HIDDEN POSTAGE FEES

So.

Since today I'm the proud and appreciative owner of a sleep-in, and last night I was too exhausted to do anything but drink coffee and fall asleep on the couch in my work clothes, I've decided to do something I haven't been able to do in months.
I'm going to blog.
In the morning.
BEFORE work.
Try not to spontaneously combust, planet earth. I am just as freaked out and excited as you.
Alright?
Let's get this party started.
So, remember way back when I said last night I was too exhausted to do anything but drink coffee and fall asleep on the couch in my work clothes? Yeah, that was a lie. True, I did come home from work and pass out in front of the TV for a few hours, but when I woke up I got started on what I like to think of as my new favourite hobby: Ordering Shit Off The Internet.
Ohhh, mercy. Here's what I love about internet shopping:

• It's fun
• It's fast
• You find stuff you never even knew existed
• You can watch Prison Break at the same time
• You can do it in your undies (especially appreciated since I tried this in Westfield one time and it didn't work out so well)

Overall, the experience is pretty orgasmic. Except for ONE thing. Here's what I DON'T love about internet shopping:HIDDEN POSTAGE FEES.
And okay, I get that I'm being naive, and that postage + handling is a pretty basic concept which almost everyone knows about, and that I probably should just pull my head out of my ass and quit complaining...but give me a break! $35.70?! I should anticipate the postage costing more than TWICE THE AMOUNT OF THE ACTUAL PURCHASE???
Ugh.
The best part about this whole thing (and by 'best' what I really mean is 'the part that makes me want to kill myself and everyone around me') is that I wasn't TOLD about the hidden postage fees until AFTER I'd already paid them. Hence the term hidden postage fees. Is that even legal? Can they even do that? If I wasn't the laziest and most irresponsible person on the planet, I would so be doing something about this. Well...I'd at least think about doing something. Well...oh, who am I kidding. I don't care. In fact, I'm ordering MORE shit off the internet right now.
Happy shopping, suckers!

Satan? Is That You?

Sup, universe. Let's talk about the weekend. No, scrap that actually. First, I wanna talk about this dude:

Satan? Is that you?

And okay, it's like 78% true that I probably wouldn't even KNOW how much of a douche-bag Mel Gibson has turned into over the last few years if I wasn't enough of a douche-bag myself to be reading Perez Hilton's blog 5 times a week, but still. The only thing that disturbs me more than that photo is the fact that Kim Kardashian gets paid $20,000 for every episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

I know.

What?! $20,000?! And I get a measly 6 bucks an hour? Now, I'm not saying I'm more entertaining or talented than Kim Kardashian, nor that I should be getting paid upwards of $20,000 a day to sweep up hair, but...no, wait. That's EXACTLY what I'm saying.

Moving on.

This weekend was Janey du Toit's long-awaited 21st party. Which, in true Janey-style, she decided to make a surprise. Only not for herself - but for everyone else. Brilliant. And I'm not just saying that because (behind Disco music, energy drinks and men in uniform) surprise parties might just be my favourite thing on the planet. I'm also saying it because it means last Saturday night, I unexpectedly found myself HERE. Absinthe Salon. The Salon That Serves Nothing But Absinthe. Which - for those of you playing at home - is German for Fucking Insane. Large quantities of high-percentage alcohol have never been so much fun; especially since between the two of them, Dante and The Navy Man seemed determined to sample everything on the menu. After just one drink, they decided to purchase an entire bottle together. After two, they wanted an Absinthe fountain. By the third, I'm pretty sure one of them had proposed marriage. And the other one may have been pregnant.
Good times.
After that, we ventured south (?) of Elizabeth Street for what Jane called 'The Best Chinese Food In Sydney', and then back to Dante's apartment for a game of (what else?) King's Cup. And that, boys and girls, is where the night ended. Not really, but for the sake of my parents, who are probably reading this blog, let's just say it is.

25 Things

Yes, it's another blog. That's three in one day. Jane, I can hear the sound of you thanking the universe that I'm sick enough to be stuck in bed with only my computer for entertainment from over here.
You're welcome.
Anyway. Does anyone remember when it was totally cool to fill out and re-post those '25 Things You Never Knew About Me' notes on Facebook?
...
Yeah, neither do I. Still, about a year and a half ago, I found myself filling one out. Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?

25 Things You Never Knew About Jacki Trew, Or Did Know But Pretended Not To Know Because They Weren't Worth Knowing...With Commentary By Jacki Trew.

1) I love Wentworth Miller. Though why I'm putting this in here I'm not really sure, since anyone who knows me already knows this. I do love him though. I am head over heels. People say to me 'are you totally crushed that Prison Break has been cancelled?'. And I am. I am crushed. But you know what, Wentworth Miller not being in Prison Break anymore means there is more chance of him being in a movie, and coming to Australia to scout talent. And then he'll find me. So I'm not SO crushed.
Wow, this WAS a long time ago. I'm not saying I don't still find Wentworth Miller extremely attractive, nor that I'm not still crushed that Prison Break was cancelled. And I'm also not implying that a certain Naval Officer has anything to do with it, but...Wentworth who?

2) I'm a Disco Freak. Like that. With the capital letters and everything. If I had myself a time machine, I'd travel back to the 70's and get my dance on at Studio 54. For real, yo. I love Disco so much I type it with a capital D. I'd like to take Disco out; show it a good time. Buy it dinner, take it home and fool around with it a little. See? Disco Freak.
While I may have cooled off on Wentworth Miller, Disco will always be the love of my life. Only now I think if I took Disco out to dinner, we might do a little more than fool around afterwards, if you know what I mean. Things might get crazy, if you know what I mean. I'd ask Disco to marry me, if you know what I mean.

3) I invented The Celebrity Doppelganger Theory. The Theory is that everybody - everybody in the world - has a celebrity that looks like them. At least a little bit. And it doesn't have to be the way you currently look; for example, my sister's CD (Celebrity Doppelganger, see how I shortened it?) is Adam Sandler's kid Sadie, who is like 3. But she looks the way Catherine looked when SHE was 3. So it works - get it?
I'm still proud of The CDGT. And I still think it works. AND I still think I'm getting a Nobel Peace Prize for it. Jacki Trew: Insane Since 1990.

4) I'm a tiny bit insane.
A tiny bit? I undersold myself.

5) I'm an "I Love You' whore - I give it away too easily. There aren't many things I don't love, but there are lots of things that don't love me.
Did I really write this in 2009? I lied!

6) I have 2 alter-egos called Christie Angel and Winnifred Jones. Christie Angel has a boyfriend called Chris Amf-Bowling and does magic tricks that will blow your freaking mind-hole. Winnifred Jones stays up til 5am and sleeps until 2 in the afternoon.
Christie Angel still blows my mind-hole from time to time. Since I started working full-time, I don't get to see so much of Winnifred Jones. Except on Sundays. Sunday is Winnifred Jones day.

7) I can't drive. I used to say 'Oh, I could drive, I just don't want to'. Then I had my first driving lesson. Now its 'I can't drive'.
Oh, hey, is there anyone who didn't know this yet - I GOT MY P'S!! Admittedly, though, the whole not-being-able-to-drive-very-well thing is still totally true. I'm not saying I'm the WORST driver on the road...but if that guy dies, then yeah, I'm taking the trophy.

8) I was named after Jackie O, but there's no 'e' on the end of my name. Do you hear me? THERE IS NO 'E'.
There is never, has never been and WILL NEVER BE an e.

9) I am more scared of sharks in my pool than in the actual ocean. I've only ever met one other person who shares this fear. I think I have to marry her.
Now that I know the truth about dolphins, my irrational fear of pool-sharks has been rendered tame. I mean, how would YOU rather die?

10) Between the two of us, my sister and I have had almost every hairstyle its possible to have, including mohawks, bobs, and crazy curly hair down to the backs of our knees.
And when I finally muster up the courage to shave Catherine's head in her sleep one night, we can tick one more look off the list.

11) I have the same birthday as Osama Bin Laden, Sharon Stone and Chuck Norris.
And this just in - That Chick Who Once Played A Lesbian On The OC!!

12) The funnest thing I ever did was live in a house in Seattle for 2 weeks with Mel, Mai and 5 crazy college boys. Well, that, or The Quest For Wentworth
I think it's going to be a while before I do anything that'll knock these two out of first place.

13) My favourite song in the whole world is Midnight Train by Journey. If I ever get married, I'm going to dance my first dance to that song.
There, that's it. If I end up dancing my first dance to Midnight Train...THAT will be the funnest thing I ever did.

14) After I read Gone With the Wind, I took our bathroom curtains down and made a dress out of them. If you don't understand that, you need to go buy a copy of Gone With the Wind. Really. Do it now. You can finish reading this some other time.
I wholly agree with my past self. Read it. Read it now!

15) On the final assembly of year 6, I was given an award for 'sheer craziness' - I am not even kidding. I still have it.
I guess Mr Fitzpatrick really knew what he was talking about.

16) I'm impulsive. Sometimes I am way too impulsive. Example: I got my first 2 tattoos within like a month. Then I got a third one because 'my second one felt lonely'.
That's true! The fourth, fifth and sixth though, those were TOTALLY different.

17) My favourite thing to do in the whole world is make people laugh.
This will probably go on my tombstone. Well...this, or something about anal sex being funny.

18) When I grow up I want to live on a laneway called Fast Lane, because then people could say to me 'Hey, hows life in the Fast Lane?'
I wonder if theres a Fast Lane in Panama?

19) There are 7 people in the phone book with the same last name as me, and they are all in my family. Oh yeah. We're slowly taking over the world.
We're probably up to 10 by now.

20) When I was a baby, I looked like Ryan from The OC. I mean it. And it didn't help that my mother dressed me in a tiny little wifebeater. Not kidding - I have photos.
I said I had photos, and I deliver:

21) My claim to fame is that I grew up in the same house as Nicole Kidman. I feel like if I ever got to meet her, the first thing she would say to me would be "Hey! Quit telling people that since you live in my old house, I come over on weekends and we watch the sing-along version of Moulin Rouge together, OK? It's weird!'
Ha! This isn't true. I mean, maybe it ONCE was, but I'm pretty sure Nicole Kidman reads my blog now. And thinks I'm awesome.

22) Don't you think the voiceover at the train station sounds like Gretel Killeen?
I still maintain that this is true. It's not such a crazy thought, you know. She did get fired from Big Brother...

23) My biggest secret is that I love everything banana flavoured but I hate bananas
It's not such a secret anymore, is it?

24) When I was 6 years old, I was totally in love with Maxwell Sheffield. You know, from The Nanny? What a hunk, right?! That distinguished grey patch in his hair really did it for me. Yowzer!
Give me a break, okay? I hardly watched ANYTHING on TV apart from The Nanny. I had a very small sample of potential husbands.
And finally...

25) www.jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com
Still true. Always still true.

Surprise Butt Sex - Mum, You Might Not Wanna Read This One

A random thought: How come people who actually speak with a British accent always sound so smart, but people who only pretend to have one always sound like total douche-bags? That doesn't seem fair to me. I can't help it that my neglectful parents failed to raise me and my sister in the UK like a normal family! And now, thanks in part to my Australian upbringing and a slightly unhealthy addiction to Kath & Kim, I'll be a bogan forever. Oh, well. I suppose worse fates have been suffered. Also Mum, if you're reading this, I was totally kidding about the 'neglectful parents' thing. Please don't stop making dinner for me.

Now, to my friend Josh. Josh Davey. I decided to post about Josh for 2 reasons:
1) I feel bad that I didn't credit him with inventing The Incredible Hulk.
For those of you who didn't read my long weekend post, The Incredible Hulk was a cocktail I claimed to invent at Ellen's birthday pre-drink party. And the truth is I DID invent it...just not all of it. I mixed the drink, Josh created the name. It was originally called 'The Wentworth'. Aren't you glad he changed it? And also because...
2) Between the two of us, THIS is a normal conversation:
Jacki: Do you think animals have anal sex? Cause like...it's all about pleasure, obviously. But don't animals not have sex for pleasure? I gotta know!
Josh: Yeah, they do. When males rape each other, I guess. What a question! That's my best answer.
Jacki: Oh yeah, I totally forgot about surprise butt sex!
Josh: Surprise butt sex - otherwise known as changing lanes without indicating.
Jacki: Wow. Driving to work just got 10 times more interesting.
Josh: You aren't driving are you?
Jacki: Right now? No. I'm a terrible person, but not so terrible that I text people about anal sex while driving. By the way, that's totally going on my tombstone.

Yes. We are all class, and we know it.

Now We Both Sound Like 12-Year-Old Boys

MISSING - JACKI TREW'S VOICE.

Age: 20-odd years

Last Seen: On the dancefloor at The Crowie, last saturday night

Will Answer To: Pretty much anything, even comments that weren't directed at it.


Well, it finally happened. I finally talked myself hoarse. Or to be more accurate, talked/shouted/laughed/sang myself hoarse. Oh, my goodness. I haven't had a throat this sore since (insert dirty comment here). It hurts to talk. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to watch Two And A Half Men. It hurts to think about talking or swallowing or watching Two And A Half Men. The Two And A Half Men thing really has nothing to do with my sore throat, though. I just think Charlie Sheen is a bit of a douche.
...
I hate being sick.
I mean on the plus side, I get to spend the rest of this week surviving on a diet of mint icecream and lemon tea. But then there's the minus side - like the fact that I'll have to get up and go to work tomorrow, and everyone who calls to make an appointment is going to wonder why a hormonal 12-year-old boy is answering the phone at Toni&Guy. Because in the brief periods that I can actually get my voice to work, that's what I sound like. Testy-Pops and all. Trust me to be female and the only human being on the planet suffering through Testy-Pops without any of the fun of actual testicles. Or at least, what I'm ASSUMING to be fun about actual testicles. Although now that I think about it, having them doesn't seem like that much fun. Especially having them on the outside. I sure am glad to have a vagina, is basically what I'm trying to say.

On a completely unrelated note, something wonderful happened this past weekend. And I'm not talking about my discovery of the world's best sandwich filling combination. Well...I'm not just talking about that. Sidenote: cheese, lettuce, sweet chilli sauce and grilled whiting on grain bread = INCREDIBLE. But what I actually meant was my sister and The Navy Man moving to Sydney. And moreso, the fact that I was able to drive from their new base to my house without getting lost once. And moreso than THAT, the fact that somewhere between picking him up from the airport, driving him back to my house, and then dropping him off at an undisclosed location, I gave The Navy Man some of my throat sickness.
So now we both sound like 12-year-old boys. And it's hilarious.

Sharks - The Animal Version Of George Clooney?

I get that I've talked about this before, I talked about it alot, nobody listens when I talk about it, and that the very act of talking about it makes me sound like a crazy person.
I don't care.

Dolphins. Are. Gang. Rapists.

If you're as dedicated to this blog as Jane du Toit, or you've been to the beach with me within the last 6 months, you will already know this. If not, here's what you should read to catch up. There's really no reason for me to bring this up again, except that I was watching TV today (day off! day off! day off!) and caught a conversation between two teenage girls about how much better dolphins are than sharks. Needless to say, this disturbed me no end. Dolphins are better than sharks? Is that what they're teaching in schools these days? Here's what I think:

Yeah, sharks are assholes. Sure. They're ugly, they eat people, they've got creepy eyes, and it's almost impossible to create a realistic-looking robot version of them. But they KNOW all this. They KNOW that they're douche bags, and they love it. Sharks are like the animal version of George Clooney.

Dolphins on the other hand...dolphins are the kind of animals you spend 19+ years loving, adoring, wanting to ride, and avoiding most brands of canned tuna for, only to find out that they rape each other. In gangs. And that there was once a dolphin in New Zealand who stalked all the popular beaches and ATTACKED people. So uncool. At least sharks aren't pretending to be anything other than what they are/movies like Jaws and Deep Blue Sea portray them as. If there were any justice in the world, I'd have enough money to be out there making a film about rapist dolphins right now. As it is, I don't - but I do have this blog.

On a completely different note, you know what I was thinking about the other day? Santa Claus and The Easter Bunny, and the fact that I can't for the life of me remember when I realised they weren't real. Not saying I'm the original Elephant Child herself or anything, but for the most part, my memory is pretty flippin' crazy. I can remember a conversation I had with my Mum at age three, the exact socks I wore on my first day of school, what day of the week it was when I got my braces off...but I don't know when I stopped believing in Santa?

On the plus side, neither does Catherine. You know what else we realised? That neither of us can remember not knowing (close your eyes, Mum, things are about to get awkward) about sex. Or swear words. I'm convinced this was mainly the fault of our neighbours daughter, Kate. She may have been only one year older than Catherine, but she was also insane. Literally. Like, she-snuck-into-our-yard-one-night-and-tried-to-steal-our-dog insane.

Sigh.

I love my childhood.

When The Trew Sisters Talk Underwear

(While watching The Hangover)

Jacki: I don't understand those undies. What...? Just why?
Catherine: It's called a jockstrap.
Jacki: Yeah but why would you wear that? I mean, what does that do for a guy? How does that make them happier in their day?
Catherine: I think it's for gay guys.
Jacki: What do you mean you think its for g....(realisation dawns) Ohhhhh!
Catherine: Yeah.
Jacki: Well that's even more retarded! What, a gay guy can't wait the extra three seconds it takes for his boyfriend to disrobe? They have to just go at it straight away?

(pause)

Jacki: And more importantly, how come there's no girl version?!

Everyone's thinking it, I'm just going to say it:

Yesterday was the coldest fucking day in the history of the universe.

Today isn't much better, but yesterday...Brrrr! My goodness. I've never felt cold like that in my life. Never! Not once, though it's pretty common knowledge that I was raised by two eskimos on an Antarctican snow station. That is a lie, but still. Cold. It was cold. I have frostbite on body parts I didn't even know existed.

I think my favourite part ('favourite' here meaning 'the part I will continue to have nightmares about for years') was my boss's new theory that if we leave the salon door open all day, it'll encourage more people to just walk in off the street. Sidenote: it doesn't. And now I only have 7 toes. I mean, maybe it would have worked if it weren't for the fact that the entire front wall of our salon is made out of door. I'm not kidding. It was like going to work in a wind tunnel - a shiny, pretty, reflective and stylishly-decorated wind tunnel. One that's filled with hair.
Super.
Anyway, it was a pretty slow day. How slow? I hear you asking. Well, most of it was spent playing marathon rounds of a little game I like to call 'Finding Creative Ways To Stay Warm That Won't Get Me Fired', if that's any indication. Just for the record: hugging the espresso machine will work. Sticking a hairdryer down the front of your dress will not.

In other news, has anyone else heard the Titanic 2 rumour thats been floating around? I can honestly say I've never been more excited to see anything in my life; and that includes the episode of Home And Away guest-starring Lleyton Hewitt. For those of you who don't spend your workdays cruising Perezhilton.com, here's a little preview:
On the 100th anniversary of the original voyage, a modern luxury liner christened 'Titanic 2' follows the path of it's namesake. But when a tsunami hurls an iceberg into the new ship's path, the passengers and crew must fight to avoid a similar fate.
I know. Amazing. I'm sure you'll all be shocked and saddened to hear that neither Kate Winslet nor Leonardo di Caprio will be appearing in their original roles, though I can't imagine why. Surely Ms Winslet realises this is pretty much her only chance for a second Oscar win? I don't understand actors.

Congratulations Kids. You Did Me Proud

Hello, internet.

To start, here is what I consider to be the most confusing moment of Keeping Up With The Kardashians I have witnessed in quite some time:

Khloe: You know Kourtney's afraid to hold a baby.

Kris: Just wait until her baby is born. She's going to be speed-dialing my house like a crack addict.

I don't quite know where to start. Why are crack addicts speed-dialing Kris Kardashian's house? Do crack addicts even know how to speed-dial? Who decided that the name 'Chloe' looked better when spelt with a 'K'? And really, why would any new mother call to ask advice from the woman who accidentally-on-purpose put enough Viagra in her son's coffee to warrant a trip to the emergency room?

Sigh.

In other news...just in case anyone was wondering why I've looked/sounded/been acting like the living dead this weekend, it's because I've had a total of about 7 hours sleep in the past 4 days. Also I just ate a whole bunch of Canadian Maple candy which I'm pretty sure was made and packaged in the late 1960's. But mostly it's the sleep thing. Let me explain:

My big sister Catherine and The Navy Man were graduating from the first phase of their NEOC training last week. And, being the top-shelf sibling slash girlfriend that I am, I decided to go watch. For those of you playing at home, here is a copy of the original itinerary:

Thursday Morning: Leave Sydney, drive to Navy Base (approx 3.5 hours)

Thursday Afternoon: Graduate/Guest Afternoon Tea

Thursday Night: Sunset Ceremony

Friday Morning: Graduate Parade, speeches, presentation of prizes and certificates

Friday Noon: Graduate/Guest Lunch

Friday Night: Graduate's Ball

Saturday Morning: Leave Navy Base, drive to Sydney.

Only because I'm still in the probationary period of my job and had to grovel at my boss's feet to get just ONE day off work, my itinerary looked like this:

Thursday Night: Arrive home from work at 10pm. Inhale dinner, pack bag, paint toenails, enjoy episode of Sea Patrol. Asleep at 2am.

Friday Morning: Wake at 4am. Shower, blowdry hair, pack car. On the road by 6am. Arrive on Base at 10am, just in time for Graduate Parade.

Friday Noon: Spend first half of Graduate lunch attempting to sniff out any source of Red Bull. Spend second half regretting shoe choice of 5 inch heels.

Friday Night: Graduate's Ball. Eat, dance, drink too much champagne (or as The Navy Man put it, 'just the right amount of champagne'), and arrive back at Base around 1am. Asleep by 2am.

Saturday Morning: Wake at 4am. On the road by 430. Home by 8am, just in time for a 10 hour shift at work.

I know. Delicious.

On Saturday night I enjoyed dinner with my parents, The Navy Man's parents, my sister and The Navy Man's sister. And in all honesty, it was a pimping good time - even despite the fact that I was semi-comatose and kept making comments like 'Did you ever notice how weird the word lemon is?' and 'I'm usually WAY more entertaining than this, I promise.' I think at one point I also attempted to cut a piece of chicken in half with my dessert spoon. Oh, well. It's nothing my own family hasn't seen before. Plus if NM can witness me in that state and still talk to me afterwards, I'll know I've really hit the jackpot.

Anyway. Now that I've got all that off my chest, I think I'll go and take a shower. Or slip into a light coma. Whichever comes first, really. Perhaps I will combine the two and pass out on the bathroom floor. And to Catherine/Navy Man: congratulations kids. You did me proud.

Happy 900th Post!

So I haven't got much to say today...except what is it about the Myer lingerie department that never fails to turn me into a bumbling fool? Okay. More of a bumbling fool. Let's review:

Myer Sales Woman: Hi, can I help you?
Me: Well, I'm in the market for a bra.
Myer Sales Woman: Any specifics? Strapless? Push-up?
Me: Um...well I guess push-up would be okay. Not too pushed-up though. I mean, come on. I'm 20. They're already up.
(Silence)
Me: I'll see myself out.

Sigh. Every single time, and I am not even kidding. At this rate, sewing my own bras would probably be easier. That, or inventing some sort of bra-dispensing vending machine. Which - now that I think about it - might actually be the coolest way to make my first million.
Anyway.
Speaking of bra-dispensing vending machines...The Navy Man. Those two things really have nothing to do with each other, but I needed a segue. Plus I don't doubt The Navy Man would enjoy the idea of an electronic box filled with undies. My point is...well, I don't have one. All I mean to say is that a certain Naval Officer recently started reading this blog and is now demanding a mention. Which just goes to show, planet earth, that getting yourself onto www.jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com is easy. All you have to do is be better-looking than Wentworth Miller. And then date me.

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.