Not-so-mature student

I'm in the process of writing my first-ever term paper as a grad student. As a so-called mature student, you'd expect that I would have enough self-confidence that this would not be totally freaking me out, but you would be wrong, my friend.

You'd also think I'd have learned something from my undergrad degree. In those days, I would procrastinate writing my paper or studying for my exam until the ultimate last minute, usually 9 p.m. the night before it was due, work myself up into a frenzy, beating myself up for leaving the assignment/studying so long, freaking out because I didn't know what to write about, and that I didn't have enough time to do a good job, crying my head off because I felt stupid, feeling like a fraud and worrying that this assignment/test would show the world what a failure I was. See, we just thought she was smart - silly us. We now know the truth: Savia ain't so savvy. After turning myself into a sobbing mess, I would dry my face, drag myself off my bed, and force myself to write the damn thing already. At about 3 a.m., I'd crash for a few hours, then wake up at 7 a.m. to edit and finish the final draft.

By the end of my first degree, I had mostly figured out that this was not a healthy way to go about things. Sure, the job got done and I ended up with mostly As, but I was likely doing all kinds of damage to my fragile little psyche.

Flash forward to present time. My assignment is due tomorrow. I had all weekend to work on it, but was down and out with that flu/cold that's been going around. I didn't sleep at all on Saturday night, and by Sunday was a total wreck. The fact that I hadn't yet started my 15-page paper totally freaked me out, yet I felt sick and unmotivated to work on it. This led to a sobbing fit where I beat myself up for leaving it to the last minute, questioned whether I even belonged in grad school, wondered if I had a thesis that made any sense and enough ideas to fill 15-pages, and thought about asking my prof for an extension, but then freaked out about the possibility that he wouldn't give me one and then I'd flunk the class and I'd flunk out of grad school and that would be all the proof that the world needed to expose me as a total and complete fraud.

I looked at the clock and said to myself, "Okay, Savia, you drama queen, you have until 4:30 to cry, and then you're going to get off this couch and go write the damn paper already. If you need to cry while you're writing the stupid-ass paper, you can bring some tissues and wrap the keyboard in plastic wrap or something, but you're getting it done." So, I sobbed until 4:30 on the dot, and forced myself to write. I actually got half of the paper done as a result. The rest gets completed tonight.

So, not much has changed in the last 12 years. The only difference is that it happened a day earlier. See, I have made progress after all.

Snips and bytes

After more than six months of my computer crashing every 30 minutes, which is particularly frustrating when you're trying to write your term paper, I decided to take it to a professional. So, I took it to my hairdresser.

Yes, you read that right. My hairdresser has started a side business fixing computers. It's interesting, because one minute, he could be putting in highlights, and the next minute, he could be doing something with megabytes (not that I really know what these are, but it kind of rhymed, so go with it!) The best part is that a trim, some lowlights and a complete computer overhaul only cost me $175.

Great hair and a computer that actually works - what more could a gal want? One-stop shopping at its best.

But wait, it gets better. I wish I could show you the receipt for the computer repairs. The letterhead reads, "XYZ Hair Salon and Computer Repair." I wonder what my boss will say when I submit that with my expense claim

The tattoo

I promised pictures of the birthday self-mutilation once I figured out how to get it off my camera. So, here it is. Many thanks to Schmutzie for her xtreme rad pix-taking skilz and support.

PS Schmutzie was right - the colour photo really does show the blood!

PPS I really wish I had shaved my legs before the tattoo - I had no idea the resolution on my camera was good enough to show the stubble. Damn you, 5.1 mega pixels, damn you straight to hell!

Decisions, decisions and panic attacks

In my second week as an official grown-up (on a completely different note, because I'm now past 30, am I going to be jeered at by hippies on the street and no longer trusted?? Am I now 'the man'? If you can't trust anyone over 30, can I trust myself? What an odd side note - I haven't even finished my first sentence yet. What's up with that? Am I getting wacko in my old age?), I am making a major life decision that is giving me an anxiety attack.

I don't think I've ever had to make a major life decision before. Usually, opportunities present themselves and I have to decide whether or not to take them - like a job offer or going to school. Decisions seem pretty evident for the most part and there aren't life or death implications.

This one is different. I've decided to have someone I've met only once break my jaw, move it forward, and wire it shut for a few weeks. Why on earth would I want to do that? Well, I've been having headache/TMJ problems for awhile now and was told by an orthodontist that I needed braces and jaw surgery. This is supposed to make it better, but there's also a chance of making it worse. And then, with any surgery, you could die. Or have permanent nerve damage. Or, or, or... The odds are that it will be better, though. So, the choice was do nothing and hope the migraines don't become debilitating, or take the risk and hope it will make it better.

So, I'm going for it. I made the appointments to have four of my teeth pulled. Talk about anxiety attack - I've never even had a filling, so I'm freaking out. Now, I finally understand why so many people are afraid of the dentist. I would probably not like my dentist so much had he come at my face with a pair of pliers every so often. "Let me take your teeth, my pretty! Ma ha ha ha." And it's really weird to think about having perfectly good teeth pulled - hey, I might need those someday! However, Schmutzie says that I can ask to keep the teeth, and she will make a lovely arts and crafts project with them to make it all better. I hope there will be a lot of glitter involved.

I've also made the appointment for the braces to go on in mid-January. On the plus side, I won't be mistaken for a cougar at the bar. Here's to cradle-robbing! See, braces have their advantages. I may get stuff stuck in my teeth, but I can pick up 19-year-olds with the greatest of ease. What more could you want in life? (And how ironic that my first official major life decision as a grown up is going to make me look like a kid?)

Another reason that this was a tough decision is that it's a 5-year process. Two years of braces, then surgery, then another year of braces, then two years of retainers. Oh, and did I mention that this will be $6,000 out of my own pocket? How can you plan your life for five years from now? How do you even know you'll be employed or employable? So many questions. So many unknowables. But I'm taking the plunge and hoping for the best. Wish me luck. I raise my glass of kool-aid to being a grown up and hope to god that I'm not fucking it up too much.

It can wait 'til tomorrow

And so it begins - the snow, the cold. It makes me think about the fact that I never did get around to raking my lawn this fall. And now, all those leaves will be under the white stuff for six months until the spring thaw, after which they will rot like the leaves that I didn't rake last fall. No wonder my lawn always sucks. Oh well, there's nothing like procrastination. (Actually, I try to justify it by saying I'm environmental, that I don't take care of my lawn because lawns are a total waste of resources, etc. But really, I'm just lazy. Shhhh.)

I thought the raking would get done for sure because I was procrastinating a seminar paper that I had to write for my night class. A larger procrastination usually leads to the completion of some other menial task that you've been putting off. But, instead, I watched the entire sixth season of South Park (a twisted birthday present from my brother) and went out for karaoke at a dive bar with some friends.

Karaoke was fun. I did a very trashy version of All that Jazz from Chicago that seemed to please the rednecks. All the people in the dive bar also sang Happy Birthday to me. That was an odd experience.

Also odd was the fact that one of the regulars, who I like to call Elvis Lady because she only sings Elvis songs, became obsessed with one of the people at our table. Elvis Lady sings horribly off key but she is so flippin' entertaining because she really gets into it, does all the Elvis moves, and goes around in the crowd shaking people's hands while she sings. She usually varies the people she greets in the crowd, but Saturday, it was like M was the only one in the room. She kept going over, shaking his hand, touching his shoulder, stroking his hair, and singing to him. He was a really good sport about it, though. Elvis Lady is full of compliments and a bit touchy feely - she hugged me in the ladies room once because she liked the song I did - but otherwise harmless. Ah, Elvis Lady - what would my birthday celebration be without you?

And, now, we have something new to procrastinate. My first grad-level term paper, due in two weeks. How much snow shovelling and housework and other miscellaneous tasks that I've been avoiding will get done before I get around to writing this monstrosity? My guess is many. But at least my house will be clean, right?

The big 3-0 and 3 days

Well, it is official. I am in my third decade. And actually, it's kind of alright. I finally feel like the outside is starting to match the inside - that I've grown into my skin a little. I've always felt older than I am and now, and I feel like I'm finally catching up.

Speaking of skin, I did it. I got the tattoo. And I must say, it hurt like a motherfucker. It was a surprising kind of pain. Of course, you expect it to hurt, but not in this way.

[I expected it to hurt because I had had this conversation with Schmutzie a few weeks previous:

Savia: Schmutzie, will you come with me to get my tattoo and take pictures?
Schmutzie: Sure. Hmmmm...I wonder what kind of film I should use? Black and white gives a nice effect, but colour would capture the blood.
Savia: Blood? What?? There's going to be blood?
Schmutzie: Well, yeah, they are ramming colour into your skin with needles. There's going to be blood.
Savia: Wait a minute...is this going to hurt? A lot??
Schmutzie: Well...yeah. As I mentioned, there will be ramming with needles.
Savia: Oh my god.
Schmutzie: Some people like the pain, you know.]

So yes, she had already dashed my fantasy of lying on the table like a graceful goddess with an artist painting a beautiful symbol on my ankle while a cabana boy fed me grapes. I was expecting some kind of pain, but the kind of pain I got was different. I've described it to people like someone jamming a safety pin into your leg, and then dragging it through the skin. It was intense. And then, every so often, he would hit a weird nerve that would make me want to jump. This went on for an hour. I can't say that I'm a member of the group of people who like the pain. But it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - just different.

Schmutzie took some great pictures (it was especially sweet of her to take photos of my face contorted in grimaces of pain). Once I figure out how to post photos from my digicam, I'll show you what the tattoo looks like. It's a stylized brown treble clef. At first, it was weird looking down and seeing it on my body, but as I get used to it, I really like it.

I chose the treble clef because of my love of music. I've been singing since I was two years old. Then, after I made the decision to get the tattoo done, I remembered that I had an even greater connection with the symbol. When I was learning to write in cursive, I incorporated the treble clef into my name, replacing the 'S' in Savia with it. When I got a bit older, I started putting the treble clef after my name. Even my signature card at the bank had a treble clef on it. So, I've always associated this symbol with myself, even as a child. Remembering that made me feel better about getting it done, because it tells me that I'll never get sick of it.

The birthday itself was great. I had the day off work, so I slept in, got my hair done (I'm a brunette now, which was a result of my hair stylist doing whatever the hell he wanted, but I'm kind of liking it), got a facial, and went for sushi with 15 of my closest friends. (I still can't believe that many people came!) It was the perfect way to spend a birthday. I feel very blessed to be surrounded by such amazing people who care about me (and take pictures of me while I'm in pain:)

Delayed reaction

Scene: an office meeting. A dozen people sitting around a large boardroom table.

Manager:...and that took place in 1975. Hmmm...1975 - that was 30 years ago, wasn't it?

Savia: bolting upright Oh my God! I'm going to be 30!

Everyone in the meeting turns and stares. Savia puts her head in her hands and turns the same colour red as her sweater.