The Perfect Remedy

Vancouver, September 2011

Uncle Salmon and the gang arrived today. It was perfect timing because my spirits were a bit down and as Auntie Crispy pointed out, I could use some of Baby Blue’s unconditional love and sticky fingers.

We met up at the train station and grabbed a snack before heading to the beach. Uncle Salmon bought us coffees, oatmeal, and a doughnut to share. Baby Blue’s big bright eyes watched me as I plopped my bottom in the chair across from him. Without moving his gaze from mine he asked, “Is that my cousin Emmy?”

It was a fair question. We had only met a few times in his three years on this earth. He did, after all, live on the other side of the country.

“This is your cousin, Emmy,” Auntie Crispy confirmed. “She’s very nice.”

“Do you remember staying at my house last summer?” I asked. I was only slightly miffed that Blue didn’t remember our wonderful week together eating cheerios and building a chicken coop in his high chair for his best friend, the plastic chicken. But such are the fickle memories of toddlers.

“I don’t know about that,” Baby Blue answered skeptically. He looked down to study his oatmeal.

“What about the chicken coop for your chicken?”

“Chicken?” His head snapped up. Clearly Chicken held a special place in his heart.

“Yeah, we had a lot of fun with Chicken. We even fed him Cheerios.”

“I like Cheerios. I have a Cheerios book that I can read to you in the car later. Ok, cousin Emmy?”

“Sounds good.”

Now that Blue and I were reacquainted, it was time to focus on our snacks. “Why don’t you eat some of your oatmeal, little man?” Uncle Salmon prompted.

Baby Blue eyed the oatmeal, then the doughnut sitting next to it. Suddenly his hand shot out, grabbed the sugary pastry and shoved it into his open mouth. His little fingers struggled to push the treat inside as if he were trying to stuff a sleeping bag into its case. It took him a solid three minutes to chew and swallow but his mission was accomplished: nobody wanted a piece of that doughnut anymore.

Uncle Salmon tried to reprimand Blue with a stern look but he couldn’t hold back his smile. Neither could I, nor Auntie Crispy. We all chuckled and Blue, recognizing that he had done something funny, puffed up with pride.

“I’m Blue,” he announced, spitting apple glaze. “And I’m full of questions and full of jokes!”

Later, at the beach, I told Uncle Salmon and Auntie Crispy about my failing love life and my equally successful work life.

“I don’t know if I’m dancing poorly because I’m sad about the breakup or if my injuries aren’t healing fast enough. Either way, it’s really frustrating. And the director has definitely noticed. I danced better in my audition for this job than any of the days I’ve actually worked here.”

“I went through something similar about twenty years ago. I was pretty heartbroken and stayed with your mum for a while. She really helped me get through.”

“Mummy’s great at that.”

“Now, I’m not saying it’ll take you twenty years to get over this.”

I laughed at the ridiculousness of the statement. “I sure hope not!”

“Oh Salm.” Auntie Crispy slapped his arm in jest. “Actually, it looks to me like you’re handling this pretty well.”

“Well, I’m busy and I have so many amazing new friends here. It’s hard to sit around moping when my life is this exciting.”

“Good attitude, Em.”

Just then Baby Blue decided he was tired of the sandbox. He had already dumped a bucket full of sand down his shorts, so his work there was done. We relocated closer to the water, where there were other duties to perform. Blue and I needed to feed rocks to the ocean and then Blue had to chase some seagulls. He picked up an enormous stick, which was at least twice his wingspan, and barreled down the beach into the heart of the flock. “Watch out, you seagulls!” he cried.

The birds scattered to the four winds.

Blue marched back to where I stood with his parents and announced, “I’m ready for lunch.”

We found a fish place by the water and washed up in the restrooms before finding a table. Baby Blue was getting crabby from low blood sugar so we had to order quickly.

“How’s the crab club sandwich?” I asked our server. He had very tall hair and a big lantern jaw.

“I highly recommend it,” he answered, standing a little too close to me.

“Okay, I’ll have that.”

“I’ll tee that up for you right away.” I could have sworn he winked at me before he left the table.

He returned two minutes later with a plate of carrots and dip for Baby Blue, who was sitting noisily beside me. The server rested his arm on the back of my chair as he squatted to place the veggies on Blue’s high chair table. “To keep him busy,” he whispered conspiratorially. Another wink.

Then he stood and addressed the table. “Do you mind if I ask what the relationship is between all of you? Are you family?”

“Yes,” Uncle Salmon answered. “This is our niece,” he indicated me, “and this is our hungry little monster,” he said with a nod towards Blue.

“That makes sense. You seem very close.” A third wink at me. Is the sun bothering him? Did Blue fling dip in his eye? What’s going on?

I tried to ignore the server’s strange antics for the rest of the meal because I didn’t have much time left with the gang. It was already well into the afternoon and they had to drive back to Bellingham, WA before supper.

Baby Blue’s lunch came with dessert. The lantern-jawed server brought out two scoops of vanilla ice cream and we descended on it like flies on manure.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“I’ll have a mint tea, please.” The ice cream was making me cold.

“I’ll tee that up for you.” Wink wink.

Is that a bad pun or just his catch phrase? He must have forgotten that he’d used it once before.

When he brought my tea, he lingered by my seat for a solid minute. Finally he spoke his mind. “Can I ask what your name is?”

“Emily.”

“Wow, ya, I thought it would be something like that. A friendly name to go with your sweet smile.”

Oh no, I thought. He is NOT hitting on me in front of my aunt and uncle and baby cousin. I looked at Uncle Salmon for help but it was Baby Blue who saved the day.

“I’m Blue and I’m full of questions and jokes!” Baby Blue shouted from his high chair.

We all laughed in relief, except for the server. He gave a tight smile and walked away, his voluminous hair bobbing with each step.

On the car ride back to waterfront station, Baby Blue read his Cheerios book to me.

“The purple fish asks the red fish for some of his Cheerios bubbles. ‘Of course, you can have some Purple Fish. You’ve been waiting so patiently and nicely.’ And Red Fish gave him half his Cheerios.”

Stunned by his sincerity, I grabbed Blue’s face and gave him a big fat kiss on his big fat cheek. Then I took out my iPhone to photograph the moment.

“Who’s that delicious boy?” I asked Baby Blue as I showed him the photo.

“Whoa, is that you and me, Emmy?”

“It sure is.”

List of #’s:

Hours spent with Uncle Salmon and co: 6

Weeks left until the dance company’s Thai premiere: 2

Weeks since the breakup: 1

Times I kissed, bit or squeezed Baby Blue’s face: you can’t quantify love

Months behind I am in my blog: 3. Oops.

Allies

We interrupt this programming to bring you… an update in real time:

I’m a few weeks behind in my blogging so in the world of Dance Diary, I am still rehearsing in Vancouver for the Thai premiere of Atonement. In present time, I am sitting in my parents’ kitchen in Toronto. Don’t worry; I won’t give away any spoilers about the dance tour. I simply wish to interject a meaningful moment from my stay in Toronto.

This past week, I took ballet class at Danceteq like I always do when I’m in Toronto. I often run into past teachers and old friends but this time, my blast from the past went a little deeper. On Thursday morning, I arrived to class forty minutes early in order to do my routine core training and warm up. In the middle of my sun salutations I looked up to see the pianist walk to his seat behind the piano. I recognized him immediately.

***

Throughout elementary school and high school, I trained at Interplay School of Dance. One of my most influential formative teachers was Glen Gilmour. He taught at The National Ballet School of Canada during the day and at Interplay in the evenings. My first few weeks with Mr. Gilmour were rough. He wasn’t overly impressed with me and, as an eager-to-please thirteen-year-old girl, this didn’t sit well.

After Christmas vacation, Miss Anne announced the solos for the end-of-year show:

I would perform the cornflower fairy variation from The Sleeping Beauty.

Mr. Gilmour would coach me.

Neither of us was particularly thrilled.

Each Tuesday night, after ballet class, Mr. Gilmour and I would spend an hour working on the variation while Scott, Mr. Gimour’s accompanist, played the piano for us. Mr. Gilmour showed me how to brush my imaginary gloves, trying to feel the velvet material on my skin. He perfected my lines and port de bras. He tried to get me to “dance” the variation; to perform; to project; to engage the audience that would fill the theatre. But in the latter, he was never satisfied with my efforts.

One evening, Miss Anne came to watch rehearsal. She seemed extremely pleased with my progress and said so to Mr. Gilmour at the end of the hour. I was packing up my things on the other side of the room but I still managed to hear their conversation.

“She looks wonderful,” Miss Anne said. “What do you think?”

“She doesn’t dance,” Mr. Gilmour answered. “There’s no spark, no sense of performance.”

“Don’t you worry about that. Put her on stage and she’ll come to life. She’ll blow your socks off.”

Scott played the cornflower fairy variation for me over and over again during the next few months. He smiled to me after each run while Mr. Gilmour continued to shake his head. At least I had one ally in the studio. Two, when Miss Anne came to observe.

Finally, it was show time. Miss Anne had rented a beautiful tutu for me from the National Ballet of Canada. The nametag inside said Chan Hon Goh. Every year, Miss Anne rented Chan Hon Goh’s tutu for me because we were the same size. The previous year I had worn her Bluebird costume.

A couple of the older girls helped with my bun and stage makeup and then laced me into my tutu. I tied my pointe shoe ribbons around my ankles and put a trembling hand on my stomach. My thoughts jumped from images of my parents sitting in the front row to the choreography I was about to perform. Just before I took my opening position on stage, I thought of Mr. Gilmour. Now it’s time to show him what I can do, I thought.

The music cued and my mind emptied all its thoughts like a steamer releasing pressurized vapour into the air.

At the end of the show I was swept up in hugs, kisses and flowers from my family.

“You were beautiful!” they exclaimed. I was so caught up in their congratulations that I left the theatre without seeing Mr. Gilmour.

Summer vacation began immediately after the end-of-year show and throughout those sunny months, I wondered whether or not I had pleased my rehearsal coach. When it was time to return in September, I was excited to settle my curiosity once and for all.

On the Tuesday after Labour Day, I arrived at the studio thirty minutes early. I waited in the entrance, jumping at every person who walked through the door. At last, Mr. Gilmour walked in.

“Hi Mr. Gilmour! Hi Scott!” I exclaimed. “How was your vacation?”

“Not bad,” Mr. Gilmour answered casually.

“Good to see you again, Emily,” Scott said with a smile.

I followed the two men into the studio and stood beside them expectantly. Neither one mentioned last year’s show. The minutes ticked by and the other students trickled in. At 6pm sharp Mr. Gilmour turned to the class and said, “Let’s get started, shall we?”

My whole body sagged in disappointment. Mr. Gilmour hadn’t liked my performance. In fact, he had completely forgotten it.

By the end of the class, I had resolved to being mediocre in Mr. Gilmour’s eyes. It was a hard pill to swallow. On my way out of the studio I thanked the teacher and pianist, as is the custom in dance etiquette, and walked out of the studio.

“Oh, Emily?” Mr. Gilmour called to me.

“Yes?” I asked as I walked back inside.

“I’d be willing to give you private lessons if you’re interested. Talk to your parents.”

My entire demeanor changed. I straighten my spine, pulled back my shoulders and exclaimed, “I will! For sure! Thanks, Mr. Gilmour!”

That was the only indication I ever had that Mr. Gilmour had seen something in me on stage. It was much more than I had hoped for. From then on, every Tuesday night, Mr. Gilmour gave me private lessons. It became my favourite class of the week.

***

Throughout the entire class at Danceteq, I could feel the pianist’s eyes on me. Twelve years had passed since I’d last seen him so he couldn’t remember from where he knew me.

After the reverence, I approached the piano with a big smile.

“Hi Scott! Do you remember me?”

“Yes, but give me a little help… the National Ballet School?”

“Well, yes, I did summers there but you know me from Interplay School of Dance.”

“Oh my…” Scott raised his hand to cover his mouth but I knew there was a smile underneath it. “Emily from Interplay. It’s good to see you dancing.”

“It’s good to see you! How are you?”

“Doing well, splitting my time between Toronto and Vancouver.” Scott dropped his hand and relaxed into the conversation. “And you? Did you become a doctor or a lawyer?”

“Actually, I’m dancing with a contemporary ballet company in Vancouver. I’m surprised I didn’t run into you there!”

That made Scott’s smile grow two inches wider.

“You’re really dancing? Oh wow. I wish Glen could have seen you like this.”

“I was so sorry to hear the news. I sent him an email a few years ago when I left university to dance professionally. It must have been sent to his junk mail or something.”

“He would have loved to see you like this. We talked about you all the time… Emily from Interplay.” Scott shook his head as he remembered the conversations. “We’d say, ‘she’s a dancer, not a lawyer or a doctor. That girl is a dancer.’”

“I wish I had seen him before he passed.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.”

“Have a direct line to him, do you?”

“We worked together for so many years… I’d say I do.”

Mr. Gilmour may not be here physically, but he’s a part of who I am. All of those hours in the studio, all of those Tuesday evenings instilled in me a strength and determination that would likely not be there otherwise. He became one of my greatest allies.

A Little Bit of Heaven

What if I claimed that I ride inside white chocolate to work everyday? Who would believe me?

Well, it’s true. White Chocolate is the name of Halo’s car. She named it such because the small white car may be old, but she always goes down (the highway) smoothly. Each morning Halo picks up me, Merl and Erl K, and Broadway at 7:35am to drive to Mission, where we are rehearsing for the next two weeks. Mission is aptly named; it takes at least an hour and a quarter to drive there from North Van and the traffic is totally unpredictable. So is White Chocolate. She often overheats and threatens to stall on the highway. Halo’s solution is to draw the heat away from the engine by blasting the heater inside the car. Team White Chocolate always arrives in Mission with hot faces, stinky feet, and sweaty armpits. Combine that with our daily belting of “Edge of Glory” by Lady Gaga and we barely need to warm up for ballet class!

Rehearsing in the university/high school theatre in Mission reminds us that we’re working on a real show. One that is premiering at Bangkok’s 13^th International Festival of Dance and Music, under the Royal Patronage of HRH Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn. Serious stuff.

At lunchtime, the company congregates in the high school cafeteria to eat and tell funny stories. This is how we get through the grueling hours and the 9-day workweeks (and my blue toenails which are growing darker and more painful from dancing in pointe shoes). One day, the girls told tales of public peeing. I recounted an anecdote from my high school years when we used to watch scary movies at Polly’s house. Me, B-Girl, Polly Pocket, and Doodle—I am tempted to nickname her Doody because she’s so proper when in comes to bathroom stuff but I know she’ll get mad—were best friends growing up. Polly is literally small enough to fit in your pocket so unfortunately, we could never share clothes. Until the night we watched Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The girls were watching the movie in the basement with three boys from class. Doodle leaned in to whisper something to me and when I opened my mouth to reply, an enormous belch escaped my lips. The likes of which I had never heard before or since. Doodle was so offended that I couldn’t help but burst into hysterics. The laughter overcame my kiegel muscles and too late, I realized that I had peed in my pants. Right there on Polly’s couch. Since there were boys in attendance, I tried to alert Polly discreetly. She nodded and went upstairs to fetch me a change of clothes. When Polly returned, she opened the basement door, threw her rain pants at me and said, “Put these on in case it happens again!” I was mortified.

Kam had an even funnier story in which a dancer peed in her costume in the middle of a show. The urine trailed behind her on stage as she ran into the wings. I’d take my rain pants over a urine covered stage any day.

After lunch we feel refreshed and ready to put in our last few hours of the day. Team White Chocolate is pretty quiet on the ride home, except when “Edge of Glory” replays at 6pm. We always sing along at full force. When Halo drops me off at the North Van plaza, my legs can barely carry me up the hill to Pixi’s house. That’s where I’m staying this month. Pixi’s parents have a spare room with an en suite bathroom that they often rent out. Pixi is one of the dancers in the company and she has her own place downtown. I love staying with her parents because they’re sweet and welcoming and it feels like home. Although I’m having a blast in Vancouver, I can’t help but miss my own home and family. That should be remedied when Uncle Salmon and co drive up to visit me this weekend. I can’t wait to see them! It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen Baby Blue.

List of #’s:

Hours clocked in White Chocolate: Let’s just say my sweet tooth is satisfied

Members in Team White Chocolate: 5

Days until Uncle Salmon, Auntie Crunchy, and Baby Blue visit: 2

Weeks behind I am in blogging: approx 4

Have a Chill

They say that Vancouver inhabitants are the chillest people in Canada. I can attest to the verity of that. It’s been 6 weeks since I took a taxi into Van from the YV airport and I have witnessed nothing but serious chill.

My cab driver was listening to the radio as he cruised me to Dotty’s downtown pad where I would be crashing for my first week. We heard traffic updates and then local news. “A cougar was spotted in Stanley Park earlier this evening so if you’re planning to take a stroll through the area, be on lookout,” announced the deep radio voice.

“What??” I shouted in panic.
“Huh?” asked the driver. “What’s wrong?”
Oh. Okay, cougars in the middle of the city is not a big deal in Vancouver. Apparently. I can be cool with this. If I’m going to fit in, I need to do what the natives do.
“Nothing. I just thought I forgot something on the plane. I’m not worried about the cougars.” Yeah right.

But The Chill didn’t stop there.

On Thursday, Dotty invited me to a sushi dinner at her friend and neighbour’s place. She was going to buy the ingredients while I was at rehearsal and we would meet at Walt’s apartment around 6pm. I didn’t realize that she had a key and neither Walt nor his boyfriend, Stan, would be home.

“Are you sure I can be here, cooking with their appliances, when they’re not even home?”
“Of course!” Dotty brushed off the question. “Don’t be silly.”
Me? Silly? Never.
We were midway through making sushi rice when Stan strode into the kitchen.
“I’m gonna have a shower and then I’ll be out to help. Or not. I don’t like sushi,” he informed Dotty and me. “Hey there,” he threw over his shoulder to me as he walked into the bathroom.
He couldn’t have been more chill to find a complete stranger stirring rice in his kitchen. It was no different when Walt came home.
“Oh, sushi! Yum! What can I do to help?” Walt asked when he saw me and Dotty. He introduced himself to me and then started preparing the crab.
“Have you been to that sushi place on Davie?” Walt asked me.
“Which one?”
“I think it’s called Tan Po Po.”
“Oooo… tan that popo,” I replied without thinking.
“Ha!” Walt laughed. Phewf. “You’re funny. I like you.” Then he looked at Dotty. “You were right; she is cool.”
And with that, I was no longer a stranger cooking sushi in his kitchen. What a relief!

So far, I was loving Vancouver. These are my people. Fun, laid-back, sushi-lovers. Dotty didn’t mind that I was sleeping on her bedroom floor, the taxi driver was totally unphased by wild cougars in the city, and the couple downstairs were happy to find me making sushi in their kitchen. I was home.

Rehearsals, however, were not chill. We had one week to remount a 30-minute piece called “Red Nocturnal”. By the second day, both of my big toenails were blue and I had lost a kilo of water. My hip injury wasn’t doing too well either.

Just before leaving Montreal, I found out that there was a hole in the cartilage of my hip. Apparently my femur had rubbed right through. But I’m in Vancouver so I can’t complain. Gotta be chill.

No one even freaked out about the naked yoga class that practised in the studio before our rehearsal. Skyclad yoga, it was called.

“What does that mean, skyclad?” I asked Kam one day after seeing the name on the schedule for the fifth morning in a row.
“Let’s just say that if you see a black curly hair on the studio floor, pick it up with a kleenex.”
I didn’t really understand until I entered the studio once the yoga class ended. The scent of sweaty male parts clung to the hairs in my nostrils. Heavy and thick. Ylech.

Ever since, I have been very careful which surfaces I touched.

Maybe I’m not yet as chill as the native Vans, but I’m on my way. Let’s wait to test it though. I would probably freak my pants if I saw a wild cougar in the park.

List of #’s:

Hours of rehearsal during first week: approx 40
Blue toenails: 2 and counting
New blisters: 4
Places to live after first week: 0. I can’t crash on Dotty’s floor forever.

Life Lessons (and more)

Life is busy. That’s just the way it is. But amidst the hubbub and whoop-di-doos of a fast-paced lifestyle, there are moments of true hilarity. And I plan to share the top-notch moments I’ve experienced this summer.

 

I am modelling this post after my Uncle Salmon’s email series, which chronicles the wit and wisdom of his toddler. A toddler who, in his own words, “is not a gorgeous creature. I’m a little boy.”

 

1. While scouting for furniture in an American shopping mall (to furnish my younger sister, Pecan’s, new apartment in Indiana), we passed a sweet shop. My Dad, eyeing his favourite American candy, said, “Maybe we should stop in here. I think I see an armchair in the shape of sugar babies.”
2. My parents were telling stories from their newlywed days and my Dad exclaimed that he still can’t believe that my Mum supported his decision to leave his accounting job in order to pursue law. “She had no sense,” he joked, shaking his head. And my Mum vehemently agreed: “I had no sense,” she nodded. “None at all,” she continued with a big grin on her face.
3. Standing in the customs line at Pearson airport, I heard a distraught mother ask her daughter, “Are you really going to throw up?” I turned around to see a blue-faced eight-year-old plugging her mouth with her hands and nodding vigorously. My first instinct was to run away from the potential threat and take all my currently vomit-free belongings with me. My second instinct was to look around for a raincoat or tarp of some kind that would protect me from an onslaught of puke. My third, more benevolent instinct was to find a plastic bag to give this little girl who was about to burst. I rummaged through my suitcase and found the only plastic bag I had packed with my pointe shoes inside. I always pack my ballet shoes in a plastic bag to contain the sweaty foot smell that delicately wafts out of my shoes. It wasn’t clear whether or not the stinky plastic bag would be an asset or if it would worsen this girl’s urge to vomit but I took a chance and removed my pointe shoes. “Here’s a bag, Sweetie,” I said. “Sorry if it smells like feet.” Two minutes later, she and her mother ran out of line and into the bathroom. I’m trying to convince myself that my gift had nothing to do with that.
4. My family was walking through the hallway in a hotel when my parents suddenly burst into song. They had changed the lyrics of some obscure tune and inserted Pecan’s name into the chorus. This is a common practise in the Fink family. Daddio got so wrapped up in the song that when the finale came, he forgot that he was singing about Pecan and he belted the original lyrics, “Robin Hood!” Then he noticed a group of teenagers walking ahead of us, clearly not paying attention to his musical stylings. Daddio leaned over to my Mum and whispered, “Should we charge them for the concert?”
5. I keep a very clean apartment yet somehow, I had an ant infestation. Luckily, I had kept my exterminator, Denny’s, number after the last infestation in 2008: spiders. My Mum and I both know our exterminators quite well. Hers is named Mohammed. She calls him up every few months with a new rodent or insect problem. “Hi Mohammed,” she’ll say over the phone.

“Hello, Mrs. Fink. How are you?” He replies cheerfully.

“Not so good, Mohammed,” Mummy answers before relaying the latest infestation news. My exterminator arrived on a Monday at 9am and cased the apartment. “Sand ants,” Denny determined. Then his cell rang and I encouraged him to answer it. From what I could tell, some woman had a bad smell coming from one of her walls. Denny asked a series of questions about the windows, where the sunlight hits and how the roof is set up and then he made his assessment. “Dead birds,” he announced. “They’re stuck in your walls. I can take ‘em out for $150 a bird.” That’s pretty steep, I thought. But who else is going to remove her rotting dead birds? Suddenly I was grateful I just had ants.

6. “Hey! Sharon!” shouted the drunk twenty-something guy ahead of us in line for late-night poutine. He was looking right at one of the girls in our group, but she had never seen him before in her life.

“Nope. Not me,” she replied.

“Oh, wuss your name th—*spitting*—then?”

“Marcy,” she lied.

He started wiggling his hips and shaking his hands as if they were on fire. “Come dance with me, Marcy!”

“Nah.”

“Okay, give me your number.”

She hesitated so he decided to give her a little encouragement: “I pooped my pants.”

That ended his courtship. Neither Marcy nor Sharon was impressed. I was impressed by his courage and the amount of alcohol he had consumed but my opinion couldn’t sway the object of his harassment.

7. My parents’ house is kept at freezing temperatures. So much so, that Pecan has changed our address to 515 Arctic Drive. It’s only cold in the summer though. From May to September you can find my Dad sitting in his chair in the den, wearing his favourite brown suede jacket. He calls it his outdoor fall jacket and his indoor summer jacket. The last time I was in Toronto, I asked my Mum if she could turn up the temperature before I got frostbite. She was so reluctant that I became suspicious. “Are you storing bulk meat products in my closet? Why is the temperature set to ice box?”

“Alright, alright,” she complied. “I’ll turn it up.” I still went searching for meat products and frozen goods behind my shoe rack.

 

Le Gastro

It’s funny how much influence the mind has over the body. For example, I’ve been so focused on finishing university exams, organizing a workshop with the other dancers in Breez’s company, completing a first draft manuscript of my book, and training in preparation for Breez’s new dance project that I didn’t even notice that I’ve had a stomach bug for the past 7 days. (Commonly known as le gastro in this region of Canada).

It started Friday afternoon when I had some bodywork done by my go-to massothérapeute/osteopath, Gaston. Later that night le gastro began. I had assumed that Gaston’s healing hands had somehow initiated an internal cleanse in my body so I wasn’t worried. However, at work the next day and the following Monday, I felt nauseous and dizzy for no apparent reason. Weird, right?

But I brushed it off as lack of sleeping due to stress.

On Tuesday, the strange symptoms continued. In ballet class, I took my place in the centre and looked in the mirror. My lips were purple. Odd. I didn’t remember putting on lipstick that morning and besides, I would never wear purple. Had I eaten too many blackberries in my breakfast yogurt? Had the dye from my purple leather gloves rubbed off on my lips? It didn’t make sense.

The next day I called Mummygirl to tell her what was going on.

“Get to the doctor!” she said.

“No, I’m not sick.”

“Nincompoop, you probably have a stomach flu!”

Hmmm… stomach flu, I thought. That would explain quite a bit. But how had I not realized? Verr strange.

And then it hit me: I had been too focused on other things to notice what was happening in my body.

Ignoring the symptoms of le gastro is not exactly a good thing, but wielding the power of my mind over my body is a useful trick.

As you all know, my audition for Les Grands did not go well. I had been prepared and driven but I still got cut. Since then I’ve done two more auditions, both with positive results.

The first was a 5-day audition/workshop for an afro-contemporary dance company in Montreal. The choreographer had said that she was only hiring men but she allowed me to do the audition anyway. At the end of the week, the choreographer emailed me saying that although she cannot afford to hire any more women right now, she likes the way I dance and how I work in the studio and she would love to work with me. She promised to invite me to the studio as a guest every once in a while. Her email was so lovely that I saved it on my computer as a reminder that there are companies that value a dancer’s individuality, not her ability to fit a certain mold.

The second audition was for a performance tour to Thailand, Saskatchewan and British Columbia in Fall 2011. I had set up a private audition with the company director and I was Über nervous. Luckily, the afro-contemporary workshop the previous week helped take my mind off my nerves. There was one other girl auditioning for the tour and we both danced well that day. In the ten days that followed, I checked my email at least 5 times each day. I wanted this job so badly! I love the company, the director is super nice, and it would be an incredible experience. Unfortunately, based on my audition track record, which is 0.5/10 (the 0.5 is the afro-contemporary audition), I didn’t think my chances were very good.

Then, on the tenth day, I opened an email from the director that was addressed to me and the other girl from the audition:

“I want to hire both of you.”

No seven words have ever been so sweet.

I had been snuggling on the couch with Hunky when I read those words. It gave him quite a fright when I yelped, jump up and did my happy dance (lots of hip shaking and very uncoordinated arm-flailing). Then I tackled Hunky and squeezed him until my arms went numb. He guessed the news right away, which was a good thing because I couldn’t make coherent sentences just yet. Just excited noises that sounded like a flock of birds wrestling a kitten.

My failed audition streak was over. Finally!

Now I know the trick to being myself in an audition: take the pressure off by focusing on other things. Apparently, my ability in this field has become so strong that I can ignore an entire week of le gastro but hey, I can’t really complain.

List of #’s:

Days of le gastro: 7

Days I’ve been aware of le gastro: 1

Fluids depleted from my body: many litres

Auditions I’ve done: 11

Jobs received: 1.5

Days until we start Breez’s new project: 12

Weddings attending in May: 2: Hunky’s bro (Mac & Bi) and my B-Girl & Batman!

Results

Cut.

I ran into my friend Anso after the audition and she joked that after being sick for one week, I had decided to do my first ballet class as an audition. For Les Grands Ballets, no less! I hadn’t thought of it that way.

Today I realized: I am not en forme (as they say in French).

For that reason, I am staying home tomorrow to fully recover from being sick so I can move forward to the next thing.

Winston Churchill said, “Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.”

Well, I’m working on it.

Thanks for the support.

Mental Game

I bought my audition outfit today. It’s pink. So cliché, I know. But at this point, it’s all about the look.

Today I was hoping to do at least part of a ballet class to remind my muscles what they are supposed to do tomorrow. I’m scared because I haven’t done a lick of exercise since Monday. Unfortunately, there was a small incident in the shower this morning: I threw up. Throwing up always gives me the shakes and by the time I recovered, it was too late to go to ballet. I wasn’t really up for it anyway. But today was going to be the first time I put on my pointe shoes since getting sick. My body needs to feel comfortable balancing, turning and jumping in these awkward shoes so abstaining from wearing them during the week before an audition is not good. But I had no choice. So I’m wearing them right now as I type this blog. And I have been wearing them around the house all afternoon.

First impressions are important.

The first time I took M’s ballet class at DanceTeq in Toronto I didn’t have any of my dance stuff. I borrowed my brother JB’s basketball shorts and jersey and a pair of his dress socks and took the subway downtown. When M saw me in class he was clearly unimpressed. He probably thought I was a tomboy on a dare. By the time we got to ronds de jambe, I had changed his mind. “Holy sh*t,” he mumbled to himself as he walked past me at the barre.

Now I take his class every time I come to Toronto.

A similar thing happened in Montreal recently. One Tuesday evening I was walking home from McGill and decided to take a beginner ballet class to work on some basics. Again, I had no dance gear with me. So I borrowed a pair of shorts from the lost and found to wear with the T-shirt and socks I already had on. I warmed up quietly in the corner while the other students stared at my inappropriate dance gear. When the Russian teacher entered the studio she barely glanced at me. The music cued for the first exercise and she walked around the studio, observing. As she passed me I heard her say, “Oh mine got.”

“You’re not beginner,” she said to me.

“No I’m not.”

She quickly out-ed me and had me demonstrate all of the exercises for the rest of class.

In both of those cases I was able to prove my ability despite a bad first impression. In an audition, that is almost impossible. There are no second chances. When over 100 dancers show up for one or two spots in a company, the judges don’t have enough eyes for second chances. Once a dancer is dismissed as inadequate, she gets cut.

It seems silly to withhold the names of the companies I’m auditioning for this weekend. Saturday is for Les Grands Ballets Canadiens (aka Les Grands).

Sunday is for BJM Danse (aka Les Ballets Jazz).

Numerous dancers have said to me, “Do you know who you’d be perfect for? Les Ballets Jazz.” Last year I took a class from one of BJM’s legendary principle dancers and afterwards, she said those exact words to me. Even Breez (the choreographer I dance for) told me I should take class with BJM because they would really like me. The thing is, I’ve auditioned for Les Ballets Jazz twice and they clearly weren’t impressed. Maybe on Sunday I’ll change their minds.

Right now, my mental game is probably as important as looking like a ballerina. I’m working on it. Just a couple of hours ago, Hunky walked in on me giving myself a pep talk in the mirror. If other people think I’m strong enough for Les Grands, why shouldn’t I?

Last summer, when I performed in an arts festival with Breez’s company, the festival coordinator approached me after the show. “So what’s next for you?” she asked. “Les Grands?” She must have thought I was good enough to be in one of Canada’s top classical ballet companies. Following a previous show, a former company director from the U.S. asked me the same question. If only he and the festival coordinator were sitting on tomorrow’s judge panel.

So what’s next for me?

I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

List of #’s:

Audition items bought today: 5. 2 leotards, 2 black tights, 1 soft ballet shoes

Hours spent sewing elastics on soft shoes and point shoes: 3

Times I’ve had to calm my racing heart while thinking about tomorrow: countless

Pep talks in mirror over past week: also countless.

Slow Down

“Here are your gloves miss,” he said as he shoved my red Vancouver Olympic games mittens in my face.

Startled out of my ipod trance, I looked up from my bus seat and stared at a tall man in his thirties wearing an Ontario Hydro worker’s uniform. He smiled at me, then ran off the bus and jumped back into his Ontario Hydro truck before the light turned back to green. I was still staring when the bus pulled past the truck. He was waving at me.

It took me a few seconds to piece together what must have happened.

After taking ballet class at DanceTeq in Toronto last Monday, I was in a hurry to get to my mum’s art class. B-Girl has asked me to paint her Ketubah (marriage license) so I wanted to try out some ideas. While I was running to catch my bus, my gloves must have fallen out of my jacket pocket. At that time, the Ontario Hydro worker must have been driving by to witness the scene. And quite a scene it was. I am aware that when I run desperately to catch a bus or to make it to yoga class before they lock the doors, I look like a nutcase. My arms flail as if I have no elbows, my oversized purse and miscellaneous bags fly all over the place, and my body is propelled so far forward that my legs can only try to keep me from falling on my reddened face. This, I’m sure, was the scene that the Hydro worker witnessed.

The Hydro worker must have pulled over, left his truck to retrieve my gloves from the middle of the road, and then driven alongside the bus until the next red light. We were four or five stops from where I dropped my gloves when the Hydro worker left his truck for the second time, entered the bus, handed me my gloves and returned to his truck.

I couldn’t believe it. It was such a nice gesture. It also made me realize that maybe I should slow down a little bit.

My resolution lasted approximately one day and then I was back to my fast-paced life.

Now my resolution is coming back to me. Since Thursday I’ve been feeling off but I still trained on Friday, Saturday and Monday.  Today I’m forced to rest.

Yesterday, when Drew wrapped up our session he asked what I was up to for the rest of the day.

I said, “Nothing. Aside from ballet, yoga and training with you, I’m just resting.”

“That not really nothing then,” Drew said. “Nothing is sleeping in and staying home all day. Your version of nothing is pretty active.”

Drew was right. Today I really am doing nothing. I woke up this morning so stuffed up that I conducted an entire symphony while blowing my nose. Then I tried to yawn but my glands had swollen my jaw shut. I could barely open my mouth wide enough to fit my toothbrush inside. And don’t even ask about my throat. Swallowing fluids is like drinking acid.

Before Hunky left this morning he heated up our pot of ginger tea, which is helping both of us recover. (Poor Hunky is sick too). My hunk recommended that I stay home from dance today and since he’s halfway to becoming a doctor, I took his advice. Then he kissed my face at least five times and went off to the hospital to give a presentation on Hepatitis B.

I’m hoping to see Dr. Gold, my family doc, today. If this can be cured with antibiotics, I’d like to start right away. I tend to avoid medication as much as possible but in this case, I’ll do anything to get better before Saturday.

Until I see Dr. Gold, I’ll stick to my homemade get-well kit:

Cold FX

Zinc lozenges

Vitamins

Chicken soup

Ginger tea concentrate

Orange juice

Sleep

I hope it works. I’m desperate.

List of #’s:

Days until audition: 4

Sessions completed with Drew: 9

Litres of ginger tea concentrate consumed: 3 between Hunky and me

Bowls of chicken from The Main consumed: 2 between Hunky and me

Hours left in the day during which I will do nothing but rest: more than 12. Argh!

Bad Behaviour

My body is misbehaving.

If it were a child, I would punish it by sending it to its room or forbidding it to go to senior prom. I might even plop it in the Misbehaviour Chair for a “time out.” The Misbehaviour Chair was a grand wingback velvet chair in my parents’ living room where my siblings and I sat when we did something naughty. When I was two years old I sat for two minutes; when I was five I sat for five. That was the rule.

We hated that wingback chaise in its carnation as the Misbehaviour Chair but when we had family get-togethers, Daddio sat in that grand orange velvet and my siblings and I fought over who got to cuddle in next to him.

I considered punishing my body with a “time out” of some sort but I believe that my body starting acting poorly because of a time out.

It happened on Thursday. Thursday was going to be my day off from training. In an act of maturity and responsibility, I decided that one day each week I would let my body rest while the other six days I pummeled it with ballet, yoga, running, and training with Drew. Since I knew I would be spending this weekend in New York City visiting my bro, JB, I nominated Thursday as my day of rest as opposed to my usual choice of Sunday. Saturday and Sunday I planned to take ballet at Steps on Broadway.

Thursday morning Hunky and I went out for breakfast and then headed off to school. I didn’t take a morning ballet class and I didn’t do my running circuit at 4:30pm when my McGill classes finished for the day. Instead, I packed my bags for New York and printed the ballet schedule at Steps on Broadway. I couldn’t come to NYC and not take professional ballet class!

But something happened Thursday evening. My body got the chills. Then it sneezed. Twice. It’s nothing, I assured myself. Nevertheless, I ate chicken soup for dinner and went to bed early.

Friday morning my throat was a little too dry so I drank an enormous glass of water (this glass is so big, it could be a hamster’s bathtub), downed a disgusting packet of Emergen-C vitamin C supplement and my daily multivitamin before trotting off to ballet followed by a session with Drew.

Unfortunately it was too late. The damage was done. Taking Thursday off was a mistake. My body must have thought that the hardcore training was over and it was time to get sick.

“Hey, mucus!” my nose called out. “Get in here! Fill ‘er up!”

“Where are those throat-burning cells?” asked my tonsils.

“Hit her with fatigue!” my brain commanded. “Her immune system has been compromised!”

“Woohoo!” they all yelled in unison.

It’s a conspiracy, really. My body knew what I was about to do and it was rebelling like a kid who won’t eat his peas. See, now that my audition is one week away I’m beginning to acclimate myself to the ballet uniform: leotard and tights. It’s not easy. I’ve been avoiding this outfit since I graduated ballet school. It is impossible to hide physical imperfections when wearing such tight clothing. So I started slowly. Last week I began wearing leotards to ballet class and even to my training sessions. Drew and I discovered a mutual dislike for the word leotard because it sounds very non-PC. This weekend I was planning to pair my non-PC leotard with tights instead of my usual shorts.

Why are tights more fear-inspiring than shorts, you ask? I haven’t a clue. If I had to guess I would say it’s because tights cover less bottom. Shorts cover the side bits while tights let it all show. At school, BM (ballet master, for those of you who have forgotten) used to say that looking at my behind was like taking a trip to Hamland where there was so much meat that it could smack you right in the face if you weren’t careful. So, with a bottom like that, one can understand why I’ve been avoiding tights. This weekend, however, I packed only tights—no shorts—to force myself to face my bottom. Clearly my body had other plans.

In a second act of maturity and responsibility, I rested this afternoon instead of going to Steps. Tomorrow morning I will work out with JB and then return to Montreal. This will be my last week of preparation before the audition. I will wear a leotard and tights everyday; I will take zinc lozenges, throat lozenges and vitamins; I will wear pointe shoes everyday (in ballet class not for grocery shopping, obviously); I will drink OJ and sleep eight to nine hours each night.

Mark my words: I will not get sick until this audition is over. Bring it on mucus, throat-burning cells and fatigue. I’m ready for you.