30 Days Alright

One of my favourite things about having Foxtel is that pretty much every Sunday afternoon without fail, there seems to be a crappy horror movie playing on at least one channel. I love watching these horror movies. I've made a little habit out of it. Being that Sunday is one of the only days I get off work, what better way to spend my time than by sitting in front of the TV for 2 hours absorbing some terrible movie that no one else has ever seen or will be able to dicuss with me?

Yeah.

Just for the record, I already know I'm an idiot, so there's no need to remind me. I'm talking to you, Owen. It's pretty obvious. Actually I think the only way I could be a bigger idiot right now is if I admitted to googling these movies both before and after I watch them, and then stalking each of the starring actors on IMDb.com.

So let's just pretend I don't do that.

Today's movie was a little diddy by the name of 30 Days Of Night. It's a vampire movie, but don't let that turn you off; when I say 'vampires', I mean 'real vampires', not 'Twilight vampires'. These vampires were pretty flippin' badass, and that's putting it mildly. If given a choice between marrying Bella Swan and drinking her blood, you can bet none of them would be walking down the aisle. Or they might, but they'd be planning on violently dismembering every guest at the wedding. If any of you playing at home are actual fans of Bella Swan or the Twilight franchise, I wouldn't recommend this movie. Because no offense, but watching it might cause you to ruin the couch in your parents living room. And by that I mean you would totally shit your pants all over it. Since I'm the kind of genetic super freak who's seen all the Saw movies and makes serial-killer jokes on a daily basis, I don't count. But I'm guessing that any normal person would find 30 Days at least semi frightening; mostly because of Josh Hartnett's weird facial hair. Also because of this:Well. They're certainly no Cullen family.
Honestly, I can't understand why more vampire movies don't turn out like this. Sharp teeth, severed heads, and cars being lit on fire. When I think 'vampire movie', that's what I see. But apart from this one, the last THREE that I've seen have had an underlying story about - of all things - love. Please. If I wanted to sit and listen to two people pretending to fall in love, I'd just watch The Bachelor like everyone else.
Anyway.
I really don't have anything left to say about this movie, so now I'm going to talk about high school. Elle, Jane and I were listening to Stars the other night and thinking about how funny it would be to time-travel back to 2007 and watch our past selves struggling through year 12. Because as moronic as I am now, I'm pretty sure it doesn't hold a candle to what I was like in high school:
1) I didn't drink coffee
2) I wrote an essay on Prison Break for my HSC English exam
3) I didn't drink coffee

Pfft. What an idiot, right? But it's okay.
I'm way more smarter these days.

Engaged?

Hello, world.

So I guess it's not a fully productive week at work until I've wasted at least 7 hours devising a ridiculous plan to totally freak out one of our regular clients. Before I tell you that story though, I want to talk about last night. And how I am now engaged to be married.

Being that it was a Friday and I am the kind of idiot who forgets that she'll have to be up for work at 730 on Saturday morning, I got pretty drunk last night. Not too drunk. Not so drunk that I ended up standing shirtless on the roof of Dante's apartment singing Journey songs to his neighbours. Not this drunk. Just drunk enough that when I woke up this morning there was $70 missing from my wallet, a large bruise on my leg, and a copy of Nicole Richie's first novel lying facedown on the bed beside me.

Ahh.

The perfect amount.

Gem, Elle, Kat, Jane and I had congregated at Elle and Mischa's apartment to drink, chat, watch movies and just enjoy each other's company. By which I of course mean 'ingest a copious amount of high-percentage alcohol and dicuss the idea of boning via text message'. 5 Roseville girls and 2 bottles of Jagermeister? This is exactly the kind of situation that usually winds up with me drunk-dialing one of my highschool history teachers. And while I didn't do THAT last night, I did make a pact with Jane that should neither of us have found a husband by the time we're 40, we'll just turn lesbian and marry each other. Ellen Degeneres would be so proud. Anyway, I can say with complete honesty that I have almost no idea how I got home last night. I know there's an extremely pissed off cab driver somewhere out there who now harbours a desire to kill me on account of the fact that I kept accidentally giving him the wrong directions, but that's the extent of my knowledge. Good times.

Now, for my original story. We have this client at work called Tom, and everyone loves him. 'Everyone' here meaning 'Alex and I'. And I suppose - if I'm being honest - it's more accurate to say that we don't really love him so much as we thoroughly enjoy confusing him with our hairdressing mind games. Why? Well because we're idiots. And it's fun. And since he's probably the only teenage boy ever to come into Toni&Guy for a haircut and NOT act like a total douche-bag, it only seems appropriate to pretend like we think he's a blonde version of, well, The Navy Man.
He's not, but I'm an excellent actress.

Anyway, about a week ago Alex and I were standing at reception and laughing at all the crazy names in the computer address book (yes, we take our work extremely seriously), and Tom walked past, all excited because the next day was his 17th birthday. Oh, bless. I love that there are boys out there still innocent enough to believe that turning 17 is something to be proud of. It gives me hope for the human race. It also gives me acute anxiety about being almost 21, but I try to focus on the hope thing. Tom eventually left, but - long story short - the two of us decided that since we didn't have much going on at the moment, acting like 2 crazed cougars the next time he came in for a haircut might be a fun thing to do. Not in a weird, creepy way though. I mean, it's not like we made a countdown chart until his next appointment:

And crossed the days off one by one until it was One Hour Til Tom Time!:Okay, so we're total weirdos. And you know what? I think Tom sensed it...because 45 minutes - 45 MINUTES - before his scheduled appointment, he called to cancel.
Sigh. All that insanity, just wasted. I'd probably be more upset about this whole thing if my insanity supply wasn't unlimited, but still. Good one, Tom. Thanks to you, I had to spend my day at work actually working. I hate it when that happens!

In other news, I'm watching The Matrix Reloaded right now, and trying to imagine something more uncomfortable than having sex with those weird matrix-y plugs all over your body.

Nothing springs to mind.

On A Final Note...

I've got time for one last blog (probably this week, on account of me being such an unwilling workaholic), and it's going to be a good one. Here's the situation:

LADY GAGA IS RELEASING A PERFUME

Normally, I don't care for celebrity fragrances; mostly because they're generally all crap, and also because I simply don't have the money to afford them. But the opportunity to smell like Lady GaGa is too damn good to pass up. For those of you deliberating over what to get me for Christmas, the search is over - I wouldn't even be bothered if every single solitary person who reads this blog runs out and buys me a bottle. Are you kidding? A lifetime supply of Eu De GaGa? The only gift I can think of that might possibly surpass THAT is a job which actually pays more than 6 dollars an hour. And since there's little to no chance of that ever happening, you know what to get me.

A Message For Navy Man Which Elle, Mischa And Julia Will Also Appreciate...Jane, You Won't Be Impressed

I forgot to say this yesterday, but thanks to a little rescheduling at work, I get two days off in a row this week. Sunday and Monday. It's not exactly the most amazing thing to ever happen to me, for sure, but TWO days? In A ROW? I'm not even ashamed to say I practically jizzed in my pants when I found out. And when I say 'practically', I mean 'yeah, I jizzed, and it was a bit awkward'.

Luckily, we keep a mop in the staffroom for these kind of mishaps.

Anyway.

After going out on Friday, working on Saturday, having a 21st on Saturday night and spending a large part of Sunday wandering aimlessly around Chatswood in the hopes of finding a bikini that actually looks good on me (FYI, this feat is yet to be achieved), I felt a little bit worn out. And fair enough, I say. It's been quite a while since I had a weekend where I just stopped and sat and quietly reflected on my life as an almost-ex-apprentice hairdresser who gets paid 6 bucks an hour, can't drive for shit, loves banana bread, has a Navy Man halfway across the world and harbours a not-so-secret desire to drop everything and move to Panama. So that's what I did. Well, for about 6 seconds anyway. Then the whole 'reflecting' thing got a bit boring, so I did what any almost-ex-apprentice hairdresser who gets paid 6 bucks an hour, can't drive for shit, loves banana bread, has a Navy Man halfway across the world and harbours a not-so-secret desire to drop everything and move to Panama would do...

I watched Doctor Who.

If you're new to this blog, you're forgetful, or you're just the kind of idiot who doesn't do what they're told, I'm going to say it again...Doctor Who is amazing and you must watch it. While I'm being all bossy and domineering, I'll also tell you that anything by Florence + The Machine might just be the best music I've ever heard in my life (behind Michael Jackson, Journey, The Bravery and Guns N Roses of course), but mainly I want to talk about the doctor. To put it frankly, I haven't been able to love television like this since Prison Break broke my heart back in 2009. But Doctor Who (despite the fact there's no Wentworth Miller, no inbred serial killers, no full-upper-body tattoos and very little making out) is on a whole other level. I'm not saying it's BETTER, but if any show was going to have even the slightest chance of bringing me back from entertainment heartache, it'd be this one.

Or maybe The Real Housewives of NYC - cause that shit is hilarious.

The only downside to DW, really, is how freakin' complicated it can get. I read books and send emails and can use a calculator with the best of them, but I'm not exactly the brightest crayon in the box, you know? And lately I've been feeling as if every episode leaves me with more questions than answers. Like, how come the Daleks (otherwise known as possibly the greatest threat to the universe) have household appliances in place of arms?

And what about the Weeping Angels theory, that any statue on Earth could potentially be coming to life whenever it's not being looked at? It's supposed to be terrifying, right? And it IS...until you consider that the statue in question could just be, well, this:
Headless man in business attire? Call me crazy, but I don't exactly feel threatened. It sounds like I'm mocking the hell out of this show, but really, I'm not. These are just the kinds of thoughts I have; I genuinely am this stupid. Luckily for me, I have a Navy Man who is both enough of a nerd to know the answers to all these questions, AND enough of a law-abiding citizen to know that he legally can't kill me for asking them.

Much as he might like to.

Speaking of The Navy Man, mine just left for a 6-week tour (tour? I've been watching too many old-school war movies) to a country I can't tell you the name of on the slight chance that you are a terrorist with plans of world domination. What I can tell you is that he won't have access to a phone or email or Facebook, and has instructed me to send him 'secret messages via my blog' so that we can communicate.

I guess I misunderstood his use of the word 'secret'.

A Message For NM

I was watching the last two episodes of season four just now, and oh man...Three things:

1) The Doctor/Rose reunion? When I saw the bit where they run towards each other in the street, I was imagining that we could totally re-enact it at the airport when you come home. Except that it was cold, she was carrying a gun, and he gets shot by one of the Daleks. So, really, I hope it's nothing like that at all.

2) I understand now that the REAL doctor would never piledrive a dinosaur (EVEN if it was holding his companion hostage) because he's anti-violence and everything...but what about the half-doctor-half-human who ends up staying with Rose? Dude, he killed all the Daleks. And nothing says 'pro-violence' like a single handed genocide. Also,

3) The Weeping Angels thing was a joke. Don't kick my ass.

So that's it. Hope you're having fun at an undisclosed location!

P.S Did you google the swallow bird? I did. It's pretty awesome.

Karma's A Bitch

So anyway.
I made a real commitment to eat a proper breakfast every single day last week. Which doesn't really sound like that big of a deal, as far as real commitments go. But it will. Once I explain how my body works.

HOW JACKI TREW'S BODY WORKS

I need caffeine to live. And that pretty much sums it up. I know my driver's license classifies me as an organ doner, but I'm not so sure that it should - all they're gonna find when they cut me open is a bunch of lollypop wrappers and an empty Starbucks takeaway cup. And maybe that giant piece of strawberry bubblegum my sister convinced me to swallow when I was nine.
Anyway, you get it. So seven days of healthy eating was a pretty big deal. The only problem is that in my bid to become more healthy and less of a poster child for caffeine addiction, I've become completely dependant on breakfast food.
Sigh.
Trust me to take something as regular and mundane as eating breakfast and turn it into yet another ridiculous obsession. But I can't stop! You know what I had for breakfast yesterday? Cereal. And for lunch? Raisin toast. And for dinner?!? Well, I didn't have dinner, I was at a 21st. But when I got home and felt like a snack?? VEGEMITE TOAST. So, conclusion? I'm an idiot. What else is new?

Speaking of me being an idiot, I'm sitting at home on my day off right now and watching Pearl Harbour. Which, considering the fact that I'm, let's say, extremely close to not one but TWO people in the Navy is either the dumbest thing I could possibly do or...no, that's it. It's the dumbest thing I could possibly do. What, watching The Hurt Locker wasn't traumatising enough, I have to track down an actual Navy-related war movie? Where both of the main characters DIE? And sure, one of them miraculously comes back from the dead - only it's the WRONG ONE! It just goes to show that karma really is a bitch, and that you can't love two guys at once; even if you truly believe that one of them's dead. Especially if the two guys in question are childhood friends. And ESPECIALLY if there's a war going on. I don't know what other messages the director of Pearl Harbour was trying to get across, but I heard that one loud and clear.

People I Need To Track Down And Kick In The Ass

So apparently Oprah Winfrey is coming to Sydney. You'll notice that I call her Oprah Winfrey rather than just Oprah. I dislike it when people think of themselves as BEYOND having a last name. Yeah, that's right. I'm talking to you, Cher. We've all got last names, whether we embrace them or not. Sure, not everyone gets one as awesome as Trew, but we can't all be winners. The point is...I forgot the point.
Cher is a douche.
So yeah, Oprah Winfrey, coming to Sydney. And bringing 300 of her 'closest personal viewers' with her. If there is a better definition for oxymoron than 'closest personal viewers', I'd like to know about it. Oprah Winfrey, you are an idiot.

The worst part about this whole thing (I mean, aside from the fact that no matter which city she chooses to broadcast her show from, I will probably be able to hear her screaming at the audience from my house) is that I just heard 2 radio announcers talking about how this is "the greatest event relating to Australian tourism in the last 26 years".
Alright. I don't know where they got the figure 26 from, but that's erroneous. THE GREATEST EVENT RELATING TO AUSTRALIAN TOURISM IN THE LAST 26 YEARS??? ARE THEY KIDDING??
At first I thought they were. I even laughed. There's nothing like a little afternoon sarcasm at Oprah Winfrey's expense to put a smile on my face. But then they kept talking! Talking about how amazing it was, how fortunate it was, and how generous of Oprah Winfrey to allow our teeny tiny country to take part in her apparent quest for universal domination. I don't know who these radio announcers were, but the two of them are now about as high on my People I Need To Track Down And Kick In The Ass list as Cher. I swear to God that when one of them compared Oprah Winfrey's trip down under to the Sydney 2000 Olympics, part of me died. Really? Oprah Winfrey is the same as ours being "the best Olympics ever"? REALLY?!

Honestly - and I don't even care if this makes me sound less like a woman than the time I told my boyfriend that the easiest way to have a threesome was to 'bone a pregnant chick' - I could care less about Oprah Winfrey. OR her day-time talk show. The only way her visit to Sydney is going to ignite any amount of interest in me is if she somehow manages to transfigure herself into Wentworth Miller before she gets on the plane. I don't exactly know why I'm being so mean about this, but I'm alone, practically broke, have no idea what I'm doing with my life and still owe $900 on my car payments, so I feel like everyone should just roll with me today.
Oprah Winfrey? I don't think so. On the other hand, if it was Ellen Degeneres...

I Am Woman

A slow beginning to the week; the most interesting event so far probably being the mini-meltdown I had last night when my hair elastic broke and I couldn't find any new ones. Which, as insane as it seems, I actually rather enjoyed - because to be honest, it was kind of getting to the point where I was questioning my own level of femininity. I mean, how many other 20-year-old girls do you know that make fart jokes, dislike children, couldn't care less about marriage, and spend their free time thinking up ridiculous word-game competitions to play with their boyfriend, like "Who can think of the most offensive slang terms for their own genetalia?"
Which, by the way, I totally won.
Still. There's nothing like finding yourself on the brink of a nervous breakdown on account of something utterly trivial and meaningless to remind you that yes, you are in fact a woman.
...
Having breasts also helps.


On a completely unrelated note, has anyone here seen The Hurt Locker? I'm inexplicably curious about it. I don't know; something about the way it completely destroyed Avatar at the Oscars this year just makes me go hmmm...And have you seen this promotional poster??

It doesn't happen often, but whenever the words 'fire' and 'orgasm' happen to cross paths in my mind, that's what it looks like. I gotta see this movie. Which I know sounds weird, especially considering my total abhorrence for war/guns/violence, but hey. Just because I hate automatic weapons doesn't mean I won't enjoy watching some hot guy playing with one. Why do you think I found a boyfriend in the armed services? And any movie that's in direct competition with James Cameron/Avatar is pretty high on my list of priorities. I know the whole Avatar craze was almost a year ago now, but in between work, sleep, and watching every episode of Dr Who in an attempt to out-nerd The Navy Man, I don't have alot going on in my life right now.
So yeah. If you've seen The Hurt Locker, give me a call. And if you haven't, give me a call anyway. I'm so desperately lonely.

Christmas Come Early

Oy. So much to blog about, so few people to care that I have so much to blog about. Did that make sense? I didn't think so.

So apparently it's September. No, not just September. It's mid-September. Would somebody care to explain how that happened? Because I sure as hell don't know. One minute it's so cold I'm toying with the idea of wearing thermals under my jeans to work, the next it's warm enough for me to start sleeping naked again.
...Which, incidentally, I love.
But still! Mid-September? That's practically October. Which is mid-Spring. And mid-Spring? That's practically Summer.
And my legs are not ready for Summer.
On the plus side, Summer does mean one thing I love even more than sleeping nude, and that's Christmas. Oh, hell yeah. Tis the season, bitches. And I am pretty effing jolly. If there's anything negative about Christmas, it's not something I'm aware of. Chocolate for breakfast, presents, fairy lights, hot weather, the giant tree at Town Hall, Jesus...say something bad about Christmas. I dare you. And on a related note, I'm currently taking gift requests. I know it's early, but getting my Christmas shopping done now means more time to lie next to my pool and do nothing later. So tell me what you want, or all you'll be getting is a hug and a home-made card.
Not that that would be such a terrible punishment.
My hugs are awesome.

Shower Thoughts #39

So, Will and Jada Pinkett Smith named their kids Jaden and Willow.
...
I JUST realised how weird that is.

The Hills With Eyes That Took A Wrong Turn And Ran Red

Two amazing things just happened.

The first is that I invented a new hot beverage. That's right. Step aside, Gloria Jeans, because hot chocolate and a chai latte just made a porno together, and I was holding the video camera. I call it...The Hot Chaicolate.
The second is my discovery of the 2009 horror movie The Hills Run Red. This movie is so insane, I don't even know how to begin describing it. Here's what the Foxtel synopsis box had to say:

A film fanatic's obsession with finding the complete print of an infamous horror movie leads him and his friends to the woods where the picture was shot; but will they be it's next stars?

Okay. Obviously, this is going to be incredible. But, as I always do before surrendering myself to the television for 2 or more hours, I decided to consult IMDb.com for a little more info. Not that I really needed to; not only does the title/synopsis make this film sound like the love child of Wrong Turn and The Hills Have Eyes, but it also fills all three of my "Best Shitty Horror Movie" prerequisites:
1) Takes place in the woods
2) Straight to DVD, and
3) Stars Australian pop-star-turned-actress Sophie Monk as a drug addicted stripper.
Ha.
Haha.
I'm only joking about that last one being a 'prerequisite'. That was just a hilariously depressing bonus. And as if that's not enough, the killer is a physically mutilated recluse who runs around the woods wearing a porcelain dolls-head mask and is known to the public as 'Babyface'.
There are no words. As you can imagine, I was pretty psyched to watch this movie. There are so many questions! Sophie Monk, really? Why does the killer always have to be physically mutilated? And which chromosomally challenged writer came up with the porcelain dolls-head idea?
Sigh.
I get that I'm a bit of a dunce in the intelligence department, but even I don't understand why I keep watching these movies. If it weren't for my ongoing quest to find one that actually scares me (thus proving that I am indeed human and not dead on the inside, as some have insinuated), I would totally give up on horror movies altogether. Every time I see one, it's like a little more of my faith in humanity getting flushed down the toilet.
I mean, come on. It's the 21st century. You would think that by now, people might have enough sense to stay out of the fucking woods. Or - if they really feel the need to go camping in the middle of nowhere - they should at least bring a satellite phone. And a blow torch. But no. I've lost count of how many 'We Took A Weekend Trip To The Woods And Ended Up Being Chased Around By An Axe-Wielding Maniac' movies I've seen, but they're always the same. And the characters are always dumb enough to believe that all they need to survive is a video camera and a couple of tents.
Yeah.
Because as we all know, when you find yourself on the run from a serial killer, the first thing you wanna do is film yourself hiding from him in a tent.

There is one thing I'll give these horror movies though, and that's that they always make me think. One thought in particular - what the hell does Babyface do during his downtime? I'm assuming that 'The Woods' aren't exactly teeming with crowds of confused but attractive teenagers waiting to be chopped into pieces. Maybe in a perfect serial killers world, but not today. So what do Babyface and The Inbred Mutants from Wrong Turn do in between mass murders? Cook? Knit? Use Polly Pocket figurines to act out their favourite scenes from Prison Break? I don't know what's more disturbing, the fact that I don't know, or the fact that I want to know. It doesn't matter. They're both overshadowed by the fact that I saw the end of the movie, and it turns out that the physically mutilated 'Babyface' is actually Sophie Monks inbred son.
...
It's like I said. There are no words.

White wine and a Mars Bar for dinner. Life is looking up.

So here's a question: Would anyone like to hire me? Hmm? Of course, by 'anyone', what I really mean is 'my current boss'. And by 'hire me', all I'm really saying is 'allow me to continue working at Toni&Guy under the pretence of being a studying apprentice, when really all I do is sweep the floors, drink coffee, read gossip magazines and fantasise about the look on The Navy Man's face should he return from his posting to find that I've cut off all my hair and dyed it turquoise
FYI, I imagine that would go something like this: Better not risk it.

In other news...I got nothing. That's literally how boring my life is at the moment. Even my parents have more going on than me. Oh, well that's not entirely true - this week, I discovered two things that the rest of the world was already aware of. The first is that the Dr Who television series is legendary.
Really.
I don't know how this happened, but I have somehow become addicted to a TV show that doesn't star Wentworth Miller. And is British. And about time travel. And that doesn't star Wentworth Miller. And did I mention that since it's on at 7 in the morning, I have to get up a whole HOUR earlier than I normally would, just to watch it? So you know it's gotta be good. And unlike most of the TV I watch, you actually have to use your brain to understand it; since it's so damn complicated, I can actually feel myself getting smarter with every new episode. It's like the cheapest school ever! Plus now I'm learning shit I can actually USE, like How To Save The World Should It Be Taken Over By One Of The Last Remaining Time Lords Who Is Posing As The Prime Minister Of Britain And For Some Reason Turned The Future Human Race Into A Fleet Of Flying Robots.
Always a handy skill to have.

The second thing I've discovered is that banana bread is the most delicious food in this universe. I know (mostly in part to a childhood viewing of Moulin Rouge) I always said I'd never allow myself to fall in love, but there are some things in life you just can't fight. And the undeniable connection between myself and banana bread is one of those things. If there is a more depressing sentence in existance than the one I've just written, I'd like to know about it. And yet, I don't care. So, since I hate uni and I can't join the armed forces and I've recently decided that my current apprenticeship just isn't for me, it has become my greatest ambition in life to bake a banana bread couch, and sit on it while I watch every episode of Dr Who ever made.
Good luck to me!

Random Dude: So, busy day today?
Me: Yeah. We're fully booked for the rest of the afternoon.
Random Dude: Yeah...I bet you do alot of blow jobs here, don't you?
MASSIVE PAUSE
Me: You...you mean blow dries?
Random Dude: Yeah. Yeah, that's what I meant.

Sometimes, I fucking love my job.

What up, my bitches?

So.

I was standing in the staff room at work earlier, and happened to notice this cardboard box sitting behind the recycling bin:

Well! I thought. Isn't that nice? A thoughtful warning for those of us who possess less-than-satisfactory coordination when it comes to sharp objects! If only this had come a week earlier, before I accidentally took a chunk out of my bicep with the box-cutter while unpacking an order of shampoo. But still. Very thoughtful. Very very thoughtful.

Then I took a look at the writing below the 'warning':
Schibello.
As in, Schibello Coffee.
As in, This box is packed with plastic bags of Schibello Coffee.
As in, This box is packed with plastic bags of Schibello Coffee; don't use a knife to cut the box, or else you will probably break one of the bags and coffee will fly everywhere.
As in, These are simple unpacking instructions. NOT a health and safety warning. Jacki Trew, you are a moron. Learn how to handle a knife, you dunce.
...
Ever get the feeling that you've just been outwitted by a cardboard box? It's not pleasant.

Oh, how have I not blogged about this sooner?
Did anyone else catch the last 5 minutes of Today Tonight before Home and Away started (yes, clearly I have my priorities sorted) and happen to catch that thing about Ivan Milat and another dead body being found in the Belangelo State Forest?
Let me say that again.
IVAN MILAT. And ANOTHER BODY. In the BELANGELO STATE FOREST.
...
Alright.
Everyone's thinking it, I'm just gonna say it: IS IVAN MILAT VOLDEMORT'S TWIN, OR WHAT? I mean come ON! The man is two hundred years old. And he's been in prison for what, half that time? HOW IS HE STILL KILLING PEOPLE??
Okay, and yes, I know. It's not that he's still killing people, it's just that they haven't found all the people he killed before they caught him yet. I'm smart enough to have figured that out. Not smart enough to realise that Voldemort isn't actually real, but hey, you can't win every battle. That doesn't worry me. No, what I'm actually concerned about is that my second thought when I first saw this news piece (I mean, AFTER the whole Ivan/Voldemort comparison) was something along the lines of Hey, weren't you voted Most Likely To Be Killed By Ivan Milat in high school? Huh? Wasn't that you, Jacqueline Sarah Trew? Wasn't it? Closely followed by my third thought, which went a little like this: Aww, shit.

If there is a worse way to die than being slaughtered by Ivan Milat, I'd like to know about it. I'm sorry, did I say 'know about'? What I really meant was 'volunteer for'. Anything, anything is better than death-by-Ivan. Fire? No problem. Suffocation? Whatever. Sharks? No big deal. I would literally soak my legs overnight in a soy sauce marinade and offer them to the next Great White I came across if it meant avoiding an encounter with Ivan Milat. That sounds crazy, right? WRONG. It doesn't sound crazy. And if you disagree with me, then you are an idiot who has clearly never sat through Wolf Creek. Watch that - then get back to me.

Don't Call Me Ma'am

Initially, I wasn't going to blog about this because I thought it might get me in trouble. But hey. It's my day off, I'm bored, I'm waiting for Home and Away to start, and (let's be honest) I'm the kind of idiot who doesn't care about trouble, as long as it gives her a laugh.
So here we go.
This probably sounds weird coming from someone who works in hospitality/publishes her every thought on a public blog/craves human attention/is thinking about starting a hug schedule with her friends...but sometimes I hate people. Well...hate is such a strong word. So maybe I don't hate them as much as I want to punch them repeatedly in the groin every 8 seconds for the next 14 years. It's not all the time. In fact, I hardly ever hate people at all. But sometimes, maybe twice a year, I'll have a day where I come across someone who is enough of an asshole that I would gladly stab myself in the face with a blunt pencil just to avoid all interaction with them.

Today was that day.

Being that The Navy Man is very busy saving the world, and I am a lowly hairdresser's assistant's assistant, today I had some errands to run that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the Naval Uniform store on Cowper Wharf Rd. Also known as 'Glendinnings Menswear'. Yes. I don't understand the name, and I'm not going to pretend that I want to. It is what it is. Anyway, the whole escapade started off well enough, mostly due to the fact that I somehow managed to navigate myself all the way there without getting lost ONCE. AND I found a parking spot within 5 minutes. From the moment I walked through the door, though, it all went downhill. Because this was me:
Jacki: Good morning!
And this was the facial expression of every dude in that place:
Ha.
Haha.
To be fair, I don't exactly look like the kind of girl who belongs in a Naval Uniform store. But to be even fairer, these guys were total dicks. It took me almost 20 minutes to convey that all I needed was a white officer's shirt and a replacement badge for one of NM's hats (which I even offered to pay for, EVEN THOUGH it was a REPLACEMENT for the BROKEN badge they had already given him), and another 20 for the guy behind the counter to figure out how the eftpos machine operated. And then, just when I thought the horror was over, this happened:

Dude: Anything else?
Jacki: Oh yeah. My boyfriend asked if you could pin the new badge onto the hat for him.
Dude: Sorry ma'am, can't do it. It just pins on. If your boyfriend can't figure out how to do it, he shouldn't be in the Navy.

Okay.
First of all dude, you are a hundred years old. Don't call me ma'am. Second of all, if it's that easy, why can't you do it for him? And third, kindly shove your head up your ass. The only reason you work in this store is because YOU weren't smart enough to actually be in the Navy. 20 minutes to work out the eftpos? Give me a break.

I don't know why this is getting me all riled up. I think it probably has more to do with the fact that I'm still waiting for my dinner to be ready than anything else. I've also had quite a bit of sugar today. I've just remembered I have to go to work tomorrow. And I kind of have to pee. Still, there was one positive thing amongst this whole mess, and that's that the badge they gave me to replace NM's broken one? Was also broken. Which I know doesn't sound like a positive thing...but now I can say that even though I spent all afternoon trying to fix it myself and at one point accidentally super-glued my hand to the couch, I'm still smarter than the uniform store guy.
And that's something.

The Longest Pause Yet

Here's a question: When did 'gmail' become popular? Huh? Is this just me? Am I so behind the times that everyone else bailed on hotmail and I didn't notice? When did this happen? Where was I? And don't you dare say probably in the midst of a four-hour Prison Break marathon, because I haven't done one of those in at LEAST two months.
Apart from last Sunday, that is.
But still! Gmail? Really? And here's how I know: every new client that comes into Toni&Guy has to fill out a personal detail questionnaire. I, being the lowly assistant-who-isn't-really-an-assistant-on-account-of-the-fact-that-she's-openly-looking-for-another-job, get the wonderful task of entering all these details into the computer. And I don't wanna make it seem like the kind of loser who stands around counting the number of gmail users VS the number of hotmail users...but lets just say if I had a dollar for every gmail address I've typed, I'd have eight hundred and twenty seven dollars.

Speaking of Toni&Guy...a bunch of us who work there went out on Saturday night to mourn Francesco's leaving. That's right, I said leaving. As in leaving. As in going away. For a while. And while it's true that he'll come back eventually, it's only for like 6 days until he flies on home to Italy; a fact I would be way angrier/more upset about had he not given me his Italian espresso maker as a parting gift. That's not to say I wasn't upset at all, but it's been pretty hard for me to express any kind of emotion since they cancelled Prison Break. Being dead on the inside will do that to you. Still. I'll miss you, Frisky Dingo. And not just because of the free haircuts.
...
Although that's mostly it.

Speaking of men who'll be missed, let's talk about The Navy Man and his little going away party. Apparently all the men in my life have met and decided that this week it might be amusing to pack up their lives in Sydney and abandon me for four months. And yes, by 'all the men in my life' what I really mean is 'Francesco and The Navy Man'.
But still! Considering I spend 70% of my life at work, 15% in an assortment of coffee shops, 9% in the company of Navy Man himself and the rest of the time in bed, those are all the men in my life. And they're BOTH leaving, in the SAME week? What, did they plan it? It's times like this that I really find myself wishing I was Sabrina The Teenage Witch and harboured the ability to build a date out of playdoh and magic. I also think it'd be quite cool to have a talking cat.
The one positive that comes out of all this though, is that by NM leaving for four months, it gives me a chance to become as much of a Dr Who nerd as he is. Not that I am super-enthusiastic about the sci-fi genre, but I'm already almost comically terrible in the girlfriend department - and while The Navy Man is very good about ignoring this, my lack of Dr Who knowledge is a constant source of disappointment for him. I can tell:

Jacki: So the Doctor changes his face sometimes?
NM: Well...kind of. Yes. Lets just say so, because it's the simplest explanation.
Jacki: So the current Doctor is the one who was in the weeping angels episode?
NM: Yes.
Jacki: And the Doctor before that was David Tennant?
NM: Yes.
Jacki: And the Doctor before that was the one with the leather jacket?
NM: (trying not to laugh) Yes.
Jacki: Well I hate the leather-jacket Doctor.
PAUSE
Jacki: I just...because he thinks he can pull off the leather jacket.
PAUSE
Jacki: Which he can't.
LONG PAUSE
Jacki: And he's also old.
LONGER PAUSE
Jacki: And old people freak me out.
LONGEST PAUSE
Jacki: So yeah...that's...that pretty much sums up my reasons for...not...liking him.
THE LONGEST PAUSE YET
NM: I feel really sorry for you.

Well, whatever! I was right. He couldn't pull off that leather jacket, and I don't even feel bad saying it. Although that's mostly because The Navy Man hardly ever reads this blog, and even if he did, I'm pretty sure it's still impossible to punch someone in the face via The Internet. If in 5 years you see me walking down the street with an inexplicable bruise on my face, you'll know what happened. But until then, I feel pretty safe. Nevertheless, I'm seriously toying with the idea of quitting work altogether and just spending the next four months in front of the TV watching Dr Who. Perhaps I will take the occasional break to read about Dr Who, or play with my Dr Who figurines. If they invent a Dr Who cereal, I'm sure I will eat it for breakfast. And by the time Navy Man returns from his adventures at sea, I won't just know everything about Dr Who, I will BE Dr Who.
And then he'll HAVE to agree with me about the leather jacket.

Happy Birthday Catherine! 22 Years Young!

Well well well, what have we here?

Long time no blog, my friends.

Long.

Time.

No.

Blog.

So, is it just me, or is this 'election' mess fast becoming the most annoying news topic on the planet? Julia Gillard, Tony Abbott, Jacki Trew...who cares? Just pick one already! I'm kidding about the Jacki Trew part of course. No, I am not in the running to become the next Prime Minister of Australia. Not this year, anyway. But come 2013...

What really bugs me about the whole situation is that this was the first time I'd voted. Like, ever. And sure, I had no idea what I was doing and thus may or may not have spend an extra seven minutes in the poll booth trying to decide whether voting for the Communist Party as a joke was actually funny or just plain stupid, but still. If there's a worse way to lose your Voting Virginity than this, I don't know about it.

Right. Well, that's about all I've got to say for tonight, except for that I'm watching the third Lord Of The Rings movie right now, and boy is Gollum/Smeagol a total asshole or what? There's only one bigger asshole than Gollum in this movie, and that's the giant cave-dwelling spider who tries to eat Frodo. Then again, maybe not. After all, it's a giant fucking spider that lives in a cave. If it didn't try to eat someone, it'd just be weird.

Speaking of giant fucking spiders who live in caves, it's my big sister Catherine's birthday today. I'll write more late, but for now I'll leave it at Happy Birthday, Catherine! 22 years young! May your cave remain comfortable and your fangs venemous. And please don't eat me.

Catherine's Birthday Blog - Part Two

"Alcoholics In Training"

Maybe the term 'alcoholic' is a little strong, but it's fair to say that my sister and I come from a long line of enthusiastic drinkers. One of my earliest memories is of a family Christmas party during which my Uncle John handed everyone their presents from under the tree upon arrival, then got drunk and proceeded to accuse us all of "stealing his shit". I'm sorry, did I say earliest memory? I think what I meant to say was fondest.

Despite this however, I've only witnessed the phenomenon that is Drunk Catherine Trew around 3 times in my life. And 2 out of those 3 times, I myself was intoxicated enough for her to actually appear sober.

But while I've never really experienced it myself, I've certainly heard stories. Stories about Malaysian night clubs, about lost hotel room keys, about walking home from the beach at 3:30 in the morning...one of my favourites involves our front yard, Catherine, and a 24-pack of passionfruit flavoured UDL. Use your imaginations people, because I'm not allowed to retell that one here.

Our parents are engaged in a fairly benevolent relationship with The Wine Society, which neither Catherine or I have inherited. In fact, as far as alcohol is concerned, we couldn't be more different - she being a beer/mixer/rum-and-coke kind of girl, and me being pretty much unreceptive of anything that isn't served in a shotglass with salt on the rim. Nevertheless, this hasn't stopped her from attempting to further my education in the field of drinking. And I have to admit, she's given me some fairly sound advice...like, that blueberry-flavoured Pulse is not acceptable once you pass the age of 18. That red wine and diet coke are two substances which should NEVER be mixed. And that despite having the word 'gay' in it's name, Mount Gay rum is not going to result in a better night than any other label of rum on the market.

Except of course, for Bundaberg, which everyone knows tastes like shit.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are Confused

Jacki: So you got a new laptop.
Navy Man: Yep.
Jacki: That's pretty fancy.
Navy Man: Yep.
Jacki: What's her name?
Navy Man: Wha...I don't know.
Jacki: You mean you're not going to name her?
Navy Man: Why would I?
Jacki: So you have something to yell out when she malfunctions, of course.
Navy Man: I'll just call her 'Navy Man's PC' - that way she's mine, and she can't cheat on me.
Jacki: Oh, she wouldn't cheat on you. She loves you.
Navy Man: Yeah, plus she's a filthy whore that no other man would take.

(pause)

Jacki: Okay, I was using the computer as a metaphor for, you know, me. Please tell me you weren't.

Catherine's Birthday Blog - Part One

"Love You To Death"

Like any pair of self-respecting sisters, Catherine and I have tried to kill each other on several occasions. The first attempt (that I am aware of) involved a then-5-year-old Catherine feeding me a chocolate biscuit which contained enough crushed peanuts to bring down Mickey Rourke. Assuming, of course, that Mickey Rourke is (like me) allergic to to peanuts. He probably isnt, but since I've already blogged about that particular incident, I'm not going to go on about it.

Over the next few years, Catherine would attempt a number of homicides, all of which shared a common theme of "my little sister is deathly allergic to nuts, and it would be too bloody easy to take advantage".
Really, Catherine?
Really?
To be honest, I wasn't so much annoyed by the fact that she was repeatedly trying to end my life as I was disgusted by the unoriginality with which she was going about it. And I'm allowed to say that - because the last big fight I remember involved me throwing a full-sized watermelon at her head.

Now, don't get me wrong. It's not that we don't love each other. Because of course we DO - it's just a different KIND of love. You know, like, less in the way that we actually love each other, and more in the way that it's convenient to know someone you can always borrow money from. I've also never met another person with whom I am so eye-to-eye on the whole Team Edward VS Team Jacob thing. There are some bonds which run even deeper than blood, and I'm fairly certain that's one of them.
We're also united by a penchant for bad movies and mint flavoured icecream, and by the theory that when it comes to the electing of our nation's next leader, it's always best to just vote for whichever candidate has the most amusing surname.
Don't tell our parents.

That Guy I Used To Have A Massive Crush On

Holy crap, you guys. I know it's not in my usual style to blog about celebrities who aren't That Guy I Used To Have A Massive Crush On, but look what Hermione Granger did to her hair:Wowza. I'm half shocked, half impressed, half concerned that her neighbours and husband are planning on force-feeding her some herbal concoction that'll cause her to give birth to the spawn of satan. Not as concerned as I am about my own mathematical skills, but still.

I'm not a huge fan of super-short hair, but I'm probably prejudiced on account of my own experience with it. After all, you don't spend the better part of 2 years looking like Richard Simmon's less-attractive sister without forming some sort of biased opinion. But she looks good. Like the love child of Twiggy and Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. Only without the satanic undertones. So kudos, Hermione, on the new haircut. And sorry about not knowing your actual name.

In other news, since I have a day off and a couple of spare minutes, I've been thinking about giving my blog a makeover. Yeah. It was either that or give myself a makeover - but since sometimes you just have to look at a situation and realise that it's not going to get any better, my blog won out. Suggestions?

So, maybe this is your first time at www.jackiiscrazy.blogspot.com, or maybe you just haven't been listening. Either way - if that's the case, you won't know much about this little lady:

(Don't worry, that cat had given it's full consent before the picture was taken). The lady in question is Catherine Elizabeth Trew, aka My Older Sister. Or to be more specific, My Older Sister who happens to be turning 22 later this month. And while I could have gone the traditional route and gotten her a book or a DVD or an 'I Heart Big Sister' charm for her Pandora bracelet, I decided on a birthday present that's much more meaningful: a 3-part blog in which I expose all her secrets and post photos of her dancing naked on our back veranda.
I'm kidding about the secrets and the naked thing of course, but the blog will be real. And almost semi-amusing. And I will more likely than not recieve a punch in the face for writing it. But since there's more to Catherine Trew than just the 20-something-year-old who hates broccoli and likes reading non-fiction and has a weirdly sexual relationship with our pet cat, I feel compelled to tell her story. Or at least, a small portion of it.

Coming soon!

And So The ReviewEE Becomes The ReviewER

Is anyone else here enough of a pathetic weirdo to read the comments on their own blog?
...
No? Just me?
Well alright then.
Still. Regardless of whether or not it makes me look like the kind of idiot who trolls their own website, this recent one caught my eye:

Now, I don't know who this Scorpio Woperchild is, nor do I recall asking for a review, nor can I fathom the idea that there are people - fully grown, adult people - out there who have enough time to sit and type and cast judgement on the insane rantings of a 20-year-old girl from Australia...but there's no such thing as bad publicity, right? So I took a wander over to Ask And You Shall Recieve, and read my review.

In hindsight, it wasn't such a great idea. And by 'wasn't such a great', what I really mean is 'was a pretty fucking stupid'. The URL of this website alone should have been enough of a clue. Let's just say it's a good thing I already know how much of a moron I am, AND that I have enough self-confidence to ignore the opinions of a man who apparently thinks of himself as a character from Harry Potter. It's also pretty convenient that I'm currently in the market for a new asshole - because Mr 'Scorpio Woperchild' tore me one alright. Check it out:

For starters, Jacki Trew’s delightful little blog is titled "Insanity Now Has a Website" and the URL is JackiIsCrazy.blogspot.com. When you are 15 years old, calling yourself CRAZY or INSANE feels like a logical choice. You feel like you don’t fit in. You feel weird all the time. Maybe you’re moody. Maybe you’re filled with rage. Maybe you are really unpredictable. And yeah, that feels pretty crazy at the time.
But then months pass and soon you realize that this is normal – everyone feels this way – and you are no more crazy than the next very average student treading the halls of your school. And by the time you’re 16 or so, you no longer think it’s cool to call yourself Crazy or Insane.
Insanity Now Has a Website? I don't fucking think so.

Yeah. Ouch.
He then goes on to berate my constant use of the term 'insanity' and it's many variations - crazy, weird, off-my-fucking-nut, etc etc - my colour scheme, my obsession with reality tv, and the fact that I insist on having autoplay music in my sidebar.
Which is all fine.
Or at least, it WAS. Until this happened:

I mean, autoplay music is never good, but Kylie Minogue? Really? What fucking decade is this anyway?

Talk trash about me all you want, buddy, but bad-mouthing Kylie Minogue? You just lost the respect of not only me, but at least half the gay population of Planet Earth. AND Julia Hirst. Oh, and since you asked so nicely, it's 2010 - the tenth year in a decade during which Kylie staged a comeback, performed on four world tours, beat breast cancer and sold over 68 million records. Basically, Scorpio? If Kylie Minogue had a penis, she would probably be requesting that you suck on it right now.
Now, where was I?
After he'd finished chanelling his intense but inexplicable hate of the world through my blog, and offered to do humanity a service by 'hopping a flight to Sydney, tracking me down and kicking the teeth out of my head', Mr Woperchild seemed to run out of steam. That's when he offered me this tiny gift:

At some point along the way she found a voice. Sure, that voice talks way too much about things I don’t give a rat’s ass about – reality TV, actors over whom she is swooning, being a semi-responsible adult, etc. – but it is still an amusing voice at times. A slightly skewed perspective on her life, which is pretty normal and ordinary, and that skewed perspective takes the boring and mundane and makes it somewhat worth reading about.

Ahhh, that's better. There's nothing like a scathingly backhanded almost-compliment to make you feel good about yourself. I am kidding of course - that last paragraph made me cry into my cereal this morning. But it's not all bad news. Because if you happen to head over to Ask And You Shall Recieve and peruse my little critique yourself, you'll see that the post in specific which Scorpio Woperchild finds amusing? Just happens to be the one about dolphins and the fact that they gang-rape each other. And any freak of the week who could picture that kind of horror and still laugh is obviously not worth listening to.

So thanks for the advice, Scorpio, really. But I think I'm in the same boat as Kylie Minogue now.

Australia's Next Top Employee

I've got pretty much nothing this week.

My search for a new job continues. I mean, Jane and I did make a late-night decision to start a bohemian tea-house where people can come and eat and play music and make art and not wear shoes and drink alcohol after dark...but still. It's always nice to have a backup plan which DOESN'T involve bankruptcy. Just in case. I also have a feeling that only hiring our friends and then paying them with 'love' might be illegal.

I sometimes get the feeling that I might have fared better in the 1940's. No, the 50's. 60's? Well, whatever decade it was when the title 'successful woman' had only two prerequisites:
1) The ability to bake a perfect mud cake, and
2) A vagina
I can bake. I'm a great baker. And I've got a vagina. And - as evidenced by a string of genital-themed birthday cakes my friends and I enjoyed in our final year of high school - I'm not afraid to combine the two. Were this the 1950's, I'd be Prime Minister by now. As it is, however, I'm just a TEMPORARILY employed salon assistant who gets paid 6 bucks an hour to sweep up hair. And while it helps to have friends, family and a somewhat delusional officer of the Australian Navy around to make suggestions, it doesn't help when they make suggestions like this:

"Maybe you should just be a street urchin. You know, sit on your ass and do nothing all day - you're great at that."

I know. Thanks alot, Dad. I love you too.

Speaking of things I'm great at...oh, you know what? That segue doesn't really apply, since what I wanted to talk about next was driving. And while the lovely Julia Hirst is adamant that I possess excellent driving skills, others disagree. And Julia is lying. Here's what happened last night:

The Navy Man wanted to take me for dinner with his friend Doug, and Doug's girlfriend Kara. Since Doug and Kara didn't have a car between them, we let them pick the venue; Stanley St in Darlinghurst, for those of you playing at home. As for us? Well, since NM wasn't feeling 100% and I had just suffered through the kind of day at work for which the phrase 'hell on earth' was invented, it was decided that he would drive my car, while I navigated/drank my body weight in tequila.

MISTAKE NUMBER 1.

I don't remember who's idea it was to rely solely on the directing skills of my iPhone and google maps, but it was a bad one. It took approximately 11 minutes to get from this:

"Dude, I TOTALLY know how to get there."

To this:

"Okay, we're a little off track, but we're not lost, we're DEFINITELY not lost."

And then eventually to this:

"Yeah, we're fucked."

Oh yes.

I think my favourite part - aside from the sudden realisation that I am without a doubt the most useless human being on the planet - was the traffic jam that I inadvertantly caused us to sit in for almost 25 minutes. Especially since the term 'traffic jam' just happens to be at the very top of one of Navy Man's lists; a list so appropriately titled "Things Which Send Navy Man Into A White Hot Frenzy Of Rage". I now know how to say the word 'shit' in 11 different languages.

Still. So maybe we were 45 minutes late, maybe I made myself look like an idiot, maybe I've given The Navy Man something to hold over my head for the rest of our lives, but still. It could have been alot worse...Because I've discovered something great about having a boyfriend from out-of-town, and that's that when you and your shitty navigational skills end up on the Eastern Distributor heading for the airport, you can just say stuff like this:

Jacki: Well, we're near Maroubra. That's not far away at all!
And he'll totally believe you.

Hire Me!

You guys, Lane Cove is actually insane.
I'm not kidding! It's crazy! And I can't believe it's taken me this long to notice!! I guess it's just one of those things - you never notice that the suburb you live in is like one big out-patient mental hospital until you get a job in a hairdresser on the main street and spend half your days staring through the front window at all the freaks walking past.
Yesterday, for example, I saw a woman sitting outside the cafe next door eating cereal out of a red tupperware container. That in itself is an oddity, but the weirdest part was actually HOW she was eating the cereal, and that was in a manner that I can only describe as furious. It was like she was angry at the cereal. Not just the cereal - it was like she was angry at the WORLD. At one point she accidentally spilled some milk on herself, and I swear to God I thought she was going to turn around and punch the guy behind her in the windpipe. It was mesmerising. I don't know how many phonecalls went unanswered as I stood there with bated breath, just waiting for this woman to pull out a machete and stab everyone within reach. But I'm guessing it was alot.

I'm terrible at my job.

Speaking of being terrible at my job...four or five more weeks and I'm going to have to find something else to be terrible at. And just for the record, I wasn't fired. It's not that I don't love Toni&Guy, it's just that I'm pretty useless at everything I do. And while there are some jobs that it's okay to be useless at, it turns out that 'hairdresser' just isn't one of them. People tend to notice when you accidentally-on-purpose shave the words peace, love, disco into the hair on the back of their head. And by 'notice' what I really mean is 'totally freak out'. But whatever. Aside from that little mishap, and the whole neglecting-work-in-order-to-stare-at-crazy-people-eating-cereal-at-the-cafe-next-door thing, AND the fact that I was late for our last staff meeting because I was watching an episode of The Real Housewives of NYC and didn't want to miss the end, I must have done SOMETHING right, because they're letting me stay until I find a new job. Isn't that nice?
So the downside is that - once again - I'm jobless, broke, have no talents or direction to speak of, I'm almost 100% unqualified and I owe my parents two thousand dollars. But the UPside is...
Aw, crap.
Still. I'm not worried. Well, maybe a little bit. Probably not as worried as I should be. Certainly not as worried as The Navy Man is. But it's all good. After all, if life and the cast of Laguna Beach has taught us anything, it's that even the biggest idiots on the planet are capable of finding a job. Also that I should probably stop basing my major life decisions on a mediocre reality show that ended 4 years ago. But mainly the first thing.
Hire me!

TV, Mel, Pie Charts And My Ability To Love

I am simultaneously amused and horrified by my own addiction to reality TV. I mean on the one hand, when I find myself awake at 2:30 in the morning just so I can tune into the E! Channel and find out whether or not Kim Kardashian's sister will get back together with whatever-his-name-is, I have to question my own sanity. Kim Kardashian's sister? Whatever-his-name-is? How much do I really need to know about these people? It's a sick and twisted comment on society that we spend more time watching other people live their lives than we do actually living our own. Not to mention the fact that the only reason people like the Kardashians are famous is because of their money. And/or their giant asses. Really, when I think about it, I should be ashamed of myself for wasting my time with this crap.

On the other hand though...reality TV is fucking awesome.

Have you guys seen this show Pretty Wild? Oh my goodness. I have no clue who these people are, nor why they're famous, NOR whose insane idea it was to give them their own show (by the way whoever-you-are, I thank you from the bottom of my blackened heart)...but I can say with almost complete sincerety that I have never been more entertained/disgusted by three teenage Hollywood brats and their crazy new-age mother in my life. Why? Well, here's a sample conversation between Mum and Daughter Number One:

Mum: Have you been working out?

Daughter Number One: Yeah! I've been working out alot, and dancing.

Mum: You look amazing.

Daughter Number One: Thanks!

Mum: And no one has breasts like you.

Daughter Number One: Thanks!

(Pause)
Mum: Wanna take some naked photographs?

When I first saw that episode, I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up. In the end I decided to go with a combination of all three. It was unfortunate. Still, you have to admit that conversation is pretty hilarious. Disturbing, yes. Illegal, almost certainly. But hilarious.

On a completely different note, last night I attended the 21st birthday of a very special lady who goes by the name of Mel Amon. Happy belated birthday, Mel! And I love you, even more than I love reality TV.

See? Because if you can't trust a pie chart I made using the 'Kids Zone' website, what the hell can you trust?

Why, Universe? Why?

So I just painted my nails green.
That's a pretty boring thing to say - especially if you consider the fact that not 10 posts ago I was talking about animals and the possibility that they engage in anal sex - but it's Sunday, the day of rest, and I'm tired. If you have a problem with this, I invite you to kiss my ass.

Speaking of asses...I've got a pain in mine, since my computer has decided to quit functioning normally and will now only turn on for around 7 minutes at a time. Really. I think I've probably got about 80 seconds to finish writing this post. It's so convenient. The real kicker is that this isn't even my computer - it's Catherine's. When she bought a new laptop, she gave me her old one. Why? Because mine had decided to quit functioning normally and would only turn on for around 7 minutes at a time.
...
Okay.
WHY, UNIVERSE? WHY? WHY ARE YOU SO DETERMINED TO KICK ME IN THE VAGINA?
Is this just it? Is it my lot in life to be surrounded by poorly-performing electrical equipment? Because I'm not just talking about the computers. Let's not forget the 2 hair straighteners, the 4 mobile phones, the curling iron, the DVD player, the electric nail drier, the sandwich maker, the shower radio or any of the countless iPods I went through in high school. Plus there's that whole thing that happened with my iPhone last month. This can't just be me. This has to have something to do with a higher power trying to piss me off, right? I can't be that much of a careless idiot, can I?
Don't answer that.

Baby Names And Bad Movies

I feel like shit at the moment, so I was thinking about going to bed. But even though I've been struck down with a harsh and rare case of the Avian Flu (I am assuming), it's only 9:34 and it's Saturday night, so I think going to bed is actually the last thing that's gonna make me feel better.
Let's talk about baby names.

Is it totally weird that while having a baby (behind post offices and the idea of being raped by a dolphin) is one of the scariest things in the world to me, I've already picked out the names of my hypothetical children? I mean, these are probably just going to end up on the nametags of some very well loved cats, but still. I feel it's important to announce what you want now - because you never know when your older sister is going to get herself knocked up, un-knowingly steal your favourite baby name and make everything awkward.
I'm just being well prepared. And for the record Catherine, Wentworth and Stella are TOTALLY out of bounds. You have been warned.
I don't understand this celebrity trend of insane baby names. I know my Wentworth fixation doesn't make it look that way, but come on. Wentworth? At least it's a real name! At least it's easy to spell! At least there's no 'Prince' or 'Princess' in front of it! At least...no, you know what? If it's coming out of my vagina, then I get to name it. No arguments.
Wow, I'm moody tonight.
It's really only because I'm sick. And I'm tired. And (here comes a hideously uncool 90's reference for your reading pleasure) in the words of Anastasia, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.
...
Did you get it? The reference? Did you get it? If you did, congratulations - you are as lame as me. If not, watch this. Then pull your head out of your ass and go research the 90's. They're awesome.
Another reason I'm moody? I just got done watching the 'cinematic masterpiece' that is Dear John. Just in case you didn't happen to read my last post about the movie Dear John, or if the sarcasm indicated by my use of inverted commas wasn't obvious enough for you...I think my review read something along the lines of...

"Dear John is the biggest piece of shit I have seen at the movies this year."

Incredibly, that still stands true. I say incredibly, because I just saw Twilight: Eclipse a couple of weeks ago. That was bad, but Dear John? Let me put it this way:

Dear John,

You suck.

Sincerely,
Jacki Trew

Ha. I'm hilarious. But alright, enough with the terrible Dear John jokes. I know what you're all wondering: if I hate it so much, why did I watch it again? Well, because I'm an idiot, that's why. And because my sister was home for the weekend, and SHE wanted to watch it. Oh, and I suppose because of this:

What? So he's no Navy Man, but I'm only human. And I'm sick. And as it turns out, Channing Tatum + mint icecream + high doses of cold and flu medicine = a pretty good time.

Wentworth Miller's Penis

Well, it finally happened. 3 months, 12 weeks, 5 staff meetings, 24 hair models, 52 walks to Lane Cove and approximately one BILLION cups of coffee, and it finally happened.
Full time work has brought me down.
I don't feel too bad about it. I think I kept going as long as I could. But there's a time in every apprentice hairdresser's life when they look around themselves, see what they're doing, and realise that coughing half their internal organs onto the client who's hair they're shampooing is just not appropriate. And for me, that time came yesterday. So the bad news is that (and of course, this is not a Jacki-Trew-In-Drama-Queen-Mode exaggeration at all) I'm probably going to die. But the GOOD news is that before I do, I've got some time off. And I'm going to use it to blog.
Aww yeah. You're welcome, Planet Earth. For both things.

Here's something I've been thinking about for a while: Wentworth Miller's penis.
Ha! I'm only kidding. There's only one penis I spend that much time thinking about, and that's the one I often imagine growing out of my sister's forehead. I only said the Wentworth Miller thing because I know if The Navy Man sees it, he'll get really pissed off and bring it up the next time I see him, thus proving that he actually reads/is totally addicted to my blog. Which will of course make me feel great about myself - because everyone knows that the foundation of any healthy relationship is an insane person with a laptop and a high-speed internet connection.
Now, what was I talking about again?
Oh right.
So here's something I've ACTUALLY been thinking about for a while: My 21st birthday.
First of all (because I just wanna get this out of the way) OHHH MY GOSH I HAVE TO TURN 21, SO OLD, I'M GOING TO BE SO OLD, PEOPLE ARE GOING TO START STANDING UP FOR ME ON THE BUS, I'M GOING TO HAVE TO BUY A WALKING FRAME, I SHOULD PROBABLY START PLANNING MY FUNERAL, HOLY CRAP THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ANYONE, EVER.
Second of all, do you think I should have a party?
I love 21st's, but there's so much pressure. Where will it be? How many people are coming? Who's invited? Who's NOT invited? Is there a theme? What's the theme? What champagne are you going to drink? Which dress are you going to wear? How are you doing your hair? How are you doing your nails? How are you planning on killing yourself to avoid all this?
Wow, I'm very morbid today.
Anyway. Baaah, the pressure! I've been giving Madi not-so-subtle hints about what I really want to do for the past couple of months in the hopes that she'll just plan the whole thing for me, but I don't think it's working:

Jacki: Do you know what would be totally disco?
Madi: What?
Jacki: Going to Vegas for my 21st birthday.
Madi: That would be pretty cool.
Jacki: Yeah. And do you know what would make it even more amazing?
Madi: What?
Jacki: If like, someone else, like, I don't know, maybe my best friend, planned the whole thing for me so I didn't have to stress about it or freak out about it or, you know, have my head explode because of it.
Madi: You're right. That would make it more amazing.
Jacki: Yeah.
Madi: Hmm.
Jacki: Yeah.
(pause)
Madi: I'm not planning your 21st for you.
Jacki: Damnit!

Ha. Well, maybe Catherine'll do it. And yeah, you heard me right - Vegas, bitches! It's a high bar to set, but I'm pretty confident. My back up plan is to stay home and cry in the bathtub. Either way, you're all invited.

Magic Books, Making My Dinner And Mobile Speed Cameras

And now to continue with whatever-the-hell I was talking about this morning...

In addition to caffeine, Prison Break and sitting on the couch in my undies while wasting my money buying stuff I don't need, you know what I'm kind of totally addicted to? I'm not saying it's my absolute favourite book of all time or anything (how can it be, when there's no character named Captain Wentworth?), but The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger is...well, about as good as a book can be, considering there's no character named Captain Wentworth. I'm not going to give away the story - partly because it's so complicated that I'd be here for 6 months if I even tried, and also because I'd like you all to tear your eyes away from Facebook for long enough to read it yourselves - but I will say this: if Eric Bana, The Bronte Sisters, William Shakespeare, whoever invented coffee and I all got together for a hypothetical crazy-drunk 7-way orgy, this book would be the result.
It's like magic.

On a completely unrelated note, does anyone here know the name of the person who invented white bread? Because I don't, but I'd really really love to track them down and personally thank them with a swift kick to the 'nads. That sounds oddly hostile, but let me explain:
I was making my dinner just now. A ham and cheese toasted sandwich, for those of you playing at home. I have this for dinner pretty much every night; mainly because it's fast and easy and the perfect meal for a girl who spends 80% of her life at work (the other 20% being divided between my bed, my car, and any mid-class establishment where alcohol is served), but also because I am the kind of weirdo who becomes 'addicted' to certain meals and won't eat anything but them for weeks and weeks and weeks on end until I decide I don't really like them that much after all, and never eat them again. Don't believe me? Here's the first page of my hit list:

• Maggie 2 minute noodles
• Nutri Grain
• Vegetarian hamburgers
• Milo cereal
• Bacon and egg muffins
• Calamari
• Butter chicken

Crazy, I know. Anyway as you might have guessed, I'm currently fixated by toasted sandwiches. Or to be more specific, ham and cheese toasted sandwiches on wholemeal grain bread. Tonight though, I decided to mix things up a little, and go with white bread instead.

MISTAKE.

Remember at the beginning of this story, how I said I was making my dinner 'just now'? That was a lie. I wasn't making my dinner just now. I made my dinner 2 hours ago. I guess the reason I got mixed up is because I CAN STILL FEEL THAT DAMN WHITE BREAD SLIDING DOWN MY OESOPHAGUS. Oh, my gosh. Is this all white bread, or does my Mum buy the brand that contains mercury? I have never eaten anything like that in my life. It tasted like a ham-and-cheese-flavoured brick. Only heavier, and less delicious. And I've been walking around bent over double like a 76-year-old man ever since, because it hurts to stand up straight. Conclusion: my dinner is eating me from the inside out. Second conclusion: white bread is what they use to make sandwiches in hell.

Now, what else can I talk about? Oh. Have you guys heard about these new mobile speed cameras? Talk about annoying! The whole idea of speed cameras is that they aren't mobile; that way, you can memorise exactly where they are and feel free to break the speed limit in between them. Well. That might not be the whole idea behind speed cameras. But I'm pretty sure that's the GIST of it. Now, though? I have to obey the speed limit ALL THE TIME. Which is especially irritating considering the fact that I travel over the bridge at least 2 times a week these days in order to visit The Navy Man. By the way dude (in case you're reading this), THAT'S the reason I'm always late. It has nothing to do with me stopping at every petrol station along the way for Red Bull and lollypops. Nothing at all.