Secret Car Behaviour

All of us have been involved in SCB at some stage. Incessantly drumming your palms on the steering wheel. Cruising, with one hand out the window, doing ‘the rollin’ with the homies’ move (you know the one). Or, with all windows rolled up…belting out Mariah Carey’s ‘One sweet day’. Yes, you got it – SCB – Secret Car Behaviour. Except…that it is not so secret. Although, it feels like we are in a protective bubble…it is too easy, to forget that we are actually caged in a perspex mobile vehicle. Tinted windows? Don’t kid your self… people can still see in.

One SCB which I am very well acquainted is car singing (at the top of your lungs).

You know what I’m talking about…the awkward moment, where you stop at the traffic light and your favourite song comes on…all of a sudden you let down all inhibitions. Your shoulder begins to twitch, before you know it…your head is bopping, you hands are beating the wheel and you are singing (VERY loudly). Your peripheral vision catches something by your side. You stop mid-verse, only to see the driver next to you is either horrified or laughing…..hard. In this situation there are two paths you can take:
a) Sink down in your seat & stare hard at the red light – hoping it will turn green quickly, so you can speed off.
b) You continue your ‘performance’, smiling at your traffic acquaintance, hoping they will be inspired to do the same.

We spend equivalent of 1 year of our life stuck in traffic (ok, I made that up – but I reckon I am pretty close). It is considered wasted time….or is it? I have recently taken up to downloading ‘intellectual’ podcasts, as a result my trivial pursuit game has improved ten-fold. I also received a free Mary Poppins CD this week, which I have been paying on repeat- this has definitely improved my high soprano notes & vibrato….

Another one of my favourite things to do, is put on my ‘Gangsta Nix” playlist & drive one-handed (again, very safely), put one hand on the window pane…and pretend that I am driving down an alley way in the Bronx in New York. It makes me feel empowered. (NB:- If you want to recreate this amazing sensation for yourself, I recommend Coolio’s -Gangsta Paradise)

Moving on from SCB, the car is the perfect place to ‘think’. Over the last few years whilst driving my (yellow) Honda Jazz, certain ‘car-related’ innovation ideas have arisen (Please kindly do not try and steal my ideas, they are all copyrighted)

1. There should be a car dating service. Come on admit it, how many times have you been distracted by a hottie in a near by vehicle? Purposely switched lanes? Given a flirtatious smile at the traffic lights? I am guilty of doing this many times. So this is my idea…If you are single & interested, you should be able to display your name, number and a small message on your window. The love interest can then ‘accept’ or ‘decline’ your message. Viola! On the road to love….

2. Car-o-ke – A (safe) way to be able to display lyrics of a song on the windscreen of your car – like a projector…Yes, there are a few flaws in this idea – but come on…its genius! What’s not to love! My new ‘thang’ is recording myself singing on my iphone when in the car – instant playback was a great invention – especially when you have such a gorgeous voice like mine. I’m sure a recording feature could be integrated into ‘car-o-ke’.

3. The ‘wave’ – instead of ‘waving your hand, I think we should install a back windscreen wiper with a hand that says ‘Thank you’. I also, think there should be another option to attach a hand signaling the rude finger with such phrases as “Stop driving so closer to me you [insert rude word here]”, “Hurry the [insert F word here] up”. Again, genius!

Some of my other ‘illegal’ SCB, includes painting my nails (using the wheel as a flat surface), changing my bra whilst driving on the way to soccer training, even been known to read a book whilst being stuck on Ryde Rd. If you are part of the police force, please disregard above comments.

SCB – productive, exciting and oh so satisfying.

The awkward moment when…

The awkward moment when you realise you have had a piece of  green parsley in between your teeth…for the last 2 hrs.

The awkward moment when you go to introduce someone and ….your mind goes blank.

The awkward moment when you order the ‘usual’ to the cute barista and he has no idea what you are talking about (Matteo, if you are reading this – Do I have an unforgettable face/personality? Or did you just enjoy watching me get embarrassed? After 5 yrs of uni, you still asked for my name & coffee…every morning)

The awkward moment when you say goodbye to someone then walk the same direction.

The awkward moment when you start cheering wildly, only to realise you have just watched an instant replay.

The awkward moment when you think someone is waving to you….but they are waving at someone behind.

The awkward moment which you reach into your pocket to get your ‘lipgloss’, but instead pull out your female sanitary item (ok, this happened to me last week,  it was absolutely mortifying!!).

Awkward moments are inescapable. They are unexpected. There is no warning. Take comfort in the fact that they happen to everyone (well…nearly everyone….maybe not the Queen or Opera).

All of the above  are personal experiences – all of which have happened multiple times.  You never become desensitised, no matter how many times these awkward moments arise, they are each as painful as the next.  Lucky for me, my Indian complexion never allows me to go visibly ‘red’…instead, I just feel the burning heat as it rises up my neck.

One awkward moment, which I have experience repeatedly .… is that my ‘fly’ is always open. No I’m not a pervert – I don’t do it on purpose. I swear it must be my body shape. No matter what brand, what style (high-waisted included), for some reason my fly becomes undone. Yes, I am aware of the zip ‘locking mechanism’ where you push the zip downward. What amazes me is the myriad of ways, people address the ‘open fly’ situation. Some discreetly lock eye contact with me and then look down at my crotch – they stare, until I get the hint. Others, blatantly (and loudly) state “Nix, your fly is undone”.

Even as a pre-teen on a trip to Disney Land in the USA,  the Donald Duck character kept pointing at me, and miming me to ‘do up your fly”.  Obviously I have not grown out of it ; this year, on the morning of  my 25^th birthday, my ‘fly situation’ stepped up a notch. As I was pulling up my fly – the zipper snapped, flew off, hit the window & fell into the toilet bowl. I was in a café, needless to say, I spent the day with my fly undone.

True story. All I can say, is lucky I’m not a guy.

So next time you see someone with toilet paper stuck on their shoe, their jumper on backwards or you can see that their toupe is creeping down their forehead to create a second eyebrow……don’t judge, laugh or embarrass them…because next time it could be you!

Feel free to comment with some awkward moments you have faced…

Part 4: 34 Westbrook – Hinges, doorknobs and rimming….

 

It is often the small things that go unnoticed.

I find it fascinating. I have woken up in the same room for 22 years. I’ve brushed my teeth in the same bathroom and sat in the same position on our family dining table. Despite all these things being literally in front of my eyes every day – I still cant recall the small details – I couldn’t tell you the design of tiles in our bathroom, which piece of art is currently hanging in our main dining room  (to my defence, this changes regularly – this comes with living with an artist) or even the colour of our living room blinds (off-white, caramel…or are they wooden slats….) I haven’t a clue.

It is only natural that things in your immediate environment, become routine, familiar and ordinary –  you become desensitised. Your eyes see it, but there is no association in your mind. It is just…there.

It is only until… things start to change, to move, to disappear – that you suddenly become more perceptive and alert to the smaller details.

Being confronted with the reality of moving out, the details of my home are emerging from the woodwork (excuse the pun). As we ‘style’ our house for prospective buyers, de-clutter  and tidy our home is changing. Has that always been there? Something is missing from the garden, but I don’t know what it is? Has that wall always been teal blue? This has nothing to do with my short-sightedness, or my non-observant behavioural trait. I mean, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but analysing each room to ensure optimal ‘presentation’, had really made me open my eyes.

Dad made a comment “Shame, our bathrooms are not tiled all the way to the ceiling?” “I wonder whether the brick wall in the study will be an issue?”- Alarm bells went off. Really? In 22 yrs, despite using the same shower and spending endless hours in the study – I’ve never noticed the tiles or the brick wall. I guess, it’s because, there was no need to take notice.

I believe this idea can be extended to people. We see people as an entire being (seeing them as a sum of their parts), that is, until things change – they may move away or they may pass away….then you force yourself to remember each mole, the smell of their perfume and their hair colour… as you rack your brain to hold onto the details, it becomes evident how the ‘smaller things’, aren’t so ‘small’ anymore – instead they have become significant.

Moral: Stop and the smell the roses. Take in the little details.

Just a thought!

Saying goodbye to the 2076 Hood.

10 things I will miss….

1. The bush turkey’s roaming the streets (and the occasional echidna)

2.  Tom the Green grocer & his ‘pick n mix’ & ice-cream selection (yes mum, that’s where the change went when I bought the milk & bread)

3. Junction Lane (the no through road on the side of our house)- with the perfect downward gradient – the ultimate place for riding bikes, home-made billy carts, razor scooters and rollerblades…

4. Dodgy Don – the infamous North Shore alcohol supplier to under 18’s.

5. Spying on the ‘undercover’ drug circle, headed by a 30 year old ranga (yes – he has orange hair, still lives with his mum and has illegal car parts scattered on his lawn)

6. Referring to my hood as the ‘2076’

7. The neighbor calling me to tell me to shut my blinds (because she can see me dancing…naked- Yes it has happened…multiple times)

8. The sound of dirt bikes revving their way to Golden Jubilee at 1am in the morning (Kurin-gai council if you are reading this, I am NOT happy with the plan to build a world class dirt bike ramp on jubilee – not cool)

9. The 20 second stroll to the Hampden “restaurant’ strip – Cozy Thai & La Zana (Spying/watching my sister Alisha, get fired from La Zana was a definite highlight)

10. Knowing how to get home…..with my directional incapability, I can sense the number of ‘getting lost’ situations rising exponentially…

Oh, one more thing –apologies to those teenagers who I yelled at the other day (They were making noise & were being generally disruptive – So I yelled out my window “Shut up & go back to your homes, I will tell your mother’s”). Anyways.…I promise I’m not a bitter and twisted old woman…something inside of me died, when I realised that my days of riding the curbside, making mud pies and eating ice-blocks in the summer sun.

2076 you will be missed.

Quarter Life Crisis: Its real.

Apologies, I need to take a quick interlude from the ‘Westbrook Series’. It is a serious matter. It happened yesterday. I knew it was coming…I just chose to ignore it.

I turned 25.

Turning 21, was all about legally drinking out of red cups in Boston. Turning 22 was awesome. Turning 23 was fun. Turning 24 was cool. Then…BAM…I turned 25. It happened quicker than you can say mojito. Closer to 30 than 20. Half way to 50. Entering a new demographic bracket – Ticking the 25-34 box.

This is no numbers game. It is real.

This ‘quarter life crisis’ people talk about, is not a mere disillusionment. It’s a genuine phenomenon. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression & acceptance. At the risk of sounding over-dramatic (or morbid)…. this quarter life crisis resembles that of the grief process.

You have heard the stories… the 25 yr old guy who quit his job as a lawyer and went to Argentina to farm lamas. Or the 25 yr old girl who went on a holiday to Borneo and ended up staying there – becoming an activist and marrying a local multiple piercings. Such stories are not uncommon…. 25 being the common denominator. Don’t underestimate the power of the ‘quarter life crisis’. Don’t laugh. These stories are real.

My own experience of the ‘crisis’ became evident, when I started analysising every aspect of my life. The analysing soon transformed into questioning – ‘Is this really my life? ‘what am I doing?’, ‘Is my job meaningful?’ , ‘Am I contributing to the greater world?’. My mums daily reminders did not help either; “Ven, I vas your age I had 2 children and a husband” (Many Indian’s have trouble pronouncing ‘W’s…). Thanks mum. I get it!

I also have been feeling extreme nostalgia for my teenage years – I have found myself saying “I used to be able to back it up and go out every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, nowadays forget ‘backing it up’…I can’t last past 12:30”.

Growing up, I remember thinking that 25 years was so OLD, it seemed like an eternity away; a milestone that would be marked with a sense of achievement. I envisioned that by 25; I would be married, have a few kids under my belt and have written a cook book titled “Nix likes to mix”. The reality, is far from it. I am still living at home, the closest thing to my cookbook is this pointless blog and I am as close to having kids as Shapelle Corby is to getting out of jail!

Admittedly, I already possess the traits of a 75 year old grandma (preferring a hot peppermint tea over a cosmopolitan cocktail). And yes, admittedly, my 80 year old grandfather has a better social life than I do (it is not unusual for him to SMS me to reschedule dinner as his ‘ bridge friends have decided to hit the pub for a drink’). Nevertheless, turning 25 has really impacted me.

Like with any ‘crisis’ (big or small)- something good always emerges from it. I think this quarter life crisis, will lead to ‘self-discovery’….I want to go back to uni and do journalism, I want to travel some more, I want to learn how to salsa dance, I want to create my own herb garden, I want to embark on some hardcore DIY projects….I want to be surrounded my people who I love and make me laugh…. It is only through facing the cloud of confusion, frustration & ambiguity that such clarity has been able to emerge.

I’ve realised – what is the point in questioning & stressing…Life is what happens when you spend all of your time worrying, longing for the past or wishing for the future.

Perhaps it is time I stop planning and start doing.

You know actually may be it is a numbers game, as they say ‘you are only as old as you feel’.

I will you keep posted of my ‘quarter life crisis’ as the year progresses. Feel free to share your experience of the ‘crisis’…

Part 3: 34 Westbrook – On the brightside

Only had one childhood home…or maybe two if you count that engulfed in flames (I’m not being insensitive, but sometimes you have to look on the bright side – without that horrible event, we wouldn’t have built this one). Either way, I’ve pretty much lived on the same block of land all my life. It’s a wierd concept. I’ve always slept in the same room. Nightmares, dreams, sleep eating (Yes, it has happened (only recently), I slept ate weetbix and milk) it has all happened within the confines of the same home.

Everything in my home is so familiar. I know how to walk up and down the stairs in the pitch black. I know exactly where the light switch is without looking. I also know, which windows to avoid the neighbors when doing the NCD (naked clothesline dash after a shower – running down stairs stark naked, & whipping clothes of the line).

The thought of not driving into my driveway. Not waking up in the same room. Not eating dinner on the same table. Not soaking in the weekend sun on the same patio….to be honest…it’s emotionally confronting. I am a nostalgic creature, as mentioned numerous times on this blog.

Embracing the optimist within me here is a list of 10 things I will not miss:

1. The door handle that dad put on backward (on purpose)- so he could hear us sneaking out late to visit the ‘fella’s’ at night.

2. As per point 1, the creaky, windy staircase – wakes everyone up in the house – not great, after one to many ‘soda’s’.

3. The 575 bus (to all those Turramurra High students that lighted school bags on fire, tripped up old ladies (and myself…only occasionally – I was a nerd at school) & threw unidentified objects at Don the bus driver’s head…I still can not forgive you)

4. The creepy man, that has threatened to kill our dogs/eat our dogs (ok, so I made that up…but he would if he could – he is disgusting)

5. Jumping over the gate (getting my skirt hitched, or face planting it into the driveway) – we never use the gate buttons.

6. The ‘noise’ pollution that comes from my parents room every night – I mean the TV…the sound carries through the paper thin walls. I have been dubbed the ‘noise police’. It’s a duty I take on with some pride.

7. “Ohhhh…so you live in Wahroonga – do you have deer in your back garden” – A phrase, that I heard multiple times, upon meeting ‘cool city slicker kids’ at university.

8. The 2076 ‘Bike Gang’ – Gang of underage boys (and skanks, I mean girls) who ‘hang’ at the corner shop & smoke on the nature strip outside my house & pee on our lawns (I’ve also seen this multiple times…I know who you are)

9.The annual egging of my car – No, its not even done on Halloween. Ok, I get it…It is a yellow Honda Jazz & is so bright that it can be seen from the next suburb…Seriously, come on -give me a break.

9. The birds that sing like a pubescent boy who’s voice is breaking…not cool at 5am – especially with a killer hangover.

10. The ‘doof, doof, doof’….noise residue from underage private-school tweens, in short-shorts, binge drinking & gate-crashing open house parties whilst their parents are away for the weekend. Rewind the clock back 5 years and I guess you could say I was one of those tweens. I know what you are thinking…why are you at home on a Saturday night loser? Yes, true, sometimes I do like to spend weekend in drinking peppermint tea in front of the heater.

Part 2: 34 Westbrook – From Home to House.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Following on from the pervious post, for the next few entries, I’ve decided to document my thoughts, rants and ravings about moving out of my childhood home. Yes, I am turning 25 years old. Yes, I am still living at home. Yes, I still ring my mum daily asking ‘What’s for dinner?’. Don’t judge me. It’s comfortable and I’m saving…to move out by myself. So, what’s the plan: Moving out of 34 Westbrook & into a new home designed by my artist mother & chartered accountant father (Honestly, they would be mean contenders for the block or grand designs – once finished it will be a beauty).

I have played, laughed, danced & slammed doors in the same home for over 24 years. The time has come to sell it. I thought I’d be totally cool with it. I realise now…that I am not.

My mum’s new favourite word is…boxes. Everything is about boxes…’put this in the ‘keep box’, ‘put this in the throw away box’, ’what the hell is in this box?’…’you must label ALL boxes?” And so it goes on. I don’t blame her, it’s a huge job and she is doing an amazing job…but  to reduce my ‘box’ fatigue, I’m trying to encourage to replace it with abother word…any ideas? Container, 4-sided cube, vessel…

This week we have fallen asleep passed out to the smell of fresh paint fumes. Next week new carpets will be laid and in four weeks time it will be on the market. It’s all happening to fast.

Our home, is slowly transforming into our house. Our paintings, photo frames &  knick-knacks collected over the years are slowly dissapearing either to eager members on e-bay or into storage in my grandfather’s garage. I am suprised at how these bare walls are effecting me emotionally.

A room that once reflected my personality (See photo above- yes, admittedly I had to wear sunglasses whilst studying for the HSC as the green & orange walls reflected onto my white paper) has now turned into something that resembles a cell in a mental asylum. White, White, White. P.S. FYI:- I’m not tasteless. Lime green, orange & hot pink were totally ‘in’ vogue in 1998.

As our family photos get ripped down and are replaced my generic vases. As our couches that are snuggly molded to our body shapes are replaced by stiff, hard generic benches. Our home is now becoming a house. I’ll save the emotional outcry for another post, but still I am comforting myself with the belief that memories do not live in a place – they live with you….they travel with you. Yes, objects, smells etc can act as a catalyst to encourage dormant  memories to bubble up to the conscious surface…. but so do smells, photos & the people you love!

Yes, we might be saying goodbye to Westbrook Avenue, but our crazy family will just be creating new/more memories at Northwood…our new home.

P.S. To all the stalkers out there, I just realised I shouldn’t have given away my address…

Part 1: Moving out of 34 Westbrook – Items found.

We are in the process of moving house (will save that for the next post!), but I literally found piles and piles of my old diaries the other day. Admittedly,  upon reflection only one phrase can describe these diaries = cringe-worthy.

I wrote an entry for every day of my summer holidays, from year 4 – until year 12. I wrote a travel diary for every family holiday and overseas adventure.  I still do it. I wrote an entry for every birthday since I was 9. I still do it. Every time someone pissed me off,  I had a special diary which I would write down what I was feeling. Yes, I still even do that.

Diary writing is a compulsive part of my life. It has been since I can remember.  There is something about writing in a diary that is comforting. I guess, that is why so many psychologists recommend it. It is an accessible outlet, that puts things into perspective. Once forced to transform unsystematic thoughts into words, it can bring an immediate sense of clarity.

Pubescent frustration – Unable to express myself in meaningful words , I turned to scribbling my name and random questions; ‘Why me?’ , ‘Why won’t mum let me?”. Erratic, pressing down hard on the paper,  making holes, tears smudging the page. It made me feel better.  Some people draw, some people run, others box a bag…still… to this day,  I just write my dairy.

Mixed opinions surround  ‘diary writing’ . What’s the point? Why write, if no one reads it?  What could you possibly be writing about when you are 10? Yes, the above questions could be true….but, I would document what my mum cooked for  dinner, play dates with my friends and later on my encounters with boys and new drinking games I had learnt.  I believe it is one of the few things in life someone can truly and honestly do for themselves, no other agenda, no other incentive…just for themselves.

By reading them I was being transported back to my 15 year old self. It was a bizarre feeling.  Did I really write this? What the hell was I thinking? How could I even be worried about this?

Now, at this point in my life it all seems so trivial. So irrelevant. But back then, they were obviously real issues that were bothering me.

I will never forget the raw emotions when my sister found my diary and keep dropping in quotes from it for days after…’My first kiss was with Rooster, it was terrible, didn’t realise kissing was so sloppy” …I was taunted for weeks.

Now, I must decide what to do with these boxes and boxes of dairies…First thought is to destroy, destroy, destroy. Do, I want people reading (laughing) at this entries when I die? (morbid I know, and I guess I won’t be around to feel humiliated…but still). However,  I feel by throwing these out I will be losing documentation of my thoughts, fears and experiences throughout the years. For now…I think I’ll just keep them…and continue to add to the pile…

OK, enough…I better go and write my diary.

Yours Truly,

Nix

The M-word.

I have a problem. It was first noticed  in year 9 biology class. It sounded like someone was screeching their nails down a blackboard…I honestly felt like dry-retching. This physical reaction continued throughout the next few classes. I had no idea what it was. When we changed topics from bacteria/micro-organisms to human biology… all adverse physical reactions (ie. Sweating, hot flushes etc) disappeared.

It then dawned on me, one day whilst watching Jamie Oliver’s cooking show. The sudden onset of nausea reappeared, however only when Jamie mentioned a certain word….

I can’t bring my self to type it. But, i’ll let you fill in the blanks M_IST” – Clue: it rhymes with hoist.

The mystery had been solved. All those times  felt violently ill…Mrs Chamber’s in Yr 9 Biology “Bacteria needs a M_IST environment to thrive”… Art class; “Make sure the clay is nice and M_IST”…

I started to notice the word everywhere. I also began to realise that there were other words that I could not stand.

– Panties

– Soggy

– Ointment

– Purple (think it is just such an UGLY word for such a nice colour)

My school friend Murphy, soon learnt of my physiological aversion to these words. As a joke (definitely not a funny one) she began writingthese words (in permanent marker) all over my drink bottle, folders, pencil case etc. She also went a step further, to combine my most hated words “Soggy, M_IST panties”. I actually thought I was going to be sick. I couldn’t escape.

To this day I still can’t escape.

I love cooking, yet the word haunts me every time; “Excellent cake nix, its so ‘M_IS_””.  Admittedly, I have not chosen the prime career when it comes to my allergic reaction to the M-word. At work, I am surrounded by the word everyday (I work at Tip Top Bakeries), “Nikita, I want the brand communications to really reinforce how “M_IST” the bread is.

I joined the facebook group “I Hate the word M_IST” – there are hundreds of people out there with the same phobia. Now, I don’t feel like such a freak.

Hmmm…..I just realised I maybe shouldn’t have posted this. Please respect my wishes and when in my presence, never mention the M-word.

thanks you.

 

 

Falling. Stacking. Tripping. It hurts.

It hurts – physically, emotionally and sometimes it can also hurt you socially. I will explain further to that point in a minute.

I fell twice in one night on the weekend. My right heel got caught in the left lace (yes, my heels had laces- think SJP in Sex & the City) and I fell in front of all the diners of a classy restaurant. Stifled laughter, a few snorts …. followed by superficial ‘Are you ok?’ ‘Do you need ice”..”ooh, your knee is blending’.

These are what I call ‘pull your head in moments’. It always happens when you are strutting your stuff, feeling on top of the world. Out of nowhere you trip on your own feet (moments like this, I wish I only had one foot).

Memorable stacks in my life:

1. I was six years old & at Coffs Harbour beach resort: Got $2 from my dad to buy an ice-cream. Donning a big smile and slightly salivating, I walked with my Peters ‘heart-shaped ice-cream’ on the edge of the pool, to get to my beach chair. Before, I knew it I was submerged in water. I had stacked it into the pool….with the ice-cream. I still remember the pain. Hotel guests, pointed at me. Even my parents were laughing at me. I cried. To this day I am still scarred. I am yet to eat a heart shaped ice-cream. It hurt me mentally.

2. First year Uni:  I walking down the main avenue at Sydney University. It was Autumn. A massive maple leave swooped down from the tree and some how got attached to my face. I couldn’t see. I freaked out. I stacked it. Books, pens, other sanitary items spilt everywhere. My bonds underwear was on show. I was mortified. What are the chances of a giant leaf hitting target on my face? It hurt me physically

3.Second year University: against the warning of my ‘friend’, I decided to take a ‘short ‘cut’ down the steep hill. I started running down it, I couldn’t stop running. Gravity got the best of me and I literally stomach-surfed my way to the cafe. I was literally covered in mud. My ‘friend’ Miracuriously disappeared. Five years on, I am still yet locate her. It hurt me socially.

stacker.

stackee.

Dust yourself off, get up and keep walking.