Slacking much?

Wow.  Do I ever feel like a blog slacker.  BUT it's been busy over here in lostsouthasian-land!  Big moments in life, like moving in with the parents to help them downsize, after a scary accident proved that it is indeed time for them to slow down.  Being a full-time step-mom to my 19 year old step-daughter. Which is incredible.  Started a youth pre-professional dance company, which I just barreled into with out a thought as to whether it would be successful or not.  A good thing, because that nagging negative voice inside my head?  GONE.  Yeah, she starts up every now and again, but I've somehow managed to deal with her quite effectively.  At least for now.  I've never felt so productive or so clear.  It's been hard work to get here, but man was it worth it.  Do the work on yourself people.  You won't regret it!

I've got a lot of things on my mind, regarding the state of the world and- more specifically- humanity.  What is really going on??  As I ponder my next blog (or vlog) post, I will leave you with this little dance + film exploration video I did a couple of weeks ago.  It's unlisted, so just click the link below!

Enjoy!
THING No. 1

Guess What??!

I know, it's been a while but...I got hitched!

To this awesome human. 

So yeah...brb!

Otherness? Um...yeah.

So this happened...

Thoughts on aging...

The Baji, Mom, and Me.  Aging gracefully, one day at a time.

On my Facebook feed, a friend of a friend posted about her fear and depression at the thought of turning 30.  It made me sad.  Sad that this should be a point of dread.  For one, 30 is far from old, and two, it only gets better after 30...right?  Then I realized, I'm part of the minority.  30 is the new 20?  Why can't 30 just be...30?  I know, I live in a society that worships youth.  But youth only takes up what, 10-20% of your entire life?  Pretty ridiculous, if you ask me.

Every where I look, women are worried about getting older.  Worried about their faces, their boobs, their stomachs, legs, butt.  Either drastic measures are taken, or the towel is duly thrown in.  The option of surrender, acceptance, and change, is not presented as an alternative to the overwhelming anxiety of your cellulite dimpled thighs.  I know.  I get it.  But if you keep worrying instead of adjusting, you will forever be unhappy with how you look and feel- which will age you even faster.

Sure, at 36, I can't eat like I used to.  I gain weight more readily.  Old injuries nag at me.  I am curvier, softer, I have some wiry greys.  My stomach can no longer do sugar or wheat.  I've had to adjust my diet, and I exercise every day.  These things have not been easy to remedy.  It's hard to break lifelong habits, especially those associated with pleasure...like cake.  But I've found a way to evolve WITH my body.  I researched recipes, started cooking and baking things I never have before...and they're delicious.  I see that this is the point where many of us lose the battle.  These changes make us feel sad or helpless- or both.  We mourn the past instead of embracing the present (and future).  You can't win against this beast.  You can only learn how to move with it.  Shift, morph, adapt. 

Because the cliché is true.  You ARE only young once.

So enjoy it and let it go man.  I will be 37 in less than 5 months, and I'm damn happy about it.  I actually can't wait to be forty.  Eighty looks particularly fun to me as well...Iris Apfel anyone?  And yeah, I know, a lot more change is gonna happen as the years float by.  I accept that it's not going to be easy, but I'm committed to paying attention.  To listening.  To evolving.  After all, what choice do we have?  Aging is inevitable.  Are you gonna spend your life worrying about something you can't avoid?  Wisdom is not gained by avoiding the inevitable.  It's gained by facing it.

I am intent on becoming a very old, very wise woman.  Please, come join me.

Why so angry?

Oh dear.  Side-swiped by my very own hormones.

FYI: I am not a singer.

Supposed to be working on a script, but I felt like this instead...

Skinhead

My first video blog- sorry, 'vlog'- illustrating my latent judgmental leanings.  Eeek.  Feel free to judge me right back.

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.

BAD BACON + MUSICAL THEATRE

Where do I start? Ok. So earlier this week I made myself an egg scramble that consisted of bacon, onions, peppers and tomatoes. When I went to get the bacon, I noticed two options. One was a brand new, unopened package and the other was a suspicious looking sandwich bag filled with bacon that had become the color of pavement. Yeah. Definitely going for the new one. Ended up with pure deliciousness (and a hint of bacon-eater guilt). Fast forward to the next morning. I come up from the cave and encounter Denny chomping away on his very own egg scramble, with the requisite bacon, of course. I tell him that I opened the new package cuz I thought the other one looked a little…fugaze. He tells me that he used it and it tastes fine. I find this hard to believe and looked at him perplexed, so he continues to inform me that it didn’t smell bad either. Still hard to believe, but I shrugged and went with it- was off to my first shift at the fab job and had to be out.

Approximately 6 hours later I exit the theatre, and check my voicemail. I have a message from Maria. Apparently a certain person was not feeling so well and thought he might be having a heart attack. What??! No, no. He’s fine. Ends up it was…food poisoning. That’s right. The bacon was indeed bad, and Denny ate it all up. In my mind, this was a clear continuation of the stinky bun incident (see blog post 09/11/09). I came home and asked what happened. He was nauseous and sweaty and dizzy with severe stomach cramping. Luckily he didn’t puke or have diarrhea. But then, as he’s giving me the play by play, he says “…I mean, when I took the bacon out it didn’t smell or anything…it was just really slimy…” Uh huh. Slimy. That’s pretty much a sure sign that meat is no good, wouldn’t you say? Ah Denny, I admire your old-school extreme version of ‘no food should go to waste’. It is strangely endearing.

So after working 4 shifts at the theatre, my subconscious is sufficiently loaded with songs from The Fiddler on the Roof. I’ve woken up the past few mornings singing various numbers in my head. Today was no different. After partying hardy with Lympy last night, ‘Matchmaker’ stirred me from sleep this morning. Anyone know it? It goes “matchmaker, matchmaker make me a match/ find me a find/ catch me a catch…” Ironic and annoying since I’m quite resolutely single right now. Anyhow, I try my best to engage Lympy in my horrible rendition but she’s just not familiar. Damnit. I’m in serious need of a singing buddy. Which is odd, cuz I’ve never been ‘into’ musical theatre before. Obviously this job is going to change things.

I get to Maria’s tonight for Denny’s birthday dinner and I tell her about my morning song bursts. And, Lo and Behold my amazing sister starts singing ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ (from Fiddler). Are you f’n kidding me? I start with ‘Matchmaker’ and she duly chimes in. I’m ecstatic. And in shock. What the…? Who the…? How you can be someone’s sister for 20 years and NOT know they love musicals, is beyond me. I’m also slightly ashamed. I mean, how did I miss that? We get into a lengthy convo about a variety of shows as I become more amazed by the moment at her wealth of knowledge. Later, as we’re decorating the tree, we sing along to ‘All that Jazz’ as it plays in the background.

Complete with jazz hands and low leg kicks.

Awesome.

NEW JOB + PATENT LEATHER

Ok, I have an announcement. Drum roll please…ladies and gents it’s official- I am now a gainfully employed individual. Yep. I bit the bullet and got a ‘regular’ job. And lucky for me, it’s actually not so regular. You see, since I’m a performer and all, it’s very difficult to find a steady source of income that works with my not so steady- and often times spontaneous- schedule. But the perfect job presented itself to me last week. I am now an usher at the beautiful Canon Theatre. And when I say beautiful, I mean f’n stunning. If you’ve never been there, I highly suggest attending a show. It’s really breathtaking.

Anyhow, here’s the deal- each shift is only 5 hours long and I don’t have to work more than 4 a week (I can also do 2 in one day). So my very precious time is still very much my own. There will be no disturbance of my morning routine. I will still roll out of bed sometime between 7-9am, make my oatmeal shake while still half asleep and meander back to the cave to sip away and check my oh so important emails (and damned FB). I can do my vocal work and write my usual inanities, easing into my day. Still go to morning yoga classes and now that I won’t have cash flow issues, I can add a ballet class to the mix. Ahhh. Can you feel my relief? Thank God. It’s all working out folks.

I had my training on Friday, which also consisted of getting ‘fitted’ for my tuxedo. After going through all the necessary information, myself and the other 2 new hires, were taken down to ‘admin’ to pick out our sizes. Oh jebus, I say. All the tuxedos are huge. They are huge and definitely not made for women. My boss very randomly pulls out a shirt, jacket and pants for each of us. I say ‘randomly’ because the size on the tag does not necessarily reflect the actual size of any one item. Of course.

My cohorts fared a little better than I did on account of the fact that they are both bigger than me. They filled out the boxy, untailored tuxedos, making them appear almost sharp. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been playing dress-up in my father’s closet. The shoulders on the jacket are at least 4 inches bigger than my actual shoulders, and because they are stiff, they stick straight out, making my puny head look even more miniscule. I can pull the waist on the pants so far out that I feel like a weight loss ad. When I went to show my boss I thought he would find me hilarious, but he actually thought the jacket looked fine. Huh? He DID agree about the pants however, so they will be fixed for me. Whew. Can’t wait to get my bow tie!

So the next step in operation new job was getting some black flats that I could wear with my fantastic tux. Since I’m still on a tight budget until I start getting paid, I knew I couldn’t go to my usual shoe haunts. I decided to hit up the Aldo Outlet on Yonge, and boy was that a good idea. Not only do they have lovely Aldo shoes for sale prices, but on that particular day they were adding an extra 50% off!! Whaaaat?? See what I mean? It’s all working out folks.

Pretty soon after entering the store I found exactly what I needed. Black patent leather flats, super shiny and after discounts, only $17! Throw some insoles in there to make ‘em a lil more comfy, and I’m good. But you know I couldn’t just stop there right? I start to peruse the bag section. Found an awesome gray patent leather sac for under $30 and I thought ‘it’s so cheap, I must have it!’ And then my conscious started to kick in. The other me was like ‘just because it’s cheap doesn’t mean you need it.’ Oh, ok I say. She’s right. I don’t NEED a gray patent leather bag. Harrumph.

Not so fast conscious lady. As I made my way to the register with work shoes in hand, conscious lady was thwarted. There staring lovingly at me were a pair of eggshell blue, patent heels with an excellent toe shape and gorgeous wooden heel (I know, more patent leather, I can’t help it). I asked Shavaun, the fabulous sales girl, to see if they had a new pair of 8’s. She disappears and I wait. And wait. Well, I think, if they don’t have them it’s just not meant to be. Golden rule of shopping. I wait some more and just as all hope was nearly lost, she comes up behind me with a grin and a brand new pair of bliss. $17 bee-el-eye-ess-ess.

Didn’t I tell you?
It’s all working out.

YOGA BEEF + BASIC RULES

So I’m sitting here totally procrastinating. Should be working on lyrics for 2 new songs. But um, yeah. Not really doing that as you can see. I have the chorus for both but verses? They’re in a state of flux at the moment. Came home after yoga this morning, and felt so sleepy. Don’t know what the heck. Is it the weather? It was definitely colder today than it’s been lately. I mean, I was sitting in my ‘singing’ chair warming up, and I actually couldn’t keep my eyes open. WTF people? Is anyone with me? You know I’ll feel so much better about myself if you too were sleepy today, so fess up. Seriously.

Ok, I have some yoga beef. And I’m not talking about something you eat, like veggie ‘beef’ or some shit. I’m talking about issues. First off I will say I absolutely adore my yoga teacher, so this has zero to do with her. No sir. My beef is with a certain man who was in attendance today. Never seen dude before. I came in late (really didn’t start the day off right) and set up my matt beside him. Immediately I noticed his vibes. Scattered, huffy-puffy and distracted with a hint of slime-ball. So I says to myself, I says “Ayesh, chill, no judgment” and continue about my business. Most of the time I was successful at tuning out his very loud presence, but on occasion I wasn’t so successfully Zen. I kept bringing myself back though…breathe, shoulders down the back, shins resist forward…ahhhhhh. I try not to notice him looking my way. After all, he doesn’t know much, so I’m helping him right? Yeah, he’s looking to me for guidance. No judgment. Right.

After class I was in convo with some friends, when he beelines over and interrupts the cipher by pointing at my abdomen (almost touching me), saying “you have a really nice tattoo on your belly.” It was abrupt and totally out of nowhere. And carried with it that familiar ‘violated’ feeling, as he glared at it. It’s my belly people. Not my arm or some extremity. I don’t know about you but, to me, the belly is an intimate area. And it was completely covered up. It wasn’t like I was flashing that shit for all to see. The only way my tattoo would’ve been revealed is if I was in some really deep sideways stretch. Facing him. Which was rare. And even then, it would only be a sliver of a glimpse. So dude was grilling me like that?? In f’n yoga class?? Ew. I feel totally gross now. I mean if I wanted that kind of attention I’d go to the damned gym.

He also noticed my necklace (my name in Arabic) and got all up into my personal space to point at it as well- again, almost touching. Even dropped the “I couldn’t read it” and leans in closer to ‘read’ my necklace because he knows Arabic (of course). His eyes were all over my body, not once did he look me in the eye. Ew I say, ew. I sharply turn away. I mean, didn’t his mama tell him it was rude to point? I know that’s old school, but the guy was def a considerable amount older than me, so he’s gotta know that rule. And what’s up with breaking the cipher?? Just bustin’ in like an f’n rhino. He just had this intrusive, ‘grabby’ thing going on, that made me want to smack him.

For those of you who know me well (which I believe are the ONLY people who read this blog), you know how bloody hard it is for me to remain calm in these types of situations. I kept reminding myself of where I was. Yoga studio. Incense in the air. I wasn’t ‘nice’ to him, that’s for sure. Not yogic at.all. But, luckily for him I’ve been home from BK for a year now, and my edges have softened considerably. He got off easy. Slimy Bastard.

Now, if there are any males out there reading this, I will not apologize for my bitching. I will just hope that you can somehow empathize. Trust me, I’ve actually been kind and not gotten into his unattractive physical attributes. Because I DO believe that it doesn’t matter. It is the attitude that matters. My frustration makes me want to say really mean things, but I’m trying to be evolved over here. I don’t know. Do guys go through the same shit? Different pile?

Hmm.

Well, I’ll leave you with my rules to live by when approaching someone you don’t know, but may want to know. I believe these apply to men and women.

1- Don’t invade someone’s personal space. And don’t point into it either.
2- Don’t break the cipher! Whether it be convo, dancing, rhyming or whatever. Just don’t do it.
3- Look people in the eye.
4- If you shake hands, for God’s sake make it firm! Floppy handshakes are gross…

Ok. I’m tired and I can’t think anymore.
Thank you for reading my rant, I feel much better now.

2 POOPS + 1 BUNNY

OMG. Yesterday was the best.day.ever. Woke up nice and early to get in a good vocal warm-up and work on my songs, before trekking downtown for my meeting with Rosi and Nick to discuss the possibility of making sweet music together (minds out of the gutter please, and thank you). I knew the day was heading in the right direction on account of the fact that I was wearing a fab outfit- which ALWAYS makes me feel like a million bucks- even though it probably only cost me $10. Another thing that makes me feel like a million bucks? Straightening my hair. Its soft and oh so flowy and makes me look like a different person. Unfortunately, my mother hates it.

Anyhow, made it downtown with straight hair still intact and plopped myself onto their couch. Let me just say that Rosi and Nick are one of my favorite couples of all time. They have managed to stay together for a freakishly long time (for people of my age) while maintaining their independence and humor. Don’t get me wrong, when I get all gushy, they let me know that it’s not always easy and it takes work, but damn! It’s inspiring to say the least. And gives me much needed hope. Just have to give them props over here.

Ok, ok, back to the music. Ahem. Me me me me me!!

After I sing my four complete songs for the dynamic duo, we start to discuss the next plan of action. First step? Get in the studio, make the music and record the tracks. Nick tells me he can ‘see everything, the video, the music…’ which makes me super happy. We discuss what kind of sound and vibes I want. We all agree. And I’m like- hold up a second, son. Is this really happening?? Are my wildest dreams ACTUALLY coming true? How did I get here? Not only are these people my friends- my fam- who I love and trust completely, but they want to help me. They believe in me. And they have the knowledge. Its amazing folks. Seriously, I woke up pinching myself.

But wait, the day only gets better! How, you may ask? Well for one, I pooped not once but twice yesterday!!!! Ew, you say? Man listen, you can ‘ew’ all you want, deep down inside you know how great that is. Don’t even try to lie. After the awesome ‘production meeting’ I headed to the AMC at Yonge/Dundas to catch a flick with V and J. F’n Ninja Assassin people. Alls I’m sayin’ is that shit was kick ass!! Literally. Had me wanting to do flying leaps with a sword in hand ready to chop unsuspecting strangers heads off. In the most loving way, of course.

And last but not least, I was walking home from the bus stop when, lo and behold, a little grey bunny jumped out from under a pine. Its ears were sticking straight up and it was sooooo cute (no, I didn’t want to chop its furry head off). I have NEVER seen a bunny out in the ‘wild’ and man was it surreal. And to top it all off, my hair remained pin straight ALL day.

God. If only every day could be this perfect.

80'S ROCK + FEAR CONQUERING

So I got an email from my fabulous agent last Friday asking how I feel about my singing voice. I am immediately giddy. What oh what is in store for me today? I scroll excitedly down the page and find a link for an audition breakdown. This is what I found:

“In 1987 on the Sunset strip, a small town girl met a big city rocker and in L.A.'s most famous rock club, they fell in love to the greatest songs of the 80's. It's Rock of Ages, an arena rock love story told through the mind-blowing, face-melting hits of JOURNEY, NIGHT RANGER, STYX, REO SPEEDWAGON, PAT BENATAR, TWISTED SISTER, POISON, ASIA, WHITESNAKE and many more.”

If The Baji is reading this she’s probably chuckling at the Twisted Sister reference since I was totally in love with them when I was like, eight years old. Which, needless to say, made her very concerned about my future. But I mean, ‘face-melting?’ Journey??? I knew right then and there I HAD to do it. Who cares if I don’t know how to read sheet music and I’m nowhere near the ‘belting’ range of singing? Fuck it. I’m game. Time to pick my tune. After eliminating Ms. Benatar and REO Speedwagon from my list (no way in hell my voice is getting that high right now), I decide on Asia – Heat of the Moment. It’s in my range, so I figure I’m good.

Today, I entered into a world unknown- the world of Musical Theatre. As soon as I step into the massive auditorium, I realize that these are not my people. There they are belting their heads off, doing that musical theatre face thing, complete with a full range of complimentary arm movements. It’s cool, seriously. I came here to make a stand. I came to conquer my fears and challenge myself. To be brave and courageous. Yes, it’s true. All of the above. What I didn’t bargain for was the self-inflicted ego bruising. When my group is called to the secondary waiting area, outside the audition room, I learn that we must sing acappella. I also learn that from outside, you can hear the people auditioning clear.as.day. Um yeah, hi. What exactly have I gotten myself into over here?

One by one these fabulously trained and talented singers do their thing. They all sound amazing. Perfect, clear, strong. I am overwhelmed by the urge to excuse myself. These people have worked hard and auditioned hard for these kinds of shows. And me? I’m just here for the challenge, end of story. I had no illusions about this day- I knew I didn’t have a chance in hell of ‘getting’ a part. I thought it would be fun. I’m facing my fears and moving forward! But I start to feel like I’m being disrespectful in a way. Like I’m cheapening this process somehow. Ugh. Here goes my inner dialogue. Why must I always fight with myself? In the end I decide to announce to the girl beside me that I’ve never done this before. Y’know, just thought it would be a good experience. She tells me my song choice is different and therefore ‘refreshing’, and that I should just go in there and ‘sell it!’ Her enthusiastic response made me feel less like a loser and helped my proverbial ‘balls’ to re-inflate.

I guess I was into announcing, ‘cuz I walked into the audition room and announced “and now for something completely different”. Yes, I did. Thankfully, the woman chuckled and said she loves different. I think to myself, ‘Lady, you have no idea.’ I proceed to do my best 80’s rock performance, after which she smiles and takes a moment to peruse my resume. As expected, she inquires about my extensive dance background. ‘So you’re mainly a ballet dancer?’ I laugh inside and then give her the rundown. She asks me to sing again. I oblige. While I’m singing I notice that she’s staring at my throat. Like, the INSIDE of my throat. What is she looking for? My freakin’ breakfast?? I felt violated. Ok, maybe that’s a tad dramatic, but it was strange and slightly disturbing. I guess she was trying to determine my vocal ability through some kind of tracheal examination?

Anyhow, I finish and guess what she says?! “You can sing”. That’s right, folks. Ayesha.Can.Sing. Of course, she followed that with a ‘BUT’ which was followed by ‘we need belter’s for this show’ followed by yet another ‘BUT’ and then, ‘I’m going to give you a purple ticket to sing for the casting director anyway because you’re a dancer who CAN SING.’ Now, this may not seem like a big deal to you, but to me, it was more than I could ever ask for. Yeah, I can’t belt out a show tune, no surprises there. But I never thought I would hear the words ‘you can sing’. Doesn’t matter that I chose to leave instead of waiting another hour to proceed to the next step, or that I have zero interest in auditioning as a dancer (c’mon, at this point, I’d probably break something). Nope. I got what I needed. Validation.

It’s ok.
You can cry now.

PONDERINGS + RAMBLINGS

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. Looking for a pair of high-waisted, faux denim leggings. American Apparel has them (of course) but way over priced as usual. Feeling a mixture of things today. It’s a pretty wide range, from pissed off all the way to elation. Yeah, that’s me. Wondering if I tire people out? Wondering about love, what is it really? What makes it work? I believe in the ‘thing’ that makes someone pop for you. But, is that dumb? Should we settle for what might make ‘sense’ (whatever that means) over the magic? I still say hell no. What’s life without a little magic? Even if I have to wait and wait and wait for it, I think I will. I just hope the magic will be mutual. I wonder about that too. Can the magic be one-sided? I feel like that’s impossible for any sane person. I mean, how can one person feel vibes and the other person no? Seriously, unless you’re the stalker, crazy obsessive type, how can that happen? I know that in my personal history, I’ve never felt something about someone who didn’t feel the same way about me. It’s like electricity. It IS electricity. We’re all just a bunch of protons and electrons running amok on the planet. Magnetizing each other, being drawn together and pulled apart. It can’t be one way. Unless your wires are crossed.

Planned to do a mondo workout today, which hasn’t happened…yet. Did accomplish some sun salutations, but got distracted by script idea. Which is not a BAD thing, at least something got moving. Definitely need some squats, sit-ups and all kinds of leg/butt exercises. But here I sit, on my ass, that is slowly but surely deteriorating into flatland. Started taking silica daily in gel form. Sounds gross, I know, but it’s supposed to help with skin firmness and anything to do with hair, bones and nails. Results should show in about 6 months, I will keep you posted on my progress. In the meantime, I’m going to work on getting my exercise habit back. Because it really is a matter of habit. That’s why missing your workout is so bad, it starts to change the habit and before you know it, your ass has disappeared.

I have this vid from my show that I haven’t posted yet. I’m scared. Which I know means I should definitely post it. But, it’s me singing for the first time and damnit, that’s scary! I don’t think I sound ‘bad’ I just sound…new. Of course, I AM new at the singing thing but oh boy, is it vulnerable for me. Pondering, pondering. Asking the Magic 8 Ball.

Me: Should I post the video of me singing at my show?
8 Ball: My sources say No.

Well ok then. Thanks Magic 8 Ball!

DENNY WISDOM + SIRACHA

Today was a lovely day. Not because something major happened. The weather sucked, I froze my ass off but somehow I sit here now, with a big grin on my face. Woke up rather pleasantly around 9am and lingered under the covers for a few, as Mutah sat purring away on my legs. Aww. Then I shoved him in his carrier and carted him off to the vet. I felt bad ‘cuz he was in a strangely affectionate mood. But, it was time for his leukemia booster and, judging by his recent spazzy attacking of himself, I also deemed flea drops a necessity. As usual, he starts trying to ‘dig’ his way out of the cage, with a look of sheer determination that I’ve never seen on any domestic animal- not to mention very few humans. I wonder at him. Whatever Mutah does, he’s completely convinced of his success no matter the odds. Yes, I could learn a lot from him. But instead I tell him he’s crazy and toss him in the back seat. It was a quick appointment so we were back home in no time, with Mutah happily running all over the house and leaping from the furniture once again.

On the way back from the vet, Denny had been raving about this Chinese supermarket him and mom frequent. Apparently they have an ENTIRE wall of tea and a myriad of those jelly candy things with chunks of lychee in them. Yum! He was planning to go get some ‘sleepy’ tea so I decided to join him, ready for a Scarlem adventure. We enter the massive market and make a beeline to the tea aisle (thankfully Denny knows his way around this joint). Oh joy! Finally, some REAL jasmine tea- and not for 10 million dollars- 100 bags for $3! Woohoo! I pick those up, Denny gets his sleepy fix and we start to meander. Now here’s where it gets really exciting. We turn the aisle and come across the ‘sauce’ section. Hm, ok…soy sauce, oyster sauce…boom! Siracha!!!!! God, I love Siracha. And they had a massive bottle for only $2.50! Now, its not like you can’t get all this stuff in Toronto. You can, we have the best Chinatown ever. But its downtown folks, and I live in the boons, so this was like finding a gem in the forest. A really spicy gem. In a really flat forest. I passed on the jelly lychee candies though, even as their brightly colored packaging wooed my senses. I said ‘no!’ (you see, I’m getting good at thwarting my inner sugar addict).

We later stopped at the Bulk Barn (an all-time fave) where Denny started to wax poetic about how to communicate with women. I found his tactics awesome dare I say perfect? It had me wishing all my male friends and previous boyfriends were convened around a blazing bonfire listening to Denny drop pearls of man wisdom. Here are some important points:

1 Speak sweetly to her
2 Tell her she looks beautiful often
3 Compliment her outfit
4 Give her flowers (making your own freshly picked arrangement is a good idea)
5 Do stuff

Then it was time to bid my Denny adieu, as I braved the cold and wet to return some DVD’s at the Film Buff. I made the long trek, proudly sporting my Brooklyn College hoodie and doing away with my massive purse by utilizing the kangaroo pouch. I stuffed my wallet, phone and ipod in there and ended up looking like I had a massive FUPA. But I didn’t give a shit. It was one of those days where you just don’t care what you look like. Comfort was key. That’s how I know I’m getting old, and its getting cold. My fashion sense goes completely out the window. Say goodbye to the Ayesha you know and love, soon I will only be two blinking eyes staring out from a mound of coat and scarves.

After an hour and a half I reach my destination. I return the DVD’s and pay the $1.50 late charge, all the while telling my self I don’t need ice cream. If you don’t already know, you can get a massive ice cream cone at the Film Buff for $2- and its REALLY good ice cream. But it’s freezing out. I mean, my nose is running, my hands are cold and my shoulders have made their way up to my ear lobes. So Ayesh, you DON’T need ice cream. I turn toward the exit and start walking. And here’s where I lost. I made the mistake of glancing ever so slightly in the direction of the ice cream counter, and it was all over. They didn’t even have the flavor I wanted, but I still got the damn ice cream. What can I say? I will consider today a tie.

I get back home to a lovely dinner of barbecued eel, sticky rice, eggplant and bokchoy. How completely appropriate. Yes folks, it’s time to whip out the Siracha. To my surprise neither Denny or mom knew what it was. Whaaa? I say. You MUST drown your food in it mom. So as we sat around watching lions hunting zebras on Discovery HD, all you could hear was the sniffle of our collective runny noses. Denny gave up first. I got full and therefore had to stop eating. But, as I make my way down to the cave, I see mom attack the remaining sauce around her bowl with her fingers. Licking up every last bit of the spicy goodness.

Winner! Gagnon!
Grins all around.

GLOSSARY:
Scarlem- nickname for Scarborough, a suburb of Toronto (NYers may consider this a borough).
FUPA- Fat.Upper.Pubic.Area.
Winner! Gagnon!- this is what the lotto machine exclaims when someone wins. I find it completely hilarious.

RACCOON EYES + REFLECTIVE CONCEALER

Yesterday I got my acting thing on for the mini-series shoot, in Mississauga. Aboo dropped me off at 10am, complete with a Timmy’s coffee and old fashioned glazed donut, fulfilling the ‘Daddy’s little girl’ part of my brain (which I’m sure is covered in pink, frilly fabric with lollipops hanging from the ceiling). After changing into my wardrobe of scrubs and lab coat, I head over to hair/makeup. Got my hair done first. Total brown girl styles, with it half pulled back and a bit poufy around the head. Then it was time for makeup.

Uh oh. Spaghettios.

At first it all seemed to be going well. Foundation was a match. It was light, comfortable and non-greasy. Everything was blended well, and my skin tone was so even it looked like I’d just shaved. But just as I was thinking to myself, ‘wow, this chick is good,’- the shit hit the fan. The attack on my delicate raccoon eyes began in earnest. WARNING: not all makeup artists are created equal! Some navigate expertly around the mysterious dark eye, while others fall prey to its tricky personality. Unfortunately, this one proved to be of the latter variety, lovely though she was. The first thing she applied was some type of really light colored creamy stuff that I thought would serve as a reflective aid. But it just ended up looking all patchy. The next thing was a brown concealer that she put around the light stuff and then a powder concealer thing all over. As soon as the powder hit my bags, I knew I was in trouble. First of all, it brought the concealer count up to 3, and second of all: it’s POWDER. She went directly against the first two rules of the Ten Concealer Commandments (not yet published)- #1: don’t mix the mediums, and #2: don’t use more than two! By the time she was done, I basically had reverse dark circles. They were very, very white.

Now, I’m a professional ok. And I’m not even close to being the star of the show, so I don’t say one word. No complaints over here. I’m happy. Jovial. Crack some jokes. Y’know, do my thing. Get on set, do some takes- they’re touching me up in between. S’all good. When I finally get to a bathroom a couple of hours later, I look in the mirror and am possessed by the desire to attack my face with an ice scraper. It looked as though I had a mud mask on, just under my eyes. There was ample ‘cracking,’ kind of like when clay sits and dries out. I looked about 10 years older, with ‘wrinkles’ all over my eye area. You see, every time I smiled or made an expression with my eyes (which was quite often, being that I’m an actor and everything), the makeup would convene in the lines and sit there. Collecting there. So when my face was at rest there were lines where my laugh creases are, filled with a gooey yet crackly concoction of concealers. Ew. And the thing is, if the lighting is good (which it was) there’s no need for all that makeup.

So I came up with a product. Are you ready?? Two words: Reflective.Concealer. A light coverage cream that has reflective particles in it, that bounce light away from the dark area, making the raccoon eyes seem like they’ve disappeared. I’m telling you, anyone out there with dark eye issues, such as myself, would go crazy for this stuff. Seriously, I’m being serious right now. I need to make this happen! Can you imagine the millions to be made?! There are so many people out there who have this problem- like um, all the brownies of the world. Are you hearing the genius right now?? Ok, so please pass this on to any scientists you know. ‘Cuz, I know nothing about chemistry. Or being an inventor. But I promise whoever makes this happen, I’ll give you a lot of my money. I swear.

PEDICURES + OLD LADIES

Woke up to a waning cold this morning, thank God. Energy was up phlegm was down, so I dove into cleaning the cave. Bathroom, floors, carpet. Then the energy took a nosedive. I easily let myself off the hook, checked FB, ‘liked’ some things, and started my research on fetal monitoring. No, I’m not pregnant. I’m playing an OB resident on a mini-series and we shoot tomorrow. I have to attach a fetal monitor to the lead actress and deliver my 4 lines. I’m pretty happy about the whole thing- not just ‘cuz acting is fun- but it’s my first official speaking role! Official, because anything else I’ve done in film/TV where I’m speaking, I’ve written myself (which we all know doesn’t count). THEY have hired me so therefore I am now legit. For real. Bonafide. Yes, that’s me.

After some interweb surfing and BBM-ing with Pinky, who’s in NY right now, I start to feel a little guilty. I should really rehearse. So I do. But in the midst of my fabulous line readings, I glance down at my feet and notice the sorry state of my toes. Hmm. Looks like its time to give myself a pedicure. But wait! Why not go and get someone ELSE to give me a pedicure?? Yes and yes. I’ve got this acting thing down, its ok, I can take a break. Now, the whole time I lived in Brooklyn, pedicures were a part of my basic upkeep. I mean, I HATE my feet. Well, my toes specifically. They are long and the knuckles are so…knuckly? I chalk it up to years of doing pointe but, damn, you’d think by now they would’ve just gotten better. But no, some things are scarred for life (sniffle). Since coming back to TO I’ve been breaking my back doing my own pedicures- oh the horror!! So today I decide to ‘treat’ myself.

There’s a pedi/mani/wax spot at the plaza near moms, so off I go. On the way I see a piece of someone’s weave mushed into the sidewalk. Completely mushed. So much so that, at first glance, it looked more like a poop smear. And I think, ‘Ayesh, are you sure you’re not in BK?’ Then, as I’m walking through the plaza parking lot, I notice this awesome tan colored Mustang pulling into a spot. The best part is that the woman driving was so old she looked like she was folded in half. What a cool old chick. I hope I’m that cool when I’m old. Minus the folded in half part. Oh, and add the having a license part.

I excitedly enter the pedicure spot and inquire as to their prices. In BK you can get a decent pedi for approximately $12-15, so I figure Toronto? Around $20. You can imagine my shock when the lady tells me $29. That’s NOT including the tip folks. Are you out of your fucking mind??? $29 dollars???? HEEEELLL to the no is what I say. And that is the end of that my friends. I jet out of there in shock and awe. Looks like me and my toes have a date for some self-love tonight.

Instead of heading straight home, I make a wee stop at the grocery store. Not sure what I’m getting but I know I need something. Walking the aisles I successfully combat my immense sugar attraction. I do NOT pick up the freshly baked brownies, oatmeal chocolate chunk cookies or gooey apple Danishes. I walk right by them, saying ‘you are not the boss of me, you scrumptious little morsels of sweetness’. I can almost hear them crying. But my head is more concerned with dinner at this point, so my thoughts turn to savory options. I pick up some Louisiana hot sauce, a jar of pickled hot peppers, cream cheese (Philly, of course), a couple of tomatoes and a bag of frozen corn. At the checkout I overhear the cashier calling for help quietly into her phone. Apparently there is a woman in line who has been banned from the grocery store! Ohhhhh, exciting! I glance casually behind me and all I see are old ladies. Hmm, maybe not so exciting? I wonder at what one of these grandmas must have done. Just as I’m pondering whether to linger by the exit in case something juicy happens, a dashing, middle-aged Black man saunters past me. And boy did he smell goooood. I get so completely distracted in the reverie of his essence that I follow him out the door. As soon as the muggy air hits me I realize I’ve missed my chance. I will never find out what the old bat did! And the gentleman wasn’t that handsome, he just smelled good. Bah!

Yes, I’m still PMS-ing.

KD + PMS

Woke up this morning with a fat lip. And a fully developed cold. I was watching Annie Hall on my little portable DVD player, which was sitting on top of a pillow on my chest. I happened to breathe a little too deeply and it slid down towards my face. Due to the fact that my arms were securely tucked by my sides and under the covers, it toppled onto my lip. Et Voila! A fat lip. As for the cold, its been coming for a few days, and now its made a little home somewhere in my sinus cavity. So I’m over here, plegmy and watery-eyed and ravenously hungry. I want Kraft Dinner. And not the crap, powdery KD. I want that creamy one, with the gooey processed cheese in the metal-ish packet. Mmmmm….I would eat the whole box of it. Half with ketchup. And maybe some hot sauce. Unfortunately, to satisfy this monster craving would mean walking to the store. Which means getting dressed and going OUTSIDE. Geez. That just seems like waaaay too much work. Hey Scotty, I could really use a teleporter right about now.

I guess this laziness can be chalked up to the fact that I’m feeling under the weather. But it’s terribly frustrating. I mean, I hear myself. Hungry. Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Get up. Mhhmm, I hear you too. But the limbs just aren’t willing. So I guess I’ll just keep writing as my stomach eats itself, perhaps even swallowing me whole, leaving a greasy Ayesha-shaped mark on the ass of the chair. Which may not be an entirely BAD thing. Disappearing could be a welcome relief from all of this living crap. Don’t you ever get tired of doing this? Everyday. Maybe it would be nice to stop thinking, and just become one with the ether, huh?

Oh boy. Here we go.
PMS.

Yes, you heard me correctly. I just realized I’m about a week away from the ‘main event’ hence the complaints and procrastination. And for all you guys out there, just trust the words ok? I know you really have no way of comprehending this womanly affliction, and I would thank your lucky stars right now for your ignorance. After all, who in their right minds would want to be stripped of their childhood sometime between the ages of 9-14? Then spend the next 40-50 odd years as a slave to this cycle, where you really only get one week of freedom per month? And if you’re fortunate enough to become a mother, you get to push something like a 9-pound bowling ball through a whole no bigger than a quarter. But you know what the kicker is? When it’s all over and you think ‘finally, I am free!’, you’re left with the testosterone levels of a teenage boy. You grow a beard, lose your curves for new, bulgy ones (in all the wrong places) and basically look like an old chubby man. That’s just great. Thanks, God. Good lookin’ out.

I think its time to take that walk now.