Condomnation

Maybe it's because I'm Asian.

 We were down to the last roll of toilet paper in our house, so I ventured out to get some more. I live about five minutes from the nearest Coles, and so I headed there and bought a roll of 18 Kleenex rolls because they were on sale.

The moment I left Coles, my head started plotting my journey home. The main criteria for my path of choice? As little human contact as possible. So that I don't bump into anyone I know.

Why is that?

Imagine if you bumped into a friend at the supermarket. After the cursory greetings and small talk has dwindled, your bored mind starts to wander down to their shopping basket.

 "Hmmm. Milk. Cereal. Bread. Eggs. Oh, instant noodles. And laundry powder." - and because we are all secretly insecure bitches inside - "Look -*snigger* - he bought Home Brand."

(I love Home Brand. Some of my best buys are from Home Brand.)

Then suddenly you see the toilet rolls. The slightest scrunch, discreet yet noticeable, appears on your face. Eew, he poops.

Your friend now notices your eyes trailing into their shopping basket, judging their private life. They see you imagining them on the toilet bowl, going about their big business. They try to close the door on you, but they can't because the door is in your mind.

There is a subtle nervous swing of the body and basket away from you, and they put on their best fake smile and then hurriedly say their goodbyes, quickly heading to the checkout counters, abandoning the rest of the things that they were actually there to buy.

At least that's how it goes on in my head.

I don't know what it is. Everybody poops. That's natural. Yet somehow to me, being found buying toilet paper is like, I don't know, being discovered buying condoms. By your strict Convent nun school teacher.

Karen tells me that the Australian men here buy their condoms with a swagger. Yup, they will think, the smug smile on their faces obvious as they looked around the shop and then at the cashier, I am getting some. Look at me, everyone, I am getting laid. 

Where as if I were to buy condoms, I think I'd be more like, I'm sorry I'm having sex, unknown checkout chick. Please don't judge me.  Come on credit card, swipe, swipe, swipe! No, screw the plastic bag, oh wait a minute, double bag it!   

(Okay, so that's actually not true. I won't actually be using my credit card at all. What, you'd think I'd leave an electronic trace of me buying condoms?)

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I'm not sure if you've experienced this as a child, when your parents send you into the shops to get the groceries?

I mean, day-to-day items are fine, right, but, you know, certain other things are not.

I remember going into the local convenience store in our Taman (suburb)and amongst the other things I was sent to get, were some urm, sanitary pads.

I remember the Indian checkout auntie glaring at me when she picked up the box of Sanitas - "Oi, boy, you no shame ar you, buying all these things?"


I looked at her blankly, not quite understanding what there was to be ashamed of. I had no idea what were in the boxes, or why I should be embarrassed about the contents.

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And then there was the time when I was buying condoms from a 7-Eleven in Malaysia as a medical student for a tutorial on Sexual Health. I was with a guy friend and my sister then, and I nervously eyed the selection on display before choosing a few, hurriedly putting them on the counter.

The tudunged (head-scarfed) Malay girl behind the counter stared at the condoms first and then blinked at me incredulously for awhile, before picking them up like they had AIDS, to swipe the barcodes.

"Eee... jijiklah..." (Eew... that's gross) she said, just loud enough for the people in the next street to hear.

Her service with a scowl said it all. Rapist.

Now you see why I am scarred?

Sunday Night Stragglers

We were all out to see C tonight at a Veludo's in St Kilda. I arrived too late to witness the set as I was coming in from work, but we hung around and downed some drinks while listening to the artist he was opening for.

We walked out into the pleasant Sunday night on Acland Street and were deciding where to go next.

Karen suggested Claypots, a seafood restaurant. There was the slightest of hesitations amongst the six guys there, as the conservative China man in all of us went "Really ah? Another expensive dinner ah?"

We trudged to the restaurant, and C and a few others peeled off to put their instruments away. M and Karen and I went ahead of them into Claypots.

Claypots was an interesting restaurant made up of two shophouses - one shop housed the restaurant proper while the other was a bar/waiting area with cushioned benches lining two sides of the room.

I was surprised as my door was opened for me, but even more surprised when I saw the man holding a clarinet. A drum was set up in the small space next to him, and a piano abutted the bar.

We were told that there would be a twenty minute wait because there were seven of us, and so we sat in the waiting area. Secretly, I was quite hungry and a little impatient.

I sat down next to Karen, and then the magic happened.

The Magicians

Allow me to describe the magicians. The clarinetist had matted grey hair, with a Charlie Chaplinesque moustache and was almost as slim as the instrument he held in his hand. The drummer looked like a wise old principal - his half-moon glasses dangling precariously over his doting grandfatherly face. The pianist and main singer was a lady with a smoky voice who reminded me of a female Rod Stewart. Only more talented.

They all looked in their sixties or seventies and we thought they had nothing to say to us. Boy, were we proven wrong.

They were such a tight three piece band - the clarinetist seemed to have the lungs of an Olympic swimmer as his fingers danced along his instrument, sounding out celestial notes; the drummer hit his snare, top hat and cowbell with the assurance and fluency that bordered on arrogance, and the combined dexterity of the pianist's finger and her distinctive husky voice stirred something in our souls that night.

The rest of the gang finally joined us and we all sat on the benches, tapping our feet and slapping our thighs to the blues/swing music that was permeating the bar. The magicians then each took their turn to wow us with their tricks - they all broke into individual solos in the middle of their songs. The drummer in particular was jaw-droppingly impressive. Each confident strike against the many clangs and crashes of his drum set resonated something almost primal in us - their captive audience that night.

We were so mesmerised that when our waiter came to told us our table was ready, we remained glued to our benches, waiting for the music to finish.

The Good, The Better And The Ugly

We reluctantly left the waiting area into the restaurant, and can we just say - the food was mind-blowing as well. We had a choice wine with our fusion-style seafood - the chilli crab was really delicious and the shell  surprisingly soft, the laksa-styled Malay seafood claypot was good to the last drop and the walnut-crusted duckfish was the ugliest, largest, most satisfying (I'm running out of superlatives here) fish I've eaten in a while.

Chilli crab and mussels.
And expectant hungry boy. 

Big Fish. Small Fist.

Here's how much he loved the fish.

The Aftermath.