The Wedding Where Some Crazy Chick Was The MC And It Was Totally Awesome Even If My Sister Doesn't Think So

And how is it, you may be asking, that I am able to blog at 8:16pm on a Tuesday night?
Well.
ITS BECAUSE ALEX AND I GOT A COMPUTER FOR THE APARTMENT!!!


And alright, if I'm being strictly accurate (which is new for me, so give me some credit), the computer really only belongs to Alex.  Plus it's not exactly new...we've had it for about a month.
BUT STILL!
Because really, when you think about it - since Alex is pretty much my wife - I'd like to think that what is hers is mine.  And the only people who actually know that it's taken me this long to blog on my OWN computer in my OWN apartment are Catherine and Boyfriend...and both of them think I'm an idiot anyway.
SO IT ALL WORKS OUT!
AND WE HAVE A COMPUTER!


I love having a computer in the apartment.  I really do.  I think, actually, there are only 4 things I love more than having a computer in the apartment:
1) Toasted cheese sandwiches
2) The feeling of self-satisfaction when I make someone laugh
3) Dirty Dancing
4) Julia and Nathan's wedding.
Huh.  Look at that.  A perfect segue.  Because the next thing I had planned to post about was...

JULIA AND NATHAN'S WEDDING, AKA WEDDING OF THE CENTURY, AKA THE WEDDING WHERE SOME CRAZY CHICK WAS THE MC AND IT WAS TOTALLY AWESOME EVEN IF MY SISTER DOESN'T THINK SO

I've been thinking about how to do this justice.  A literary description of Julia and Nathan's wedding, that is.  It's pretty important to me, because I'm almost 100% certain that at some point in time this will be read by Ryan Reynolds, and he'll probably be basing his decision of whether or not to seduce me on how much I can make him laugh with my witty anecdotes and charming recounts.  Luckily for Ryan, I am the kind of person who works well under pressure. 

Let's start with the ceremony.  About the ceremony, there are 3 things you need to know:

1) I cried

2) She was the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my life (and I've seen the episode of Home and Away when Hayley married Noah, TWICE)

3) I cried

I'm not usually a cryer (crier?), but there's something about seeing the girl who's been your best friend for the past 16 years in a wedding dress - my face looked like Niagara Falls, only wetter.  I think the people behind me actually had to put raincoats on.  So that was fun.  My other favourite part was the singing...there were 3 or 4 songs performed by a fantastic band (vocals lead by one of my other best friends, Issy), and the entire congregation was expected to sing along.  The only problem was that neither I (nor any of the people around me) knew any of the songs.  Oh wait, I'm sorry, did I say problem?  What I really meant was 'the part that made it completely amazing and memorable'.  There is nothing funnier than a large group of people attempting to sing along to a song they have never heard before.  It kind of made me wish there was a camera-man focusing on individual people and projecting their images onto a big screen behind the bride and groom.  

Oh well.

Maybe at my wedding.

A group of Greenwich Public Alumni after the ceremony.  From left to right; Alex, My big sister, me, The Most Beautiful Bride Who Ever Was, Robbie, Jess, Madi, Morto and Issy.

Now, where was I?

Between the ceremony and the reception there was a bit of a gap - most people I know filled this by either drinking at a local pub (e.g. Boyfriend), or by going home to change outfits on account of the fact that they'd acted like a total unco and spilled Red Bull jelly all over their original dress (e.g. Catherine).  Being that I was both MC and Totally Eager To Involve Myself In This Wedding As Much As Possible, I had been given the task of transporting Julia and Nathan's bags (for the honeymoon) from the Church to their hotel room - without informing anyone of their hotel room location.  And OH MY GOD, did I take my job seriously.  Maybe a little too seriously...my Dad had offered to drive me to the hotel in question, but he was a little confused when I informed him that 'the hotel in question' was a secret which I'd promised not to tell. I did end up telling him eventually, but only after he'd promised to give me $8 billion dollars AND the keys to Mum's 4-wheel drive if he ever revealed the location.

He did not.

Now, to the reception.

I was in the middle of my second champagne when I realised that - shit  - I was the MC and - shit - I was expected to (eloquently) speak several times in front of a large group of people and - SHIT - both the bride and groom and (come to think of it) the DJ, Photographer and Manager were expecting ME to co-ordinate them for the rest of the evening.  Needless to say I put on my 'sensible' cap, stopped drinking champagne, and started taking shots of tequila.  I think it worked out well:

Me and Morto; and Our Enthusiasm, which I think deserves its own caption.

Now, I don't wanna make anyone who wasn't sitting on my table feel bad or jealous or that they missed out on some kind of experience or anything, but MY TABLE WAS THE GREATEST TABLE THAT HAS EVER BEEN ASSEMBLED AT ANY WEDDING IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD.  And that includes the dream wedding that I had to Wentworth Miller where he, I, Freddie Mercury, Baz Luhrmann and Hugh Jackman were all seated together.  The best part was that Catherine and Boyfriend had been placed next to each other, and it took about 8 minutes for me to realise that she was kind of in love with him:

The only time my sister has ever been jealous of me.

Speaking of my sister, you know this MUST have been the greatest wedding in history, because she was in a great mood for pretty much the entire night.  How great?  Great enough to sit still for a photo with me:

Catherine and Jacki Trew; both smiling nicely for the camera at once.  A moment in history.

Now on a serious note, remember when I said that Julia was the most beautiful bride the world has ever seen?  I forgot to mention Nathan, the gorgeous groom:

A weaker woman would have jizzed their pants at the sight of it.  Luckily I have an enormous amount of control.

So, um, what was after the First Dance again?  Oh yeah.  The bouquet toss.  I counted myself out of this particular event, both because I have almost no chance of getting married and because the only thing that scares me more than a huge group of violently shrieking girls is the idea of being murdered by Ivan Milat.  So no, I did not catch the bouquet.  Neither did Boyfriend.  Actually it was my friend Beth.  Surprising, considering by that stage she was drunk enough to pretend I was her date for the night:

Beth and I have our 'first dance' as a married couple.  It was magical.

Beth wasn't the only one lucky enough to dance with me that night:

5 minutes into my marriage with Beth, I cheat on her with Gemma.  

By this stage in the evening, I was pretty much done with my duties as MC.  And at around 10:30, the bride and groom made their official exit, so I could feel free to relax and um - how do you say it?  Get completely hammered.  Screw acting like a mature and responsible adult; if I want to sit on a chair in the middle of the dance floor, I'm gonna do it!!!

This photo was taken about 3 seconds before Beth gave me a lap dance.  What did I tell you?  Best wedding ever.

Just like I wasn't sure how to start this post, I'm not exactly certain how I should END my recount of The Greatest Wedding In History.  Maybe by saying that 'The Greatest Wedding In History' doesn't do this wedding justice?  Maybe by telling you that Gemma and I had to be forcibly removed from the dance floor at ten past eleven.  Really though, I don't think there's any proper way to do it.  Except with this photo:

Because it's cute and I had no excuse to post it anywhere else.  Plus, this is my blog and I'll do what I want.  Bitches.

Happy Marriage, Julia and Nathan.  May you live a long and wonderful life together in your fabulous new apartment; which I plan to crash in every Saturday night from here until the end of eternity.  XXX.  Jacki.

Jacki Trew: Suggested Google Search

I'm a little concerned with the manner in which celebrities are naming their kids these days.  It's, um, how do I word this delicately?  Fucking insane.  Beyonce just had her baby, right?  Blue Ivy.  Blue Ivy?  Both nice, normal words - separately.  Together, they kind of sound like a euphamism for 'yeast infection'.Here are some of the other crazy celebrity baby names I found on Google:

• Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee's son)
• Buddy Bear (Jamie Oliver's son)
• Blue Angel (The Edge's daughter)
• Princess Tiaamii (Katie Price's daughter)
• Sage Moonblood (Sylvester Stallone's daughter)
• Diva Muffin (Frank Zappa's...I have no idea)

Frankly, this annoys me.  I'm annoyed.  Don't these famous people realise that there are normal, UNfamous losers out here who would love to give their kids a crazy name too?  Now when I name my son Wentworth Danger Austin-Powers Trew, people are gonna think I was just copying Russell Brand or whoever else comes up with it first!  Talk about unfair.
...I'm kidding of course.  Everybody knows I'm not allowed to have kids.


So I was at my parents house to do a bit of washing the other day ('bit' here meaning 'it probably would have been easier to just go out and buy all new clothes'), and while I was waiting for the second spin cycle to finish, I ended up sitting down and watching Packed To The Rafters for the better half of about 3 hours.  I really have nothing else to say about that, except that it's probably the first clear sign that I am turning into my Mother.  So if I'm still alive in 30-odd years, I'm gonna be 5 foot 7, addicted to Aussie dramas and a nurse.  I'll also have two charming daughters, one of whom will be hugely successful; the other will be a 21-year-old piece of shit who spends her time blogging about how she's addicted to Prison Break and will probably end up just like me.  Television addiction - it's a vicious cycle.

Speaking of television, you know what show is the most awkward on TV right now?  The most recent series of Kourtney and Kim Take New York.  I don't have Foxtel at home, so I see every trip to Mum and Dad's as an opportunity to catch up on my E! channel obsession, and that show seems to be all that's playing right now.  I know the Kardashians appear to be filming each other 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, and it gets a little confusing - basically, this particular series is made up of the stuff they filmed between Kim Kardashian's honeymoon...and her divorce.  And yes.  It is EXACTLY as awkward as that last sentence I typed implies. 
Now.
What else can I talk about?
While waiting for a YouTube video to load just now, I decided to Google myself.  Yeah, that happened.  Which is especially embarassing if you consider that I am neither drunk, nor working on a talk show.  BUT.  In case you were wondering, here is what happens when you Google 'Jacki Trew':

Is that not clear?  Let me just outline what you all need to be focusing on:

That's right, my friends.  I...am a suggested Google search.
Look.  I know I'm young, I'm not even halfway through my life, there's probably much that I am yet to achieve...fuck that.  I'm gonna say it:  THIS IS THE GREATEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE.  I'm not even sure how this happened, especially since I'm pretty sure the only people who read my blog on a regular basis are Alex, Richie and Jane.  And sometimes Boyfriend, if he's too busy to actually see me in the flesh.  No matter.  I'm on Google!  GOOGLE!  I've achieved something!  I'm a blogger!  And - most importantly - I finally have something cool to put on my gravestone:

Wedding Of The Century - Part 1

Good evening, Blogosphere.   
I wasn't invited when Lamar Odom married Kim Kardashian's little sister, and they didn't ask me to MC the reception, so I feel pretty confident in calling Julia and Nathan's nuptials (on Saturday) The Wedding Of The Century.  First of all, did you see the weather on Saturday?  Stunning.  Second of all, has there ever been any couple more suited to marry each other than Julia and Nathan?  Meryl Streep and me, maybe.  Otherwise no.  And third of all:

(I don't know if you can see this, but there's an open bar in the background of that photograph).

Kidding, Julia!  It was a beautiful wedding.

But in order to really blog about TWOTC (and to do it justice), I'm gonna have to be 3 things:
1) Using a computer that runs faster than a 3-legged elephant on crutches
2) Using a computer I actually own, and
3) Not drunk
Woops!  Thank goodness I'm used to failing tests.  Rest assured, there is a wedding blog on the way; and when it arrives, it's going to be long-winded and ridiculously detailed enough that Julia herself won't even want to read it.  I mean, more than 3 or 4 times anyway.

I honestly can't remember the last time I made and actually kept a New Years Resolution.  There are 2 main reasons for this:

1) I believe that if you make a resolution, you're pretty much cementing the fact that it won't last/succeed/come true.  As soon as you promise yourself something, you will fail.  Isn't the saying 'Good things come to those who wait'?  Why, then, would you go chasing after your dreams and publicly declaring that they will come true?  Keep quiet, I say, and you might have a fleeting chance at happiness.  Plus, it's just depressing to hear everyone else talking about how much tequila they're not going to drink with me this year.
2) Fuckin' lazy.

For someone who naturally wakes up at 6:30 on Sunday mornings with enough energy to take down 3 basketball players, I'm almost extraordinarily lazy.  Don't believe me?  Let's recap on what I wrote a moment ago...

2) Fuckin' lazy.

See what I mean?  You know when you can't even be bothered to type the last letter in the word 'fucking', you've got a bit of an issue.  Of course, you might say that by typing out a whole explanation as to why I actually wrote fuckin' instead of fuckinG, I've effectively counteracted the whole laziness factor.  And that'd probably be true - if I weren't typing this while lying on the couch, watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother out of the corner of my eye because I can't be bothered to focus properly on one thing.
Oh.
And I'm also in my underwear.

Booyah.

Anyway, where was I?  New Years Resolutions.  Does anyone make them anymore?  Last time I did, I was 15 years old and declaring that 2006 would be the 'Year Of Love'.  Wanna know what happened in 2006?  Well, plenty I guess.  But wanna know who I did it with?  No one.  Year Of Love? 
This is why I hate resolutions.

There is one thing that I enjoy about New Years Eve, however, and that's my annual 'It's The End Of The Year, Let's Sum It Up By Answering A Bunch Of Numerous And Seemingly Random Questions' post.  I've done this for the past 3 or 4 years running:

• In 2008.
• And 2009...
• Oh.  I guess 2010 missed out.  Apparently my last post of the Noughties was about the food poisoning I gave myself with a home-made Thai curry.  Go figure.

Anyway.  To comemorate the ending of one year, and the beginning of another (during which we will apparently all perish with the ending of the world, cheers Mayans), here are 10 random questions - thoughtfully provided by the only people on Earth who come close to being as ridiculous as me.  Mum and Dad.

Question 1: Can you bake a cake?
I used to think so, but no.  The last time I attempted was way back in October for my Mum's birthday and the result was, um, how do I word this?  A colossal failure.  Alex had given me the recipe for an English sponge cake which sounded simple enough and had the least amount of ingredients I think I've ever seen for a single dessert.  Well, 'simple' was the operative word.  'Operative' here meaning 'A fucking lie'.  Despite following the recipe to a T, and leaving it in the oven for the EXACT amount of time specified, the whole thing collapsed as soon as I attempted to flip it out of the tin.  Thankfully what I lack in cake-making skills, I more than make up for with the ability to cover my own stupid mistakes, and the English sponge cake became a Violet Crumble and Sponge Cake Trife.  Wow, I just realised how long I've been talking about this.  To cut a long story short, Violet Crumbles are the answer to 90% of Life's questions - as long as the only thing Life asks you about is your Mother's birthday cake.

Question Two: What was your greatest achievement in 2011?
Moving out.  Or finally deciding to deal with my irrational fear of the Post Office.

Question Three: What was the worst thing to happen to you in 2011?
Well on a depressing note, I had my heart broken for the SECOND time, and I lost my mobile phone along with all my contacts, photographs and music.  But if you look on the positive side, both of those stories turned out to be hilarious anecdotes that I will probably end up having written on my tombstone.  You know.  Because even mourners need a good laugh.

Question Four:  If you had to - if you had to - make a Resolution for the New Year, what would it be?
I resolve to stop spending all my money on party drinks; straight vodka is much healthier.

Question Five: Where would you like to visit in 2012?
Panama.  I don't know why you guys keep asking me this; it's the same answer every year.

Question Six: What was the best day of 2011?
Wow, tough question.  Christmas is always up there, and this years was no exception.  But then there's also the weekend we spent at the Shangri-La for Alex's 21st birthday to consider.  Or the day I moved into my new apartment.  Or my 21st birthday, when Elle and Gemma ran to Woolworths for a 30-pack of mini cupcakes and had the whole pub sing Happy Birthday to me.  I guess all of those are the 'best days' of 2011.  Yeah.  Them, or that Wednesday when I found $2 in the keybox of my locker at the gym.

Question Seven: What would you be sadder about?  Ben dying, or Nathan moving overseas?
Mum, I don't watch Packed To The Rafters.  You know this.

Question Eight: Do you plan on blogging in 2012?
Oh, heck yes.

Question Nine:  If yes, will you cut down on the swearing?
Oh, fuck no.

And Finally, Question Ten: Why are you such an idiot?
Oh, that's easy.  Because I'm Jacki Trew.

When Conversations With Dad Take An Awkward Turn...

Scene: Dad and I are sitting on the couch watching a TV commercial for the 'Genie Bra'.

Dad: Okay, wow.  I'll take three.
Me: You'll take three of what?
Dad: Three Genie Bras.
Me: Um..why?
Dad: They look great!
Me: I'm glad you brought this up.  No, they're not great.  They're ugly and pointless and expensive.
Dad: How much?
Me: Like 80 bucks each!
Dad: But...look at them!  So versatile!  You can use it as a sports bra, a normal bra, a training bra...
Me: Dad do you even know what a training bra is?
Dad: I think so.  Do you girls wear training bras?
Me: Dad, I'm 21.  We're past the 'training' stage.  I play for the All Stars now.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh my God.

So I know I'm about a week late, but Merry Christmas everyone.  And (I suppose), Happy New Year.  As anyone who knows me knows, I'm usually pretty anti-NYE, but this year I had a good one.  Despite having to wait at Wynyard station by myself for 45 minutes, being locked out of a train and ending up WALKING home from Lavender Bay at 2 o'clock in the morning.  While annoying, that stuff is pretty easy to get over if you consider that I also got to sit in a park and drink vodka while watching a guy named Woody try to convince every girl he met to kiss him at midnight with the promise of $10 and no STDs.
Anyway, what was I saying?  Oh, yeah, Christmas.  Late or not, it's still nice to hear.  Plus, I am a firm believer in the idea that Christmas hasn't officially ended until the tree in the living room gets taken down.  Which in my case is a task that usually gets left until mid-February.  So again, Merry Christmas everyone. 
It's gonna last a while.

In Christmas-related news, I'd like to post the following public letter to all books in existance:

Dear Books,
Check out what Mum and Dad got me for Christmas:

SUCK IT.
Regards,
Jacki Trew.

Awesome, right? 
Awesome.
RIGHT?!  Not that I'll be rushing to throw away the books I already own or anything, but there's something delightfully apathetic about the whole idea of a touch-screen novel.  Do you know, you can skip from chapter to chapter with just the touch of a button?  And to think, all these years I've been using my hands to turn pages like a sucker.  Well no more.  From now on, the only workout my fingers are going to get will be from lifting a glass of champagne - and if I can eventually find a long enough straw, they won't even have to do that.  The future is bright, my friends.  Mostly because of the fluorescent lighting they use at the psychiatric ward I am bound to end up in.

In terms of other Christmas presents, I was spoiled rotten this year.  Anyone who's friends with me on Facebook will have already seen the multiple photos I posted of the antique manicure set that Alex got for me.  Among other things, I also recieved copious amounts of alcohol and credit for the iTunes music store; perfect gifts for an alcoholic who recently lost her iPhone and every one of the 2000 songs stored on it.  What else?  Oh!  One of my favourite presents came from Boyfriend, who gave me 3 blank notebooks and a copy of Edward Scissorhands on DVD - Edward Scissorshands because I'd mentioned a few days earlier that it was probably my fourth favourite movie of all time, and the blank notebooks (in his words) to 'encourage my writing habit'.  This excited me for 2 reasons:
1) Most guys who read anything I've written think I'm either crazy or on some pretty strong medication.  And
2) ...Most guys who read anything I've written think I'm either crazy or on some pretty strong medication.
Here's a guy who has not only read most of my blogs AND still agreed to hang out with me after...but he's actually encouraging this madness?  I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes.  He's crazy.  Or on some pretty strong medication.

Alright.  Now that I'm done being all disgusting and romantic, lets talk about marriage.  For those of you not in the know, two of my mates Julia and Nathan are getting their wed-lock on this Saturday.  That in itself is exciting enough news, but there's one more thing that will make theirs the Wedding Of The Century, and thats the 3-tiered wedding cake Julia showed me a photo of last week.  Because who doesn't love a good wedding cake, right?  Oh, also, I hope you're coming to the reception, because

I'm the MC, bitches!!!

MC.  Master of Ceremonies.  Do you know what this means?  Do you know what this means? Crystal-Meth jokes, and lots of 'em!

Kidding.

One thing it does mean is that I'll be handed a microphone and asked to introduce the newly-married couple as they enter the reception room.  In whichever manner I so choose.  Right now I'm tossing up between 'Oprah Winfrey' and 'That Guy Who Yells Get Ready To Rumble At The Beginning Of Boxing Matches'.  It's a tough call - I think Oprah is the obvious choice, but I'd have to fly up onto the stage via jetpack and start handing out free Cadillacs to all the guests in order to really nail the imitation.  Do-able, but I might have trouble getting my hands on a jetpack by Saturday.

The other reason I'm excited is finally having an opportunity to demonstrate my collection of wedding/marriage-related puns and jokes; most of which have been stolen from 90's rom-coms and old episodes of Friends.  Knock knock.  Who's there?

I'll tell you at the wedding.





Steaks, Razors and Irish People

A few things I forgot to post about earlier:


Yesterday afternoon we had our work Christmas party at Hurricanes in Darling Harbour.
Try and get me to stop talking about Christmas for the next two weeks, I dare you.  Anyway, it was pretty awesome.  Has anyone been to Hurricanes in Darling Harbour before?  It was great!  And for a moderately-sized restaurant, they had a surprising amount of storage space.  I mean, I am assuming.  Only because there were at least 65 people in there at one time, and ALL of them appeared to be ingesting at least half a cow each.  65 people x half a cow...maths was never my strong suit, but thats a fair few cows, right?  I didn't even hear any mooing.
In case you hadn't gathered so yet, Hurricanes is a steakhouse.  And when I say 'steakhouse', I mean it - they actually MAKE you wear paper bibs while you eat the food.  I couldn't tell if this was to protect the precious table linen or just so the wait staff could get a kick out of seeing us all dressed as toddlers, but I enjoyed it regardless.  There is something oddly liberating about wearing a bib and eating with your hands.  I felt like a caveman, only better dressed.  And I don't know of any cavemen who owned mobile phones that could remind you to buy milk on the way home.

Now, what next?

I had a moment of brilliance in Coles last Thursday night.
We checked out on Monday morning, but it wasn't until about Wednesday that I realised I'd left my razor in our room at the Shangri-La after last weekend.  Dammit!  Sigh.  You are welcome, next people to stay in suite 1907.  I know, I'd never seen a purple Schick before either.  Pretty cool, huh? 
Anyway.  As annoying as this was, the silver lining was that it meant I'd have to get myself to the shops and buy a new razor.  And when you are as ridiculous as me, getting to buy a new razor is tantamount to, um, you know, winning the lottery.  The only thing I find more exciting than buying a new razor is buying a new toothbrush, but I'm not gonna spend too long talking about that because once I start I probably won't be able to stop.  I know this is crazy, but I can't help it.  Something about toiletries (especially those that come in bright colours with reflective packaging) just drives me to ecstacy.  But back to the story at hand.
As a grown woman who has been shaving her legs at least once a week (maybe less in winter) for the last 7 or 8 years, I've bought a fair number of razors in my time.  And you know one thing I've always noticed?  Guys razors are WAY better than girls.  They last longer, they're more durable, the blades are sharper, there are more blades...ladies am I right?  I can hear 90% of you agreeing with me.  The other 10% have obviously never borrowed their friends brothers Gilette Mach on a camping trip when they were 13 years old and used it to shave their armpits.  FYI, that was the smoothest 4 days of my life.
So, you can probably guess where this story is headed.  Yes, I went into Coles to get a new razor.  And yes, I decided to get a guys one.  What?  There was nothing to lose!  If it turned out to be good, I could spread the word and tell my friends and we'd all have the nicest legs this side of Uluru.  If it turned out to be bad?  Well, whatever, I could just pretend I'd bought it as a really strange welcome home present for Richie.  So...how did it turn out, I hear you asking?  I'll let my legs answer that for me.

Alright, moving on.

I had a cab driver the other day ask me if I was Irish.
And I get that this is probably not too exciting for normal people.  I mean, I have a co-worker who's Polish, a best friend who's English/Dutch, and a Jordan who'd supposedly be in line for the Scottish royal thrown if they still had one...but I'm Australian, and that's it.  My ancestors came over on the convict ship for stealing loaves of bread, decided they liked it, and never left.  When someone suggests that there might be the tiniest hint of a foreigner in me, I get excited dammit!  It's exciting!!  Maybe a little too much...

Cab Driver: So, have you had a good afternoon?
Me: Yeah it was great, and you?
Cab Driver:  Not too bad.  (pause)  Are you Irish?
Me: Sorry?
Cab Driver: Are you Irish?
Me: No.  (switching to an Irish accent) Why, do I sound Irish?
Cab Driver: No, you have Irish features.

My favourite thing about this conversation was the last part.  See, because what he said was 'No, you have Irish features', but it really sounded more like 'You're a fucking moron'.  Erroneous!  I do a great Irish accent.  And 'Irish features'?  I googled that shit, and here's what I got:

• Red hair
• Blue eyes
• Freckles

My personal appearance couldn't be any further from the Irish truth: Brown hair, brown eyes, pale lips, no freckles.  Boring!  Why do you think I have so many piercings and tattoos?  Just trying to spice things up a little.  Of course on the other hand, my cab driver probably wasn't referencing my personal appearance at all, and might have just been commenting on my drinking ability (which, admittedly, is on par with the Irish).  To which I say cheers, mate.  I'll definitely drink to that.

Happy New Year, Cope Street!!

I don't wanna seem like I'm, you know, a massive brag, but my life is pretty awesome at the moment.  Pretty flippin' awesome.  Not flipping.  Flippin'.  With an N.  How you like me now, English teachers?  The answer to that question is 'We don't like you at all, you illiterate moron'.

So Christmas in two weeks, huh?  I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet.  Woops!  Sorry.  You'll have to excuse me for having a full time job and a life!  I'm kidding of course.  The real reason I haven't done any shopping yet is because I am too lazy and too poor.  You are all getting hugs for Christmas.  As long as you initiate them. 

Christmas shopping is hard, especially if - like me - you are a complete moron.  I keep thinking of stuff to buy for my Dad, going to the shops to pick it up, and then forgetting what it is.  So I go home.  Then I remember again.  So I go to the shops, but by the time I get there, I've forgotten.  Home.  Remember.  Shops.  Forget.  Home.  Remember.  Shops.  Forget.  God dammit!  Dad, you owe me a $70 petrol voucher. 

The one thing I definitely have enough energy for this holiday season is Alex and I buying our very first tree as a married couple.  I mean, um, as completely platonic room-mates.  I love Christmas trees.  I love everything about them - the smell, the lights, the decorations, the presents underneath...and most of all, the fact that at the end of January when it's dead and brown and smells like the inside of a ski-boot, I can throw it over my balcony and completely inconvenience all our dickhead neighbours.  Happy New Year, Cope Street!!

When I was still living at home, the whole Christmas-Tree-Decoration phase of the holiday was always left up to me.  Mum, Dad and Catherine would literally leave me at home by myself for 4 to 6 hours in order to do it.  Of course, what I really mean by 'leave me at home by myself' is 'I kicked them out so they wouldn't get in my way'.  This might seem cruel, but it was really in the best interest of Christmas.  My sisters method to tree decorating is similar to the fashion in which a blind person might assemble a pavlova - you can see that she's trying, but in the end we just wind up with raspberries and meringue everywhere.  As for my parents, well, they aren't much better.  I'm convinced my Dad thought tinsel was actually edible at one point.  Really, it was just safer for me to take care of the whole thing, and I was more than happy to do it.  The only problem is that now I've moved out, and they have no choice but to do it themselves - a thought that fills me with equal parts terror and amusement.  It's the same emotion I experience when I let myself think about the idea of Santa Clause for too long.  I mean, how do YOU feel about a fat guy and his pet deer breaking into your house at 2 in the morning?

Oh, hey.  Hello.  So I was standing around at work just now, looking bored, feeling bored, and thinking Hey..you know what I haven't done in a really long time?  Blogged.

Then I thought,

Wow.  That's kind of depressing.

Then I thought,

I wish I had more time to blog.

Then I thought,

Well...I'm not really doing anything right now..

Then I thought,

But I'm at work, so I should probably be working.

Then I thought,

Then again, I have been working ALL morning.

Then I thought,

I could probably get fired though.

Then there was a massive pause.

...

Then I thought,

Fuck it.  Let's blog.

Cruise, Marry, Shag

In upsetting news, the computer I saved every completed chapter of my book on is now refusing to function.  Like, at all.  Fuck!  Sorry to swear, I know that's just pointless.  What I really mean to say is Hey!  Are There Any Computer Experts Out There Willing To Help?  I Will Totally Pay You In Sexual Favours And/Or Mention You In The Acknowledgements Page If I Ever Get Published!
Kidding About The Sexual Favours!
Except Not Really!

The only positive thing about this whole situation is that it's 100% typically, well, me, and exactly the kind of story I'll add to the chapter I'm tentatively calling 'Technology, And The Ways In Which Computers Have Fucked Up My Life'. 

So at least there's that to be thankful for.

You know what's really annoying about Grey's Anatomy?  Everything.  No, I'm only joking, it's a great show.  All I'm saying is that it might be kind of nice for Meredith to shut her freakin' trap every once in a while.  'Oh, woe is me, I'm a hot doctor who's married to another hot doctor, and I always have perfect hair even after a 10 hour surgery'.  I NEVER have perfect hair, and the only contact I've ever had with a hot doctor was during my last sexual fantasy about Chris Havel from Offspring.  Screw you, Meredith.  Ooh, good question:  Who would you rather have?  Chris Havel from Offspring or McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy? 

Speaking of ridiculously hot celebrities, and the insane notion that I will EVER have my choice of ANY of them...Jordan, Alex and I spent a good portion of last Wednesday night playing a little game some of you may have heard of called Shoot, Shag or Marry.  At least thats my version.  You know, where someone names 3 people and you have to choose which one you'd shoot, which one you'd have sex with, and which one you'd marry?  Alex prefers Cruise, Marry, Shag, where instead of getting to shoot someone, you have to take a year long cruise and spend every waking minute of it with them.  This version is especially painful when the combination of names is something like Mickey Rourke, Arnold Schwarznegger, and Jack Nicholson Playing The Joker in Batman. 
Or, Fat Bastard, Kermit The Frog and Hook-Weilding Serial Killer From I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Or, The Jonas Brothers.
...
At least if we'd been playing MY version, someone would have had the option of shooting Kevin Jonas in the face.  No offence, Kevin.  I'm totally against the use of guns, I really am.  It's just that your face annoys the shit out of me.  Regardless, it was a pretty fun night.  We drank, we played, we drank, we played, I think I started dancing at one point, we drank...and before any of us knew what was happening, it was 1:30 in the morning and 6 hours before Jordan had to get up for work, so the three of us turned off the lights and went to bed like good little children and nothing else happened, nothing at all.

Unless you count the orgy.

Kidding, Mum!  There was no orgy.  Technically, I don't think 3 people even counts as an orgy.  Oh my God, why am I still talking about orgys?  I need more sleep.  Talk to you guys later.

iPhone Home

And now for your entertainment, I will blog about a little incident I've come to refer to as The Saturday Night I Got Hammered And Lost My Phone.  My mates Robbie, Madi and Julia and Jordan probably have their own version of this story locked away for the grandkids: The Saturday Night I Got Hammered And Lost Jacki.  Whatever.  All I can give you is the clearest account from a brain soaked in Jim Beam and Red Bull...


This actually happened about 2 weeks ago, and I can't believe I haven't posted about it yet.  One of the reasons is that I am an idiot.  Another is that I don't actually have a computer or internet connection of my own, so the chances I actually get to blog are few and far between.  Yes, that is a hint that I would like you to give me a laptop for Christmas.  Lets get back to the story though, because it's a good one.  It was Saturday night and Alex had plans with Richie, so I decided to meet Madi and Robbie for a couple of drinks at the Longy.  Of course, it was SATURDAY night, and it was Madi and Robbie, so what I really mean by 'a couple of drinks' is 'how does my liver still function?'.  I think I got to the pub at about 8pm.  At around 10:30, we decided to catch a cab over to Mega for a bit of dancing.  Here is a visual representation of my behavior during those two-and-a-half hours:

A few drinks later...

And eventually Jordan arrived to find this:

Actually what I think I had said was 'LET'S GET TATTOOS!', but since nobody else was keen for that, we decided on dancing as a consolation activity.  In hindsight, that was probably a good call.

So we left and headed to Mega.  Here's what happened when we got there:
Bouncer: (peering into my face) How many drinks have you had?
Me: (pausing for like 8 minutes to gather my thoughts) Um.  Like, four.
Bouncer:  Okay, you're in.



...What?  I have no idea.  There are only two possible reasons I can think of that this guy actually let me into Mega that night:
1) He was high as a kite
2) One of my boobs was showing.
I really don't wanna think about which one of those is more likely.  Nor do I want to think too much about Mega, where I'm pretty sure I did nothing but drink tequila and make an idiot out of myself on the dancefloor.  Luckily this was Mega, so pretty much everyone was drinking tequila and making an idiot out of themselves on the dancefloor, but still.  I think I was there for about two hours before I (along with the bar staff) decided enough was enough and jumped in a cab.


Here's where the story gets interesting.


My memory of the night from here is pretty average.  I got in the cab and gave the driver my Mum's address.  Why?  I have no idea.  I think maybe that last shot of tequila had caused me to forget that I don't actually live there anymore.  I got to my Mum's house, dropped all my shit in the kitchen, ate a piece of toast and texted Madi that I was drunk as a skunk and decided to go home.  I think that was the point that I looked around myself and realised that I was in the wrong house.  I called another cab, got them to drop me at the apartment, crawled up the stairs and went to bed.  Boring, right?
Now here is the night according to everyone else:
After kindly being asked by the doorman at Mega to make my way home, I was snatched off the street by a Peruvian murderer who somehow stole my phone and texted all my friends that I was 'fine', when really he was taking me back to his house to make me his love slave.  After that, I didn't answer my phone despite being repeatedly called by everyone for the next 3 hours, and was almost officially considered 'missing', until finally I rang everyone back the next morning (from the LANDLINE in my PARENTS house), to inform them that yes I was fine, no I was not being held captive, yes I felt like an idiot, and no I did not know the current location of my mobile phone.
Gutted.
After trying all the obvious stuff (calling it, calling Mum, calling the cab company, crawling around the apartment carpark on my hands and knees), I finally succumbed to the realisation that my beloved phone was gone, and I was going to have to get myself up to Chatswood and purchase a new one.  Talk about an inconvenience.  I mean on the plus side, my previous contract was up anyway, and Optus had promised to give me one of those fancy new iPhones if I chose to renew with them.  But then on the minus side, fuck that!  I lost all my music and photos and contacts, and if you know anything about me, you'd know that I'm certainly not the kind of girl who could give two frozen fucks about a fancy new iPhone.  Sorry for swearing, but it sucked.  I'm over it now, of course.  Have you actually used one of those iPhones?  That Siri thing?  Where you can just hold a button and ask it any question, and it talks back to you?  I swear to God, being able to (jokingly) ask my phone for oral pleasure almost makes up for this whole mess.
Almost.


So that's the story of how I got hammered and lost my phone.  I hope you enjoyed it.  And just so you know, yes, I am still holding onto the hope that my original phone is out there somewhere.  It's an iPhone 3 with a bright purple cover that answers to the name 'Jacki's original phone', so if you find it, please bring it back to me.  As a reward, I will ask the Siri on my new phone to give you oral pleasure.

Good afternoon, Sydney-siders.  And good evening to a Mr Richard Snowden, who is currently holidaying in San Francisco, and who I promised I would mention on my blog at least once.  Hi Richie!  How you doing?  I hope you and the boys are having fun, and that you aren't missing home too much, and that the weather over there is as delightful as what we're enjoying in Sydney.  Because it's freakin' hot.  How hot?  Freakin' hot.  HOW hot??

That's about as close a visual equivalent as I can give you....(because I didn't have any pictures of Hugh Jackman).


So Kim Kardashian's divorce, huh?  Yes, I am talking about it on my blog.  My stocks on Google just went way up!  Now all you have to do is sift through 18-and-a-half million other pages before you find me!  In all seriousness though, it really is very sad.  72 days?  The woman could only last 72 days?  On the plus side, my Dad has since become almost hopelessly addicted to reruns of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and if there is a funnier situation to witness than that...well, it's not one I know about.  Still.  72 days?  If I were a real Richard Cranium, I'd probably say something about how it's kind of her own fault for internationally broadcasting the whole thing on a shit TV channel like E!.  I mean, she could have at least pushed for the Oxygen network.  I'm nicer than that though, so I'll say nothing.   Let's go for something completely different.

BREAKING NEWS: ALEX AND I HAVE A NEW APARTMENT MASCOT

Shit.  I know.  Try to contain your excitement as I unleash said mascot upon the world...

We call him Little Lincoln.  I think it's pretty obvious why.  The resemblance is, after all, uncanny:

The only difference is that Little Lincoln's doors don't actually open, and there aren't 6 dillion parking tickets on the passenger's side floor.  Other than that though.  Uncanny!!

Now.

What else can I bore you with?  I got nothing.  Here is a great song:

See ya next week!

The Watermelon Theory

I'm a little confused about a saying I heard the other day.  Maybe you guys can help me out.

RED SKY AT NIGHT, SHEPHERDS DELIGHT.

RED SKY IN THE MORNING, SHEPHERDS WARNING.

Don't get me wrong, I've heard this one before.  When Catherine and I were younger, our Mum was always trying to impart wisdom via some ridiculous rhyming sentence.  The Red Sky thing was one of her favourites.  That, and One More Tantrum And I Will Kick The Crap Out Of You.

...

Sometimes they didn't exactly rhyme.

Anyway, my problem is that I can't remember the meaning of the second line.  Shepherd's warning?  Warning against what?  I wouldn't normally ask, except that when I woke up at 5am this morning to pee, the sky was as red as a sunburnt bum on Christmas.  Something's coming, was my first thought.  Followed closely by my second, which read something along the lines of...Sunburnt bum on Christmas?  I need to stop drinking.

Speaking of Christmas, tell me what you want because I am writing my list.  I don't care how expensive it is, or how close we are - just tell me what you want and it's yours.  Provided it costs less than 50 bucks and I at least like you a little bit.  If you're not sure on that last part, a good way to judge is by answering this question:

Have I Ever Thrown A Watermelon At Your Head Before?

If you answered no, you can probably expect a Christmas present from me.

If you answered yes...I wouldn't hold your breath.

I call this The Watermelon Theory.  I plan on using the same system to cull extra guests from my wedding invitation list, seeings as it's basically foolproof.  The only person who lives in exception to the rule is my older sister Catherine.  I have thrown a watermelon at her head before, but she's also you know...my sister.  And as everyone knows, family trumps assault with an over-sized summer fruit.  Every time.

Plain Red Door

So in other news, my Mother is crazy and thinks there is a brothel in Lane Cove now.
Wha - ?  Sigh.  I can't even be bothered to deal with this sort of thing right now.  Does anyone else have parents this nutty?  At least I know for sure that I'm not adopted, but still.  Really, Ma?  Lane Cove Brothel is not something I want to have on my internet search history. 

I regret ever teaching her how to use an iPhone.

So, this brothel.  (Why not, right?  I've already been talking about it for a paragraph).  Is it real?  Anyone?  According to my Mum, the entrance is a plain red door on the street, somewhere between Toni&Guy and the Two Dollar shop on Longueville Road.  This is disturbing to me for 2 reasons:
1) I've worked at that Toni&Guy for the better half of 18 months and I've never seen any such door. 
2) Now I can never paint my front door red
It's true, I've never seen this door.  Not that I've been looking or anything, but you'd think I might notice some queer red door in the middle of a busy suburban street.  Nope.  Are my peripherals really that bad?  The answer to that question is 'Yes.  You almost got hit by a bus yesterday.  Again.' 

Let's talk about the rugby.

Yes, I know about sports!  One thing most people don't know about me is that I was well on my way to becoming an Olympic sports commentator before I changed direction and decided to become a receptionist.  I thought it was a better use of my talents.  Plus, the pay is infinitely better.
So, the semi-finals on Sunday.  Of course we all knew the Kiwi's would dominate, but did it have to be so...brutal?  It was bad.  Not just because of the loss, but also because I was watching it with my sister Catherine, and she kept comparing every Australian misfortune on the field to anal rape:

(New Zealand recieves another penalty)Catherine: What?!  We're getting raped out there!!

(Australia fumbles the ball)
Catherine: Oh, fuck me in the ass!

(I come back from the bathroom and ask for an update)
Catherine: There's a penis in the bottom of every Australian in the world right now.

Calm down, ya Navy freak!
Anyway, we lost.  Luckily for me, I'm not that invested in this particular game; if Geelong had gone down to Collingwood in the AFL Grand Final 2 weeks ago, I would have set my apartment on fire.  But since this was only Union, I just punched a hole in the TV and threw my dog off a balcony.

Pretending I know anything about Rugby Union reminds me of an amusing anecdote from my high school days.  One day my friend Pat (who used to play for Riverview) turned up to my house with a broken arm.  What followed was what I like to call one of my 'Blonde Moments'.

Me: Pat, what happened to your arm?
Pat: A prop fell on me.
Me: Oh!  Are you in a play?

Think about it.  Think about it.
I am a moron.

Tourism In North Korea

Good morning, Sydney-siders!  It's a beautiful day to blog about North Korea, word?

Word!

For those of you who are new to this blog, there's a bit of background information you'll need to understand the following story:

1) I have an older sister named Catherine
2) Catherine is in the Navy
3) Catherine thinks I am a complete idiot
4) I am a complete idiot

Now let's begin.
So I was sitting at the kitchen table with Mum and Catherine last night about 11pm, discussing possible locations for Catherine's upcoming summer holiday.  Yes, like I said, Catherine is in the Navy - her biggest dilemma at the moment is having to choose between Thailand and Hawaii.  Not that I'm envious or anything; I will be spending my holiday sunbaking in our carpark. 
Anyway.
Somewhere between Phucket and Vanuatu and Hawaii and Fiji, the idea of Catherine holidaying in North Korea came up.  I can say with 100% honesty that I have no idea how this happened.  Alright.  That is a lie - I'm the one who brought it up.  I am an absolute blast at family gatherings.  After all, nothing says 'easy conversation' like 'the possibility of nuclear warfare and communism'.  So I piped up with my little suggestion for Catherine's holiday.  Then this brilliant piece of dialogue took place:

(silence)
Mum: North Korea?
Catherine: I'm pretty sure the Navy wouldn't actually let me travel to North Korea.
Me: Why not?
Catherine: It's too dangerous.
Me: Well you said that about Bali too, and we've ALL been there.
Catherine: Do I really have to explain the difference between Bali and North Korea to you?
Me: I'm just saying.  Quick trip to NK.  You know.  See the sights.
Catherine: See the sights?
Me: Every country has sights!
Catherine: I don't think North Korea has sights.
Me: They have to!  I mean, people live there, don't they?
Catherine: Yes.  But they're all dead.
Me: I'm googling Tourism In North Korea.
Catherine: Oh, my God.
Me: Shut your mouth!

(5 minutes later)

Me: You know, it doesn't seem like there's much tourism in North Korea.
Catherine: You're an idiot.

I love how every time I start a conversation with anyone in my family, it will invariably end up with the conclusion that I am an idiot:

Catherine: Do they have conscription in North Korea?
Mum: Yes I think so.
Catherine: That sucks.
Me: They used to have conscription here!
Catherine: Yeah and if anyone starts a war you can bet that'll be the first thing they bring back.
Me: Really?
Catherine: Uh huh.
Me: Well I've got nothing to worry about.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: I'm not getting conscripted.
Catherine: Why not?
Me: Well one, because I'm a woman.  And two, because I'm an idiot.

(pause)

Mum: You know, she's got a point.
Catherine: I wasn't going to even bother arguing.

Passed!

You might remember a few days ago, when I spoke about how my car was due for new registration?  Well as it turns out, registering a car isn't as easy as just paying the bill.  Not that that's even easy in my case, seeings as my bill was over $600, and I'm broke as a joke after spending all my money on vodka and facial piercings.
Kidding, Mum!
Anyway, before you even think about forking almost two weeks rent over to the sadistic bitches at AAMI, you have to undergo this whole 'Registration Check' thing to make sure the car is actually roadworthy.  Not a big deal.  Fortunately for me, my mechanic (having known Mum and Dad for years) is practically part of the family.  Unfortunately for me, my car looks like this:

The absence of front wheels can be a bit of a hinderance.  On the plus side though, I never have to deal with the inconvenience of opening a car door.
So anyway.  Long story short, I stayed at Mum and Dad's last night for dinner, and also because our mechanic is right across the road from their house and only performs rego checks between 7 and 8 o'clock in the morning.  Obviously, he is a crazy person.  Not just because of the whole 'early morning rego check' situation.  But also because by some miracle, he decided to pass my car for registration.  What?!    I can say with complete honesty I have no idea how that happened.  And I didn't stick around to find out; I just got the heck out of there before this dude realised my little Barrina was made out of cardboard and changed his mind.

'My Mechanic Is An Idiot', is what I'm calling this story.  Either that or, 'Show Enough Cleavage And You Can Get Whatever You Need'.

Me again!
This is just blogging-out-of-boredom, by the way, so don't expect anything too groundbreaking.  I'm actually just killing time while my washing dries.  Nothing new to report.
Except, OH YEAH:

I'M GOING TO BE AN AUNTIE...AGAIN.

This is exciting news for everyone.  My brother, who's getting another son.  My Mum, who loves buying baby clothes.  My Dad, who is inundated with so many grandchildren he doesn't know what to do with himself.  And me!  Because who doesn't love being an auntie?  I believe the Oxford English Dictionary definition reads:

Auntie: All the advantages of an adorable new-born baby without having to deal with poo.

I'm not a fan of poo.  I'm not exactly what one might call 'kid friendly' either, but I will gladly choose a child over someone else's excrement any day of the week.

So what else?  The whole 'car' situation continues to weigh on my mind.  Last week I worked out that it was going to cost me around $1000 all up to keep the thing going.  Obviously, that sucks.  And it doesn't help that I knocked off my rear-vision mirror while reversing out of the carpark on Sunday morning.  Now, more than ever, I wish that the TV show Pimp My Ride was still in production.  If anyone who worked on that show is reading this right now, I implore you - bring back PMR.  Even if it's just for a special one-off episode, titled 'Pimp My Ride Downunder: When Idiot Australians Try To Drive'.  I'm not even asking for anything special.  They don't have to install subwoofers or a dashboard-candy-dispenser.  Maybe if they could just vacuum the boot and replace my windscreen wipers.  Or I can do that stuff, and Ludacris can pay my Greenslip for me.  Perhaps MTV should invent a show called Pimp My Insurance.

In other news...man, is my washing dry yet?  I'm running out of blog ammo.  I went to the gym today.  Yes, I still go to the gym.  You can't have double-door mirrors the size of the ones I have in my room and not be motivated to go to the gym.  There is no escaping my love handles.  Or as I like to call them, 'acquaintance' handles - they ain't love handles if nobody loves ya!