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.