To whom it may concern,

“Would your parents be open to being interviewed about their sex lives…by you?” and “Can you find me a psychopath, surely there’s one that’s done a TedTalk” are just a couple of questions I was asked at VICE that I’m almost certain would be considered out of the ordinary anywhere else.


I decided to intern at VICE while visiting my parents in Melbourne – partly for the invaluable experience and partly because mum doesn’t really enjoy people relaxing in the house for more than a week. I’d already pushed this boundary for 3 more weeks than anyone had ever managed before and it was time to get back to being productive.

Working at VICE brought back serious ‘1st day of school’ vibes. I couldn’t figure out where I fit in. Walking into the warehouse cum officespace, I noted almost every female had a micro-fringe, didn’t care for their bras and were letting their armpit hair grow (I’m assuming for feminism (but not their leg hair…still investigating this logic)). The guy in charge of me skateboarded to work and I was definitely the most square person in the room. On my first day, I sat in front of a girl who had piercings, a micro fringe and a mullet and she was making it work – Do you know how cool you have to be to make a mullet look good?

Covers of books aside, the level of wit and intellect was on a completely different playing field. These young, super fresh minds seemed to know about everything: politics, new music, current events, fashion, pop culture, art from every era, knowledge of drugs and their aftereffects. There were no censors and they unleashed this knowledge on their website on a daily basis.

While everyone was warm, they were incredibly focused and single-minded in their work. My ideas didn’t seem to fit and I didn’t have an edgy way of executing them – this struggle lasted for almost three weeks. No, I didn’t want to write about my parent’s sex lives; there’s not enough money in the world to make me write about that and I wasn’t getting paid at all, I’m also genuinely not that curious about the effects of inhaling nitrous oxide on the brain, I will however definitely hunt down a psychopath for your article on ‘how to get over breakups like a psychopath’,

I was almost defeated – I’d completed one interview of a Kiwi band and the editor edited in swear words so that ruled out sharing it with my Gran. One day I sat across from another girl, this one had multiple tattoos of various religious symbols of which I’m almost certain she had no belief in, and I thought sod it – I’m going to write about something none of them can, I’m playing the brown card.

And so I interviewed my Granny about arranged marriages. They edited out all the nice things I said about my Gran to make it edgier but I think it still turned out alright. She was cool with it because as the pre-edited version would read, she’s a boss.

I did learn a lot about good writing from this bunch of geniuses. I also learned that there’s a component named psilocybin in magic mushrooms which research shows when given to terminal patients can eradicate the feeling of dread and fear of dying. Fun fact. I’m not sure I’ll ever be edgy enough to work at VICE but damn, it made me want to be good enough to write there.

Lemons and Lulu


To whom it may concern,

It’s been a month since I’ve returned to Christchurch and the hunt for a weekend job continues. Thankfully since my previous post, I’ve had nothing short of miracles come through to sustain my eating habits. I’ve started freelancing and getting paid for my writing which is super exciting! and I don’t want to brag but I will shortly be the presenter for the introduction to learning services video at my school despite never having used the learning services.

However, after having done the cv drop in my neighbourhood I was feeling a tad glum when I hadn’t heard back from anyone. Until I received a call a couple of weeks ago from my local Lululemon. Why apply at Lululemon you ask? because their store smells delicious and the irony of me working at an athletic wear store is too good an opportunity to pass up.

The call came at an awkward time, a minute before I was to donate blood. So when the manager introduced herself to me I apologised in advance, “I’m sorry if I have to cut this call short, I’m just about to give blood – I mean donate it, I’m not just giving my blood away”. Now there’s an opening sentence that won’t freak people out.

Surely deterred, she invited me for a group interview.

Manager: “Yeah! come ready to get a bit sweaty…”

Me: “Pardon?”

Manager: “We’ll have a trainer there who will take you through an HIIT (High-intensity, interval training) workout before your interview.

Me: “Oh great, my two favourite things”


Image via Flickr


Already regretting my decision I was assured by my friends that I would be fine. I was not. Wearing borrowed Lululemon gear, which was ridiculously comfortable might I add, I walked to my interview – my heart in my throat.

I was greeted by a ridiculously tall and good looking man and his equally good-looking partner. Matt and Whitney are part of the HIIT Squad; they are Zuu instructors – where all the exercises mimic the actions of animals: bear crawls, monkey squats etcetera. They’re a level of good looking and fit that you hate in people but you can’t hate Matt and Whitney because they’re also so damn nice. My brain was confused and angry.

There were four other applicants who all looked like they knew their organic greengrocer by name, y’know? Matt asked if the team generally kept active to which one applicant said “yeah I run marathons, got a tournament coming up in Hamilton”, another said she is a rower and rowing instructor, one was a swimmer and dancer and the other had previously worked at Lululemon and was very into yoga. I remained silent because the only marathon I’d ever competed in involved a record amount of caramel mallows I’d eaten 30minutes prior to my interview.

Five minutes into the workout, what was meant to be a team-building exercise became an ‘encourage Keth’ one. It was clear I was the weakest link. The workout was killer, I know because it was on Tuesday and I’ve only just recovered the use of my right arm today, three days later, for the sake of this blog. There were many high 5s between rounds and despite me suspecting my lungs were going to collapse, an all-around positive experience. One that I wanted to end swiftly.

I thought if by some miracle I get this job I am going to take a ‘before’ photo. The hilarious part was yet to come. During the group interview, we were asked to share why we wanted to work at Lululemon. Again, the other applicants had been encouraged to be there by their yoga instructors, or love the active wear, “I live in active wear and I sometimes sleep in it” said one. The hoax was up, there was no point in lying about me living in active wear – this was clearly my first real workout in a long time. Maybe because I was light headed from the workout but I’m almost certain I said, a friend of mine previously worked at Lulu and when she started hanging out with her workmates her Instagram got really good because they went on cool hikes. Yeah. That was my legitimate answer. I didn’t even want to hire me by the end of that session.

I heard back from the manager today and she was sweet enough to blame my unsuccessful application on my lack of availability during the week. Maybe I should learn my lesson and stick with jobs that require my skillset, which is flexible but probably not enough to include the title of an athlete. Then again, who gets anywhere by doing things within their comfort zone.


Post workout with the HIIT squad



24hr waitress/$13.00

To whom it may concern,

I badly needed a summer job. The difficulty with this is that my parents live in Melbourne, my home for 3 of the warmer months, I landed on November 27th and pretty much every employer had filled their Christmas roster before I even had the chance to lie about my experience in making coffee.

On a scorching Saturday afternoon, my parents decided to experiment with some Indian food. Nothing screams “wild summer” like curry. Our waiter spoke only slightly above a whisper and when my dad asked him what the mystery curry on his plate was, he responded with “Just try it, Sir”.

When the manager, Rohit, came by to check on us my kind father asked if they had any job vacancies for me. Rohit took one look at me and said he could definitely use me as a waitress. I was jazzed. Rohit handed me a menu and told me to learn it and return the next day for training. “Two hours of your training is unpaid, the rest we pay on a fortnightly basis”, he said.

No contract, not even a handshake to prove I was an employee of this fine establishment but I didn’t care. when Rohit said they pay $13 per hour, a whole lot less than the minimum wage of $22 which casuals usually earn in Melbourne, I was less jazzed. On the other hand, I had no other options so who was I to complain – I was officially an underpaid, exploited brown girl. Fantastic.



My mother spent the afternoon testing me on the menu which not only served Indian food but had a Chinese section also: Gobi 65, Paneer 65 – your usual Asian suspects (wot the hell). Nothing makes you feel like you’re fulfilling all your Pinterest dreams like when you’re mates are graduating from Medical school and getting sworn into the Bar and you’re learning the Indo-Chinese menu for a place that won’t even pay you minimum wage.


I arrived at the restaurant the next day and was introduced to Charlie. Charlie is from India and has been in Australia for 6 months, has a tattoo that reads “Mum & Dad” on his forearm and is studying IT. His experience working at Taco Bell, an Italian place which “taught him the basics” and as I soon discovered, being a male, made him my superior.

“We’ve had some dumb females here in the past. We don’t want any more donkeys,” said Charlie.

Charlie had been there a week. While Charlie ranted at me for 20 minutes about the importance of loyalty to an establishment, each of the chefs took it, in turns, to step out of the kitchen and hold eye contact with me for a little too long. Uncomfortable does not begin to describe what I was feeling. Finally, one chef wasn’t a weirdo and actually introduced himself to me and let me know I was welcome to any food I wanted. This offer alone almost made it worth it – the food was out of this world. Each time I entered and exited the kitchen there’d be a low wolf whistle and I just want you to know that wearing an all black, baggy outfit, in a kitchen as hot as satan’s balls was not my hottest look. Also, they’d run out of caps and there may or may not have been a hairnet involved.

I finished the 4-hour shift with my sanity intact but my feminism a little bruised. Aside from Charlie’s sexism and the chefs’ sexual harassment it had been an easy shift with pleasant customers. And then I received this from Rohit.


FYI: Although his compliments of my display picture were somewhat appreciated, Rohit never did pay me for the 2 additional hours I worked and thus ended my brief career as a waitress.

I, however, am not the unlucky one in this story. It’s Charlie – I have the option of refusing to be paid below minimum wage and to say no thank you to the harassment. My parents give me a home and food while the hunt for work continues. But Charlie and people in his situation have to put up with earning $13 and in his case, all of us dumb, nasty females.

Feature image via Wikipedia Commons


It’s a hard time breathing in my house; the hayfever is only half the culprit. On the surface everything looks ok – the house is spacious and light, the windows frame the gardens. Inside, however, the air is stagnant. Our financial demise sits in the corner, grinning maniacally; not saying a word or making a sound – just breathing our air, our precious, limited air.

Then he walked in – all glasses and arms. His joy is irrepressible – even in the gloom. His hands show struggles worse than ours but it doesn’t seem to have touched him.

He said, “my name isn’t traditionally spelled with an H – I’m the only person with my name”.

“Me too!” Said I.

The air grew lighter with a shared smile.

A hostage in my own home


To whom it may concern,

This morning I woke up with a bad feeling. I had a group presentation at 9 and upon checking my phone discovered one of my team members had fallen sick and I’d have to organise someone to cover her spot. I took out some of the angst with a new exfoliating mitt I’d purchased the day before, stepped out of the shower feeling clean and supposedly smelling like Manuka honey. I was running late so had to skip breakfast but I cut a piece off the brownie I’d left out to cool overnight, popped it in my mouth and raced out the door.

The presentation went well and even the girl that stepped in, at the last minute, aced it. I relaxed for the first time since Monday morning. The rest of my Friday was looking good, I hung out with my friend Annabel, I called my dad and let him know how the presentation went, had more brownie, and settled into a sunny spot in my lounge, not a care in the world, ready for an afternoon of Grey’s Anatomy, Brooklyn nine-nine and How to get away with murder. I took a break between B99 and HTGAWM to delve into one of those Youtube trips – the ones where you start by watching a cover of a Sam Smith song and end up on a video of Oprah Interviewing Justin Bieber on his then relationship with Selena Gomez. I was halfway through Justin explaining that his fans understand that he can’t be single forever when out of the corner of my eye I saw it.

A black, furry beast, with a tail as long as my woes, runs from the top of the stairs straight behind the couch opposite me.


My body went into what I can only describe as shock. I was hot and cold, all at once and the scream that left my body would give any final girl a run for their money. I panicked. Now before you judge me, I’m not one of those girls who has never been camping and is scared of the wilderness. But when you’re going camping you’re mentally prepared…and there’s bug spray and torches. I was in the comfort of my living room with nowhere to hide. The door to my four storey flat was locked and I was acutely aware this vermin was stuck in my house, with me. It also hit me that I was home alone and my flatmate doesn’t return until tomorrow afternoon.

Naturally, I grabbed my phone, momentarily considered dialling 111 but decided my dad would have to do. My dad roared with laughed for a solid 5 minutes. I should probably also mention my dad lives in Melbourne. I have now also learnt that I don’t operate as well under pressure as I would’ve liked to think. The rat, disturbed by my scream and now very loud conversation with my dad decided to run, in slow motion, back out from the couch, and launch itself off the top step back down the stairs. In that instant, the rat and I knew this was the worst moment in either of our lives.

My dad’s unhelpful suggestion was to make friends with it. I called my flatmate next, standing on my couch, in case Ratchet the rat decided to reappear. She told me to remain calm, she returns tomorrow she assures me, the rat is probably back in the garage where it was hiding. She suggests I call an exterminator to organise a visit as soon as possible.

I looked up the number for Rentokil. Supposedly New Zealand’s leading pest control company I knew they’d be able to help. I was wrong. The website, although very tidy and mobile friendly unfortunately also offered me facts about rats and why they are dangerous. Did you know that rats are a health risk to humans? Apparently, they also carry diseases such as cryptosporidiosis, tuberculosis, E.Coli and Salmonella. YAY.

Considerably more panicked I called Rentokil only to be greeted by their after-hours operator. I don’t know who this lady is, but for the first 5 minutes I felt like I’d accidently called a friend’s house and their mum picked up.


Operator: “Hi..welcome to Ren-toe?-kill, how may I help”.

Kethaki: “Hello, I’ve just witnessed a rat run across my living room…is there any chance of getting someone to my house and can I get a rough idea of…”

Operator: “Look I don’t know. This is the after hours line but I can take a message from Brent”.

Kethaki: “Who is Brent?”

Operator: “Brent might get back to you over the weekend but I’m not sure. Rentokil operates Monday –Friday. Would you like to leave a message?”

Kethaki: “Yes please”

Operator: “Did you say it was a rat?”

Kethaki: “Yes a rat”

Operator: “Ok, I’ll just say rats because there’s probably more than one”

Kethaki: !!!!!!!!!!!

Operator: “Well thank you for calling”

My next call was to Annabel. I couldn’t go downstairs to get out of my house, the garage door was still open and the rat could come up at any time. Annabel also laughed but knowing that I would never leave my house said she would come over with a mouse trap and save me. What felt like a lifetime later, but was in actuality only 15 minutes she got into my house using the keys I threw at her from my room on the third floor. Like an expert Rentokil wish they had working weekends, she put some peanut butter on a trap, explored the garage, rescued my laundry from the garage, set the trap and closed the garage door – saving me from Ratchet the rat. I, however, read on the Rentokil website that rats can get through spaces as small as 1cm so am I really safe? Is anyone really safe?

Feel free to follow @kethakim on Twitter for any Rat updates. Rentokil, if you’re out there, please send Brent.


UPDATE: Ratchet was captured and is no longer with us.