Driving Lessons

I almost kinda hit a motorbike the other night. In my defense, it was dark and I’m a totally rubbish driver. Well that, and it was raining and my windshield wipers refused to cooperate. Oh water, you sly devil, you with your awesome refractive index and incredible surface tension. Hmph.

So September marked the third year of me getting my driving license and I thought I’d celebrate with another self-involved (and long overdue) blog post. (Well, I’M celebrating. City of Bangalore? Not so much.)

I learned to drive on a Maruti 800, an iconic Indian car by itself. (My driving instructor now has white hair. Hmm... A true mystery.) Then I graduated to the even more iconic Maruti Omni van. (Yes. A van. And white no less. I felt like a caterer.) And then, in January 2007, we got Speedy, my ’98 Mitsubishi Lancer. It came fully equipped with spoiler (?), air conditioner, and cassette player (cutting edge. I know.) My car, in which I’m not allowed to exceed 60 kilometers an hour (kilometers!), was nicknamed Speedy by my then 9 year old nephew. I don’t know if he was being ironic. Or maybe not. He was actually really keen on calling my baby a Chupacabra, the legendary Mexican legend. According to Wikipedia, that infallible source of infinite knowledge, a chupacabra is “a legendary cryptid rumored to inhabit parts of the Americas. The name ‘Chupacabra’ (‘chupar’ is Spanish for ‘to suck’ and ‘cabra’ translates to ‘goat’) comes from the animal's reported habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats.” How cute.

Oh and did I mention that Speedy’s silver? Now I’ll be honest. There are many shades of automobile colors I absolutely adore. Black? Yes. Dark blue? Yes. Hunter green? Definitely. Maroon? Yeah baby. Baker’s chocolate? Ahem. *Cough cough* Totally. For my sisters, yes, yes, I know... Ateeu. For the others, don’t even bother. Inside joke people. But I digress. So there are tons of colors I like on cars, but silver? Silver is not one of them. See, in my head, I always thought that silver cars looked like giant thermometer farts. I was in denial for ages. Of course I love my car now with all its silvery glory, complete with accidentally on purpose racing stripes. OK fine. So it’s more “accidentally” than “on purpose”, but who’s checking? Just goes to show that if you’re a tree in Sheryll’s line of vision, you might want to get the hell outta there. Although, I must admit, I have improved considerably since that day in ’06 when I ran into the same auto-rickshaw thrice. In fact, my dad actually applauded the last time I parallel parked. Evidently, my parents don’t expect very much from me anymore.

But I learned a lot in these past three years on the road. Unfortunately, I can’t remember most of them. But here are some "driving lessons" that I do remember.

1. Driving barefoot is bad for your sole.
2. Music doesn’t necessarily make you a better driver, but it helps.
3. You CAN learn driving techniques from T.V. (I learned to parallel-park from Heroes. Don’t ask how.)
4. That retro eye-hand dance-like move is only cool if you’re John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. And even then, it’s pretty lame.
5. The hand wave dance thing is not cool ever.
6. Adding “Freestyle” to the end of a poorly constructed sentence does not make it a rap song.
7. To err may be human, but to obstruct traffic for no reason is bovine.
8. A weird noise emanating from your engine is a sign that you should take your car to a mechanic. Not to turn up the volume.
9. Traffic signals are not suggestions.
10. Cup holders are for holding cups. Not for holding sandwiches, or donuts, or cell phones.

P.S. Thousand apologies to all my fans (all two of you!) for being so erm… remiss in the whole blogging bit. The past few months have been a time of… let’s see… tremendous upheavals of the emotional kind. 100% pleasant though, I can assure you. All I can say is that I’m glad that my initials will not be P.M.S. for much longer.

Bob

BFF: Ask Sheryll, she’s really good with relationship advice.
Bob: Yeah, Things are so much clearer when you’re looking at things from the outside in.

Meet Bob.

Bob is an evil alien who took up residence in my voice box and is the reason for everything that’s wrong with the world. Well, mine at least. He’s like Superman only instead of being really buff and an all-round swell guy, Bob is invisible and strikes whenever there’s a lull in conversation. If there are awkward moments to be had, never fear, Bob’s here.

Here are some of Bob’s best in no particular order of preference.

1. So what are your feelings on vegetables?
Well, we were at the dinner table. And the guest (yes, the guest) was really quiet.

2. Work’s great coz I don’t have much.
Lie. Truth - Work’s great and I do have much. My boss reads this. Ahem.

3. I’m not laughing with you, I’m laughing at you.
I was.

4. Is he the guy who wrote seven habits of highly effective people?
Point 14. Enough said.

5. Even though it’s our car, it’s beautiful, no mama?
Hey, I was 8, ok?

6. No, YOU’RE tired.
It was in response to a guy who said I looked tired. I suppose he meant that in a good way. I didn’t say it out loud though. He was a big guy.

7. That’s the saddest thing I've ever heard
This was in response to my gym instructor’s incredible words of wisdom - Life is constant struggle. I had to do 10 extra push ups for that. Luckily I broke my foot and never went back to that gym again.

8. My name is Sheryll Sampson and I was told that they’d give me cake.
This was at a wedding. I was one of the M.C.s and we were told that we had to introduce ourselves like 5 seconds before we went on stage. Thankfully, some people laughed. OK, fine. Two. Thanks Mommy. Thanks Shiv.

9. Respected Princess, teachers, and my dear friends.
Opening line of my first assembly speech. My principal was really nice to me after that though. I wonder why.

10. Can I touch your face?
Yes, really. It was to an acquaintance. In my defense, she had skin that looked like she lit a lamp under it. Sniff, it was beautiful.


-

Girl Gone Mild

This is not how I thought I’d spend my 20s.

I always thought that once I turn 21, I’d spend my Saturday nights channeling Lindsay Lohan and make monumental mistakes that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. Instead I’m at home trying to decide what I should bake for the church’s upcoming charity food sale. (For those who care, I’m leaning towards my usual marble cake but this time, I’m making them cupcakes. I know. I’m dangerous. Hmph.) It’s not like I’m in heavy pursuit of intelligent or scholarly activities either, the most spirited discussion I’ve had in the past month was with my mother… over whether or not I have dimples.

So I found this old photo album the other day. I also found out that beauty-wise, I peaked at 14. It’s been downhill since then. I still wonder though. When did I go from Ooh La La to Oompa Loompa? Was it when I chopped off all my hair and took to wearing bandanas every time I went outside? Or was it when I stopped shopping and started wearing my dad’s shirts instead? Either way, my mid to late teens was one long spiraling descent into bad fashion choices and even worse hair. 16 year old Sheryll would’ve been Tim Gunn’s Sistine Chapel. My poor mom. She really tried to instill good fashion sense into us. She always dressed us up real cute when we were younger. (Although the jury is still out over the brown corduroy overalls and blue sweater combo I wore as a three year old.)

Yet, even through that cloud of bad denim that hovered over my teenage years, I had a vision. I honestly believed that my life would change once I turned 21. I was positively biblical about it. I figured that when I was a child, I thought as a child (and dressed as Rosie O’Donnell), but once I’d become an adult, I’d put away childish things and I’d become beautiful, I’d become smolderingly hot, I’d become Jessica Rabbit – with hair and clothes that defied the very laws of gravity.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Today all that’s changed is that I have longer hair and wear clothes actually designed for women. It’s not ideal but at least no one calls me ‘Sir’ anymore. And I don’t get hit on by lonely Arab women. I get the stink-eye instead which in girlworld is definitely a marked improvement.

I think one of the most difficult things we have to face as we get older, is the fact that most of the time, ‘who we want to be’ and ‘who we really are’ are usually two very different people. While some are inherently wild and crazy, perhaps some of us are just born to be mild. I’m a little older now and a little wiser too. I realize now that I have a bigger chance of ending up looking more like Roseanne Barr than Jessica Rabbit. That I’m a little more country than rock ‘n’ roll. Maybe this too, is one of my phases. Maybe it’s not. I hope I get used to it anyways. I hope I eventually learn to embrace this new me. But most of all, I hope Steppenwolf makes a song about me. Sing it with me now - Booooooooorn to be Miiiiilld.

Peeves. Pet Peeves

In case you’re wondering, yes, I are grumpy. Therefore I present to you:

Sheryll’s Mammoth(-ish) List of Pet Peeves/Hates

1. Automatic taps. For they do not obey me.

2. People who insist on pronouncing it 'arse' and correct me when I don't.

3. The word ‘economics’. Is it eh-co-NOH-mics or e-COH-no-mics or what?

4. People who say that love is blind. It’s not. If it were, gyms would go out of business.

5. Bathrooms with the door open.

6. Blond highlights on dark Indian chicks.

7. Guys who color their hair.

8. Fake accents.

9. People who move their hands too much. It’s so distracting. Although I’ll admit it. I do it too. Waddaya know? I’m my own pet peeve.

10. Auto drivers who try to race you.

11. Rainy days. Nothing good comes from rainy days except like, plants and trees and stuff.

12. People with 24/7 perfectly styled hair. It’s wrong and unnatural.

13. People who use big pretentious words like ‘juxtaposition’ or ‘plethora’. Who speaks like that anyways?

14. My insane pathetic need to make people think I’m smart. That juxtaposed (Heh heh) with my less than stellar memory for names, well… it sucks. Take the other day for instance. My boss and I were talking about management books, both network-wise and otherwise.
My Boss: So Walter Goralski’s written some really good books on management.
Me: You mean the guy who wrote ‘7 Habits for Highly Effective People’?
My Boss: (pause) No. I mean Walter from Documentation.
Fail.

15. People who fix their hair while looking at their reflection IN MY GLASSES. I want to take them outside and slap the road with their face.

16. When my jokes die.
All the conference rooms in my office are named after movies. The company’s spread over two buildings. So last Friday, my colleague and I were supposed to go to the other building for a meeting. It was in this conference room called Braveheart (I kid you not). We faithfully made our way there only to find out that they changed the venue to Finding Nemo (Still not kidding). In a strange twist of irony, no one knew when Finding Nemo was. The receptionists on the 3rd floor told us to go to the 4th floor. The folks on the 4th floor told us that it was in the 5th floor. The folks on the 5th floor told us to go to the 2nd floor. There is no 2nd floor. It’s occupied by another company. We finally found the conference room on the 1st floor only to be told that the venue was changed again. This time to a training room… which turned out to be right next to Braveheart (They may take our sanity, but they will never take OUR FREEDOM!!!). These two conference rooms literally shared a wall. Anyways, rants aside, we ended up arriving 20 minutes late.
Enter Sheryll and colleague (Big hug Preets!)
Me: Sorry we’re late. We couldn’t find Nemo.
Everyone else - *silence*

I hate everybody.

There's a Hole in My Bucket List, Dear Eliza, Dear Eliza.

I did not watch the Bucket List. So, in honor of that, I present to you-

“Sheryll’s Funky List of Things She Wants to Do/Learn… Eventually”

1. Learn to cook regular food… after all, man does not live on cookies alone.

2. Figure out how to wear a dupatta. My dupatta and I are like Oscar Wilde and the wallpaper in the room he died in– One of us has to go.

3. Learn all that I can about cars so that I’ll never get ripped off by another mechanic again! Right now, all I know is that the left wheel’s connected to the tail bone, and the battery’s connected to the femur. Wait. No. Huh?

4. Learn to play the guitar. Who knows? I might become the next Steve Vai, or the next Sid Vicious, or… Nancy.

5. Learn basic DIY skills and be able to fix things around the house… just to be able to say ‘Can I fix it? Yes I can!!’ (Bob the builder’s my hero.)

6. Learn to be competitive about things that matter, like my career and volleyball, instead of at things like charades and impromptu ‘walk-races’ with unsuspecting strangers.

7. Learn to not get monster annoyed when people call me ‘that girl’.

8. Learn to ride a bike. How awesomely bad-ass would I be then??

9. Learn to ride a bicycle. Yes. Yes. I am ashamed. But I was afraid of bicycles as a child. My brother tried to run me over with my tricycle when I was 4. I was so traumatized. OK, so it was just my toe. I’m sensitive ok? I’m a delicate lady and if you don’t agree with me, I’ll beat you to death with my pretty pink parasol.

10. Learn to walk like a girl. I’ve been told that I walk like a man. And not a very attractive one at that. Hmph. With family like this, who needs therapy? *slowly raises hand*

In other news, my darlingest baby sister, Shivonne, turned 21 this month. Ah Shivy, my voice of sartorial reason, I’d be running off to work in my jammies if it weren’t for you. At the risk of sounding totally Juno, you’re the cheese to my macaroni, the mavvadikaya to my pappu-korra (Hey, we’re Telugu. Get over it.) You’ve always been there for me even though I constantly embarrass you with my super-cool car dance moves. And after all this time, there’s only one question I want to ask you – What IS that strange ticking noise?

Memory Glands

I found my 10 year old slam book last night. In my defense, slambooks in Bangalore ’99 was like ‘ohmigod so totally the bomb and stuff’. Actually, no. Back then, I was your average religious yet free-spirited 12-year old – which meant that I loved sparkly lip gloss, Wrestle Mania, and Jesus. Hmmm… no wonder boys didn’t ask me out a lot. They didn’t know if I was going to perform the Inverted Indian Deathlock on them, or quote scripture.

That slambook reminded me of how things change. I discovered that way back in ’99, most of my now super-cool and devastatingly trendy friends absolutely adored Britney Spears. AND Celine Dion. I still think that they’re super cool and devastatingly trendy. But that’s probably because I’m fundamentally and tragically unhip. I too, am guilty of a Miss Spears fixation. I even watched Crossroads. Twice! (What can I say? I have a thing for punishment. Audio-visual style.)

That slambook also reminded me of how some things never do change. Like my horrific drawing skills. My version of the iconic Kuwait Towers looks like a ballpoint pen. My coloring skills were so outré, it looked like the leprechaun from Lucky Charms threw up a rainbow on the page.

That slambook got me all nostalgic for the time when my friends and I would fight over who gets to be Scary Spice. (I was always Ginger because I was not scary or sporty or posh or baby-like.) It reminded me of the time when we’d nickname ourselves after nail polish shades (Mystic Mahogany. Oh, how wrong you sound now.) I remember the time when we’d spend 45 minutes after every Friday Vesper service trying to color-coordinate our outfits for Sabbath the next day. Ah, the five of us. We were a force to be reckoned with. Force of Nature that is. (It’s an inside joke. Don’t pretend understanding.)

That slambook also got me thinking. About how we can never completely ‘know’ who we are. Not when we change so dramatically every five to ten years. Perhaps the best that we can aim for is to understand the phases we go through and still like ourselves… somewhat at least.

P.S. Funniest Thing I’ve Heard on T.V. in a Long Time:

Where – The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brian
When – A while ago.
What – “In the year 3000, babies will listen to dance music when Lady Gaga joins forces with the Goo Goo Dolls to form the super-group – Gaga Goo Goo”

Fell off the couch laughing? Check.
Milk through nose? Check.
Bu-bu-but… I wasn’t drinking any milk. Doom doom dooooooom.

-

If You're a Diva and You Know It, Clap Your Hands!

I’m not clapping.

I’m not a diva. Well, at least Facebook tells me I’m not. According to the Almighty FB, I’m not the beautiful Satine from Moulin Rouge. I’m not even Eliza Doolittle. Instead, it turns out that I am Mary “Spoonful of Sugar” Poppins. Great. Brilliant. I’m diva-stated. (Hyuk Hyuk)

Friends, Romans, countrymen, let me tell you one of life’s biggest truths- There’s nothing like a birthday to put you in one heck of a heavy duty philosophical blue funk. I turned 23 last Thursday and for the past whole week, I’ve obsessing over how little I’ve actually accomplished so far in my life. See, while the other 23-year olds are out changing the world one reality show at a time, the biggest challenge of my day is trying to figure out where Katy Perry fits on my Annoyometer. (Which, by the way, ranges from Level 1 - Slurred Vocals of Amy Winehouse i.e. surprisingly not, to Level 3 billion and 4 - Enrique’s sing/crying i.e. capable of inducing Chucky-like homicidal tendencies.) As of this very moment, she’s firmly entrenched in Level 4509 – Ross and Rachel’s story i.e. annoying… if I actually gave a crap.

Actually, truth be told, this past year hasn’t been completely uneventful. I discovered my inner prude this year. Now I can combat every one of my random friend’s “I got so wasted last night” story with an “Then I baked 5 dozen cookies and wrapped them in plastic wrap and apple green ribbons. It was just soo darling!” story. Great. I’m growing up to be Martha Stewart. Only less talented and/or street cred. Huh.

This year I also learned that while I do like to name drop jazz artists and listen to bands like The Beatles and Oasis on Imeem, it’s songs like Usher’s ‘Yeah!’ that make me want to shake my groove thang. (Did you wince at that 'groove thang' bit too? Groove thang, my foot - which, according to the Urban Dictionary, is not necessarily the same thing.)

You know how sometimes that pool of immobility (immobile-ness?) that your life languishes in becomes so overwhelming that you think that you’re either going to explode or implode with all the stationary-ness?

No? OK, guess it’s just me then.

Either way you know what happens then? When it gets to be more than you think you can bear? You'd think that suddenly outta nowhere something spectacular might happen, right? Some sort of epiphany at least, right?? Wrong. Nothing happens. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is ever going to happen. Not unless we get up and do something about it. (I figure that if I say it enough, I might actually get up too.) But I have this hope. Yeah, yeah, the kind that burns within my heart. A hope that perhaps this year will be different. That this year I’ll finally find what I’m looking for. My erm... raison d'être I think it’s called. Truth is, I’d even settle for just finding out WHAT it is in the first place.

For those who HAVE found it, have you hugged your raison today?

P.S. A few people have asked me if all the events in my last post are true. OK fine. ONE person asked me that. But just to clear things up, yes, everything I mentioned in the last post is true. Down to the last, excruciatingly embarrassing detail. Well, except for the fact that I'm not delusional-ly optimistic. I'm not really a glass half full kinda person. Or a glass half empty one either actually. I'm more of a 'Drink up or Shut up' kinda person. So there.