My CheckMate

About a month and a half ago, I started dating my friend, M, whom I've talked about here and here. It came as a bit of a surprise to me, but once it happened, it made so much sense. I've never felt so comfortable and safe with someone, and, because we were friends for about a year and I was completely unaware that he was interested in me for months and months before we got together, I know I can really be myself around him, because he likes me for me. That's the ultimate best feeling in the world.

I feel so open, like I have absolutely nothing to hide. I've been sharing with him pieces of my life that I almost never let others glimpse. He knows about my alcoholic abusive father who drank himself to death when I was 10, the fact that I was sexually abused at the age of four, my mother's illness that had a crippling effect on our family for years - he knows it all (I didn't tell him all at once, FYI - didn't want to give the poor guy an aneurism!)

It's not as though I haven't told the men in my life these stories before. I have. I always do, because I don't feel like you can really know me unless you know all that I've been through. But what makes him different from the rest is his reaction to the stories. The others listened and sympathized, but that was all (or, in the case of my first "love", said of the sexual abuse, "I've known other people like you before, but they just got over it", implying that I should do the same. Bastard.) But M said something along these lines (and I wish I could remember it verbatim, because I don't think I'll be able to do it justice here):

"You have been through so much, and I know I don't even know the half of it. You must have incredible inner strength to have become the person you are today. I am so impressed with you."

He gets it. He gets me. I've always wanted someone I'm with to understand that the very fact I'm walking around today, that I'm not strung out on drugs or alcohol, that I'm not selling myself on the streets, that I didn't slice my wrists open when I was 14, is a fucking accomplishment. And he does. It was the best thing anyone has ever said to me. This one's a keeper, there is no doubt about that.

And, so, in the tradition of Schmutzie's The Fiery One and Lynn's LoveShack, I christen my fella CheckMate. Why? Because "soul mate" has become a cliche, and because we have this intense intellectual connection where we are always trying to one up each other in clever ways.

He'll soon discover that I always win ;)

A voice from the past

Pain from my past has been bubbling to the surface lately, making my world feel unsteady, making me wonder if I even know myself, making me doubt that I'll ever feel "normal" (though what is that, really?) I was going through some of my old journals tonight and found this. It says it all.

My inner child

That little blonde curly haired girl
who was me
but who I am not.

She left when I was four.
Where did she go?
Is she in purgatory somewhere,
serving penance for what a twisted sixteen-year-old did?
No, it's not dirty
I washed it today
it's just like sucking on a bottle
a baby bottle
Is she safe there
or continually being molested for all eternity?
Locked in a dark box
nowhere to hide
except from me.

But if I could find her
I would protect her
because no one else did
or could.

I could save her by rewriting her story
by writing me into it.
I would walk into that living room
and grab her away from him
and stop it all from ever happening.
I would embrace her
and stroke her hair
and tell her that everything was okay.
And she would still be naive
and a child
instead of gone.
She wouldn't even understand
the significance of my actions
or why I was there.
But I would.

Saving her is a nice thought
but would I truly want that?
Would I even exist
if she hadn't been crucified?

Maybe it has to be this way
Two fragments of one soul
one lost
and one found.

Hey, Mr. Postman, what's that in your bag?

I got an email request from my friend R the other day. Her emails often contain interesting requests. A world traveller, whenever she's in another country, she sends us long, hilarious accounts on her perceptions of the place, the culture, and the inhabitants. The last time she was away, she was attempting to get a really cool job. As a marketing ploy for herself, she asked her world-wide network of friends to mail postcards to the employer, saying things like, "R totally rocks. You should hire her." And "I wouldn't be sending you this postcard all the way from Korea if I didn't think R could completely change your business and make you a hugely successful billionaire." She didn't get that job, but needless to say, the potential employer was very amused. They even collected all the postcards and gave them to R as a keepsake.

A few months later, R was having a feud in the office with A, the guy at the desk next to her. She fired off one quick email to her minions, and within minutes, A was hit with a barrage of electronic messages with variations on the theme "R hates you." (Mine was: "R hates you with the passion of a thousand burning suns and hopes you suffer a slow and painful death. Have a nice day!")

Now, there has been another request. Her friend whom she pretends to hate, A, joined the military but then injured himself and had to come home. She's worried about him and wants to cheer him up, so she enlisted her own army to help. Her email pleaded with us to send A postcards of support. Here is an excerpt:

Anyway, he feels super super depressed and I need people to send him
postcards from around the world. (Or Saskatchewan will suffice!!!)

You could say something like, "A, I heard you were injured. So sorry. Get
well. I've got to run now, it's my turn to play with R's breasts."

He will find this funny. Trust me. He's English.

Well, that was a challenge if I had ever heard one. And, being a naughty, dirty girl, this was my submission:

A,

R and I were in bed together the other night, as usual. As I was fondling her breasts, she said, "I can't help but think of my poor friend, A, who has injured himself." Frustrated, I said, "Oh, great. Are you going to scream out his name again tonight, because that's starting to get old." Sheepishly, she replied, "Sorry about that. Will you just write him a postcard for me?" Said I: "Alright. As long as you promise to put out." And she did. The end.

Feel better soon!
XOXO Savia

After I sent the postcard off, I proudly send R a copy of what I'd written. Her response:

Oh my God, he'd love the soft porn talk! Just a word of warning - the mail is going to his parents' house and his father is the town vicar (minister/preacher guy).

Alright, I'm going straight to hell. But at least I'll be giggling all the way there!

I guess it is the peanut after all

I've been learning all kinds of things about myself lately. The most recent discovery is that I'm...

...straight.

Yes, I know it's really obvious that I'm straight, considering I've only dated men and all, but I always wondered maybe, just maybe, I hadn't met the right gal yet.

A friend of mine who dates both men and women once explained it to me like this: It's the peanut, not the shell. She sees people for who they are on the inside, and that's what matters to her, not their gender. I thought that was such a beautiful idea, and I wanted it to be true for me, too.

I've gone through life finding women attractive with their beautiful curves, but not actually being attracted to women. But always wondering what would happen if the perfect woman came along.

A few weeks ago, I had a moment that made me realize that it's never going to happen for me. The tire on my car went flat, so I called a tow truck to have someone come change it. They sent a female tow truck driver, which I had never encountered before.

I thought that alone made her very cool. She's a trailblazer because there are so few women in the profession, and she also gets to rescue stupid males who don't know anything about their cars. (I specifically asked her about that, and she had some great stories to tell.) She was incredibly patient with me in answering the pile of questions I had about my car. I learned so much from her - things that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I was touched by her kindness - she explained everything without a hint of condescention - and I was also impressed by her vast knowledge.

She was attractive in an unconventional way and still looked feminine in her tow truck overalls with her name stiched into the pocket. She had long, blonde hair and beautiful eyes and an open, friendly manner that made you realize that she would be so fun to take out for a beer and just talk and laugh for hours.

If ever there was the perfect woman for me, she was it. And yet, nothing. I was attracted to her, but only on an intellectual and emotional level - no thunderbolt nor any stirrings in the nether regions going on. And that made me kind of sad. I felt disappointed, like I had lost something. I wished that I could be above it all, that I didn't have to be bound by heterosexuality and could just float in a world where gender didn't matter. But, I guess for me, the only way that it's the peanut and not the shell is if "peanut" is a very cute way of saying "penis". Sigh.

Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got

When the package arrived in the mail, I screamed and jumped up and down.

Please observe. These are my boobs:

These are my boobs on Fussy:

Any questions?

P.S. Thanks Mrs. Kennedy! My rack and I will wear it with pride.

Sweet sixteen

An old friend called me the other day and reminded me how wickedly funny he is. Here are some snippets.

Savia: ...So, I've decided I'm just going to live in denial about it.
Friend: Well, you know, ostriches wouldn't exist if there weren't a good evolutionary reason for putting your head in the sand.

Savia: [talking about some people neither of us like very much]
Friend: Say what you will about them, but I have every confidence that someday, they will make an excellent source of protein.

Friend: We should get a drink sometime this week.
Savia: I'd really like that, but here's the thing. I have a seminar due on Thursday, so I'm tied up with research until then, and on Friday, I'm getting my braces adjusted for the first time and I don't know how I'll react to that. I would hate to say, "Yeah, let's go for drinks" and then be a jam tart because I have a migraine.
Friend: Okay, let me get this straight. Your reasons for not going out are homework and braces.
Savia: Yes.
Friend: What are we, 16 or something?
Savia: Oh my God - I never thought of it that way!
Friend: How about I pass Tommy a note in shop and he can hand it to you in fifth period?