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.

DROPPING BOMBS + PULLING G'S

Got up really late today. Was lying in bed fantasizing about love, with no one in particular, which definitely sucks. It pretty much always ends up in tears. Boo hoo, woe is me. Mom comes down to tell me that my father (aka Aboo) will be here in 15 min. She’s found a bunch of his old air force stuff, so he’s picking it up. I drag my pathetic bones out of bed, wash the tears from my cheeks, and slap on a smile.

Aboo arrives. He comes in with his usual nervous, socially inept air that hides the fact he is actually a supremely confident and strong-willed individual. It must be strange for him to enter into this house that used to be his. I wonder at Denny’s ability to accept my father into, what is now, HIS home. My Parents (to the third power) are quite a remarkable bunch of old folks. But, I digress. It is now around 12:45 in the pm and almost time for Aboo’s 1 o’clock meal. Eternally the air force pilot, he eats (and does most things) on a rigid schedule. I happen to be quite famished myself, what with all the morning internal moaning, so I decide to make us some grub.

Khakina. Never heard of it? Well, its one of the most delicious egg scrambles you’ll ever have. Onions, tomatoes, coriander, sautéed in butter and special ingredients (you will never know the secret!). Eggs are tossed in and voila! Very yummy breakfast. I get to cooking, as Aboo and Mom start talking about history. My father’s history, to be exact. It begins quite simply, with Aboo discussing how to use his helmet and oxygen tube thingy. Then, as is the case with Aboo, the discussion turns to facts- scientific facts. He starts to talk about G forces and this special suit he had to wear that inflates to combat the weight of this mysterious gravity force. I learn that when the human body is under 2 G forces, our weight doubles. That G forces also make your blood heavy and almost impossible for your heart to pump, which then causes a loss of consciousness. Ca-ray-zay.

At this point, I’m not really an active part of the conversation. I’m just cookin’ and listenin’. All I hear is ‘when you’re pulling G’s…and dropping bombs…’. Hmm. The fact that my father was in the air force is, of course, common knowledge. But something about hearing ‘dropping bombs’ come out of his mouth, is new to me. I have no connection to that time in his life. My siblings grew up on the air force base, hearing air raid sirens, being in bunkers. I grew up in suburban Toronto, with snow and ballet lessons. I mean, MY dad, who is now a cute 70 year old man, discussing his history of dropping bombs and pulling G’s, just sounds so…gangsta. So, Hip Hop. B.O.B. anyone? That’s right, you heard me. This is some real-ass shit people. So don’t mess with me, alright? My pops will bomb your ass.

PURPLE MUUMUU SWEATER + ICE CREAM (09/12/09)

Woke up to discover the neck ache has returned. Great. Have to be at work in a couple of hours, which is only going to make my neck hurt more. Okay, really? This is not the reality I would choose for myself. Ah well, I say, I’m a responsible adult and will do what is right. I will take a muscle relaxer. By the time I arrive at Dundas Station, I’m in serious need of an iced coffee. The muscle relaxer has kicked in, and my body feels great. But the mind? Not so much- hence the iced coffee. For some reason, I drink one and become immediately happy. Instant happiness is definitely a requirement for the crap job, so I get my icy beverage (even though I know it will only serve to dehydrate me, possibly causing a headache later in the day). At this point it’s a means of survival.

I arrive at the crap job to find out that they are not in need of my expert selling services- at least for today. Perfect. Wonderful. Miraculous. The associate manager (who I adore, by the way) informs me of this, and I can’t help the grin that escapes from my lips. She notices, and smiles, and I feel as if I’ve let the cat out of the bag. But its all good, I’m quitting anyway.

Now I get to spend this sunny Saturday with my sister Omita (aka The Baji) and my beautiful niece Aliyah. We lounge around for a few, and then decide to venture out to Roncesvalles (aka Roncy) to get ice cream at The Film Buff (they rent fab movies, AND sell $2 ice cream cones- go figure). But, man…am I hungry. It seems the euphoric effects of the iced coffee have worn off, and the belly them hungry. I am alone in my stomach grumblings, so Aliyah and The Baji get beverages instead. Over ‘lunch’ I find out that my niece was at Christie Pits until 1am last night (this morning? That always confuses me…), and she didn’t let her mother know- which is tres irresponsible. She is looking rather sheepish, and you can see the weight of guilt on her face. So, I let it slide. THEN I find out it was a 3-girl to 3-boy outing, and I give her the glare that only aunties can conjure. She gives me more sheepish, with a hint of angst. I ask some questions, mainly ‘who’ centered, and drill her a ‘lil about this new mystery friend ‘Astrid’.

ME: Who’s Astrid?
SHE: My friend.
ME: I’ve never heard you talk about her.
SHE: Well, she’s my friend! (the angst and frustration mounts)
ME: If she’s your friend, how come I’ve never heard her name before?

This exchange continues for a bit, and is followed by lots of tumbling over words. But, she tells me the deal. Fine, I say. Knowing the whole time I’m just busting her chops. Her mom was waaaay worse- but shh, don’t tell her I said that.

After the grub, The Baji suggests that we ‘wander’ up Roncy. Hmm, sounds dangerous. Financially dangerous. And it proves to be. Aliyah gets a coat, I put an awesome sweater on layaway (‘cuz I’m that kinda chick). Its somewhere between a muumuu, a blanket and a sweater, and I absolutely HAD to have it. Or at least guarantee that it would be mine at some point in the near future. Since I don’t have $160 to spend on a sweater/muumuu right now, I went the layaway route. I’m confident that its money well spent, because I KNOW I’ll still be wearing it when I’m 80- its just that cool. I mean, its purple folks. Purple.

CRAP JOB + STINKY BUNS

Let myself sleep in later than I had intended, this morning. Even though it meant forgoing my morning poop, I figured I needed the extra Z’s to prepare me for my 6th day at the crap job. No pun intended. I try to be positive about my retail position- try to look at it as a means to an end. But, that’s not really working out for me. The problem is that I don’t give a shit what people wear. I don’t care if they buy the damn jeans or not. If you don’t want ‘em, don’t get ‘em. No biggie. Of course, when you’re being told every couple of hours what your ‘SPH’ (sales per hour) is, and asked how you plan on improving it, you feel kinda stressed. And, quite honestly, this is NOT the kind of stress a 33-year-old woman needs to welcome into her daily life. No sir. Especially when the question being posed is by someone ten years my junior. Its funny, its not even my ego that has the problem- trust me, I’ve been checking in. I just don’t wanna do it. I can’t fake the enthusiasm much longer. I know it’s only been 6 shifts. So what I say. So fucking what? I quit.

After working five hours of what was supposed to be a nine-hour shift, I was sent home. Due to my crappy SPH no doubt. It was a welcome release, though I had to feign disappointment, as I learned from a co-worker that being sent home early was a BAD thing. So I played along, pretending that I was oh-so disappointed in myself, blah blah blah. And then I walked out the door with a spring in my step. Even better, I caught a ride home from the subway with my lovely mother and stepfather, Dennis (aka Denny).

Because you get worked like a horse at the crap job, I was barely walking when I got home- so famished was I (you don’t have to believe me, I don’t care). Denny fires up the barbecue and I vanish into the basement to satiate my Facebook craving. I see that Gabby is still living the fabulous life in Miami, dining on foie gras and lounging at the beach. Le Bambi is living it up in Gay Paris, and by the looks of her picture, is becoming quite the Parisienne (at least, what I IMAGINE a Parisienne to look like). Ah, the lives of others, what a welcome retreat. Then Mutah (my bastard cat) stuffs his face and throws it all up on the floor- complete with that weird ‘aahcaack’ sound cats make when vomiting. Ah, the life of Ayesha, what an unwelcome reality check.

I smell the burgers, so venture out in search of my meal. They look great, I can see some peppers sticking out of them with flecks of coriander. The buns are all ready. But wait, what is that green fuzzy stuff? Denny, these buns are moldy. I watch my Denny stuffing the burger into his face, my mother not far behind. They look at me like I’m crazy. Denny says ‘Yeah, they’re starting to go.’ Starting? Um, how about they’re already gone? Nope. The Parents aren’t buying it (as previously indicated- selling is not my forte). I can smell something funky, and it is definitely the buns. Green, fuzzy, stinky buns. Not going to eat them. I am viewed as somewhat ridiculous and ‘picky’ because of my bun refusal, which is actually slightly appalling. But, whatevs. I know I’m not ‘third world’ enough. Its cool. I’m secure in who I am. So be my guest- enjoy the stinky buns.