yucky girl, home girl, mesmerised girl

The actual inaugural post - an introduction of sorts and a list of things I'm currently deeply into <3

Jul 21, 2025

✨This first one is public so feel free to share it.✨

Firstly,

Congratulations on being here. Either I know you personally, you follow my (hopefully) mysterious-cum-forceful instagram presence or you’ve been led here by the enticing marketing imagery (shotties, Canva!!).

Secondly,

Voila! Yucky Girl! Here it is! The mini-treatise of my concept is in the title:

Re: Yucky - to me, it feels like a malevolent wink! an ironic reclamation! The permission to write whatever I want sluts!
yucky/ˈjʌki/

Adjective informal

messy or disgusting.
"yucky green-grey slushy cabbage"

This example from google sucks shit - “yucky green-grey slushy cabbage” sounds very close to sauer-kraut which is both nutritious and delicious and also a food of my people (my grandmother is full blown Dutch, get over it!)

Re: Girl, I’m 33 years old, I’m cognisant of the fact that I’m technically no longer a girl and am a full blown woman, but, I also have had laser hair removal and it’s 2025 so kiss my wispy puss. My dream audience is always girls and also gays. Please also note that I use ‘girl’ in the gender neutral sense, this is NOT a JK Rowling ‘surf and terf’ where we will sit around smoking cigars and conducting twitter transvestigations.

Thirdly,

By way of introduction, I’m Johanna - an actor/comedian/writer/former nanny/trained clown/10 years of hospo/english language assistant/one time influencer (sorry Auckland museum - I absolutely did have covid in the last reel I made for you hehe)

me (Johanna) (in a single bed in the middle of the night) (call cop)

I am an Aries with a Gemini moon and a Sagittarius rising and if you think star signs are phony - you are a misogynist! If men can believe the reason they’re unloveable is because they “don’t take enough whey protein” then I can believe that I’m not obnoxious; I just have a tricky mars placement (Pisces! kms)

I write to you, my sweet gorgeous readers that I would already die for, from my parents' spare room in Wellington. I’ve had a complicated relationship with my hometown. Objectively, it’s the most beautiful capital city on the planet that is named earth. The harbour, the weatherboard houses dotting the hills, the coast line, the funky sculptures, the craggy skyline of native bush. It also culturally peaked in the mid 2000’s and has shocking weather which has created a vibe of anxious apathy and excess of cheese cutters. Google Lord of the Rings premiere 2001 for reference or just trust that I’m not fucken wrong.

At times I’ve come home (mostly heartbroken) and HATED it. At times I’ve felt suffocated by the deep surrounding water, looming maunga and the low hum of the clubs on Courtney Place. Other times, I am truly feeling the fantasy. This time, I loved it. I’ve loved swaddling myself in nostalgia of sitting in the same cafe I’ve sat in since the age of 16, to order the same bowl of fries and listen to the same neo-soul playlist while the same barista with 18 gauge stretchers, goatee and vest loads a mega squirt of whipped cream on the gf brownie and pours Jack Daniels in his cup when no one is looking. I’ve loved reading my horoscope in the Coffee News. I’ve loved to sit in the same toilet I’ve pashed boys in, drunkenly spewed, cried, hidden, wasted time, texted inane thoughts, graffited little spells on the door and had extreme diarrhea (RIP Sweet Mothers kitchen burritos).

I’m here for work which feels delicious to say. “Just here for work!” while nodding knowingly. “Oh, I’m just here for work” is what I said to Kim at ‘Queen Beauty Salon’ while she was soldering on a fresh set of gel extensions. Kim nodded politely and truly couldn’t give two shits. She doesn’t know what I’m currently up to and she absolutely does not remember my request for ‘blue talons' when I was Judith Collins in a political satire 5 years ago. I was not going to be deterred, and showed her a BTS photo of me in scrubs with a fake wound on my shoulder as proof that I’m a professional actor but Kim was disappointed “Oh” she frowned, “Not a naughty nurse then…”

One thing that made me feel so proud to be from Wellington this weekend, is how well dressed everyone is. A walk down Ghuznee Street on Saturday is all I needed to confirm that the girls here have legitimate, bonafide and confirmed personal style. 111 bitch! Auckland found dead, wigless and swinging from the rafters in its Bassike tee, slick bun and wide leg jeans! In the space of 5 metres I saw more interestingly styled outfits than in the last 5 months in Tāmaki. Layers! Glasses! Coats! Bags! Good Hair! Wool knits! Bright shirts! Crisp tailoring! Boots! Skirts! Collars! Even beautifully dressed children! Not a shred of active wear in sight!!!!! AND everyone looked different to each other? I could have wept/pissed myself for joy. God forbid you make an individual sartorial choice anymore out here in these streets in the year of our lord 2025. Fuck you, TikTok.

Here are my personal current sartorial fascinations

THINGS I AM CURRENTLY MESMERISED BY:

Clips on hat.

My friend Stella Reid showed up to the theatre last week with silver clips on her peaked cap and I almost fell off my chair. We were at ChouChou (Circa Theatre bar - a french bistro that has a ‘cocktail tree’ on the menu and accepts bitcoin) The casualness of the hat combined with the glamour of the clips was both practical (Wellington wind, gurl) and fanciful. I love clips. I love hat. I’d never thought to put the two together but I will absolutely be wearing my Jimmy D cap exclusively with pharmacy pearl clips from now on. Thank you Stella Reid. Also go check out her work, and watch The Sound Inside

the cap says “it’s hard to be avant-garde”

Getting access to the Koru Lounge.

You guys I have been in the Koru Lounge all of 1 (one) time and it was… life changing. I had multiple glasses of champagne, a full cheese platter and spied on Tana Umaga before joyfully skipping onto my flight. If there is one thing I love in this life it is a buffet. If there is another thing I love in this life it’s eavesdropping on a former All Black. Quite simply, I have never been more motivated to participate in class violence. I used to think I was okay sitting on the airport floor scoffing a Best Ugly Bagel tuna melt and fighting for my life to get access to the only power point in 700 metres. How wrong I was! I was born to clip clop up that LED lit Air NZ corridor, swipe my airpoints card and swan in to consume 4 bain-maries of scrambled egg and bacon. To gain access to the Koru Lounge you have to pay $834 for a calendar year (apparently worth it if you fly 8-10 times per year) or be a Gold or Elite airpoints partner. As it stands I’ve flown 12 times in the last month alone and airpoints wise am currently here:

Not even close to Silver. Bleak! Send help! Also I’ll never forget the time my dad tried to get me into the Koru Lounge on his airpoints membership by looking the lady at the check-in desk in the eye and word for word saying “Please let my daughter go into the lounge, I cannot fly… due to my cancer…”. The request was firmly denied. He did genuinely have cancer.

Baba Yaga as concept and performance.

For those of you who didn’t have a vested interest in slavic folklore as a young adult (prompted by absolutely nothing) Baba Yaga is a mercurial witch who lives in a Baltic forest in a house raised on stilts made of (living) chicken legs. She flies around in a mortar and pestle and sleeps on a cast iron stove (practical) and sometimes helps travellers and sometimes cooks them into a stew. She is full slay boots puss. I think about her at least 3 times per week and consider her both artistic and personal inspiration. One day I will combine the two in some sort of Marina Abramović-esque performance art piece featuring me suspended from the roof screaming at teenage girls in a larger than life replica of mum’s spice grinder. I genuinely believe Baba Yaga is the key to solving our political problems in NZ (David Seymour = brunch)

Beef sandwich from Fred's on Cuba street in Wellington with Moore
Wilson's OJ and long black.

Absolutely nothing further to add. Run do not walk. This is the perfect meal.

Cunty Knits.

It’s winter in NZ and although I am traditionally a leather jacket/dramatic coat girl, I have been absolutely hooked, completely besotted and ultimately taken in by the allure of the Cunty Knits. Alert my foremothers! I’ve finally come around! Despite resisting wool for years (Glassons merino’s don’t count) on the grounds that “they are scratchy” and “I can feel the wind through the holes” I have decided to view wool as luxurious and sustainable in the year of our lord 2025. I recently purchased this cardi from Ruby and it physically hurts me to take it off. I love it. I feel addicted to it. Who knew that wools softens with wear and as a natural fibre, it breathes. My friend Meg rolled into the bar last week bedecked in Francie - both the cardi AND a Cunty Knit scarf (which can be worn on head and on neck!) It’s days later and I remain sickened with jealousy. I now spend my evenings lurking on the Francie website, debating wether or not to pull the trigger (read: purchase the scarf)

1. Nike Rifts in Premium 'Fire Red' HM5737-600

Okay. The force of the chokehold that these shoes have on me is actually illegal. I glimpsed them on a targeted ad and went okay… she said split that toe! She said gird that ankle! she said The Red Shoes meets Mr Tumnus! She said CLOVEN COMFORT.

I was instantly obsessed. I went and tried some rifts on in a shop to make sure - and this is a genuine sentence I said to the shop assistant - that my feet could handle it. What in the living fuck. I then went home and googled “Nike Air Rifts Premium 'Fire Red' HM5737-600” and realised that they are limited edition. You cannot simply BUY a pair of US Womens size 9 Nike Air Rifts Premium 'Fire Red' HM5737-600. You must forget life as you know it. Your new life consists of trawling reddit threads for links to flash auctions. It consists of scamming your way into the text chain of “a good sneaker guy”. It consists of debating the ethics around fakes and slithering into elite chat groups who can link you to indiscernible replicas. It consists of CAMPING outside PLATYPUS. Never in my *wildest dreams* did I think I’d become a Sneaker Head (derogatory) but hey, it’s 2025. Alexa, play Sneaker Night by Vanessa Hudgens.

yucky girl