Part of my jobs requires looking up beauty blogs and make-up tips... Along with other things like celebrity gossip, fashion trends and trivia. Yes, I know my job doesn't sound very legit but it really is.
On my exciting, bimbo-esque Internet travels, I came across this rather insulting make-up tip post. It's called 'Make Up Tips For Round Faces', and the title is pretty explanatory. An entire article devoted to supposedly helping cherub-faced women overcome their apparent defects.
As the owner of a very round face, I was a bit perplexed by the fact that the whole post was to teach us women to hide our shame. Perhaps some of the tips were useful tidbits of advice that can be applied to any girl, but the phrase "mask the disproportions of the face"? I'm sorry, my face is out of proportion now?
The most curious thing was the round-faced girls in the article were Devon Aoki, Lily Cole and Gemma Ward - all absolutely gorgeous, Kewpie-like supermodels. Yup. Great examples of why being round-faced is bad, hey?
P.S. I should also add that the author also assumed that all girls with round faces need to hide their shameful double chins.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Part of my jobs requires looking up beauty blogs and make-up tips... Along with other things like celebrity gossip, fashion trends and trivia. Yes, I know my job doesn't sound very legit but it really is.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I recently moved in with my boyfriend. It's great. It get to wake up next to his gorgeous face and go to sleep lying next to his hot body. We don't have to spend ludicrous amounts of time travelling just to see each other. The furthest I have to travel to see him is now six seconds it takes me to walk from the bathroom to the living room.
The only problem is that I've now gone from being his cute, sexy girlfriend who he sees every few days hanging about in lacy lingerie... to his everyday girlfriend wearing daggy cotton undies and doing the dishes. Now I feel like I have to counteract mundane activities like cutting my nails and vacuuming with looking super hot all the time. Bah, first world problems.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
I dyed my hair bright orange a couple of months ago. When I say bright orange, think Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Mila Jovovich in Fith Element or the leading babe in Run Lola Run. B-r-i-g-h-t orange.
So imagine my surprise when a shop girl asked me if my hair colour was natural. Why, yes. Electrified mandarin is a natural hair colour for Asians.
My birthday is in two days time, and I'll officially be in my mid-twenties. I feel absolutely old. (Yes, I can also practically hear all of you rolling your eyes in unison... but bear with me.)
My early twenties were completely exhausting when I think about it. I had finished high school and had just graduated from university. I was still testing the waters of life and didn't know what exactly I wanted to do. Evidence? I worked as an official graduation hat putter-on-er, a lollipop lady, a retail sales assistant and a diamond washer for a jewellery company. I didn't know what I wanted to do but I did know that I had to keep busy to get anywhere in life. There was one point were I worked five jobs at once and lost about ten kilos just from running around. Everyone told me that I was young so I could burn the candles at both ends.
But now things are different. I've figured out that social media marketing is a good career choice for me. (Who knew that I could be paid to combine my writing skills and my obsession with Twitter?) I have a secure job. I have an awesome man who I will be living with in a few weeks time. I have a credit card. I go to Sunday barbeques with people who have kids. Half my friends are married. I'm already thinking about my financial future and investment properties.
I kind of want to come home from work and just fucking relax. I don't want to be writing random blog posts because I have hundreds of publicists bothering me. I don't want free tickets to a gig at the expense of my enjoyment and having to spend the next night busily writing something up. I don't want to have to reply to about seventy to a hundred emails every night about random crap. Or always having something at the back of my mind.
I'm at the stage that not only do I not want to burn the candle at both ends, I don't want the candle at all. I want a fucking light switch. With a clapper. So I don't have to get up.
I guess this is what our mid-twenties are for.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
I'm pretty sure the word "boyfriend" can be used as a synonym for the following words: best friend, cheerleader (cheerleaders can be male too), supporter, comedian, compadre, baking partner, travel companion, shrink, band mate, business advisor and confidant.
Okay... I'll shut up now because you probably just threw up in your mouth a little.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
How to fly a 2-seater aeroplane.
How to ride a horse.
How to remove expensive books from a book shelf "correctly". (You have to push both books on either side in first, then extract out the chosen book with two hands.)
How to hand make paper.
How to play the piano.
How to gesso a canvas.
How to eat a lobster with the correct utensils.
... if only my parents taught me how to change a car tyre or how to cook a tomato. I can't do either.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
I've been incredibly lucky that I have managed to pick up a shit load of freelancing writing, publicity and marketing jobs over the past month. I seriously never thought I could actual find that many jobs (a few once-offs and two continually) on top of the writing I do for my blog, but I have some very lovely friends who spammed my resume out to friends and small businesses in need of help.
Hurray for money. I get paid to sit in my home office, bunny in lap, drinking chai teas while hammering away press releases. Writing shit on Facebook is part of my job. I can sleep in. I get to work in my jammies. There's no commute to work. My hourly rate is the highest it has ever been. I have all this spare time to do all the things I always said I wanted to do but didn't have the time to do (e.g. learn how to knit, do swing dancing classes, start jogging, write more songs).
But... I think I'm getting cabin fever and now I'm going to sleep at 4am and waking up at 2pm. I think I need to go and invest in a fancy espresso maker and a huge arse alarm clock. I can take that off my taxes as expenses, right?
I've been having lots of ups and downs lately (to the couple of haters who read my blog, go enjoy a moment of
schadenfreude on the house) and have been trying to largely keep this off my Facebook and Twitter. Can't say that I have been completely successful at this attempt at self-imposed censorship, but I've posted a lot less than normal about big events in my life.
The problem is that it is bad social media etiquette to flood people's news feeds with vague, depressing, please-kill-me-now-I-hate-everything posts... But then again, if I post about the super-awesome things that happen to me I also feel like a wanker. And then that whole issue where I must possess some strange writing skills because a lot of people misinterpret my statuses and tweets as veiled insults to them when I am really not.
I now get why celebrities hire publicists.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Door bitches generally let people carrying instruments into venues because they are (most of the time) musicians playing there. I once snuck into a venue by casually sauntering in past the line of people while carrying a tambourine. Genius, I know.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
When I was in Grade 10, our school shipped us off to Outward Bound. It was a nine-day adventure camp with no showers, no toilets (literally a shovel, the ground, and lots of squatting), no lights, no electricity, no cabins, no tents, nothing. For nine days. I knew from the start that this wasn't going to be a trip in the park (or a very large park, if you know what I mean) so I came completely ready.
Some of the other girls in my school were... less prepared. While I wore cargo pants, a hoodie and hiking boots for the two bus rides and the plane flight to the camp site, some of them rocked up in party wear. All frocked up with heels, one shouldered dresses, and hoop earrings. I remember at the time I was a little jealous and wished I had gotten a little glammed up to, but as soon as we got to the camp and these girls had to awkwardly get changed then squish their nice gear into their camping backpacks, I completely forgot any regrets.
Nine days later, out we came covered head to foot in mud, dirt, sweat and sunscreen. And these bimbos I went to school with obviously had to get back into their sparkly outfits. Let me assure you, one shouldered dresses do not look good with nine days worth of armpit hair
Friday, March 25, 2011
I suppose if you're going to blog about your ransom demands, you have to PDF that shit in case someone alters your shit and doesn't give you what you want...
Posted by Paige X. Cho at 9:02 AM
Thursday, March 24, 2011
LAB. Lactic Acid Bars. WTF. What the fuck.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Just a plug, a shameful plug. My other blog Paper-Deer is growing faster than a two-year with a taste for McDonald's. It's a blog that focuses on the Melbourne music scene. Check it out at www.paper-deer.com!
Monday, March 21, 2011
is so tall that he can change the light bulbs in my apartment without so much as tiptoeing. This is great. I don't ever need to buy a ladder.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
How ugly is Blogger.
I would love to switch this over to Tumblr or Wordpress (where I recently ported my baby www.paper-deer.com). But I am too lazy. Such is life.
Posted by Paige X. Cho at 7:07 AM
I recently discovered the blog of a past schoolmate (which I won't post because I'll seem like a creepy stalker which I'm not... I hope not anyway). In high school, I wasn't particularly good friends with this girl but definitely never had any gripes with her. She was one of the more super-rich, super-attractive girls - which is incredibly hard to do in a private girls' school full of beautiful specimens of the human species - and I was the weird Asian goth kid. So, you know.
It seems that this girl is still super-attractive, and has an absolutely fascinating blog full of pictures and posts of her super glamorous life. Good on her - I'm jealous. I want her wardrobe.
This missy's blog has an enviable amount of comments, mostly about her amazing fashion sense or her friends checking in. And then there are the haters. Anonymous, I should add, and ripping into everything from her personality or her lack thereof (apparent), her sexuality, her appearance, her lifestyle, her morals.
I think anonymous negative comments are so gutless. My mother used to say, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." I'm more inclined to disagree. If you can't say anything nice, at least have the spine to show your face and back up your opinions. And no, posting more anonymous comments to argue isn't really having a spine. It's just being a coward.
(Weirdly though, I'm a little green with envy because so many comments, negative or otherwise, means she has a lot of readers. I have only gotten two hateful spineless comments on this blog from an anonymous source(s) but I'm pretty sure I know of the person anyway. Not that I'm inviting more bitchiness here though...)
Monday, March 7, 2011
"Kids can be so cruel."
I have heard those words so many times, and have probably muttered them myself on many instances. Children can be so fucking mean sometimes... well, that's the excuse I'm using anyway to attempt to explain the many gaps in my personality.
But when you think about, sometimes kids are far kinder than adults. I remember in Primary One there was a girl with eleven fingers - one of her hands had two pinkies pretty much. I think I was six, and I asked her why she too many and she explained that one of her fingers was weak so the doctors decided to give her a spare finger just in case. I think I was just in awe of her excess in fingers, and during dinner that night I went home and asked my mum why I didn't have spare fingers.
From memory, my mother just scoffed and asked why anyone would want spare fingers. See? Kids are cool like that.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Australians have lots of cute and quirky colloquialisms. It's charming how they shorten everything. Lippy, swimmers, joggers (referring to sports shoes, not people who jog)...
The one thing I did find strange was their tendency to say "as" as an explanation. "It was cold as." "Fuck, that's dodgy as!" "That girl was hot as." Urm... hot as what?!?!
My first impression of Australians when I moved here was that they didn't quite get the concept of similes. Or they were terrible at finishing sentences.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
I am a book nerd. A huge fucking book worm. The nerdiest fucking nerd nerd that ever nerded with books. (Okay, I know that isn't really a proper sentence.) My only problem is that I have a penchant for seriously depressing, fucked up books. May I present to you the books that I have read in the past two and a half months (I read too much):
- American Psycho, Brett Easton Ellis. Man feels invisible. Rapes and kills (not necessarily in that order) a whole bunch of people very violently. Imagine nail guns, cigarette lighters, coat hangers, starved rats and acid. Then you find out he's actually losing his mind and you don't know if he killed them.
- Perdido Street Station, China Mieville. Main character manages to rescue lover after thinking she is dead for some time, except he watches her get half her mind sucked out and acts like a child yet she still wants to have sex with him then gets really confused because she is essentially a child. So he's stuck with the shell of the love of his life.
- The Death of Bunny Munroe, Nick Cave. Son of the main character walks in on his mother after she's committed suicide, both his grandparents hate him and his father dies in his arms after screwing far too many women while he waits outside in the car. Oh, and the poor kid is sort of going blind and I'm pretty sure he is supposed to have Asperger's.
- American Gods, Neil Gaiman. Main character's wife dies the day before the main character gets out of jail. Oh yeah, and that's just the first chapter.
- The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen. Father loses his mind and thinks his poo is talking to him. Mother is obsessed with Christmas and has bizarre hang ups. Daughter breaks up her boss' marriage by sleeping with his wife after turning down his advances even though she is attracted to him and gets fired. Eldest son is super-depressed and plays mind games with his bitch-of-a-wife. Youngest son is seriously in debt after getting fired for sleeping with a student and gets mixed up with fraud in Lithuania.
- High Fidelity, Nick Hornby. Main character cheats on his girlfriend while she is (not to his knowledge) pregnant so she gets an abortion. Then she cheats on him. Then they get back together and bicker a lot.
I think I tried to read The Devil Wears Prada after a heavy dose of Byron - thought it might be the equivalent of watching trashy television when you don't want to think - but I couldn't make myself do it. Two chapters of Weisberger and I was done.
Can someone please point me in the direction of some good books that don't make me want to jump off a bridge post-reading?
Okay, perhaps my previous blog post didn't explain very much.
Apparently in Melbourne, certain young folk are afflicted with a predilection called "chap laps" which involves driving up and down Chapel Street. For anyone who doesn't know/live in M-town, the South Yarra/Prahran end of Chapel Street is a shopping strip full of alright cafes, fashionable bars and designer shops and far too many yuppies fighting for parking spots.
I only heard about this curious phenomenon a few weeks ago, but there are apparently quite a few kids in Melbourne who aimlessly drive up and down Chapel Street as a form on entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights. Usually in their souped up cars and with loud music blaring. And not because they have plans to go out and go clubbing, or are meant to be meeting up with peeps on Chapel, but because they want to show off their mags and surround sound. No wonder traffic on Chapel Street is a nightmare.
I can't think of anything more boring. Maybe it's because I am a victim of Melbourne's public transport system and try to avoid travel unless it's absolutely necessary. And maybe because I'd rather spend money at a gig, or drinking at a bar with mates, or going out for dinner, then sitting in a car and paying for petrol.
In the words of Pauline Hanson: "Please explain."
Saturday, February 26, 2011
No, seriously. What?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
I have this little theory that the way people are programmed is a little like the way you set your characters' personalities on The Sims. You get a set number of "points" to play with, and you have to spread them about different traits about the person, whether it be attractiveness, intelligence or personality/social skills.
My reasoning is that you can get people who are attractive and intelligent, but perhaps not the nicest people. Or extreme people who may be extremely beautiful, but a little bit of a bimbo and a bitch. And then you get the mediocre average people who kind of hover evenly between the three - I know, it sounds horrible to say something like this.
Lately, though, I keep meeting these absolutely gorgeous people who are talented and sweet. They are so awesome it is almost sickening - I say almost, because they are so lovely you can be sickened by them. Then the first thing that comes to mind is, "But... can they cook?"
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I really dig the idea of being a famous journalist or novelist. It's not like being a famous actress or pop star - when you're renown in a literary sense, the greater public generally only know your mug from that blurry, pixelated image that accompanies your weekly column or the hideous picture with your cat on your novel's book sleeve.
With the exception of Neil Gaiman (deliciously foppish black curls tainted with the occasional white streak, and a British accent are pretty hard to miss), I honestly cannot tell you what my other favourite writers look like. To me, great minds like Chuck Palahniuk, China Mieville (I think he may have a shaved head) and Kurt Vonnegut are represented in my mind as fantastically excellent books in my personal library, as thousands of brilliant words filling up space in my apartment.
I find it creepy how my supermarket magazine aisle is filled with row after row of magazines dedicated to celebrity fodder. The poor creatures are hunted down, with pages of each "magazine" stuffed with photos of our apparently-favourite actress/musician/singer/comedian/television personality at the the milk bar buying milk, with disapproving comments from the magazine about how this skinny little twig has really "let herself go" because there is a little cellulite shaking from her thighs. These people would probably have a heart attack if they saw me naked.
If I ever become "famous", I hope I don't have paparazzi or crazed fans following me around, snapping pics with their mobiles (hopefully lack of talent on my part will take care of that). Like Natalie Wood was once quoted saying - but I now can't find the quote on the internet - "I'm not a celebrity, I'm an actress."
I say we start a movement. Next time you are blown away by a stunning performance in a movie or listen to a spine-tingling good album, instead of looking them up on Perez Hilton's blog, go support them and buy their other albums or watch other films they have laboured over for months. Let's call it the "Common Sense Movement".
Saturday, February 5, 2011
There is a particular beggar in the Melbourne CBD who I see on a regular basis. She looks clean enough so she doesn't look homeless, and her clothes are never torn and she seems to float between Flinders Street Station and Melbourne Central Station (apart from when I see her eating 50 cent cones outside the Swanston Street MacDonald's).
On one particular evening, she approached a little blond twenty-something for change, with her usual, "Excuse me, but can you spare some change for food and accommodation?" The sweet girl then opened a plastic takeaway container next to her and offered the beggar a delicious looking steamed dumpling, but the beggar recoiled and asked if she had any notes. "If you're actually hungry, you should really have one of these. They taste really yummy!" The beggar then said she really would prefer money because she has a toothache and her dentist told her to not eat anything hard, and only soft food like apples... Umm... soft apples.
Honestly, beggars can't be choosers.
PS: I was once asked for change by a beggar for change and I didn't have much money because I was unemployed at the time so I gave him some food... only to find him looking really clean, well dressed, and messing about with his mates a few weeks later with a Nerf gun. No money my ass. I really had no money to spare.
PPS A similar thing happened to my father, who gave a beggar a piece of KFC chicken breast, and the beggar asked for a drumstick instead. -___-
PPPS I swear I wrote a blog post about this before, but I can't see it anywhere so here it is again.
Posted by Paige X. Cho at 6:41 AM
Friday, February 4, 2011
My father is convinced that I am the most beautiful person to grace the planet. He is always telling me that I'm gorgeous, and when I was younger and single and whinging about being lover-less, his theory was that I was so beautiful I intimidated men... um, thanks Pa. I'm sure that's why I was single.
The logic in his theory is that he is constantly showing people my picture on his iPhone and they always comment on how pretty I am. Which really is the worst evidence to prove that I'm pretty because no one is realistically going to say, "My word, your daughter is fucking ugly!"
Although it's nice to know that at least one person in the world thinks I'm pretty. Even if it is my father.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
I once received an email from a customer, where the subject was "Please go and" and the message was "fuck off and die." So charming. It was in response to receiving a mass email which he had signed on for. Isn't this what unsubscribe buttons are for?
This is perhaps one of the strangest marketing ideas I have ever seen. Hand dryer with a screen with advertising. Okay, I can dig. But when you start drying your hands, it automatically starts playing the video with sound...
Maybe whoever designed this contraption didn't realise that hand dryers make noise. So you can't really hear whatever it is they are playing. Hooray for silly items!
Posted by Paige X. Cho at 5:31 AM
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I hate lending things to people. So much. It's not that I'm stingy and don't want to share. It's just that 90% of the time I lend my possessions to people - particularly loved items - they don't really return to me. Or they do, somewhat damaged. And I'm not talking about a Nine Inch Nails song.
Like lending a girl a beloved cardigan that I've owned since I was eleven because she didn't like the clothes she had at home. Then she just literally would not give it up because she didn't think I wanted it back. Hmm, not sure whether she learnt what the word "loan" meant in junior school. (But had the audacity to get really upset when someone returned her own shirt crumpled.) Or lending another friend an extremely expensive pair of designer pants to never see them again. Or lending my boyfriend-at-the-time my favourite-novel-at-the-time, to discover it torn up, spine broken and growing mold under his bed with a hunk of seafood sushi rotting in the middle of it. I guess the book was "growing" on him.
So this is why I will say no politely if you ask to borrow something personal from me. It's not you, it's me. I just like having undamaged possessions too much.
There was once a teenage girl. She went to the doctor's office for whatever reason - let's just say a cold for the sake of this story - and her doctor looked at her, terribly worried. "Dear girl," he said, "we need to run some blood work, stat!" Apparently she was so orange from the fake tan she was using that the doctor thought she had severe jaundice.
True story. This is why I like being pale.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
When I was seventeen and eighteen, I had really low standards for men. Or "boys", because to be honest unemployed nineteen-year-olds who still live at home are not really adults. A couple of months ago, I received a phone call from a particularly inferior specimen of the male species (I'm allowed to say that because he was a disgusting liar, and a pathological gambler who once made me wait for him outside a casino for an hour while he spent the money I lent him, and then nearly killed me in a car crash). I hadn't heard from him for literally five years.
After mistaking him for a different guy with the same name, I found out that the creepy bastard had Googled my name and discovered I was a music journalist. He then proceeded to ask - as straight forward as a cricket bat - if he could send me a list of bands that he wants free tickets to. Not one, or two. A fucking list.
Insulted, I pretty much told him no. At which stage the cocky dip shit implied that I wasn't a very good music journalist if I couldn't get free tickets, so I set the record straight and went through all the big name concerts I had been to. And mentioned that I give away loads of free tickets to my friends and my boyfriend (he must've been deaf, because he kept on sleazing onto me).
I also mentioned that sometimes I have to write something up about the band to get media passes, so I wasn't going to waste my time, request tickets, keep my night free, go to a gig I might not particularly enjoy and write up a gig review for a "random". He then pointed out that it wasn't any work for him, just me, so I shouldn't feel bad because he could enjoy it... What. The. Fuck.
Hot tip for men: don't go calling up old fuck buddies you haven't spoken to in years and ask them to pull favours for you off the bat. At the very least be a little polite and try to take them out for dinner or something. Oh wait, here's a better tip. Just try not to be a cunt.
Friday, January 14, 2011
This is a story my Grade Eleven physics teacher told me.
There was once four university students who, in typical university student fashion, went on some all-out bender the night before an exam. They awoke the next day, hours after their assessment was scheduled and in an attempt to not flunk the course lied to the professor. Their story was they went out for a country drive the day before (some good, clean fun of course), and were unfortunately inflicted with a flat tyre and had to walk home. Much to their surprise and delight, the professor smiled and told them it was all okay. No problems. They could sit the test right that moment. Rather pleased with themselves, the young men each sat eagerly at a desk as the prof handed out the exam.Or what they thought was the exam. There was a single question.
"Which tyre went flat?"
Saturday, January 8, 2011
You'll love Salvadore Dali? I tried out the feature in Etsy that allows you to look up your friends interests on their Facebook profile and it links you up with possible gift ideas from the website. Not sure how much Spice Girls have in common with the famous artist.
Also, yes. I am dating a grown-up male with a penchant for the The Spice Girls.
I saw a bird shit on another bird yesterday. It was epic shit. That is all.
Monday, January 3, 2011
It seems to be a societal hobby to make fun of hipsters. I've heard my non-hipster friends chortle at their high-waisted pants and (perhaps on other people) tragic op-shop fashion. I've sat in cars where the drivers poke fun at their vintage single-gear bicycles, and then attempt to run them over. Highly respected publications like TIME have taken note and consider this social group of enough weight to publish analyses of them (claiming that the conformity of their non-conformity is a little ridiculous... not sure how this is different from most youth groups like emos and goths, but thanks for pointing out the obvious TIME) as do less respected outlets.
Secretly I think all of the naysayers are just a little jealous that they don't look quite so rad in their pilling granny cardigan, and because they can't have five-hour debates about why Foucault's own deviant sexual practices validate his philosophies.
Now watch this cute car commercial and laugh.
This blog post was written for your eyes by a dorky (but more like an Asian, badminton-playing bookworm rather than a hipster) girl who may secretly wish she was a hipster so she can pull off that hideously horrific thrift shop lace dress that has been sitting in her wardrobe for four years.