For as long as I can remember I have loved denim; From donning little Oshkosh dungarees as a wee toddler, to making sure that six out of seven days I wear denim. It is my uniform - in various different presentations
Here's why:
Denim is sexy as f*ck on a girl or guy. A great pair of jeans hugs your body in all the right places. Nothing better then a nice bum in a sexy pair of jeans!
For me a pair of jeans teamed up with a killer pair of heels and sexy top will have you feeling invincible in the same way they will with a little white tank and Converse.
It is INCREDIBLY hard for a pair of jeans to look bad on anyone - provided that they actually fit and you're not exploding at the seams or look like you've lost 200kgs in two days.
It's so goddamn versatile and isbelieved to have started out as the ultimate workwear fabric for overalls for its durability. You can dress it up, dress it down, work in it or party in it. It's an all rounder.
All the cool peeps wear denim...Elvis wore denim. James Dean did too. Okay...so does everyone else but that's the beauty of it! Everyone wears denim jeans!
It gets better over time Having just turned old(er) I can appreciate the fact that with a bit of wear and tear makes any pair of jeans (or any other denim garment for that matter) look cooler over time.
A couple of weeks ago I attended the Wrangler South Africa launch at the Turbine Hall in Jozi's Newtown Precinct and got school in some denim trivia and got to feast my eyes on some tasty denim delights.
Truthfully, the event refuelled my denim obsession and made me search Pinterest for denimy awesomeness. You can follow my 'I heart denim' board which is currently a work in progress.
I love Twitter. I grew to love Twitter. I went through the stages. (see: 46 stages of Twitter usage). Nowadays, it's very normal for me share with, for the most part, complete strangers, the inner workings of my complex, always sarcastic, slightly crazy mind.
Something that is increasingly evident to me and what a lot of people tend to forget (especially as Twitter has become more mainstream over time) is:
Twitter is not real life.
While I'm no authority on Twitter, my take on the 'Twitter Community' is that it's pretty much replica of a school playground.
They're all there; the popular kids, wannabes, bullies, bitches, dunces, überdorks and the general pains-in-the-arse. Hey, sometimes some people even fit into more than one category.
Take the wannabes for instance. You know, the girl so desperate to be in with the 'in-crowd' that she just looks like a jerk because she's trying so hard?
#FF @Awesomelyfunnymodel @FunnyGuy @FamouspersonIoncemet cos they're, like, the best ever! Hey @Awesomelyfunnymodel, I don't know you at all and am completely oblivious to how desperate I look but let's go for a drink! #Tweetup! @FunnyGuy You're not tweeting me back! I need you to for everyone to think I'm cool! We're SO friends through Twitter! Please tweet me!
Let's face it, desperate and needy are no two ways to become friends (even if they are just Twitter 'friends') with anyone.
Then there's the general-pain-in-the-arse:
Please retweet: My aunty's cousin cat is missing. He has one leg. It's his birthday. @Famousperson1 @Famousperson2 @anyoneandeveryoneIknow
Follow for a follow #TeamFollowback @allhail
Something you shouldn't do when trying to engage with people on Twitter - do not try and coerce them into following you or retweeting you! It just irritates the shit out of me people!
The only way you're going to get followers is by resonating with people - be it humourous, informative or just plain crass. Figure out your niche andthe followers will come, all in due time.
I've met some really interesting people through Twitter but most of the best Twitter interactions I have are with people I know outside of (or would easily have met outside of) Twitter.
My advice, for what it's worth: It's one of the ultimate networking tools and it's without a doubt one of the best, most hands-on platforms for anyone in their personal or professional capacity, but it cannot substitute plain old human interaction.
And crisis have I been shit at this thing. Let's call it a blog sabbatical, shall we?
I think it's fair to say that I've had some of the most whirlwind months of my life. I'm moved cities (that in itself is worth a blog post), and have been, by all accounts all over the show.
I know I always say this, but I endeavor to be better at this. It'll probably prove to be cathartic in some way, shape or form.
I'm not afraid to tell the world that. After all, I'm lucky enough to still be in my twenties. Look, I may begin to feel somewhat different about that after this birthday but for now I'm embracing it.
I started something, when I turned twenty-two, broke up with a boyfriend I'd dated for close on 3 years and was really growing into my own skin. Every year I get older I rework the age I'm turning into something that describes how I'm feeling about being that age.
Twenty-Two: Twenty-who? As I said before, I really only started growing up and growing into my own skin when I turned 22. Newly single and open to new experiences, meeting new people and being completely independent - I figured out who I am, or at least who I want to be.
Twenty-Three: Twenty-ThirstyWhen I turned twenty-three I spread my wings even further. I started traveling more - specifically to Southern African countries, and surrounding myself with people that made me laugh, challenged me and opened my eyes to new, exciting experiences; one's that I would previously have passed up without blinking.
I was more thirsty for knowledge, and thirsty in general. I'd always had a penchant for tequila but I definitely honed my tequila-downing skills that year. Gosh, we even came up with a tequila dance...that serious about tequila.
Twenty-Four: Twenty-F(Wh)oreNot in the way you're all thinking - anyone that knows me well enough knows that being a 'whore' per se, isn't exactly my vibe. I meant it more in the 'kiss a lot of frogs' kinda way. And that I did.
You can't put yourself into a hole and say: 'I never meet anyone.' You never meet anyone because you're in a hole! And that's not only people you'd like to be romantically linked to but people in general.
I learned to put myself out there, have fun the best way I know how - by being myself. I also realised that being myself meant that I got serious about taking care of my health and exercise. I am exercise and healthy eating verskrik - within reason. I resolved to run my first half marathon and did it and in an amazing time to boot.
Twenty-Five: Twenty-(High)-Five If I could sum up the last year in one word, it'd be 'phenomabomb'. Okay, so that's technically not a real word, but more of a word I made up myself. It certainly describes how I feel about this past year.
I made this past year about giving myself high fives - doing stuff and getting involved in projects that made me proud. Surrounding myself with people and friends, both new and old, that make me want to high-five myself.
I did another half marathon for Pete's sake! I'm also really happy with my body and the effort I put in to be happy with it - exercise, healthy eating habits.
Having fun, proving my worth and opening myself up to change, within my personal and professional realms, has meant that to a certain extent I'm fulfilled.
So what's in store for my Twenty-Sixth year you ask? Well, what rhymes with Six? Picks, fix, Weetbix? Erm no.
Twenty-Six: Twenty-Sex
Again, don't take this too literally. My mother would be alarmed.
Here's the deal: At Twenty-Six, I'm a woman at her prime (or so every publication tells me). So think of 'sex' in a more figurative sense; passionate, confident and independent - something I hear men find more attractive. Go figure. I thought they like 'em young.
I can honestly say, as I sit here and write this, that I'm happy in my skin right now. I'm NOT exactly sure what lies ahead for me. Not personally. Not professionally. But I do know that I'm happy with me. I don't feel like this all the time and I know I'm definitely not perfect, nor will I ever be.
I do know that things happen when they're meant to happen; whether they're good or bad. It's up to you to evolve and accept them, learn from them and grow. We all have our bad days. Today, for instance, I woke up in a mood that would rival Pieter de Villiers after the Boks loss this last weekend. Shit happens. But it's how you deal with it that helps you discover the bigger picture.
People worry about me, my lifestyle, my sometimes wild, fun-loving ways. That's me. I can only be me. I am evolving and this is present day me. I've, in the past and quite recently, put a lot of pressure on myself to be what everyone else wants me or at least what I think they want me to be but have realised (with age and with the help of some very savvy friends of mine) that that isn't always what is best for me.
Simply put? I'm stoked to be turning Twenty-Sex and for all this particular year has in store. I have a few favourite quotes, of which this one is one of my top five:
"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in whichever direction you choose." ~ Dr. Seuss
It all started on a on Saturday. Binnet, Slorer and I had gone for a small enormous razzle at Clapham the night before in lieu of 1 x rugby playing friend/Haysoos being in town.
While razzling, abundant amounts of alcohol were consumed - including the mandatory Patron XO Café for Binnet, Caramel ‘It’s like sex in my mouth’ Vodka, Tequila and Red Bull Vodkas. We danced our faces off, watched 2m tall rugby player’s booty shake and rolled out of there around 5am.
It’s safe to say we were hanging worse than the accused in the Salem witch trials on this particular Saturday.
We gathered the ‘Slores’ for lunch and met at Primi Rosebank. We smashed pasta in our faces. We laughed hysterically at and filled Schmims in on the night before’s events – (“Ha ha ha ha ha, climbing a Jesus jungle gym, ha ha ha ha”).
We were all ready to get onto our merry way (read: Go home and sleep the horrendous hangover off) when we spotted the rugby on TV and realised that we’d actually like to see what was happening in the Sharks vs. Brumbies match.
The gals and I got to discussing the game of Rugga, some of the beautiful (and not-so-beautiful) male specimens that grace the game with their dapperness, with Schmim’s man person, Sharman, having joined us at Bulldogs.
We openly spoke about the game, made sexual connotations with every play made and pretty much drove the entire pub nuts with our ‘Woo-yeah’ing with every point the Sharks scored.
Sharman suggested that we make something of these antics. We thought why the hell not? Sharman said he’d get his sports mad friend, Bounce, involved and make it somewhat of a feature on his blog.
The following weekend we gathered to watch the Cheetahs vs. Crusaders match. We decided on the hashtag #ladyruggafugga to poke fun at the sad display a certain sports channel’s chauvinist excuse of finding a female rugby presenter.
I, for one, was quite excited this was the one we were starting off with. While the rest of the world’s female population has the hots for Daniel Carter aka Deniel Kaaaaa-ta, I have a soft for Richie McCaw. My affection for him rivals that of my love the double entendres – which is the exact reason I call the New Zealand & Crusaders captain Richie ‘I’ll Richie your McCaw’ McCaw.
We were on a roll. A now famous nickname for Cheetahs 8th man, Ashley Johnson was born. From that day on he was known as Ashley ‘Vadge Patch’ Johnson (until the twat cut his hair short a few weeks ago). Suddenly the Twitter world was a-flutter tweets with the #ladyruggafugga hashtag:
@KirstyStoRAWR: Not sure if it’s Dan Carter, or if I’ve spilled my drink, but I’m sitting in a wetspot.
@KimSchulze: "He’s the best vadge-patch. Covers all the gaps.” Commentary on Ashley Johnson
@allhail: #whattheyshoutinlineoutcalls "25,33 Sasol, RICA by next Friday, jou ma se po*s”
Eventually the hashtag became a trending topic in South Africa – impressive considering the amount of crap we spoke and the fact that not once did any of us mention the score.
With Super15 Season now complete and a slew of rugby on the way in the form of the Currie Cup, officially starting this week, the Tri-Nations starting in a few weeks and the big one, the Rugby World Cup starting in September I have strong feeling you’re in for many more lol-arious #ladyruggafugga tweets.
Recently some friends mentioned my worst dating experience ever (or the ‘worst date in history’ as I like to call it) on their radio show on a certain, very popular radio station. I do not deny, not even for one second, how hilarious this course of events will sound. I laugh looking back on it almost every day. Here's the 411:
I’d met him,very briefly, through my younger (guy) cousin, while we were jolling it up at Clapham Gold just before Christmas. Let’s call him FGPC. I’ll explain the acronym later.
That particular evening on the town was an abortion. I was out with colleagues and we were all in the festive spirit. I must have had 11 shots of tequila on my own, over and above the 2 Red Bull/Vodkas & the other stuff I’d thrown down the hatch. I didn’t remember much of him, just that he’d very-kindly helped me find my cousin so that said cousin could take me home.
The next day, while I suffered through what is quite possibly the worst hangover I’ve ever had, my little cousin messaged me to ask if he could give FGPC my number. Sure, I said, trying to be nice. My cousin tried to sell him to me by telling me that he plays for a provincial cricket side, professionally. Truth is I couldn’t remember his name, let alone what he looked like and could care less what he did for a living. He was forgettable - to say the least.
What followed was random banter between the two of us. Harmless I thought. Then he’d asked if I’d like to go to a movie. Little cuz urged me to go and told me to 'go with the flow' because I had nothing to lose. So I went to the movie. Good gosh how I wish I hadn't.
It wasn’t completely terrible but then how well do you get to get to know someone during a movie? We parted with a kiss – it honestly felt like a Baracuda was attempting to decapitate me by sucking my face off. He also grabbed my tuchas so hard in both hands it felt as though he was going to rip it from my body. Over-eager much?
The next day he arrived at gym (my gym) with my cousin. I nearly plutzed. I’d never in my life seen this guy at gym and I spend enough time in the place to practically know everyone. Was this oke being serious & was just really into me? He attempted to train with me until I said: “I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t need someone stalking me around the gym. I actually really prefer training on my own.”
He got the (not-so-subtle) hint and did his own thing. He continued to pitch up at gym for the next few days. He also asked me out to dinner. I obliged. Part of me wanted to like him, part of me was just excited to have something to do while the whole of Jozi was jolling at the coast.
The Dinner:
‘F’ in FGPC stands for…Farter
We arrived at the restaurant, a favourite of mine, after we’d gymmed and freshened up. Five minutes after we sat down he slid back into his chair…and farted.
I have NEVER in my life. And even though it was accidental I couldn’t help but think ‘Seriously? Am I on Candid Camera?’ He apologised profusely. I honestly had no idea what to do, or say.
‘G’ in FGPC stands for…Growler
A few minutes after the fart incident he got up to go to the loo. He walked up, kissed me on the cheek and then growled (like a tiger) in my ear. WHO DOES THAT?!
I looked up at him and said: “Dude, you have got be kidding me? Did you really just growl in my ear? What the hell?!”. He nodded and walked off to the loo.
‘P’ in FGPC stands for...Pooh-er
Dinner coninued. I felt it would at least be polite to finish the meal and then go our seperate ways. The entire conversation was about how ‘kiff’ living in PE is and how ‘I bowl at 160kmh’. I cricket scored in high school. I know the game well, better than most. If you bowl at 160kmh chances, are out of 18 balls, you’ll only bowl at that pace for one ball and it will most likely be a ‘no-ball’.
Shortly after dessert, he again got up from the table, rubbed his stomach and proclaimed: “Excuse me. I have to go do a Number 2.”
I was completely awestruck. Did he really just announce that he was going to take dump?
After he’d been gone for 20 minutes (yes – I was dumb enough to wait around), I sent him a text saying I’d paid for my half of my bill and got up to leave. He sprinted out of the bathroom and said: “So am I following you to your place for coffee?”. I pushed my chair in and very softly said goodbye.
Before I’d even gotten home I’d received a text from him telling me what an amazing evening he’d had. Of course he did. He ate a good meal, spoke about himself, and took a shit all within a three hour period.
‘C’ in FGPC stands for…Clinger (Stage 5)
I had another message before I went to sleep.
And another when I woke up the following morning.
And another by lunchtime that afternoon.
You get where this is going.
I deleted his number.
And continued to get random sappy messages, from what I gather was him, for the next 3 weeks.
I saw him while I was out last week. I turned to the friend I was with and screamed “Run for the hills!”
Well would ya look at that! 2010 is almost done and dusted. Crisis. I must be the suckiest blogger known to man! Well at least I think so.
Its been a eventful one, has 2010. World Cups. Vuvuzelas. Patriotism. Boks. Good times. Douchebags. Work. Work. More work. Highs. Lows. Firsts. Making things happen. Twitter. Tequila. Miller Rock the Boat - Round 2. Twenty-(High)Five. Fitness. One Ocean. Wellness. Let-downs. Living it up. Family. Red Bull Racing. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas & we're always in Vegas. Being a bridesmaid. Old friends. Many new friends. Ambition. Two-thousand-and-men.
Most people have said what a hectic year 2010 as been. It definitely hasn't been the easiest of years, but some really good things have happened to me.
The one thing that has remained constant are my friends and family. Pretty damn awesome they are.
Here's to a phenomenal 2011 with much growth, love, success, happiness and laughter.
