The Authentic Indian

After having a lovely day of yoga and shopping with Olympia (aka The Wife), I had to go to a fitting for a commercial I’m shooting on Monday. When I got the breakdown for the audition last week, I balked at the character descriptions. They asked for Indian men and woman who are AUTHENTIC (their emphasis, not mine). I wondered at this word ‘authentic’. Did they want me in a sari with a red bindi in the middle of my forehead?? Talking all chaat pahti at them? No, it seems I was to wear the standard ‘nice casual’ attire and there were no lines, therefore no use for an accent. Hmm. I decide on the half up, half down hairdo and wear a cute dress over skinny jeans with gold flats. Pseudo Indian. The Canadian-Indian look. Well, it obviously worked, ‘cuz I booked the damned thing.

Fast forward to today. The Wife drops me off and stays long enough to see that they’re dressing me in a Salwar Kameez (long ‘tunic’ shirt, with baggy pants underneath). I know she’s loving it while I, of course, am hating it. I abhor wearing traditional Indian clothing. I think I look terrible in it. And bottom line, it’s just not my steez. Besides, I’m like the least traditional Indian person you’ll ever meet. But, whatevs. I’m an actor, no biggie. I booked a gig, making my dough. All good. I’m being funny at first, making the stylists laugh with my self-effacing humor. I even teach them what each article of clothing is called, which they love. There’s another guy there, who I think must be playing my husband. I joke with him a bit as well. He’s Indian (duh!) and cute. A little on the short side for my height, but I figure we must be sitting down or something. But then I notice they’re dressing him in very trendy clothes. Ok. This is a bit of a disconnect. They switch things up and put me in a very adult, grey dress with a purple cardigan and silver heels. Fine, totally doable. I feel relieved.

Then they ask the director what he thinks- if he wants this, or more ‘sari-ish’. I say a silent prayer that he loves this outfit. Of course, he doesn’t. He looks me up and down, ending up on my eyes- un-makeup-ed and raccooned out- and says ‘Yeah, more sari.’ Ugh. Here we go. After settling on a traditional, matronly outfit for moi, this young, gorgeous Indian girl walks in. Ah.ha. She’s around 20 years old, pretty and fresh-faced. They start giving her all the cool shit. Fab jeans, beautiful tops, and fierce little shoes. I gaze at her. I’m in a sparkly mauve chiffon Salwar Kameez with bells on the edges and bright turquoise 2-inch pumps with super long pointed toes, that are definitely a throwback from1995. Oh. Gawd.

I’m starting to figure it out. My ‘husband’ walks in. He’s big, with a beard and is neither 'young', nor 'hip'. I know they will not be dressing him in the latest men’s fashions. They give him a generic suit and, get this, a fake turban! Yes folks. They wrap a piece of fabric around his head and call it a turban. I pray that no Sikhs see this commercial. We look at each other and laugh. He says, ‘I guess we’re the old folks.’ I laugh on the outside. And die on the inside. Me??? An ‘old folk’?? This can’t be happening. There must be some kind of mistake. Then the young, beautiful, fresh as a summer peach girl, comes over. She asks me if I’m playing her mother. Her mother??? People, I am 33. This girl is 22. Not more than an hour earlier, The Wife and I were being hit on by 19 year olds! 19 year olds!! Not that I would even look at a 19 year old, but still!! Ok, they were driving by and we both had massive sunglasses on…but stiiilll!!

I try to smile through the pain. I pep talk my ego. I mean really, I LIKE being my age. Truly. I like being a strong, grown woman. Fearless, secure and sexy! I would never want to go back in time. I try not to gaze at the 22 year olds’ glowing skin. It’s probably the thing I miss the most. That, and tight upper thigh skin. Sigh. I remind myself that age is inevitable. That no one’s skin glows forever. I know that one day, she will also get older. This gives me comfort. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not hating. She’s super cool and we’re having a great time together. I know our shoot will be a blast. I just needed to keep myself afloat, ok? Sheesh. My ‘husband’ is hilarious. Jokes all around. I feel ok now. I’ve gotten over the initial shock and am now resolved with my place in life. The outfit that production seems to favor is at least a current, stylish Salwar. It’s also really comfortable, something my mom would wear (which is a good thing).

Then they decide it’s not bright enough.

Oh, holy of holies. The wardrobe woman comes over to me with a bright-as-a-kitchen-curtain yellow, poly-cotton mix Salwar with cheap embroidery that is all puckered and uneven. It is the Indian equivalent of a sweatsuit you would wear to go grocery shopping. And not no Roots or Adidas joint. It’s straight Walmart. Ugly doesn’t even begin to describe it. It is like…my worst nightmare. It’s a total piece of crap. And, of course, production loves it!! I was experiencing reverse Cinderella syndrome.

I walk over to my ‘husband’ with a grimace on my face. It’s time to pose for the group shot. My fellow actors look at me with pity in their eyes. How did I become the pariah? I put my arm through my ‘husbands’ and lean my head on his shoulder, which is the perfect height. They snap the shot, after proclaiming ‘What a nice family!’ to which I rebut ‘Yes, me and my 22 year old daughter!’ It’s time to go.

I change back into my own clothes, and run into my ‘husband’ on the way out. He goes “Wow you look great!” with total shock in his voice and expression, followed by “That outfit they put you in really ages you.”

Um. Yeah.

Skype + The Foreign Spoon

I am addicted to Skype. There, I said it. I can spend my whole day talking to friends that don’t live here, that I haven’t seen in forever. I think I spent a total of 5 hours on there yesterday, talking to 3 different people. Laughing and catching up. And then, today, I spoke to Yanners. Who doesn’t live in another city or country. She lives downtown. Um, yeah. In fact, I just saw her last weekend. At first we were just messaging, and she told me she had a flu and that I should see what she looks like. So then, of course, we start with the video chat. She’s puffy-faced and wrapped in a blanket. Slept till noon, the whole nine. And she’s getting on a plane tomorrow. Yuck. I tell her that, although I open my eyes around 9am everyday, I don’t usually get out of bed till 11am, which then makes me incredibly annoyed with myself. I mean, I don’t go to sleep until about 3-4am, but still, rising at 11am is ridiculous! Yet I cannot seem to kick the habit. I have kicked so many enduring and life-altering habits as of late, but this one just keeps lingering on. Le sigh. In any case, I’m telling Yanners about my lazy butt, and she’s laughing. She tells me I should write about it. That I should revisit my blog. So here I am. And it is all thanks to Skype. Therefore, I refuse to feel as if Skype is sucking valuable production hours from my life. Obviously, it is on my side.

So, it’s been a while, I know. It seems that I lost my humor somewhere between reuniting with the ex-man in January, and breaking up with the ex-man a month and a half ago. But now that he is finally out of my life, I can return to my usual goofy, fascinated-by-the-inanities-of-life Ayesha. Yippeee!! I know, you are all extremely pleased. But, where, oh where to begin?? Let’s start with the Foreign Spoon shall we?

A couple of weeks ago, I ventured out of the cave to make myself a cup of tea. The kettle boils, I take the sugar out of the cupboard and the milk out of the fridge. When I open the drawer to get a spoon, I see something strange. There is a spoon in the drawer that I have never before laid eyes on. A spoon that looks nothing like anything my mother would ever own. A thin, flat-ish spoon with ‘decorative’ lines on the handle. Needless to say, I am completely taken aback. I mean, where on earth did this foreigner come from?? I stare at it, puzzled. Wondering at its existence, here in my mother’s cutlery drawer. How did it get there? Who is responsible? No one seems to know.

As the weeks have progressed, I expected this spoon to disappear as it had appeared- suddenly and mysteriously. But it hasn’t. It’s still sitting there. I refuse to use it. I don’t like it. At all. The look of it, the weight of it. I have expressed my concern to my family and friends, but no one seems to be bothered by the spoon except me. So, everyday, I see it in the drawer and I ponder it all over again. I am obsessed, it’s true. I have been known to be very particular about the utensils I use. I favor certain bowls, plates etc over others. I understand that this may seem ‘crazy’. That it reveals my latent discriminatory tendencies. Tendencies that all human beings possess. But really, I don’t discriminate against people. Or animals. Only kitchen items. So, whatevs. No biggie. Yes, the spoon needs to go, but for some reason I just can’t throw it out. I need to know its origins first. Then, and only then, will it get tossed.

Now I’m off to get ready for workie poo. And to research a writing workshop I can take to further along my play. Script. Whatever the hell it is.

Obviously, I need help.

WINTER BOOTS + WAXING

Some of you reading this may know that tomorrow is the Choreographer’s Ball, which I am hosting. My dress is ready to go, but my legs definitely are not. Due to the fact that it’s winter and I have no man, they are in serious need of a wax job. So this morning I took a little walk up to the plaza and got it taken care of. When I walked into the nail/wax place, I warned the lady that I was a hairy mess and that she should brace herself. After revealing my legs she said (with heavy Korean accent), “from the knees down you look like a man!” Yes, thanks I needed that. “At least it keeps me warm!” I retort. She doesn’t laugh.

The door was left wide open, as she began to de-hair me. Though this was a little disconcerting, I was in a strangely non-confrontational mood, so said nothing. Eventually a co-worker walked by, peeked in, and closed the door. Whew. When the fronts of my legs were complete, there was a knock at the door. A happy sounding exchange in Korean followed and then another woman, who had just arrived judging by the fact that she was still in her coat, entered my room. I smiled at her, thinking she would just be there for a moment. What I didn’t expect at all was that she would be followed by a little Korean boy of about 5 years old.

Um, yeah. As I sat there, half exposed, I was informed that this new woman would be completing the job. Uh huh. Ok, so why is this little boy standing by her side, staring at my- now hairless, thank God- legs? It got worse. The new lady decided she was going to wax my toes too, which was completely unnecessary. I was so distracted by the male-child addition to the room, that I didn’t notice her dabbing hot wax onto my toes. Then she tries (over and over again) to rip the non-existent hairs from my poor little digits, only to have the wax somehow meld with my skin, refusing to come off. My toes are now turning red, and the boy is transfixed. This whole time the two women are chatting away, but of course, I can’t understand a damn thing they’re saying.

You may be wondering why the hell I didn’t say anything. I plead waxing coma. I was experiencing this moment from the outside, as my mind kept trying to figure out what to say. I mean some part of me accepted that this is how some cultures are- that things of this nature are just not a big deal. And really, I wanted to be down. But deep inside, I knew I wasn’t. I looked over at the boy. He looked back at me shyly, and in that moment, I knew that he totally understood how awkward this situation was. I kept thinking that he was never going to forget this moment. That he would be traumatized by what his mother was putting him through. And I, inadvertently, was to become a part of his childhood mythology. A story he may tell to his future friends, girlfriends, or wife. Oh jebus.

After several appeals to the woman, she finally stopped messing with my toes. It was now time for me to turn over. I took a moment to see whether they were going to take the boy outside, but no one budged. They just looked at me, waiting for me to flip over, butt side up. This was clearly enough. From the front and sitting up, my sweater covered me, but from the back lying down? No, hell no. There was no way I was going to expose my butt, with its neon-green, pink-bowed undies, to the poor child. So FINALLY, I told them to take the boy out of the room. I observed with wonder at how shocked and thrown off they were by my request. Even after I told them why- not wanting to show the boy my woman butt- they still seemed confused. In any case, they did remove him, and I duly flipped over. Well, at least my legs will be looking fab tomorrow night.

I know this blog post is getting long, but I can’t leave today without mentioning my wonderful new winter boots. After weeks of freezing in my NY-worthy, but definitely not TO-worthy boots, I knew it was time to spend the dough and get a proper pair of winter joints. The thing is I really can’t marry myself to spending $150+ on a pair of Sorrel’s or Timberlands. I mean, if I’m going to drop that kind of cash on footwear, best believe Ima get me some fab, 4-inch, sparkly heels to strut around in. Or a pair of sharp kicks. I was complaining about my predicament to Nicholas Pickolas, and he told me that Canadian Tire has rubber, insulated hunting boots that are rated to –40 degrees, for $40!!! Get.out.of.town.

The excitement I felt making my way to the institution that is Canadian Tire was something I haven’t felt in a long while. I was actually shocked at my own excitement. But being warm is muy importante to me, so really I just couldn’t wait. I got there, followed the smell of rubber and found my prize. They were exactly what Nick had described. And ugly as sin, which didn’t bother me one bit- a clear indication that I’m getting old. After the purchase, I put them on immediately and walked unafraid through any pile of snow or slush. My feet were so warm that my whole body became warmer too. I even started to sweat.

Now, THAT is what I’m talking about.