

What's up my bitches?
Amazing day so far in every way possible. Oh, except for this morning. Let me tell you about this morning:
Well first of all, the power was out. For an unknown reason. Which is always fun for a girl whose parents leave for work at 5am and often neglect to turn their mobile phones on. How I managed to get from my bed to the bathroom to the kitchen to the phone without killing myself or one of my pets I will never know. Regardless, after an over-the-fence crash course in Fuse Boxes And Why They Sometimes Fuck Up Your Morning from two of the builders next door, I was washed, dressed and on my way to the dentist.
Oh. Yeah. Only in a world this cruel would I survive what I'm pretty comfortable calling the worst fuse-box-related incident in history just to make a trip to the dentist after.
Ew.
Dentists.
Ew.
If you are a dentist and reading this, I'm sorry. But you will have to get over it and accept the fact that I want you and everyone you work with to die painfully. And that I don't even feel bad about it. There is nothing remotely pleasant about a trip to the dentist, and that INCLUDES the gift-bag they give you afterwards: mini toothpaste and a pamphlet on the dangers of not flossing. Thanks, but does it look like I want any more reminders of the past 45 minutes? I think the aftertaste of that fluoride foam you sprayed down my throat without any warning whatsoever is gonna do the trick just fine.
On the plus side, I did manage to short-circuit their X-Ray machine with my earrings. Take that, you Wisdom-Teeth-hungry freaks!
Still. Apart from all THAT, my day was pretty good. I found and bought the most amazingly-well-fitted-to-my-legs-in-specific pair of jeans for only $50, further cementing my theory that all good things in life are poorly made and cost nothing. I got paid. AND I got home in time to catch the episode of Project Runway that I missed last night on Arena+2. Check and mate. My dentist could literally make a house call just to kick me in the crotch right now and I wouldn't even care.

Introducing Wenlock and Mandeville

Okay.

All I have to say is, thank you GOD I have an unexpected day off today. Because I would have had to end my own life if I didn't have the time this morning to blog about these intruiging and adorable creatures:

Meet Wenlock and Mandeville (no, I'm not even kidding), the official mascots of the London 2012 Olympic Games.

Right? Right? Intruiging and adorable, no? Of course, if by 'intruiging' and 'adorable' what you really mean is 'hideous' and 'terrifying, absolutely terrifying, the kind of horror that will ensure sleepless nights for months on end'.

As if you need any more proof that members of the London Olympic Mascot Committee need to take a good long look at themselves and then begin punching each other in the ovaries, let's take a look at the Sydney 2000 Mascots:And now back to London:

And now compare them side-by-side:

I rest my case. Mascot Committee, you may assume punching each other in the nads. That is all.

My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours

One of the worst things about having a sister/boyfriend in the armed services is that no matter how hard you try, you will never win the 'My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours' game. Because - even if you have to trek across 4 suburbs in the pouring rain, rinse permanent colour through the wrong woman's hair, trip and spill searing hot coffee all over your new skirt and unwillingly get high off Domestos fumes and end up shaving your co-workers head (not that I would do something crazy like that, I'm just saying) - unless you are working at some rare hairdresser slash guns and ammo store, there's very little chance that you're going to get, you know, SHOT at work. Here's how it usually goes when I play My Day At Work Was Worse Than Yours:

Me: Oh my gosh, that was the longest day in the history of the universe. It was long. So long. It went forever. I actually feel like I'm still living it. I'm half expecting someone to burst in and demand that I shampoo an old ladies hair at any minute. It's like torture. Extended torture. The kind of torture you can't escape even when it's over. Do you know what happened to me today? Do you even know? Okay, let me tell you. Well first of all -
Catherine/Owen: I got shot at today.
(pause)
Me: Ah, shit. You win again.

So far the score is somewhere around eight dillion to zero. I'm hoping for a late comeback.

In other news, Jess Morton (also known as Spesh, Special Jessie, Jessie Bear or Jessica Ann Morton Healy Q) was officially the first of my high school friends to turn 21 this week. Or ever, really. But her birthday was this week. So that explains that. Happy Birthday JB. I would go on to write a rambling non-sensical post about you and your face and the crazy things you and your face do together, but if you'll recall, I already wrote one about 3 years ago. Here it is, for those of you who are interested. Please ignore my terrible grammer - and that means you Beth.

Hello all.
Well, not much to blog about in terms of the last week. My life is pretty boring. So for now I'm just going to talk about thumbs.
Okay, remember when I said I had that theory about me not being 100% human and therefore immune to weak human diseases like Bird Flu? Yeah, that theory is back. Except this time it's not because I don't have Bird Flu.
It's because I don't have finger prints.
Let me explain. At my work we have this weird super-high-tech, super-high-irritating computer system that you have to use your finger print to log into. Oh my gosh. I am not even kidding. There's literally a sensor pad thingie next to the computer, and you have to hold your thumb on it every time you want to use the computer. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. It's very Charlie's Angels. Or at least it would be, if it weren't the most annoying thing on the planet. And I think the thing that makes it MOST annoying is the fact that for some reason, it refuses to accept my finger print. It just doesn't pick it up. Or read it. Or whatever. Even my boss is baffled. It's like, just in case I'm not enough of a weirdo, let's add the fact that I (apparently) don't have finger prints.
Brilliant.
I suppose the whole thing wouldn't be so bad, except that every time someone calls or drops by to make an appointment and I'm the only one at the desk, I have to stand there and explain to them why I can't help because I'm half-alien and can't be identified by human software. And that always goes down well. I love my job.

Blue Car

Okay, I totally wasn't going to blog about this, but to be honest - even though it might be one of the most humiliating things to ever happen to me, including the time I walked across a crowded Chatswood car park with my skirt blown up and pink floral undies on full display - it's also so damn funny I couldn't resist.

I failed my P's test today.

And wait. Because that's not the funny part. I mean, I know what you're thinking - how many people fail their P's tests every day? A dillion? Probably more than a dillion! Yeah, I agree with you there. But how many people fail their P's test before they've even left the garage underneath the RTA?
Probably not as many.
In fact, probably just one.
If you think about it though, it's really the RTA's fault. Who put that stop sign there? It's practically invisible. How am I expected to scan my surroundings, hit the accelerator, keep a firm hold on the steering wheel AND look for hidden stop signs at the same time? What do they take me for, a GOOD driver?
Other than the hidden stop sign debacle, I think my favourite part was my reverse park. Mainly because (in contrast to the rest of the test) I totally freakin' rocked it. But also because it went something like this:

Dude: Okay, now what I'd like you to do is a reverse park behind this blue car.
Me: (Squinting) Blue car?
Dude: Yes, that blue car.
Me: You...you said blue car right?
Dude: Yes, (pointing) that blue car.
Me: (Feeling awkward) Sorry, but I don't think...
Dude: The blue car.
Me: (Slowing down next to a random grey car) This car?
Dude: I said the blue car, didn't I?
Me: But -
Dude: Here! Here, behind this BLUE car!
Me: Okay, geez!
(Insert perfect reverse park by me. Then, as I'm driving away...)
Dude: Oh, you know what? That car was actually grey. Sorry about that.

What. A dick.

It was one of those days where absolutely everything went wrong, only instead of getting all emo about it, I could only laugh at myself.
It was that bad.
No, okay, it wasn't that bad. It was worse. Do you know how many things can go wrong if you happen to work in a hairdresser? And do you know how many MORE things can go wrong if you happen to work in a hairdresser and be the kind of girl who does stuff like accidentally stab herself in the hand with a coathanger?
So I was working at Mosman again today. They've been 'borrowing' me from Lane Cove for the past week on account of half their regular apprentices quitting and the other half being 11 months pregnant. Or something. But yeah, Mosman. And all I have to say is, after today I'm guessing they won't be inviting me back. Ever. Oh, maybe if a freak round of Bird Flu passes through the Toni&Guy Academy and kills every apprentice in Sydney except for me (because I don't know, maybe I wasn't at the Academy that day. Plus there is that whole theory I have about being half-alien and therefore immune to weak human diseases like Bird Flu). Maybe then they'll invite me back. Until then though, I'll just be remembered as That Girl Who Spilt Hair Dye On A Clients Face One Day.
Black Hair Dye.
What's with me? Why am I such an idiot? I don't know. I guess it's just one of life's great mysteries. Like, 'why do people keep making movies out of Nicholas Sparks novels?'. There is no answer.
Of course not everything that went wrong today was my fault. I can't be blamed for what happened with the bathroom floor. That was simply due to the horribly filthy excuse for a mop I found behind the washing machine and was expected to use. It was ancient. It was historic. I'm pretty sure the hair stuck to the bottom of this mop once belonged to the old lady from Titanic. And I was supposed to use this thing? On the bathroom floor? It was like trying to clean the wax out of your ear with a used tampon - unaffective, unappealing, and I was fighting to the urge to vomit from every orifice of my body the entire time.

More Cushion For The Pushin'

Ah.
First off, sorry for being such an Absent Blogger lately. If you know me (and my blog) then you'll be aware of my disdain for people who post less than once a fortnight or so - and now I am one of them. Well, almost. Well, not really, especially considering the massive influx of blogging I went through before this brief hiatus. Get off my freakin' back about the whole blogging thing! is basically what I'm trying to say.

Anyway.

The following photograph was recently brought to my attention:
In case the red shirt threw you, let me help you out - that's Wentworth Miller. Future Fiance/Husband/Provider Of Lots Of Sex And Babies To Jacki Trew. He sure has come a long way since the first season of Prison Break:
I hear tattoo removal is a bitch.
Anyway, I'm not usually one to blog about celebrity gossip, but after seeing this photo (and hearing words like chubby and porky being thrown around) I just gotta say it:

More Cushion For The Pushin'

That's all. And yes, I am aware that sounds completely disgusting. I'm okay with it.

On a brief sidenote, my next-door-neighbours recently started the house renovations they've had in the plans for about 4 years now. They conveniently decided to temporarily relocate during the building, leaving the rest of the neighbourhood to deal with asscrack-baring builders who think it's appropriate to start using jackhammers and singing AC/DC at 7 in the morning. FYI guys, it's not. The silver lining though, is that one of them is extremely hot/tanned/fond of wandering around the roof with no shirt on. I'm not calling myself a perve or anything, just saying that lately I've found myself making constant excuses to 'get something from the car', or 'check whether or not the mail has arrived'. In a totally normal, civilised, non-creepy way of course. Well, as normal, civilised and non-creepy as one can be while undressing someone with their eyes. The point is, if you're feeling low and looking for a pick-me-up, there's a shirtless one sitting on my neighbours roof. Entry is free.

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

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

Alot Of Talk About Feet

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

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

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

Phillip Trew Vs. Technology

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

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

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

Normal Activity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And All Was Right With The World Again

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

Let me explain.

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

Well.

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

It just seemed like everything was going wrong.

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

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

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

I didn't think so.

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

UNTIL.

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

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

BLACK LAGOON:*swoon*

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

Haha!

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

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

Exhibit B:

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

Exhibit C:

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

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

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

Yep, That's A Penis

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

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

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

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

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

10 minutes later

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

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

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

Happy Easter readers!

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com Joins The Workforce

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


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

Caption: WTF?!

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

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

and most importantly:

• Piercings and tattoos? A-Okay.

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