Landmark year…

2011! Some would say it’s been the best year of my life. And in many ways it has - I’d have to agree. This year I had that baby I swore I never would. I got out of that job that’s been sucking my soul dry for a long time now. I discovered that I am probably in the relationship I want to be in for the rest of my life (yes I know that would have been a discovery best made BEFORE the wedding, but hey, a little confirmation is always nice isn’t it?). Unless the man in question wises up and runs for his life ;). Annnnd I realized that a true friend is one who will leave her newborn baby and come to you because you have the hormonal pregnancy sniffles.

So between the post-Christmas-not-so-much-of-the-glow, I-am-sick-as-a-dog-and-hate-everything place and the pre-new-year-I-don’t-know-why-I-get-sucked-into-NYE, oh-God-what-am-I-going-to-wear place that I am in now, I hang on to that.

My life as I know it has changed, and the extent of the change is pretty amusing! I really had no idea how one-dimensional I was until I looked into my wardrobe! In the last few months since my gorgeous little girl arrived (nope I’m not biased at all, she really is the best :P), I have spent an inordinate amount of time in pyjamas. Why? Firstly, duh, because its awesome! And secondly because pretty much everything I own is either for the office or to go out for the evenings in (all of which doesn’t fit being a third point that we’ll quickly gloss over).

I recently therefore, with much glee, discovered the pleasure of drawstring pants. What an awesome invention! Trousers who’s USP is that they don’t have to fit! Between that and the whole host of voluminous, harem-ey, culotte-ey pieces out there, I’m set! I’ve fully embraced the life of a ‘Jumeirah Janaki’ in my new comfy clothes.

By the way of explanation that’s a term my lovely friend - lets call her NP – coined. It comes from ‘Jumeirah Jane’, which is a semi derogatory term for *ahem* ‘white women whose husbands work while they have coffee and have their nails done’ (Jumeirah is an area in Dubai BTW). I know, I know it’s a horrible cliché! Its been used in Dubai for ages and has become a part of the almost accepted racist undertones that you find here sometimes. Jumeirah Janaki is our black humour way to describe the brown counterpart. No, it doesn’t count as racism when it comes from brown people! And trust me, the Janes and the Janakis are about as far from the clichés as its possible to be. Just use it enough and it loses its power anyway.

Just to be clear, I’m not in any way dismissing the part I play in the raising of my child – and oh, I PLAY a part. (Have I told you I’m a control freak?) Or the fact that I work from home. But, for people like me, who are used to 14 hour days of high stress (doing something that in the end is pretty unfulfilling)  and think the Blackberry is an extension of their arm, this is either awesome or a nightmare. And thank the universe, for me, it’s AWESOME!

And THAT is what has made this year truly landmark for me! I’ve learned something new about myself, just when I thought I didn’t hold any more surprises. RandomRambler the Jumeirah Janaki; and happy being one. That’s fab!

So… Happy New Year all. And may 2012 bring many wonderful surprises! We could all use them.

There’s always cake…

… Isn’t there? Seriously. What’s with the cake? There’s cake for birthdays. There’s cake for anniversaries. For Christmas (BTW ours is made for the year and sitting there. I might’ve, just might’ve had a piece. What??). For all sorts of people getting together events. There’s even a whole business in borderline obscene cakes for bachelor and bachelorette parties (*cough* I’ve heard). So what’s the deal I ask myself?

In my family we learned to bake at approximately the same time that we learned nursery rhymes. First we watched. Then we licked the bowl after the cake was made (which in today’s world would cause the biggest scandal wouldn’t it? Salmonella. Children. Blah blah blah). And watched with wide-open eyes as the cake baked. Back then the only oven available and easily affordable where I’m from was a round one with the heating coil in the lid. The cake went in the middle and you could see it through a glass window at the top. I don’t think it even had a temperature control. My theory is that this was a conspiracy from the religious leaders to get us to pray!

And no, don’t jump to any conclusions about me being a hundred and fifty; I just didn’t grow up in the western world :P. Later as we got to 6 and 7, we got to hold the stirring spoon and even measure out ingredients on a good day. Great way of learning your sums methinks (others may say that’s probably why I’m absolutely crap at math!). Pretty soon we got good at it, naturally. I even briefly made a living out of it! That was, I must say, the most stress free time of my life (even with the crazy deadlines, and the fact that the word ‘sinking’ in a sentence rarely referred to anything emotional).

All our kiddie birthday cakes were home-baked. With intricate attention to detail. Wondrous fantasy creations that would make any little girl smile. If my mum had had boys, I’m pretty sure there’d have been some Lightening McQueen/SpongeBob-esque elements in there (you see back then things were comfortably gender skewed… more recently, little boys prefer Ariel to Batman and their mums are ok with it. That’s awesome isn’t it?! But I digress…)

When I look back at the pictures now, they’re far from perfect. The spot where the icing bag missed. The edge that’s ever so slightly wonky. The slight blotchiness on the colour. Nothing compared to the glamorous, sugar confections that kids today get. But who cared? To me, and the rest of my kin I now see, cake = love. And so it appears to be to a lot of the world from the sounds of it!

Now as Christmas looms, with me feeling under the weather; a baby that’s just had her shots and is doing the crankies and of course a guest list (that that includes half the free world) to feed in exactly 48 hours… I tell myself: at least there’s cake! And I smile.

Merry Christmas people. We put extra b**ze in our cake J. I need it!

Call me mainstream…

…But I like Bobby Flay! Yes, yes I know the purists cringe and I’ve frequently heard offers to trade him in for a Nigella Lawson or an Anjum Anand :D. And while the Nigellas, Nigels, Anjums and Chings are deliciously creative, bordering on demifoodgodness, Bobby does hold his own. I’m certainly not saying I prefer the one over the other. God, if I had to choose, hellz yea… it’d be the eloquent almost poetic, ‘watch me as I conjure impossibly amazing food out of…. well… nothing’ British chef brigade! Bobby Flay, though, does what he likes while giving his audience what they want. And that I respect! I guess what I’m saying is that all of these various chefs put together is what makes a fun food channel experience for me.

Now I hate a preachy blog as much as the next guy. But lets face it, the medium does have a certain ‘soapboxiness’ to it that’s hard to resist - so indulge me in the odd paragraph or ten along the way…

In my life, for the most part, I’ve had extreme doses of ‘lets be unique’. Unless you were wildly, almost self-indulgently ‘different’, nobody noticed you. Mainstream, therefore, has been something to shudder at. Uggghh, who wants to be the guy that doesn’t get it? Or shudder-shudder-cringe-shudder, the guy who’s stuff you get instantly without a Eureka moment? 

This was the way my life went. Achingly pretentious. But hey that was partly because that was the way of young advertising ‘peeps’ in the 90’s (lets skip right past the ‘old’ jokes, thank you very much). And partly because I’m just stupid!

Oh don’t get me wrong, I loved it at the time. Thrived on it. Wouldn’t have it any other way. But after a while it gets old. Like constantly walking in heels… Yes, they are a big part of who you are, but every now and then you need comfy flip flops.

A life that shuns mainstream? Not for me anymore.

Took me a while to get to that realization though. Years of wearing statement ‘ugly’ clothes (well not ugly ugly, I do have a fashion sense :P); never owning more than a couple (literally – one, two) of pairs of shoes and many other things just to make a point. And the only thing I achieved, especially more recently in a city like Dubai, was feeling bad about myself. Call me conformist and weak but I just feel better able to face the world, take it on and even make it buy my point of view when I’m on the other side of some sparkly make up J. And guess what, I’ve stopped apologizing for that. This extends so far beyond physical appearance to music, books, movies, the people I hang out with – everything! I now do what makes me happy, not what my warped little head tells me I ‘should’ be doing.

So here’s to Bobby Flay. Thanks to the likes of whom I can stand up and say… I’m RandomRambler, and I’m mainstream. Its kinda nice!

Dive in...

On land, I can veg in one spot for an obscenely long time; couch potato par excellence essentially. In the water though, I transform into a fast moving, curious, eager to learn creature that I barely recognize. I talk to fish, I somersault at frightening angles to avoid damaging coral and I’ve even almost touched something called Nudibranchs (it’s a sea slug, hence the almost) - don’t ask!

Let me start at the beginning… when someone who only swims under duress, and even then prefers to see if help is at hand by the way of raft/barstool (ideally attached to a fully stocked bar), says they're going to learn to dive, there's going to be sniggers. And so there were. I won't lie to you, I don't swim well. I could save myself when I have to and I am brilliant at chilling in the water, and there it ends. So, its unsurprising that I had several conversations with the dive school folk to cross check that being an excellent swimmer wasn't part of the deal. They said and I quote with some irritation, 'you just need to be able to move around in the water'. Pah…. even I can do THAT I said and off I went.

Skipping ahead I have to say this is one of the most fabulous things I’ve ever done. I love the water, which in itself is a bit odd considering I dislike cold and I hate fish. Being able to move around vast expanses of beautiful space, and weigh about a fraction of what I do normally (read: huuuuge benefit here) - what’s not to like??

But getting to that point was borderline comical; and taught me a valuable lesson. Always. Dive. In. Eyeliner.

My lessons began brilliantly (well skipping past the bit where I had to tell them what I weighed so they could hook me up with weights, and my dress size so I could 'suit up' -  so uncivilized I tell you. I vote fake labels so everyone can feel 'awesome'). And stayed that way till I had to do the 'clear mask' which those who dive know is where you have to let water into your mask (gasp) and clear it out to prepare for the eventuality in real life. This is when I was sent to 'special school' because, well, I didn't get the hang of it in a respectable amount of time. Now 'special school' is usually run by a student training to be a dive master; which is a good thing, because they're keen to impress as well and its in their interest to make sure you learn. So I eventually just barely learnt, but had to pass a test for the real teacher. Which I did. Only, with the entire class watching! Albeit with positive vibes plastered all over their faces... but watching nonetheless. Mortified is what I was!

Minor glitch overcome, I continued on with alarming competence. Until the end of the course, where I was casually told to A. stay in 12-foot water for 20 minutes and B. when I was done, swim 20 laps. What the hell?? I specifically asked if I needed to swim and you said no I said. But of course you have to swim they said, shaking head in barely concealed disgust; 'any stroke you like' was the only concession. Oh well, if it needs to be done, sooner rather than later I said (I use the word sooner loosely ;)). So off I went, choosing a backstroke. I got it done; but not in any kind of time I was proud of. Which would have been fine except the rest of the class couldn’t leave till I’d finished. So I emerged, embarrassed, to politely bored faces (and one anxious, semi proud face – my sig other). 

I suffered the indignity of being mediocre, of ill-fitting kit and loads more. But from that day on, waterproof make up went into my arsenal!