Me...

Flighty, flitty, flirty, flip flop, flights of fancy, missed flights, fights, firsts...

seconds, thirds and fourths

A generous sprinkling of everything is my life. And I the crazy chef, the greedy connoisseur, of this concoction that is my life.

mmmm mmm mm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

My not-much-better half flinches when I use the word "complex" to describe myself. Lets just say for the sake of argument, I can argue on both sides.

Convincingly, complicatedly, complexly, confusingly, connivingly...

I am guilty of affectation. Impale me all you cynics and moralistic high horsemen out there. I have been known to put on a bit of an eastern accent sometimes amongst my colleagues and plead a "bad english day" with a cute smile, just for effect. I hang on stubbornly to my indo-british accent feigning originality when all I'm doing is making a statement. Just like my friends who feign an American accent who I then put down for making a statement.

Statement statement, same difference, stalemate...

I have been known to say things that are over the top, flowery, or worse - dramatic!!! As my brother once said. Nada - when you are not dramatic, you are histrionical. When you are neither, you are melodramatic. (Takes one to know one bhayya.)

And oh grave sin - I talk about myself. On and On. I am sure noone reading my blog could ever tell, but it's true.

I have decided to come out of the politically correct and culturally proper closet and challenge all things arbitrary. I am a misfit. I flout culture, and espouse religion. I challenge boundaries, and love traditions. I am a card carrying feminist who wants to be a stay at home wife and mother.

I am the pallet, the brush, the artist who paints in bright contrasting colors, the spectator who looks at it and understands, the passer-by who it makes no sense to whatsoever.

I've tried to read Shakespeare and Ayn Rand to earn bragging rights and compete with intellectual peers, but given up and wondered if we are all looking at the emperor's new clothes. I revel in trashy romance novels and Nora Roberts and Sidney Sheldons. I force myself to interperse some "meaningful" literature of which some I enjoy and some I wonder what the meaning of it is. I get an inferiority complex when i look at my friends who post exotic nobel prize winning books on their facebook profile, and secretly pity them their nora robert-less life.

Reading, Racing, Rigging, Ranting, Raving....

Yes its true what they say - there are weeks, even months where I don't look at the news. I get all Obamad and McCained and see life in black and white sometimes. I listen to npr all the time sometimes. I can shop for hours and be designer-label crazy, and then die of boredom when girls around me talk about clothes and makeup all the time.

Sometimes, other times, many times, most times...

I am the product of a conservative mom, a liberal dad, an eastern upbringing and western media. I am pieces of a puzzle that dont quite fit. I am confident about who I am and what I stand for. I have no idea of who I am or what I stand for.

I have friends who I talk to about mindless and mundane matters for hours. I sit next to a relative stranger on the bus and talk about the meaning of existence, perspective, transcending cultural boundaries, faith, philosophy of life. (Aaron, this one's for you my friend).

I go riding with my boss, and I pray at meetings. My hijaab is the filter through which I meet the most genuine, unbiased, well-rounded people as I traverse my path through the cosmos.

I am unabashedly romantic, until someone calls me out for it and then I get defensive. I swoon over shah rukh movies and live for romantic gestures and believe in happy endings. I write a sappy blog but I am proud of it. Except when I am not.

Bipolar I aint. Why? Because I said so.

Even though all evidence points to the contrary.

Evidence schmevidence.

I like to think I am simply the crazy chef who grabs life with both hands and cooks up a storm.

All rights reserved.

No reservations, restaurant is closed tonight, the chef wishes to sleep.