I was buying groceries and necessities at the local Giant Supermarket in Kelana Jaya this afternoon, when I realised… what the heck, where are all the tampons?

I had looked again and again in the ‘Female Sanitary Needs’ aisle, and all I could see was row upon row of panty liners and maxi-pads. I grabbed some of those and continued to furtively look for the tampons. There just. Weren’t. Any. No Tampax (not my favourite brand) or Playtex (preferred) – not even the dreaded, applicator-less O.B.

There was a girl shuffling about and doing a stock-take or something, so I asked her where the tampons are.

Mungkin you boleh tanya staff?” she said in a bored tone of voice, motioning limply to a Giant staffmember who was loitering around the corner, checking her fingernails for dirt. It turns out the girl I’d asked wasn’t an employee of Giant, but a SUPPLIER as it boldly stated on her I.D. tag (that I’d stupidly not seen).

“Oh, ok. Sorry,” I replied and walked up to the girl who was picking at her nails.

I was standing right next to her and she didn’t even look up. “Excuse me,” I began. She started as if I had snuck up on her, then just stared at me like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Um, can you tell me where the tampons are?”

“Tampon…?” she asked, as though I’d asked her for some made-up product.

“Um, yeah…” I gestured to the pads. “You know, for when you have your period…?”

“Er… wait ah,” she said and ran off. She returned with what I assumed was a senior staff member, a short, plump girl in a headscarf.

“Yes?” asked the latter.

“Um, kat sini ada tampon tak?” I asked in my horrible Malay.

She responded in an identical way to her predecessor: “Tampon…?”

By this stage I was really not in the mood to explain it in too many words to two women who surely must know what a bloody tampon is (pardon the terrible pun).

“Tampon. You know, bila ada period, you masuk benda tu kat dalam.”

Still nothing.

“Um, benda yang macam peluru tu,” I said, recalling a comment a friend had made once about tampons (if you’re reading this feel free to take the credit for the bullet comparison!).

Finally Fingernails Girl decided to put an end to our misery and said, “Mungkin you boleh check kat Guardian Pharmacy?”

I smiled and thanked them and went on my way. I had already checked Guardian out and no, they didn’t have any either. But meh, I wasn’t gonna waste my time explaining it to these puzzled girls. I’ll find some if I go to Bangsar or something, surely.


It’s Funny.

Back when I was a kid in primary school, I used to get a lot of shit from teachers and other students for having a ‘mat salleh’ mum.

The things people used to say to my sisters and I included name-calling (‘bohsia‘), with nosy ustazahs asking me if my mum prayed at home, and why didn’t we wear tudungs (hijabs). We got stared at a lot and were basically labelled ‘bad kids’ or at the very least, ‘naughty’, because we were doomed by having a white mother who was a ‘kaffir‘ as one kid in my class felt the need to inform me when I was around 8 or 9.

I remember one of my religious teachers pointing out that this one student, let’s say her name was Siti for the sake of preserving her privacy/anonymity, was a shining example and we should all follow in her footsteps. To be fair, during this particular incident I wasn’t being singled out by the ustazah in any way, but she was making a point to me and my group of little rascal friends that we should all aspire to be like this tudung-wearing, holy and solehah young Siti, who always got good marks in the religious studies class and was so polite and demure.

“Kan bagus kalau kamu semua boleh ikut teladan Siti ni?” the ustazah would say.

Well, fast forward 5 or 6 years and lo and behold, a teenaged Siti had a child out of wedlock. Hah! Right. Let’s all follow her example, be ignorant about sex, have lots of it with a useless mat rempit boyfriend, and have a bastard child at the age of fourteen. I personally have nothing against children being born to young, unmarried parents – what is the big effing deal?? as long as the child is loved, cared for and provided for, who gives a flying fuck what society thinks – but I would love to find that teacher and rub that fact in her face. I was waaay less experienced in that area compared to the previously-pure Siti, yet I was still looked at as a bad egg, or just a potential one, anyway, which was seen as being just as bad.

Seriously, compared to these so-called holy and ‘good’ girls, I was the real saint! I didn’t have boyfriends in high school, I didn’t go necking with them in the park, and I certainly didn’t give blowjobs and have frantic adolescent sex like these girls were doing – and getting away with it by virtue of looking the part of the innocent!

I used to feel like an outcast at school because I wasn’t Malay enough, and didn’t wear a tudung (not that I ever WANTED to!). The other tudung-wearing girls in my class had this air of superiority about them, no doubt drummed into them by their parents and the ustazahs, just because they had some cloth covering their hair. (Note: not ALL of them were like that; in fact, one of my best friends wore one and was never a holier-than-thou kind like the others).

Well, the funny thing is, now that we’re all grown up, some of these girls have cast the tudung off to shake their manes in the breeze – as well as wearing revealing, cleavage-baring clothes. Hooray for them! I’m glad they’re wearing what they want, and not something people tell them they should (except maybe the fashion magazines).

But seeing their transformations, I can’t say I feel 100% goodwill towards them, after the hell they put me through for being myself from the time I was a kid. Being teased for having an ‘infidel’ mother, being called a slut at the age of eleven when I was so far from it, I haven’t completely gotten over the unfairness and hypocrisy of it all.

Still, at least I know I was always true to myself.

Back in December, my folks came down to Perth for the family Christmas holiday.

The original plan was for me to come to Malaysia, and we were gonna chill out in Langkawi, but then they worked out that it was gonna cost about the same for them to come over to Perth, so why not? After all,  my brother-in-law TJ had never been to Australia so it was a cool idea.

My dad was gonna transfer the cash for the holiday spending to my Australian bank account about two weeks before their arrival on the 22nd. And this is where the drama began.

First of all, let me say that we’ve done a million and one transfers just like it before, from the time I was at Uni in Perth (Murdoch) in ’04. Nothing special. Get all the details correct and it’s done.

Well, more than a week after my dad told me he’d transferred the money, it still hadn’t shown up in my bank account 😦

After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing with his bank people there in KL, they claimed that the money had gone through to the other side (i.e. the Australian bank),  but the bank wasn’t accepting it through because my dad got the postcode slightly wrong for my home address. Instead of 6153 he’d written 6155 or something.

Now, that sounded like a load of horseshit to me, but I don’t really know how these things work, do I? Also, I could tell my dad was getting stressed out because of the slightly accusing tone he was using with me, as if I had given him the wrong address. I double-checked my email that I’d sent him and all the details were correct. My dad’s eyesight is not too good these days so it was him who’d written it wrongly, but NO biggie – as long as the other more important details were correct (like bank account number, swift code, etc), it should be fine, right?

Right. I called up my bank in Perth, explaining the situation and the lady confirmed with me that the wrong postcode won’t cause the problem in any way. If the account name, number, BSB and swift code are correct, the money would definitely go through.

Again with the to-ing and fro-ing with my dad, and his bank. They started giving other excuses, promising my dad they’d send the money over soon and fix the problem and whatnot. WTF?

I was getting really stressed out on the phone with my increasingly annoyed dad. “Can you tell them they’re ruining our Christmas?” I asked him during one conversation.

Finally my dad managed to get them to scan a copy of the transfer document and email it to me, asking me to print it out and take it to my bank in Perth and demand to know what’s happened to the money.

The bank, Bank Muamalat in PKNS, are a bunch of unprofessional, dumbass, lazy, stupid monkeys. When they sent me the document, the email DIDN’T read:

Dear Inayah,

Attached is the document of the transfer to show to your bank. Please let us know if there’s a problem with it and we apologise for any inconvenience caused.

Instead, it read:

This attachment show to your bank.

How fucking rude and unprofessional! “This attachment show to your bank”?? I’ll bloody show you my foot up your ARSE!

The worst part? When I checked out the document, it said they transferred the money to WESTPAC instead of BANKWEST. How STOOOPID can you bloody get? Those are two different fucking banks. Are they fucking blind and retarded??

I’m sorry la but this is truly a case of Melayu bodoh. Hey, if they didn’t exist this shit won’t happen, alright?

Anyway I replied to that pathetic excuse of an email telling them it was the wrong bank and to please explain. Did they reply? Of course not! They’re not professional! Or intelligent!

In the end, the money bounced back to my dad’s bank account and he had to end up changing money and bringing it to Perth with him, since the money wasn’t gonna bounce back to his account in time to be transferred over again or something.

Talk about needless drama and stupidity! I hate banks! Especially Melayu-run ones!! So inefficient!! Grrr..


New Year, New Blog

So I used to blog about my (mis)adventures in Australia/Perth during the 2009-2010 period in a blog titled Naya In Australia.

Well, since my Working Holiday has been over since early November, and I’ve been a layabout/bum since then, I decided to just start a regular ol’ blog to write about anything and everything to do with my life, day-to-day (or week-to-week / month-to-month depending how diligent I am at updating the damn thing). You know, a blog like all the other blogs out there.

Except. This is MY blog. My life. My style. It’s bound to be a bit iffy-stiffy. Because that’s how I like things. I’d like to think I won’t censor myself as much (of course, I still need to otherwise all hell will break loose – and besides, that’s what I have my top secret blog for that NO ONE knows about *wink*).

I just want to write how I think and feel and I don’t care if it offends, sounds stupid, is nonsensical, or uninteresting. Because goddammit I want to have a place to post some meandering, gibberish-ridden babble that interests only me. Why the hell not?

This is my drum and I’ll play whatever beat I want on it, however retarded and offbeat.


Can’t wait to start crapping all over this thing! LOL 🙂