How to Be a Professional Costume Designer

Ever wanted to make your very own Bollywood dance costume in the comfort of your own bed? OF COURSE YOU DID. That is the average North American's number one career goal. Here's how you do it. You're welcome.

Step 1: Far exceed your budget by getting a custom, tailor-made blouse that fulfills your visionary idea of what a TRUE Bollywood costume should look like.

Step 2: Realize that the expensive lace you had stitched on now restricts the elasticity of the fabric and therefore, does not allow the top to slip past your broad, manly shoulders. A.K.A. You dun messed up and now can't get the top on past your elbows.

Step 3: Eat fried chicken as a stress response and then forget to wash your hands like the unsanitary mofo that you are. This ensures you will get oil stains on absolutely everything you touch hereafter.

Step 4: Cut the professionally-applied lace border into way more pieces than necessary to free up movement of the fabric. The excessive destruction is because you did not bother to plan ahead or apply any proper reasoning. YOU ARE AN ARTIST, AFTER ALL. Common sense would curtail your creative freedom.

Step 5: Realize that cutting lace means that you now have enough frayed ends and embellishments falling off to start your own craft store.

Step 6: Try to stitch up the frayed ends with the wrong-coloured thread and realize it looks hella ugly.

Step 7: Revert to burning ("cauterizing") the frayed ends with a matchstick, but doing it carelessly enough that your costume catches on fire and you now have a burn mark on one side.

Step 8: Use gift-wrapping tape and slap it on that fabric like it is a Grade Two arts project to hold everything together.

And voila! You now have a professional dance top that you cannot wash, otherwise everything will fall apart. Also, to add extra flair as a finishing touch, make sure your cats are gnawing on the lace while you work so that there are bite marks and cat hair on everything that matters.

Fini.

(Okay, sarcasm over, as much as all of the above really did happen, the end product actually looks really good and I'm proud of my ghetto problem-solving abilities. Anyone who's an artist will know, things never work out as initially imagined, but that same imagination is what will get you through.

Fini for real.)

Three Years Later

Hello,

I have slunk out from under my moss-covered cave once more to write. I don't think anyone actually reads this blog, but this is mostly just my online diary, in any case.

(If you are reading this blog, welcome [back]. Yes, I'm still alive.)

I now live in Edmonton, where it is cold and dark 75% of the year. Hence, I am grumpy 75% of the year. But spring has sprung, so here I am to stretch these writing muscles after so much hibernation.

Speaking of hibernation, bears. Speaking of bears, they are furry. As am I. Segue into another story about waxing. *applause*

I am still as hairy as ever, so one would imagine that I am fertile, hormone-abundant, full of health and vitality, all other virtues of perfection, etc., etc..

Yet, when I went into my local salon to wax my winter layers away, please explain why I apologized thrice to my aesthetician for being so unkempt. So shaggy.

To be fair to myself, by societal standards, I was the embodiment of Planet of the Apes. I am gifted with thick, coarse, black hair that likes to stand strong and proud instead of lie flat (those non-submissive little bastards! - how dare they reflect my own personality?).

As much as I like to think I don't care how I look as a woman, I clearly still carry this subconscious shame that I grow hair. Which is ridiculous. It's like saying:
"Sorry I have eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair on my head," or,
"Sorry I have nails, they just won't stop growing!" or,
"Sorry my skin is tan in colour."

I have body hair because I am a female who has passed puberty (physically - mentally is another thing). It grows and I cannot help it. Neither should I have to stop this growth (laser treatments, anyone?), nor should I have to remove it (yet I do), nor should I feel bloody embarrassed about it (yet I do). Dafuq?

Pretty sure I've already discussed this on my blog, but this is my 2017 take on it. So suck it.

K bye.

Major Writer's Block

As I type this, my cat is staring straight into my soul from 20 feet away, with those piercing emerald eyes of his. He is probably wondering why I'm not giving him a treat and how he got stuck with such a low-life human.

Also, if there was a reality TV show on who could make the best three-course meal living in the wild, pretty sure my family would win. Our kitchen consists of approximately 2% of the tools a normal kitchen would have. Grater? Nope. Kettle? Nope. Potato masher? Of course not, Indians don't eat mashed potatoes (yay, stereotyping). That weird triangular, pointy grapefruit fork? Don't think so. Apparently, a dull knife and a cutting board dating back to the Cretaceous are the only requirements for proper meal-making. I'm serious, there needs to be a show on this madness. Food Network, do ya hear me?

In other things, dating rules are such utter garbage. What moron decided you shouldn't reply to a potential beau's message immediately because it makes you look desperate? REALLY? 'Cause for some people, responding as soon as possible would be considered the polite and responsible thing to do. If you're actually preoccupied in your passions and cannot reach a communication device, that's hot. If you deliberately set a mental timer to respond three days later while you play Candy Crush on your smartphone... well, do I have some words for you. Can we just be ourselves and honest?! Please.

No, the above is not implying that I am a bitter, jaded spinster; that's still fifty years down the road. But I see way too many people (including myself, I admit) confused and anxious about how to leave the best impression on a romantic interest. Even if you do succeed with your hard-to-get act, the other person then does not know the natural, spontaneous you, which I think is the saddest part of all.

Anyway, that is all. I had no idea what to write when I started this post, so here is a glimpse of what spins around in my brain cavity.

Until next time, my homie Gs.

Dear 24-Year-Old Samaa,

Hello, 'tis I, from the past. I am here to put things in perspective for you with my teenage, know-it-all attitude. Listen to my words of carefree advice:

1. I don't know what this "#YOLO" business is, but I hear it's all the rage in the future. It sounds hella annoying, but use it as a philosophy, not to ignore responsibility, per se, but to grab each moment by the horns and realize that once it's gone, you will never get it back. I would know, I'm from the past.
2. Speaking of which, don't let anything from your past keep you from your future. I had to build a damn time machine just to talk to you, but once I get back to 2006, I will really be nothing more than a figment of your imagination, which you future people call "memories." A memory does not have the power to harm you today and it certainly cannot predict what's going to happen to you tomorrow or the next day. So learn to let go.
3. I have yet to experience a romantic relationship of any kind, so I really do believe in all my wide-eyed naivety that a fairytale romance is possible. You should believe the same even though you have experienced heartbreak. I can see you are scared of getting hurt again, but take it from me, it's a lot more exciting when you love each guy like he's the first and will be the last.
4. I have severe self-esteem issues, but you, my friend, are lovely. Don't underestimate yourself. I'm glad you are what I grow into :).
5. I drive my parents crazy, but I also give them plenty of hugs, so cut me some slack. I also openly express my love for them to the point of being a nuisance. Please continue this tradition.
6. I'm too young to worry about the future! And so are you, for that matter. In fact, the age at which you should start worrying is: never. You can definitely dream of a better future, but worrying is totally futile, if you ask me. I have more important things to focus on - like this boring calculus homework, kill me!!
7. I don't brush my hair because I would rather have the extra ten minutes of sleep. I really don't care what people think of me, and as long as I am clean and don't smell, what does my HAIR have to do with how I am as a student, friend, daughter, etc.? (Yes, I do believe you just got owned by your past self.)

That is all. See you in eight years.

Love,
16-Year-Old Samaa

Dear 16-Year-Old Samaa,

Hello, 'tis I, from the future. I am here to save you many gallons of tears and subsequent dehydration. Listen to my words of wisdom:

1. If you think high school is hard, prepare to poo your pants when you get to university. Don't worry, you will make it through, but you'll wish for lightning to strike your institution and burn it down several times a year. Anyway, my point being, do your best right now and don't let stress eat away at you. There are bigger and better things out there, which you will get to in good time. Enjoy the ride.
2. That being said, quit thinking that you can get away with everything because you are intelligent. Please stop procrastinating, assuming you'll do well regardless. I am still suffering the consequences of your well-engrained habit.
   Also, I see how you treat your parents like you know more than them. Shame on you.
3. In fact, your parents will continue to make you feel stupid when you scoff at their advice, only to find out later that they were correct on every count. This will happen throughout your existence.
4. Popularity is hardly fulfilling. Be grateful that you have a few friends, but your bond with them runs strong and deep.
5. Eight years from now, you will still not know what the heck the future holds or what to do with your life, but just take it one day at a time.
6. You will never stop being a hopeless romantic, and your heart will get smashed multiple times because you are such a sucker for all that mushy crap. It's okay, all your failed romantic encounters will shape you into a fine human being, if I do say so myself. Stay strong and know the right man for you will treat you well. In the meantime, being single is pretty legit. Keep your standards high and be proud of your independence.
7. Lastly, please brush your hair. I know the extra sleep is tempting, but at least tie it up in a ponytail or something?!

That is all. See you in eight years.

Love,

Samaa

Confessions of an Indo-Canadian

I mentioned in one of earlier my posts that ethnicity doesn't - or rather, shouldn't - matter when first meeting people. Well, call me a big, fat hypocrite, because today I am going to tell you all about being a strange, mutant hybrid of two cultures and its influence on my sanity.

As background, I am genetically 100% organic Indian, my parents both born and raised in the overwhelming phenomenon that is the city of Mumbai. I am a first-generation Canadian, having come to this fine nation when I was five years old. For most of my childhood, I was totally fresh-off-the-boat (a fob, as we racist people like to say) and hardly integrated into Canadian culture. I surrounded myself with Bollywood everything, and I am so grateful to my country for being perfectly accepting and supportive of my unnecessarily Indian behaviours: I recall having a birthday party where I danced to several Hindi songs in front of all my Caucasian classmates and fourth-grade teacher. They politely clapped their hands and nodded their heads, but even my ten-year-old brain could tell that they didn't know what on God's green earth I was doing. Good times.

Anyway, as I grew older, I delved into local pop culture and was whitewashed (racism) into a happy medium of eastern and western influences.

I am lucky to have a good blend of friends from all over the demographic map, but sometimes I wonder who the heck I am supposed to marry. My parents are very lax on the subject; I'm pretty sure I could wed a bag of marbles and they'd be fine with it. Well, my dad likes to sing old, depressing Hindi songs at random, inappropriate times, so I'm sure he'd appreciate a son-in-law who could join in on his late-night karaoke sessions. My mom, on the other hand, thinks I should spread my wings and marry someone exotic, a.k.a. a pure, well-mannered Canadian. My perfect solution to such conundrums is to do absolutely nothing and leave it to divine intervention. I'm totally proactive like that.

Clearly, I have a "#blessed" life if my biggest problem is deciding which of many options is right for me (note: this does not imply I have a line-up of men waiting to be screened... I'm all alone, with no one here besiiiiiiiide meeeeee).

Alright, I think I successfully managed to humblebrag my way through this post (humblebrag: to sneakily discuss how perfect life is with the pretense of suffering from an identity crisis), muahahaha.

Sayonara, y'all.

Kitchen Tales

Hello,

Today I cooked a meal for my parents. It was my very first time puttering around the kitchen solely to feed my old folks. Usually, I am a giant freeloader and just wait for my mom to get hungry and cook for all of us in the process of satiating herself. Today, I decided to pull up my socks and take control of all things culinary.

It took me four hours to cook a three-course meal. In good news, it is a Saturday so I can afford to work at my leisure. Also in good news, I expended so much energy double-checking my cookbook at a rate of nine times per minute, that I worked up a hearty appetite by the time the food was ready.

My tummy is making strange, rumbling noises, though. The fish I had is probably merrily swimming its way through my GI tract. I have a feeling, both literal and figurative, that gas will be coming out of my orifices soon. (Yes, men, I am this sexy.)

*Awkward transition.*

Once upon a time, I was cutting green chillies for my mother and I, the fool that I am, decided that my itchy eye was worth rubbing halfway through chopping spicy peppers from hell. Well, as you can imagine, I thought I was going to go blind, and I actually dunked my eyeball in a glass of milk. Yes. I filled a glass with my dairy saviour and stuck my eye into it. It was the only way to save my cornea, I tell you. Maybe I absorbed some calcium in the process?

That is all for now. Hardly a Pulitzer-prize-winning post, but I am too busy digesting marine creatures to think of anything poignant to write.

Good evening to you.