Fee Free Flatting.

On the outside I look relatively ordinary.

My eyes both focus in the same direction, I have the right number of fingers and toes (attached to the right hands and feet) and braces can speak for a lot. I don't think I would appear on a worst dressed list but nor would I make the best one. I don't wear pilled cardigans, 80's glasses perched on the end of my nose or nude coloured tights with ladders. I eat with my mouth closed, I have an aversion to crocs and I'm as equally worried as the rest of the civilized population at why I'm still watching Trump talking himself up and gaining votes to become President of the Free World.

But I’m also a 25 year old, living at home with her parents.

I'm under the same roof, using the same kitchen (metaphorically) and sharing a pre-historic internet connection (think dial-up for dinosaurs) that somehow fuels their needs but makes connecting to YouTube impossible.  

This is something I feel the need to get off my chest, like it's been living in the cold, dark basement of my secrets and people are starting to peer in the windows so that not airing it out will only lead to mildew, or fleas, or worse, exclusivity. My peers could treat me as a fungus, keeping their distance and refusing to communicate; where proximity breeds and multiplies. I fully understand. As a child I went through lice and as a travelling 20-something I encountered bed bugs. I am nothing if not aware of the need for distance in certain situations. (Or a freezer for the latter works a treat! But belongings, not the person...)

It's a bizarre predicament to be in, and though perhaps becoming more common with rising house prices, it's not exactly a bandwagon anyone willingly jumps on. It's not the Furby for mid-20′s. This is not a trend. However, having left home at 19 and living in multiple different countries for over four years, being back in my home town is not without a strange feeling. Indeed, the notion of being under my parents roof surrounded by childhood relics is certainly unusual. It took me about 2 home cooked meals till I could get used to it. Well, one slow cooked chicken dish with vegetable side and a green garden salad and I was pretty much convinced. Vegetables are a rarity for the young independents living in the expensive metropolises we tend to gravitate to and can be traded like gold. London taught me nothing if not how little I can live off and how often I can consume expired goods from the Tesco discount section. As I explained to my mother on countless different times, recent scientific developments have deemed it not expired but "best before" and 'best' is something I gave up in order to travel. It has been replaced with milk at yogurt consistency and the most indistinguishable kind of meats. Tuna on toast for every meal is the making of champions. 

My parents were not strict disciplinarians as I was growing up and as a mid-twenty something they certainly weren't going to start to be now. The mistakes they made in my years of development are well and truly set, and my return would do well in reminding them. Moving home was not without considerable thought, but the truth is that financially, it absolutely makes the most sense. All surrounding thought and decisions was trying to find other things that would off-set this obvious trump card. I never could. I back the mass exodus of late teens from the familial home to live on their own, earn their own money to spend on rent and power bills and nightly alcohol, but having done that for a number of years, I suddenly saw the advantage of retreating back to that childhood roof. I would be returning to University and thus not earning a full time wage. It would be silly to spend my savings on housing myself in the same area where I could count on free rent and cleaner carpet. But it was a package deal, the lack of mould and central heating came with two people more than double my age who still feel the need to ask me relentless questions about my daily life. A quick trip to a friend’s house is not without an intervention about place, duration, activity. I started to worry I would revert to my 12 year old self, start wearing stick on earrings and delve into a deep obsession with the Olsen twins (which admittedly I never left).

What I started to learn was regretfully, that they aren't too bad. They still maintain a home, a garden, have jobs and even use their laptop with relative efficiency. I taught my Dad how to turn his iPhone off as he didn't realise the phone had a button at the top, which was alarming for many reasons but this is still a great electronic track record for my father. Although there were a few minor initial stumbles (being out late does not mean I’m in trouble or lost in a ditch somewhere like when I was younger), they don't parent me just because I'm back under their living arrangements and technically they're paying for my existence; they are a constant source of advice and aggravation, mostly without even trying. I can go from interested to irritated in less than one breath and back again in one home cooked meal. I discovered I can forgive anything if it's delivered with a steaming plate of herb sprinkled roast potatoes.

The fridge and pantry are always elaborately stocked. I don't know if I ever noticed this when I was younger but I'm assuming I merely took it for granted. Stocked by the magical maid that also ironed my clothes and cleaned up my breakfast dishes. Running out of food was inevitable when I lived with housemates. I would frequently return home from work to find a bare cupboard, dust circling the space where food should be and a lone bottle of half-drunk wine providing an exclamation point in the resolute darkness. In comparison, home is a ready made supermarket at my disposal; payment not necessary. Gourmet delicacies are at the tips of my fingers; opening me up to a world of consumer goods only bought when you pass the stage of financial inadequacy I seem to be unable to escape.

But there is a form of payment for these luxuries. I pay it every day, but in different measures, always undetermined; patience. The payment of tolerating flatmates more than double my age, and the intricacies that come with it. While I’m used to putting up with flatmates that come home at all times of the night, mostly staggering in the door with a member of the opposite sex close behind and proceeding to use furniture as a stabiliser for the wobbly boots they’re unable to remove until morning, it’s quite a different tolerance needed for the over 60′s.

My dad refuses to get much-necessary hearing aids. Just the other day I asked him if he could help me change the oil in my car and he merely glanced in my direction, replying "it's going to be 39 degrees in Sydney tomorrow." Having not mastered his first language, nor the ability to listen, he often delights in speaking French with me. He smiles as he produces words like "beret" from the seeming depths of his memory bank, inserted into no context whatsoever and pronounced with special emphasis on the 't' so that no Francophile would ever understand. Beret, he'll say while eating dinner, midway through a discussion about house renovations. With one French word apparently mastered, he added 'canape' to his repertoire, which the aural world pronounce as 'canap-ay' but my Dad eagerly esteems is 'canap'. He is a trail-blazer in more ways than necessary. Sometimes said in quick succession from beret, anyone that understands him wouldn't have a hard time believing that he had just eaten a hat. 

While trying to tell yourself you can manage the finer differences of your parents ways, it is harder admitting to friends that you're back in your single bed with the Winnie the Pooh sheets, watching Downton Abbey with your mum and the cat and making it past 9.30pm for The Graham Norton Show on Thursdays. It may not be conducive to meeting your future spouse or to inviting strangers met in clubs back for beer pong or darts but nor do these thoughts trouble me as much as they probably should when I'm lying in near cloud-like comfort thanks to a sheet count I didn't know existed and a belly full of nutrients not found in microwave meals. I have been cocooned in the comfort of familial homeliness and I can't see a way out.

The prospect of entering a flat with strangers who won't cook me meals or be forced by love and blood to tolerate my downfalls is frightening. I'm so out of the game I've forgotten how to play. Suddenly being over the hill and nestled by an impending pension and a buddy to pillow talk with (even if they're sound asleep and happily letting silent farts escape into the oven) doesn't seem such a bad place to be. The Kardashians are my safe reality, is that wrong? I will move out at some stage, obviously. Although my mum openly muses she would be delighted if I never left, my dad stares off into the distance and wishes his hearing was worse or training his imagination to replace him in a race car or a fighter jet, far from talk of hair straightening and the wrong shade of blush dress and the hot water bill.

There are amusing sides to having flatmates that receive the pension. My parents are both active and go for a long walk to the bottom of our hill and back up everyday, unfortunately their knee joints only sometimes join them. Agreeing to accompany them but strolling many yards ahead and still feeling like I'm being passed by trees, I turned around to find my mother conquering the hill like a sailor does the wind; tacking up the hill, drawing out long diagonal lines across the pavement so as to ease the discomfort of her leg joints in an ambitious vertical climb. She looked drunk. My father was following behind in her slip stream looking like he'd consumed absinthe for breakfast and trying very hard so as to not give it away. Coincidentally he uses a similar face after a big meal, not long before excusing himself with the newspaper for a considerable period of time.

I’m not surprised that more people don’t live at home at my age (it would be concerning if I encouraged it) and I only speak for myself and my situation, but I am enjoying its benefits at this stage. My bank account looks much better. I am certainly healthier. Even spending more time with my parents is a benefit if you think that their time on earth is certainly shorter than that of my friends. I have learnt invaluable knowledge about finance from my father and I am a sous chef to my mother (admittedly this doesn’t always end well. I frequently eat the ingredients when her back is turned.) 

In turn, I have inspired my parents to attend more events in the city, my mum has tried to step up her fashion game (my father is past help) and they have decided to travel more (which I, perhaps wrongly, don’t take as their escape plan from me). I am secure in the knowledge that I am perfectly capable of living away from home, have done so and absolutely plan to do so in the future. I have experienced wonderful parts of the world and had a thoroughly good time living overseas with different kinds of people. But the gains from living at home at this exact point in my life, far outweigh the negatives. As of today. This is something I constantly reevaluate, no more so than when I find myself falling on my mother’s cooking and cleaning, when I run to my dad to kill a spider or when I forget that most people my age are paying for their own internet bill. Likewise, I am building a list of things not to do when I reach their age.

I’m realising that with patience, humour and sometimes deep breathing exercises, you don’t need to be medicated to live with your parents past adolescence. I think we can all learn from that.  

Inspire.

Lately, I have been super inspired to read and look and listen and watch and observe everything. To really take it all in and open myself up to every opportunity for more knowledge and information. I know there'll be people out there scoffing like, duh, that's life. True, but don't we all get so caught up in our own little worlds?

I love having that creative availability to really just expand and rather than feel overwhelmed by everything that's out there, to feel bolstered by it, to want to enjoy it and eventually (hopefully) build on it. What's been getting me going lately?

Well, firstly, it's really a who. Once you start reading about one person it's like YouTubing cat videos, before I know it two hours have passed, I have 50 tabs open on my laptop and a dead leg from not having moved in 2 hours. I was scrolling through my newly revamped Twitter feed (long overdue) and saw Lena Dunham (#1) post a New York Times article by Miranda July (#2) about Rihanna (#3). This led, in approximate order into the following use of internet time stalking:

#4 - Tavi Gevinson



#5 - Taylor Swift
#6 - Karlie Kloss
#7 - Oprah Winfrey
#8 - Warren Buffett
#9 - Bill Gates
#10 - J.K. Rowling (from Bill Gates? I know, don't ask me, obscure connection)
#11 - Serena Williams
#12 - Carissa Moore


#13 - Stephanie Gilmore
#14 - Gigi Hadid
#15 - Shonda Rhimes

It's super overwhelming to feel in awe of such a wonderfully, talented, beautiful, successful, wealthy list of people (mostly women!) but instead of feeling belittled or intimidated, I felt really inspired, excited; I felt confident. Their success doesn't lessen the opportunity for others and certainly doesn't make a smaller gap in the market for others to join. If anything, I think it opens it.

I was watching an episode of X Factor the other night (I hear what you're thinking there!) and one contestant was nervous during boot camp. She got to the stage in front of the judges and told them the talent so far was so good, and she was therefore anxious. Simon, ever the comforter, told her that's reality. The show is representative of the real world of show business, especially the music industry, where competing against every other talented, ambitious, driven artist is normal. Her face said, "thanks for the boost in confidence, Simon".

Unfortunately, he was right. It's also accurate in the larger, broader sense. Technically we are all on our own version of bad reality TV because we are competing against every other person in the world. Yes, it's frightening, but it's also exciting. There is so much opportunity. If we are good at what we do, if we are determined to succeed, if we put everything we have and more into it, it is within our reach to achieve it, regardless of others who strive alongside us. There is not a limited number of spots. There is no barrier, no formula, no route. There is no finish line. But the journey is there, the path lies ahead and it may be busy, but that doesn't make it any less possible to do well.

See every chance as an opportunity, every person as a source of information; see knowledge and advice everywhere. See chance. Seek happiness. Follow YOUR journey.

An Advocate For Nice

I realised out of all the quotes I’ve heard and read and the wisdom I’ve received, the phrase or approach to life that sticks out to me is the most simple. It came from my mum, her motto to life, “it’s nice to be nice”. 

Simple is best. 

People say love makes the world go round but I think nice does. Love is exclusive, it’s restrictive. We don’t love everyone. We don’t love everyone equally. We can’t. We don’t love the person in the street we walk past. We don’t love the cashier at the supermarket. We don’t love the person in the car behind us while queued at the traffic lights. We certainly don’t love these people at the same level that we love our parents, our children, or our spouse. We may love our dog even more. 

We can’t approach everyone with the same level of love and that restricts us to treating our nearest and dearest wonderfully, but taking a less emphatic approach to others. My mother is nice to everyone. Her nice is limitless. She says you can be nice to everyone and anyone. Limitless. 

My mother compliments the man that bags our groceries until his eyes twinkle and he smiles a little brighter for the next customer. She used to make entire food hampers for teachers at my primary school. One unfortunate time when my Dad ended up in hospital, she returned after he had left to deliver wine and chocolates for the staff that cared for him, and for those that didn't, "they all work hard", she noted. She buys beer for the builders on a Friday afternoon. The builders on our neighbours property. Get this, my mum met one of her now close friends because she was rear ended by her teenage son. My mother was literally involved in a car crash and it resulted in friendship. 

While this is great, being the daughter of this rarity is no easy feat: I am constantly held to a ruefully high standard of niceness. I am her daughter and therefore I have a level of niceness expected of me. People assume it’s hereditary. It is a blessing and a burden, because I am not as nice as her. Naturally. I don’t mean this to invite pity, I just have to work to see opportunity where nice can be inserted. I have to consciously think how and where and what. My mother does it without thinking. Innate-nice. 

Since high school, my friends have been besotted with my mother and I sometimes wonder whether they visit for me or for her. They labelled her SuperMum. I should be SuperDaughter but I missed the Super gene. I’m working on it. How can you compete with nice? Well you can’t. Nor should you. Just be nice, too. 

Nice is free. It is free. It isn’t free when you buy beer for your neighbours contractors and wave a nonchalant hand at car repairs. It isn’t free when you buy the supermarket out of snacks so you can host a sleepover for your daughter and her friends. It isn’t free when you buy chocolates for the “nice men who do a great job at collecting our recycling”. But nice doesn’t have to be all that.

Actually, my mother doesn’t do extravagant. She doesn’t do nice so that there is any expectation of return gesture or guilt. She has measured the nice to fit perfectly to its task. It is not overwhelming nice. It is thoughtful, unexpected. It is nice to those who earn and deserve it but don’t ask for it. Do you think the recycling man went to work every morning thinking “gosh, I hope today is the day that someone gives me something for my effort”? It is his job. He gets paid to do it and most people probably think it’s ridiculous that my mother gave him chocolates. I bet he doesn’t. She made his day. He could have gone home a little chirpier that day. He could have cooked his wife a meal, decided to visit his grand children or spent time with his elderly neighbour. He could have simply walked with a spring in his step. He could have done none of these things, too. It doesn't really matter, because for a moment, he was touched, smiling at nothing in particular, feeling the gesture.

Nice doesn’t mean being easy or being walked over. It doesn’t mean being weak. Nice is the strongest thing you can be. Do you know how hard it is to be nice? Giving in, being rude, ungrateful; that’s easy. How many people have you come across that are like that? A lot. We can all be mean in a heartbeat, effortlessly. We could all be mean all day and not break a sweat. But sometimes putting a smile on your face is hard. Putting aside a hard day to help a stranger across the street is strength. Devoting your time to talking to a lonely elderly man at the grocery store when you’ve working a 12 hour graveyard shift and your eye lids weigh more than you groceries, that’s strength. You don’t complain about your own day, you listen sympathetically, you acknowledge that this moment in this man’s life may make his week. It is a concerted choice of effort. 

Because it is nice to be nice. It is nice for you, to know your day wasn’t wasted because you made someone else feel good. It is nice for the other, to know that someone will listen, will smile. Sometimes it is nice just to know that you’re not alone in the world. To know that someone else sees, and appreciates. If you’re lucky enough to be surrounded by your loved ones, appreciate that. But be strong, be nice. 

My mother knows best: it is nice to be nice. 

Youth is Overrated.

When I was five years old I was asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, I told them “be a shopper”. Evidently I didn’t dream too big when I was younger. Despite those youthful ambitions not starting too lofty, that doesn’t mean they didn’t grow. I’m no longer obsessed with making a career out of spending money to increase my material wealth but age has allowed me to see the importance of other such endeavours (not that aspiring to “be a shopper” is anything to lament but I do think my mother breathed a sigh of relief when these plans changed). 

I now find myself motivated and inspired by women who are at the height of success and loving it. Thriving in their job; making decisions, delegating, proving their worth and maintaining their own sense of confidence and drive in the face of difficulties. I, like media and the many, was infatuated with the success of the young; those who reached the top of their field before they passed through adolescence, or those who age proved no barrier in their determination to prevail. Those who knew young to dream big. 

There is so much focus on the accomplishments of youth, “she’s done so much and she’s so young” which inevitably lends to pressure to succeed quickly, spotlight clambering over tales of overnight dreams becoming reality. But reality is hard work and late nights and missing social occasions and cancelling on your boyfriend on Valentine’s day because projects due the next day don’t finish themselves. Overnight success is rare, as is young success and youth isn’t everything. It can carry the burden of expectation and comparison. It’s lovely to hear the fairy tales of individuals who carry luck on their side and who know they’re “blessed” to be where they are. But the real fairy tales? They’re behind the scenes, not glorified by media or tagging headlines. They’re the ones that are too busy focusing on deadlines and to-do lists and pushing themselves to complete more than is required. They’re the ones quietly making a difference. 

The “you have so much time” line that 20-something’s are fed by elders feels shallow, absent of truth, because the reality is our time passes so quickly; between work, study, friends, boyfriend, family, travel and trying to squeeze social occasions and fun in there is overwhelming and the clock whizzes past along with the belief that we have plenty of time to have a career and a family. 

The idea that there are people younger than us achieving more, and faster is inspiring, until it’s no longer available. Until our youth is snatched away from us between all the obligations we’re trying to fulfill. Inspiration disappears along with possibility. The attraction of youthful success is only encouraging while it is available. Then 25 hits amidst watching teenagers sail past on top of their mountain of accolades, building gadgets worth millions at a time when you were still enjoying life; running wild, acting silly and spending days gallivanting with friends under the freedom of youth. 

Is youthful success all it appears to be? The media sensationalise and simplify the notion that we all can create such opportunity. Youth does not equal success. Hard work, determination, motivation, ambition; these are part of the equation that perpetrate success in youth, not something born out of the simple naivete that dictates our age. 

Thankfully, I find myself inspired by the women who lived their youth; recklessly, full of mistakes and joy rides, of late nights and too many ciders and endless experiences and continued to work hard when pregnant, with toddlers looping circles around concentrated faces as the coffee cups stacked up began to seem depleted of caffeine. Or powering through nap time for the opportunity of quiet. Of women who maintain relationships; intimate and friendly, the upkeep of a house, of a family dynamic and of financial stability. Women who continue to put food on the table, glistening, young eyes to bed with a bedtime story, and they still find time to build careers, to use the powerful female mind to build companies, to make a difference, to follow a passion that didn’t die when puberty passed or when their success story can no longer be glorified for happening “so young”. For me, inspiration is that; hard work, determination, perseverance and triumph through failure; achieved in longevity, a story that lasts the distance. 

"To be successful, you have to be out there."

What's the one thing stopping you from doing what you want, from achieving those things that you only think about at night, in the dark, when you know for sure that no one else can see or hear the reality of your desires?

Probably you, and Richard Branson agrees. The one thing stopping you from living out your inner most, wildest desires, is you. 

It can be confronting and overwhelming to actively pursue your goals; as if someone entered you into a Fear Factor competitions without your consent, and suddenly you're buried up to your neck in a horrifying form of beetle trying to recite the chronological order of England's monarchists in order to escape. Thankfully, both reality TV and ambition are optional pursuits. 

The Kiwi mentality is a good one, we are down-to-earth, hard working, easy-going and friendly; we are always ready to lend a hand and will give anything a go. We are progressive and thoughtful; we were the first to let women vote, the first to legalise gay marriage and we even let a woman from Gore rule the country. We are nothing if not open-minded. But we are also afraid to put ourselves out there. It is not in the NZ mantra to step forward willingly or clap yourself on the back, we don't sing our own praises and we are terrible at accepting compliments. The last time someone told me I'd done something well, I apologised and baked them a cake. It was my mother. 

I was recently living in America and they are our loud-talking, gum-chewing, unapologetic antithesis. We are sweet and obliging, afraid to make a scene, while they can be outspoken and confident, unashamedly honest. They tell it like it is, including their ambitions, what they want to do with their life and how they're going to get there. Their certainties made me feel lost, and intimidated. They had just told me all their plans, what they were going, what they wanted - isn't that taboo? Don't we keep those things to ourselves in case they don't work out? 

There was one time years ago when I told a friend I was going to go for a run, and then meet her for dinner afterwards. I got so distracted by doing other things (there was probably a great episode of The O.C. on) that I didn't have time to go for the run. I turned up to dinner and when she asked me how my run was out of politeness, I freaked, lied and told her it was fine. I couldn't own up to the fact that I said I was going to do something and I didn't. Not going for a run wasn’t intentional and it certainly didn’t matter to her whether I went or not, yet I couldn’t face telling her that I didn’t follow through with my plan. And here were my American friends doing the same thing, on a much larger scale! I was listening along thinking, you just told me you want to be a doctor? A doctor! What if it doesn't work out? What if you can’t get into a course? What if your grades aren’t good enough? There's so many uncertainties that can be prevent this from happening! 

But these questions were really mine. General questions I asked myself constantly. I was more than happy to confidently ascertain my goals in my head, but telling others was a no. I was passionate about my plans, I was actively working towards them and had even written them down in a little notebook I often kept on me with steps I needed to take. I was not shy in admitting to myself what I wanted, but telling others wasn’t an option. It would come across bashful, conceited, self-centred. Making outward steps forward to ensure these goals became a reality was not necessary, or was it? If I couldn't even tell others what I wanted, how could I actually go ahead and do it? 

Being around Americans and their reversed sense of ideals (at least to me) was fascinating. The NZ mentality of being bashful was seen as strange, almost cowardly. The strength and surety my U.S. friends showed was eye opening to me. Like the obsession my 10 year old self had with buying a furby, I was completely drawn in to this new confident, proud way of thinking. Was talking about ambition out loud part of the success in making their dream a reality? By confiding in others were we cementing our goals more firmly and thus holding ourselves accountable to making things happen? If I told myself I was going to do something and then I didn’t, of course I could make up ample excuses for why it didn’t happen! I am an expert at lying to myself and I am also completely gullible; tricking myself would be no problem. But lying to others? That wasn’t something I wanted to get into the habit of. Ever.

A long-running internal conversation has been happening in my head since I was young enough to read. I was a sucker for words, even when I didn't know their meaning. Wonderfully strung words were like my drug; I always wanted more. I knew I wanted to write, but I was constantly nervous about putting my words into the world without anonymity. People could read my thoughts! My feelings! Writing is such a personal and vulnerable place, was I willing to let others, strangers, in? I had long known I wanted to write, but my outward attempts were feeble. I was scared. 

Well, how Kiwi. This mind process was lost on my American friends. They’d call it “cute” with a smile reserved for a baby who regurgitated his pureed peas. But it's not cute, its simply who we are. We refrain from putting ourselves out there for fear we'll be seen as arrogant, or conceited, or dare I say it, confident. As if willing ourselves forward could in some way be taking the position of someone else, stealing another person's opportunity. What makes us think we deserve success over someone else?

Well I think as a nation we need a new mantra. The world is large and the spaces are endless; by striving forward we are not preventing another's success, we are helping it. Providing an example, showing hope, displaying the outcome of perseverance for others to follow. There is never "too much" unless it's a substance with warning labels on the bottle. There is always room for more music, more movies, more education, more businesses; we need to stop limiting ourselves. We need a mantra of opportunity. A mantra of confidence. By being honest and focused, it doesn’t mean we can’t be kind, thoughtful and selfless. It certainly doesn't mean that we are limiting the opportunities of others. With the right mind set, we can create something wonderful. By writing this, I'm attempting to create mine. Listen to the Branson, "be out there", and don't think twice. 

I think, most of the time, it's not that we can't focus, it's that we don't know what we want.

"Chance favours the prepared mind. The more you practice, the luckier you become."

Richard Branson, my daily reminder.