Stealing your Blush

Remember the time when your mum didn’t let you wear eyeliner to school. Not even a subtle dust of black kohl.

I don’t know about your mother, but mine made sure that my high school memories were make-up free. I was appreciative of the ‘anti-foundation’ movement for 20 years of my life. Almost 20. Babies don’t wear make-up, right? Unless you’re watching Toddlers and Tiaras.

I didn’t know what an ‘illuminator’ was until two year ago. My first attempt at applying a liquid eyeliner resulted in several tears. Several. I am yet to perfect GHD curls. I’ll never know the correct way of washing make-up brushes. It was only three weeks ago when a rosy-red lipstick peeped from my beauty cupboard and smiled at me.
We are currently standing on a giant beauty intersection. Look right and there’s a beauty blogger. Look left and a make-up counter with a fountain of products is glaring at you. Look up and there’s a beauty editor waving at you. Look down and you’ve shit your pants with beauty-related anxiety. There is so much information for our tiny brains that no matter how many hair masques we apply, majority of us will undergo pre-mature balding.
However, women will always be women. We still want someone to tell us what perfume to spritz on a crisp autumn day. We just can’t get enough.

Which is why, I am joining a very talented crew and adding my shrieking voice to the beautified conversation.
Ladies (and gentlemen, who are interested in our world), I am The Modern Woman’s Survival Guide’s brand new Beauty Intern.

Sparkling new. Just rinsed myself with Spray n Wipe. Fresh out of the oven.

This unexpected gig landed in my inbox over the weekend and it surprised the bronzer out of me. I have been a MWSG reader for over two years now. I was one of those annoying, unlucky readers who commented on every post and entered every competition. The kind who never win anything but retweet every post.

Today, I’m chuffed to be a part of the website. The Beauty editor, Jo Davy, and I share a similar vision for the website and its beauty department. We look forward to bringing the very best of beauty to your computer screens/iPads/iPhones/dodgy Sony Ericssons.

All you have to do is, ‘like’ the Facebook page, so you can stay updated with all the Modern beauty yarns. Duh. I’m not trying to promote a prize giveaway here.

Then send me some macarons, so I can start researching about…. how macarons assist in beauty writing.

Read my bio OVER HERE.

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Broke and Decaffeinated

Fuzzy words. I’m trying to comprehend the front-page article. Newspaper is crumpling in my hands. This is ridiculous, I can’t even hold a piece a paper. Grumbling at my co-passenger’s laptop bag that’s touching my knee. This is going to be a long day. Nothing can ease this agitation.

Every morning, I vow to survive a caffeine-free day without complaining and ten minutes later, I crumble to failure. Why didn’t I miss coffee as much as I do now, when I was on my detox? Why didn’t I crave its frothy goodness when I slurped Milo as a kid?

On days like these, I curse the person who introduced me to cappuccinos and made me realise how incomplete I feel when I can’t feel the warmth of the beverage between my fingers. I miss the piping hot sensation on my tongue. Its aroma that seeps through the plastic cup – oh my!

The day I moved to my new home in Sydney, the first thing on my to-do list was to find my local coffee shop, make best friends with the barista and make sure he learnt my complicated order by heart (it’s a nightmare of an order, no jokes). As the days flew by, the funds from my bank account flew along. Money vanished like it was playing a game of hide and seek with my account (secretly, I’m still hoping that’s the case). Even though I’ve mastered the concept of “budgeting”, it’s hard to not budget for a daily cup of coffee.

People say, “why don’t you make coffee at home?”. My answer to them is, “have you tasted shit? That’s what home coffee tastes like”. And it’s true. After convincing my wallet to not jump out the second I walked past a cafe, I resorted to drinking coffee at home. Fail. The after-effects were the same. It consisted of hyperventilation, warm ear lobes, shaky fingers, and all that. But the drink, in itself, bypassed every level of disgusting. It tasted like poo mixed with sugar in muddy, soy milk.

My next strategy was to make coffee at internship. That plan sounded perfect. They have a fancy coffee machine with even-more fancy coffee sachets. One possibly can’t go wrong with technology that requires minimum human effort. Just press a button.
Fail. Again. Except that this one tasted like poo in muddy water. Black coffee disaster.

It saddens me to see how stingy I’ve become. There were days when I bought others their compulsive morning drink. My fat wallet was bursting with loyalty cards from every coffee shop in town. Everyone knew my order.

Now…

My wallet is thin.
My head misses the coffee hit.
And my bank balance… let’s not go there.

I’m sure you’re sipping on your afternoon cup, as you’re reading this. Enjoy that while I go and refill my water bottle.

Alas!

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Moving… again!

Oh don’t freak out just yet. I can’t possibly be bored of this city, already.

This time I’m moving houses within Sydney. Because guess what – I HAVE A HOUSE.

I don’t have to sleep on an airbed anymore. No longer do I have to live out of my suitcase. I will have my own room, my very own bathroom and a kitchen where I can cook without feeling guilty (yes mummy, I won’t just microwave stuff).

Although, I am not looking forward to repacking all my trash and moving it to the new house.

I have to undergo the entire process to hiring a truck, reshuffling my boxes, dealing with abusive removalists and keeping the packaging tape away from my nail paint (very difficult).

I am hoping this would be my last move (for a while). I can assure you, I’ll be a pro by the end of this one. Your walking-talking moving specialist -that’s me.

If you live in Sydney and want to get rid of any extra furniture in your house – CONTACT ME. I will love you for life.

But seriously, spread the word….

Shitika is moving houses and needs a real bed to sleep on.

Tell the person next to you on the bus. Surely he’ll have a lamp he can give me. Surely!

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The week that was…

Seven days. I can hardly believe it has been a week since I landed in this city. The reason I say that is because it feels longer than that.

My grand entrance on February 12 at Sydney airport was A DISASTER. I was a nightmare on heels. Imagine a short girl trying to drag two suitcases, one cabin bag, a laptop bag and handbag – all at once. Let’s make it more entertaining – she was in heels and trying to talk on the phone while purchasing a train ticket. Yep! Silly goose. I got every possible stare from every random person that I could. Old ladies were trying to convince me to buy a pair of havaianas. I overheard a kid say to her mum, “Is that girl going to break her back?” A mature man laughed and said to me, “Maybe it’s a good idea to travel with someone”.

Maybe wearing heels while travelling alone wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve made, but I’m a firm believer of ‘travelling in style’. What if my future love was in the same flight as me? I didn’t want to look like a pathetic loner who couldn’t even dress well. Let’s forget the reality that I sat next to an ugg-boot wearing bogan couple.

The nightmare ended when I reached my temporary home, but things weren’t looking very good for my posture.

Let me explain.
For only a few weeks, I’m couch crashing a very lovely couple’s house. It has a waterfront view. My room has a lovely balcony that almost overlooks the Harbour bridge. There is a HD TV with foxtel which pleases my addiction of trashy TV (oh hello Kardashian). The suburb is cluttered with roadside cafes and health shops. My air bed leaks. BAM!
Basically I sleep on a cushioned, comfortable bed and wake up on the wooden floor with the bed folds curled around me. I’m living out of two suitcases and a box. I have limited shoes, very limited clothes and hardly any food in the pantry.

But as my mum says, it’s all a part of the experience. I stepped out of my comfort zone and landed on an air bed with a hole.

The past week was all about playing catch-ups with old and new friends. It was about spending a lot of money (that I don’t have) on coffee and food. It was about getting a new hair style. It was about staring at my favourite building in Sydney and dreaming of the day I’ll get to walk through the doors as an employee. Somewhere in the moving mania, I also managed to buy a new pair of shoes and I blame peer pressure for that. I got addicted to macarons but didn’t find a French boy. I went for my first pilates class in 11 months and it was like reuniting with a long lost friend.

The past week was weird. It was different. It was more like a holiday than a move.