I fall in love easy. Not with boys, but with objects, concepts, theories, and stories. My life-long love that I am not ashamed to shout from the rooftops  is the focus of this blog. Unlike my long list of fads this is a life-long obsession which I am compelled to share with my internet fan-base (which admittedly consists of my family and a scattering of friends).

Gingers. I simply cannot get enough. I find my eyes drawn to red-heads and purposely seek them out to be friends, lovers, or simple pieces of eye candy. What draws me to gingers is not the lack of skin pigments, or the generous dose of hair pigments (I do not know if that is the correct terminology but this is my blog, I do what I want) it is their care-free attitude to life, often sprinkled with quirky characteristics which leave me fascinated and jealous.

Perhaps it is society's willingness to mock the red-haired population and their comical responses to the taunts and soulless driven jokes, but nearly every ginger I meet embraces their natural hair colour and takes on the jokes as part of their persona. I have a friend who deserves all the love in the world. Being one of the funniest people I know he is usually the first to crack a 'ginger joke' just to  ease people into conversation. I sometimes wonder if he does this to break the ice in a "I'm ginger, we can laugh, it is okay" kind of way. The first time I met him I labelled him as a 'ginger ninja' in an attempt to win him over with my wit, only to be amazed by his wide vocabulary and knowledge of every ginger joke under the sun. His ability to make friends at the snap of a finger made me fall head over heels for him. But what made me  love this boy was his red hair. It set him apart from everybody. He wasn't just a tall funny brunette, he was a tall, funny ginger who wore it with pride. I am still friends with this boy, and I hope that if I ever have children one day he can visit and teach them his wit and perhaps give them the comfort and confidence I sometimes lack so they can be as perfect as him.

One of my very best and dear friends is a natural red-head. Her entire family was blessed with the ginger gene and they remain as one of the most inviting families I have ever had the pleasure to meet. When we first met we were shy (her more than me) third years, both exploring alcohol and study. What drew me to this girl was her sweetness. Without having properly hung out before we both went to an Honours meeting at our University and she willingly drank departmental wine, asked questions about people, listened and replied with hilarious yet modest tales. Her modesty and can-do attitude has led to a tight friendship. When we  were close enough (sleeping at each others houses, building forts, making dinner, sharing our deepest secrets) I finally worked up the courage to tell her to stop dying her beautiful locks shades of blonde and brown. To hide such beauty was placing her into the category of everyday girls, and when she finally returned to her natural red hair she was transformed into a ginger goddess. I count my lucky stars everyday that I am friends with this girl. She blows my mind with her ability to care about others and laugh at herself. If I have children who are half as amazing as this girl I will think myself the luckiest person on the planet.

Having a hairdresser  for a sister (one of the best in the world by the way - that girl has talent rays beaming out of her) flicking through fashion magazines at the salon is a regular activity. I find myself flipping through pages of blonde bobs, black curls, and brown fringes and closely inspecting pages full of red, ginger, strawberry blonde and auburn styles wishing that I had been blessed with the ginger gene and not cursed  with the mousy brown locks I naturally have. This obsession has led to hours  scrolling through pages  of famous red-haired celebrities thanks to my favourite IMDB page and Google Images. My undying love for gingers has led me to obsessions with ginger celebrities, of whom I have placed into my "would turn gay for" and "would die to meet" lists. I have compiled a list of red-haired celebrities who have given ginger locks the popularity it so badly deserves.

Emma Stone

Naturally a blonde, Emma Stone has increasingly popularised the red-haired trend on an international scale. Being a fresh and ever so popular celebrity, the dyed red locks both look stunning and add to her intelligent and quirky personality. I say personality based on assumptions which I have gained by watching countless interviews, behind the scenes segments and every single film she has been in. What draws me to Emma Stone apart from her hair and unusual beauty is her husky voice. Having a husky voice myself (not from years of smoking, but from a lifetime of constant yelling and talking) I felt drawn to her as somebody other than Scarlet Johansson  (who has ditched the iconic blonde hair  for a sophisticated red-do) did not have the baby voice, or dull middle aged typical female voice and was a voice for the minority of girls who can put on a very convincing male voice if the  time ever arose.

Julianne Moore

This natural ginger is hands down one of the best actresses ever. If you have ever seen Boogie Nights (which I cannot recommend enough) , A Single Man, Children of Men, and Evolution (to name a select varied few) you would know that Julianne Moore is an actress who pushes the boundaries and delivers convincing performances time after time, meeting criteria of both genre and audience expectations. Being a similar age to my mother, Julianne's beauty is both breath taking and natural. I am not 100% sure if she has ever been under the knife like so many of our plastic loving celebrities out  there, but her beauty appears to be ageless and captivating. What sets her apart from other celebrities is her long, stunning red hair. The red and auburn tones perfectly  accentuate her milky white skin. It is in my opinion that if she had brown, blonde, or black hair  she would still be the sensational actress yet she may have not made it  to the title of Star as her red hair gives her a unique and recognisable trait, a necessity in Hollywood.

Amy Adams

The first time I saw this actress was in Drop Dead Gorgeous as a beauty pageant contestant, playing a supporting role against Kirsten Dunst, Denise Richards and Kirstie Alley. Her hair was strawberry blonde but the entertaining and sweet performance she gave intrigued me to follow her career. Amy Adams has blossomed into a internationally renowned celebrity who deserves awards and praised due to her outstanding collection of performances. Living in the media saturated world one of her most recent roles in the almighty Muppets film has, in my opinion, allowed her to become an icon to children, casting aside ginger jokes and making the hair colour fashionable and desirable.

Florence Welch

Not only can this woman wail, but by gosh is she stunning. Not a natural red-head, the famous 'Florence and the Machine' singer has made red-locks a fashion necessity. I remember when Florence and the Machine arrived on the music scene. Suddenly there was this funky red-head who wore elaborate outfits, sang her heart out and delivered unique singles time after time. Being an impressionable culture (me in particular, my adaptability and eagerness to please is no secret) brunettes and blondes were transforming themselves into Florence wannabes (I say wannabe in the most friendly way possibly, the negative connotations of this word are unnecessary in this context). After a long-time of South Park fuelled ginger jokes supported by angry gingers validating their soul's presence, the red-head community is finally being celebrated and advertised as a necessity.

Facebook and I have a weird relationship. I hate that people update their statuses with constant reminders of what they are cooking for dinner, when they last took a shit, what restaurant they are eating it, what they named their new car, and bitchy vague comments about people they hate. I am being a complete hypocrite here as I have updated my status ticking every box of 'hates' at least once or twice. What I do love, however, are people who post photos of new hairstyles, particularly those who have dyed theirs red. For the beautiful blondes who turn ginger, the brunettes who go crazy and lighten their hair red, and the dark haired people who relish in red tinges - I salute you.

This trend which has become increasingly popular is fantastic. What annoys me about the 'Hipster Generation' is that the anti-mainstream mindset means that talented musicians, actors, and fashion accessories get put down as soon as mainstream culture places it onto the ever changing band-wagon. Living in a city where mainstream is the minority and hipsters are the majority, I am pleased to see both groups jumping on the red-head train. What would break my heart if this trend were to reverse and in an attempt to go against the grain hipsters were to publicly announce their dislike for ginger, and in a vain attempt to copy the hipsters, mainstream followers were to copy this mindset. Although, in saying that, with Hollywood shoving red-haired celebrities down our throats and brainwashing Western society to love what they tell us to love we will simply comply and do as we are told.

One of the reasons I wrote  this blog is that I need to reassure myself that I fit neither into hipster nor mainstream society. I have loved ginger hair since I was a young girl. I cannot remember mocking gingers until high school. Before then, ginger hair was nothing to be laughed at. For me, it was to be loved and cursed that I too could not grow such beautiful hair. When it became internationally cool to mock gingers I felt a sense  of guilt if people were being overly mocked to the point where it was no longer about the hair colour, and more about the person instead. Being a person who hates personal attacks and bullying, taunting gingers was a chance for mediocre bullies to exercise their power over what became a minority. I think this is what caused me to love ginger people. Majority of the red-heads rose up against the personal attacks and retaliated with witty comebacks, ripping themselves out, or if it were personal enough, pointing out the mocking parties' flaws.

So in a tribute to the gingers of this world I have had my locks dyed ginger by the fabulous Elizabeth Sherriff of Glory Hair Salon. Here is me. I am a ginger for the win.

Sometimes when I read the words of Aristotle, Karl Marx, and Dr Seuss I think that I too can be a great thinker. So here is my blog on philosophical thoughts.

Or not. While drinking wine with a group of people we got talking about the weird and magical things we did in our youth. By youth I do not mean twenties like the people in their forties like to reminisce over. I mean primary school years. Here is a list of the odd things I did as a child that countless others from my generation did too.

Partly open a coke bottle and drinking with the cap on

Now I don't know why this was such a hip thing to do but the general gist was you got a bottle of coke (or any fizzy drink, pepsi if you were going against the grain, sparkling duets if you had the classy vibe going on), opened it slightly so the *fizz* sound happened, left the cap on and threw your head back while you sucked the sugar down like a right old trooper. I don't know why we did this or who thought it would be a great idea. All I remember is getting sore cheeks from desperately trying to suck more fizzy down than the tiny gap would allow. The number of times it leaked through my back-pack was ridiculous and I swear the teachers thought I owned brown books instead of the stock standard white and red 1B5s.

Chatter-rings

Imagine a circle of metal with five golden rings hanging off. You have the picture in your mind? Hold it there and imagine using one hand to hold the circle and the other to click the rings to make them chatter against each other and loop around the circle. Sounds simple enough, right? Well it was. But by joves this simple pleasure was one hell of a craze. Hours were spent trying to walk the dog (dragging it along the ground with all rings chattering), alternate chatting rings, swapping hands and a long list of other variations. A few months back I saw a teenager walking through town with chatter-rings. Being the kind of person who likes to state the obvious I exclaimed "Chatter-rings!" and memories came flooding back. He seemed pretty happy that I knew what they were, but I also think he thought I was a crazy head because I was by myself and wearing tights as pants. I remember a girl from school making her own chatter-rings out of a plastic tube and milk bottle tops. She was adamant that they could work and I spent a good fifteen minutes cheering her on in the hopes that the home-made version could upstage the Warehouse ones. Just so you all know they didn't work but I trust that they might have once if she shook them hard enough.

Pizza Hut buffet - a fat kid's heaven

I cannot remember a single time I went to Pizza Hut buffet and ate pizza. Before health and safety got all up in arms about the lack of hygiene standards (way to  buzz kill by the way) the Pizza Hut buffet was right up there with McDonald's birthday parties. The only difference being Pizza Hut offered an unlimited supply of dessert. The number of times a grudging parent would take a group of children to Pizza Hut and watch them compete against each other to eat mountains of ice cream, bowls of chocolate sauce and marshmallows and piles of jelly cubes makes me feel queasy. At the time it was unlimited fun followed by agonising pain. But this was before the days of weight gain and after the age when peeing in the ball pit of Georgie Pie was a big no no so we have to remember this with the fondest of emotions. In saying that I remember sitting in the bathroom of a Pizza Hut and crying because I thought my stomach was going  to explode. Thinking back it is a surprise I ever got invited anywhere. Who wants to be friends with the crying kid who can't handle their sugar? Kill joy.

Four Square

A true Kiwi kid knows this game. For those who don't know the almighty four square rules there were four squares (really Katie? Four squares?! Who would have thought!), four being the best and one being the worst. Each person had a square and the aim was to bounce the ball once in a square. Bouncing the ball twice in somebody's square kicked them out and the ranks moved up. Hours must have been spent pondering these rules, surely. The lunch bell would ring and I swear we must have looked like a pack of rats running to a mound of rubbish the way we sprinted to the four square courts. The same people always won and the same people always lost. One of the best days of my primary school life was beating one of the rugby boys and becoming number four. For that moment I was Queen of my primary school. The moment lasted two seconds when my arrogance and lack of hand-eye coordination got the better of me. Ahhh what dreams are made of.

Scooters

I am pleased to see that these have made quite the comeback. We had wheels day at our primary school and the kids who had any sort of wheels (boys had skateboards, girls had bicycles and a mixed bag had scooters) would go round and around and around the top field racing each other, doing kick flips and occasionally falling off. My scooter had bright orange wheels and came tumbling down a hill after me when I got cocky and decided to race a car that was driving down the road. I think that the person who put gravel on the driveway at the bottom of the street had it in mind that some little girl was going to one day zoom down the hill, lose control and fall down like a sack of potatoes onto the sharp pieces of stone. Which, by the way is not ideal when you have to pick gravel out of your hands and knees  when you're crying and cursing gravity. But ka pai to those modern retro kids who have managed to successfully stay upright on their scooters. Reminds me of the time when I thought I was a skateboard champ. Riding through student-ville was easy enough. Riding through the main street on a busy day with a slight hill was not. Big shout out to the lady who came running after me when I fell off and went skidding across the BP court. I'm sorry I ran away but I had to save my board from oncoming traffic and hide in a bush and cry. I was 20. Like a boss.

Superstar

When I wasn't dreaming of being an astronaut or teacher I wanted to be famous. The most obvious place to start was in front of the mirror with a hairbrush or impulse can, S Club 7 (or any other great 90s band) and a lung full of air. I know for a fact I was not the only person to sing pop songs in front of the mirror. But I do know that I was not one of the greatest. It would be sensational to say that I was a miniature Whitney Houston (excluding the drug problem and eventual overdose) but alas, my musical talent is similar to that of a group of sick and dying cats. To this day I am adamant that along with my loud and obnoxious voice, my 'intense' singing killed some of my Father's hearing cells (hearing cells?). Apologies Pops, if it helps I too am partially deaf. That will teach me for having no inside voice.

Chicken

I am sure that this was a universal game. There was an episode on Scrubs when JD and Dr Cox play gay chicken. I watched it as a teenager and laughed to myself about the times at primary school when a boy or girl would rub someone of the opposite sex on the leg and wait until either one yelled chicken. Being young and pre-pubescent this game only ever got to the mid thigh before somebody was too chicken to go on. I miss those days. Nowadays if someone were to play chicken it would lead to a full on pornographic film, minus the camera unless they were that way inclined. And hey, if that's what you're into you go get 'em tiger.

Superman

If you have never drawn a 3D superman 'S' then I just don't know what to say. For some reason drawing S on EVERYTHING was super cool and artistic. Lacking in any artistic ability (apart from the time when I drew a very life-like sloth and frightened a friend with it in high school) I always drew mine backwards. For some reason I could not grasp how peoples made theirs look like an actual S. Mine always looked like I had drawn it in the mirror. I had spent ages practising so I could turn up to school and be part of the in crowd with my super fly S when I must have panicked because the  S I drew on the whiteboard was once again back to front. So naturally I blamed it on a girl I hated and the boys laughed at her. Not my proudest moment but I freaked out and she always had the girls gushing over her latest Polly Pocket accessories. I couldn't afford Polly Pocket so the next best thing was a Superman S. Apologies to the girl who took the rat. You took it well by yelling and drawing a correct S. Nicely done.

Smack the groin

I had no idea what to put as a sub-title for this. Smack the groin seems appropriate and attention grabbing. Now was it just us Dunedin kids or did everybody else jump up, take both hands and bang both sides around the nether regions in a "screw you" type of action? This became the new fingers for a time and instead of flipping people the bird we would happily smack our crotches, grunting or saying "take THAT." Luckily we were too young and naive to understand the obvious sexual innuendo attached to this act and I am sure the older kids and our parents were face-palming at our actions.

Pen-pals for life

Whatever happened to snail mail? The good old days when you would carefully print a friend's name onto a crisp envelope, cover it with stamps and post it in the postbox only to wait for a week for a reply of "Hi. I too am fine. Thanks for the letter. See you at school. Friends for life." It was a good thing I wrote letters to myself, otherwise Valentines Day would have been awkward.

Memories. Sweet sweet memories. I hope I wasn't the weirdest kid on the block. I have a feeling I was but I'm okay with that.

Remember that episode of The Simpsons when Homer makes his own website and it is full of dancing Jesus, talking mouths and a lot of banging noises? If this blog turns into that then I have either achieved greatness or failed miserably.

A week ago I was all "Blogging? I think I have seen this in a big-budget Hollywood film with a mediocre cast and the usual teeny-bop icons blasting their auto-tuned medleys." But after stalking the three blogs I have recently started following, I realised that I too can be part of this phenomenon which will no doubt mean nothing in a year or two. Lets be honest, give this a few months and I'll be off the radar.

Something you should know before you follow me. I am into fads and they only last a month, two at the absolute max. So to humour you, internet, here are the fads which I am most proud of having started and never quite finished.

Meat = no deal.

I was vegetarian for two months (with copious amounts of cheating and boasting about how I was uber humanitarian). This started before I travelled to South East Asia (like how I snuck that in there? Oooh I'm just so cultured and experience - whoopdeedoo). The thought of getting a bulimic ass on night buses and long flights had no appeal whatsoever. So before I departed I announced to the two people who cared (and who were unlucky enough to sit next to me on the plane) that I was now a full-time vegetarian. Twenty minutes later I was eating microwaved salmon covered in what was meant to be creamy sauce but what I think was actually melted plastic. While in Asia I did manage to stick to the no-meat diet. Apart from the time when four of us (my sister and two excellent people I met on my travels) broke down in South Cambodia in the middle of nowhere. We were taken in by a Christian family who happily killed a chicken for us to feast on. The vegetarian inside me screamed no! But the hungry well-mannered person ate that chicken and even licked the bones. My bout of vegetarianism lasted two months. After moving cities I wanted to keep up this clean, green and caring persona but the burger joint down the road quickly killed that dream and I am once again a lean (well not quite), mean meat eating machine.

Save us Jebus!

Christianity. One of the longest fads of my life. Now don't get me wrong. This is NOT a ramble about "Oh who am I? Does God really exist? What is the big bang?" I now believe in facts. These are the facts. I used to believe in God. I used to think that a man in the sky made us, judged us, cared for us, and those who did not care about him were destined to rot in hell for all eternity. While some people from the twisted church I went to for most of my teenage years celebrated the fact that their non believing 'friends' were going to hell, I was not one of them. I remember praying to this magic man in the sky to save everybody. Not just the people I loved, but everybody. Was it wrong that I wanted to save those who sinned? Now I look back and think that to wish people to an eternity of torture is completely against morality, mine in particular. Watch Zeitgeist, that documentary opened up my naive mind and showed me that Christianity is not going to be in my deck of cards. 

I am woman, hear me clean.

This fad pops up on my calendar sometimes. I enjoy a clean kitchen. There is nothing quite like the feeling of leaving the clean plates in a cupboard and spreading my charcoal toast on a clean bench. The crumbs get swept in the sink and my hungry stomach enjoys the faint after taste of some sort of cleaning product (exaggerating a tad about the cleaning product taste). But my room, what a sty. I'm one of those floor-drobe kind of gals. I know what is clean and I know what is dirty. Once every two weeks (maybe more, maybe less) I'll work myself into a frenzy and pick up my clothes and place them in the lonely set of drawers and actually use the coat-hangers I have acquired from people, laundry piles and retail stores. Glade gets popped in the wall (although it stays there permanently now that I don't have a window I can open in my room), and my bed gets rearranged or tidied up so I don't look so derelict. I should point out that I don't keep food scraps in my room and I shower daily, sometimes even twice. What a catch.

Romeo, Oh Romeo. Where for art thou Romeo.

Boys. I don't know why, but I can never seem to attach myself to boys. I like boys. I get crushes on boys, I look at their Facebook profiles, occasionally like a status that contains proper grammar or hilarious anecdote, I get the giggles when they text and I get excited when I see them. But it's everything else after that which I can't seem to get right. It is as if everything good about a boy suddenly shuts off and my mind tells me that they are nothing special any more. Suddenly I can't stand being around them and find myself quickly shoving them in the friend (or non-existent) zone. Defence mechanism maybe? This fad turns me on guys then at the blink of an eye turns me off them again. So, to the future 'man of my dreams' (and I blame Disney, Sex and the City and the numerous 90s teen movies I have watches over the years for this) I hope the fad finally ends.

Work it baby, work it!

Sports. Unlike a lot of 'girly girls' I regularly associate with, I like sports. I like drinking beer, cheering for a team, discussing tactics (if I know the jargon) and critisicing players. When it comes to playing however, no deal. I was always one of those mediocre players who yelled a lot, made bad jokes, fell over and span around. I can catch a ball, maybe with my eyes closed providing it doesn't go straight for the kisser. But the number of sports that I have gotten worked up over, bought equipment for and quickly cast aside is a joke.
Soccer taught the five year old Katie (third person, hello!) that running around in the cold chasing after a ball was not an ideal Saturday activity. I have to thank my poor Father for putting up with an upset child for the few weekends where instead of playing I threw tantrums and cried. The one time I did play was only because I was annoying myself with my whimpering and wanted to warm up. It paid off by getting a player of the day trophy which I married to my Barbie later that day.
Netball taught me that girls who do not cut their fingernails are bitches.
Touch rugby taught me that social sports actually meant getting mocked by the A teams and only playing one game was enough to say "Oh I've played touch before."
Tennis taught me that being hungover during a match against a posh girl four years younger and five times better was a recipe for disaster when boys your age (during the years when you're completely self conscious) are watching.
Kick-boxing taught me that some things should be ditched for glasses of red wine.
Running taught me that shin splints aren't actually as cool as they sound. They hurt and you walk like somebody has shoved a large pole up your backside and kicked you in the legs for good measure.

Blogging

So this blog should set the tone for my latest fad, blogging. I like to think I can keep this up, entertain the few people who politely follow, and start an open diary exposing my secrets to the world wide web. I like to think that this won't be a fad, but every diary I have ever started has lasted a few weeks. Is May too late to make a new years resolution?

What a cliché. This is like making a film about making a film. Blogging about blogging. This will be the one and only time that this happens and I promise to clog this up with the most meaningless posts which will entertain, shock, and surprise you. Gee, aren't you lucky?