Men In Uniform

Me again.  I want to talk about Masterchef for a second.
...
What is this, a competition for morons?  Obviously I'm kidding, since those people are pretty incredible and I struggle with toasted sandwiches.  But there are times when watching Masterchef that I am genuinely baffled by the contestants lack of knowledge when it comes to the English language.  I don't know; maybe it's the pressure of cooking.  Maybe it's having ten cameras shoved in their face.  But honestly?  There is a basic level on which you'd expect any educated Australian over the age of 9 to be able to communicate.  And this isn't it:

Random Contestant: I hope to cook something good for the judges today, because now that I've gotten to know them, I feel that not cooking good isn't something they're going to appreciate.

Perhaps I am paraphrasing, but basically?  I have heard that sentence (or some version of it) come out of at least seven people's mouths since I started watching the show.  Yes, you are on a program about competitive cooking.  Cooking well is probably what you should hope to achieve.  Congratulations; you have just graduated to 'Complete Dumbass'.

On a more positive note...while I may (jokingly) question the intelligence of the people on Masterchef, there is no doubt that at least some of them are pretty genius in the kitchen.  Did you guys see the 'tinned and frozen food' challenge?  I don't know what that chick's pink sugary foam dessert was made out of, but I wanted to lay down in a bed of it and roll around.  While eating that other dude's Milo chocolate mousse, and making out with Hayden.  Hayden is the only contestant whose name I can be counted on to remember because he is the hottest, and I am as shallow as the wading pool at Macquarie Leisure Centre. 
Kidding.
Actually the only reason I can remember Hayden is because my friend Julia once compared him to a golden retriever, and that is a memory hilarious enough to stick with me forever.  As for the other contestants, try not to be offended by the fact that not only do I not know your names, I will probably never bother to learn them.  For me, part of the fun of shows like Masterchef is inventing my own names for the contestants, based on their cooking style or personal appearance.  Did we learn nothing from The Serial Killer Cooks of My Kitchen Rules?
I am a terrible person.

So Alex and I have recently become obsessed with Channel 9's sub-par Navy-themed TV show Sea Patrol.  By which I of course mean, "I've always been a little obsessed, and now I am forcing Alex to watch it with me".  It's one of those shows I just don't enjoy watching by myself.  Fortunately the abundance of shirtless men that appear means it's never hard for me to find a female watching companion.

Umm...what was I talking about again?
Shirtless men are immensley enjoyable, but the best thing about watching Sea Patrol with Alex is that more than actually listening to/following what's happening on the screen, we prefer to invent our own storylines.  Mostly ones which involve us hooking up with whichever character we happen to be in love with at the time.  Did someone say 'juvenile'?  Thanks for that input.  I am aware that it's lame and childish, but I think having our own house together gives us enough Adult Points to counteract a faux relationship with one of these guys:

Plus, I am a sucker for a man in uniform and always will be.

I still haven't gotten over how cool my new house is.  I know this is a tad pathetic, and I don't care.  I spent a good 45 minutes at this family lunch I went to last Sunday talking about how much I love our bathroom.  I'm pretty sure no one was listening, but I babbled away nonetheless.  If that doesn't say 'I know I'm pathetic and I don't care', I'm not really sure what does.  I think having such a great apartment has improved my self-esteem.

FYI, the roommate situation is going great.  I love Alex.  Even calling her a 'roommate' feels weird.  She's really more like my wife.  Or is she my husband?  It's hard to say because she has all the qualities of a functional married couple:

• She can cook
• She cleans
• She has an amazing wardrobe
• She put together our dining room chairs

All conveniently combined into one amazing person.  As a roommate, I'm not exactly sure what I bring to the table: I had a go at putting together one of the dining room chairs myself, and it didn't go well.  When I realised I'd attached the whole seat back-to-front I just gave up and made a plate of shortbread in an act of consolation.  Yes, I am the kind of person who thinks homemade biscuits will make up for the fact that one of our guests will have to eat dinner on the floor.  Thank God Alex agreed to move in with me; when she eventually gets married and leaves, I will be alone forever.

On a related note...Now that I've moved out, I no longer have the constant luxury of being able to use my parent's 5000-year-old computer.  Eventually I hope to make a million dollars by mass-marketing The Clean Underwear Vending Machine (which I am convinced is an idea that was stolen out of my brain by someone in Japan), but until then you'll have to survive on one or two blogs a week.  My parents are enjoying an empty house for the first time in 22 years, and until I can afford my own computer, I have to sneak over in the afternoons and use theirs.  They pretend they're happy to see me, but I think it's starting to annoy them:

Carspots And Crazy People

Whoa!  I'm back!
So as of this moment, I'm all moved out.  Kind of.  Well, mostly.  In case you were wondering, moving out is incredible.  Here are three things that aren't:
1) Trying to get a fridge up 5 flights of stairs
2) Being accused of stealing someone else's car spot
3) Realising you left all your shoes at Mum and Dad's house
Ah, well.  Footwear is overrated.

About the car spot thing: what the hell?  If you know me, you know I'm the kind of person who hates pissing anyone off.  Unless you're my sister Catherine and it's intentional.  Otherwise, no.  So when I woke up to an angry windshield letter on Monday morning, I wasn't exactly psyched about it.  'Car spot Thief' isn't exactly the kind of thing you want on your rental history.  Plus the foyer in our building gets pretty dark at night; plenty of chances for a neighbour to sneak up and stab me.  They would probably stash the body under my car out of spite.
Anyway as it turns out, I had nothing to worry about.  A quick call to our real estate agent confirmed that we were in fact parking in the right spot, and it was The Angry Note Leaver in the wrong.
You know those times when someone accuses you of breaking the rules and makes you feel all shit about it, until you realise you haven't done anything wrong at all?  Talk about a rollercoaster of emotion.  This was me within the space of about 30 minutes:

Finding The Note

Calling The Agent

Realising I Just Got Bullied By My New Neighbour For No Reason

I mean.  What a bitch!  This is assuming we're talking about a girl here.  I suppose it could be a guy.  In that case, what a dick!  The worst part about this whole thing is that they didn't even leave their name or phone number.  So there's no way for me to call them up and rub it in their face:

Hello?

It IS my carspot you toolbag!  And don't even THINK about killing me in the foyer. 

Click

Don't be fooled by the newfound independance, people.  I am as idiotic as ever.

A Great Week

I watched Spiderman 2 the other night.  Wow.  Good on Tobey Maguire for sculpting those abs, but the real hero of that movie is Aunt May.  Did you see the way she clocked Doctor Octavian in the side of the head with her walking stick?  I don't exactly favour getting old, but if there's one thing I'm looking forward to, it's being able to bash people with a stick and get away with it.

Last week was a good one.  Here's one of the reasons:

Have you ever seen anything so ridiculously...lovable?  I'm the kind of heartless bitch who actually laughs during the last scene of Moulin Rouge (SPOILER ALERT: someone...dies), but even I cant look at this photo without feeling a little fuzzy inside.  And that's huge, for me.  Pretty much the only other thing that'll cause that reaction is Patrick Dempsey's smile.  Or, you know.  Tequila.

So the baby hedgehog made it a good week, but something else made it great: Alex and I ordered a set of bright red nonstick kitchen utensils off cooking.com a few weeks ago.  By the way, cooking.com?  It's the lonely woman's orgasm.  I insist you take a look.  But like I was saying: Bright red.  Kitchen utensils.  We were pretty excited about it...for about 30 minutes until we realised that rather than being bright red (as the description implied), they were more of a burgundy colour.  Then we realised that while we'd paid $200 for our set, the website also offered similar sets for as little as $79.95.  Then we got an email saying there'd been a production error and our order had been cancelled.  The whole ordeal was a pain in the ass; now we had to order the stuff all over again.  And to make matters worse, they only gave us half our money back.  BUT THEN...
What should arrive at my house on Tuesday morning but the very pots and pans that had apparently been lost in production.  Did I mention this was AFTER they'd refunded half our money?  Score!  Half-price pots!  This (along with the fact that Tuesday was the day we found out about getting our apartment) was enough cause for celebration.  But guess what arrived on Thursday?
Another set of pans.
Let's recap:
TWO complete sets, each valued at $200...all for the low low price of 50 bucks each.  See, this is why I'm not afraid of the Rapture.  I don't need to be.  Nothing says 'God loves you' like a brand new set of pots and pans for practically nothing.  My life is incredible.

Speaking of things that make me happy which other people consider ridiculous...Masterchef.  I officially retract all negative statements I may have made about this show.  No, okay.  Not all.  I still maintain that it's not as good as My Kitchen Rules.  I am a slave to Channel 7 and always will be.  But Masterchef is...not so bad.  Although it does kind of seem like every time I turn it on, the contestants are doing something with rabbit.  Rabbit stew, rabbit mousse, rabbit pie, roast rabbit...one guy was wearing some sort of rabbit-fur hat.  I think.  Perhaps he just had unfortunate hair.  Still.  Rabbit?  Here is what my Mum had to say on the matter:

Mum: When I was a kid, we ate rabbit all the time.  And we turned out okay!  More than okay.  We turned out awesome!  You kids each too much beef.

If there's one thing I'm going to miss about living at home, it's my Mother and her constant pearls of wisdom.  What makes me sad about Masterchef is that as excited as I get about attempting to cook like the contestants, I know that it will always end in failure.  I am a terrible cook.  I know this.  And I'm okay with it.  I can make clothes, and I can paint nails, and I know practically every word of every song that Michael Jackson ever sung...but I can't cook for shit.  This is one of the reasons I'm convinced I should never reproduce.  I will make an interesting mother.  My children will be the malnourished ones doing Thriller across the playground.  With beautiful manicures.  Unless I end up in the kind of profession which provides enough money to pay for a personal chef, there is no hope for any of us.  I can't even make toast without giving someone salmonella.
Alright.  So perhaps that is a slight exaggeration.  I can do toast without salmonella.  I may burn the house down.  But no salmonella...unless the toast comes with eggs or anything.  Then there's no telling what would happen.

Looking back, I have just realised that I started this post with the aim to blog about how great my week has been, and now I'm talking about how I will accidentally kill my hypothetical children with poorly-cooked chicken.  Ridiculous.  Have you ever noticed how Simpsons episodes often start off with one event, and end up focused on something completely different?  Like, the opening scene will be the family going to Lego Land, but the rest of the episode will be about Homer's hunger strike to end prohibition?  That is the perfect analogy for my blogging style.  People often ask me what I blog about, or how I blog it.  Now I can tell them.  Right?  I mean, is that a good comparison or what?  I know it's a good analogy for my life, seeing as I started out like, 80% sure I knew what I wanted to do, and now I'm just a broke receptionist whos only talent is making fun of herself on the internet.  If anyone knows of a way that I can make a living doing this, please enlighten me.  The top two skills I have listed on my resume are: Typing: 90 words per minute, and Self-deprecating sense of humour.
You think I'm kidding?

The End Of The World As We Know It

Here's how I feel about the Zombie Apocalypse.
Oh, wait.  You guys heard about this, right?  If you read ninemsn.com.au you would have.  I'm not saying I read ninemsn.com.au (especially not at work), but I knew about it.  This is the lowdown:
So you know the whole 2012-Mayan-End-Of-The-World business?  Apparently that was supposed to happen on Saturday night.  Or at least, some crazy guy said it was.  Sorry, did I say 'crazy guy'?  No, what I really meant was 'talented astronomy scholar who's spent the past 11 years studying planet alignment and hidden messages of the Bible'.
Ie?
Crazy guy.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking astronomy or planets or even the idea of the Bible being one giant subliminal message - what really ruins this dudes credibility is that part of his End Of The World prediction involved all the good children going to heaven, all the bad children going to hell, and all the dead children returning to wander the earth for all eternity.
Or something.
It's the Zombie Apocalypse!
I wasn't really bothered by this prophecy.  I don't know how to explain this, but the end of the world doesn't really scare me.  Mostly because I've seen enough zombie movies to feel pretty confident in my abilities to fight off at least one gang of them:

And also because even if I am going to hell...I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you there.

If the world had ended on Saturday, I would have been pretty annoyed for two reasons:  First of all, I had to work on Saturday.  I love my job, but really?  I want to spend my last moments making coffee or washing someone elses hair?  I think not.  And secondly, I didn't even get to move into my new apartment yet.  Fine, fine, the Rapture has to happen at some point...I'd just appreciate it if God waited until AFTER I've jumped on the bed and cooked in the kitchen.  Is that totally blasphemous?  So sue me.  It's a really nice kitchen.

What actually weirded me out about this whole apocalypse prediction thing is that I'd been thinking a lot about the end of the world recently; remember my dream about the multiple tsunamis?  AND I watched 2012 the other day.  FYI, it's shit.  It's a shit movie.  Even if you love End Of The World movies.  Even if you love John Cusack.  I love John Cusack, but even he couldn't save this movie for me.  You are all better off watching something more intellectual, like Strictly Ballroom.  Or Jackass.
The best thing about 2012 is that eventually, it ends.  And then you can get back to watching Grey's Anatomy or whatever.  So here is my question:  Why are End Of The World movies always so terrible?  My theory is that there are simply too many of them; one might be okay, two might be tolerable...but there are a dillion.  That is no exaggeration.  There are a dillion End Of The World movies.  And they're all pretty much the same.  They neutralize each other.  Maybe 'neutralize' isn't the right word.  They cancel each other out?  Make each other redundant?  Basically all I'm trying to say is that you watch one, then another, then another, then another, and then suddenly it's the Rapture and the world really is ending, only you don't care because you already killed yourself to avoid seeing another movie like The Day After Tomorrow.
Even if Jake Gyllenhaal is totally hot.

Apocalypse Now, Baby!

First things first: WE HAVE AN APARTMENT.
Shit.  Holy shit.  Holy shit, floating in the giant toilet bowl of life.  That made absolutely no sense, so you just know how excited I am.  We HAVE an APARTMENT.
I can't decide what the best part is.
Moving away from my parents?  Moving in with Alex?  Planning multiple housewarmings?  Picking out our new furniture?  None of the above.  I'm mostly psyched about this:

Hello, gorgeous new bathroom.  I'm Jacki, nice to meet you.  I figured I should introduced myself now, since we're going to be spending a fair amount of time together.  And for most of that time, I will be naked.  Or taking a dump.  Is that a newly-installed vanity I see?  Excuse me for one second, I gotta go jizz.

So we found out about being the official tenants of Heaven on Cope Street at around 2pm on Tuesday.  Here's how that went down:

Me: Oh my God.
Alex: We got the place.
Me: Oh my God!
(we hug)
(pause)
Alex: Pub after work?
Me: Dude, I started drinking 20 minutes ago.

Okay, not really.  But it's Alex and I; obviously we had to celebrate.  Obviously at The Longy.  And obviously with 2 bottles of champagne.  I don't remember what time we left the pub, but at some point Richie showed up and we decided to take a little drive down the road to check out the new digs.  We don't actually have the keys yet, so we couldn't go inside...but we circled the carpark like the badass apartment-renting carpark-circlers we are!
I had work at 9am the next morning  Thank God (once again) I don't get hangovers.  Really, the only issue with sharing 2 bottles of champagne and a Jim Beam is that whenever I drink, I either have insane dreams or wake up ridiculously early the next morning.  On Wednesday I did both.  Don't believe me?  I wrote the draft for this blog on the back of my work contract at 4am.  Oh my God, I write drafts for my blog?  Yes I am a loser.  But more importantly, I am a loser who lives in her own apartment.

Okay, so this dream.  Probably the weirdest thing about it was that my grandparents were there.  Which wouldn't be so strange except that they both died before I finished highschool.  It was very Haley-Joel-Osment-In-The-6th-Sense.  Only instead of getting all freaked out, I was just psyched to see them.  There was lots of hugging.  Oh!  It was also kinda weird coz my grandpa was a completely different person.  Like, looks-wise.  My dream self was totally on board with it, but in reality I was thinking who is this stranger with his arm around my gran?  Explain that one, Bruce Willis.  I have no idea.
My friend Julia's mum (Deb) was also there.  Hey Deb! She was almost as excited to see me as I was to see my grandparents.  That's not so strange.  I am pretty awesome, after all.  We arm-wrestled in the dream.  Deb won.  Also not strange; she does dragonboating, so she's pretty fit.

Speaking of dreams, I had one on Sunday night that the world was ending.  Apocalypse Now, baby!  Apparently three meteors were heading towards the earth.  I don't exactly know what three meteors heading towards the earth entails, but I assume it would involve multiple tsunamis or something equally as horrible.  Sigh.  I'm not that afraid of meteors, but multiple tsunamis is definitely not my first preference for method of death.  First of all, have you seen my hair wet?  Not pretty.  And secondly, the worst thing about a tsunami?  You have to watch it come towards you before you die.  That seems cruel to me.  I'd rather just get directly hit by the meteor with no warning.  Am I right?  As far as I know the world isn't actually coming to an end any time soon, but if and when it does, I'd like that to be arranged.  Thanks God.

A Mother's Day Mindfuck

So what else can we talk about today?  I'm on a bit of a blogathon since I'll be at work for the rest of the week and probably won't be able to post.  So this will have to tide you over.  Don't read it all at once! 
I'm kidding of course.  Read it, read it all!  Then come back and read it again!  And would it kill you to click on some of those stupid ads?  I don't care if they do fill your computer with viruses and spyware, I make like 4 whole cents each time!
Just kidding.
But seriously.
Okay, Mother's Day.  Holy shit, what do I get my mother?  I hope she's not reading this right now.  I could just ask her what she wants, but I already know what the answer will be:

Mum: I want you to stop mentioning me on that damn blog!  You make your father and I seem like a pair of insane technologically-challenged pensioners!  And yes, I did read the post about Mother's Day.  You moron.

While I love my Mum and am usually quite keen to grant any specific Mother's Day wishes she might have, I can't afford to stop blogging about her and Dad.  Are you kidding?  They're like half my act!  Those two are a goldmine.  What other aspiring comedic authors do you know that grew up with a Mum who wouldn't stop talking about a gay iceskater and a Dad who man-crushed on Heath Ledger?  I'm lucky to have them and I know it.

If I ever have kids, I'm going to tell them not to buy me anything for Mother's Day - their gift to me will just be leaving me the fuck alone for 24 straight hours.  No, I joke.  Kids are great.  Most people think I'm anti-children, but it's not true.  I'm not against kids, I just don't like the idea of my kids.  I'm afraid they'll grow up to be a bunch of overly-energetic weirdos who watch too much TV and publish details of their parents private lives on the internet for millions of people to see.  Kind of like me, I suppose.
Have you ever had that dream where you're pregnant?  I have.  I know for sure I'm not ready for kids right now because every time I wake up and realise I don't have a baby, my face goes like this:

Last night I had a dream about building a house, which was even more boring than it sounds.  It was disappointing because usually my dreams (or as I like to call them, 'Sleep Escapades') are awesome.  One of the craziest I've ever had (I'm sure I've blogged about this before) was about how I got cloned, and then took myself as a date to my own highschool formal.  That was probably the biggest mindfuck I've ever experienced.  Maybe not the biggest.  Top 10 for sure.  And my dreams are usually pretty adventurous.  You know; action packed.  Exciting.  I dream about dinosaurs a lot.  And deep-sea fishing.  Hang-gliding...off Mount Everest...in a pair of short-shorts...while the theme to Star Wars plays in the background.  Eat your heart out Indiana Jones, is basically what I'm trying to say.  Oh my God, how long have I been talking about this?  I think that's all the blog you're going to get for this week, folks.  My apologies.  I should have stopped at Mother's Day.

Fripples At Work And Far-Fetched Promises

I've been talking a lot lately about my withdrawals from My Kitchen Rules, and I think it's starting to piss people off.

Me: I miss My Kitchen Rules.
(pause)
Mum: Okay, I didn't wanna be the one to say this, but...if you don't shut up about that damn cooking show, I swear to God I'm gonna straight up choke you to death.

I love you too, Ma!
So last night I attempted to move on by watching an episode of Masterchef Australia.  And, well...
No.  Just no.  You know how...okay.  I'll compare it to something everyone knows about: Coca Cola.

Remember the first time you drank Coca Cola?  My God, wasn't it wonderful?  The colour, the taste, the fizz, the flavour, the way it got the grease out of your Granddad's work overalls?  Then came Diet Coke.  It was okay.  It looked the same, it seemed the same, all the key qualities were there...but it just wasn't as good.  Then you tried Coke Zero, and again - it had all the characteristics of the original, but something wasn't right.  And finally came Coke's ugly stepsister: Pepsi.
...
So if My Kitchen Rules is Coca Cola, Masterchef is what would happen if someone mixed Pepsi with Hitler's armpit juice. 
No offence, Channel 10.
I've come to realise that the only solution to my 'lack of MKR' problem is to invent and host my own cooking show on the Lifestyle Channel.  I'll be like Jamie Oliver only better, because instead of just calling myself The Naked Chef, I will actually BE naked while I cook.  Whoa, unhygenic!  Here are some original recipes I have already tested:

• Salmon and cheese slices
• Chicken and aioli pizza
• Montecarlo milkshakes
• The lasange sandwich

You heard correctly.  That last one is like my version of KFC's Double Down burger.  I have never felt so close to cardiac arrest in my life.
I'm a fairly terrible cook, but I'm determined to not let that get in the way of my success as a celebrity chef.  After all, plenty of people are famous for doing the things they suck at:

• Britney Spears, singer.
• Kevin Costner, actor.
• Lindsay Lohan, decent human being.

I'm pretty sure I can make it.
Anyway.
This just in: Alex and I have applied for an apartment.  And it...is...FABULOUS.  I wish I could be mature and realistic and say things like 'don't get too excited...ALOT of people have applied...we might not get this one...'
Fuck that! If you don't get excited, you're not invited to the housewarming!  Speaking of Alex (and Richie, they come as a pair), we had a work thing in the city on Monday night, so it made sense to go for a drink at Bar 333 afterwards.  Where I made maybe one of the most awkward comments of our relationship thus far:

Me: I love hanging out with you guys.  I never feel like the third wheel.  Right?  I'm part of it.  We're riding a tricycle!

For God's sake.  This is almost as bad as the time I admitted my interest in having a threesome with Katy Perry and Russell Brand.  For the record, that's not nearly as slutty as it sounds.  I only want to make out with Russell Brand.  While Katy sings in the background.

So how cold was it yesterday?  Brrrr!  I had fripples at work - through a padded bra.  How does that even happen?  The best part was that because I work in an environment that's 80% mirrors, I got to see them from every angle.  I think that's one of my favourite things about my job.  The mirrors.  When you're looking at all your various flaws that much, you kind of learn to accept them rather than hate them.  Take my nose for instance.  I thought I knew how big it was before I started at T&G...no no.  Not until I got 16 different views of it at the same time.  Anyway.  I know it's a bit lame to talk about the weather, but come on.  Really, Mother Nature?  With the cold?  It's not even winter yet.  Just calm the fuck down, alright?
Perhaps hell is freezing over.  I hope not.  I'd have alot of far-fetched promises to make good on if that were the case:

So hopefully it's just a cold snap.
Now let's talk about this little cutie:

Lately my cat has been sleeping with me - in my bed - all the way through the night.  I know some people with cats who would be used to this, but not me.  Not my cat.  This isn't like her.  Normally we get into bed together, she sticks her ass in my face for 20 minutes, then rolls over, gives me a dirty look for hogging the blankets, and leaves.  Sigh.  Just like every other lover I've had in my life.  Anyway, I don't know why she's gotten so snuggly all of a sudden.  Maybe it's the freakishly cold weather I was talking about before.  Maybe my parents locked her out of their room and I'm a last resort.  Or maybe she's finally tuned into the mind-numbing sense of loneliness that radiates from my body 24 hours a day and is only cuddling up to me out of pity.  Either way one thing's for sure; considering the state of my personal life, I probably have no right to be as ecstatically happy as I am.  But there you go - it really is a wonder, what copious amount of caffeine and Prozac can do.
Just kidding Mum.
(About the caffeine.)

The Royding

So, a few things.
First the Royal Wedding.  I don't know who exactly I was trying to fool, acting like I had no interest in the whole thing.  Sure I wore an enormous satin flower headband to work on Friday in honour of the whole British hat-wearing tradition.  Sure I paused with consideration when my Mum offered to buy me a 'Wedding' teacup with the royal families faces on it.  And sure, I might have actually designed a potential dress for Kate Middleton, just in case she lost her mind at the last minute and asked me to suit her up for the wedding.
But apart from that..I was pretty convinced I didn't give a shit about any of it.
WRONG.
I got home from the gym on friday night just in time to see Kate getting out of the car in her dress.  And can we just talk about that for a minute?  Normally I'm not a fan of long sleeves on a wedding dress.  And I'm not that crazy about lace either - unless it's black or attached to something made out of leather.  But that dress is exactly the kind of thing I can see myself wearing when I marry Prince Harry.  If I had to live the rest of my life in one outfit and one outfit only, it would either be that dress or the inmates uniform that Wentworth Miller wore in the first season of Prison Break:

Because who doesn't love a good pair of coveralls?  Built for comfort and speed.

Speaking of Prince Harry, yum.  When he first walked into the church, I completely deserted my aversion to Men In Uniform.  Am I the only one that thinks Harry kind of outshone William?  Not that it was very hard, considering he was dressed as a toy soldier:

For serious though.  Not that I'm looking to completely settle down, but Harry seems to have grown into a lovely, mature and respectable young man...whom I would really enjoy having lots of sex and babies with.  I just hope they get my hair. So as you might have guessed, I spent most of Friday at work talking to clients about the Royal Wedding.  Or "The Royding" as I shall now refer to it.  The best thing about this was that with every client - no matter their age, sex or general appearance - the conversation would inevitably land in the same place.  With me, saying something like this:

Jacki: I don't care if he does have red hair, I'm on Team Harry.  Are you kidding?  I'd show that dirty ranga a good time!

To me, marrying Harry instead of Will is like being the relative of someone with a baby: you get all the fun of playtime without having to deal with the crying and shitstained nappies.  Playtime here meaning shopping at Vivienne Westwood and sock-sliding accross Buckingham Palace, and shitstained nappies referring to...actual responsibilities and stuff.  That's probably the worst analogy I've ever written, but I stand by it - when else are you gonna hear someone talk about Vivienne Westwood and poo in the same sentence?
So what else?
How about Fergie's daughters?

Check out the pink hat!  I'm sure at least some of you are expecting me to go on and on about it, but I've decided not to because I don't think there's any point.  I don't want to be mean.  I'm taking the high road.  There are no words, and so I will say nothing.  Except this:  It looks like the lovechild of an octopus and a spider monkey...if the spider monkey's vagina were located on Princess Eugenie's forehead.
Now back to the royal couple.
I've never seen a future king and queen get married before, so I was pretty weirded out when they didn't kiss in the church.  Talk about disappointing!  My ideal scenario would have had them making out against a wall while camera-men slowly circled Queen Elizabeth; capturing the reaction from every possible angle.

Even the back of her head is disgusted!
The kiss on the balcony was real nice, I will give them that...but when I tune into an $80 million dollar wedding, I expect fireworks!  When Harry and I get hitched, we'll be consumating our marriage in the Queen's own bed.  Probably with her still in it.

No Ovaries, No Chance

You might remember the time I spoke about the movie Titanic 2, and how excited I was to watch it.
Well, a couple of days ago, my dream came true.  And by 'dream', I of course mean 'nightmare'.  I like shitty movies as much as the next girl (probably more, at least if my penchant for Elizabethtown and Superbad are any indication), but Titanic 2?  There are no words.  Except for the ones I am about to type:

The film opens with some random in a wetsuit surfing waves off what appears to be the coast of Antarctica.  Of course it does.  What makes the scene even more believable is that he is (literally) completely alone - no boat, no jetski, no surfing buddy - so when the nearest icecap collapses into the water causing a 100ft CGI tidal wave, he is swept away without even the slightest chance of a rescue.
...
Cut to modern day Los Angeles, where we meet our main characters:
Bitchy Hostess
Judging by her uniform, this chick has a job aboard the Titanic 2.  Her first point of order while boarding the ship is to look around and declare she'd rather "drown than have to deal with giving any of these people CPR".  That's the spirit!  And exactly the kind of attitude you want from someone PAID to be responsible for upwards of 500 peoples lives.
Bitchy Friend Of Bitchy Hostess
Pretty much the same, only you know she's not as important as the main Bitchy Hostess because she doesn't get a phone call from her father, warning her that the Titanic 2 is 'barely seaworthy'.  My guess is that she's just there to up the body count.
Blonde Asshole
I'm not sure exactly what role this guy is supposed to be playing, but he's apparently famous - as indicated by a pair of aviator sunglasses and the swarms of bikini-clad women around him.  He and the Bitchy Hostess also make eyes at each other and I decide that if those two don't end up fucking in the last minutes before the T2 is forcibly capsized by a tidal wave from Antarctica, I'm going to headbutt my own TV screen.
Titanic 2
The boat in question. Oh yes that's right: this isn't an actual sequel to the first and wildly successful Titanic film. It's just the name of the boat. Shit, you know this is going to be quality television.
The movie splits itself between two settings: one being the boat, the other being an icy and undisclosed location. Antarctica? Probably. So while Bitchy and Bitchier are busy flirting on the poop deck, a bunch of snow nerds are standing around on an icecap talking about how the next piece that falls into the ocean could be the size of Rhode Island. Then they board a helicopter and make a bunch of phonecalls to the captain and crew of T2, warning them to "stay away from the icebergs".
...
No shit! Where'd these guys go to school, Harvard? I would never have though to avoid the icebergs! Give these guys a medal!
Then the snow-nerds start talking about contacting the Navy, and I tune out.  Mum was cooking something that smelled delicious, and I went to investigate what it was.  Plus any mention of the word 'Navy' kind of makes me want to shove walnuts into my own eyes.
When I returned, the T2 had ceased movement as 2 of its 5 engines had blown out.  Surprise surprise.  We also learn there is a tsunami headed towards the ship at an estimated 800 miles per hour.  And did I mention that the tsunami has icebergs in it?  At this point I half-expected a spaceship full of giraffes to materialise and start probing the remaining passengers.  I hear one crew member mutter the phrase 'Looks like history is repeating itself' and think I am going crazy.  History repeating itself?  Oh, yes.  Because if there's one thing I remember about the original Titanic disaster, it's the ship being hit by a tidal wave full of floating icebergs.
Then I looked at the program synopsis and saw that there was still over an hour left to go. 
Uhhh!
I can say with 80% honesty that this is the closest I have ever come to ending my own life.  An hour?  Watching a documentary on midshipmen in the Australian Navy would probably be less painful.  Nevertheless, I decided to press on, only in the hopes that something funny enough to blog about would happen.  Or that Blonde and Blonder would have sex in a shower somewhere.  Hey, what can I say?  I'm a lonely woman.  This was the next piece of dialogue I heard:

"You better let me into those Goddamn elevators!"

"I'm sorry sir - women only."

Umm, heck yes.  16 and Pregnant kind of freaks the shit out of me, but it's movies like this which make me realise just how thankful I am to have a vagina.  As far as I'm concerned - after things like Titanic and Poseidon - you'd have to be pretty stupid to get on a cruiseship anyway, but they should have signs on the lifeboats that you see as soon as you board:

NO OVARIES?

NO CHANCE!

Next time I looked up, Bitchy Hostess's Bitchy Friend had been stabbed in the chest with something that looked like a rubber spatula.  Baking cakes has never been so fun!  She, Hostess and Hollywood Hottie are somehow trapped in an elevator as the ship sinks around them.  The Hostess gets on the phone to her Dad (who turns out to be one of the snow-nerds), and informs him of their predicament.  His response?

"Honey...stay away from the lifeboats!"

Right.  Uhh, yeah, okay.  I decided the Dad (respected snow-nerd though he is) must be almost completely, how do you say it?  Fucking retarded.  Stay away from the lifeboats?  How is that an appropriate response to "I'm trapped in the elevator of a sinking ship with some hot blonde guy and my annoying friend who's been stabbed in the chest with a kitchen utensil"?  That's like me calling my Dad to tell him my car has broken down and him warning me not to ride any bikes home.

So I gave up.  When the family on TV shows a greater level of stupidity than my own family, I know there's pretty much no hope left.  I'm not entirely sure what happened at the end.  I think The Bitchy Friend died from spatula-related complications.

The Morning After...

Holy hangover, Batman!

There were two things I was supposed to blog about today, and I've forgotten both of them.  I guess that's what happens when you and your mates decide to ring in Good Friday with Jim Beam and double blacks.  Nothing celebrates the death and resurrection of Jesus like cheap alcohol and my shitty dance moves.

So here's what happened yesterday:  first off, I had work from 9:15 til 8:30.  Or as I like to say when I'm tired and looking for sympathy, I had work from 9 til 9.  That was fun, but the real madness began after, when Alex and I walked up to The Great Northern for a drink (or six) with Richie and his mate Simon.
Sidenote: Yes, Simon, I'm talking to you!  You refused to believe I actually had a blog and here you are making an appearance on it.  Now that's what I call...is there a word for that?  I was going to say irony but that doesn't really work.  Anyway. Yeah.
So we're at The Great Northern.  You know how sometimes when you go out, you just aren't feeling it?  Like, you're just not in the mood?  You're tired, you're grumpy, you're out of money, and while everyone else wants to go dancing, all you wanna do is find a cab so you can get home and curl up in bed with a grilled cheese sandwich?
This was not one of those nights.
I was feeling it.
I was in the mood.
I'd just worked what pretty much amounts to a 12-hour shift without alot of sleep the night before, so from a normal person's perspective I probably should have been jonesing for the whole bed + grilled cheese scenario, but no.  Nothing good ever came from going to bed with a cheese sandwich, I say.  Certainly not when the alternative is drinks with Alex, Richie and Simon.  I knew straight off the bat it was gonna be a fun night when Richie struck up a conversation comparing Harry Potter characters to that dude I used to hang out with.  Nothing spells "night to remember!" like your bestie and her boyfriend revealing that they refer to your ex as 'Voldemort' when you aren't around.  Does that make me Peter Pettigrew?  I don't even care!
Here's what else we talked about at the pub:

• The army
• Zumba
• People we went to high school with
• The idea of shoving a carrot up someone's ass

Yet another reason I'm glad not to be a vegetable.

One of the things I enjoy most about going out is actually the morning after.  I'm guessing that's not the case for most people, but I don't care.  I love it.  It's always such a surprise!  I like to look in my wallet first, because I'll always come home with either six times more money than I started with, or nothing but two train tickets and a Gloria Jeans customer card.  How does that happen?  Then there's that moment when you see yourself in the mirror for the first time and have to figure out exactly how and when you ended up wearing whatever you're wearing.  This is one of my favourite post-drinking games to play, despite the fact that 9 times out of 10 I will lose.  I once woke up wearing soccer shorts, stockings and a stripey cardigan tied into a crop-top.  If I ever figure that one out, I'll let you know.

In other news, I would like to report that my Mother is trying to kill me:

I think that while most people know I'm allergic to nuts, a lot don't really get the extent of how allergic.  To combat this, I have drawn up a simple diagram:

So, you know.  It's pretty bad.  Despite this, my parents never made our household nut-free.  In fact, I think we actually have more nuts in our pantry than the average Australian family.  Trying to make breakfast is like a fucking battlefield for me.  This is one of the reasons I survive mostly on caffeine and lollypops.
I love that there are schools - entire schools - which ban peanut butter because of one kid, yet my own Mother leaves a bowl of Snickers bars on the kitchen bench.  I'm going to propose a new house rule until I move out:  No Leaving Death-Laden Chocolate Bars Anywhere That Jacki Can Reach Them.
Please.
Most of the time it's coffee and sugar, yes, but I am the kind of girl who occasionally gets hungry at 3 in the morning, will wander downstairs without bothering to switch on the light, and eat the first thing I can find in the dark.  For this 'first thing' to be a Snickers bar would not be pleasant.  Although having to clean up my corpse in the morning does seem like the ultimate payback for having nuts in the kitchen.
Suck it, Mum!  Ps I'd like to be buried in a giant disco ball!  You know, if that's at all possible.
...
Have you ever thought about what you want done with your dead body?  Morbid!  I'm going to donate my organs of course, although I'm not sure how good they'll be.  Here is a photo of my liver:

I don't know if I like the idea of being buried.  The disco ball thing might be cool, but what I really want my parents to do is have me stuffed and mounted so they can keep me in their bedroom.  Preferably in this pose:

Jacki Trew, they will say.  She died like she lived: an idiot with 2 thumbs up.

I Have The Title

My Mum is under the impression that when I move out, I will be leaving my bed behind.
Uh huh.
I don't mean to be crass, but what the fuck?  I don't fucking think so!  This is her reasoning:

Mum: I need a bed in that room.  I'm going to sell the house at some point and if there's no bed, it'll look incomplete.  And then no one will want to live here!

Okay Mum.  First of all, you are a crazy person.  Have you seen my room?  Bed or no bed, it's a shitstorm of insanity.  If you want a chance in hell of selling the house, you can't let people into my room fullstop.  It's crazy.  It's me.  I know some of you haven't seen it, but to give you a bit of an idea...I have a disco ball, a mannequin wearing a cancan dress, starfish doorhandles and the word fuck painted on my ceiling.  Sorry, Mum and Dad.  This is what happens when you let an 11-year-old decorate her own room.

So anyway.
You know what show I'm loving at the moment?  Home and Away.  I've been watching it since I was about 9 or 10, so I know most of the storylines.  Some of which - to put it mildly - are crazy as fuck.  Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much.  My favourite plotline at the moment is the whole Nicole/Marilyn/baby thing.  Is anyone else uncool enough to watch Home and Away?  Let me break it down:
Nicole is a pregnant 1st year uni student who is giving her baby to Marilyn, the defacto wife of her best friends dad, who she once tried to hook up with.  Oh, also, the baby's biological father is a dead serial killer who once tricked Nicole into thinking she had HIV.
Holy shit!  What the hell are they smoking in the H+A writers room?  And can I have some?  The other thing I love is that Nicole went from peeing on a pregnancy test to practically crowning within about 6 weeks.  Apparently Summer Bay is set in another dimension, which is unfortunate because I was actually planning to move there following the predicted worldwide success of my book.

Speaking of my book, here is an update:
Writing a book is fucking hard, you guys.  Especially when you're writing it about your own life.  There's so much stuff to go through!  And edit!  That's probably the hardest part, because I want the book to be funny.  And while I think pretty much every event in my life is hilarious, others disagree and I am an idiot.  Plus I keep remembering stuff to include at the most inconvenient moments when there's no way I can write them down.  Like in the shower.  Or in bed. 
I often wake up at 2 or 3 in the morning with something in my head and rush to scribble it down...only because I never seem to have paper, I wind up writing it on myself.  And because it's 2 or 3 in the morning, whatever I write doesn't really make much sense.  I woke up on Wednesday morning with Mrs Wilson year 8 camp portaloo screaming on my leg.  For the record that actually has a great story behind it, but I still looked a little insane.
Anyway.
I have a few days off over Easter so I'm planning on spending at least one of them doing some hardcore writing.  Or, as hardcore as it can get when you're writing about portaloos and comparing the nipple size of all the men you've ever seen shirtless.
Spoiler Alert!
One thing I have made progress on is the title.  I have the title.  I'm going to keep it secret for now, mostly because I'm a paranoid freak who's afraid someone less lazy than me will steal my identity and publish my book before I even get off the couch, and also because having a secret book title makes me feel like a big important author.
Dont worry, I know I'm delusional.  And I'm pretty okay with it.
One of the signs that tells me I have no idea of how to act like a legitimate author is that I wrote my acknowledgements before I wrote the book.  Normal authors don't do that, right?  I'm guessing they don't have their first draft written on a bunch of stapled post-its either, but I can't help that I'm too poor to afford a laptop that actually works.  Plus since when do I do things the same way as everyone else?

Bluefit

So remember how I said I'd joined the gym?
Let's talk about that.

For someone who lives on bubblegum and coffee and considers the 15 minute walk to and from work 'enough exercise for the day', I am seriously surprised by my own enthusiasm when it comes to working out.  And not just because I can't think of any place which presents me with more opportunities to make inappropriate vagina jokes than the gym.  That's mostly it, but there's also something truly exhilarating about realising you can run on a treadmill for an extended period of time without killing yourself.  Plus, the personal trainers are all pretty good-looking, which never hurts.  Unless they're the ones taking the cycle class at 6:30 on Friday nights.
THAT one hurt.
Here's what amuses me about the gym:
1) I am in it.  Also,
2) They have these huge posters everywhere with Bluefit written on them.  That's the name of the gym.  Bluefit.  Things like:

I don't understand this form of advertising, nor the reasoning behind it.  I AM ALREADY IN YOUR GYM.  I'm in it!  I joined!  You got me!  What are you doing with the giant Bluefit posters?  Are these supposed to be motivating me?  Fine.  That's all well and good, but as far as I'm concerned there's a time and place for motivational posters.  And during the minor heart attack I experience after a 60-minute cycle class isn't it!  I'm thinking about printing up my own, more suitable motivational poster for the womens locker room:

Perhaps I should start working out naked.

Now, what is something as ridiculous as the idea of me working out naked?
Zumba.
You know they have Zumba classes at my gym, right?  Crop tops, fast-paced music, and dancing.  I think that's the perfect combination for someone so uncoordinated they can barely walk in a straight line when sober.  So of course Alex and I went along last Monday night.  And oh, what a night it was.
Zumba was fun, and enjoyable, and hilarious.  And I can say with complete honesty that I have never felt more physically inept in my lifetime.  Perhaps that term in Year 10 when I attempted beach volleyball as an elective sport.  But apart from that, no.  I don't know what it is about me, I just know there is no time I should attempt dancing unless tequila is involved.  I'm too gawky.  Yes, that's a word.

Gawky: –adjective, gawk·i·er, gawk·i·est.

awkward; ungainly; clumsy.

I'm a gawk.  Not to be confused with the term 'dork', although I'm undoubtably one of those too.  I think it's my arms.  They seem disproportionate to the rest of my body.  Like an ape.  Or a chimpanzee wearing overalls, only less coordinated.  It doesn't help that Alex (who actually danced in highschool) was a total natural.  Here's her first Zumba class:

And here's mine:

I'm not too worried though.  For what I lack in dancing skills, I totally make up for with a list of numerous and seemingly random talents, such as the ability to ride a bike and eat and icecream at the same time.  Also, I have a blog.  Once again, line up gentlemen.

I Jizzed My Pants Over A Segway. Line Up, Gentlemen.

Now, back to television.  Are you the kind of crazy person who has a tendency to identify with a certain character in every movie or TV show they watch?  Probably not.  But I am, and this is my blog, so shut up and listen.
You know The Simpsons?  I always thought of myself as a tasteful blend between Milhouse and Groundskeeper Willie.  Innocent and lovable with just a hint of mind-blowing insanity.

Last Sunday evening I saw an episode I'd never seen before, and realised just how wrong I was.


Principle Skinner: You destroyed the car I rent from Mother!
Bart: You rent a car from your Mother
Principle Skinner: Rent or own...only thirty five more payments and it's halfway mine!


Holy shit, you guys.
I'm Principle Skinner.
I gotta explain this one: When I was around 19 and on the verge of finally getting my license, I decided I wanted a car.  The only problem was, I had no money.  Well, okay, that's not entirely true.  I just didn't have enough money for a car.  I can't explain this.  I suspect it might have had something to do with my brief but extreme foray into the world of internet shopping.  Anyway, luckily for me, I have the kind of parents who are awesome enough to buy me a car, so long as I promised to pay them back in equal monthly installments.  Yes, my parents are amazing.  It's truly unfortunat that they gave birth to such an idiot.
See, I was left in charge of determining the value of these 'monthly installments'.  And since there are few things I enjoy more than having a laugh at my parents' expense, I thought it would be funny to pay back the total cost of my car...about $20 at a time.
MISTAKE.
In hindsight, there were a few warning signs that this idea would come back to bite me in the ass.  Here was the first one:


1) My parents agreed straight away.


And as if that wasn't enough of a red light, there was also this:


2) As they agreed, they were in hysterics.


Turns out, I was so busy congratulating myself on my own hilarity, I failed to realise this 'clever' idea of mine meant I would be paying my parents back for a period of approximately eight thousand years.
Did you hear that?
Paying my parents back for a period of approximately eight thousand years.
Once again.
Parents.
Debt.
Eight thousand years.
...
Fuck!
Sometimes I really resent my own ridiculousness.


While we're on the topic of how ridiculous I am:
I have never wanted to ride a segway more in my life than I do right now.
Outstanding.
They say segways are designed to be ridden by even the most uncoordinated of humans, and that it's pretty much impossible to accidentally fall off one.
I believe I am the exception to this rule. I don't care if a chimpanzee in overalls can do it. I'm the girl who almost fell down a flight of stairs with a cardboard box on her head in high school; if a chimpanzee is able to get itself into a pair of overalls, it's probably smarter than me anyway.
Still.
One of the reasons I love living and working in Lane Cove is that it's a suburb chock-full of crazy characters, one of whom happens to ride a segway. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. I had to put that in capitals because I knew you'd think I was. I don't blame you. The first time I witnessed him whizzing past out doors, well...

Then...

And finally...

Oh yes.  Just in case it wasn't obvious enough that I'm probably the coolest person you know; I jizzed my pants over a segway.
Line up, gentlemen.

Studio 69

Another day, another blogger.
Get it?

So here's my latest idea: you know how (at least, in Hollywood movies and Nicole Richie novels) they have those fancy hospitals out in the desert for people with, um, substance abuse issues?  Rehab?  They need to invent one for people addicted to TV shows.  I'm having serious My Kitchen Rules withdrawals.  What?  Yes, I am a crazy person.  That doesn't make My Kitchen Rules any less incredible.  Did you guys see the finale?  Did you SEE it?  I'm guessing no.  I never know how long I should make my rants about MKR because I'm not entirely sure if I was the only one watching it or not, but I will say this: that was the greatest two hours of television I have witnessed in the past 6 months.  INCLUDING the double episode of Real Housewives I caught on Arena last weekend.

I think this post is mostly going to be about television.

I saw a Channel 7 news update the other day.  Well, I didn't so much see it as I listened to it in the background while putting my makeup on.  Usually I have little to no interest in shows like Today Tonight, mostly because they're more 'human interest pieces' than actual news, and also because for me, Matthew White lost all credibility after appearing on Dancing With The Stars.  I don't care if the trophy is a giant glass and perspex disco ball, DWTS is for knobs.  Or to be more specific, women who are knobs and men who have no knobs.
Wow. I am an idiot.
Anyway, back to what I was saying before: Today Tonight was on in the background and I happened to hear the back end of a report about a runaway bull wreaking havoc at an Easter Show parade this week.
Oh.  My goodness.  Where to begin?
I think my favourite thing about ths story is the phrase 'runaway bull'.  Is there a funnier or more attention-grabbing combination of words in the English language than that?
I say there isn't.
And about the Easter Show:  has there even been a parade involving bulls where something didn't go wrong?  When are people going to learn?  When you put farm animals, fairy floss and upwards of 3000 Aussies in one place, you just know at some point the shit is gonna hit the fan.  This is exactly why I haven't gone to the Easter Show since I was 16: if anyone's unlucky enough to get in the way of a crazed bull this holiday season, it's me.  Plus it's like 40 bucks just to get in, and (if you don't count the money I've saved for the new apartment), I'm two steps away from living in a cardboard box.

Speaking of the new apartment, I've just made an executive decision that when Alex and I move out, our home should have a name.  Alex, are you reading this?  Our house is having a name.  I made an executive decision.  It's happening.  And by that I of course mean 'we don't really have to name the house, I'm just the kind of idiot who thinks it would not only be hilarious, but also a great way to confuse our new neighbours.  Please don't stop being my best friend'.
Anyway, here is a list I made of possible monikers:

• Kitchen HQ
• Studio 69
• You Wish You Lived Here

So the last one is kind of long.  And unless you're as obsessed with My Kitchen Rules as I am, you probably won't understand Kitchen HQ.  Personally, I like Studio 69.  69?  I will pay you five dollars if you don't laugh at that.

A Royal Mess

Nothing disgusts me more than the general public's reaction to this whole Royal Wedding business.  Well, alright, that's probably a lie.  There are things that disgust me more - the smell of Pad Thai, for one thing.  Sheep.  John Howard's eyebrows.  My own self-assurance when it comes to the idea that people are actually reading this blog.  And diarrhea.  If there is anyone out there who doesn't find diarrhea at least slightly disgusting, please, let yourself be known so I can track you down, kick you in the balls, and force-feed you laxatives until you change your mind.
Much appreciated.
But back to the topic at hand.
I'm sure Kate and William (yes, we are on a first name basis) are lovely.  Perfectly lovely in fact, and I'm not just saying that because I would gladly show William's younger brother a good time any day of the week despite the whole Nazi uniform prank thing and him having red hair.  Sure that's part of it, but come on.  People are obsessed with this wedding.  And not just that - people are obsessed with being invited to the wedding.  Really, 60-something-year-old lady who lives in my neighbourhood and sometimes makes conversation with me on the street?  Sorry, dude.  I don't care how many times you iron your 'special-occasion slacks', you're not getting an invite.
Surprisingly, my parents aren't getting too excited about the whole thing.  And when I say 'surprisingly', I'm talking about my Mum.  The only way a wedding is gonna get my Dad out of his chair is if someone asks him to pay for it.  Mum, on the other hand, is the kind of lady who orders collectable Michael Jackson dinner plates from the back page of the TV Guide.  I asked her what she thought of the wedding and here's what I got:

Mum: It's true, I don't care that much.  When Charles and Diana got married I was glued to the television.  GLUED!  Do you remember?
Me: Ma, I wasn't even born ye-
Mum: Oooh, and then again when she died, remember that?
Me: Kind of, but I was only like five, and-
Mum: But yeah, this time, not so much.
Me: Right.
Mum: Yeah.
Me: Right.
Mum: Yeah.
(Pause)
Mum: I'm getting a souvenir out of the TV Guide though.  For sure.

I didn't have time to laugh at that, because Grey's Anatomy had started, and it was the episode where a school bus crashes and some dude gets a pencil jammed all the way into his eye.  Add that to the list of things that disgust me - somewhere between 'corned beef' and 'the smell of vacuum cleaners'.

Dental Dam - Mouth Or Vagina?

"Boner" is one of the funniest words in the English language.

There are a few things in this world I simply can't see or hear without laughing.  No matter how many times I see/hear them.  There's one in particular (which actually only happened the other night) that's so good I can't even talk about it here.  I'm saving it for the book.  But I will give you a teaser and say it involves the words I've punched him in the face three times.  Intruiged?  I would be.
Anyway.
While we're on the subject of things that happened the other night...I don't know if you guys have heard about this, but I recently joined the gym.  I know, it's weird.  The gym is for healthy people, right?  I honestly can't believe they gave me a membership.  But they did, and on Sunday afternoon, Alex and I had ourselves a little workout.  Wait, little?  No.  We sweated for like two hours!  At least, that's what I'm telling people in order to justify the fact that we went to the pub afterwards.

[Insert Sheepish Smile Here]

No, you know what?  I don't even care.  I doubt champagne even has that many calories.  Plus it's not our fault that 'one innocent gin and tonic' turned into 'five hours and three bottles with a group of guys we happened to meet'.
The best part about these guys is that the whole five hour (not kidding) interaction started with a conversation about a plastic poncho.  If that's not a solid basis for a life-long friendship, I don't know what is.  I might be lying about the life-long friendship, but they were alot of a fun.  You know those times where you meet someone and feel like you can say whatever you want to them straight away?  Within 20 minutes of them sitting down, we were in the midst of a heated debate about dental dams.  I am not even joking.  I woke up on Monday morning and the search history on my iPhone read: Dental Dam - Mouth or Vagina?

Sigh.
I found my people.
This whole 'dental dam' thing was probably my favourite part of the evening for two reasons:
1) We were kind of getting to the stage where grabbing the bartender and asking him if he knew anything about dental dams (and whether they were intended for mouth or vagina) seemed totally normal.  I don't know what kind of training bartenders go through these days, but this guy practically gave us a 30-minute lecture on dental dams, the origin of the dental dam, uses of the dental dam, why it's called a dental dam...I think he may have actually invented the dental dam.  At the very least, you just KNOW he has like, 45 of them stuffed in his bedside table.  And
2) Using our phones to Google 'dental dam' led to a conversation about Google, which led to a conversation about the internet, which led to this:

Alex: By the way, you guys should totally read Jacki's blog.

Because nothing says 'Great Girlfriend Potential' like 'Not Only Do I Drink Champagne After I've Gone To The Gym, I Also Can't Stop Narrating My Own Life Via The Internet'.