Grey's Anatomy

Regular readers will know that when it comes to retail therapy, Amanda is the reigning Olympic gold medal champion. No one can touch her. And I mean that literally. Once, during a sale in Robinson’s lingerie department, Saffy absent mindedly reached out to get Amanda’s attention for her opinion on a bra. She found herself prodding the surprised breasts of her HR manager.

            “It was hideous!” Saffy said later. “On so many levels! It was like poking soggy kueh lapis! Literally, one second, Amanda was standing right next to me, and the next she’d been replaced by Mrs Chan and I was poking her in the whatsits! Really, I'm surprised I’ve not been fired!”

            “Maybe she enjoyed the experience?” I suggested.

            Saffy told me I couldn’t be more foul if I tried.

            Amanda, of course, had no recollection of the event simply because by the time Saffy’s fingers had reached Mrs Chan’s whatsits, she was already in the next aisle checking out the silk negligees.

            “I dunno,” she said at the time. “I just kind of get totally in the zone, you know? Everything that’s not relevant to the sale is tuned out!”

            Amanda says there’s something about the words ‘sale’ and ‘discount’ that triggers something very primal in her.

“Just reading those words gets me tingling with anticipation,” she said recently at lunch. “It starts as an itch at the back of the brain, then travels quickly to the pit of my stomach, and all the way to the tips of the fingers so that I itch ever to open my wallet. All my synapses are on fire, alert and vigilant!” she finished triumphantly, as she daintily stabbed her rojak for a peanut sauce coated cucumber.

Sharyn’s saucer-wide eyes were amplified behind her Coke bottle-thick glasses.

“Wah!” she breathed out, her glasses fogging up over her bowl of prawn noodles. “You know, ah, when you tok like dat, it’s like dat Fee-tee Shade of Glay, ah, I tell you!”

I have always harboured the suspicion that if Amanda was ever in a coma, all you needed to do to get her out of it would be to get up really close to her ear and yell Discount!

And if I was ever lost in the middle of deepest Sahara, all I would do is shout out Sale! and shimmying up over the nearest sand dune would be Amanda waving her platinum Amex card.

“I don’t know how she does it,” said Saffy the other day, after coming home from a shopping expedition with Amanda. “And by shopping, I mean that I just followed her around Paragon and watched her spend money. She’s amazing. She picked out things that I thought looked dog ugly on the rack, tried them on, and looked a million bucks!”

So here’s the thing. It’s not just that Amanda is a mad shopaholic, but it’s that she’s also incredibly good at it.

People like me and Saffy…well, really, we shouldn’t even be allowed to leave the house. We’re complete idiots. It’s not that we don’t try. We respond to ‘Sale’ the same way Amanda does. We can jostle and elbow our way to the discount bin with admirable stamina. We’re just as possessed as she is, but somehow, it’s like Amanda will, at the same sale, without even really trying, pick up a beautiful last-one-in-stock silk and cashmere sweater, and we’ll be proudly clutching, after a mad ten minute competitive scramble with Mrs Chan from HR, a Hello Kitty toilet brush. The difference is staggering. 

Saffy says it’s like those top ten tennis players. They’re focused and coldly analytical, while everyone else is run ragged around the court, chasing down cunningly placed balls. “Amanda processes the same information differently,” Saffy told me, looking very put out. “She’s Serena Williams, and we’re Kumar!”

            I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve proudly unpacked my sale purchases and found myself wondering what on earth possessed me to actually believe that I needed a handphone holder in the shape of cactus, or a bottle of lemon room scent which, after a few spritzes, Saffy said made her feel she was inside a giant toilet bowl.

Standing there in our lounge room, amidst the devastation of wrapping paper, shopping bags, crumpled receipts and a tacky plastic kitchen apron, it’s difficult to believe that I had anything to do with that frantic dash to the cash register.

            Sharyn says she stopped going to sales after her second child was born.

            “So sad, right?”

            Amanda told her those kids have a lot to answer for.

Party Line

I can remember a time, not so long ago, when all I did was party. Every weekend, I’d be out with friends. We’d start at around 11.30 pm on a Friday night in a dimly lit bar on Boat Quay, and then move onto Zouk at about 12.30, dance till a puddle of sweat had formed at our feet while shouting ourselves hoarse over the music. Then, at two in the morning, we adjourned for a bah kut teh on River Valley Road, and eventually, we’d head home stinking of cigarette smoke, head spinning, and body still vibrating from the music.

            The next morning, we’d wake up just in time for lunch and do it all over again that night. And on Monday morning, when someone asked me how my weekend was, I’d honestly say that I had such an amazing time.

For years, that was the pattern of my life. The work-week was a five day preparation for the weekend, as we plotted and planned which clubs we’d go to, and where we’d have supper after.

            Ahh, the folly of youth.

            Somewhere along the line, I found that unless I took a disco nap round about 7pm, I’d start to fade by the time we rocked up to Zouk, or whichever the hot nightclub was then. And by 1pm, I’d say, “You know, I’m really very tired. I think I’m going to go home.”

            A few months later, I appended this to say, “You know, this dry ice is really bothering my sinus. I think I’m going home.”

            And a few months after that, I found myself saying, “You know, this music is so loud, I can hear myself think!”, to which Sharyn, then still happily unmarried and without children, would shout, “What for need to think? Just dance, lah!”

            “I think I’m going home!” I screamed into her ear.

            And then, one day, I realized that I’d just spent the entire weekend curled up on the sofa watching re-runs of ‘Friends’ while eating my favourite nasi padang from down the road, and finding that I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

            “I love that it’s so quiet!” I said the other Friday night to Amanda. We were sitting by the open window watching black clouds gather on the horizon.

            “I’m so glad we’re staying home,” she said as a soft breeze made her hair flicker. “Imagine trying to get a taxi when that storm hits!”

            “I know, right?” I said smugly.

            From the depths of the sofa, Saffy, who was playing Candy Crush on her iPad, looked up and said, “God. When did we turn into such aunties? It’s so sad!”

             Amanda looked at her. “Uhm, excuse me, we’re not aunties. I’m just saying that it’s nice to stay home for a change!”

            Saffy’s bosom puffed up. “What do you mean ‘for a change’? Hello, when was the last time we actually went out on a Friday night? Like actually get dressed up, put on make-up, high-heels and lipstick…”

            “Well, speaking for myself,” I said, “uhm, how about never?”

            “Oh shut up! You know what I mean! I'm telling you, if we keep this up, we might as well be wearing adult nappies, playing scrabble and sorting out our heart medication!”

            “Leave it to you to dramatise a simple evening spent at home!” Amanda said stiffly.

            Meanwhile, Sharyn was at home screaming at her children to clean up their rooms. Finally, she was so fed up being ignored, she locked herself up in her bathroom and plotted various ways of leaving them and running away with Wayne.

            “Wayne? Who’s Wayne?” Saffy asked over the phone. “You’ve never mentioned anything about Wayne before.”

            “Wayne Loo-ney! There, that han-sum football player, lah, aiyoh!” Sharyn replied, her voice echoing against her bathroom tiles. “He play for England!”

            “Wayne Rooney? Isn’t he, like, short?”

“You think I very tall, is it?”

“But Wayne Rooney is fat!”

“Fat, your head, lah! Wah, I see him on TV run up and down that football field, I get so excited, ah, I tell you.”

“I need to Google him again.”

“Aiyoh, if I know married life with children is like this, I swear I would have stayed single.”

            Saffy, never one to follow the path of a conversation like a normal person would, looped back to the beginning of the conversation. “Wayne Rooney? Really?”

            “Ay, you remember dat time we all go to Zouk? Wah, so fun! Dance all night, sleep all day. Dat night, dance some more. Eat supper at 2 am, never get fat. No children to ka-chow me. No husband to scold. Aiyoh, why you let me get married, ah?”

            “Isn’t Wayne Rooney, like, bald?” Saffy wondered.

Pain Threshold

I remember my 11^th birthday very clearly. It was memorable not because I didn’t get the new bicycle I’d been nagging my parents for. Nor was it because my parents didn’t throw me a knockout birthday party with lots of delicious food with lots of fabulous presents.

If you’re having trouble tracking the double negatives here, I’m saying my 11^th birthday sucked because all I got was a hastily wrapped book that I already had, and a quick drive through meal at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

This was all on account of the fact that on the morning of my birthday, my father woke up to discover that he had gout. Overnight, his right big toe had swelled to double its normal size. Half the foot had turned a bright lobster red and he sweated like a pig from the incredible pain.

“Your father has gout!” my mother announced dramatically at breakfast. “It’s from all those oyster omelets he’s been having for supper, and the bah kut teh that he so loves. I'm taking him to the hospital, so you three will have to just entertain yourselves while we’re away. I’ve left strict instructions to Nanny to cane anyone who is naughty, ok?”

On that ominous note, she swept out of the house ahead of my father who hobbled slowly after.

I remember Jack turning to me and asking, “What’s gout?”

Even at that age, I was already acknowledged as the family’s hypochondriac. I puffed up at the attention. “It’s when your uric acid level reaches dangerous levels because of foods which have a high urine count like asparagus, oily fish, shellfish, livers and stuff. It forms crystals in your joints and your foot swells up. It’s a rich man’s disease!” I added importantly.

“It’s really amazing how you know all this stuff!” my sister Michelle said in a tone that indicated this was not a compliment.

“If we ever crash on a deserted island, you’ll want me by your side,” I advised her.

Later that evening, my birthday completely forgotten, Father returned home looking slightly relieved. The doctor had given him anti-inflammatory tablets and strict dietary instructions to lay off his rich diet. For a week, he hobbled around, miserable at the thought of another meal involving plain congee and boiled chicken.

“It needs soy sauce!” he pleaded with the cook.

Cook looked implacable. “Cannot! Doctor say cannot have soy sauce. You want soy sauce, you ask your wife. She pay my wages.”

Completely unhinged by his awful lunch, my normally placid father was outraged. “And who do you think gives her the money to pay your wages in the first place?” he shouted.

Cook was unmoved. She knew Father was a pussy cat. Unlike my mother.

            These memories all came rushing back when a few days ago, Amanda woke up howling in pain. There was a bit of confusion as Saffy ran out of her room clutching her passport and money and raced for the door, while yelling, “Help! Help!”

            Amanda later said, as we waited our turn in the doctor’s surgery, it was all so encouraging to know that if ever there was a fire in our flat, Saffy would be safely out on the street while the rest of us left inside were reduced to a burnt crisp.

            “Well, how was I to know?” Saffy said defensively. “I thought you were being murdered!”

            “Why are we even here?” I said. “Clearly, it’s gout. I recognise all the symptoms!”

            “It can’t be gout!” Amanda said stubbornly.

            “Excuse me, your diet consists entirely of champagne, oysters, foie gras, lobsters and duck!”

            “Oh God,” Amanda moaned. “This is what happens when you date a Frenchman!”

            Saffy sniffed. “Yeah, and where is he now? When the chips are down, men are never around.”

            I coughed.

            “Do you need to see the doctor, too, Jason?” Saffy asked.

            “It’s so unfair,” Amanda went on. “I finally meet someone I could possibly spend the rest of my life with, but at the cost of hobbling around in utter pain!”

            “Surely, you don’t have to eat all that rich food all the time?” I asked.

            “Hello, have you been keeping up? We’re in the initial stages of our dating. So I have to look compliant and pleasing! No man wants to date a girl who’s disagreeable about his national cuisine!”

            Saffy nodded. “Yes, that is true. Sad, but true!”

            “Oh, why couldn’t I just meet a nice Singaporean boy and eat mee pok all day?” Amanda moaned. “None of this would be happening! Ugh, it’s the curse of being an SPG!”

            “Amen!” said Saffy as she posted a picture of Amanda’s foot on Facebook.

Prison Break

“What’s going on with Justin Bieber these days?” Amanda wondered aloud the other morning at the breakfast table, shaking her head as she caught up with the latest groundbreaking news in her latest issue of US Weekly.

            I barely paused on my way from the kitchen to my bedroom with a mug of hot water seasoned with a slice of lemon.

            “All yours, Saf,” I said as I smartly closed the door.

            Saffy later cornered me in the corridor and practically pinned me against the wall. For someone so small, the girl is freakishly strong.

            “Seriously?” she hissed, pressing her trembling bosom against me. “You wanna leave me at a moment like that? I had to talk about Justin Bieber for ten minutes with her. You know what she’s like when it comes to that little rug-rat!”

            I’ve learnt from bitter experience that in moments like this, the best thing to do is tell a lie that resonates. “I had to do a number two urgently!” I said.

            It worked. “Oh really?” Saffy said, letting go of me. “I’m so jealous! I’ve not gone in days! I’m so blocked up! How do you people do it? Sharyn says she does a number two at least three times a day!”

            That evening, the topic came up again during an episode of ‘Orange is the New Black’, our current favourite TV show about a women’s prison.

            “Can you imagine the state of my bowels if I was ever sent to prison?” Saffy said, her feet up on the coffee table, balancing a big bowl of rojak on her lap.

            From the other end of the sofa, Amanda looked over. “Watching you eat that, I’m thinking exactly the same thing!”

            “No, really! All these crazy women! I mean look at her! She’s completely loony running after Piper like that. And toilets with no doors? What’s that all about? I would be so stressed the whole time. My bowls would seize up completely!”

            “You do realize this is make-believe, right?” Amanda asked.

            “The script maybe, but the situations won’t be,” Saffy said, munching on a peanut encrusted cucumber. “And the setting won’t be. I’m pretty sure that’s what a real life women’s minimum security prison in America looks like and I’m not liking it one bit!”

            “I dunno,” Amanda mused. “It looks quite cosy to me. It looks a bit like the dorms in my boarding school.”

            Saffy threw a look at me that said, “This explains so much.”

            By now, Amanda was firmly lost along memory lane. “The cafeteria is the same set-up,” she went on. “We all sat in our little groups. I was in the popular group, of course, and we always made fun of the girls who played chess or the clarinet. And I remember I used to have the biggest crush on Mr Jones, our Maths teacher who ended up marrying Miss Da Silva, the phys ed coach who, fifteen years later, left him for another woman. Gosh,” Amanda paused, eyes blinking, “I’ve not thought of them in years. But I do remember it was all we could talk about at our school reunion! And also how fabulous my Manolo Blahniks were!”

            Saffy later said that it’s really chilling to think that someone at Harvard actually thought Amanda was someone worthy of a degree while, she, Saffy, ended up with a degree in commerce from the University of Western Australia – the intimation, being, that if Saffy had been lucky enough to go to Harvard, she’d probably be the first female Prime Minister of Singapore by now.

            “Assuming you hadn’t ended up in jail, you mean,” I said.

            “Choy, choy, choy! Don’t say such things!” Saffy said, shuddering with such vigour her bosom trembled like a jelly pudding. “I really would not survive two seconds in a prison. I’m too pretty! I’d probably be the resident prison wife, if you know what I mean! I’d never be able to take a shower without being molested!”

            Of course, when Saffy invited Sharyn to come over that evening to watch ‘Orange is the New Black’, Sharyn, who once worked as an admin assistant in one of the prisons in Singapore, laughed all through it.

            “Ay!” Sharyn said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Dey think people in prison very free, is it? Always walk around and chat and moh-lest udder people, is it? And where got prison guard so han-sum, one? This show all bluff one, lah! If got prison like that, I oh-so want!”

            Saffy says she can’t help but wonder how Justin Bieber might have turned out if Sharyn had been his mother.