BAD is GOOD!

This is the inaugural post after some sort of "inner" transformation I am experiencing. So brace yourself, this shits about to get deep. 

Like Linda Lovelace deep.

It goes like this. Sometimes bad things happen: You wake up one morning to find that you can't stand your job, or maybe someone has broken your heart. Whatever the reason, whatever the catalyst for your temporary (I use the word temporary because emotions are never permanent. You know the saying "This too shall pass" well that proverb has a point) unhappiness, anxiety, stress, frustration or anger. Consider it nothing more than a sign post, a divine push in the right direction. Even if it feels so wrong. Even if it hurts and especially if you think you'll never recover. Because you will. 

And that's the beauty of life. Of living. Namsate bitches.   

Maisha's guide to getting up when you're feeling down: Sometimes I dance like a lunatic while listening to my favourite songs on my iPod, it helps, I loose myself in the music and I smile. After five minutes of crazy dancing I feel pretty peachy, it might not last because with the return of incessant thought comes the return of unconsciousness, of being wrapped up in my woes-but fuck that shit, I just skip to the next track and start all over again : )

Friends who mail you this in the morning are awesome

Philosophy

There was a hazelnut in my muesli. I ate it. For an instant I thought I was eating a Cadbury's Fruit & Nut chocolate. This made me happy.

Now you might ask me what the point of all of this is. What's the reason behind my mentioning it. And the answer is pretty simple:

There is no point. There is only perception.

I LOVE CANDY FOR BREAKFAST

I love it. I do.

(www.candyforbfast.com)

I stole these (from someone else's blog):

Anatidaephobia

Hey you, duck – why you got get all up in my braces?

Two days ago I was walking in Adderley Street when a friend spotted a duck sitting on a window ledge. Now I’ve never seen a duck (or goose) just hanging out with its feathers-and-all in the middle of the city. So, I came up with three possibilities:

1.  It was having a smoke break
2.   It was a robot duck used in undercover surveillance
3. There was no duck 

Sometimes Skype lends itself to unusual conversations

[05:00:00 PM] maishafox: [04:47:58 PM] maishafox: kim read the last mail I sent you

[04:48:09 PM] maishafox: and die laughing (well not literally)

[04:57:29 PM] Kim Hawkins: ahahaha,... very funny

[04:58:20 PM] Kim Hawkins: hey. that stuff from Madre, have you saved it?

[04:58:34 PM] maishafox: No I forwarded it onto nom

[04:58:41 PM] Kim Hawkins: cool

[04:58:58 PM] maishafox: word

[04:59:12 PM] maishafox: a cool word is: ice block

[04:59:22 PM] Kim Hawkins: hahahahahahaha

[04:59:32 PM] maishafox: ; )

[04:59:33 PM] maishafox: wow

[04:59:36 PM] maishafox: what a day

[04:59:43 PM] Kim Hawkins: good bad.. lazy?

[04:59:48 PM] Kim Hawkins: you slacking over there aren' you

***

[04:26:30 PM] Dwight Anderson: I always have plans, I just want to know when you might be joining me for sum of them
[04:28:05 PM] maishafox: what do they consist of?
[04:28:25 PM] Dwight Anderson: What would you like them to consist of...
[04:28:47 PM] maishafox: you eating a lot of bananas
[04:29:04 PM] Dwight Anderson: You calling me a monkey?
[04:29:18 PM] Dwight Anderson: I eat a lot of delicious fruit
[04:29:20 PM] maishafox: well if the shoe fits
[04:30:01 PM] Dwight Anderson: I wouldn't wear shoes if I was a monkey.
[04:30:21 PM] maishafox: but you would iof they were special monkey shoes

You... Biscuit

Edward Monkton is my hero http://www.edwardmonkton.com/

Happy Friday Effers xoxox

Peace Power Propaganda

The last hippie I know is my Dad, he drives around in a combie, seriously. He doesn't smoke as much as he used to, in fact I don't think he smokes anymore and he definitely gets down to the smooth sounds of the 70s. He puts on the first item of clothing in his cupboard and I've never known him to use deodorant (and no he doesn't smell, well he does when he gets sweaty, but it's not gross - maybe I'm used to it, which is a bit gross?) Anyway, he's the last of a dying breed. That's sad because...

As much as hippies give me the willies, they're cool when they're not parading a cause for cash. Dead are the days when hippies were all about smoking the greens, now they seem to be about the greens and uh spirituality (you know like, whatever's in vogue on the enlightenment front, like). The hippie brethren today have become obsessed with their higher power and this narcissistic pariah parade around in nice cars (what happened to the monk who sold his Ferrari?), at trance parties, poetically preaching 'altruistically' - forming nothing more than a smoke screen for the truth: I AM BETTER THAN YOU.          

going away for a while ; )

Are Babies the New Black?

“Just say no” prevents teenage pregnancy the way ‘Have a nice day’ cures chronic depression."

Girls and by girls I mean females under 20. Grab your Blackberries, your Gucci shades, your Louis Vuitton and... Your baby.

Has having a baby become some sort of bizarre fashion statement? Has it strutted off the Red Carpet and into our communities? Is having a baby as desirable as having the latest cell phone or pair of to-die-for Nine Wests? According to an article I read in The Times, there’s no denying that there seems to be a baby pandemic sweeping through schools throughout South Africa, leaving 5000 Gauteng girls pregnant, the bulk of which are aged 17 to 19. In the Eastern Cape alone it’s estimated that a teenage girl falls pregnant almost every hour! And if this is happening at our schools, even after the government spends about R180 billion on educating our youngsters, what’s going on?

It’s not been long since I graced the Sex Ed classroom, listening to the teacher pile drive the seriousness (not to mention painfully embarrassing) consequences of engaging in unprotected sex into our sponge-like brains. At the end of the lesson there was no denying that my classmates and I felt the same way: Unprotected sex could easily equal unmentionable things growing on your private bits or worse, a baby! Granted teen pregnancy is in no way an invention of the 21 century. My mother had a baby when she was 17, however when I was 17 I didn’t know of anyone having babies and I went to a school where I was the only, uh, white girl in the glass. So in six years what’s changed?

In more recent times British girls started a trend of having babies to get a state-issued house and financial aid, allowing them to move out of home without the pressure of getting a job. And the more little people they produce, the more money they get. That kind of makes sense. However, this is definitely not the case in South Africa, where social aid can barely buy nappies. And if money isn’t the catalyst, then what’s prompting the procreation? The latter part of the last decade has seen phenomenal technological advances, leading to a change in our social and economic lifestyles - Facebook iApp anyone? It’s made us more modern, more progressive. And in our very progressive way of thinking, we’ve opted to give our children cell phones instead of bicycles and let them browse the internet because it’s viewed as some sort of educational super tool (obviously we’ve blocked the porn sites, we’re not stupid). This results in children having the world at their fingertips, and by world, I mean the world of social networks and gasp, the influential world of celebrities and fashion... The Bling Culture.  Now if you have celebrities like Jessica Alba, Kate Hudson, Ashley Simpson, Kourtney Kardashian (Khloe’s still trying), Mirander Kerr and Victoria Beckham accessorising their Armani Prive with a baby bump, you’ll soon have thousands of teens wanting a mini-me too (and if you think about it, falling pregnant is free and relatively easy, unlike getting your hands on a Prada purse). Celebrities have turned babies from sweet, burping bundles of joy, into a trend, a must-have in your winter wardrobe. Obviously, this isn’t a bad thing, especially if you’re grossing a couple million dollars a year. But if you’re a 17-year-old girl, who lives in one of South Africa’s more impoverished areas, we might have a problem. And we have an even bigger problem because that girl is part of a group of girls in Soweto, who when asked why they insist on having babies replied: “Because it looks cool”! Yet this is not just a Soweto-inspired way of thinking, it’s fashionable and as fashion goes, it knows geographic boundaries, it’s not prejudiced against colour nor does it have cultural preference. And like a fashion paradigm, this baby fashion faux pas is destined to become “Like so last year” but unlike last season’s died skinny jeans you can’t just get rid of it, well not for the next 18 years at least.

So how do we fix this? We could follow in the footsteps of a North Carolina University, where they’ve developed an enrolment programme which pays its female students a dollar a day, that’s $365 a year, not to have a baby. Brilliant! Perhaps we could reverse the misconceptions of early parenthood by our fashion-forward youth, if we took the portion of the education budget allocated for Sex Ed and a started a No Baby Reward Scheme. For every year they remain childless they get a designer bag. Or a Blackberry.  Or front row seats, for them and their childless posse, at the Johannesburg Fashion Week.

Last Night

I drew this picture to help illustrate my story, which is 100% true and accurate. Admittedly I may have embellished a bit with the drawing, I don't really look like this, my boobs aren't that big.

The thing about drunk girls is this... They're drunk. And unlike their male counterparts, who you could just punch when they get out of hand, with a girl, apparently this isn't an option. So dealing with a loose, out of hand goose, is tricky- especially when the girl is nearly three times your size.

This is what happened.

I was out. A song I could vaguely enjoy played and I got my ass on the dance floor and tore that shit up. For about five minutes. The song ended, I lingered and the next thing I knew a heffalump (it's a nice way of saying a fat girl) was all up in my grill (I presume a 'grill' is a face?). I can't remember what song came on next but she was gyrating like she was trying to hula hoop. This would have been rather amusing, had the chosen object on which she was gyrating against been anything other than my leg. I felt sorry for her (God knows why). I smiled and kinda bobbed along. Then she shoved her drink in my hand and waited for me to have a sip. Reluctantly I did. I gave it back. She pushed it into my hands again, a little more forcefully this time and again, I drank. This repeated a few times. Now in between bottle thrusting, there was a lot of bottom thrusting. And in between that she would spin around and look at me, I think it was meant to be seductively, but it looked like she had something stuck in her eye. I don't know, maybe she was winking? And in between that, there were times when she, um, threw herself onto the floor, literally. Now I know what she was really trying to do. It's a dance move that goes something like: You bend over, ass out, then bring yourself back up, arching your back in, swinging your head back, and stand up straight. It's kind of like a ghetto move. It has potential. But you've got to be flexible and this unfortunate girl wasn't. So her move went more like this: She splayed herself on the floor. Picked herself up into a crouching position and, with understandable effort, stood up. I guess it was the thought right? And, although on the outside I smiled sweetly, on the inside I was like N**** please! Anyway the song couldn't have ended soon enough. But the ordeal wasn't over yet.

At one point I remember muttering something, promising I'd be right back and hot heeling it off the dance floor and into the girls' bathroom. I locked the cubicle door, and stood on the toilet seat. For a second I felt like I was in a thriller. I got this bright idea that I could stay hidden until she lost interest, but to do so I would need to have a visual of the situation, so I'd know when NOT to exit from my hiding place. I decided to try and peer over the wall to see if she had followed me. I was inching my way up the walls and just about to peer over when there came a BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM! Oh my sainted aunts she was beating at my cubicle door! I had no choice. I feebly opened the door and weakly said "Yes?" And she said "Oh it's you!" (Like she didn't know). Before I knew what was happening I had been grabbed and forced back onto the dance floor, where she sandwiched me between her gigantic ass and some guy's woo woo-who hopefully was too drunk to remember, I wish I was. There was fumbling, touching and at one point I almost burst into tears. I looked pleadingly around. No one came to my rescue, instead to my horror, the few people scattered around looked on, amused.

Finally at around two am I escaped, emotionally scathed but otherwise unharmed. Only a King Steers burger could quell the wave of thoughts and feelings from that evening...

On a lighter note. What is brown and sticky?

Answer: A brown stick!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

waiter there's a crab in my soup

One day I was at a seafood restaurant. And I ordered a mussel pot (I can never say that without laughing). Hmm mm mm was it good. I ate it all up in seconds and as I was eating my last mussel my teeth impacted against something hard. "A shell" I thought.

Only it wasn't.

It was a teeny little crab.

I took it home and he soon became my new best friend for life (well after Jen and Yol, so he's my third best friend ever). I call him Jefferson.

IT JUST GOT BETTER

Yes, this truly is my morning. I found something else to bitch about. G put his banana peel in his coffee cup. The dustbin door is marked with an X in the picture above. I counted the steps it'd take to effectively dispose of said banana peel. Steps = 5 girl steps, which = 3.5 boys steps.

On the bright side, at least he brought his cup into the kitchen. There is a god.

Girly Tip #5 Boys are allergic to hanging up wet towels...

This picture was taken this morning. Earlier on in the day, g had a shower, he put this very same wet towel on the bed, then proceeded to sit on it. I asked him to remove it, because it's wetting the bed. You'd think that much was obvious. Fast forward to this morning and I wake up to the SAME GOD-DAMNED towel lying on the chest of drawers right next the printer. What the f****? I felt it and it's still wet and it smells damp. Which means it has to be washed. Which means more unnecessary washing. Which means more water. Which means more electricity, neither of which are renewable resources. Which means, thanks to Eskom's latest increase, more money. Which means more arguments. Especially because now I have an unexpected towel to wash. Which means less space on our already too small washing line. Which means some things that really have to be washed may now not have the appropriate space to dry, successfully. Which means that I might mean have to separate whites from lights and do two more washes. Which means...

Which means that no matter how hard I try and understand the complex workings of the male psyche, and believe me I try (my you bunch are tricky) yet no matter how hard I just can't seem to figure out the aversion to hanging towels up. Granted your ability to locate the washing basket leaves much to be desired, however I can always pick up your bouquet of clothes on my way to make you coffee in the morning... (P.S. note the profound use of sarcasm in the last statement) But not airing your wet towel? Are you scared of it? Does it make you feel uneasy handling a wet towel after you've used it? Like having to deal with a used condom or tissue covered in your uh... jizzness ( I was going to say business but I thought that dropping such a subtle hint might have gone unnoticed)?

In closing I can only come up with two conclusions:

1. You do it to screw with my head or to piss me off.

2. ......

F*** the toilet seat, that's easy I can put it down myself, it's not like I have to run around the house looking for it. As for your wet towel. Hmm...

Oh and P.S. I'm not just finding something new to bitch about. Guys'll think "If it wasn't the wet towel it would be the shoes left lying around or the dirty ashtrays". However this is really just about the towel. I've already bitched about those things, and .........

My point exactly.

The Ex Effect

Thanks Philosoraptor.

This is how it goes (not necessarily in this order): You meet. Sparks fly. You fall in love. You date. You fight. You fight a lot. You fight too much. You break up....

The cycle repeats, only this time there's an extra added element: You meet (someone new). Sparks fly. You fall in love. You date. You get a call from your ex. Depending on how you handle it, you may either (a) not fight with your new squeeze or (b) fight.

This in turn begs the question. Can you really be friends with an ex?

Hmm let me think about this. No.

Now obviously there are some exceptions to the rule, namely:

1. You work together

2.You have had a child together

3. Your children have had children

4. You never actually dated, or did the nasty

5. You're related, somehow

That's it, I can only get as far as five. Other than that I don't see how ex's can remain buddies and here's why.

1. You've not only fucked, but you've made love.

2. You've seen one another naked-not only that but you've seen every inch of them, the good, the bad, the ugly.

3. You've shared toothbrushes and goodmorning/goodnight kisses.

4. You've met the parents.

5. You planned a future together.

6. You said you would "love them forever".

7. You compromised.

8. You fantasized (well up till about year 1-then you started fantasizing about someone else, ha).

9. You shared your most intimate secrets and thoughts.

10. You shared your life.

Now having shared all of the above with a few people, I can tell you that once it's over, personally I never want to see them again. What's the point? Seeing the ex can be as awkward as bumping into your gynae, at a family gathering, after he diagnosed you with having crabs (yuk), only to find that he and your father are golfing buddies. The odd "Merry Christmas" / "Happy Birthday" text is about as much as I want to share with someone who knows me. Wait. Knew me inside out, so to speak. Add a couple of years to the mix and you have your emotionally charged past blaring into your future. Is this healthy? Can we delude ourselves into thinking we can be purely platonic after so much fucking, talking, sharing, being so entwined at a stage you were unsure where you ended and the other began?

Sure you could argue "Yes-we can be friends, I've dated my ex for 8 years and we can still be buds". Now for all the yes sayers out there, here's why you're pursuing your friendship:

1. You are still into your ex and hope that one day you two could sort it out. You hold onto the past, you often take a trot down memory lane and reminisce. You remind your ex of said memories. You call. You skype. You suggest meeting up for lunch. You're the protagonist. You're the pursuer. And quite frankly you should just get the fuck on with your life, because you're pissing the new girlfriend/boyfriend off.

2. You are being chased after. You know it. Your new partner knows it. Your ex knows it, but whether or not he/she'll ever admit to it... Either way, you feel good to have someone call you. Text. Skype. Suggest meeting up for lunch. You're playing the game, you love to feel pursued and it's an easy one to deny to your new beau/lady. Sadly it's diaphanous. And the question you should be asking isn't why isn't my partner being understanding? But rather, what the fuck am I really doing here?

If you're going to persist in this rather benign and ridiculous friendship and you simply have to meet up for coffee, be polite, be respectful, be open, bring your new date along. After all they should have a chance to gauge the situation, and who knows maybe you could all be mates...

Um sure...

What the Bleep?

There I was pondering between a Red Espresso, Apple and Ginger juice or an organic Latte when I came across these...

Apparently it's water infused with positivity. It's all based around "words affecting water", considering that we're made up of 70% water...bla bla bla. Now I haven't been able to tell whether this water is spring water, sparkling or just plain tap water.... ? No offense to the hippie brethren but I can't see the point in buying this for double the price of ordinary bottled water (isn't bottled water bad for the environment anyway?) when I could grab a glass of filtered water from home and infuse it with my own peace loving vibrations?

I don't know whether people are becoming more gullible or are hippies trying to make some quick cash before Africa Burns or Vortex?

Either way...

Bzzzz...Sending out good vibes.... See anyone can do it, you don't have to be a trance-loving, hemp wearing, raw food eating hippie to be irie.

(Hey, I think I just sent peaceful vibes into my tap water just through thought-amazing-wonder if I could sell it...I need a new pair of shoes?)

I should be blogging, but I've been very busy.

Girly Tip #4 Marriage maketh no sense

Look don't take offense, if you're already married that's great-for you. I'm just saying that I can think of a few reasons as to why you shouldn't get married. However if you can counteract that with reasons as to why you should, then the more power to you. Ready?

1. There is no reliable marriage history which makes me think that it was a concept first conceived by community leaders to help prevent the spread of certain sexually transmitted diseases plaguing the population during such archaic times. Back then marriage was a nicer way of saying "If you have sex with lots of different people you'll likely get syphilis and die".

2. Personally I don't know any real-life virgins. So marrying under the guise of appeasing the Lord in order to make up for the nights spent on your back, with your legs in the air, well that doesn't make sense. You've already bonked and you most probably still bonk, what difference does signing a piece of paper make to God? I wasn't aware he was concerned with paperwork and doesn't he love you just the way you are anyway?

3. This brings me back to point 1. In this day and age we have penicillin so really contracting syphilis has become a case of embarrassment that can be remedied with an injection, not a ring on the finger.

4. You'll spend a fortune on a wedding, gees you might even end up in debt because of it. What's the point? Couldn't you think of a few, possibly more, useful things to spend the money on. Like... A new car, the down payment on a house, a really nice holiday, towards your children's education? And if you have the cash to burn, why not give it to charity, that good dead will last longer than your marriage anyway and it will make all involved a lot happier.

5. Marriages tend to last the grand total of about 24 months, and seeing how easy it is to get divorced what's the point of even getting hitched, surely staying together without being married is saying far more about your ability to commit?

6. OK this is by far my most pertinent of points and it's based on a scientific fact: The larger a species' testicles the more promiscuous they are. This isn't because men are whores by choice, they are by nature and trying to keep men down the straight and narrow via marriage will only work in making them want to fuck everything in sight. Not saying all men... Only the ones with big kahunas.

Please ladies let's not be naive, we're big girls and to expect monogamy is slightly deluded, especially because we know that the many of us aren't into monogamy ourselves. I remember a pastor, an ordained proprietor of marriage, once saying to me that if I think bad thoughts or think about killing someone, as far as God was concerned I've already 'pulled the trigger'. Therefore if I think about doing the hard and nasty with someone other than my beau, I've already cheated? And if that's the case then there can be no such thing as monogamy, because we all know that people think about sex-a lot. And if you want to try and tell me you only think about sex only with your partner... Well now you're just a liar so you're going to hell regardless.

; )

Ciao Gucci!

I have fallen in love. It happened in an instant. I was walking past when something caught my eye. I stopped. My heart was racing. I turned and there they were. Just sitting there. Looking at me. I couldn't resist. I went inside. I tried them on. It was as if Heaven itself had opened up and God was smiling down on me. A halo appeared. It was surreal. I took them off. I found the price tag. I nearly fainted. I had to sit down. R2880.00? Why GOD. WHY?????

Wow I just realised I could sell my mountain bike (yes it was a gift but it's not like I use it and at least this way I could maximize on present potential). Or I could sell my little brother-OK well not really because I would get into so much trouble... kidnapping, aiding and abetting, human trafficking, possible murder... Unless no one knew he was missing...

P.S. Human trafficking is very serious. And sad-seriously sad. Which makes me feel significantly shallow and soulless for going on about Gucci shades when little girls and boys alike, just like my little brother only browner (he is very white), are sold for less than what these glasses cost...

Who needs sunglasses when you can squint.

Peace.

Love.

Squint.

Girly Tip #4 DON'T MEET THE PARENTS

Tricky. If I could give you any advise in life, really, it's this: Don't meet in the parents. That and always, ALWAYS make sure you never leave your short and curly's on someone else's soap (not that I do that... obviously).

The thing with meeting the parents is that it's not a disaster the first time, it's the second, third and fourth that does it and leaves you on the outside of the inside (like everyone having a party at your house and you're not really invited, your lurking somewhere outside, in the rain-scrap that-hail). Face it You WILL NEVER be good enough for their son, especially if they only have one, it's not natural and if you're brave enough to venture forth (kudos to you), this is what might happen:

1. Before the "much anticipated visit", there will be a lot of pressure, naturally. You will be stressed out beyond comprehension and there will be stern warnings "Don't f*** it up, don't create drama..." Sadly this only compacts issues.

2. You will be judged

3. No one will take your side on any topic, any discussion, EVER, not even your bf and if he disagrees with you on something, trust that his parents will take his side, rendering you an outcast for life

4. Expect awkward silences

5. Expect excessive smiling

6. Expect to be expected to be prefect and don't be surprised when you get reprimanded because you're not, after all you are not human, you're just a girlfriend

7. Expect that no matter how hard you try you will never be good enough in their eyes

8. Stop hoping that they will like you, they will ONLY like you if you're related to the Queen or if you played tennis and your parent's had a country house somewhere ridiculous like, I don't know, the Hamptons

9. After said visit, expect to feel completely inadequate and yes sometimes even...

10. Single.

POP IT

What do you get when pop art meets champagne?

You get three little letters, the same three little letters that first appeared when God said "Let there be light". The same letters which popped up to say how-do-you-do when you pulled your first authentic O-face, and yes, the same three little letters which were born at the exact same time you miraculously managed to push a baby out of your vulva... Wow. And wow indeed.

I'd like to introduce Dom P's tribute to Andy W (the W is for Warhol and not Wow, but you'd be forgiven...) A heavenly bubbly that knows how to sparkle mixed with an art eccentric renowned for turning heads (yes, heavenly, Dom P was a Benedictine monk, so it's kinda like holy water, expensive holy water, but holy water none the less). How expensive you ask? I mean can you really put a price on art and champagne?! Yes you can, it'll set you back about R1499-available at any half decent bottle store, which isn't bad, it's only about a months rent if your renting a room in some hole in Cape Town and if you are you wouldn't buy it anyway, so whatever ; )

"Come quickly I'm tasting the stars" - Dom P

When Life Hands You Limes...Make Frozen Mojitos!

Ok life doesn't always throw you lemons, sometimes it throws you limes, which is pretty f*ing kiff because I can never seem to find any at the shops...

It's time to get your dranky drank on (Viva Craig) we're making Frozen Mojitos!

Ingredients:

1. ½ cup sugar syrup-In a saucepan, on a heat source, like a stove, dissolve 1 cup sugar in 1 cup water, whilst standing on one leg & stirring occasionally. Bring it brought to the boil until it has reduced by about a 1/3, into, duh, a syrup. Allow to cool and voila.
2. Ice
3. Limes-squeezed 1 per person
4. About a handful of mint leaves
5. 1 tot rum per person
6. lastly, some soda to top up with

The Mojito Method:

Now the trick with this recipe is that you just 'wing' it. Go by taste.

1. Place the sugar syrup, ice, lime juice and mint into your blender.
2. Blend until it resembles some sort slushy ice. If you don't have a blender, oh shame you must neva!
3. Put a good dollop of Mojito slush into your glass and then some in your friend's glass and then some more into your glass.
4. Add a shot or two of white rum, the good stuff Havana White & a splash of soda water to top up.
5. Salud!

P.S. What do you call a non-alcoholic Mojito? A Nojito. And I am not even joking.

Blondes vs. Brunettes

In the right corner, weighing in with a C cup and a bubbly attitude, is the ever popular Blonde!

And in the left corner, weighing with a cardigan and a fair amount of smarts, is the not-as-popular Brunette.

But why the divide? Why has it has gotten to the point where brunettes regard blondes as ditsy flirts incapable of intellectual conversation and in return, blondes think brunettes are just jealous. Do we really think like this or are we just being catty?

I suppose if we really get down to the nitty-gritty, what are we fighting for? Attention. The admiration of the opposite sex. We want to be the girl on the front cover of FHM. We want to be desired. We all want exactly the same thing. We want guys to want us and we want girls to want to be like us. And the only way for girls to want to be like us, is if guys want to get with us-do you see how it goes around in circles. And when asked, 8 out of 10 men prefer blondes. 8 out of 10 men also prefer big breasts. So if you're anything like me and you have neither blonde hair nor breasts - really an A cup doesn't count! Where does that leave you? Well it leaves you having to deal with your boyfriend getting whiplash when a blonde walks past (even whilst driving which poses a danger to your safety-GOD) or ignoring you when there's a blonde at your table. And yes this makes me jealous. How would you feel, honestly? And if you're a guy and you can't get this, think about how you feel about a bunch of girls fussing around the 'guy with the beamer' or 'the band member'. It's one in the same my friend.

Now it's not just me who finds herself in these situations. 8 out of 10 brunettes have the same problems. So what's the deal? Since when has having brown hair made you less desirable and why, given the absurdity of the topic, do we really give a f***? When asked this question, the most common answers I've received by people with penises are:

1. Blondes are hot

2. Blonde hair makes any chick hot

3. Blondes are way more fun

4. Blondes are easy

5. Blondes are like arm candy

6. Brown hair is boring

7. Brunettes think they are too smart

8. Brunettes are too serious

9. Brunettes aren't easy enough

10. Brunettes are feminists (apparently having brown hair instantly makes you too opinionated and therefore a feminist. It seems some of our more famous feminists are, in fact, brunette: Susan B Anthony, Mary Wollstonecraft and the writer of The Feminine Mystique-Betty Friedan. So I guess that statement isn't too far fetched, but still.)

But if brunettes are so smart why don't we see this happening, and rise above it? Blondes are forgiven, besides they have 8 out of 10 guys already vying for their attention (bitch pleas).

I think the thing we have to ask ourselves, is this: Why settle with one of the 8 out of 10 guys who prefer blondes when you could be with one of the 2, who'll like you for you, brown hair and all. Why put yourself in situations where you walk away (a) not being able to say anything for fear of the "You're just jealous!" rebuke, and (b) made to feel insignificant over something as superficial as hair colour. Why date the guy who wants Cameron Diaz when you're Anne Hathaway.

I guess at the end of the day if you spend your time trying to be something you're not. Or if you're pressured to be someone you're not. The problem isn't you. It's someone else. Because you're prefect just the way you are, so fuck'em...

xoxox

Toothpaste for Dinner. Nataliedee. Superpoop

I'm afraid that now you will never be the same again (in a very good way) http://www.nataliedee.com/

Puppy luff

I have a little dachshund

His name is Ju Ju Bean

He's short

And black

Without an inch of fat

And he's got the longest nose I've ever seen.

I love Dachshunds and so did Picasso and Andy Warhol (and a whole bunch of other rather cool peeps, so should you not be a fan of the "Black and Tan", then your uncool by implication). Back to the blog: Picasso and Mr Warhol were so down with the brown, they created artworks in their honor. Picasso of his Daxie Lump and Andy of his sausage Maurice (look up). The Dachshund phenomena can be explained in one very simple sentence: "Once you go Daxi - it's shoshaloza in your taxi"... Not only are they your bessie mates 4 life but, providing they're not weirdly overweight (no one likes a fat Richard) they have the swankiest shape to them. What's more, is they look doubly good printed on textiles...

Word.

Woof.