I've decided that my 30th birthday present to myself is going to be a tattoo. To some, it seems like an odd choice because I waited until I'm 30 to do it - not in my early 20s when everyone else was getting them done (though, technically, I'm getting it two days before my birthday. That way, I can say that I did it back in my 'wild and crazy' 20s. Not like I was wild and crazy in my 20s, but it's a good thing to say, I think.)

I've just been feeling the urge to mark this occasion - to mark myself to commemorate all that I've been through in the past 30 years. The urge is very strong. I guess you can't help but look back on the past when you hit a milestone such as this.

I once went to a therapist during a stressful time in my life. She asked for my life story and I gave it to her. At the end, she looked at me with wide eyes and said, "You have how many degrees and you work where??"

Apparently, people who have lived through the kind of childhood and adolescence that I did don't usually make it to where I have in life. They end up with drug problems; they end up on the streets. They don't get university degrees and good jobs.

"You're the resilient child," she said. "They write textbooks about people like you."

Of course, you can't live through that kind of a life and end up entirely unscathed. All my scars are on the inside.

I remember when I was 14 and everything that happened in my childhood started sinking in. I suddenly had labels for all that had happened: sexual abuse, physical abuse, alcoholism, dysfunctional family. The pain at that was so intense that I didn't know what to do with it. I was this peppy overachiever on the outside but no one knew what was going on inside. I remember wanting to cut myself so that I could feel some pain on the outside to distract myself from the pain on the inside. I remember doing just that - scarring up my wrists just so that I could feel something and know that the pain was real.

But this marking - this 30-year-old urge to mark is different. I want something that I can look down on and say, "I made it. And I'm going to keep making it."

Labels: abuse, birthdays, childhood, tattoo, transition

Saviabella and C, the only ex-boyfriend she is still friends with, are at the bar where all the socialists hang out.

C: So, I was at a typing conference in the States last weekend...
Savia: Typing? Like [mimes typing on a keyboard]
C: [Gives Saviabella a weird look] Uh...no.
Savia: Oh - that's right!

They both start laughing uncontrollably. The waitress comes by and they can't stop laughing long enough to give their order. She gives them a strange look. Savia feels the need to explain.

Savia: You see, he said he was at a typing conference and I thought he meant typing, like on a computer. But then I thought, "Duh - he's a biologist" and then that's why we're laughing.

Waitress laughs politely, takes order and disappears.

Savia: I probably didn't need to tell her that. Anyway, that would be really funny if you were at an actual typing conference - by accident or something. Everyone else would be comparing their typing skills like "Hey, I can type 50 words a minute." and "Oh yeah? Well, I can type 70 words a minute." And you'd be like "I play with Ebola all day."
C: How many times do I have to tell you - I don't play with Ebola!
Savia: Fine. Anthrax. Whatever. Ebola sounds better - it's much less trendy and there's the whole matter of bleeding from your eyes, which is just nuts.
C: That's one of the reasons I don't "play" with it. Plus, when you're at that level, you have to have an external air supply piped into your suit instead of just an air filter.
Savia: Can I at least tell people that you play with Ebola all day? It just sounds cooler.
C: Fine.

Labels: C

Life has sucked the marrow out of me
Drained it through a straw
Left a hollow bone behind
Dry, ragged, raw.

Labels: poetry

On Thursday at 4:30 a.m., I woke up to the sound of my house alarm.

Confused, frightened, I sat up. Is it possible? Could there really be someone in my house? What do I do? Do I stay here in my bed like a sitting duck, waiting for the police to come? Or do I sneak downstairs and confront the person?

I even considered hiding inside the wall but then it occurred to me that this could be a false alarm. More than that, the wailing noise blaring through my house was starting to give me a headache and make the cats and dog quite twitchy.

After a few minutes, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I reached into my nightstand and grabbed the pepper spray (conveniently located next to the lube and toys - in case someone gets "fresh") and crept down the stairs to check the window - the one place that would have immediately set off the alarm. It was fine.

Phew. Okay. So, no one's in my house. This is good. Just gotta go to the panel and punch in the code, and everything will be okay.

Punch in code - xxxx.

Nothing. Alarm still blaring.

Punch in again - xxxx.

On it screetches. Dog starts vaulting herself from couch to couch. Cats have vanished by this point. Saviabella is about to pull out her eardrums just for fun.

Alright, damn alarm. I'll show you - I'm calling the alarm company!

I could barely hear the woman on the other end because the alarm was so loud. I was yelling into the phone because I thought that was somehow going to make me hear her better. She told me to punch in *2.

*2

Nothing.

She told me to do it again.

*2

I think the alarm got louder.

I was then transferred to the dude who has the wonderful job of being on-call at 4:30 a.m. to deal with technologically inept people such as myself. He walked me through disconnecting the entire alarm system from all of its power sources. It was the only way to get it to stop. By the time I shut it off, the alarm had been going for more than half an hour.

The next day, he came out to try and repair it. Nothing worked - not even the secret special handy-dude alarm codes of his. He had to replace the entire system, and no one could figure out the reason it went haywire.

I was just relieved it was over. It was hard to sleep for the next few nights, because the situation made me start thinking about the possibility of someone else being in my house, and what I would do. I still don't know. But the pepper spray is staying in my nightstand, that's for sure.

Labels: misc

...but politiko tagged me, and I just can't say no to her.

Seven things I plan to do before I die

• Get a master's degree (and possibly a PhD)
• Sing in the chorus of an opera
• Get out of crippling debt
• Date someone I can tolerate for longer than a year
• Get a tattoo on my ankle (I'm considering a brown treble clef - any thoughts?)
• Have a play I've written performed and published
• Learn Italian and hang out in Italy with my family

Seven things I can do

• Sing
• Act
• Bellydance
• Find humour in the tragic and mundane
• Be a great friend who doesn't judge
• Keep pets alive
• Spend myself into oblivion

Seven things I can't do

• Keep plants alive
• Save money
• Drink anyone under the table
• Have a normal relationship with my mother
• Not finish something I've started
• Deal well with confrontation
• Be a spontaneous party girl

Seven things that attract me to people

• Intelligence without pretension
• A quirky sense of humour
• The ability to be completely silly one minute and absolutely serious the next
• Respect for themselves and their bodies
• Openmindedness
• Animal magnetism
• Musical ability

• Apparently, ...
• Fabulous!
• Cool
• Like
• Don't make me come over there...
• Quotes from Simpsons episodes
• Okay, here's the deal...

Seven celebrity crushes

• John Corbett (as Aiden in Sex and the City)
• the guy who plays Nate on Six Feet Under
• Angelina Jolie (before she stole Brad Pitt from Jennifer Aniston)
• Dean Cain (particularly in the cameo he had on 90210)
• John Mayer
• Josh Groban
• Luke Wilson

Edited to add: And Jon Stewart. Oh my God, how could I forget him??

Labels: meme