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.

MORTGAGE BROKERS + DANCING QUEENS

Went to this fashion event thing on Sunday night with Joanne, Lewis and Ayelen. Full of posers of course- bless their hearts- but fabulous music from DJ Jojo Flores. I don’t understand why on earth they put the DJ booth by the entrance, bathed in light. That’s not where the dancers want to be, i.e.) us three ladies. I mean, doesn’t EVERYONE know that dancers and dj’s go together like…daal and rice? Poor Jojo. We were boogying our asses off (me in 4-inch heels of course), and wanted so badly to give the man props for his superb music selection and mixing skills, but alas, the light was too much for us to handle. We remained in our dark corner, vibing out. At a party where people are there to see and be seen, you don’t really want to be the center of attention, when all you’re trying to do is have a good time. And forget the fact that these people are staring at you. We got many compliments and appreciation for the ‘vibes’ we brought but unfortunately, no one joined our dance crew.

So, I witnessed this couple. They were standing in front of the dj booth and the guy was trying to explain to his girlfriend/wife how amazing the music was. She was not at all paying attention- like, ‘yeah yeah honey, whatever you say’ as she glances around the room. She spots the fashion design team Dsquared (Dean and Dan Caten), and literally grabs her boyfriend/husbands arm, indicates that D&D are ahead and basically shoves him in front of her, so they could follow the duo out the door. I felt like I was watching a movie, it was that dramatic. And needy. Why do people care so much about other people they don’t even know? Just ‘cuz they’re famous? Well honey, they’re still strangers to me…

Happily, I got some much-needed male attention that night, which made me feel all superwoman the next morning. No- not because I actually had sex or made out or anything THAT exciting. It’s just the attention that did wonders (yeah so? I’m a lil deprived alright?). There was an after party for the event, next door, which ended up being way more fun. All the realtors and mortgage brokers let loose and got their groove on. One such mortgage broker was Monty. Monty is Indian. I mean, a Canadian of Indian heritage. Have no idea how he got the name ‘Monty’. He knows Joanne and Lewis, and did plenty of research on me before broaching conversation. He knew that I had recently moved back to Toronto from NYC, that I’m 33 and that I probably wouldn’t be talking to him if he wasn’t part of the ‘group’. I must say, though at first glance Monty may not be my ‘type’ (not sure what that means anymore), he impressed me with his straight forward, no-nonsense approach. It was like a breath of fresh air. He asked for my card, and didn’t expect me to be the one calling, which I truly appreciated. He was telling me how he’s really spiritual, ‘have you ever read The Power of Now?’ and that he’s deep. Ok, fine. Then we run into his friend Sara, who starts going on and on about how much she loves him and how spiritual he is. Go figure. Really? I’m not in a sitcom right now? That timing was just impeccable…

Okay, I’m sitting here trying to write about something that happened four days ago, and I gotta tell you- I’m not feeling the laughs. All I’m thinking about is how I need to make some NeoCitron, get in bed, cuddle up (with myself) and watch Milk (finally). Mutah is totally spazzing out, attacking my feet and napping on my desk, kind of all at once- if you can imagine that. Some funny shit happened today with The Parents...I’ve got to admit- the so-called ‘mundanities’ of life are often the funniest. And, party people? They suck. So here’s to mom schooling Denny on the intricacies of matching an outfit ‘you can’t wear a jacket with shorts Dennis, it just doesn’t look right’, and becoming an audition master (please, hold the applause…), the Baji being productive even through her flu/cold, and getting invited to my friend’s daughter’s surprise birthday party even though I have no kids.