Thursday, December 30, 2010

A fairytale for suicide bombers

I have taken four interstate flights in a little over twelve months with both Tiger (oh, the horrors) and Jetstar. And I have never been asked for ID despite frequent peace offerings of identification to the airport staff. They just really didn't want to fucking know who I was.

Clearly the moral of the story is that suicide bombers and terrorists who want to target Australia should come into Australia normally, then can go nuts once they are inside.*

*No really, I'm just trying to highlight our country's terrible sense of anti-terrorism measures and security.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Please read this before you ever mail me anything

I cannot fucking stand it when people put glitter in envelopes with their greeting cards. No, it's not cute or magical. It makes you a douchebag. It means that I open my mail in the kitchen, and everything in the vicinity (including my face) is covered in a fine shiny mist of glitter. I then look like a transvestite. I did not think it was possible for a female who looks like a female to look like a male pretending to be a female.

The next time anyone sends me a glitter filled envelope, I will send them a single sheet of paper with the word "ANTHRAX" in the middle, and put a handful of talcum powder in the envelope.

Yeah, that's how it feels.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Dirty talk... literally.

I was at a bar the other day, and after downing a few beverages I found myself on the way to the amenities where I was discovered a yuppie couple (suits, very posh looking, mid-twenties) openly going into a cubicle without any shame or any hint of trying to be inconspicuous. At which point I could not only hear their lips smacking, saliva noises and the sounds of bodies slamming against the cubical walls, but also their dirty talk. Which really is "dirty", filthy talk considering that they were about to mate in a public restroom.

"Oh, I'm going to fuck you so badly." "Yeah, fuck me badly. Yeah, mmmm..."

Maybe it's just me, but "fuck you so badly" translates to "I have terrible copulation skills, let's have really sub-par sex in an extremely unromantic setting."

Ummm, no thanks.

Side note: Maybe it's just me, but sex in public places just reminds me of being a teenager who can't/doesn't want to have sex at home with their parents next door.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

A Public Transport Exercise Regime

Here are some healthy tips on how to lose weight by catching public transport:

  1. Get off a stop earlier and walk the extra distance. Works really well on regional train stations that are about 10 kilometres away from each other. Imagine all that exercise! You may want to schedule in another 4 hours into your travel time.
  2. Pretend you're surfing on the tram. Don't hold on to any railings, keep your knees bent and roll with it. Works best if you are wearing a bikini and humming the song from Pulp Fiction
  3. Don't have a valid ticket and run when you see the ticket inspectors. Jumping off moving trains is fantastic exercise.
  4. Don't have a valid ticket and stay. The ticket inspectors will give you the beating of your life, and you won't know what hit you (well, it was a ticket inspector). And you'll lose heaps of weight when the doctors have to amputate one of your legs, post Metro-brawl.
  5. Do an aerobics routine on the tram. The handles are great for exercising your arm muscles, and the freestanding poles on the 96 trams are a perfect substitute for the workplace if you are a stripper.
  6. Don't bring snacks. When your train inevitable breaks down in between Richmond and Flinders for an hour, or when your lovely bus driver kicks everyone out for no reason, you'll be far from any convenience stores and you can finally start that diet.
  7. Loiter around unmanned suburban train stations. There are great place to find new sparring partners if you're into boxing. Amateurs are advised to stay away from suburbs with high concentrations of Asians or gang activities unless you are a black belt and/or own a bullet proof vest.
  8. Carry your groceries and watch your biceps grow. Simply do arm curls with your bags for the duration of your ride. May be painful if you are travelling from Frankston to the city.
  9. Jump the platforms. Going from platform 1 to platform 10 at Richmond Railway Station? Reawaken your long jump skills from high school. Railway stations like Richmond, Flinders, South Yarra and Dandenong are great for this.

    Send through some before and after shots.

    Sunday, December 19, 2010

    A sad story

    My grandfather recently passed away. He was a wonderful, amazing, loving, generous and kind man who lived a very full life, and is greatly missed by his wife, two children, four grandchildren and countless friends.

    I hadn't seen my grandfather in seven years, and I had booked a flight to Singapore for December 23. I was so excited about finally seeing Grandpa. Then I woke up in the middle of the night on November 22, crying and thinking about him (he'd been sick with two types of cancer for months and had a heart attack the day before). I found out a few hours later that he died around that time. He had passed away about one month before I was supposed to see him. I was looking forward to it so much. My mother was about six hours away from landing in Singapore when he went.

    I think the most tragic thing about it all was that I sent my grandfather lots of emails, with the last few about how much I loved him and missed him, and it would all be okay because I was going to see him in a few weeks' time. I later found out that he had never read these emails because he was in the hospital, and this left me so heartbroken.

    I now understand why (some) people are religious. It's easy as an atheist to laugh, and say some people are cowards for crafting a heavily detailed story of the afterlife where everyone gets together and you can play with your childhood dog and drink tea with your relatives. It's a nice little fairytale where everyone gets their happy ending and we can all be together forever. Or that there's an elevator in the sky and we all float about the clouds in white chiffon gowns, happy as clowns. Times like this I wish I could be a Christian and be comforted even though I know I'll never be able to see my grandfather ever again.

    Apologies for this being a sad post, but sometimes life really fucking sucks.

    RIP Tan Bee Chuan, 27 January 1926 to 22 November 2010.

    Fully sick, but in a bad way.

    I recently read American Psycho. I am quite the book nerd - I have over 100 books in my collection, which may not sound that impressive until you realise that I am a renting nomad who has to haul these leather-bound tomes and frail antique hardcovers from apartment to apartment. So when I purchased Bret Easton Ellis' infamous book, unwrapping the shrink wrap (R-rated warning sticker and everything) just added to the normal excitement of cracking a new book's spine. A few pages in, it felt like I was part of some adults' club, delving into a porno. This is a book that earned its author death threats and hate mail while simultaneously scoring rave reviews.

    I will never read American Psycho again. Ever.

    I should clarify. It's an intense, telling view into superficial consumerism of the late eighties and early nineties. I have only witnessed words express a person's character so well like this a handful of times (another great example being The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time). The taut writing style at the novel's genesis slowly gives way to frenetic, maddening twists of language to accompany the Bateman's descent into lunacy and personal hell, bar the occasional cold, disorientating passage about something completely impersonal and separated from his situation to display his complete dis-attachment from normalcy. Add bonus points for a vague, ambiguous ending that's open to interpretation, and this all reads like something from Lev Grossman and Richard Lacayo's All TIME 100 Novels. Sounds like a pretty good piece of literature, doesn't it? And it certainly was.

    The only problem (for me) was Ellis' undeniable brilliance when it comes to painting scenes. I know this is one of those talents that our high school teachers sang praises about, and maybe if Ellis was writing a book on fairies and cupcakes and teen love, it would be just dandy. The only problem is that sometimes I really don't want to vividly imagine a girl with a pipe shoved up her vagina (of course burnt up a little with some good old acid to make the hole wider, and smeared with Brie cheese), with a starved and tortured rat pushed through the pipe. Then of course the murderer has to start sawing her with a chain saw. I also don't want to read about anything involving a nail gun to the hands, or burning eyelids. Shudder.

    There are just some things that you can't "un-remember".

    Trailer of the film based on the book, for anyone who dislikes reading.

    Sunday, December 12, 2010

    Why I bitch to my parents almost everything, and other notes

    The nice thing about pets is that they don't judge. And the wonderful thing about parents is that you can tell them the most outrageous, outlandish and obnoxious things, and all they still want for you is the best. I can literally say something to my mother like, "And the horrible bitch, she is so hideous looking that it looks like roadkill attached itself to her face and got syphilis," without worrying about my mum telling anyone I said that or liking me any less because of it.

    I will probably spend my old age as a crazy cat lady, wild haired and sharing a home with thirty cats they'll just like me because I feed them, not because I flatter them like crazy or there's no one else to talk to. I should probably start stock piling kitty litter, hey?

    Thursday, November 18, 2010

    Is that a giant car in your driveway, or do you actually have a penis?

    I've always found it strange that some people pump so much money into their personal mode of transport. When my father was courting my mother, her neighbours thought she had four boyfriends because he would always pick her up in one of his four luxury cars (which I believe were a BMW, a Merserati with suede interiors and a mahogany dashboard, a Datsun sports car with a stereo on the ceiling and something else I can't remember). I've been on dates with men who've boasted about their big, black, fast... cars. They didn't get very far into my pants because I just assumed their vehicle was a sustitute for an important piece of anatomy. May also be why I am currently in a long-term relationship with the owner of a beat-up, rusty 1988 station wagon that sounds like it has the car equivalent of asthma.

    Realistically, a car is essentially a metal husk that will get you from point A to point B. Admittedly, some will get you there in considerably less time, and some lemons won't get you there at all (and the question may be why the fuck you are driving a piece of fruit). Yet car makers rake in the big bucks by giving people loads of add-ons: heated seats, in-built LCD screens for your bratty offspring, large cupholders for fatties and CD players that could quite possibly store your entire collection. MacDonald's tries to up-sell, and they get labeled as an evil corporation trying to make our babies fat. A car company offers you metallic paint for an extra $2K and it's the best shit ever. It's all about owning the most obscene, flashiest, shiniest toy on the block.

    I don't own a car (after seven years of driving), but have always figured that my first car would probably be a hideously orange Gemini from the eighties with torn vinyl upholstery. And I'm okay with that. On my way to work the other day, I walked past a beige car. Yes, a BEIGE car.Who's up for an inconspicuous, plain car? Oh, baby. Me first.

    * This blog post will probably bite me on the ass when I become a thirty-year-old yuppie with a sixties Pontiac. 

    Wednesday, November 17, 2010

    How to commit a crime

    Hello, thieves, burglars, robbers and generally-just-plain-unsavoury people: Here's a new method to commit crime that you can add to your naughty handbook.

    1. Look up rental properties that are open for inspection in expensive areas, particularly ones with expensive rents in posh neighbourhoods with the keys waiting (alluringly) just at the real estate office.
    2. Dress up nicely, and look the part. Carry a folder with a pen and a few rental listings printed out. Turning up in a stripes like the Hamburglar and armed with a crowbar is not advised. Repeat: not advised.
    3. Ask to inspect the property. Hand over your drivers license (preferably one you stole from a lookalike or a fake) and the $50 bond money happily, but complain about the weather and having to move house. Don't do anything to make yourself stand out as particularly nice, good, bad, dodgy or special.
    4. Instead of inspecting the property, head over to a locksmith and get them to make a copy of the keys. Be sure to remove all the key chains from the real estate agency so the locksmith isn't suspicious, and if you want brownie points put them onto a personal looking keyring like you've used these keys forever.
    5. If the locksmith wants to make small talk, pretend you're getting the keys cut for your boyfriend/girlfriend and talk about the weather.
    6. Clean off the original keys in case there is any residue from being cut, and reattach it to the real estate's keyring.
    7. Return the keys within 40 minutes if possible. Be polite and just tell the receptionist that it wasn't really suitable and remember to pick up your bond and drivers license so they don't remember you as "that douche that left their stuff here".
    8. Wait 3 months, then monitor the property to see when people come and go. 
    9. Figure out the best time of day to rob the property, then go rob it. Using the front door. Yeah.
    * NB: I'm not actually encouraging people to rob other people. I'm encouraging renters to change their locks.
    NBBBBB: If you break into someone's property, you're a pretty scummy person.

    Sunday, November 7, 2010

    When in Rome... do we still celebrate birthdays?

    I was born in Singapore and spent nine balmy years growing up on the island nation. Then, when I was nine, it was decided that we would move to Australia and that was that. I didn't know that much about the land down under. We visited Brisbane for a vacation when I was six, and I knew that Australians were blondes and brunettes, and had broad accents and freckles. I knew that much. And I thought they were very tall.

    My parents and relatives and other grown ups told me all sorts of things about Australia to make me feel better about leaving all my friends behind. Apparently everyone lived in the hinterlands and had tennis courts and swimming pools, and it snowed and the schools were pretty and full of stain glass windows, giant lawns and winter uniforms - nothing like the concrete box institutions of Singapore. My brother also told me that the kids rode kangaroos to school, but then again my bro also set me back several months as a youngster by teaching me the vowels (which were, apparently, P, S, R and M).

    When I actually started living in Australia, I was a bit scared. Things were strange. The sun came out at five in the morning in summer. The beaches were clean. People actually drove in the prescribed lanes (this doesn't happen much in Singapore). The shops closed at five thirty, and people didn't live with their grandparents. And to my surprise, the construction workers and cleaners were mostly white. That sounds incredibly racist, but kids have strange minds. I also discovered that no, most people didn't have tennis courts and that my brother lied about the whole kangaroos-as-a-viable-mode-of-transport thing.

    So when I was invited to my very first birthday party, I was terrified. I remember wondering if Australians had birthday cakes and if birthday cakes here had candles and cream, and asked my mother a million times if Australians really exchanged birthday presents. I didn't want to be the dork that brought the birthday girl a present (or a "pressie") if they didn't swap gifts. And then when it came time to sing Happy Birthday I was silent in case I sang the wrong version of the song, and was very alarmed when they started cheering, "Hip, hip, hooray!" because I had never heard that in my life.

    Note to adults: the things you say don't often make sense to kids.

    Sad-vent calendar

    I really don't understand the concept of chocolate advent calendars. I can't think of anything more sadistic than giving someone a month's worth of chocolate but not letting them eat it all at once. Hello? I want all the chocolate that's coming to me, and I want it now.

    Monday, October 25, 2010

    Speaking from beyond the grave...

    When I was fourteen and nine months,  I decided it was time to get a job. So I got a job.

    I was rather lucky to have a mother in possession of excellent resume writing skills, and I somehow - as a nerdy, awkward, unskilled and immature teenager with no experience - managed to become an office/retail assistant for one of the Gold Coast's loveliest optometrists. It was the type of institution where customers could stroll in, pick out a pair of $600 spectacles, get fitted and be offered a machiatto from our coffee machine. Fancy, yes?

    They soon figured out that I wasn't very good at anything except for wiping down lenses and boring database work, so I was soon getting paper-cuts from filing away patient cards, a sore tongue from licking envelopes and other uninteresting office-related health hazards. One particular unpleasant task I was stuck with was follow-up phone calls. I was literally given a list of customers who had picked up spectacles or contacts in the past six months, and had to call them, explain who I was and check that their eye wear was going swimmingly.

    What I forgot to mention was that this optometrist was located in a predominantly old suburb of the coast filled with old folks homes. It's like the Florida of Queensland. People go there to die. So half the time I would ring out our customers to find out they had died. For instance:

    Me: Hi, I'm Paige and I'm calling from ____ Optometrist. Can I please speak with Mrs. Smith about her spectacles?
    Little girl: Oh, my grandfather is really busy at the moment. Umm...
    Me: Sorry, I think you misheard me. I meant Mrs. Lilian Smith. Is she there? 
     Little girl: [bursting into tears] My grandma died yesterday. [Full on sobbing]
    Me: Umm. I am sorry. Ummm... [Smashes phone onto receiver]

    That wasn't in the job description. Perhaps I should have gone for that dish hand job. Fuck.

    Wednesday, October 13, 2010

    Please check out by 10am...

    On the very first night that I moved into my apartment, I had a massive freak out moment. My darling lover came around, and I screamed, "OH MY GOD, THIS PLACE USED TO BE A MENTAL INSTITUTION."

    His correct response would've been to tip me over, and charmingly say, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!" But, being the amazingly steady and stable-minded man that he is, he looked around and reassured me, "No, I'm pretty sure it used to be a hotel."

    I'm not sure if that is an improvement on a mental institution, but my new place is certainly a bit odd. Oodles of space in the bedroom/lounge area, a balcony and an aircon. But there's no rangehood over the minature stove and I swear my Fisher-Price pretend kitchen as a toddler was larger. There's no overhead light but a row of flourescent lights around the perimeter of the room, and one of those odd Kleenex-branded shiny tissue box holders in the bathroom. It also has a nifty toilet roll holder that stops every two sheets to prevent you from stealing too much toilet paper. I fucking pay for my toilet paper, thank you very much, so this is a bit bizarre. There are security cameras everywhere, elevators (what kind of three levelled apartment complex has a lift???), excessive car parking and an empty reception area in the lobby.

    So yeah. This blog post doesn't go anywhere. I just felt like bitching.

    Balla Bad

    I am a little bit obsessed with Indian food. Say the words "roti channai" and I'm there, drooling all over your face like a prostitute. If I can, I try to schedule in Indian food at least once in my week. And yes, I am the type of person who plans my take-out roster.

    So I was entertaining myself at an Indian restaurant that I've never been to - run by non-Indians, mind you. I asked for a small portion of butter chicken and two roti parahtas and was immediately told that it would cost me $17, but if I ordered the curry with rice instead it would be $9. But I couldn't substitute the bread for the rice. I pointed at the small takeaway container on the counter, nicely priced at $7 and ordered that and the parahtas to have at the restaurant. The waitress then proceeded to pack everything in a bag and sent me out, so I asked for a plate. She then crudely pointed at a giant sign saying NO TAKEAWAY TO BE CONSUMED IN THE RESTAURANT. But said it would be okay to perch myself on a random stool in the very corner of the restaurant. Oh, and yeah, I wasn't allowed to use metal cutlery. Or use a plate because I paid for "takeaway" prices and clearly the price I paid was more important than the fact that I stained their counter with orange liquid because the container burst everywhere.

    Maybe I should just point out that my so-called takeaway meal was more expensive than some of their dine-in meals, and I was the only person in the whole joint so they clearly needed the tables free for all of their invisible diners. Oh, and my grub tasted like bottled sauce from Woolies.

    Fantastic customer service, people.

    Sunday, October 10, 2010

    Hey ho, let's go

    I recently moved apartments to be closer to my office. I actually cried when I left the lovely, leafy, organic-bread-eating suburb of Fitzroy North for St. Kilda. Sure, it has the beach, rad thrift shops and European cake stores to die for, but the 'Kays have a reputation for "unsavoury" activities.

    A few weekends ago, my lovely boyfriend drove me around to go house hunting, we were walking down Carlisle Street to look at a property when we spotted to lovely ladies of, um, pleasure. The said women were squatting by the roadside, rubbing what I believe is cocaine into their gums.

    My man immediately turned to me, grinned, and said, "Your new neighbours!" I hate it when men are right.

    Monday, October 4, 2010

    Never say anything because you'll just prove yourself wrong...

    I used to work in retail, and for some reason my evil supervisors* used to roster me on in at the St. Kilda store instead of Fitzroy shop. I should probably add that my humble abode was a mere five tram stops away from the Fitzy branch, and about a hefty hour and a half tram ride away from Luna Park.

    Everyday I would drag my Doc Marten-ed feet along the 112 tram, muttering under my breath. I told myself that I wasn't being a princess. It's just honestly not humane to make someone spend three hours commuting to a fucking retail job. I can work in retail anywhere. I also constantly reassured myself that I would get a dream job working in the music industry soon, and when I did it wouldn't matter where it was because I would totally travel hours for a job like that.

    Well, irony hates me. Because then I got a job in the music industry. In St. Kilda of all places. I'm moving, motherfuckers.

    * actually they were really lovely, and gave me free clothes and chocolates and the such, but the evil bit suits this blog post better

    Sunday, September 26, 2010

    Whinge whine tweet tweet

    Back in the day, before there were more IP addresses than humans (I'm not actually sure if that's true), people used to write old-fashioned letters to complain. As a child, I would watch my mother craft really snidely-worded communications to restaurants, companies, hotels, shops and anyone who had somehow pissed her off with their inferior products and abysmal customer service. It was great. We were constantly receiving complimentary chocolates, potato chips, discount coupons and refunds in the mail.

    My mother was a special case, because the majority of us would just be infuriated for about ten minutes then just shrug it off and perhaps just bitch about it to a few friends. But now that we all seem to be surgically attached to our smart phones, businesses have to be really carefully. As soon as you do anything wrong, people are going to start tweeting that shit to people.

    This tweet is why everyone who runs a business has to treat everyone well. Don't go around pissing of customers and expect to lose just that single disgruntled person's custom.

    PS @James_North is an excellent producer and musician based in Brisbane, Australia. Follow him. On Twitter, not in real life because that would be creepy.

    Wednesday, September 22, 2010

    Dumb things people do

    The other day, my boyfriend parked next to a Jeep that had the number plate "JE EEEP". It's like "JEEP" was taken and the owner figured it was absolutely necessary to have a variant of the car make's name on the number plate. Because, you know. People won't know what car it is otherwise.

    I dared my man to key "LOOOOSERR" into the side of his car but he was a bit chicken.

    I think Jeeps are a lovely mode of transportation. But I have eyes. I can tell it's a Jeep.

    The secret lives of apartment dwellers

    Living in a swanky Fitzroy apartment complex can be quite entertaining. There are 24 of us boxed into little shiny studio apartments, and despite this proximity there ain't a whole lot of communication. Sure, there is odd half-embarrassed nod when we pass each other in the hallway, or mumbling thanks when another resident holds the front security door open when I'm battling my groceries. But when it's comes to words, my apartment block likes to keep things on paper.

    Sometime last week, someone left an office chair in the front vestibule of the building and it disappeared a few hours later. According to the unwritten rule of North Melburnians, if you see something and there's no moving truck, it's yours. I've gotten tons of books and crockery that way, and it's a fine tradition I've passed along by leaving my totally re-usable furniture for others to enjoy.

    So imagine my surprise when someone wrote a rather nasty note on the front door, along the lines of "PLEASE RETURN MY CHAIR. IT ISN'T YOURS. YOU STOLE IT. I NEED IT." A few hours later, the neglected chair was returned to it's original spot where it has stayed for another two days.

    Now the chaise has become a notice board for fiery messages intended for its owner:


    Monday, September 20, 2010

    I can have my cake and eat it. Because no one will help me.

    So it's my birthday. Somehow the people at work got wind of it (likely because some of them are on my Facebook), and bought me a lovely, but GIANT, chocolate babka. It's about the size of a small roast chicken, which may not sound that large except 1. it's chocolate babka, the food that is literally made to bypass your digestive tract and lodge itself between your fleshy thighs, and 2. no one in the office wanted any! Perhaps because they knew about the whole added-thigh-junk thing.

    Surely it's a bit cruel to make a girl like me eat an entire chocolate babka on her own. But hey, if the rumours are true, you can't put on weight on your birthday. Yeah? Yeah. Nom nom nom.

    * Photos of cake to come soon.
    ** Photos of obese Paige to come a few days later.

    Sunday, September 19, 2010

    Welcome to the house of traumatic life events

    According to this very unscientific-looking website, moving house is supposed to be the third most traumatic event that can be experienced, just falling short of bereavement and divorce. I'm just about to move into my tenth home. It almost seems like I change my abode as often as I change my smoke detector batteries. Bring on death and divorce*, I must be a pro at this traumatic life thing.

    Anyway, enjoy the following video but replace the words "house of fun" with "house of traumatic life events".

    * This is a joke. If you're reading this God**, please don't take this literally and give me death and divorce. This was for the lulz.
    ** Oh that's right, I don't believe in God.
    *** These asterisks are actually attached to anything, but check out a more realistic list of stressful life events here.

    Burning rubber

    There seems to be a weird taboo amongst females when it comes to buying condoms. Girls desperately hide their prophylactics between their broccoli and tea bags, in hopes that the checkout person won't notice. In reality, the pimply dude on the register probably wouldn't even give a fuck if you were buying an ironically-named family-size box of condoms, lube, enemas and four giant cucumbers. He just wants you to go away so he can stealthily check Facebook on his mobile under the counter while the supervisor is in the deli section.

    And really, what's there to be ashamed about? If I see someone buying condoms, I want to give them a massive high five and congratulate them because they're about to get laid. And extra kudos for practicing safe sex.

    The only exemption to this is if you're a twelve-year-old whore, in which case I hear that KidZone comics are great for concealing your adult purchases from our disapproving eyes. Shame on you. You don't even have pubes yet.

    Tuesday, September 14, 2010

    The loneliest social media ever

    The other day I was in the shower - where all my best thinking tends to happen - and I was wondering if anyone had ever set up a private Twitter account with no followers or made a blog and didn't tell anyone about it. It would be so rewarding, being able to just fucking rant on about anything without fear of repurcussion or judgment. But also a bit sad.

    Brb, making a new Twitter. Lawl, jks.


    Here's my dilemma: I have a degree in psychology, and I'm obsessed with the internet. Pretty much every form of social media networking seems to fuck us up in one way or another, and I make my living off social media networking.

    Facebook creates stalkers who spend many dirty hours flicking obsessively through your photos and trying to absorb as much information about your boyfriend/girlfriend (fingers crossed, their profile is private). MySpace has bred a generation of emos who love emoticons and think that being bicurious (and filming yourself licking your same sex best friend's nipples) is okay. For the non-scensters, MySpace is just brimming with sycophantic fans who want to post glittery comments about how great you are. Formspring seems to bring out our nosy, evil twin and Twitter has turned us all into obnoxious wise-cracking arseholes with more one-liners than our feed can handle. And blogs have turned us all into expert commentators on everything (yes, I do see the irony).

    My, aren't we a psychopathological bunch?

    Sunday, September 12, 2010

    Confusedville State of Mind

    I seem to have offended someone.

    While that isn't very surprising (I seem to offend lots of people with my personality and fucking potty mouth), what is surprising is that I've barely interacted with said person. I can honestly say that the sum of all of our real-life conversations all year would probably tally about two minutes all up. I don't even have this person's phone number and have never made small talk over Facebook Chat. I have never knowingly wronged this person, yet I have managed to make this person absolutely hate my guts. That's talent.

    It's a very strange feeling. Either I have perfected my "Please Hate Me" vibe to be so efficient that I can make a distant acquaintance loathe me in the space of one hundred and twenty seconds... or this person is stalking me on Facebook and finds my personality and persona repugnant. Or perhaps someone is spreading rumours about me.

    Should I be insulted that this person is basing their intense dislike on something really arbitrary? Should I be complimented that they are possibly stalking me, and I have somehow made enough of an impact to raise an emotion, albeit a negative one?

    I think I'll just go for "utterly confused" right now.

    Thursday, September 9, 2010

    Flip, yeah!

    So I was wandering down Acland Street in St. Kilda the other day, sipping my Egg Flip Big M like it was no body's business (except maybe National Foods, which owns Big M) and some dude starts hollering at the top of his voice, "EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!"

    I turn around, and there's the most charmingly frightening man bent over, coughing and wheezing from his little Olympic sprint with one arm outstretched towards my Tetra Pack. "Ex... cuse... me..." he splutters. "Where... on... earth... did... you... get... that... Egg... Flip...???"

    I point at the 7-Eleven and off his is again, pounding his feet to the concrete like the rapture is about to happen. Man, he must be really low in calcium or something.

    Monday, August 30, 2010

    Chicken fillets are for cooking... not wearing.

    Ladies, please. As a gender, we spend millions and squillions on bras to keep our tits perky. And then another few bazillion to pay doctors to butcher us and shove plastic bags of goo in our chests in an attempt to make our lady humps a little... humpier.

    This is why I don't fully understand the concept of the dreaded chicken fillet. I can imagine the fillet creators conspiring to themselves, "Sure, let's get a bunch of heavy squishy stuff, put adhesive to one side and women will plaster these to their chests. And they'll pay us too." And unbelievably, we did. I honestly can't think of anything worse for our mammary glands that sticking a heavy weight onto them for hours. If you're paranoid that walking around in an ill-fitting bra will make your udders sag, then surely chicken fillets are doubly as bad.

    Maybe the point here is if we can't comfortably wear and conceal a normal bra under your clothes, you should probably check if your garment is actually a strip of fabric that somehow fell into your wardrobe via way of Supre.

    Orange... and yellow fever

    I have many bizarre personal preferences. I always dry my left forearm first, post-shower. I always place dinner knives with their blades facing outwards when setting tables even though it's supposed to be the other way. I order pizzas with no cheese, and I always order my burgers with lettuce and de-salad it at the table. I'll eat pink lady apples, but avoid the golden delicious variety like a prostitute with syphilis. I don't drink soft drinks, unless there's a little bit of alcohol in it.

    And when it comes to candy, I absolutely abhor citrus flavoured lollies because the smell reminds me of cleaning products, which remind me of toilets, which remind me of piss. Yep. That's pretty much why I refuse to eat any yellow or orange candy. And then I end up with this:

    Monday, August 9, 2010

    Light goes on. Light goes off. Light goes on. Light goes off. Light goes on...

    There's this bizarre "control" technique that I have witnessed several teachers and parents use on their children. It pretty much involves flicking a light switch on and off repeatedly. While yelling. Yep, really sophisticated psychological techniques we have here.

    I have never seen it work. Face it. If you're a kid who's rolling around the floor mid-tantrum, limbs flailing, I'm pretty sure flashing lights will just make you more excited. Why do you think night clubs have strobe lights, or ambulances and cop cars have flashing lights? To calm you down? I think not. If anything, if your kiddie wink has epilepsy you're just begging for child services to pay you a visit.

    Side note: I don't think my useless degree (sorry Monash) really makes me that qualified to talk about psychology, so if any real psychology experts won't to correct my critique of flashing lights, please, by all means do.

    Sunday, August 8, 2010

    You scratch my back... I give you a discount.

    The fashion retailer that I work for recently opened a shop in a large, commercial shopping mall - such a bad idea. We've always been based around iconic Melbourne cultural hubs (Brunswick Street, you get the idea) with character and personality. The customers at these shops are, for the most part, lovely.

    The customers at the new shop - smack back in a materialistic whorehouse - are despicable human beings. Hoards of teenage girls and ditzy groups of middle aged women come in, mess up the shop, ignore us until they want to complain about something, then ask us to hold something for a week or give them a discount. Do you want to know a secret? I treat sales people differently. I often get offered a discount without asking. And get given the fucking ace customer service.

    Here's a guide on how to get the most out of your shopping experience:

    • When greeted by a salesperson, say "hello" back and wait to see if they want to say anything else. Some stores have a policy of telling customers of special deals that aren't actually advertised, which you would miss out on if you tell them to fuck off. Obviously if they are a douche bag who bombard you with sales pitches, I would still advise you to run out of the store screaming.
    • Ask them before you go into the changeroom. This way we don't peg you as a shoplifter and have our hands hovering over the "RELEASE THE HOUNDS" button. Plus it's really useful when you have a daggy nude coloured bra with stains, and don't want to open the door to ask for help.
    • Ask the shop assistant for their opinion on your potential purchases. Let them fuss about you and show you other things. Sometimes we keep things in the backroom or under the counter (especially full priced items during sales) or we'll be super nice and give you non-display stock that's still crisp and has never been touched by anyone other than the Asian sweatshop kid who made it.
    • If they try to chat to you about other things, let them. Also ask them about their day. I've actually met writing clients and made friends by chatting to friends and sales people.
    • Try to make a point of not making a mess and stepping all over that $800 silk dress. I may murder you and your four offspring drooling on the shop floor with the cash register.
    • If you don't like something, I SERIOUSLY DO NOT CARE. Don't make up some bull shit story about how you'll come back later in the day with your mum, or that you aren't sure if it's right. Just saying that you simply did not like the items wastes a lot less time. It's not like I'll be offended.
    • When at the counter, thank them immensely and ask (sheepishly and apologetically) if you can have a discount if you're buying multiple items or if they have any offers. More often than not I'll give you one. If I like you.

    Thursday, August 5, 2010

    Shawty Hawty

    I'm five foot three. I'm not short. I'm fun-sized.

    People frequently make fun of my height (being teased seems to be a common theme with me, being a short, Asian teetotaller who can't drive for shit - I like to think it is a sign of affection). I have to tiptoe to properly reach some of the clothes racks at work. I have to slide the car seat way forward to reach the pedals. Lots of my "dresses" are actually long tops.

    Pay me out all you want. Because you know what? I can date short men and tall men. If it's hot, I can just hide in the cool shade behind a tall friend. And I can see the snot ball dangling from your nostrils as you speak. You may want a tissue, my friend.

    Tuesday, August 3, 2010

    "You're cheap" cheap shots

    Slut. Whore. Trash. Skank.

    These are some unintelligent words that people like to taunt me with, and I can't figure out why beyond the fact that they either don't know me very well or are a little uneducated. While I am the first to admit that I am completely obsessed with sex, I am not, in any shape or form, a slut. I am vehemently against one night stands. I have never kissed any of my friends for the hell of it. I don't flirt with people unless I actually want to date them. I don't get drunk and screw strangers in the backseat of Skylines, and I am so paranoid about STDs that I get myself checked out every time I have a new sexual partner. I do not believe in casual, one-off sex and there's no fucking way that anyone who I am not fucking will ever see me naked.

    If you want to insult me, please by all means, go ahead. But perhaps pick your abuse to actual fit your victim. I have plenty of negative personality traits that you can pick from. I'm a bossy, bitchy, workaholic perfectionist who likes to complain about everything and gets jealous at the drop of a hat. Take your pick. But sweetie, please consult your Merriam-Webster before you call me a ho.

    * I don't actually have anything against people who sleep around in the slightest. This is just my opinion for myself.

    Thursday, July 22, 2010

    Stinky cabbage

    I'm sure everyone is familiar with this scenario: You call a cab. You wait on the street, pretty much ready to fling yourself in front of any moving vehicle like a clucky spinster at a speed dating event. Twenty minutes later, still no sign of the cab. You call up the taxi company, tap your feet a little, throw a few swear words around and get them to "increase" your job. Twenty minutes later, still no fucking cab-bage. You call up again, incensed, and the operator assures you the taxi driver was there but there wasn't anyone to pick up.

    This happened to me the other day, when I was inconveniently rostered on to work on a day when there were absolutely no buses running. When a taxi driver did rock up, about ten minutes after I was meant to start to work, he told me a very interesting story.

    Apparently taxi drivers in each area are listed or ranked in a list for priority of getting jobs. Someone calls up, the highest ranked cabbie in the area gets first dibs. If he doesn't want to take it, that's cool but they take him off that list/the radio for half an hour. He probably wants to grab lunch or someone just hailed him on the street. Sounds like a great system, right?

    Not so much. Apparently the job listings also show where the fare is going to. Lazy drivers don't want to "waste" their time on a $15 fare when they could get an airport job. But they're also sneaky bastards who don't want to get taken off the jobs list for 30 minutes, so they pretend they went to the pick up address and report no one was there, and thus keep getting first dibs on jobs. And then people like me get to work incredibly late and look bad.

    Maybe when I book the cab, I should lie to the operator, and tell them that I'd be willing to go on a date with the driver because that's all the drivers seem to want from me. Maybe then I can get to work on time.

    * If any of you lovely readers have any taxi horror stories, or actually know things about the taxi industry and feel like you need to correct me, please comment. In the mean time, read this slightly racist forum on Melbourne taxi drivers.

    Sunday, July 18, 2010

    As authentic as they come

    I was having dinner at Tiamo's on Lygon Street with my parents a few months ago, and the restaurant was (as per usually) packed to the rafters will diners waiting to grab some amazing Italian grub. My parents enjoyed their meals so much that they went up to the chef and complimented him on his culinary skills, to which he replied in a thick Italian accent, "Ah thanking you!"

    As my parents went off to pay, I took a little longer trying to unwedge myself from the tiny corner that the waiters had placed us, and the same chef turned to me and said in the broadest Australian accent, "Hey mate, I love ya tattoo! Have a good one, aye!"

    That made me laugh quite a lot.

    Wednesday, July 14, 2010

    Club Med-ically brain dead

    I once talked to someone who had gone to Bali, and I excitedly tried to exchange travel stories. Like how a bunch of local people selling knick knacks actually got on our rented kombi van and wouldn't get off until we bought stuff, or hilariously embarrassing food poisoning tales. But no, she wasn't interested in that at all. She wanted to tell me about how much she spent on some uber-deluxe Club Med package, and how wonderful the in-house spa was.

    There seems to be two breeds of tourists: those who actually "see" the places they visit, and those that just get stamps in their passports. The latter are the type who hide out in the luxury of their air conditioned hotel rooms, and make sure their hotels have continental buffet breakfasts so they don't have to - god forbid - eat the local food. They hang about the touristy areas and assume everyone speaks English. They eat at McDonald's if they must venture out of their little Westernised haven.

    And while my adopted home of Melbourne is obviously a predominently white, Westernised kind of place where you don't have to worry about malaria or being swarmed by beggars, tourists do the same thing here. I've had friends visit from interstate or overseas, and for some reason they always make a beeline for the shopping centres.

    Their suitcases end up stuffed with garments from Country Road or Sportsgirl (not particularly unique Melbourne items). I've tried twisting their arms and dragging them down Centre Place or Smith Street, shoving them down the Flinders Street Station subway or force feeding them delightful bagels from local cafes, but it never works. Sigh. It's always Starbucks and Chadstone (which I can fucking guarantee is not the fashion capital of anywhere).


    PS I also have the greatest respect for backpackers. I have never understood the concept of travelling light.

    Monday, July 12, 2010


    Just because I wear a cape at work (it's really cute, I promise) doesn't mean that I'm a superhero. I'm not the retail salesgirl of your dreams who'll do your laundry, walk your dog and buy your grandmother flowers. Here are some of the really, really fucking bizarre requests that some customers make:

    • A woman came in with a Sherlock Holmes cape she had bought, and apparently it was missing a button. I then pointed out that all our capes come with spare buttons, and she vehemently denied receiving any spare buttons. So I gave her a spare button and waited for her to leave, which she didn't. She thought that a missing button meant she could have an entirely new cape.
    • A man came in several times, claiming that his mother had left her pyjamas (which he had photos of on his phone for some reason) in our store two days ago. I insisted that we didn't have any and that no one had brought any to our attention, and then pointed him in the direction of Centre Management. He then came back in two more times in an hour, showing me the photos again like it would jog my memory. Then asked if I spoke Mandarin. Then he wanted to give me his number. I see...
    • An older lady came and tried on a skirt and deliberated in front of the mirror for about twenty minutes because she didn't think it was very flattering. She left the store without anything... then came back five minutes later to pick up the exact same skirt that she had put on layby two days earlier. If that wasn't weird enough, she insisted that I steam the skirt despite claiming that she had a clothes steamer at home. I gave her the freshly steamed, slightly damp skirt and instructed her to hold it straight instead of folding it (because folding it damp would just crease it again) and she became incensed. "People will think I've shop lifted this!!!" she claimed. Never mind the bag, the receipt and the fact that people really don't give a fuck.
    • A weird, drugged-up lady came in, and within seconds of seeing me claimed that she wanted to buy my outfit (or rather the same outfit from the rack). Never mind trying it on, she wanted it. I guess it's true, you can really sell the clothes off your back.
    • A horridly bogan, middle-aged woman came into our store, and tried on about twenty pairs of earrings. Both the other salesgirl and myself repeated told her not to, to which she apologised... but continued to try more on. I reminded her again, citing the health of our other customers and she literally hurled a pair of me and growled, "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE???" Surely she has enough imagination to be able to envisage what they look like by holding them up to her ears?
    So if you ever walk into my store and see me in my cape, please imagine me more like the cape-wearing Al Gore in South Park than like Superman. I really don't give a fuck unless you are ManBearPig. Excelsior!

    Friday, July 9, 2010

    I wish you wouldn't read this blog post... It doesn't really go anywhere.

    I wish I was the kind of girl who would just wear blue jeans and ballet flats. It would save me from fussing about with a knitted cape, rabbit fur and suspenders when I'm already supposed to be at the tram stop.

    I wish I wasn't dreamy so I could stop following this idea about being a writer, and actually use my degree in psychology to do "something".

    I wish I wasn't so bloody hard to live with, then I wouldn't have to pay close to a grand every month just to live in a shiny box by myself.

    I wish I wasn't such a feminist, that way I wouldn't feel like I'm reversing years of gender equality struggles when my boyfriend drives me home or attempts to pay for dinner.

    I wish I didn't use the fact that my surname is the chemical name equivalent of carbs as a reason for eating excessive quantities of bread. Because then my weight might not fluctuate from 55kg to 65kg every year.

    I wish I didn't only date ridiculously good looking and charming musicians and artists all the time, because it would save a lot of jealousy every time a girl embarrassingly tries to hit on my lover.

    I wish I wasn't ambitious, that way I would actually take care of my body and take myself to a doctor when I have food poisoning, instead of banging out 4000 words worth of articles at two in the morning with frequent vomit trips to the toilet.

    I wish I didn't get offended and disappointed by practically everything that anyone does, because then I might actually have a best friend and not just a bunch of acquaintances and odd friends.

    I wish I didn't write such random blog posts at one in the morning, when I should be either sleeping because I have work in the morning, or writing up this damn gig review that I'm procrastinating over.

    Thursday, July 8, 2010

    Please kill my children...

    I am probably not the best person to write about this - I jaywalk. A lot. If there are no cars, I will walk across if it is safe. Usually on 40km/hr roads like Brunswick Street. If I don't see any cars zooming towards me, I also generally cross against the lights. I figure that I'd rather cross now than hold up cars trying to turn right or left. But if it's raining or if I'm not wearing sturdy footwear, I'll cross at the lights in case I fall over.

    But the thing that pisses me off? When people jaywalk with infants and toddlers.

    What part of DEATH do you not understand? Are nine months of uncomfortably carrying around a dead weight (or live weight, really) on your midsection, having to vomit randomly every morning and not seeing your toes not enough to make you realise how precious your child is?

    If I jaywalk and find myself stranded on the little section reserved for trams in the middle of the road because some cars appear out of no where, no biggie. I have razor sharp senses and am fit enough to leap out of the way. If you have a big arse pram, an infant and a baby bag, I half suspect that jumping out of the way isn't quite so easy. So please, mothers and fathers, don't risk it. Please cross at a traffic light.

    NB: I work at Sydney Road regularly, and without fail I see mothers doing this every single time I'm there. Today I saw TWO mothers doing this, while having a bit of a chit chat in between two lanes of traffic.

    Tuesday, July 6, 2010

    That blows...

    It's pretty awesome when the apartment/house/building structure/abode next to you is vacant. No obnoxious neighbours having noisy sex. No dogs barking at six in the morning. No random smells of really terrible cooking. No one rudely rummaging through your mail, because they swear you have their mail. No sneaky bastards stuffing their gross bags of trash (leaking garbage juice) into your green bin.

    Then the dreaded moment happens. The property goes up for sale. There's a lovely, inviting billboard outside, with pictures spelling out other people's potential life of having noisy sex, having their poodles yapping at all hours and shoving their trash into your bins. Trust me, one person's trash is quite often another person's trash too.

    So what do you do? No more morning bliss of walking around naked with the blinds wide open? Well, I've got a solution for you.

    Buy one of those fucking irritating, infernal, mind-gratingly loud vuvuzelas. They're on sale everywhere with the FIFA World Cup on at the moment. Find out when there's an auction or an open house. Practice your blowing skills. Quit smoking to improve the quality of your breathing if you have to. Then when the auctioneer is trying to rile up people into credit-debt frenzies, blow your hardest.

    When the property remains vacant for another six months, drop me a thank you note.

    Honey, I ran over the kids...

    I fucking hate 4WDs. They're big gas guzzlers that pump out pollution like there's no tomorrow. People mow down their own children with 4WDs because they can't see the ground properly. 4WD owners pretty much make up their own road rules. Traffic island in the way? Hey, guess what? I can totally drive over it without damaging my car. Foot paths? Meh, it doesn't matter if a few school kids have to leap out of the way. All that matters is that they cheat traffic jams.

    I have this crazy idea for next April first. I'm going to print bumper stickers with various slogans, like:


    And then obviously plaster them all over every 4WD I see parked in metropolitan streets. It's not that I think the concept of a 4WD is bad. If you live in the country and will actually need to cross streams and forges and really rugged terrain, go nuts. Buy ten 4WDS if you really want to (okay, maybe not, but you get my point). These are people who will actually be using a 4WD because they literally need to use four wheels to steer.

    You don't need to steer four wheels to pick you kids up from a posh private school with beautifully flat roads. You don't need a 4WD to navigate Chadstone's car park. You do, however, need a brain to realise that.

    Side note: I think the government needs to impose an extra road tax on 4WDs registered in metropolitan areas.

    Sunday, June 27, 2010

    Pitching a... dress?

    The other day I received a phone call while at work from a particularly anxious man. "Ummm... I need to go to a costume party," he timidly said down the phone. "I'm supposed to dress like a woman. Can I come in and try on some stuff?" Being quite an open-minded person and having dated a cross-dresser, I reassured him that we'd definitely be happy with him coming in. I also pointed out that I could help him put together an outfit.

    So twenty minutes later, a very nervous but polite man in his late thirties (complete with a bald patch on his head, a navy suit and tie) idled up to the counter and introduced himself. So I asked him about his budget, colours, whether he'd wear heels and what not, and whether he needed a mirror inside his changeroom so he wouldn't need to come out (but he insisted he wanted to come out). Five minutes later he was in a a changeroom with a bundle of gorgeous dresses and a couple of cute jackets and cardis.

    So outfit one, he pops out of his changeroom with a mottled purple bubble dress and a cropped jacket. He doesn't like it. Whatever. Outfit two, he comes out with a tie-dyed silk A-line dresses, and asks me what I think about the colours. Outfit three, ahem. He hovers at his changeroom and beckons me to come over and help him. He walks out of the change room in a super tight, super short fuschia knitted mini dress. With a BONER.

    Yes, he walked out with an erection. In one of our dresses. Then proceeded to do a 360 degree twirl and asked me what I thought. I nearly vomitted. I felt like I needed to disinfect the entire store and myself.

    If a guy honestly got a boner for whatever reason, a normal guy would've just stay in the change room for a minute and force himself to think of his fat cousin shaving her legs, or diarrhoea, or anything unsexy. This guy, on the other hand...

    The worst part was that he didn't even buy anything.

    Foot in mouth disease

    I had an absolute facepalm moment the other day. The clothing store I work in is rather... antiquated. Who knows whether it's part of our indie-charm or the owners are a bit silly, but all of our inventory is hand written. We write up each sale on a sheet with detailed descriptions of every item (like, "red tulip skirt, pockets, black ribbon waist, back zip" kind of thing), and we fax this to head office every night. Yep, real high tech. Our restocking, staff purchase requests and transfers are all done the same way.

    So I was working with this really awesome new girl, and she comes up to me with a purple jumper and asks, "Hey Paige, how would you describe this jumper?" Without thinking, I just blurted out, "UGLY!" and started laughing. Then I realised she was filling out a staff purchase request. Because she wanted to buy it for herself. Oops.

    Monday, June 21, 2010

    Hello, sailor (and readers)

    This is a shameless self-promotion blog post, but if any of you lovelies like music (especially live music) please check out my Paper-Deer blog.

    It's pretty new, but it's a lot prettier than Feed Me Band Boys. Feel free to fornicate and frolic all over it. And maybe comment a little. And follow it and re-post and other stuffs.

    Stranger danger

    I was at work the other day, when a middle aged man came in and pretended his sister was coming around in a minute. He was rather chatty - quite different to the usual "fuck off, I'm just looking" kind of customer that this neighbourhood attracts. Then he asked me if I was able to duck out of the shop for a minute to test out a blow-up exercise ball, because he's just gotten it for his niece with brain damage. And he can't sit on it because it'll stretch out too much, but I'm the exact size and weight as her. And his car is literally just around the corner so it won't take too long...

    Does this situation ring alarm bells in other people's heads? I have had several men over the course of my eight years in retail come up to me and spill out the exact same story. Always a niece with brain damage, and always a sister coming to join him in a minute. While I'm sure having a brain damaged niece would suck (if you really do have one, mister), who in their right minds would imagine that a tiny little helpless girl like myself would honestly go and sit in the back of some stranger's van?

    And soon as I said I wouldn't, this guy (and every other guy who has told me this sob story) immediately zipped out of the store. Never mind his "my sister is coming to buy lots of dresses in a minute" story.

    Please, weirdos, please leave me alone.

    Wednesday, June 16, 2010

    Drink you... under the whuuut? I'm drrruuuuuunk... Muuuurrrr whut.

    Yes, I'm a cheap drunk. It was my boyfriend's birthday on the weekend. I had one very delicious margarita and was giggling myself silly. I'm Asian, and apparently we don't have the right enzymes to break down alcohol (shut up everyone who has an Asian friend who drinks a lot, I don't care, this works for my blog post). Everyone pays me out for being a light weight. So now it's my turn:


    Sorry, I couldn't resist.

    Green with motivation

    Anyone who knows me well will be able to tell you that I'm hardworking. And jealous. Incredibly, incredibly jealous.

    I have a odd personality trait in which I become ridiculously, over-the-top jealous of something someone else has or does, and then I try to use it as a benchmark for myself. When I was in high school, I was envious of one of my best friends and my brother's natural artistic abilities... so I pretty much picked up an art book and taught myself how to draw and paint like I do today. In Junior School, there was one particular girl who could touch type excellently, so I went home fuming, picked up my Dolly magazine (how embarrassing) and forced myself to type out terrible self-help articles with my fingers on the home row. I now type at a rate of 88wpm. One of my best friends in school was the biggest fucking book worm, and my sheer envy at all the awards she was getting made me turn my Bs and Cs into straight As, and I even ended up beating her to the English and Business subject awards in the end.* The same goes for my sewing skills, my writing abilities, my miraculous weight loss and my amazing organisational skills.

    Quite often it's also because I'm pissed off at someone as well. Sort of like how girls chop off all their hair and start dieting when they get dumped - it's like my way of saying, "Fuck you, look, I'm so freaking awesome!" Although I have to say that the two people who've ticked me off lately aren't particularly special - they seem to be university drop-outs with terrible love lives and personalities uglier than their mugs... Kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn't it?

    * I should add that in that year she still managed to pick up FIVE subject awards and was named School Dux. Ah, my hero.

    Tuesday, June 8, 2010

    I love... Lisa.

    Dear Log,

    I'm pretty much like Lisa Simpson. I'm yellow, for starters. I have boring hair. I'm pretty much a dork with not many friends and retarded social skills. I play an instrument, and my interests are equally as nerdy (chess, comic books, behavourialism, world politics). This blog post actually has absolutely no purpose but I was just watching an episode and this was the first thing that came to mind.

    - Paige

    Monday, June 7, 2010

    Happy, shiny people

    Have you ever met someone so cool that you thought you might explode if you entered their social stratosphere? You know, that hip guitarist who has also a graffiti artist by night and pays his rent by lettering comics? Or that flamboyant actress who hosts themed gatherings every weekend and has a marvellous wardrobe full of sequins and feathers? And their Saturday nights seem to consist of going to swish gallery openings, outrageous costume parties or some equally as hip event that you'd never knew existed?

    For some reason I seem to know so many of these happy, shiny people. I swear, it's terrible for my self-esteem being friends with such gorgeous human specimens. But the loveliest thing is when I become Facebook friends with them, and *ahem stalker* look through their photographs and realise they weren't always effortlessly hip. There's always a few photos of them (lurking far, far back in time) as a chubby teen doing something incredibly dorky or epically embarrassing. I don't mean "the loveliest thing" because I'm jealous and take pleasure in knowing that they were also a loser at some point. What I'm trying to get at is that it's so refreshing and comforting to know that maybe one day I can be awesome as well.

    And then every once in a while you look through someone's photos, and it's almost like they've been cool since they were in the womb. Not a single bad photo. In which point you should never talk to the person again. Or maybe rub up against them and hope some of their DNA attaches itself to you.

    Sunday, June 6, 2010

    You want me to kiss your ass? Sure, why not...

    I had a little altercation today. I was in a great hurry to get somewhere, and there was a woman rudely blocking everyone's path by standing on the right of the elevator. Being the lovely lady I am (sort of...), I politely excused myself and asked if I could get through. Then out of absolutely no where said bitch went bezerk and shouted, "NO YOU CAN'T. YOU CAN BLOODY WAIT." I then pointed out that how it is courteous and common practice to stand on the left. To which the scrag said, "KISS MY ASS!"

    I was obviously quite pissed off, but then had a what-would-my-mum-do moment (she really knows far more than Jesus) and did exactly what my fiesty mother would have done. I walked off the escalator, turned around and blew kisses in her direction. After all she wanted me to kiss her ass. The sad little middle age woman went red in the face like she was about to spit fire at me. But hey, not my problem anymore because I was already on my way.

    My mother has a curious but amusing philosophy to live. Her theory is that increasing other people's blood pressure will decrease yours. In other words, try to rile up people as much as possible for your own amusement when you get into fights. My dear mother is one of those people who is always calm and a bit of smart arse in fights, and gets kicks watching her opponents fumble and shout. I'm not sure how well it works but it's worth a try.

    Saturday, June 5, 2010

    Love, love me do

    Yesterday marked eight months of my marvellous relationship with my current boyfriend. I was gushing over the details of our mini-golf date yesterday with my mother, who sighed, "Oh, don't you wish you started dating him before all those horrible boys?"

    I disagree completely. I've seen quite a few men in my time (but not an obscene amount, mind you) and despite having my heart broken on a few occasions, and just plain disappointed many other times, I would have it no other way. Collectively my ex-lovers have been artists, writers, film makers, musicians (hence the name of this blog) and bit part actors, and without them I imagine I'd be quite uncultured. One of them introduced me to The Cure, The Banshees, Milton and Dante. Another opened my eyes to The Clash, changed my mental stereotype of vegans and educated me on how wonderful a good television commercial can be (he's one of the film makers obviously). Yet another man rekindled my love for literature and graphic novels.

    And even the horrible ones still taught me a thing or too. I now know that if my boyfriend suggests I wash the dishes while he's asleep so I don't waste any of his valuable waking hours doing housework (we lived together, by the way), that he's not quality dating material. I think said guy once yelled at me because I blew my nose in a way he didn't like. I also am strongly anti-gambling - a drug dealer I was dating constantly borrowed money to feed his gambling addiction, and once actually left me waiting outside the casino because I wasn't 18 yet. I know to never date a guy who already has a girlfriend (who he dumped to date me, only to dump me on MSN a few months later to get back with her). And most importantly, I've learnt to recognise a good man (i.e. current man) when I see one.

    So no, I'm actually glad I got all of my emo, slash-my-wrist relationships out of the way in my early years. And I don't regret a single one of them, because I can now truly appreciate how wonderful my current boyfriend is (he's not a drug addict, he doesn't gamble and blows his nose more than I do). And if my unscientific calculations are correct, the universe owes me about 80 years or so of absolute relationship bliss for all the shit it's put me through.

    Friday, June 4, 2010

    A little help, please?

    Are there any intelligent, amazing and wonderful nerds out there who can tell me how to put a visitor counter on my blog? You know, so I can track how many times people visit it?

    We don't need no education?

    "NO! No, you can't play Sudoku on my iPhone! You've already used up your 'computer time' for the week by watching all that television last night!" "But Mummy, your phone isn't a computer?"

    That was a conversation I overheard on a foggy morning train to the city the other day, and there's so much wrong with it. Well, apart from the fact that iPhones are really actually tiny super neat computers with telephone capacities... anyway, I digress.

    The fact that parents seriously try to limit their kiddies' time on technology is absolutely absurd. I know that upon reading this all child owners (cough, parents, cough) are probably conjuring up multitudes of arguments revolving around hidden sex scenes embedded into video games and the inevitable desensitisation to violence. I'm not saying that you should strap your child's eyes open and force them to watch horrific film clips to a soundtrack by Ludwig Van. Or that the adult channel is suitable viewing. Not at all, my friends.

    I just think that entertaining mediums can be educational. Learning doesn't have to be boring. Hello, Sesame Street? I'm sure the Count can teach the next generation how to say their one-two-threes as well as it taught mine (and this is the adult version). Plus it's been proven that platform games and first person shooters are excellent for developing hand eye co-ordination. And it's also a little known fact that my ridiculous accumulation of useless facts about kitty cats, space travel and medieval torture methods is thanks to our friends at Dorling Kindersley and their range of educational games. And I haven't even gone into the educational values of puzzle and word games.

    So for all those parents out there (who are probably too busy running around trying to velcro on your kids' ballet shoes or some shit to actually read this), please let your child watch some television. Just make sure it ain't porn.

    * Warning: this blog serves as a parental guideline only. A good childhood should also include a healthy dose of sunshine, cuts and grazes from playing in the mud and a good wedgie or two from the class bully.

    Tuesday, June 1, 2010

    Cheesed off at cheese

    I'm sorry. I don't like cheese. There, I've said. I order my pizza without mozzarella (it's pretty fucking divine). I pull cheese slices out of my sandwiches. I think pasta tastes better without parmesan.

    For me, it's the taste. It's this overtly offensive food that you just can't disguise. Plus the fact that some expensive cheese is just a dairy product that someone has left to rot until it grows mould. I find that pretty gross.

    But I don't go around telling cheese-eaters that they shouldn't eat it. I don't mind if cheese enthusiasts eat the offending product in front of me. What I do mind is when waiters laugh at me when I order things with cheese (then frequently forget to repeat my special request to the kitchen because they're too busy pointing at me, so I get a plate full of cheese in my face). Repeat after me: "Good bye, tip!"

    Apparently there are 3413 of us in the world. Check out this FB group.

    Sunday, May 30, 2010

    The internet is really, really great... FOR PORN.

    I don't quite understand the appeal of Foursquare or Formspring.

    Foursquare lets people know your EXACT position on this wonderfully large earth. I like the fact that people don't know where I am. Pardon me for liking how potential serial killers can't pinpoint my location to hunt me down. Excuse me for making it harder for thieves-to-be to study my routine to figure out when the best time to break into my house would be. And I'm sorry stalkers, but Foursquare takes the fun out of the chase.

    And Formspring. I had a Formspring account. For about a month. It's boring because no one asked me any questions (apart from the odd nonsensical statement or dull "What is your favourite colour?" queries). And then on the other extreme, other people get a gazillion juicy but downright disgusting or nasty questions. "Why are you a whore?" "You fuckhead, just go die!" "Is it true that you sucked him off???" If someone asked me those things in real life I'd probably call them a cunt and give them a good old fly-kick-punch-in-the-dick*.

    I suppose they both have their uses. A politician or a reporter could make good use of Foursquare to let the public know about appearances. Parents can keep track of their children. People who have to travel for work can let their superiors know where they are. And Formspring would be amazing for organisations to use as an anonymous question forum. "Would be" being the key words. But obviously the internet is the type of place where people use up their bandwidth on Red Tube or waste space with blogs (self-conscious cough).

    I will leave you to think with this delightful video:

    * this phrase is courtesy of Mister Leggatt via someone I can't remember

    Why can't I own a Canadian?


    Friday, May 28, 2010

    Walking around with dead animals

    I used to go to Monash University, and anyone who went to the Clayton campus will know about Wholefoods (here's the website for you nosey buggers). It's an excellent eating establishment for vegans and vegetarians with a really awesome approach to staffing (something like a free meal for volunteering a certain amount of hours, plus diners have to do their part as well).

    And it wasn't just a bunch of crazy hippies (well maybe after hours, I don't know). They had an open-minded policy to everyone but you had to abide by their rules... Clean up after yourself, some other stuff I can't remember and NOT TO BRING MEAT ON THEIR PREMISES! I remember this was a big deal. There were handwritten notes about not bringing meat anywhere near Wholefoods. Which is cool with me.

    So one day I had to go into Wholefoods to meet up with a friend, and by golly I made sure I gulped down every bit of my Chinese steamed BBQ bun and licked my teeth before I got anywhere near Wholefoods. But they were all staring at me, giving me extra-evil looks. I couldn't figure it out. Maybe the extra protein from all that soy gives vegans a super-strong sense of smell?

    I only unravelled the mystery of the glaring vegetarians when I got home. And got undressed. I obviously forgot I was wearing my knee high leather 20-hole Doc Martens. That must be a gazillion decades of bad vegan karma/at least half a cow. My bad.

    * Also would like to add that vegetarians and vegans are lovely, lovely people who I admire for having utter and resolute determination in changing their life habits (that are sometimes inconvenient) in order to achieve their ideals.

    The Bobby Pin Conspiracy

    There are numerous groups on FB complaining about losing bobby pins. No, it's not borrowers. There isn't some magical bobby pin Narnia at the back of your bathroom cosmetics drawer. And it isn't George Bush (sorry, I just watched the "global warming" episode of South Park... I couldn't resist).

    It's me. I'm taking all your bobby pins.

    Well, not on purpose. In one of the shops I work at, I have to sweep the shop floor every single morning. And every single morning at least ten bobby pins end up in my dust pan. Honest to god, somehow shop floors seem to be a magnet for bobby pins. How else would so many bobby pins (and not much else but dust and sometimes the odd safety pin) end up on the floor after a mere eight hours of trade? Maybe it's a conspiracy... George Bush, I tells ya...

    Monday, May 24, 2010

    Ethics and Ethnicity

    Some people say I look Japanese. I would love to learn how to speak a little Japanese so the next time a stranger offends me, wrongs me or tries to rape me, I can spout out something like, "FUCK OFF CUNT, I'M YAKUZA AND MY FAMILY WILL CHOP YOU UP TO TINY BITS AND FEED YOU TO OUR PET FISH!" Or something like that. Obviously in Japanese but I haven't figured out how they will understand Japanese as well.

    I'm still debating whether I should cut off any fingertips yet, for authenticity...

    Wednesday, May 19, 2010

    No deal!

    So I've been living in my gorgeous studio apartment for eight months now. As soon as I moved in I acquired one of those nifty televisions with a built-in DVD player... and by nifty I mean shit, so the player eventually broke.

    Instead of having a redundant hunk of plastic in my apartment (that played neither DVDs or received television), I finally got around to actually plugging in the television cable after seven months. By the time it took me to get around to turning the damn thing on and tuning it, it was almost another month. And the first thing that blasted out of the tube* was that fucking Deal or No Deal program. I turned off my television and haven't touched it since.

    I don't know if you can tell but I don't really like television.

    * Technically, this is incorrect because it's a liquid crystal display, not a cathode ray tube... but hey, you didn't know that.

    Tuesday, May 18, 2010


    If I could do anything and get away with it, I wouldn't rob a bank. I'd buy a few cartons of eggs and put them into the hoods (as in the things attached to jackets, coats and hoodies) of unsuspecting strangers. And then perhaps wait around if it looked like it was about to rain.

    Apparently my name means "young at heart". No kidding, huh?

    Wednesday, May 12, 2010

    Puke Posts

    I should stop looking at the blogs of people I know. In more recent times I've discovered - usually while procrastinating wildly - that two girls I am vaguely acquainted with have eating disorders. Once you've read about how people write about their vomiting habits or their post-coital thoughts on their bodies, you honestly can't think about them the same way. And then goes the whole awkward "Am I supposed to do something to try to help them?" dilemma.*

    I'm so thankfully that the most intimate that my dearest mother's blog goes into is what iPhone apps my parents play in bed before they go to sleep. Phew.

    * A while ago, a girl I met a couple of times wrote "I am so fucking depressed, I could kill myself" as her Facebook. So I privately messaged her, asking if she was okay and listed a few numbers where she could get help. She then messaged me back and told me I was crazy. Hence the whole what-to-do thing. Help and look stupid, don't help and someone shoots their wrist (yes, shoots their wrists).

    Tuesday, May 11, 2010

    Time and timetables

    I was at Flinders Street Railway Station today. I wandered around platform three looking for a railway map but there wasn't any in sight - keeping with Metro's don't-give-anyone-any-information ethos. So I asked a Metro officer to lend me his (and he was very smart, and wouldn't me touch his map, but wouldn't just say 'yes, that station is on that line'). So I checked the info screen, and it said NEXT TRAIN: 8.14 GLEN WAVERLEY. All good.

    The train on the platform left, and instead of showing the information for the Glen Waverley train (the "next train") it listed Belgrave. I checked platform 2, but the screens were all blank. So I went back to my trusty, bald, smug Metro officer. Obviously, just as I asked him what happened to the 6.14 Glen Waverley train, it magically popped up on the information screens and he thought I was very stupid.

    Metro may be very bad at running their trains on time, but their timing is impeccable.

    PS the title is supposed to hark back to Sense and Sensibility. But since I have to write this here I suppose I fail.

    Wednesday, April 21, 2010

    Johnny Same Length

    Everyone's friends with someone like this. You know, the guy whose hair is always the same length. It's like their hair never grows. It just stays this perpetual length.

    Either their hair is stunted or they trim their hair ever-so-slightly once a week. Both is kind of freaky.

    (I was going to add an analogy about Rolex bottling the perpetual length into a clock that never needed to be wound... then I realised it made no sense and that I'm sleep deprived.)

    Tuesday, April 20, 2010

    I can haz cute picatures of wabbits

    I was reading some guide to good blog writing the other day, and it mentioned pictures. Apparently people like photos, and if Lolcats and Cute Overload are any indicator, people really like photos of fuzzy animals.

    So, um, here's a pic of my bunny. I couldn't think of any text to go along with it. But you know. A picture is worth a million words.*

    * That said, I wonder why photographers only get paid slightly more than writers do, and not a million times more.

    Writer for hire!

    This is probably the most bizarre place to put an ad, but if you like my writing and would like me to write something for you or would like my portfolio please contact me through my website ( or paige.x.cho [at]

    My bread-and-butter kind of writing would be gig reviews, CD/DVD reviews, news pieces and tour write-ups, although I do thoroughly enjoy writing interviews and feature articles. I have been commissioned to do social commentary (similar to the stuff on my blog) as well as press releases for bands. I do write fiction for fun but have never published any of it of out fear of embarrassment. I will also edit pretty much any sort of writing, including technical reports (when I was in university I used to edit foreign students' medical/lab/business reports).

    Then again rent day is looming ahead ominously, and would pretty much undertake almost any sort of writing assignment.

    Taking the Lord's name in vain

    Also, I should clarify:

    If I use the phrases "dear lord" or "oh my god", it's used as an expression of speech. Believe it or not, I said that the other day and someone actually thought I was religious. Which is odd because I'm pretty sure that Christians aren't supposed to use their god's name in vain. I also don't mean to be particularly offensive to Christians, but then again I say that about my swearing.

    Maybe I'll start saying "oh cum dumpsters" instead to avoid confusion/offending people.

    Evolution vs. Stagnation

    This is an extension of my previous blog (

    I sometimes look back at things I have worn, said, listened to or liked and cringed. Like blue cream eyeshadow and silver velcro platforms when I was twelve. And tan-coloured stretchy miniskirts from Supre when I was fourteen. Or corset, leather pencil skirts and way too much eyeliner when I was eighteen. And I like that.

    There's a Friends episode (oh dear lord, I've admitted that I have at some point in my life watched Friends - it's true) in which Monica goes on a date with a guy from her high school. When she was in school she was the fat obese kid everyone paid out and no one wanted to take to the prom, and he was this super-hot stud who rode a motorbike, lived above his family's garage and worked in the bowling alley (or the movies, I can't remember which). Fast forward however many years, and Monica is skinny (to the point of anorexia, perhaps), lives in a gorgeous New York apartment with her best friend and is a head chef at a restaurant. The popular kid? Um, exactly the same. He lives with his parents, still rides a motorbike (note, I think bikes are quite cool) and works in the same joint. What's cool when you're a kid isn't really cool when you're an adult. It would explain why I don't wear that metallic SlapBand on my wrists anymore.

    So I'm hoping that when I'm thirty I'll start throwing up when I look at the things I liked when I was twenty-two (yes, that's my age).

    PS I'm also hoping that I develop a sense of tolerance when I'm thirty, but I think that will be a little far fetched.

    Monday, April 19, 2010

    Umm... Yes. I know that song. It's the one with the chorus... and, um...

    I wish there was a weekend course on culture. Some people forget that I was born in the late eighties. I went to a rich, private girls boarding school on the Gold Coast. All the girls were more interested in hair extensions and their ponies than Radiohead - who I didn't really listen to until after high school much to my older brother's chagrin. Even having an older brother with excellent taste in music didn't help because he just made fun of my musical leanings as a teenager. My parents did a good job trying to be good tutors, taking me to the MoMA, making me listen to the Beatles and letting me try food like cous cous and dosai. But it's pretty obvious that I was more interested in shopping at Pacific Fair and platforms, unfortunately.

    The first few guys I dated were very much into metal (Pantera, Slipknot, Korn, Sepultura, All That Remains, Children of Bodom), which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I still love my Nine Inch Nails and can sing along to pretty much any Marilyn Manson fan. But seriously. Anything that wasn't metal was taboo. This culture thing is really difficult sometimes.

    I probably shouldn't admit this, but sometimes I feel totally uncultured. I know so many older, much wiser and creative people in their mid-thirties. They all seem to be band managers, former rockstars, photographers who have snapped famous people, writers who rub shoulders with icons, stylists who have given certain Mercury Prize winners advice... You get the idea. I think they forget that I was only seven when Kurt Cobain blew his face off. When I talk to these ridiculous dapper folk, I sometimes have no idea what they are talking about. They may reference a movie that I have heard of but have never actually seen. Or talk about their favourite band and I'll have to go home and Wikipedia the shit out of it.

    I recently went for a job interview to be state editor for a certain music establishment, and the question came up. "What Australian bands do you like?" While there are gazillions of Australian bands on my iPod, and many local acts that I absolutely adore, my brain went completely numb and the only two people who came into my mind were Yves Klein Blue and Sarah Blasko. I think I repeated them twice for effect. I should get an A-plus for acting like a blonde. Any good hairdresser will tell you it's hard going so many shades lighter in a matter of seconds. I pretty much undid all my I-swear-I-know-what-I'm-talking-about pretence I had going on.

    This is probably my social suicide, admitting this. But it's true. I still feel like a dorky fourteen year old figuring out what she likes (Kitty Daisy & Lewis) and doesn't like (Washington), what I can admit to liking without I being laughed at (Lion King) and what will (INXS). But honestly. If someone was to hold a crash course on culture, I would be the first in line.

    PS I recently admitted this to a photographer in his (I think) mid-thirties who told me not to worry because he only developed his taste in music in his mid-twenties. There's still hope for me yet.

    Tuesday, April 13, 2010

    I am a weakish speller

    Click on the image to enlarge. I typed in "anagram" into Google and look at what it asked me.

    Thursday, April 8, 2010

    University state of mind

    You know what I find hilarious? People who bitch about university, and how dull or hard it is. If you think semester one of an accounting degree is boring, then sweetie you better change courses. Because the rest of your career is likely to be pretty much the same thing. Except that if you fuck up you don't repeat a subject, you get fired.

    Although on the other hand, I wish I hadn't applied that logic to my life plans. While being a neuropsychologist is probably quite boring, I'd probably be getting fuckloads more money than I do as a freelance music journalist.

    Monday, April 5, 2010

    Memory fail

    So I was sitting on the train today, and thought of a brilliant blog post. Then I forgot it. So you don't get a brilliant blog post. Perhaps I shouldn't post this.

    Wednesday, March 31, 2010

    He said what?

    I was once talking to my ex on the phone about a year after we broke up, doing the whole "oh-so-what-are-you-up-to-now-not-that-I-care" spiel. This is what he said:

    Ex-bf: Yeah, I dropped out of school. But it's okay, I work at a petrol station.
    Me: Oh, okay.
    Ex-bf: But it's all cool, I'm going to look for a new job in a while. You know, when I have time. I want to work in Politix (clothing store).
    Me: Politics? Um, don't you need to have a degree or own a business or have quite a high profile in the community? Or be someone's bitch around election time?
    Ex-bf: What? I don't think I even need to have finished school? I think I just have to look good.
    Me: What? Are you serious?
    Ex-bf: Are we talking about the same thing? I'm talking about the clothing store.
    Me: Oh, I meant politics, like John Howard and Kevin Rudd.
    Ex-bf: Pfft, politics? What a lame job.

    She said what?

    I recently had dinner with a very... blonde, spoilt friend. Since the diner was quite close to Coles I brought my backpack with me so I could do some convenient post-meal grocery shopping , and easily carry it home with a backpack (like I normally do). This is the conversation that ensued:

    Friend: Hey, you're on my way. I'll drive you home.
    Me: Thanks for the offer but I'm going to go to Coles first.
    Friend: Why? You live like three kilometres away?
    Me: Yeah, but it's the closest Coles to me.
    Friend: But you don't have a car? You can't walk three kilometres! How do you bring your groceries home?!?!
    Me: Well I just bring a backpack, catch a tram up and walk home.
    Friend: WHAT? You carry your groceries? But that's like so third world.

    I don't think there's a comeback for a comment like "But that's so third world."