The Fallback Plan

I'm interested to see how having an actual computer in our apartment will go.  Our internet reception is pretty shithouse.  What?  Yes.  You would think this to be annoying, but I disagree.  Slow internet reception has its perks:
1) It totally puts a lock on my drunk internet shopping habit.  And
2) Having the archives page on my blog load so slowly kind of makes me feel famous.  Right?  Because so many people are trying to look at it?  Right?  There's no clearer indication of fame than a slow-loading archives page.  I'm just thinking of all those die-hard fans trying to read what I posted about men's underwear doubling as pajama pants back in 2009.  Man, I'm good.

Alright, topic change.
Can someone tell me what time it is?  The only clock I have in the house is my iPhone, and I don't know if it has the technology to update itself or not.  Fuck, I hate daylight saving.
Ahh, daylight saving, huh?  It's that time of year again.  I suppose it's a fairly simple process when you explain it, but daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around.  Most people know this.  Probably because I announce it every year.  "Daylight saving is one of those rare concepts that I just cannot wrap my head around", I will say.  I'm paraphrasing.  Usually it's more like "I'm losing an hour of sleep tonight?  What the fuck?"
Anyway.
Like any person who is socially retarded, if there is something in this world that confuses me, I will try to strike up a conversation about it with as many people as possible.  I can hear you wondering if this ever goes well for me.  The answer is yes.  Except on days ending in 'y'.  Still, I have fun with it.  This is where having a job at a hairdresser comes in handy.  I see 8 dillion people a day, and I get to have the same conversation with all of them!  I know.  Leaving this job is going to be pretty hard.

Speaking of leaving my job...While I realise that's going to have to happen eventually, I'm at a bit of a loss as to what I'll do next.  I'm not one of these people whos greatest ambition in life is to have a career.  I'd like to dabble in a little of everything.  Within reason; obviously I won't be getting any work as say, a doctor.  Not until I finish watching the entire ER series box set.  I've got a lot of experience making coffee; maybe I could be a professional barrista.  My coffee's not that great though, so probably not.  I think it's my general lack of, um, skills that's holding me back.  I saw this motivational poster the other day that read something along the lines of...

IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING!

No offence to Mr Motivation, but I respectfully disagree.  Really?  I believe in myself, and I can't do shit!

Wow, that was a poor choice of phrasing.  Anything.  I can't do anything.  Anything.

...

I'm not constipated.

Anywho.  All I can say, is thank God for my fallback plan, which has been the same thing since I was about 16.  It was around that time that I began to feel an inkling of my future as a talentless hack.  Way to go, 16-year-old me!  Could have been a psychic!  Also a lie.  If I actually had any psychic abilities, I might have been able to see that half the haircuts I've had in my lifetime weren't going to work out.

You know what I always thought would be fun?  Hosting a radio show.  I'm pretty unrealistic about it; I assume it's all fun and games and music and getting paid $17 million to take a 'gap year'.  But I definitely have a face for radio, which I'm sure will mean more to Nova or 2dayFM than any university degree.  Wait, scratch that.  I probably couldn't work for 2dayFM on account of them already having a Jacki on staff.  Even if she does spell her name with an e.  Maybe I could start my own radio station; all Queen hits, all the time.  With the occasional Journey song thrown in.  And sound bites of me reading excerpts from my own blog.  If I got to pick my own co-host, it would have to be either the dude who played Sandy Cohen on The OC, or Hugh Jackman.  Sandy seems like a chilled out guy, plus he's got great eyebrows.  Jackman would just sit in silence and give me something pretty to look at.

I also feel like I could probably do well on a reality show.  I've blogged about this before, but it's still true.  I've even got a sales pitch: a show where I sit on a couch getting drunk, watch a bunch of movies, and do the commentary for them.  Hilarious!  If Alex and Richie think it is, so will the rest of Australia.  I can't even tell you how much they enjoyed watching the last Lord of the Rings film with me.

Now that's a motivational poster I can get on board with.

Anyway, what was I talking about?  Oh, the fallback plan.  Foolproof.  So, when I'm done with hosting radio and starring on MTV - or on the off chance that whole doctor thing doesn't work out - I'll be moving to Panama and opening my own fruit shop.  I know, I know, I'm an idiot.  Whatever.  You'll all miss me when I'm gone.

Total Weirdo Magnet

Wow, another blog already?  You are welcome, Universe.  Feel free to send me $88 in the mail as a thankyou present.  I got a parking ticket yesterday and I'm poor as shit.

I can't really think of how to start this post, so I guess I'll just start typing and see where it takes me.  I just chugged a whole bottle of water in one go and I've kind of got the huge 'water baby' faux-pregnancy belly thing going on.  It's pretty distracting.  But here goes:
Oh!  Happy Birthday Richie!  For yesterday.  You are now 22 and that's pretty old, but you're way younger than both my parents.  Feel good about that.
So last night (both in celebration of Richie's birth, and Geelong's crushing victory over Collingwood in the AFL grand final), a bunch of us went to Cabana.  Good times.  Great times, actually.  They have this cocktail on the menu called a 'Jimmy Chew'.  Clever, no?  See what they did there?  Because Jimmy Choo is a brand of shoes loved by women all over the world?  And they changed it to Chew because...wait, actually, I'm kind of unclear on that.  Can anyone else explain this?  Chew?  Regardless, it was a great cocktail.  My favourite part of the night, though, was calling a cab to get there.  It went something like this:

Guy: Taxis Combined, how can I help you?
Me: Hey, I just want to book a ta-
Guy: Heeeyyy, Jacki!

(What?  How does this dude know my name?  I had no idea.  I just went with it.)

Me: Yeah!
Guy: Where are you?
Me: Uhhh, Lane Cove.  In Cope Street.
Guy: And where you going, girl?

(...Girl?)

Me: St Leonards, please.  Cabana Bar.
Guy: Ooh, Cabana.  Is that good?
Me: Yeah, sure.
Guy: You must be thirsty.
Me: ...??

(I don't know.  "??".  That's what the silence sounded like.)

Guy: Okay, so you want to go now?
Me: Yep.
Guy: Alright.  And I'll organise a special text, just for you.  Wink.

(Not kidding.  He actually said 'wink'.)

Me: Thanks.
Guy: Have a good night, sexy.
Me: I will.  And maybe we can meet up later.
Guy: Oh yeah?  Sure!
Me: I've got your number.  133 300, right?
Guy: You got it.
Me: Great.  Can't wait to kick you in the balls for being such a nutjob.

I made up some of that last part, but still.  What?!  Weirdest cab booking ever, only cementing my theory that I am the strongest 'abnormal cab driver' magnet in the universe.  This was almost as bad as the time my cabbie tried to get me to smoke weed with him on the way home.  True story.  I know!  I told you - total weirdo magnet.

Baby Talk

Children are interesting to me.  On the one hand, I'm not that great with them; I can't do baby talk, and the idea of me actually giving birth to anything not resembling the spawn of satan is pretty laughable.  But on the other hand...

Awwwww!
I don't imagine myself with kids.  It's not that I don't like them or whatever - I have plenty of friends that I can easily envision with the whole 'Grown Up' scenario.  You know; husband, twins, house in the suburbs.  And I'm always there too, as the crazy aunt who gets drunk on Christmas.  Alex and Richie are one couple who know this is in the cards for them.  I've already reserved a bedroom in their hypothetical-future-mansion.

The baby talk thing is a real issue with me.  I didn't even do baby talk when I was a baby.  True story.  Ask my Mum.  Apparently I went from sucking my thumb in silence to full-blown conversations.  I don't know.  I imagine it went something like this:

Mum: Baisy, can you say Mama?  Mama?
Me: (Blank stare)
Dad: How about Dada?  Can you say Dada??
Me: (Blank stare)
Catherine: Can she say my name?
Me: Will you three get out of my face?  I'm six days old.  God damn.

Hey!  In other exciting news, we got a new candle for the bathroom.  Finally, I can take showers in the dark again.  Washing my hair has never been so romantic.  Plus it's a scented candle, which only makes everything more enjoyable.  As if Alex and I didn't already have the most desirable apartment in the Lane Cove area.  We haven't actually had our housewarming yet, so feel free to consider this your official invitiation:

I need to start inviting people over more often.
Actually.
I'm almost convinced this is the reason I'm still single.  If more men saw the inside of my house and how awesome it is, they'd probably be able to look past my love of disco music, obsession with Freddie Mercury, lack of career direction, terrible dance moves and addiction to all-things-caffinated.  Line up, gentlemen!  If you can deal with the crazy thing, I'm really not a hard woman to please.  I don't need a diamond ring.  Just stock the fridge with Red Bull and don't expect me to have kids.

Home and Away has been really depressing lately.  That's pretty much all I got.  Yes, I still watch Home and Away.  Is that totally lame?  Kiss my ass.

So my week was actually coming along quite nicely until yesterday afternoon.  Work was busy, it had stopped raining, my hair was doing that thing where it doesn't resemble a birds nest full of old snakes...and then:

Lucky I'm with AAMI?  I respectfully disagree:

Is it totally stupid and irresponsible to post pictures of personal insurance bills on the internet?  I don't care.  I'm too busy crying into my cereal at the idea of having to give up my beloved car.  Dude.  DUDE.  This sucks.  Who knew car insurance could cost so much?  So what if I'm 21!  This is where the whole AAMI car insurance thing really annoys me; the part where they just assume that everyone under the age of 50 is a shit driver.  Hello?  My Dad is over 50 and way more reckless behind the wheel than I am.  Where do you think I learned it?  My Mum seems to think the inflated bill price has less to do with my age, and more to do with the fact that I single-handedly caused a 3-car accident on the way home from the airport one morning.  Whatever!  That was almost a YEAR ago!  And TOTALLY not my fault!
Alright, maybe a little bit.  I maintain that the driving instructors at L Trent need to focus less on actual driving skills, and put more emphasis on the fact that texting on the highway is never a good idea.  I probably wouldn't have tried it otherwise!
(Yes, I am an idiot).
Anyway.  Yes, this whole situation blows, but never fear.  I'm probably not going to have to sell my car.  My plan is to pay my insurance and registration bills at the same time and then quit eating for 6 months.  I may also have to rent out my room and start sleeping in a cardboard box on the balcony.  It's called priorities, people!

Good Hair Day

Has anyone else been watching the new season of Underbelly?  Have I already talked about this?  Can't remember.  But yeah, Underbelly.  Or if we're being technical about it, Underbelly Razor.  Awesome.  I love that just because it's set in Sydney, I have this weird connective feeling about the whole thing; like it's my personal claim to fame.  Forget that I'm in no way actually related to any of the characters, all of whom lived a good 80 years before I was even born. 
Sydney! 
Sydney! 
It's my claim to fame!
This is exactly the same kind of thing I feel about stuff like the Matrix movies, and Baz Luhrmann.  I know it's ridiculous.  And I don't care.  Besides, I'm pretty sure Baz Luhrmann checks my blog on a daily basis.

So what else was I going to talk about?

I had this dream the other night about a pot plant being run over by a truck.  Which would have been just as boring as it sounds, except that the pot plant was alive - like, it had a face and everything - AND was best friends with one of the guys I work with.  What?  I have no idea.  As in real life I progress into adulthood, my dreams only seem to be getting more child-like.  Hello, irony!  I can only assume this has something to do with my meth addiction.  Kidding, Mum!  Actually I have no idea what this is about.  And what else is new?  If being crazy was an Olympic sport, just about the only thing that could knock my dreams out of first place would be my hair.  Russell Brand knows what I'm talking about.

Speaking of meth addictions, we were at the pub the other day when some woman came up to me and started talking about her ex-boyfriend and his drug habit.  Whaaaat?  I love people like this, because they provide all situations with a 94% chance of becoming awkward.
94%.
That's a real statistic.
Anyway, as everyone who knows me knows, I am a huge fan of awkwardness; I thrive on it.  So imagine my delight at discovering someone who can give it to me on a silver platter:

Woman:  Hi.  Mind if I sit here?
Me: Oh no, go ahead.
Woman.  Thanks.  Nice day, huh?
Me: Yeah.  Yeah, nice.
(Pause)
Woman: So, my ex-boyfriend was addicted to ice.

Not even kidding.
NOT EVEN KIDDING.
Alright, so I'm kind of kidding.  She sat with us for about 10 minutes before the ice-addiction thing came up.  But it was still awkward!  Let's be honest, the topic of ice addiction is always gonna be kind of awkward.  There's really no other way to spin it:

Woman: So, my ex-boyfriend was addicted to ice.
Me: Oh...that's a shame.  But you know what, I bet he had a great personality.

Fail.

BLACKOUT, 2011

First of all, let's pretend it's still Sunday so I can say Happy Father's Day to all the Dads in the world.  Especially mine, because he is superior to all others in like, 9 different ways.  Hey - he created me and Catherine, didn't he?

Good job, Papa.

So today is probably going to be one of those days where I ramble on about nothing.  Kind of like every other day.  The only reason I'm warning you now is that I just had a second champagne brunch with my parents and watched Jersey Shore, and I think I'm a little drunk.  So prepare yourselves for that.
Oh!  You know what exciting event happened this week?

BLACKOUT, 2011!

This is the first time we've had a real blackout in our apartment since moving in.  Yes, I have been waiting for it.  There was one night a few weeks back where I thought it might be happening, but that turned out to be a false alarm; I mean, who knew having the TV, stereo, DVD player, heater, fridge, kettle, kitchen lights and toaster all on at the same time could cause a fuse to blow?

I sure didn't.

The best part about BLACKOUT, 2011 was that it happened on Friday night at about 11:30pm.  When I just so happened to be home, alone, watching Fight Club.

Dude.

If this had happened ten years ago, 11-year-old-me probably would have offed herself just to avoid the Brad-Pitt-Serial-Killer-Lookalike she was sure had orchestrated the whole power failure and was now systematically moving through each apartment in the building, killing all in his path.  But 21-year-old-me?

Meh.

The only thing that really had me worried was that our fridge had turned off and all our food was going to spoil.  I got over that pretty quickly when I opened it and remembered all we actually have in there is alcohol and avocado dip.  Truthfully, I'm just glad it was me at home by myself when this happened, and not Alex.  Though a fearless woman in many ways, Alex is not a fan of the dark.  Which I get.  I totally get the whole "Scared Of The Dark" thing.  A cupboard is just a cupboard, right?  Right.  But turn off the lights, and you never know what might be hiding in there.  I personally am saved by the logic that, whatever weird and fucked up creature is lurking under the bed cannot be more weird and fucked up than me.  But I don't think that works for everybody.  So yeah, I get it, being scared of the dark.

This posed a dilemma though: Alex was at the pub with a few of her mates, and probably wouldn't get home until late.  Usually in this situation I would leave a light on (so she didn't have to fumble around in the dark), but tonight I obviously couldn't.  So what would be scarier for her?

a) Walking into a dark apartment completely alone, or

b) Finding me sitting in the dark waiting for her?

...

I was seriously stumped for like 15 minutes.  In the end I called my Mum for advice:

Mum: Hey Baisy, what's up?

Me: Oh hey Mum.  Quick question.  We're in the middle of a blackout right now, and I -

Mum: Are you alright?!

Me: Yeah, I'm fine, the serial killers haven't reached out apartment yet.

Mum: What?! What serial killers?  There's no serial killers!

Me: I know Mum, it was just a joke.

Mum: There's no serial killers!

Me: ...Anyway, I'm fine, but Alex isn't home yet and she's a bit scared of the dark.  So what do I do?

Mum: I don't know.  Why don't you send her a nice text?  And make sure to tell her again how much you loved the roast she made on Monday night.

Oh, SIDENOTE: I've never been a fan of roast dinners, but Alex made one earlier that week that was off the chain.  I made the mistake of telling Mum (who's roasts I'd always refused to eat) all about it.  Several times.  She's a bit jealous.

Me: Yeah, okay, but then what?  Do I wait in the dark like a weirdo or just go to bed?

Mum: Maybe...did you hear the thing I said about the roast dinner?

Me: (Sigh) Goodnight, Mother.

Honestly. 

And they think I'm the dramatic one?

Happy (Belated) Birthday

So it was my sister's birthday last Friday.  Happy Birthday, Catherine!  Your present is in the mail.  It's a box of dildos.
Kidding!
It's a box of condoms.  Hello, you're in the Navy and surrounded by men; I'm just being practical.
...
Could I be any more inappropriate?
Anyway, I had planned to write some crazed essay about Catherine and our family, and all the ways in which I am tormented by Catherine and our family, but then I realised I've already done that.  Last year.  Or was it the year before?  Regardless, you can all read it by clicking here, while I spend my time doing something more productive.  Like watching Offspring.
Happy Birthday!

Awkward Apartment Moments, Volume 1

So I was watching that movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall at home the other day.  Remember that scene where they have really loud sex?
...
The walls of my apartment are, like, paper thin.  I can only assume that my neighbours have all come to the conclusion that I'm either watching porn, or starring in porn.  Not sure which is worse.

The Baby Whisperer

The genius of 8-year-old children is something that will never cease to amaze me.
...
Let me start from the beginning.
So I babysat the other night.  For the first time in roughly a dillion years.  Everyone's babysat before, right?  Okay maybe not the guys.  If you have a penis, you can disregard this.  Everyone's babysay before, right?  But it's really one of those things you do in highschool, when you need money but don't have time to get a real job.  Or when you actually don't mind being paid 10 dollars an hour.  Or when you're 16 and pregnant and practicing for when the real baby comes.
...That was never me, by the way.  I'm a 'happy-to-be-paid-minimum-wage' girl; always have been.
Anyway, where was I?
So I babysat the other night - mostly as a favour to an old friend of my Mum's who I can never seem to say no to on account of the fact that she's one of the very few acquaintances of my parents who will actually acknowledge me as Jacki Trew, rather than just The Less Successful Child Of Jane And Phillip.  Also I am broke as a joke and needed the cash.  But it was mainly the acknowledgement thing.
So it was Friday night.  Remember that night last week with all the rain and the wind and the insane amounts of traffic?  Yeah, Friday night.  Here is how many driving violations I made on the way there:

14

Kidding.  Actually it was only 5.  And I'm 80% sure that only 2 of them were my fault.  Luckily, once I got to the house, things improved.

...Well...kind of.

Does anyone else have one of those jobs that nobody understands?  I mean, does anyone else have one of those jobs that they spend 5 minutes describing only to have people go 'Ohhhh...*confused face*'

I have one of those jobs.

Which I totally get.  I get it.  I work in a hairdresser but I'm not a hairdresser.  I'm technically a receptionist but I also do apprentice tasks.  Do I want to work at T&G forever?  No.  But do I want to quit my job?  Hell no.  Like I say...I get it.  Some people think it's strange.  Sometimes I think it's strange.  But 8-year-old Grace...

Grace: So are you a hair cutter or a hair checker-inner?

Me: Um..a hair checker-inner.

Nailed it in 6 seconds.

I'm thinking that maybe I should reconsider my decision to never have babies.  The only people who understand me all seem to be under the age of 12.  Maybe this is my gift.  Maybe I'm like the Baby Whisperer.  Maybe I could shock everyone and do a totally awesome job of raising my kids!  Then again...

Grace: Oh, I like your nosering!

Me: Thanks dude.

Grace: Is that a permanent tattoo?

Me: Yep.

Grace: Did your parents tell you not to do that?

Me: Well technically no...but only because I didn't actually ask them.

Grace: Oh.  Cool!

Grace's Mum: *heart attack*

...Maybe not.

Contagious Viral Tonsils

Hello again!
My apartment has been like a hot box of bacterial infection for the past week and a half.  Sexy, I know.  Being that I drink too much coffee, don't eat enough apples, and (at 21) am still the kind of idiot who likes to put her immune system to the test by swimming in the rain and piercing my own ears with a sewing kit, I'm never really surprised when I get struck down with something like a cold.  Thankfully, that's all I had this time; a common cold.  Nothing 2 days on the couch watching Jersey Shore and snacking on Codral tablets won't fix.  Poor Alex though, was another story.  I won't go into all the gory details now, but there were words like 'contagious' and 'viral' and 'tonsils' being thrown around.  Yes, Alex is suffering from Contagious Viral Tonsils.  Her tonsils have officially gone viral.  We are expecting them to appear on YouTube any day now.

What a terrible joke.

Anyway.  Thankfully, Alex's Mum is a brilliant herbalist and Richie's Mum is a brilliant nurse, and the two of them joined forces to save us from certain death.  Or - at the very least - a serious case of the runny noses.  Within hours of Alex's diagnosis, the apartment was stocked with rosehip tea and lemon, garlic capsules, herbal remedies and chocolate mousse (a well known cure for Contagious Viral Tonsils).  I did my part by stopping at our local health food store and asking if they had "some of that magic honey that can, like, practically bring people back from the dead."

It was good with the tea.

Being sick sucks for lots of reasons, but here is the top of my list:

• The sneezing

I don't exactly have the closest relationship with my nose.  There's no hate between us, but no love either.  We simply tolerate each other.  And when something like hayfever or a cold forces the two of us to work together, it never seems to pan out.  Here is the main reason:

I CAN'T SNEEZE



Alright, an exaggeration.  I can sneeze.  I just don't do it the way you're supposed to.  Ask anyone.  No, scratch that.  Ask my sister Catherine, who has been teasing me about this for as long as I can remember.  Although really it's less 'teasing' and more 'warning me that if I keep sneezing the way I am, I'm going to burst all the blood vessels in my face'.

She's never one to shy away from a painfully graphic description, my sister.

Anyway.

I know you're probably wondering what the hell I'm going on about...but it's hard to describe, this bizarre sneezing technique of mine.  It's like something happens between the ahh..and the CHOO!, that causes me to (involuntairly) press my tongue really hard against the roof of my mouth; like it's trying to force the sneeze back into my nose or something.  God, even my tongue has behavioral issues.  Regardless, it works.  So while it sounds like a regular sneeze, nothing ever comes out of my nose.  This whole method has the added benefit of ensuring that I never spray snot over anyone, or need a tissue.  Plus it doesn't irritate my nose ring.  The only downside, really, is that I'm possibly giving myself a miniature brain embolism every time I do it.

Well...you gotta die somehow.

So, hmm, what else?  Oh!  Masterchef!  I'm going to make this quick though, because I've got a load of washing on.  And because I know that my extreme love of Masterchef can sometimes cause people to tear their own ears off.  So to keep things brief...

Congratulations Kate.  I thought you were good, even if my Mum only considered you a less charasmatic version of herself.  Don't worry, even she had to admit you can cook better.  Michael, I think you're cute.  Not 'Hayden' cute, more 'My Dog Oscar' cute.  'My Dog Oscar Without A Beard, Or Cataracts'.  Hayden, call me.  Matt Preston, I will cook dinner for you any day of the week...as long as you don't mind that we'll be eating toast.  And that snowman dessert thing looked incredible.  Masterchef rules.  Masterchef RULES.

Oh, and PS, who let Cheating Matt back in to watch the finale?  Surely he could have just downloaded it on his smartphone.

Back And Better Than Ever

Shit, bitch!

Sorry, that was rude.  What I really meant to say was Wow!  Long time no blog!  Sorry.  Sorry about it.  I just haven't had much to write about lately.
LIE.
Truth is, my life is hilarious.  And I did mean to post something about it last week (or the week before), but I couldn't get the words right.  This is me, about 12 days ago:

...
It wasn't great.
Luckily now I'm back and better than ever.  So much has happened since the last time I sat down to write - end of financial year, the Masterchef Australia grand finale, one of my best friends getting engaged...but enough about that shit.  Let's talk about my feet.
So you guys remember how it rained like crazy a couple of weeks ago, yeah?  I'm talking to anyone who lives in Sydney.  For those of you who were out of town, here is a visual:

That's me in the yellow.
The whole thing wouldn't have been so bad - especially considering I work indoors and live on the top floor of my building - except for the fact that, oh yeah, I'm the type of idiot who needs to buy a new bottle of nailpolish every day of the week, but will wear the same scruffy boots for 3 winters in a row...to the point where I'm actually sticky-taping them back together in the staffroom on my lunchbreak.  Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't get trenchfoot.  Or, you know, hypothermia.  My feet were almost permanently wet for the better half of a week.  Thankfully though, I didn't suffer alone; turns out Alex is the kind of girl who'll hold onto a pair of shoes for way longer than is hygenically acceptable too.  As you can imagine, our apartment smelt gorgeous that week.

Unlucky In Luck

So, alright, lets talk about Masterchef again.  I work late some nights, and also have a life - so I don't get to watch MC nearly as much as I'd like.  Thus, I'm a little unclear on the actual layout.  As far as I know, it goes like this:

• Group challenge
• Immunity challenge
• Pressure challenge
• Masterclass
• And every once in a while there seems to be an episode where all the contestants are driven to an obscure location (ie Matt Moran's Dad's farm) and forced to cook in semi-ridiculous conditions.  I mean how many chefs do you know that actually had to dismember a lamb carcass within 60 seconds while fighting off a thunderstorm in the middle of the bush?  Just saying.  Anyway, where was I?

Until last Friday night, the only way I knew about the Masterclass episodes was though word-of-mouth, because I refused to watch them.  We all know I can't cook and will probably never learn how.  Why, then, would I want to watch someone else learn how to make 3 kinds of French desserts?  By which I really mean 'flirt shamelessly with the French pastry chef from Patisse'.  Not that I would want to watch someone else doing that, either.  Hello?  That's like watching someone else get married to Wentworth Miller from Prison Break.
French pastry chefs are HOT.
But back to the topic at hand: Masterchef.  Has anyone else heard that Mat was kicked off the show for cheating?  Apparently he used an iPhone to Google recipes when no one was looking.  What?  Since the contestants make out as if they're being filmed 24/7, I can only assume he did this in the bathroom.  It makes me feel good to know that the people from Masterchef Google things while sitting on the toilet too.  Celebrites - they're just like you and me!
But yeah.  Since the show is filmed ahead of time, Mat is still appearing on my TV screen night after night, even though in reality he was eliminated more than 2 weeks ago.  This is now the basis of Masterchefs appeal for me.  I could care less about the actual cooking; I just tune in in the hopes of witnessing Mat's dramatic eviction.  I'm also hoping for a kitchen incident involving grease fire and Sun's head.  Too mean?  Whatever, Sun annoys me.

So my car broke down the other day.  If you have driven in/complained about my car before, (or you are one of my sister's charming Navy buddies who feel inclined to comment on the fact that yes, I drive a beat-up Barrina from '97 with a disco ball hanging from the rearview mirror), you will probably find this hilarious.  You are probably glad you drive a 2003 Golf.  You are probably fighting the urge to say 'I told you so'.
Suck it!  I'm a bloody receptionist!  Do you know how much money we make?
...Okay, more than enough.  But I'm also a receptionist who pays rent and harbours a severe addiction to vintage clothing.  "Saving money" isn't exactly at the top of my list of priorities.  "Saving money for a new car" isn't even on my radar.  Besides which, I love the Barrina.  Underachieving pieces of shit gotta stick together, right?  My car and I were made for each other.
I think my favourite part about the whole 'car breakdown' scenario is that it happened in front of my parents house.  This was ideal for 2 reasons:
1) I was able to ask Dad for a ride home, and
2) It wasn't in the middle of a 6-lane freeway
I don't know if anyone else who reads this blog is the owner of a Holden bubble car from 1997...just in case, here is a visual:

It's a bit like driving a pram made out of cardboard.  This is the reason I'm so often caught breaking the limit - in my car, the only way to survive on the road is to speed away from everyone else.

Anyway.
So my beloved Lincoln (yes I named my car after a Prison Break character...what else did you expect?) died last Tuesday.  Thankfully, I had Wednesday off and was able to spend the morning fixing the engine with my Dad.  Alright, that's a bit of a stretch.  I was able to spend the morning standing around pretending to look interested while Dad explained the pros and cons of 3 different motor oil brands.  I'm still not 100% sure what I want to do with the rest of my life, but at least now I know a future in motor vehicle mechanics is out of the question.

After replacing the oil, the car seemed to be working okay, so Dad decided it would be safe for me to drive home.  And I trust my Dad, vehemently.  But more than that, I was bored out of my skull and wanted a shower.  So it didn't take much convincing.
MISTAKE.
Unfortunately, Lincoln soon decided that new motor oil wasn't the answer, and broke down again.  Fortunately though, he made this decision at the exact moment that I was pulling into our car spot at home.  Am I the luckiest unlucky person alive?  I say yes.  Who else has a car that'll break down multiple times in one week, but always in a convenient location?  I like to think this is God's way of making up for me being a complete fuckup in all other aspects of life.

A Purple Sparkly Gift

I can't believe I haven't blogged about this until now, but I recently watched the entire first season of Underbelly.  Judging by the reactions of people I've already announced this to, I am probably the last person in Australia to jump on board with this show.  With the exception of my Mum, who refuses to watch anything on TV except Grey's Anatomy and Relocation: Down Under.
For me, the best part about Underbelly is the cast - an amusing mix of Australian soap opera alumni.  Say what you like about shows like Neighbours and Heartbreak High, they produce some quality actors!  Of course, the other side of the coin is that it's a little hard to be 100% intimidated by infamous drug dealer Tony Mokbel when you usually know him as Doctor Sid from Home and Away.  But I did my best to ignore that.

Speaking of TV, I'm watching this movie right now called The Crazies.  It's, well, interesting.  Apparently it's actually a remake - the original was made in the 1970's or something.  What?  Who knew they even had horror movies like this in the 70's?  No, The Exorcist doesn't count.  Even my Mum - who can't get through Jaws without almost wetting her pants - doesn't think The Exorcist counts as a scary movie.  Saw? She wet herself.
Amityville Horror? Wet herself.
The Ring? Wet herself. 
But Exorcist?  No problem.
I've adapted this into a Horror Film Rating System: if Mum hasn't peed on the couch yet, it's not that scary.

Anyway, The Crazies.  Basically it's about some small town in the middle of nowhere (aren't they always?) that's overcome by a virus which turns everyone into a robot serial killer.  It makes them crazy.  They become The Crazies.  Good to see inventive film titles are as important as ever in Hollywood.  But being that I am probably one traumatic life experience away from becoming a robot serial killer myself, I actually enjoyed the movie.  It's kind of a cross between 28 Days Later and The Signal, with a little Resident Evil thrown in.  Perhaps 28 Evil Signals would have been a more appropriate title.
I should get a job in entertainment.

So I'm at my parents house today.  I just dropped by to pick up some shoes and ended up being sucked into The Crazies.  And then I decided to blog a little.  I guess that's the general appeal of this place for me now: shitty movies and an internet connection.  It doesn't hurt that Mum insists on baking a lemon cake every time I come over, either.  Anyway, remember when I blogged about Mum's plan to use my old bedroom as the new Guest Room?  Well, that happened.  The first thing Dad said when I walked through the front door was 'Don't go upstairs!'.  Of course I immediately did - half out of curiosity and half because at heart I'm still 12 years old and think it's hilarious to do the exact opposite of what my parents tell me.  Wow.  I kind of wish I listened to Dad:

Right now I'm past being 'offended that they only waited 3 weeks to destroy what I spent 11 years building', and halfway into the 'amused at the idea of Mum clearing all my old stuff out, because to be honest there's no telling what she might have found' phase.  I'm not even 100% on what I'd left behind in there.
Alright, that's a lie.
About a week and a half after we moved in, I remembered one thing I hadn't bothered to bring with me; the thought of the expression on my Mother's face should she happen to find it was simulaneously terrifying slash the most hilarious thing ever.  I'll say no more about the item - this whole scenario (especially since I'm now almost completely certain she did find it) is so fucking funny I'm going to save it for my book.  But just in the interest of leaving you hanging, I'll tell you it was purple, sparkly, and a gift from someone whose name I no longer remember.

Milo, And Lots Of It

I think I've drunk more Milo in the past 2 weeks than I have in my entire life.  I have no idea why this is.  Maybe it's a random craving.  Or maybe (more likely) it has something to do with us having nothing else in the house but avacado dip, wine and mojito mixer.  Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of mojito mixer - but for breakfast?  Even I will admit that's not always appropriate.
Anyhow.
Milo.
And lots of it.
You know I've had to throw away two empty cans already?  Before this, I don't think I'd ever even seen the bottom of a Milo tin before.  When we were kids, Mum would just get the insanely-extra-large size tin from Coles, and it'd sit in our pantry for months on end (occasionally being used) until the Milo solidified into a powdered-chocolate brick and had to be thrown away.  At which point we'd head back to the supermarket for another extra-large tin.  Brilliant, I know.  I think this is actually the basis of my ridiculous shopping ethic.

Early Morning Domestic

What's happened to my book?  Well the short answer is, 'I'm still working on it'.  The long answer?  'Please give me money so I can buy a computer'.
Since moving out I haven't been able to write much, only because I used to do all my writing on Dad's computer, and Dad's computer is well...with Dad.  So as it turns out, my estimated completion date might be a little later than I originally thought.  Please, publishers, try not to act so devestated.

In other news, on Tuesday night I fell victim to one of the wackiest dreams I've had for a while now.  It started off with me going on holidays with my friends Julia and Emma, and ended with my sister and I forming an alliance as bank-robbing serial killers.  Bonnie and Clyde style.  Only we're both girls, so I guess it's more like Thelma and Louise.  Except without Brad Pitt.  Look, there isn't a movie that perfectly reflects the relationship I have with my sister, okay?  Alien vs Predator is probably as close as it gets.

Anyway.  After that, I woke up at like 4:30am (thanks to our neighbours and their candid decision to have an early-morning domestic) and couldn't get back to sleep.  Damn it!  I suppose it could have been worse, considering Wednesday was my day off so I was actually able to stay in bed until 12, but still.  This sucked.  Probably the worst part was that I couldn't even use a book to read myself back to sleep.  I'm reading this book at the moment called Second Glance.  It's a Jodi Picoult book where there's no under-paid lawyers and no one dying of cancer.  I know, I was surprised too.  It's actually about ghost hunting, which is why I couldn't read it.  Not that I've got a massive phobia of ghosts or anything, but there's a time and place to read about haunted houses, and alone in a dark room at 4:30 in the morning isn't it.  For all my claims about 'loving horror movies' and 'not being scared of anything', if there is anyone on this planet destined to be murdered by some sort of flesh-eating ghost, it's me.  I think that's what they call irony.

When I finally did get back to sleep (at around 7), I had another dream.  All I really remember about this one is being licked on the face by some kind of bulldog.  For an extended period of time.  What?  I have no idea.  Obviously my subconcious is scoring way stronger weed than I am.  Kidding, Mum!

Let's talk a little more about these neighbours of mine.  God and everyone else knows that I'm a fan of the dramatic, and would usually have no problem with the couple next door having a swearing competition loud enough for me to judge.  But at 4:30?  In the morning?  And we're the one's getting noise complaints?  I sure hope that bitch on the floor below who tells us to shut up from her balcony every Friday night gave these people an equally hard time.  Though I doubt it.  Being new, and young, AND practically the only renters in the building (everyone else owns), Alex and I have fallen victim to a little bit of apartment-block bullying since we moved in.  Ridiculous.  We're not too phased by it; Alex has enough confidence to be sure that we haven't really done anything wrong.  And while I may take the term 'self-doubt' to a whole new level, I also grew up with Catherine Trew.  Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter.  That doesn't mean I don't know how to fight.

Suck It, Television!

I have recently learnt the hard way that it is never a good idea to stay at someone else's house after a big night out.  Sure, when it's 2am and the person sitting next to you has a car and a spare bedroom, you're all for it.  But what about the next morning?  I woke up last Sunday with no makeup, no toothpaste, no phone battery and no dignity.  The dignity thing I'm used to, but no toothpaste?  So not okay.  Thank God there seems to be a never ending supply of miniature mentos at the bottom of my handbag.  I have no idea how old they are, nor how they got there in the first place - but since when has that stopped me when it comes to individually wrapped lollies?  I should probably learn to exercise more caution with the things I put in my mouth.
Haha.
Dirty.
So you know what else I was missing?  Deodorant.  Ah!  The toothpaste of the armpits.  I wanted to cry.  The only thing I can think of that's worse than leaving the house without deodorant is leaving the house without underwear - and that's only if you're wearing a miniskirt or polyester pants.  Or planning to do the Sydney Harbour Bridge climb.  Thankfully, I was able to locate an old can in the bathroom, so on it went.  Lucky, right?  Wrong.  Here's the kind of deodorant I usually use:

And here's what I'd found in the bathroom:

Don't get me wrong, I love the smell of men's deodorant.  On a man.  On me, not so much.  Every time I lifted my arms I had flashbacks to every guy I have ever made out with.  Some good.  Some not so good.  Not that it mattered; I'm pretty sure the woman reaching for Vegemite next to me at Woolworths caught a whiff and thought I was some kind of teenage drag queen.  You could tell she was just dying to ask me how I shave my beard so close.

Has anyone else been watching that show Offspring?  Yeah, me neither, except for every Monday at 8:30pm on Channel 10.  And now on Wednesdays too!  I also like to replay certain scenes in my head when I'm supposed to be acting productive at work.  It's all part of the fictional love-affair I'm having with this guy:

Regardless of Doctor Hotstuff there, it's a pretty good show.  Are you reading this, Mum?  I've been trying to convince my Mother to watch for the past month.  So far, I'm not doing well:

Me: Hey Ma, do you watch Offspring?
Mum: No, when's it on?
Me: 8:30, on Mondays.  Make sure you watch it, okay?  We can talk about it next week.

(one week later)

Me: So, did you watch it?
Mum: What?
Me: Offspring!
Mum: Oh!  No, darling, sorry.  I completely forgot.  When's it on again?
Me: 8:30 on Mondays.  Don't forget!

(one week later)

Me: So, Mum, Offspring?
Mum: I was...working?
Me: You were working.
Mum: Yes.
Me: At 8:30.
Mum: Yes.
Me: On a Monday.
Mum: Yes.
Me: Are you lying?
Mum: ...Yes.  When's it on again?

Mum, you don't know what you're missing.  Truly.  Trewly.  And to anyone else who doesn't watch Offspring, I seriously recommend it. 

Alright, that's a lie.  But this is 100% fact:

Suck it, every other show on television.

Coffee-Addicted Moron

So, okay.  Last night - after work training - I thought it might be fun to drink 5 cups of coffee and watch Sweeney Todd before going to bed.  This confirms three suspicions I have had for a while now:

1) Johnny Depp is pretty fantastic
2) Coffee before bed gives me better dreams
3) I am a fucking idiot

Last night I had a dream where I went op-shopping and found a ton of great stuff.  It was awesome, but as much as I love these dreams, I hate them aswell.  That feeling of waking up and realising that a) You don't have a cupboard full of vintage clothing, b) You don't have the money for a cupboard full of vintage clothing, and c) someone in the apartment below you thinks it's okay to use a powerdrill at 8:30 in the morning...well, it's not pleasant.
So the coffee thing.  Yes, I'm a moron.  But I'm a coffee-addicted moron; I'm a moron who is used to consuming large and potentially unhealthy amounts of caffeine at a time.  So I figured 5 cups - while excessive - probbly wouldn't harm me as much as a regular person.  Right?  Because I'm not a regular person.  Right?  I'm a super-person.  Right?  A super-caffeinated-person.  Right.
WRONG.
I woke up at around 5:30.  Groggy, incoherant, freezing, and 100% certain that something in my stomach was alive and trying to eat its way out.  Honest to God...I have never felt tummy pain like that in my life.  Alright, that is a lie.  I have eaten my own cooking on several occasions, after all.  But seriously?  It was pretty bad.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to vomit, pee, or wake up Alex to call an ambulance.  In the end I decided to forgo all three and just curled into the fetal position to cry.  Damn you, Blend43!  Not for as long as I live shall I ever let you pass my lips again!  Again, that is a lie.  I'm actually drinking some right now.  What can I say?  Coffee-addicted moron.

Chicken In A Tin

I had a bit of a quiet one last week; there wasn't too much excitement.  So I'm just going to talk about canned food.

Have you guys walked down the tins-and-jars aisle at Woolworths recently?  Is this just me?  The number of food types which are available in cans fills me with equal parts astonishment and fear.  I don't want to come across as some kind of food snob, but sweet chilli chicken?  In a tin?  No.  Here is a list of foods is it acceptable to serve in canned form:

• Peaches
• Tuna

That's it.  That's all I've got.  And I don't even know that I can justify those two.  'Peaches' was just the first physically can-able food that popped into my mind.

Tuna barely makes the list.  Normally, the idea of any meat-and/or-fish product being canned would have a worse affect on my gag relflex than consecutive shots of tequila, but let's be honest.  When was the last time you saw tuna that wasn't served in a can?  Plus those who know me know that I'm morally opposed to dolphins, and I hear that canned tuna is somehow related to knocking those assholes off.  Is that actually true?

God I hope so.

So like I was saying.  Tuna = acceptable.  But chicken?  Cheese?  Vegetables?  Milk?  Sausage?  Unless you're an astronaut (or maybe in the armed services), there's really no excuse for consuming that many food groups from a tin.  My sister actually is in the armed services, and when she first joined she had to do this 6-week boot camp where they got fed nothing but curried sausages and tinned cheese.  Literally.  No exaggeration.  Alright, slight exaggeration.  They were probably given vegetables at some point.  Still, the fact that tinned cheese was even on the menu shows that the situation was pretty dire.  Catherine brought some home once, so I can tell you from experience - this cheese is the kind of thing that can cause your bowel to perforate.  Just by LOOKING at it.  Of course she tried to convince me to east some, but I respectfully declined.  I like my bowels the way they are, thanks.  And if life has taught me anything, it's to keep all things Navy-related away from my mouth.  Yes, that comment was meant to sound dirty.
Moving right along.

So my parents went away last weekend, and asked me to come around on Saturday just to feed the animals.  No problem!  This was okay with me because I needed to pick up my shoes anyway.  Plus, who doesn't like to feel needed every once in a while?  Even if it is by a household pet.  My cat Nala chose to thank me by taking a big dump on the laundry floor before I left.
Sensational.
It's a little strange going back to my parents house.  Yes, I am referencing the fact that I have just moved out.  Again.  If this annoys you, you will have to get over it.  Or come to my new house and give me something more exciting to blog about.  It would be great if you could also bring a washing machine, since we don't have one and I'm getting a bit sick of washing undies in the sink.  But like I was saying.  Parents house.  Weird.  Every time I pop in, it feels a little less like 'home' and a little more like 'hmmm, this place seems kind of familiar...'.  Of course it doesn't help that Mum put all the shit I left behind in boxes, and is planning on tearing down all my photos to repaint as soon as possible.  What, Mum, you couldn't even wait a full month?  I find this wildly offensive, especially if you consider my older sister, whose room (even though she moved out more than a YEAR ago) has been kept in pristine condition.  I suspect this might have something to do with her being on the way to Australian Naval Officer Of The Year, and me being, you know, a complete fuckwit.  I've taken to calling Catherine's old bedroom The Shrine To The Golden Child.  No I'm not bitter.  Not even a little bit.

The other thing that surprises me is the upstairs bathroom, which in recent weeks has looked cleaner than I have ever seen it.  This is the bathroom my sister and I used to share, so for around 9 years it was in a state of permanent disarray - no matter how many times our Mother tried to clean it.  There were cupboards and drawers we actually refused to open, only beause there was no telling what might jump out and kill us if we did:

Dude.  Chicks are disgusting.

Happy Birthday Dad

It was my Dad's birthday this past weekend.  No, I do not know how old he is.  When you're a 21-year-old idiot like myself, everyone else simply falls into one of three categories:

1) Younger than me
2) Older than me
3) Dead

I like to think of my Dad as one of the founding members of Group 2, although he likes to act as if he's part of Group 1.  Maybe that's where I get it from.

Anyway.  On Sunday afternoon, I went over to my parents house to help Mum with a special birthday dinner.  One of the fifty-two similarities between my Mother and I is that like me, she too is addicted to shows like Masterchef and My Kitchen Rules.  And - like me - this addiction has caused her to become overly ambitious in the kitchen.  For Sundays dinner, she'd planned a 4-dish menu:

• Greek lamb and mint yoghurt
• Ham and potato bake
• Roast garden vegetables stuffed with a vegetarian mince
• Chocolate mud cake

Now when I say 'overly ambitious', I don't mean it in a bitchy way.  I had no doubt in my Mum's ability to totally nail this dinner.  My only real concern was the roast vegetables - because she'd never done it before.  And to me, vegetarian mince sounds like the kind of dish that can result in either taste sensation or chronic diarrhea.  Luckily for all of us, it worked out.  I don't think '18 consecutive trips to the bathroom' was at the top of my Dad's gift list.  Not this year anyway.

Before I moved out, I always joked about how much my parents were going to 'miss me when I'm gone!'.  When my older sister Catherine left home it wasn't so bad, because I do a killer impersonation of her and could pull it out every night at the dinner table.  Plus she is a nightmare to live with and none of us liked her that much anyway.  Kidding!  Catherine we love you.  Oh yes, the secret is out: I know you read my blog.  And I know you're not the only one.  Anyway, like I was saying.  "You'll miss me when I'm gone!" I always said to Mum and Dad.  Turns out, I underestimated.  They don't just miss me.
They're going crazy.
It's been like a week and a half, right?  My Mum has baked three cakes.  AND a lemon meringue pie.  And Mum's a busy lady!  She works.  She cleans the house.  She runs every morning and does paddling on weekends.  When the hell did she find time to make all these desserts?  On her lunch break?  Or maybe she's becoming a sleep-baker and is doing all of this in some hypnotised state at four in the morning.  Either way, my Dad - the original chocoholic himself - is in his element.  It's good to know if the nursing thing doesn't work out, my Mum has a definite career as a trainer on The Biggest Gainer.

So there's the obsessive cooking.  Also?  They've both become addicted to Grey's Anatomy.  Which I guess isn't so strange in my Mum's case, but Dad?  Here is one of the most disturbing conversations I have had in my life:

Mum: Oh, Meredith.  Who hasn't she slept with?
Me: She never slept with McSteamy.
Mum: Oh yeah.
Me: Or Alex!  She never slept with Alex either.
Dad: Who in their right mind would sleep with Alex?  Hello, manwhore.

Hearing the word 'manwhore' come out of my Dad's mouth, well...that's an experience I'm not likely to forget any time soon.  Coming across as both inadvertantly hilarious and mind-blowingly inappropriate at the same time seems to be a Trew family trait these days.  With the exception of my sister, who lives in a state of perpetual humiliation, and moved all the way to Darwin to get away from us.

Ways To Know Your Roommate Is Awesome - #1

Alex: I think I've had enough Sea Patrol for one evening.
Jacki: Yeah that was a lot.  How many episodes was that?  Three in a row?  That's most Navy action I've had in months.
Alex: I should hope so!