Oscar Day '11 - My Review, Now With Pictures

Some Oscar thoughts:

So, what, Geoffrey Rush is like..bald now?

That's all.

I'm only kidding of course.  Though I have to admit, this year's Academy Awards weren't as exciting for me as they have been in the past.  Mainly all I want to say about them is that I'd like to marry this:

...while wearing this:

...and listening to any song performed by this:

I know.  Booooring.  So as much as I love James Franco and Florence Welch and the idea of actually being able to pull off a lavender-coloured dress, the 83rd Oscars didn't cut it for me.  Which is upsetting, because anyone who reads this blog on at least a semi-regular basis (Re: once a year, preferably in late February) will know that when it comes to awards season in Hollywood, I am six kinds of obsessed with an extra dash of crazy sauce.  So I made a list.  Here is everything that went wrong with the Oscars in 2011...

1. Meryl Streep Was AWOL
So what if she's getting older, is always nominated but never seems to win, and hasn't actually appeared on a movie screen since It's Complicated back in 2009?  Oscar Day without Meryl Streep is like my 21st birthday without tequila; it's boring, it's unnatural, and nobody's game enough to make inappropriate threesome jokes about Alec Baldwin.
2. All The Good Bits Got Cut
Thanks to me having a full time job (as part of my ongoing bid to convince the Lane Cove Real Estate Agents that I'm actually grown up enough to handle my own apartment and certainly wont be setting up a kiddie pool in the lounge room or drinking my coffee out of a glow-in-the-dark martini glass), I didn't get to watch the awards live this year.  Bummed.  Everyone knows the only way to see George Clooney's actual reactions to the jokes made about him is to watch the live telecast.  Ie the one that plays before he sneaks backstage and pays the censors to cut out the parts where he makes faces like this:

3. Nicole Kidman Wore This:

Just...just...NO.  And while we're on the topic of Australians, since when did Jacki Weaver start spelling her name the same way as me?  Because I swear she didn't always do the 'CKI-Without-An-E".  And while I'm insane and vindictive and probably should have been institutionalised by now, my Mother (who isn't) actually agrees with me.  Check MATE, Ms Weaver.  And quit trying to be me!
4. Melissa Leo Got In Trouble
Just for dropping the F Bomb in her acceptance speech.  Really, Academy Of Old Dudes Who Decide What The Best Movies Are?  Really?  I'm sorry, did I miss something?  Was the audience full of impressionable primary-schoolers this year?  Get over yourselves.  To be honest, I found the whole thing kind of charming.  And not just because I'm the kind of person who always imagines herself dropping the F Bomb in the most inappropriate of circumstances:

5. James Cameron Wasn't Nominated 10 Dillion Times.  Or To Be More Specific, James Cameron Didn't Lose 10 Dillion Times
In my eyes, the best Oscar Ceremony was the one in 2009.  Partially because that's the year Hugh Jackman hosted, and to me there is nothing funnier than the mental image of Wolverine partying backstage with Helen Mirren:

Mostly though, it's because 2009 will always be the year Avatar was totally ass-kicked by The Hurt Locker.  If you know me, you know two things:
1) I hate Avatar.  If I had balls, watching Avatar would be like getting kicked in the crotch.  I'm a girl, so I guess it's more like giving birth to a $500 million greenscreen.  Or something.  And
2) I always vouch for the underdog.
So while I've only been able to sit through The Hurt Locker once, and found the whole experience so traumatising I'm sure it's like 30% of the reason I'm unable to love, it was the underdog.  And it won.  And James Cameron cried like a little bitch baby...I'm assuming.  Probably not, but I like the idea of James Cameron crying like a little bitch baby.  Plus the chick who directed Hurt Locker is his ex-wife, and way hotter than his current wife.  AND did I mention that she BEAT him?  If that doesn't spell entertainment, I honestly don't know what does.  This year though, there was no Avatar VS Hurt Locker/James Cameron VS Katherine Bigelow equivalent.  I had to settle for creating personal fueds between each of the actors in my head; which I can tell you now is not NEARLY as much fun.

That's it, really.  I can only hope next year shows an improvement.  By which I of course mean...I hope I'm hosting.

The Beginning Of A Very Childish Adulthood

I know I'm not saving the world or anything, but I'm gonna go ahead and say I have a pretty good job.  Pretty great job:

• Recent payrise
• We play Michael Jackson over the sound system
• I can claim all the clothes I buy on tax
• I get Sundays off
• It's walking distance to my house
• It's walking distance to the pub
• It's walking distance to the greatest hot chips this side of the Harbour Bridge

There are perks.  In fact, the whole job is pretty much one giant perk.  With an exception...

Anyone who pretends to know me knows I'm afraid of two things:

1) Post Offices
2) The idea of being trapped in an ATM vestibule with Sylvester Stallone.

I'm kidding about the second thing of course.  Everyone knows I could totally kick Stallone's ass if the situation ever presented itself.  But Post Offices are no joke, and neither is the fact that as part of my job, I make trips there on a semi-regular basis.  Take yesterday for example...
At Toni&Guy we have clients, who, sometimes, come in for a cut or colour and never come back.  This is unfortunate.  On the plus side, these same clients are the ones stupid enough to leave their home address on the customer info questionnaire we put in front of them.  Which means as well as stalking them on our days off, we can send them 50% discount vouchers in the mail, in a generous bid to lure them back to the salon.  See where I'm going with this tangent?  So as the receptionist, it's my job to print out these vouchers.  Which I don't mind.  Nor do I mind having to hand address all of them.  I don't even care about using up half my daily portion of saliva by licking stamps for the damn things.  (Except that I kind of do, only because have you ever noticed the way stamps kind of taste like the inside of a tennis ball?  Or at least what I imagine the inside of a tennis ball would taste like.  Plus I accidentally swallowed about four, which doesn't seem like something my body is gonna thank me for.)  That's irrelevant.  The real issue is having to go - actually STEP INTO - the Post Office in order to mail the vouchers.
Oh.  My God.
Let's get this straight: my fear of the Post Office is totally irrational.  I get that.  Have you BEEN in a Post Office?  There's plenty of stuff to love.  They sell wall clocks there for like, eight dollars.  I don't know why that's exciting, but it is.  Plus there's always a huge line, which doesn't seem like something you'd put on the pro side of a pro-and-con list, except that it totally gives me time to subtly-not-so-subtly check out the hot guy who works behind the counter and told me he liked my hair that one time.
What was I talking about again?
Oh yeah.  Still, wall clocks and Hot Hair-Liking Guy aside, the Post Office is the stuff of my nightmares, even though I can't seem to pinpoint exactly why.  I think probably it has something to do with the manager totally hating me because I always bring the wrong change and/or specially request (ie demand) the 60 cent fighter jet stamps on account of them reminding me of Top Gun, which by the way is like the 7th greatest movie of all time.  Plus there was my experience with trying to get a new passport.  You wanna talk about traumatising, let's talk about that.  I won't go into it now, I'm just saying...between this and the whole 'living with family members who are sometimes shockingly cavalier about my Level 5 allergy to nuts' thing, it's a wonder I haven't ended up in therapy yet.
Yet.

On a completely different note, I have a birthday coming up.  Ahh, 21.  Or as I like to call it, "Oh my God I'm old."  Anyway, I'm having a celebration and hoping you'll come.  Will you?  I've sent out a few invites already - if you didn't get one, don't feel bad.  It's probably just because you don't have Facebook.  Or it's quite possible that I think you're an asshole.  Maybe both.  Either way, you're invited to ring in the beginning of a very childish adulthood with me at The Longueville Hotel on Saturday the 12th of March.  No presents or theme, although anyone who comes dressed as a disco ball will be rewarded appropriately.  And be prepared to drink tequila.  That is all.

Keen As Vegemite

Hey.
So remember the time I blogged about that Selling Houses Australia show on the Lifestyle Channel which my parents are addicted to?
Yeah.
I just saw an ad on TV for a new season, titled 'Selling Houses Australia - EXTREME'.  This is interesting to me.  Extreme?  I'm having mental images of realtors in purple spandex jumping out of aeroplanes.  Or, you know, houses with glow-in-the-dark wallpaper that shoot lasers from the front door.  Is this realistic?  Probably not, but one thing is for sure, and that's that my parents are gonna have a joint-freaking-heart-attack when they find out.  Things are about to get interesting in the Trew household.  Selling Houses Extreme??  This is gonna be bigger than the time Dad learned how to use predictive text on his mobile phone:

Lets talk about mustard.
I'm confused; first of all, what is it exactly?  With most spreads, I can think about them, I can deduce what they're made of, and I can decide whether or not I wanna eat them:

It's a simple enough process.  Except with mustard...

My second issue is with the phrase 'keen as mustard'.  Because that just does not make sense to me.  Probably the only thing that annoys and confuses me more than this is the way I find it almost IMPOSSIBLE to unstick the first square on a new roll of toilet paper.  Yes, my life is ridiculous.  Regardless, I fail to see how mustard is in any way keen.  It's not.  Proof?  Here is a list I comprised of all mustard's well-known qualities:

• Yellow
• Questionable

You may have noticed that 'keen' was not on the list.  This is because mustard is not keen.  Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying mustard can't be considered keen just because it's nothing but a savoury condiment.  You wanna talk about condiments, let's talk about Vegemite.  Not just because I'm Australian and therefore harbour a secret desire to cover myself in Vegemite and have Hugh Jackman lick it off.  That'd be a fun weekend, but Jackman or no Jackman, eating Vegemite is like getting punched in the mouth by Alf Stewart while you're standing on top of Uluru wearing a flag-print bikini.  It's pretty flippin' Aussie and it's pretty flippin' keen.  And yes, I'm well aware that the fact I've been talking about mustard for two and a half paragraphs is crazy.  I get it.  Crazy.  All I'm saying is if and when I take over the world, changing the phrase 'keen as mustard' is the first thing on my to-do list.  No, make that second.  First is to arrange the whole Hugh Jackman/Vegemite situation.

**UPDATE:  So (as with most things in life that make no sense to me), I've consulted Google Images on the whole 'keen as mustard' issue.  Houston, we have an answer:

Whatever.  Have you ever eaten mustard by itself?  There's no way Hugh Jackman is gonna be down for that.

Cupid's Holiday

Because the idea of actually writing a Valentine's Day post on Valentine's Day was simply too depressing for consideration, here is my annual 'I Hate Love' blog, 2 days after the fact.  Oh, and don't get your knickers in a knot - I don't really hate love.  Just everyone in it.
Happy Valentine's Day, assholes!

I've always hated Valentine's Day.  And I mean always.  And before you say it - no.  It has nothing to do with me being almost 21 and totally alone.  I know this because I started labelling Cupid's "holiday" a crock of shit years ago - way before I grew up and died on the inside.

When we were young and cute and too stupid to know better, Mum used to buy my sister and I a heart-shaped cookie bouquet every Valentine's Day.  This was nice.  As a four-year-old I was loud and energetic with a chocolate milk moustache and permanently skinned knees.  It was almost impossible to find a date.

Thankfully, my parents - while crazy enough to consider pink cookies a legitimate cure for a four-year-old with man issues - were also smart enough not to flaunt their own romantic exploits in front of me.  It was a lukewarm holiday in the Trew household.

Mum stopped buying the cookies when I was about 15, by which time I was in high school and throwing "Black, Black Like My Heart" parties every year with my friends.  You could tell my parents were super-psyched to have raised an emotionally dead Red-Bull addict who laughed at dead baby jokes...I just thanked God they sent me to a school where there were at least 17 other people as twisted as me.

Now that I'm out of school and pretending to be a grown up living in the real world, I'm surprised (and comforted) by how many people actually couldn't care less about Valentine's Day - I worked from 9 til 6 on the 14th and not once did I hear anyone talking about girlfriends or cupid or romance or (vomit) love.  Oh, except this one guy who came in to buy a gift voucher:

Me: So...is this a birthday present?

Guy: Well, sort of.  It's also for Valentine's Day.

Me: Fuck you.

Just kidding.  My boss would totally have my ovaries on a platter if she heard me talk to a client like that.  I actually didn't even bother responding; I just punched him in the balls and took my lunch.  Anyway, I've pretty much exhausted this topic, so I think I'll stop before this post gets even more ludicrous.  To sum up: Valentine's Day is good for nothing.  Unless you can use it as an excuse to kick some guy you just met in the balls.  Then it's awesome.

Killer Wedgie

I didn't have the greatest sleep last night.  Which is weird, for me.  Usually I'm an excellent sleeper.  I've had alot of practice, after all.  And it's not like I've got an excuse for crappy sleep; especially since my parents got me a double bed of my very own, finally allowing me to act out my life-long fantasy of sleeping diagonally accross the mattress.
Yes - it's more comfortablethan you'll ever know.
Anyway, last night.  The worst part was that even though I didn't have to wake up until half past eight, my internal alarm clock went off at five.  And I hate my internal alarm clock.  Cause when it goes off, it sounds like this:

WAKE UP! YOU'VE GOT A KILLER WEDGIE! YOU FEEL COLD AND ACHEY AND WEIRDLY NAUSEAS! BETTER GO STARE BLINDLY AT YOURSELF IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR FOR TEN MINUTES BEFORE YOU REALISE YOU DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE T BE AT WORK FOR ANOTHER FIVE HOURS! HAHAHA!

What.  A bitch.
Anyway, after that, I couldn't get back to sleep.  That's the thing about me and waking up - it always goes one of two ways:
1) If someone else wakes me up, I remain almost completely comatose.  I'm asleep with my eyes open, and in this state I'll agree to pretty much anything - especially if the outcome is more sleep, and especially if it involves chocolate.  My sister has witnessed this phenomenon on several occasions and finds it hilarious.  But sometimes...
2) I wake myself up.  And when that happens, I NEVER get back to sleep.
This is especially annoying when I'm in the middle of an awesome dream.  And let's face it, all my dreams are awesome.  Before all this early-morning madness, I'd been having one where I was best friends with a military dude who happened to look just like Patrick Swayze, and the two of us lived together in this Army station that also functioned as a gym, ping pong arena and all-boys high school where the wearing of uniforms wasn't mandatory.  I was living in a men's locker room is basically what I'm trying to say.  I have no idea; I think someone's been putting meth in my coffee again.

Hello world.
Unless you've never been here before, you will have noticed some changes in my blog recently.  We're no longer Insanity Has A Website, nor Just Jacki.  Nor are we going to continue referring to ourselves in the third person, having auto-music players in the sidebar, or repeatedly posting identical pictures of little-known Australian actors just because they happen to bare a slight resemblance to people we used to hang out with.  Welcome to Caffeine & Cynicism.

The Heart Of Jersey

Sigh.
Okay, you guys. This is probably going to be short and pointless, but I'm bored out of my skull and there's nothing on TV. At least, not for another hour and a half. That is, until 9:30. When I plan on watching, um...Jersey Shore.
DON'T JUDGE ME!
Remember that time I blogged about Jersey Shore, and how they should really change the name to Holy Shit Jersey Shore, because every time I watch it, I find myself repeating that phrase over and over in response to the cast members and their crazy behavior? I changed my mind. Sure, Holy Shit Jersey Shore is appropriate with the added benefit of being hilarious, but if any words are gonna get tacked onto the original title, it's these three:

DON'T.

JUDGE.

ME.

I can say with 87% honesty that I have never experienced a higher level of ridicule and judgement IN MY LIFE since I admitted to watching/enjoying/wishing I was a cast member of Jersey Shore. Yeah. Really? I was addicted to Big Brother for almost 19 months back in high school and nobody so much as batted an eyelid, but for this they pull out the big guns? Pair that with the whole depleting ozone layer thing or the fact that my boobs have somehow shrunk by an entire cupsize over the past 6 months, and it's no wonder I've lost all faith in humanity.

One thing I've noticed about people who make fun of Jersey Shore Don't Judge Me is that - in general - none of them have ever bothered to watch a single episode. This explains a lot. I mean, if you judge solely by the commercials, the whole damn show is about a 4 ft 9 Italian girl getting drunk at the beach. And sure that's most of it, but if you don't tune into the actual episodes, you're never gonna see the heart:

Right?

This is the exact same issue I had with the hot chocolate/chai latte hybrid I invented a couple months back. Or to be more specific, convincing the staff at Gloria Jeans to start selling the hot chocolate/chai latte hybrid I invented a couple months back, and paying me the royalties. Because from the outside, I just look like a hyperactive young girl with crazy hair, and The Hot Chaicolate just sounds like something that could do your reproductive organs some serious damage. It might, but in reality it's probably also one of the best non-caffeinated/non-alcoholic beverages I've ever tasted. And I'm a hyperactive young girl with crazy hair...and HEART. See?On a completely different note, I'm sick of my blog layout and want a change. If you have any ideas or suggestions, please email them to me so I can come up with something better and throw it in your face.

That's all. :)

"No Hot Dogs!" - Another Ridiculous Story From My Past

I had this dream the other day while I was awake (not a medical hallucinatory condition, this is just my way of saying I spend alot of time at work standing behind the reception desk and totally zoning out while others work dilligently in the background), and when I woke up, I was somehow reminded of a hilarious story from my childhood. My first thought was something along the lines of 'Oh, man! I can't wait to share this on my blog!', closely followed by my second, which was 'Hey, uh...what?'.
To cut a long explanation short, I have a bowl of NutriGrain and two cans of Red Bull in place of a memory gland, and therefore tend to forget every event in my life about six seconds after it occurs. Which, you know, kind of sucks since it pretty much makes me the 20-something female human equivalent of the fish that Ellen Degeneres did the voice for in Finding Nemo. On the plus side however...what was I talk about again?
Huh.
I'm not quite sure what the point of this post was. So I can't remember this 'hilarious' childhood memory of mine. Nevertheless, here is another ridiculous story from my past...

When I was around 8 years old and still living in The Greenwich House, my parents won a coin-operated jelly bean machine at some charity auction they went to. What charity? I don't care. What parents? I don't care. I was 8 years old and there was a jelly bean machine in my house. And the best part was this: the machine came with a years supply of Jelly Belly jelly beans. I am not even kidding - every month, Jelly Belly would deliver a box of beans in every flavour imaginable to our house. After four or five months, our pantry was comprised of 30% real food, 15% booze and 55% jelly beans. It was more than we could handle, and to be honest becoming too much. Until one day, when Lexi came over.
Lexi and I had known each other since kindergarten, and were the kind of friends for which the phrase 'double trouble' was invented. If either of us came up with some crazy hairballed scheme, the other was bound to go along with it - no questions asked, and no matter how painfully obvious the consequences. As far as we were concerned, the more painfully obvious, the better. 8 year old girls can be moronic that way. You'll be relieved to hear that Lexi has since matured into a respectable and honest adult. I, on the other hand...well, you know.
Anyway.
I don't remember exactly how the afternoon went down, but the long-story-short version begins with me showing off the enormous bucket of jelly beans in our kitchen. Lexi was impressed.

"Can we eat some?"
"Sure, take a handful."

There was a pause.

"Why don't we just take the whole bucket?"
"The WHOLE bucket?"
"Sure. We'll take it up to your bedroom and if your Mum comes in, we can just hide it under the bed."

I was conflicted. On the one hand, this went against every rule my Mother had set regarding my daily sugar intake, and the idea of eating dessert before dinner. On the other hand though...

"Okay!"

I don't know if it was Lexi's intention that we actually consume the entire container of jelly beans. I certainly didn't think we had it in us. But two hours later, when my Mum came up to see if we wanted a snack, there we were. Two slightly dehydrated 8 year olds in the throes of what can only be described as a sugar embolism. The only thing I remember is my Mum's face turning the same shade of red as a Tutti Frutti flavoured jelly bean, and how hilarious it was that I had made that comparison. The rest of the afternoon is completely lost to me, but apparently I re-enacted several scenes from Aladdin before running to my neighbours house so I could ask his Dad why he didn't "have a veejay like Lexi and me".
Oh, man.
My parents don't believe in grounding, and didn't start swearing around me and my sister until we were at least 11, but that afternoon they made it pretty clear that I was in trouble, and I recieved the signature Trew Family Punishment: Lexi was sent home, the neighbours were apologized to, and I was told there would be no hotdogs for dinner until my Mother had forgiven me.

So there you go. And I'm not naming names, but those of you who sometimes feel entitled to have a go at me about my extremely laidback attitude to life can suck on it. How can you blame me, really? It's not my fault that I grew up in a household where 'No Hotdogs' was considered on par with capital punishment.

Uber-Vamp VS The Abominable Anaconda

I'm guessing about a thousand people have blogged about this already, so I'm about to be the thousand-and-first. Has anyone else heard about this yet?Okay, two things:

1) Ha! I laughed out loud for literally eight whole minutes when I saw this. And

2) It took eight minutes of out-loud laughter to make me realise...I have no idea what VD means.

And I mean, okay. Obviously I know what it means. It's an STD, right? But what do the letters 'VD' actually stand for? I racked my brains for an extra minute or two and all I came up with was 'Vaginal Disease'. Which, you know, makes sense, but for some reason - aside from the obvious - just doesn't feel right. Ah, well. Regardless, I think this advertising campaign (which is for the TV show The Vampire Diaries, in case you were wondering) is not only hilarious, but brilliant. That show is marketed at young adults, right? And you know young adults these days - if it's not about Facebook, Robert Pattinson or vaginal disease, we're just not interested.

~~

I bought a new pair of shoes recently. It's only been a week or so, and they're really only a pair of shoes, but I think I'm in love. Ha. Not really of course. But they are pretty amazing, as far as shoes go. In light of recent events, I've decided to name them my 'Fuck You! And My Shoes Are Amazing!' shoes. They were originally just my 'Fuck You!' shoes on account of the fact that the day I bought them, those were the only two words running through my head. I tacked on the second part when I put them on the for the first time and experienced an emotion greater than Nirvana, or that feeling you get after finally plucking an ingrown hair out of your knee. Not that I've ever had something as unladylike as an ingrown knee hair.

I'm just saying.

So back to The Vampire Diaries. I know I'm a little late on this, but what the hell is humanity's obsession with vampires these days? Twilight, True Blood, The Daybreakers, Vaginal Disease, Underworld, Blade...I don't know how much more I can take! God knows I have no objection whatsoever to the idea of some hot shirtless dude with fangs chewing the crap outta my neck, but there's only so many times you can watch Kristen 'Bella Swan' Stewart umm and aah her way though a red carpet interview before you crack and wind up in the bathtub eating your own hair. You know what I'd like to see more of? Those epic, low-budget, we-cross-bred-like-four-different-species-of-animal-half-of-which-are-either-fictional-or-extinct-and-pitted-them-against-each-other-in-a-glorious-battle-to-the-death movies. Mega Shark VS Giant Octopus ringing any bells? How about DinoCroc VS The Super Gator?

Legit. I can only imagine the result of a Twilight/Mega Shark crossover film. Uber-Vamp VS The Amobinable Anaconda seems like the kind of movie Hollywood executives would use to take over the world:

My Holiday

Good God I hate romance movies.


Now, being that I'm extremely important and sought-after and busy treading the line between 'amusingly self-deprecating' and 'self-loathing and destructive to a level that's almost pathological', it's not often that I get a spare moment to sit down and watch TV. When I do, I'm usually clever enough to spend it on cinematic genius, like 16 And Pregnant, or Chelsea Lately, or one of those spin-off shows the E! Channel seems to keep giving to all Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriends.
Not last night.
Because last night, I found not just one but one hundred and twenty seven spare moments to watch TV. And I wasted them...on this:

I know what you're thinking, but no - not even the presence of Jack Black could save this movie. Not even the presence of Kate Winslet could save this movie. And God knows I love me some Kate Winslet; mostly because of the whole British accent thing, but also because she seems like the kind of person I could head-butt and then still be friends with afterwards. Which I think is a rarity, in Hollywood. Regardless, this movie sucked. Dick. Only not very well. Read that again and it'll make more sense, I promise. Seriously though? I don't wanna spoil the ending for anyone...but what the hell with the ending?? Huh? Where's the resolution? So they get to spend New Years Eve together - so what? I don't mean to offend the writers. All I'm saying is that if you're a script writer and you helped write the ending of The Holiday, you might wanna pull your head out of your ass and have a serious think about what you just did. And then if possible, please head-butt Kate Winslet and get back to me - I really gotta know if that works!

Is this just me? Am I the only heathen slash twin-sister of the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz, so jaded and cynical and worn out from what life keeps throwing at me that I really think of love as a fairytale and sometimes find myself entertaining the idea that I really might be happy/content to live alone or with fifteen (Oh my God, if I got fifteen I could name them after the principal cast of Grease) cats??
Well, I didn't think so. Until THIS little conversation, which took place during The Holiday and with my sister, who I'd kind of always hoped was just as cynical as me:

Dude: Blah blah blah.
Chick: Blah blah blah.
Dude: Blah.
Chick: Blaaaah.
(they kiss)
Catherine: Awww (smiles)
Me: I hope they move into that digusting cottage together and contract something incurable.
(silence)

Now...I'm not so sure.

What The Fuck, Mother Nature?

Oh my God, so long time no blog. Soz. Soz about it. Not as 'soz' as I am for just using the word soz twice within the space of one-and-a-half sentences, but still. Forgive and forget? Forget and forgive? Or I guess you could do neither and go fuck yourselves. Either way, I will continue my existance as a certifiably insane almost-hairdresser-almost-receptionist who is in the habit of constantly narrating her own life via the internet.
So it makes no difference to me.
Anyway.
So much to talk about! Can you believe how much shit has gone down since the last time I posted anything? Christmas holidays, my promotion at work, the insanity that is Queenslands weather pattern at the moment...but enough about that stuff. Let's talk about washing machines.

I'm not gonna pretend that my ongoing love affair with household appliances is a secret to anyone. Well, no, wait. Let's scratch that. Because love is such a strong word, especially when applied to someone who possesses two stale jellybeans and a lump of coal in place of a heart. Aha! I'm only kidding of course. I have a heart. Totally:

Still. The point is, I'm almost 90% sure that if I wasn't dead on the inside and actually did harness the ability to feel human emotion...well, the first thing on my Love List would be household appliances. Namely those with a high-powered motor. Namely namely, washing machines. What? Why? Well, mainly because of this:

Holy shit stain. Did you guys see that? Did you see it? Yeah. But just in case, lets see it again:

I don't know if that's the best video I've seen on YouTube. I don't even know if it's the best thing I've seen this week. But I'm pretty sure I just orgasmed, twice. And in the unlikely event that I ever save enough money to actually buy my own washing machine, I sure as hell know how I'm celebrating.
You're all invited.

So anyway. If you live in Sydney like me, you might have heard talk recently about this heatwave we're having. Hmmm? Yes? Heard talk? Alternatively, you may have stepped outside your airconditioned house at any point during the last five days and found yourself bursting into flame.
What. The fuck. Mother Nature?
Please explain. This heat is getting ridiculous. I've spent the past four nights sleeping naked on our living room floor. Why? Well because it's made of tiles, and tiles are cool. And because there's a hole in our blow-up mattress, so I couldn't sleep in the pool like I'd originally planned.
I don't deal well with extreme heat. I can't really explain why; it might have something to do with me being 40% tequila and 60% coffee, but who knows. Regardless, I haven't been well this week. And by 'haven't been well', what I really mean is 'you don't wanna go into our upstairs bathroom....for a while.'
The worst part is that my Mum is being totally unsympathetic about the whole thing. Really! She's all "Get up!" and "Drink some water!" and "Go to work!" and "When I was a kid, there was no such thing as air conditioning, and we had a tar pit instead of a swimming pool, and if one of my friends burst into flame they didn't COMPLAIN about it, they just bloody well hosed themselves off in the backyard!"
Well sorry, Mum. But we can't all grow up in the west. I heard last night was the hottest Sydney night on record...since they started making records. There is literally nothing anyone can say that will trump that. I don't care if you were trying to light a cigarette one-handed and accidentally set your own head on fire; unless you were in Sydney, there's no way you were as uncomfortable as me last night. Thankfully, I also heard that there's a cold front coming in this afternoon. All I gotta say about that is, it better be coming - because I actually watched an episode of The Real Houswives of Atlanta this morning...and ENJOYED it. Clearly, the heat is affecting my mental health.

Ohh Heaven, have mercy.
I don't know which words'll describe how sick I'm feeling right now, but "as a dog" just isn't gonna cut it. What animal gets sicker than a dog? Cat? Ferret? Great White Shark with a rope around its tail being dragged backwards though the Pacific Ocean?
That'll do it.
I'm sick as a Great White Shark with a rope around its tail being dragged backwards through the Pacific Ocean. And for the second time in one week? Let me explain...
In a bid to gain some semblance of culinary skill that - no point in lying about it - I can use to impress The Navy Man next time he's over for dinner, I've become a little more creative with my cooking lately. I don't know what made me think I could get away with this. Really? Really I'm the kind of person who shouldn't even be allowed IN a kitchen, let alone left in charge of any meal which doesn't involve the words "ham" and "sandwich". And I learnt this the hard way, on Saturday night, when my attempt at Thai red curry and rice with brocolli and potatoes left me wrapped around the toilet at 2 in the morning.
Worst.
Food poisoning.
Ever.
Naturally, I decided to try again last night. And the results? Well on the plus side, I can now modify my potential career search to exclude the entire food industry. Or any industry involving chickens. On the negative side though...well, you can guess the negative side.

So I had to work late last night. Lucky for me, Scream 2 was playing on Movie Extra by the time I got home. And if there's anything that puts me in a better mood than shitty slasher movies from my early childhood, it's not something I know about. Scream 2 made me think:

1) Whose idea was it to colour Courteney Cox's hair like that? She looks like a human Cherry Ripe.

2) Why don't they make films like this anymore?

...

What's with the lack of horror at the movies these days? You know what I mean? And I'm not talking about Saw horror, with the chainsaws and the blood and the severed limbs and creepy old dudes and storylines so complicated you need a high-speed internet connection and a degree from Harvard University just to keep up. That stuff is awesome, but when there's no sorority house, corny theme music or cameo appearance by Sarah Michelle Gellar, I just don't feel like I'm getting what I paid for. Is this just me?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person who still likes scary movies. Is there anyone else? Is it you? Because I don't even care if you're a mask-wearing serial killer yourself...I swear to God I will quit my job and invite you over for a 2-day marathon right now. As long as we can watch Prison Break afterwards.

I don't know if it's due to the fact that I've seen just about every slasher movie out there (including the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre - twice) or just because I happen to be dead inside, but it takes alot to actually scare me these days. The last film I remember giving me a really good fright was The Exorcism of Emily Rose back in 2005. Oh, I know, how cliche. And weird, because - apart from being on the verge of shitting my pants in the damn cinema - the only thing I actually remember about Emily Rose is that I completely ruined it for everyone else by talking the whole time about how "The killer is an omnipresence. An omniprescence!! You can't escape from that shit!!"

Huh.

Aaaand starting to realise why nobody wants to watch horror with me anymore...

In other news...Aah, I got nothing. Oh, wait. We had our work Christmas party this weekend. Yeah, Toni & Guy! I'm starting to really love working for this company. Especially since in the land of T and G, the term "Work Christmas Party" is synonymous with "30 People, No Lifejackets, And A Yacht Full Of Booze". Luckily by the time I fell overboard, the boat wasn't in motion. Unluckily however, the dude in charge of this boat's infastructure apparently wasn't aware that I'm the kind of physically-challenged individual who falls down staircases while sober...since the pathway to the bathroom looked something like this:

Yeah. Just in case I don't already resemble a human dalmation from the waist down, let's add a bruise on my left ass cheek the size of...well, my left ass cheek. Oh, yes, of course I'm an idiot. Hadn't you figured that out yet?

Check. And. Mate.

Hello Sydney-siders.

I've got alot to blog about and not alot of time to do it in, so this might have to be quick. You're just going to have to get over it. I know - I know - I've been totally slack in the blogging department lately, and I know - I know - I keep saying I'm going to do something about it and then don't, and I know - I KNOW - I'm going to get countless complaints about it (that's right, Navy Man, I'm talking to you), but the fact is that these days, I'm far too busy and important to sit on the internet narrating my own life.

Alright, that was a lie.

The real fact is that I'm lazy and a piece of shit. A lazy piece of shit is what I am. Also, my internet hasn't really been working for the past fortnight. And I'm working pretty much 24 hours these days. Mostly though, it's the piece of shit thing, which you'll have to forgive me for. Or not. Hey, I'm a lazy piece of shit - what do I care?

So this past week. I don't wanna oversell it or anything, but have you ever time-travelled to the 60's, been hit on by Wentworth Miller at Studio 54 and then given a cheque for 10 million dollars? My week was better than that. Are you kidding? My week would kick that weeks ass all over the playground and put bubblegum in it's hair. Here's how it begins: Tuesday night, drinking champagne at Dalton House. If there is a better start to the week than that, it's not one I know about. And I'm not just saying that because I dream of living on the rooftop of Dalton House and my blood type is champagne. Although that's probably most of the reason. Anyway, we were at Dalton House for the Toni & Guy new collection launch, which was - surprise surprise - awesome. Not as awesome as the next morning though, when I was dragged out of bed at 5am and had to drive through the pouring rain in my sorry excuse for a car all the way to Sydney airport on less than 10 dollars worth of petrol. Which (even though it might not sound like it) I was totally psyched to do, by the way. Because guess what was waiting for me at Gate 31?

Well...pretty much, anyway.
So then came around 24 hours of very official Navy business which I'm not allowed to talk about. "Very official Navy business which I'm not allowed to talk about" here meaning "My parents read this blog, do you really think I'm going to post all the details of a reunion that was 3 months in the making on the internet?". No, no I'm not.
Maybe later.
On Thursday morning I - by some miracle - actually got to work on time. And then it was only 8 and half hours of towel-folding hell until Thursday night, AKA Alex's birthday celebrations at the pub, which may or may not have lasted until 230 in the morning and culminated with all of us being forcibly removed from The Longueville Hotel. May or may not. I'm not saying anything. But, uh, yeah, they kicked us out. And it was hilarious.
On Friday I had work again, and this time was surprised at about 3 in the afternoon with a little visit from The Navy Man himself. The Navy Man himself and 2 huge bunches of flowers. The Navy Man himself and 2 huge bunches of flowers and one of them was for Alex because it was her birthday. Did I mention that this was a surprise? Or that The Navy Man and Alex have never actually met before? Yes, I hit the jackpot alright. If you didn't already hate me for penning such a ridiculous blog, you might want to start now for somehow snagging the Macquarie Dictionary's definition of a perfect man. Don't believe me? Well you will. Because on Saturday night I went to a dress-up 21st as (who else?) Lady GaGa:

And he went as my backup dancer.
Check. And. Mate.

Boys And Bikinis

Just for a second, can we talk about how much of a freaking mission it is to buy a bikini these days?Holy balls.
Don't get me wrong, I love summer. And bikinis. And shopping. And any excuse to combine all three. But lately it's like...somewhere along the line, bikini shopping became less of a fun and exciting experience, and more of a covert mission to get in and out of the changing room as fast as possible without succumbing to the urge to kill myself. I don't know who decided that fluorescent lighting was the perfect choice for a room where women spend the majority of their time half naked and standing in front of a mirror, but I would love to find out.
Sigh.
Then, on top of the whole 'I'm-starting-to-resemble-some-sort-of-overweight-deep-sea-creature-and-these-dressing-room-lights-aren't-doing-anything-to-help-my-feelings-about-it' thing, they have GUYS milling around the store to help you choose. Which wouldn't be so bad. Except that the guys in the store I happened to choose all looked like this:

I mean, come on. Talk about a need to impress.
Ha.
I'm kidding of course - there's only two men in my life I feel the need to impress; and since one of them is currently 4000km away and the other is a gay fictional character from a TV show that ended almost 3 years ago, I wasn't that worried about the dude trying to sell me a bikini. I'm just saying.

Holy crap, so much to blog about. Promotions at work, the possibility of me moving out, Navy Man's homecoming...let's start with this though:

Colgate Wisp. Have you guys heard about these? They're like mini toothbrushes with built-in toothpaste that you carry around in your handbag. What? Why? Who buys these? Woman who want to have dinner at The International House of Garlic and Tuna Fish and then make out with their boyfriends afterwards, I guess. Maybe they're intended for anyone with a teeth-cleaning-related OCD. Or maybe for this guy:

Regardless, it's hard to imagine a product more ridiculous than this. I mean, mini-brush with freshening bead?? Normally I am a huge fan of any person, place or thing that comes with the prefix 'mini', but this is going too far. Have you seen the commercial? With the girl brushing her teeth in the middle of a nightclub? Please. I'm not a violent person by nature, but if I ever saw someone actually using one of these things in public...well, they wouldn't be using one ever again, if you know what I mean.
They wouldn't have any reason to be using on ever again, if you know what I mean.
I'd rip their teeth out of their fucking head, if you know what I mean.

Anyway. Now that I'm done talking about that, let's have a laugh at my expense. Does anyone else ever find themselves so amusing that they take screencaps of their own text message conversations and post them on the internet? Yeah, me neither. Except for right now:

If this hairdressing thing doesn't work out, I'm definitely investigating a career in reality TV. After all, if Paris Hilton can get America to sit through an entire season of her pretending to find a new best friend, there's gotta be at least 10 people in the world who are bored/stupid/inebriated enough to watch me and my sister strap a size 35 Officer's Cap to our dog's head and march him around the house while humming the theme song to Sea Patrol. Not that we actually did that. I'm just saying.

Holy Shit, Jersey Shore!

So apparently I have MTV now. What? I don't know. My parents bit the bullet and signed us up for Foxtel like 6 years ago, but never have I ever experienced the wonder that is MTV. I guess our Foxtel package just didn't include it. Shocking, I know. The worst part was that even though we didn't have access to MTV, it still showed up on the on-screen TV Guide; so I knew when there was going to be a 16 and Pregnant marathon followed by four episodes of Room Raiders, but I still couldn't enjoy it. And if there is a worse form of torture than THAT, it's not one I know about. Now, though, that's all in the past..and today I sat down and wasted the first half of my Monday morning with this:

Holy shit, Jersey Shore. I almost feel like that's what they should change the name to. Holy Shit, Jersey Shore. Because every time one of these total Freak Of The Weeks opens their mouth to say anything, THAT'S what I'm thinking. How can REAL 20-something-year-old people be so stupid? So superficial? So...mind-numbingly ridiculous??!!
I have never felt love like this in my life.
I want to build some sort of size-alteration machine, shrink these people down to ant-size, and carry them around in my purse. Especially Pauly D. I know everyone loves Snooki, but Pauly D is my favourite. How can he not be? Having a name like 'Pauly D' is a pretty big victory in itself, and then you consider his hairdo:Who needs bench space when you can carry something like that around in your handbag? I'd never have to ask for a coaster again!

Anyway.
That's about all I've got for today. I do have another exciting piece of info up my sleeve, but in the interest of not jinxing myself and ruining the whole thing, I'm not gonna say too much. Just this:

Let's talk about how hot it is.

...

It's pretty g-darn hot! I don't wanna get all dramatic on everyone's ass, but pretty much:

Poor Aunt Suzie. She never saw it coming.
Nah, I'm joking of course. Aunt Suzie didn't melt. I actually don't even have an Aunt Suzie. That I'm aware of. But you get it. If I did have an Aunt Suzie, I'm pretty sure she would have never seen it coming. And I'm even more sure that she would have melted. Today. Because of the heat. Because it is THAT g-darn hot.

My God, I'm an idiot sometimes.

Speaking of idiots, Justin Bieber. Beiber? Beeber? Who gives a crap. Speaking of idiots, That Annoying 12-Year-Old Who Thinks He Can Sing. Honestly? I mean, honestly? Thinking about people like Justin B-Whatever and the fact that he's making three hundred and fifty billion dollars a minute (I'm assuming) to fly around the country singing about babies and girls and making babies with girls and girls making babies with other girls (or whatever it is the kids are singing about these days) makes my soul weep into its cornflakes every morning. Three hundred and fifty BILLION dollars? A MINUTE? I'm sure he's not completely talentless - I'll concede that he can sing better than me, though that's not really a fair test since plastic lawn gnomes can sing better than me - but that's ridiculous. I can only hope he uses some of that money to buy himself a clue. And a haircut that doesn't require his mother's largest cooking bowl.

Now what else can we talk about? I guess this is usually the part where I [insert sarcastic comments about how great it is to make less than $260 a week working full time] but I'm actually loving work at the moment. What can I say? The place makes me happy, despite having a surface area that's 89% reflective. I mean, NOBODY should have to look at themselves that much, let alone someone with a face like mine. But for reals yo, I'm pretty keen on T&G lately. And no, it's not just because of the iTunes playlist Alex and I created on the reception computer that's pretty much ALL Florence And The Machine/Michael Jackson. It's also because there's a pub across the road that serves Slate and Cokes.

On a semi-related note, this is the third and next-to-final time I'm gonna ask you all what you want for Christmas. I say semi-related because what I would like is to have lots of sex and babies with Florence And The Machine, who I was just talking about. Or, you know, at least see her in concert. But yeah. Requests? Suggestions? Straight-out demands? Get in quick, before I spend next weeks pay on another piercing. Seriously, my Mum will REALLY appreciate it.

Everyone Knows My Mum Prefers Coke

Hey world. Me again.
So two things:
First of all, sorry; because I know - I know - it's been a disgustingly long time since my last update. For that I apologise. And secondly, sorry again; for being enough of a dick to assume that anyone is affected whatsoever by my blogs or lack thereof.

Apart from the people I pay, of course.

So I've been having a lot of whacked-out dreams lately. And if reading that last sentence is giving you a bit of deja-vu, don't freak out. You're not mad, you're not crazy. I've blogged about this before. Twice. So probably I should get off my ass and go find new blog material, but whatever. It's Sunday. I'll get off my ass tomorrow.
Anyway, I don't know what it is, but I seem to be in the middle of what I've come to know as My Demented Dream Cycle. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that Demented Dream Cycles are apparently the kind that last for 8 years at a time. My God. Is this just part of my gradual descent into total madness, or has Mum been lacing my cereal with crystal meth again? I don't know. All I have to say is that if MTV knew how many times Dream Jacki has been pregnant, arrested, stalked by serial killer clowns or medically transformed into a man, they would SO be giving me my own reality show right about now. And I'm kidding about the crystal meth - everyone knows my Mum prefers coke.

Speaking of my Mum (and, by extension, my Dad)...the two of them went to Orange this weekend and left me in charge of the house. Wow. Trust. I'm feeling it. And what better way to celebrate than by blowing a week's wage on alcohol and inviting half of Longueville over for a pool party? I'm kidding of course. I mean, I did have Gem, Kat and Janey over, but half of Longueville? Please. My neighbours are three hundred years old. And nothing says 'party pooper' like dentures and a custom-made walking frame. Although I'm sure they really enjoyed our backyard rendition of Baz Luhrmann's Elephant Love Medley at 2 in the morning. And listening to conversations like this:

Kat: Damnit, why don't my parents ever go away for the weekend? It's like they don't like each other enough to spend that much time together alone.
Jane: Mine either, it's so annoying.
Jacki: Yeah, I guess I'm just lucky - my parents love each other, it's just me and Catherine they wanna get away from.
(pause)
Jacki: Okay, to be fair...it's mostly me.

Quote Of The Day

"Um, can I ask a question? Why no blog lately? I'm not angry...just disappointed."

He loves me.