Unexpected beauty

This morning, I dreamt that a giant bee was attacking me and woke up in a panic. Safe in my bed, I let my mind drift. It quietly turned to thoughts of tulips. Planting tulips in the fall. Digging holes into semi-frozen ground and depositing tiny onion-like bulbs in them, fingers numb from the cold. It seems so counterintuitive to me, to be planting at a time when everything is dying – leaves falling from trees, plants shrivelling; all evidence that things were once green has disappeared under brown foliage and a light sprinkling of snow. These bulbs don’t even need nurturing, love and care, as we have always been taught with plants. We just inter them and forget them, lying dormant under blankets of white, waiting for spring. And when spring comes, they are the first to poke their fresh green limbs through the cold ground at our feet. It is both unexpected and expected.

Sometimes it seems that beauty just finds us.

But we were the ones who planted it there in the first place.

Mmmmm...fresh

I brush my teeth a lot. When you have these lovely metal and porcelain dealies strapped to your teeth, you kind of have to. Anytime I eat something, I am gripped by the paranoia that something is stuck there and everyone is staring at me. Even if the offending object is not visible, I can feel things sticking in the brackets at the back of my mouth, and it will drive me crazy until I have the opportunity to run to the washroom and give the suckers a good scrubbing. (Note the gratuitous use of italics. Can you tell this really gets under my skin?)

So, in my cute little mini Nine West purse is a cute little mini toothbrush and a cute little mini tube o' toothpaste for this very purpose. I have brushed my teeth just about everywhere - from hoity toity parties with canapés and hors d'oeuvres, to skanky dive bars with nachos and "cheez". You name it, I've brushed in it. But Friday night was the first time that anyone really noticed...

Savia is at a local Irish pub and has gone to the bathroom to brush her teeth. (She is positive bits of quesadilla are lodged in them and is trying not to twitch at the thought.) She is stooped over the sink with a mouthful of suds when a girl with the most impressive rack of cleavage walks in. (Seriously, it was quite magnificent. It looked as though it were on a platter for our viewing pleasure.)

Cleavage Girl: Oh my god! You're brushing your teeth at the bar!
Savia: Umm hmmm Her speech is impaired by the fact that she has a toothbrush in her mouth.
Cleavage Girl: That is so awesome! I thought I was the only one who did that!!
Savia: Smiles and spits. I have braces, so I kind of have to.
Cleavage Girl: Whenever I'm into a guy, I always go to the bathroom and brush my teeth at the bar. Guys appreciate a girl who is fresh.
Savia: Well, there were a lot of onions in that quesadilla...
Cleavage Girl: See, that is so considerate. You are so fucking awesome. You know what? We're better than all of those other girls, because we know, we know that guys appreciate a girl who is fresh. It's important you know. They don't understand that and we do and that's what makes us so fucking hot. You fucking rock.
Savia: Uh, thanks.
Cleavage Girl: What's your name?
Savia: It's Savia.
Cleavage Girl: Well, Savia, I want to shake your hand.
Savia: Uh - but it's full of toothpaste and stuff.
Cleavage Girl: I don't care. I want to shake your hand because you are so fucking awesome, Savia. I hope you get laid. Whatever it is you want tonight - getting laid or making out or whatever, I hope you get it, because you deserve it because you fucking rock. You fucking rock.
Savia: Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too.

Apparently, brushing your teeth at the bar is the new hottest thing and I'm at the forefront of this groundbreaking sexy trend. Who knew?

This little light of mine

I've been carrying a weight around me since this spring. I've been meaning to write about it, but it's incredibly difficult and painful. But I feel like I owe it to her - I owe it to her to celebrate her life with words. At the same time, I'm scared that I can never do her justice, that anything I say will fall short, that I wasn't close enough to her to feel the grief that I do, that somehow I'm not even entitled to write this. But I still feel like I owe her something. I owe her this attempt, however feeble it is.

I remember the first time I met Dee. It was like reconnecting with an old friend I hadn't seen in years. Although we had never met or spoken before, we had already shared in something intense and intimate and scary. We had a mutual friend who was in a potentially life-threatening situation, and we were the only people in her life who had stepped forward to help her get out of it and make sure she was safe. That experience created a bond between us, a friendship that existed months before we met in person.

When she walked into my house, I was struck by her beauty. She was unlike anyone I had seen before - exotically beautiful with shiny, long, straight black hair that hung to her waist, a curvacious body, full red lips, big eyes and a round face that was open and kind. We hugged and giggled, thrilled to finally be in the same room together. There was an unspoken gratitude between us - thank you for being there for her - I'm glad I didn't have to do this alone - I'm glad that there's someone else out there like me. It felt like the three of us were meant to be friends.

Interestingly enough, the first time we met in person was at a sex toy party I was hosting. The best way to break the ice is to jump in, I say. It was a weeknight and the other guests weren't drinking a lot, so when the presenter asked for a volunteer to participate in a game to win a prize, no one raised her hand. Finally, Dee said, "I'll do it." She was blindfolded and given a condom and a dildo. Well, that girl whipped that rubber on that big black cock with incredible precision and speed. I wasn't expecting that from her, because she seemed so sweet and innocent. It made me like her even more.

Later on, we were passing around (ahem) mechanical devices and I was sitting next to Dee. The one I was experimenting with was an egg with a remote control and five speeds. Part of the appeal is that someone else could be controlling the speeds on your behalf, so I put the small egg-shaped vibrator in Dee's hand and asked her what she thought as I varied the speeds and pulsations. "Cool, let me do you!" she said and returned the favour. We were so fascinated with the device that we didn't notice that everyone had stopped and was staring at us. "Do you guys need to get a room?" We giggled and reluctantly passed it on to the next person. "I'm totally getting that one," I whispered to Dee, and she agreed it was a good choice.

Over the next few weeks, we hung out a handful of times. Then, our mutual friend moved away and we didn't get to see each other as much. I always asked about her and how she was doing, hoping that we'd all get the chance to spend some more time together soon.

Then, one day in April, Dee died. She wasn't feeling well, went to the hospital and just...died. She was only 25 years old.

I remember getting that phone call on a Saturday night and just going numb. It didn't seem real. It didn't seem possible. It didn't make any sense. As I listened to Musically Speaking cry on the other end of the line, I was at a loss for what to say because there was nothing to say to make it better. The news didn't fully hit me until the next day. When I woke up, I started sobbing and couldn't stop. I cried the entire day, through the night and into the next day. I had a final exam due and couldn't bring myself to write it because I was too distraught. The intensity of emotion surprised me, because I didn't know her that well and she wasn't in my life for very long. But I felt close to her and I grieved for her. I grieved for Musically Speaking and K and Dee's husband. I grieved for the things she would never get to do in her life. I grieved for her family. And I grieved for myself, and our potential friendship that now would never be.

Ever since my father died, I've avoided funerals like the plague. I've only been to three in my life. But I needed to go to this one. I needed to be there to get some closure and to support my friends. Unfortunately, the wake the night before the funeral made things worse for me. The minister performing the service mispronounced her name throughout, got the number of years she and her husband were married wrong (even though he was the one who had married them) and said a lot of things that I felt were inappropriate about death and how things may not make sense but Jesus would explain it one day and make everything okay. I left there in a rage. A friend of mine lived near the funeral home and I showed up on his doorstep crying and ranting, "Jesus is bullshit!"

I eulogized Dee in his living room, saying all the things that I thought the minister should have said, trying to do justice to her memory in my own way. From what I remember of my rant, it went something like this:

Sometimes things happen that don't make any sense. How is it possible that someone as young and beautiful and kind as Dee could be taken from us so soon? And why? Why do things like this happen to good people? Why did this happen to someone like Dee who brought so much light into this world, someone who went out of her way to help people, when there are so many others who do just the opposite, who could be taken away and no one would notice the difference, whose death may actually make this world a better place? I've always believed that things happen for a reason, but I can't find a reason in this. And maybe that's because there isn't one. Maybe things actually don't happen for a reason sometimes - maybe they just... happen. I don't know anymore. We can't know because we're stuck here and there aren't any answers. All we know is that she's gone and somehow, we have to go on living in a world with a little less light in it.

The time we had with Dee was brief, too brief, but she still found a way to touch each of us. And when she came into our lives, she left a little bit of that light of hers behind, like a candle lighting another with its flame. While we grieve the fact that Dee's own light is gone, we can take some solace in the fact it continues to burn inside each and every one of us. And it's our responsibility to keep that flame burning, to go out into this world and spread that light, to reach out to the people around us and do the kinds of things for others that she would have done if she were still here. We can't make sense of this. We can't understand why. We can't make this okay. The only thing we can do is to take that tiny flame she's left us with and make it into a bonfire.

We miss you, Dee. But we'll never forget you. We promise to keep your light burning.

Inspi(red)

I'm using my breasts to fight AIDS in Africa. After that, they're totally tackling this whole world peace dealie.

They're busy gals.

Bliss

I went for lunch with a friend the other day. "You look amazing!" she exclaimed, even though I had on no make up, my hair was kind of fuzzy, and the clothes I was wearing were too big. "Have you lost more weight?"

"No. I'm just happy."

"Why? Is there a reason?"

"No. I just...am."

For the last few months, I've been incredibly happy and there hasn't been anything that has changed in my life to cause it - it just is. It's like one day, a switch went off in my head and suddenly, I was happy. And not just happy, but joyful, gleeful, giddy, grateful, giggly and all other kinds of words that start with that "g" sound. I find myself laughing a lot, even when no one's around, smiling at strangers, seeing humour in the things that just a few months ago would have caused me a great deal of anxiety.

People have been noticing that I'm different lately. I've noticed them noticing. They can't put their finger on it, entirely, but they see me in a different light and they refer to me in different terms than they used to. There is one word that I'm hearing more and more in reference to myself. I've heard it in different circles, in different contexts, but the word remains the same - "hot". It's weird writing this, because I find it surreal that suddenly, I'm that "hot girl." Now, I've been the smart girl, the funny girl, the nice girl, the talented girl, and maybe even the pretty girl, but I've never in my life been the hot girl. And I think it's fucking hilarious. Yet another thing that makes me giggle to myself as I make my way through the day.

And you what else? PMS makes me happy. Yes, you read that right. The one-and-a-half weeks each month of feeling like a neurotic freak has turned into uberhappy good times. I actually look forward to PMS now, if you would believe. Woo hoo - ride that hormone wave! Celebrate good times - come on! I'm definitely adding this to the list of things I like about being 30. (That, and the intense, screaming multiple multiple multiple orgasms, of course.)

And with that happiness has come this great creative force. Words, ideas, projects are popping up in my brain and I am frantically trying to get them all down on paper, fearful that I may forget something. Fearful that this is a fleeting period in my life and I've got to get all of this done while I still have the energy and the ideas and the drive. Fearful that the Universe is showing me how great life can be only to kick me in the head again later.

When my friend asked me about why I was happy, I started telling her about one of my favourite stories, "Bliss" by Katherine Mansfield:

"What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss - absolute bliss! - as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of the late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle, into every finger and toe?..."

I've read a lot of literary criticism on this story, and every critic has his or her own theory on why Bertha is happy. They are at each other's throats about whether she's full of bliss because she has realized she's in love with a woman or because she finally feels sexual desire for her husband. They are determined to find the reason for her happiness, and yet there is no definitive answer.

Isn't it funny that there has to be a reason? Why can't happiness just be? Why do we have to question it and analyze it and pull it apart instead of just enjoying it for what it is?

True happiness doesn't have an external reason. Other people can't make you happy - you have to find it within yourself somewhere, because if it comes from outside, it can be taken away. I know they've always fed us this bullshit line, but I'm beginning to believe it's true. That in Bertha's case, as well as in mine, happiness comes from a sense of self, from knowing who you are and what you want out of life, from expressing that self and not caring about what other people think about you. (I'm still working on that not caring thing. It's difficult, to say the least, especially for someone who has spent the majority of her life trying to please everyone else and make them happy. But it's coming.)

I don't know how long it will last or why it's here, but I'm just trying to enjoy this feeling in this moment for what it is - bliss.

Bliss bliss bliss bliss bliss.

"You are never stronger...than when you land on the other side of despair." -White Teeth by Zadie Smith

Baby got back

It's a long weekend, which meant C was in town. He's one of my favourite people because I can be as quirky as I wanna be and chances are, he's always going to be weirder than me - a major selling feature for a friend. We dated more than 12 years ago and still walk around holding hands, kiss each other good night and say "I love you" before hanging up the phone. But other than a deep affection, there is no chemistry there. Which is too bad, because we laugh so much when we're together. But on the plus side, I have a really great male friend on whom I can always rely.

Our friendship is more than a little strange, though. It's no wonder that every boyfriend I've ever had has felt threatened by C. I don't think anyone can get us but us.

Here's one of our conversations from Saturday night:

Savia and C are walking down the street to the socialist bar they always go to.

C slaps Savia's ass.

Savia: If you're going to do that, at least take a good handful of it.
C: enthusiastically Okay!
Savia: My bellydance teacher said that once she was done with us, we'd have the best asses in the city. I want to know if she's right, so you have to promise to grab it again at Christmas time, so you can tell me if the bellydancing made it hotter.
C: Okay!
Savia: Uh - I think you that's enough. What the hell are you doing - kneading bread back there?
C: I'm a scientist. I have to ensure I can get a proper sampling of the material at hand.
Savia: Well, I think you got it.
C: You know, I should probably check your breasts - they may change from the dancing, too.
Savia: I think they'll be fine, really.
C: And what about the front of the ass?
Savia: What the hell is that?
C: You know, the front of the ass.
Savia: You mean my crotch?
C: Well, that's not a very classy way to put it.
Savia: And front of the ass is better? What is that, some scientific term?
C: I am a biologist, you know. I only use these kinds of proper scientific words in my studies.
Savia: Well, Mr. Biologist, no, you don't get to feel up my boobs or my crotch for scientific reasons. You know, you should feel lucky you even got to touch my ass in the first place. I think that's more action than you got when we dated. Take what you can get, buddy!
C: Now I've forgetten what it feels like. I'd better take another sample.
Savia: Oh, dear god. What have I done?

On writing

I remember my first diary - I received it as a present at my dad's work Christmas party just after I had turned 11. We went to the party even though he had died two months earlier. I think my mother was trying to maintain some sense of normalcy for us, though I remember her whispering to the people at the door that my father was Dead, and their looks of pity at the newly minted half-orphans. So, we gained entrance to the Christmas party and got our presents, even though dad no longer technically worked there. My present was a rainbow striped gym bag that I instantly adored, inside of which was a white diary with pink roses on it and an actual lock and key.

That lock gave me a great sense of security, though I still hid the diary in a safe place in my room, just in case. You can imagine my horror when I walked in one day to find my ten-year-old brother and his bratty little friend sitting on my bed, pouring over my most intimate thoughts about a boy I thought who liked me and the weird tingly feelings I was beginning to feel down there.

I felt so incredibly violated that I meticulously tore each page of that diary into teensy little pieces. It affected me so much that I didn’t keep a journal again until I was 20. Now that I think about it, it's during times of transition that I turn to writing about my life. Coping with my father's death and the onset of puberty at 11; coming to terms with my abusive childhood at 20; and now at 30, watching my sense of self gel and gradually learning to stand behind who I am and what I believe in. I think that's why I started this journal a year and a half ago. I knew I was on the cusp of something - something big - and I felt the need to document it somehow.

The difficulty with keeping a written record of your thoughts and feelings is that they change. The act of writing them down transforms you, so that the moment they are out, you no longer feel exactly the same as you did when you set out to immortalize them in words. I look back on some of my older entries and cringe a bit because I'm not that person from a year and a half ago anymore, or even the person I was six months ago. But I leave them there because they are a record of who I was, in that moment, and how far I've come even since then. I wish I had the strength at the age of 11 to keep that diary, to not care what anyone else thought or read about me, to have the confidence in myself that if I were thinking or feeling it, it was valid, instead of shredding it like a coward.

Now, I imagine myself at the edge of a still lake, folding stories and memories into paper swans and floating them on the water's surface so they are no longer a part of me, but apart from me. The ground feels steadier, my legs are stronger, and I stand taller knowing that I am greater than the sum of these parts.

Loose hips sink ships

Bellydance, my ass.

No, seriously - my ass! It hurts. Five hours of bellydance bootcamp will do that. It will also fry your brain. Case in point:

Savia is talking to another dancer she's met a few times before.

Savia: Dear god, I am going to hurt tomorrow. I am going to have to soak my ass in a hot bath full of epsom salts like some old lady tonight.
Dancer: Tiger Balm is really good for that, too.
Savia: Yeah, only I'd have to use it on my entire body.
Dancer: If you had someone to help you out, that might actually be kind of fun.
Savia: Well, if you happen to know anyone who would be interested...

Dancer gives Savia a weird look

Savia's brain: Why is she looking at me weird? [ Realization slowly sinks in] Oh, dear god, she thinks I'm hitting on her! She thinks I just asked her to rub Tiger Balm on my ass! Oh, no - this is not good. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't thinking obviously, because really, if I actually wanted to hit on a woman, I would be way more suave than that. (And I'd totally hit on that other dancer over there because, damn, she's hot!) Okay, there is way too much estrogen in this room and it's clearly messing with my brain. Focus. Now, where was I again? Oh, yes. Freaking out because I'm going to get a reputation as that smarmy bellydancer who asks other women to rub her ass! Aaaaagh! She's still looking at me funny - say something!

Savia: So, yeah, if you know any cute guys who aren't crazy, please send them my way.
Dancer: Hey, if I knew any of those, I'd send them my way.

Strained laughter.

Savia's brain: Whew. Can you please take that dance slipper out of your mouth now? It tastes funny.