Many years ago I visited Brazil. More specifically, I hung out in Rio de Janeiro for a few days, in a very nice hotel right on Copacabana beach. I was quite young at the time – 21 – so, not the worldly wise figure of all knowing goodness you see before you today. LOL
Copacabana beach taught me some shit. I even went past Ipanema beach and much the same life lessons were happening over there. I don’t know what the mass cultural deception is in the UK, but in New Zealand there’s this idea that ALL Brazilians are hot. All of them. The men. The women. The children. Ok, maybe not the children unless you have some suspect thoughts squirelling around your mind. But everyone seems to think that all Brazilians are stereo-typically good looking and when you’re 21 the good looking-ness of people can seem overly important. Continue reading
Ok summer is happening are we all wearing sun screen? I hope we are because I wouldn’t like to see you burnt.
Are we all fed up of going to weddings every weekend? No? Well there’s still another month left to go.
Here’s a little heads up as to what’s ahead. Continue reading
You know the feeling. It tingles. It tingles and you can feel the pressure building. You can feel it coming and you panic.
What the fuck are you going to do? You’ve got nothing. You’ve let your cleansing routine go the last few weeks as you started a new routine of going to bed late with the remnants of 17 cheap ice creams still poking out from the corners of your mouth. Of getting up late and washing your face with whatever was handy from the shower cubicle in the morning. You sowed the pimple seeds and now you are reaping a full harvest of disgusting. You have no plan, no idea of how to head this off at the pass. Continue reading
Adulting is a funny thing. No one really wants to do it, but we must. You first notice it when you get excited about buying a crockpot and the prospect of proper meals planned out before you even go to work. Or when you slip into freshly washed sheets and you know that you did that. Or when you you spend all your frigging money on electricity and groceries and council tax and quietly sob while you’re sure everyone else is out on the town having a grand old time.
All that comes with a strange feeling of pride though. You’re adulting like a pro. The other side of adulting is the one no one ever tells you about. The one with no satisfying feeling of achievement to make up for the sheer horror it entails. The one that does nothing but prove to you how dramatically your life has changed for the worse since you started trying to make it on your own. Stuff like this: Continue reading
I’ve been binge rewatching the whole series of Gilmore Girls on Netflix lately, in preparation for the new episodes at the end of the year. I already own this shit on DVD but with Netflix I don’t have to get up off the couch and change the DVD over every couple of episodes. Yes I’ve reached a new, epic level of laziness.
Anyway, I’m currently watching season three and figured it was a good idea to mull over my thoughts on seasons one and two with you guys. I loved Gilmore girls when it came out, as I was basically the same age as Rory. It felt super current in my world. I loved to read, I had a super long term boyfriend in high school and everyone in my home town is basically Kirk. So you can understand the appeal.
However, rewatching this time with my new grown up filter made me question a few things. A little bit of yelling at the TV happened. Also, husband creature watched many episodes with me and his Gilmore virgin status helped open my eyes to some stuff I missed the first 700 times.
It really did cement that one of the things I love about this show is that most of the characters are terrible at one time or other. Or most of the time. But we still love them because their good bits are good enough to make up for the terrible bits. That’s pretty true to life. Most of us are terrible, trying to cover it up with a few witty good bits. You’re terrible. I’m terrible. Kirk lives, folks. Kirk lives. Continue reading
I don’t want no scrub
A scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me
Hanging out the passenger side
Of his best friend’s ride
Trying to holler at me
You know the song. I know the song. We spent the bulk of 1999 being educated by the magical TLC about the dangers of getting involved with a scrub; thus shaping and reinforcing our dating guidelines excluding scrubs, or just generally learning about what a scrub is and filing it away for future reference.
This dog has blogging to do, but would rather be outside. A tale of woe.
I’m back. After finishing up with all my IT drama and moving my files back to where they should be, I took some time to catch up on all the work that had fallen by the wayside during the every-computer-in-the-house-meltdown. Then my iPhone felt a little left out of the whole palaver and died. So I had to erase that and reinstall everything, thus losing all my photos (nothing too drastic, I barely use my phone camera) and phone numbers and what have you.
It’s been a month of resurrection. Right now I’m giving my iPad the side eye with a smattering of COME AT ME BITCH. It’s the only thing that hasn’t tried any funny business.
Anyway, taking all this time away from blogging has given me a chance to clear my mind and have a proper think about blogging. There’s not much else you can do while waiting for your life to reboot without proper access to What’s App. Continue reading
How do you define ‘home’? Right now, ‘home’ is London, ‘home’ is Greenwich, ‘home’ is where ever I can hang out with my husband away from the rest of the world.
But when people ask where I’m from, home is New Zealand. That’s where my family is, that’s where I grew up, that’s what shaped me.
In London, people ask where you’re from A LOT. Coz everyone is from somewhere. Even the London people have a specific part of London that they feel is uniquely theirs. I’ve found that how I answer this question depends on who’s asking and the conversation tends to go one of three ways.
If you’re from a big famous place that everyone knows – Paris, Chicago, Sydney – your answer to “where are you from?” is probably a lot less complicated than if you’re from somewhere a little further off the beaten track.
If, like me, you’re from Invercargill, New Zealand, the conversation tends to go like this: Continue reading
Ok so the entire fucking world fell apart this fortnight. Like, all of it. Not just talking politics here, everything else took a tumble down shit mountain on a luge made of pointy cactus as well.
If re-incarnation is ever proved to be real I must have done something rather salty last life and I’d prefer not to find out what it is.
First, my external hard drive died. The one with everything on it. Photographs. Client work. Fonts. The whole shebang. I managed to save some of it. However, while fighting that fire my MacBook worked itself up into a jealous rage and let its internal hard drive have a fucking meltdown because it is apparently an attention seeking dick. It was all LOOK YOU CAN’T ACCESS ME NOW EITHER, POKE AROUND IN MY INNER MOST WORKINGS AND GIVE ME THE NEW INSTALLATIONS YOU HOLD OUT BITCH I’M THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE HERE.
So basically, no blogging for me because blogging is a computer based sport and fuck you if you think I’m gonna use my phone for that shit. I’m not fucking 20 any more and I’m not doing shit on my phone. Also, my phone is a rather more senior specimen from a bygone era – where you have Twitter app I have “Dinosaur Alert Safety App”, where you have iTorch my phone just bursts into flames. It really can’t do shit apart from those two things so even if I wanted to be cool and blog on my phone it would just die on me and then we’d all get eaten by a velociraptor.
I’m supposed to be predicting the future, not bitching about my life. Oops.
Celebrate by confusing the hell out of the person next to you.
Let me explain. Bloomsday is a celebration of Irish author James Joyce and it takes place on 16 June every year because that’s the day the events in his big, famous, important, OMG everyone knows it, novel Ulysses take place. The day is named for Leopold Bloom, the lead character in the piece.
I have read Ulysses. It’s not a thin tome and this was in the days before I bought an eReader, so deciding to read Ulysses committed me to lug an enormous book around everywhere.
It wouldn’t surprise me if personal trainers prescribed Ulysses for weight loss. Not only did I carry this heavy bitch to and from work every day for an extended period of time, the bulky nature of it also considerably cuts down on the amount of lunch you can take with you. Continue reading