On the face of it has been a story that has sat in my notebook, wanting to be written, for the longest time.  Only it didn’t really have a format, a form of media that could best represent it. Until now.

Meet Jazzy Jane.  She’s a spunky funky almost 20 year old with a loose grip on love.  She’s got her whole life to find ‘the one,’ and she’s happy to keep trying on silver slippers – even if they end up being rubber jandals. One day, she’ll find one that fits!

If you’re reading this – you are now one of Jazzy Jane’s Beauty Booty Babes.

Let’s like, totally get started!

Click here for part one

Click here for part two

Click here for part three

Click here for part four


Jazzy Jane’s totally wicked blog

Beauty, booty – and sometimes a brain!

It happened.  It actually happened.  I used the secret powers of the universe to my advantage.  And it was shite.

My beauty, bootyful babes, the universe has taught me a lesson.  It’s like going to psychic.  You might be wanting them to call up Heath Ledger, but you’ve got no control over your scary old Aunt Martha who wants to tell you to stop pouring old cups of coffee out your bedroom window because you’re killing the petunias.

This is how it went down babes…

So I went to the café early.  I got a table and sipped my latte really slowly, waiting for him to arrive.

When I saw him come in, I totally nearly died.  I could hardly look at him I was so nervous.  He was wearing a black music month t-shirt.  Last year’s one.  He paid at the counter and looked around for a seat.  My hands were like, totally shaking, but I figured the universe had given me Z, so I couldn’t back out now.

I’d scanned the room, and knew there was a stool left at the bench by the window.  But this was my opportunity.

Here goes nothing, I thought.

“You can sit here,” I smiled.  I sounded like one of those characters on the Disney Channel.  I tried to make my voice more friendly.  “I’m waiting for a friend, but she’s running late.”  He looked at me, then looked over at the spare stool between the woman with the asthma inhaler and the man with his butt hanging over the stool, his newspaper spread out in front of him.  Z looked back at me and shrugged his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he said, and plonked down opposite me.

“I’m Jane,” I said, and he nodded.  I was sipping the best latte in Wellington, while he had a diet coke.  And I thought, like, that’s okay.  It’s not like there’s a rule that says you have to order coffee.  Even if he was the one who made such a big deal of it on Facebook.

He actually looked a bit hung-over.  His eyes were blood-shot, his stubble like, slightly more than a day old.  But who cares about those little things?  I thought.  I mean, usually I do.  I usually like a man with a smooth, clean-shaven face.  But I mean Z, MY Z!  Was sitting there, right in front of me, sipping a diet coke.  I wasn’t going to sweat the small stuff.

I sneaked a look at him.  His lips were red and shinier than my own, which I had been carefully touching up all morning with my Mac Ladybug lipstick.  I couldn’t stop staring at them.  He must have an excellent lip gloss.

God, my booty babes, I felt so nervous I could have puked.  I was wasting valuable conversation time sitting in awkward silence, staring at his lips.  I need to find some common ground.  I remembered he liked someone’s Facebook status last week;

Sea, sand, surf n sunblock!  It said.

And he’d commented “Awesome!” on their photo of Scorching Bay.  He’d even added a smiley face.

“Isn’t this summer weather great,” I said, “I’ve been at the beach like, every weekend.”

“Not really a beach person,” Z mumbled, “sand sucks.  My mates always drag me along.  Wish they’d give it up.”  Then he got his cell phone out and started taping at the screen.

I mean I guess that’s Facebook for you.  Everyone ‘likes’ stuff, even if they don’t actually mean it.  It’s totally just a mouse click right?

So then Z put his phone down, lifted his coke bottle to his red lips and slugged back half, letting some dribble from the corner of his mouth.  I was totally beginning to wonder if I had the right person.  I mean, this was not the Z I knew.  It was totally like when you’re out dancing and it’s 2am and some cute guy is dancing around you, and your heart totally goes crae-crae and then the music goes all slow and he grabs hold of you, and you realise he’s all sweaty and has hairy inner ears, or a huge zit on his nose, or he looks totally normal and you lean in to hear what he’s saying to you, and when he tells you his name, his voice is like David Beckham’s.  EWWWWW.  Totes Crae-Crae.

Anyway, back to my story.  So Z said,

“S’pose I should get back to work.”  Then he gave me a crooked sort of smile that totally lit up his whole face.  His eyes were a lovely blue, behind the bloodshot bits, and I was totally hooked again.

Reel me in Z, I silently beg.

“What do you do?” I asked, knowing full well he worked for EarthStar, the newest and hottest Music producer in New Zealand.  His Facebook page is like a run down on all the latest gigs he’s been to and the free stuff he’s got.

“I’m in the music business,” he said.  Then he laughed, “actually, I spend 90% of my time making coffee, sorting mail and nicking CD’s.  It’s just a fill in really. My Dad’s golf buddy got me the job.  Not really me, but “you gotta do something with your life,” he says in a deep voice.  He rolls his eyes.

“Have you met anyone famous?”  He’s totally going to say Chris Martin from Coldplay.  I saw him on the Ellen Show last year and I’ve so got a thing for his wife. She is a total babe.  Gwyneth Paltrow is amazing.  Have you seen her on Glee? And she’s got the coolest website called Goop, which is all like natural ways of living, which is totally what I am into.

“Met that bloke from Coldplay,” Z said.

“Chris Martin?” I smiled and nodded.

“Total dick. Middle class snob.  Stopped to chat and have photos like he’s some kind of hero. Tosser.”

Honestly, beauty babes, that’s what he said about Chris Martin. Which is so not true, and so TOTALLY rude.  I had to like, freeze my smile on my face.  It was not what I planned, not at all.

His phone beeped then.  And he had this conversation;

“Is everything all right? I don’t mind Mum, you do what you need to. Yeah, love you too.

So maybe he can’t be that bad if he’s so nice to his mother, I thought.  I was totally trying to hold on to the dream.  But that didn’t last long.

“My mother,” he says “she’s a nurse.  Always out saving the sick and dying.  God forbid her own son was terminally ill, she’d probably reschedule my funeral.”  Then he laughed like it was hilarious.

“Are you?” I asked.  Maybe he’s got a tumour, I thought.  A tiny cluster of tumours growing under his skull, pressing on his brain, making him a total asshole. 

“Na,” he laughed.

I watched him push his chair back.

And then, my beauty booty babes, I realised that, actually, his eyes were a little too far apart, and the wave of blonde hair that looked so sexy in his Instagram photos, was actually really greasy.

Actually, he was kind of slimy all over, and I was almost overcome with the desperate need to drag him to New World and buy him a bar of Protex soap and some Lynx deodorant.

“Hey, it was nice meeting you. You should add me on Facebook; we could grab a drink sometime.”

“Maybe,” I said.

AS.  IF.

Booty babes.  I have totes learned my lesson.  The universe is like, a totally powerful thing.  I was so upset when I got back to work.  Jackson was so nice.  He made me a cup of tea, and got me a packet of wine gums from the vending machine.  One of my accounts had totally sent me a pile of last-minute bookings, and Jackson is doing them while I calm down.

And you know what; I think I’ve figured out where I went wrong.

I didn’t trust the universe.  I tried to tell the universe to hook me up with Z, when what I really should be doing is asking the universe to find me someone awesome.

So I’ve sort of been making a list.  I want someone nice looking, but he doesn’t need to be like, a rock star or anything.  He needs to be funny, and totally understand my work so I can bitch about it at the end of the day and he’ll just like, buy me another wine and totally get what I’m saying.

I know that sounds totally crae-crae, but I totes realised that Z was just a total Facebook show-off.  He was nothing like his profile suggested, and that is just so fake.

So I’m going to go home and meditate tonight, and I’m going to ask the universe to send me someone real.

I’ve got to go my booty babes.  Jackson has finished my bookings and he’s just printed me off the funniest photo of a meditating cat.  I’m gonna staple it to the wall of cubicle.


Later babes  xxx