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.