Monthly Archives: May 2014

Living with a Ghetto Booty: Blessing, or a Burden?

With the recent nuptials of Kimmy K and Kanye (Krap that’s a Kutla K’s..see what I did there?), otherwise known as hip hop and reality tv’s version of Will and Kate Middleton, or the couple with the world’s largest combined ego, having taken place just a few days ago in Florence, it got me thinking about the all the things Kim and I have in common.

A) Taste in men: To all of my friends who have to put up with my play by play commentary on today’s new tinder matches, it’s no secret I like my men sporty. And so does Kim, according to her little black book: NFL and Basketball players Reggie Bush, Miles Austin, and Kris Humpries just to name a few (yum, yum, and yu..oh wait, tosser.) Another coincidence? We both like em’ tall…I think this picture sums it up pretty nicely.

  • short









AND? We both LOVE hip hop, and although I haven’t dated any tattooed, smooth talking, grill gleaming males as of yet, I’m sure my future hubby will be Jay Z’s next prodigy. God, we’re practically twins! And finally, I think Kim might be onto something here, coz she seems to enjoy a bit of chocolate. And to quote White Chicks, who doesn’t love a beautiful chocolate man!

B) The Ugly Cry. For those that aren’t familiar (and by familiar, I mean hooked) with the billion dollar empire built on a pile of lies and our own weird obsession with knowing everything about celebs that is Keeping Up With the Kardashians, you might not be aware of how ugly Kim looks when she cries. Exhibit A.Kim-Kardashian-Crying-266x400

I actually am not secure enough in myself to show you a pic of what I look like when I cry, but just picture what you see here, but with frizzy, wild red hair, red eyes, big ugly red blotches…well really, just think all red errthang.






C) Ghetto Booty. Probably our biggest similarity, literally, are our sizeable behinds. While I shamefully admit that I am nowhere near as bootylicious as Kimmy (is that even possible, or medically safe?), I’m pretty damn proud of what I do have.


Ghetto Booty can be defined as a term used when you see a girl with a firm, big, tight packed ass; cheers urban dictionary. Just in case that ain’t clear enough, here’s the example they provide: dawg, look at that gir’ls ghetto booty! Just on a side note, if anyone ever actually hears someone say something like this in real life, can you please get it on video?!


I have the lineage from the Robinsons of Hobart, Tasmania to thank for my well endowed behind. I’ve always felt like I drew the short straw when it came to the Clark family genetics. While my little bro stands over 6 foot, with a long and lean physique, the infuriating ability to eat as much shit as he wants and never put on weight, and that aussie beach babe blonde and tanned colouring, I seem to have inherited the red hair, freckles, short legs, and a gigantic ass. As I’ve gotten a bit older though, I’ve come to terms with my bootyliciousness, and now, I embrace it with full force! It seems that there are people out there who would pay big bucks to have a little extra junk in the trunk. These are just a few of the reasons why having a ghetto booty kicks ass..

  1. While this may seem like a pretty insignificant upside, one of the best things about having a huge ass is that it’s bloody comfy to sit on. And for someone who does a lot of sitting on their ass, I really appreciate how important this is. Watching Suits for seven hours straight really is so much better when there’s some cushioning to keep you comfy.
  2. I can squat like a mutha fucker! I am not too shy to say that I could do squats all day, erryday. And I hold the record at booty camp for sitting wall squat holds…over six minutes ya’ll.. wut?!
  3. Having a ghetto booty is defs the best asset to have when partaking in one of my all time favourite activities in life; tearing up the d floor. Especially when some incredible 2000’s RnB tunes come on; think Sir Mix-a-lot’s Baby Got Back! There is literally nothing in life that brings me more joy than shaking dat ass to Ms New Booty by the Ying Yang twins…except for Hot in Here by Nelly. Also, the extra firepower in these glutes gives me the strength and stamina to outlast all those skinny bitches way into the early hours of the morning.
  4. According to science, my ghetto booty is actually the reason why I have low cholesterol, am less susceptible to diabetes and heart disease, have higher levels of appetite controlling hormone Leptin, and an increased life expectancy. Win! Also, my children will be intellectually superior to those born to flat ass parents (I’m not making this up, just ask science!), so all of those bratty future friends of my kids can make as many ‘yo mamma so fat’ jokes as they want!


I know, I know. From the outside looking in, it seems that me and my bootylicious ass have the perfect bootylicious life. But what those out there with a little less in the back will never understand, is that having a ghetto booty is a daily struggle. As with everything in life, you’ve got to take the good with the bad, but sometimes I just wish I could be just a little more in proportion, ya feel me?

To start off with, apparently according to every rap song that ever existed, every man and his dog are supposed to go bananas over my phat ass, so I’m kind of confused as to why there isn’t an orderly line of hotties in da yard frothing over my milkshake (milkshake being my booty in this case). Another common misconception is that gals with a generous hinie look amazing in a pair of hip hugging denim jeans. The reference I’m referring to here is what Jason Derulo so desperately needs to know: How do you fit all of dat in dem jeans? Well JD, the answer is, I can’t fucking fit all of my ass in a pair of fucking jeans! After years and years of searching, I still can’t find a pair of flattering jeans that look casual, and make my ass look ahhhmazing. It’s probably one of my life’s greatest struggles, and I know I’m not the only one out felling the pain #preach. And if it wasn’t already bad enough, I also have to cater for having shorter than normal legs, meaning any half decent looking pair of jeans that I manage to find, I have to cuff them up like a hipster freak *sigh*.

Still on the issue of buying clothes that fit, let’s address how my curved spine and protruding butt make skirts that are a perfectly acceptable length at the front look like they should belong to a baby prostitute from the back coz they’re so short. And say I feel like buying a bikini? Ha, good luck mate. There is no way in hell that I would ever in any universe be able to find a bikini set that could accommodate my size 8 top, and my size fifty thousand bottom. Those cute shorts that I see people wearing to music festivals are also out, mainly coz they look like an ill fitting g string on my behind. And trust me, no one wants to see that!

In terms of everyday situations, having a ghetto booty can make for some uncomfortable moments. For example, those times when there aren’t enough seats to go around, and your friend/old mate wants to share a chair with you? It’s just downright awkward. At work, we have a very small kitchen/behind the counter area, and with six to eight people on a shift at once, my butt is always in the way, so it seems to me like my co workers are constantly trying to cop a feel (not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, but it is when it’s your sixty year old boss, and it’s the seventeenth time it’s happened in one shift. Again, awkward.) I also recently bought a bike to ride to and from uni, and to work on, however, from the first moment I got up on that seat, I realized that this seat would never be able to understand my sizeable needs. Although it saves money, and is great for a spot of exercise, I’m not sure it’s worth the pain!


To conclude, living with a ghetto booty can be both a blessing and burden.

Some days I feel like this.nicki-minaj(4)










Other days, I feel like this.ghetto_booty









But what am I going to do about it? Maybe I could make like my twin Kim K and invest my spare change towards a $3000 a day personal booty tailer. Only problem is, that’s more than I make in a month, so I think I’ll take the more self empowered route, and just werk what I got!








And for a bit of a lol, apparently having a ‘ghetto booty’ is now a medical condition. When Tennessee woman Terry Ragland went to the doc complaining of lower back pain, the legend told her ‘I know what the problem is. Ghetto Booty’. Shocked, she replied ‘Excuse me, Ghetto what?’. So it seems she was a bit offended by this “sexist” remark, but all I have to say is.. shotgun using that excuse for the next time I can’t be assed getting out of bed for a 7am start. Sorry sir, my ghetto booty is playing up something cronic today. Probs will be out of action for the rest of the week.



I think I’m in love!

Crush. noun.

Hopeless infatuation with a person.

A cold and empty romance that will never actually happen.

A painful experience common to kids and young adults that involves being obsessed with someone.


Crush. verb.

To pulverize, to destroy with great force.


I would like to think of myself as an expert on the topic of crushes. In my short 21 years, I have had more crushes than vodka OJ’s..and that’s really saying something, as I may have a serious drinking problem. From the outside, it would seem that I don’t really have a type as such, that I can form unhealthy borderline stalker like attachments to men of any age, appearance and personality type. I like em tall, I like em short. As long as I can stare into them creepily, I don’t care about eye colour. Same goes for hair. As long as you’ve got some, you’re in (that said, I’d run my fingers over Chris Judd’s magnificent bald head any day). Really, my only non negotiables are: job, car, penis. Not necessarily in that order.

History shows that my crushes can be categorized into two distinct groups.

A)    Real life unattainable boys. Basically sums up my high school experience. Think older, cooler, most popular guy in school, complete with a bad ass element pencil case and shorts half way down his backside. I found them in all areas of the school, from the rugged, cocky captain of the footy team, to the sweet crooner in the choir room. Although they were all very different, they all knew how to wear their shirts untucked in that way that got my heart racing. Another thing they had in common; they all had no idea I existed.

B)    Celebrity fantasy boyfriends. Now these crushes were a bit more fun, because with these luscious leading men, I could really indulge in the fantasy of it all. I’m talking fully thought out and imagined back stories. Take Zac Efron – we met when he came to Adelaide to promote a movie and had breakfast at the café where I work. I cooked him a full breaky, our eyes locked over the counter, and he gave me a wink and his number on a napkin. He flew me over to LA on a private jet and treated me to a night of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries. It was magical. But of course, our busy schedules got in the way, and it didn’t work out. But we’re still very good friends. Unfortunately, the chances of me meeting Channing Tatum in the supermarket, or any (or every) member of One Direction while out with the gals is pretty slim.

Whether they’re unattainable in my real life, or in my dreams, there is one thing that all of these men have in common. They’re men! The term girl crush gets thrown around a lot these days, and I have to say that I haven’t quite jumped on that bandwagon yet. Don’t get the wrong idea! As much as I love my girlfriends, and adore marvelling at how strong, independent, intelligent, and beautiful they all are, I’ve never really been one to ‘girl crush’. But that says more about me and my issues than anything else. When I see a successful, beautiful woman, rather than admire her, and wonder where she gets her hair done, my first instinct is one of jealousy. Call it irrational, but I know I’m not the first gal to instantly hate on the baddest bitch in da club just coz.

As with most things in life, except of course when it comes to bros b4 hoes, there are some exceptions to the rule. One word. Beyonce. Another slightly less bootylicious but none the less exceptionally amazing exception to my anti girl crush rule is Emma Stone. And because it’s my blog and I can do whatever the hell I want, I will now proceed to tell ya’ll why Em can do no wrong!


  1. She’s a RANGA…well, sort of.

Even though technically Emma is a natural blonde, I’m calling it. Just like Aussies have been stealing from the Kiwis for years: Pavlova and Russel Crowe, I have decided that we auburn haired gals are claiming Emma as one of our own. Don’t fight me on this. Just let it slide. Us Rangas don’t have much to get excited about these days, what with our population dwindling and all.


  1. She’s a basic bitch just like you and I.

If you haven’t heard of the term ‘basic bitch’, then it probably means that you aren’t a basic bitch and don’t spend your entire life watching YouTube videos…and actually have interests other than the Jonas Brothers and Keeping Up with the Kardashians. However, now the rest of us can rejoice and own our basicness, coz if it’s good enough for my gal Emma then it’s sure as hell good enough for me! Also, she memorized all of the Spice Girl’s autographs and can replicate them on demand. There’s nothing basic about that. That takes pure skill.


  1. She looks incredible in everything. Legit, all the time.

I think a picture speaks a thousand words. In the case of this particular image of Em at the 2014 Met Gala, I’d like to quote the words of miss Foxy Cleopatra, coz damn she’s a whole lotta woman!



  1. She’s not just a pretty face.

I believe Emma Stone to be the whole package. Not only does this girl have beauty, killer pins, a husky voice that drives us wild, and an epic sense of humour, she’s also got some serious brains! Known for calling out sexism in the media and film industry, she uses her superwoman confidence to speak up and fight for what she believes in! She even corrected her Spiderman boyfie of 3 years Andrew Garfield when he accidently made a cringy comment about sewing not being a manly activity in front of some young impressionable school kids. Not cool.


  1. Speaking of Andrew Garfield…

Can they just stop being so cute? And by that, I mean, can you please never, ever, ever break up..ever!


  1. She’s successful and ambitious, and knows what she wants.

When it comes to her career, this girl means business! At the age of 15, Em managed to persuade her parents to let her move to LA to pursue acting through what must have been an extremely convincing and epic PowerPoint presentation titled ‘Project Hollywood’. Who does that? A bloody legend, that’s who! And wow did it pay off.


  1. She said this…

You’re only human. You live once and life is wonderful, so eat the red velvet cupcake.

You know what Emma Stone; I think I will have that cupcake!


  1. Finally…

She knows all the words to ‘All I Do is Win’ by DJ Kahled. I feel she may have been a glorious black woman in her previous life.


To eat, or not to eat?

It’s that eternal, all consuming question. Will I eat that packet of twisties? We’re all human, and for the most part, except for some extremely fussy and rude customers who have a special place in hell reserved for them, we’re all wired the same way. When it comes to our brains, there are a few basic necessities that consume our thoughts: love, money, friendships, sex, work, and family. And then there’s food. I’ve never been to the doc and had a scan done or anything, but I’m pretty sure there is a significantly larger amount of space dedicated in my brain purely to thinking about food than the average person. Not sure about anyone else, but I spend more time thinking about what I’m going to eat, what I have eaten, what I’d like to eat, and what I shouldn’t have eaten than I actually spend eating! Last night I found myself in that torturous position that anyone who has to keep a keen eye on their figures knows all too well. Sitting in the restaurant, on the outside I was the picture of happiness, but on the inside I was struggling between whether to order something “healthy”, or whether just to not give a fuck and have the giant plate of cheesy and oh so naughty nachos. It’s a struggle that so many of us go through daily, between what we want, and what we know we should have.

Food and I have always had a rocky relationship. Actually, I could probably compare my relationship with food to that of an actual relationship. When I was a child, food and I were the very best of friends. Just like at the beginning of a new relationship, everything was exciting, and I didn’t have a care in the world. I was always a chubby little gal, but I never cared. I’ve always been competitive, and before I was old enough to understand much about anything, I loved that I was bigger than the other kids. It was like a game, and I was the winner. It wasn’t until about year 6, when the idea of having a boyfriend suddenly became a thing, that I started to become conscious of how my body looked, but more importantly, of how others saw me. I wondered why the boys I liked didn’t like me back. No, it couldn’t have been my completely over the top, verging on ADD personality, or the fact that I had a thick, curly red mullet for most of my early teens. No, it was definitely because I was fat. At that point, I realised that there was a direct correlation between how much I weighed, and how much people liked me.

Throughout my teens, food and I had more ups and downs than an episode Game of Thrones. The honeymoon period was well and truly over, and things started to get hard. With so many mixed messages floating around, it’s no wonder I found it difficult to get things straight. So, was I meant to be loving myself, accepting my natural shape and all that shit? I’m sure they said that I should embrace what ma mamma gave me…which in my case is short legs and a delicious ghetto bootay. Wait, or am I meant to be striving to become the best version of myself, and always trying to improve and make changes for the better?

Now that I’m in my twenties, food and I are like an old married couple. We fight, we get annoyed at each other, and sometimes I really hate food! But on the other hand, I really looove food, and I can see the bigger picture. My emotions play a huge role in determining whether it’s going to be a jump out of bed and feel really good about myself while drinking my chia seed smoothie kind of day, or more like a 5 pieces of toast for breakfast and no makeup kind of thang. Almost without fail, I wake up everyday with the best intentions to have a “good” day. At 11am, when I accidently cook an extra serve of salty, crispy, gooey haloumi cheese at the café, my inner fat gal (let’s just call her Fran) starts to growl and lick her lips. Heel Fran!, I say, and throw that delicious cheese into the bin. I know, I know, it’s sacrilege, but I don’t need it. But come 3pm, after 8 hours on her feet, Fran is fucking pissed. She’s tired, flustered, and wants hot chips and a toastie, and just too easy to let her off the leash. And once she’s been set free, all hope is lost. I’m talking packets of BBQ shapes, slice after slice of white bread, cheese and butter. And god forbid I have cash on me coz then I’m heading straight to Baker’s Delight for a cutla cheesymite scrolls.

It always feels so good to let go, but then what? The guilt starts to set in about three quarters of the way through the packet of fruit chocs, and by the time it’s just me sitting on my bed surrounded by Bakers Delight wrappers and bread crumbs, all that insecurity and shame comes flooding back. For me, it’s a constant battle. It’s not the watching what goes into my mouth part that sucks, but more the negative connotations associated with what goes into my mouth. In what universe is it a criminal offence to eat a Tim Tam, or have a full cream coffee? It’s absolutely ludicrous, but it’s a shame there are so many of us out there that unfortunately have this mindset. I find the biggest challenge is taking the time to figure out, for what reason am I willing to drive to the 24 hour servo at midnight to buy, and then demolish a packet of barbie shapes? Is it coz I’m bored? Maybe I’m tired and feeling particularly bitchy. It doesn’t have anything to do with that guy not messaging me back, or that I had a fight with one of the girls, does it?

In the end, one packet of chips isn’t going to be life changing. I’m not going morph into a 200kg slug…but what could be life changing is a shift in attitude. Maybe I’ll re read this to myself next time I’m sitting in bed and start deliberating over whether to indulge in 10 slices of toast. Maybe it’ll help me to remember that I actually only really need one.