Retrospecticus

Well, fuck me with a spatula! I did it! I actually made it to Day 30 of NaBloPoMo! Wooo hoo! And and and I didn't cheat once. No backdating of posts, no fudging of the time to turn the clock a few minutes before midnight to get in the post for the day. None of that. Unlike some people I know who will remain nameless. Ahem. Yeah, you know who you are. And if you want me to keep my mouth shut, you will accompany me and my best friend to the Borat movie at our convenience. I await your response, sir.

So, what have we learned in the past month? I've learned that a lot can happen in a month. I've started my own Year of Fearlessness campaign, which I'm hoping some of you will join me in. And I've even undertaken not one, not two, but three acts of fearlessness in that time (well, actually four, but I haven't written about that one yet. We'll talk later).

In this past month, I've turned 31 and found that it's even better than 30. And 30 was pretty great. I've learned to kick that shit to the curb and that some rooms are just not made for cane dancing.

I imagine you've learned a lot in this time, too. Particularly, you've learned a little too much about what Savia does in her spare time and the weird things her brain does when she's doing the crazy pushing-it-to-the-last-absolute-second procrastination thing.

You've learned that not only am I a drama queen, I'm also a princess. What can I say? I like the finer things in life. You've heard about the books I think everyone should read and the best and worst days of my life.

But you've also learned some important life lessons, such as: If you're ever feeling frisky, you should probably just stay out of the kitchen. And, an important drunken cowboy bathroom etiquette lesson that none of us will soon forget.

You know, I'm glad I did this. I wasn't sure I'd make it to Day 30, so I wasn't one of those bloggers who posted the NaBloPoMo logos on her site, or announced to you that I was doing it (until yesterday, that is). I just quietly signed up, crossed my fingers, and hoped that I'd be able to follow through. And now that it's done, it feels really good. Not only because I kept my word, which is really important to me (even though it was a whispered word that no one else really knew about), but also because it got me writing every day. Most times, I had no idea what was going to come out, and a few entries really surprised me. I laughed, I cried, and many times I just shook my head at what was on the screen. The words just flowed, and that's a really good feeling for a writer. I'm going to start on the project that I'm working on with Famous Writer over my Christmas holidays, and I think this whole exercise will help me a great deal when I sit down with that.

When you have no choice (or at least no perceived choice) but to post every day, writing becomes less intimidating. You don't lament over every word and expression; you just do it. It's like what they always told us in J-school: "I don't want it done well; I want it done Tuesday." I'm going to try to take that advice and write more often in this space and elsewhere. I imagine this kind of automatic writing makes the blog more entertaining for those of you who grace me with your presence, too. But I'll let you be the judge of that.

Thanks for coming along for the ride with me this month, Internets. It's been a slice.

Female gaze

I've been going through old journals again. (Hey, it's Day 29 of NaBloPoMo and I'm running out of steam here - cut me some slack.) It's interesting how the old becomes new, how life goes around in a circle, how the same themes play themselves out again and again in my life. So many things have changed, but a lot has stayed the same.

In my search, I found two poems about women who, out of their own insecurities, became fixated on me. I was just living my life, not rubbing anything in anyone's faces, but just living my life as I always do (a slightly neurotic overachiever but basically harmless). But something about me seemed to touch a nerve with these women.

One of them befriended me because she hated me. She even admitted it one day. We had been in a class together and I'm one of those people who always talks in class. I have an opinion on everything, and I'm not afraid to express it. She hated me because she thought I was smarter than her. So, she set out to make me her friend. She sought me out and made it so. And then spent our friendship trying to prove that she was smarter than me. She actually had me believing it, despite the fact that her grades were in the 70s and mine were in the 80s and 90s. She bided her time and then, one day, turned on me and showed her hatred in full force. It was calculated and manipulative and so very intentionally hurtful. I could never imagine doing that to another person. It's still hard for me to get my head around the fact that another human hated me that much - not because of something I did, but because of who I am. Because I'm smart. And nice. And thoughtful. And trusting. Too trusting.

The poem about her is really bad. I'm not posting it here, that's for sure. (There's a good reason to have paper diaries you can shred.)

The other woman was someone I worked with. We knew each other in school, and I had actually helped her to get a really good job. They had offered it to me and I had to turn it down because I had already accepted something else. So, I suggested her because she had the same sort of skill set. I didn't even know her very well - I was just trying to be helpful. Years later, we ended up working together and she was clearly threatened by me. I was The Competition, though I'm not really sure what we were competing for. Who was the prettiest, youngest, most successful gal in the joint? She overtly tried to make my life difficult - spreading rumours throughout the building, doing passive aggressive things, trying to discredit me with higher ups. There was another guy in the office whom she saw as a Big Threat and she was even worse to him - she spent most every day trying to get him fired. You could smell her insecurity like a bad flowery perfume, following her down the hall. My best friend and I dubbed her "Square Chick." She tried so hard to be cool, but she did it in such a self-conscious way that you knew she would never really get there. This is what I wrote about her:

Square Chick

You find self-confidence
at the bottom of a glass
jar of hair goop.
You find self-esteem
at the bottom of a cup
in your push-up bra.
You find self-acceptance
at the bottom of a bottle
of highlighting cream.
And try to convince yourself
you are not
flat.

Some people seem to think that there's only so much success, only so many men, only so much happiness to go around, that they have to sabotage someone else, hurt her, lie, twist words around, or take something away from her in order to get ahead, to feel validated in some way.

It makes me very sad.

I don't know how I always seem to get dragged into these things. Like I said, I just live my life. I am who I am. I think that threatens some people. Because I'm not trying to be someone else. I'm not trying to take something away from anyone. I just am. And I'm not afraid of that. It seems there are a lot of scared people out there. Maybe I remind them of how they wish they could be, but can't? I have no idea. I wish everyone could just feel good about herself. I wish everyone could understand what this feels like. But I can't live their lives for them. They have to figure that one out on their own.

I came across this one in the old journal, too. It still strikes a chord:

Female Gaze

It's funny how you look
to me
all those eyes
and yet
no teeth.

That's it, I give up...princess style

Remember back when I was vowing to take better care of myself and one of the things I was going to do was start grocery shopping and planning meals and bringing lunch to work?

Excuse me a moment. Ha ha ha ha ha ha hah.

Sorry, I had to do that. Ahem. Yeah. Wasn't she cute, the me from September 12? Didn't she have the best of intentions? I'm sure she meant it when she wrote it, but who was she kidding?

Well, what happened is that I started picking up the phone and making plans with people like I had vowed in that entry, and my social life picked up so much that I still don't have time to plan meals or cook. It ain't going to happen. Actually, it probably wouldn't have happened anyway, because I'm a princess, as we have established. (I have a flippin' cleaning person because god forbid I actually lift a finger around my own house. Enough said.)

So, what does a princess do when she needs to eat healthy but can't be bothered to dirty her hands preparing it? Well, she certainly doesn't go through a drive-thru, I'll tell you that. She may get take-out from an upscale joint. But, the ultimate in princess giveupedness is: (sound the trumpets)

A personal chef.

Yes, it's true. I even went out and bought a freezer for this very purpose. It's my first grown-up appliance purchase (all the others came with the house). Anyway, the chef comes to your house, interviews you on your food preferences, creates a personalized menu, does all the grocery shopping, and then brings you the meals you've ordered, all packaged in individual servings for your convenience. Oh, and he's really nice, too, and he doesn't even charge you extra for that.

I was so excited when I signed up for it that I sent him an email that said, "A personal chef! I feel like I'm Oprah or something!" His response? He started spelling my name with an "h" at the end. Saviah. Dude can cook and has a sense of humour. (Of course he's taken. But hey, I'll take the cooking - no complaints here.)

Oh my god - my first menu has my mouth watering. Flounder crusted with pecans...scallops in a garlic tomato cream sauce...Moroccan lemon chicken...

This ain't no Micky D's, my friends. Who wants to come over for supper?

Meditation on fearlessness

A few months ago, a friend of mine signed me up for a "positive thoughts" email service. A few times a week, I receive a positive thinking meditation. I know some of you may be rolling your eyes and thinking, Oh, so she's one of those people. But, you know what? I was skeptical at first, too, but it actually works. It's interesting how calm they make me feel and how they often tap into what's going on in my life at the time. There was one day when I was really angry at someone, and the email ended up being about forgiveness. As I read it, the anger just seemed to melt away.

Anyway, today's email was about fearlessness. Seemed appropriate, given my current fixation on the topic. (Note: I've changed all the references in the text from "God" to "the Universe". I don't do "God". If you do, you're in luck, because the emails talk about God a fair amount. Oh, and I've also fixed up the punctuation, because even though these people think positively, they don't think of using commas and semi-colons. I believe you can have both peace of mind and proper punctuation, thank you very much!)

Hi Savia,

Trust the Universe and let go of all your fears.

Today's Positive Thought:

Without fear, you can easily choose to live honestly and lovingly.

Today's Positive Affirmation:

I AM fearless; therefore, it is easy for me to be honest and loving in all my interactions.

Today's Positive Visualization:

In my mind's eye, I open my heart to love. As I feel the powerful light of love wash over me, I allow it to take away any fear. I feel light and hope as the burden of this fear is lifted from me. I affirm that my faith in the spirit of the Universe within me allows me to release all fear. In my mind's eye, I see myself interacting with others honestly and lovingly because I am fearless. I imagine being honest and loving with myself. I combine these images with the feelings of joy and let them go, knowing that they will create the good things I am visualizing and thinking.

YeeeeeeeeHaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwww

I don't even know where to begin describing my Friday night. Not too long ago, I was complaining that the Universe wasn't handing me blog entries on a silver platter anymore. Well, Friday's platter was encrusted with 24-karat gold and semi-precious jewels, it was.

If you've been reading Schmutzie, you'll know that she recently spent some time at an agricultural trade show. (Oh, and if you haven't been reading Schmutzie, you really should start. And then you should go and vote for her as the Best Blog in the Canadian Blog Awards. Why? Because she deserves it. And also 'cause I said so.) Well, I went to the cowboy cabaret that went along with said agricultural trade show. My friends and I have a history of slumming it in sketchy dive bars, and we felt that this would be the ultimate dive bar experience. We were not disappointed.

Now, what does one wear to an agricultural trade show cowboy cabaret? I really wouldn't know. I've lived in Saskatchewan most of my life, but I've never been to one of these things. There was no point in trying to fit in, because I'm a princess, let's face it. So, I did cowgirl, Savia style: High-heeled brown leather boots that went to the knee, a knee-length jean skirt with a slit up the front, a rhinestone bellydancesque belt, a faded yellow fitted shirt with a girl on a horse on it and "Cowgirls" written in rhinestones across the front, long butter amber earrings that my friend Polka King told me looked like Japanese shinto shrines (they were a beautiful birthday gift from Schmutzie and the Palinode), and of course, pigtails (what is it about pigtails that makes me want to tilt my head from side to side whenever I wear them?)

I certainly wasn't going to pass for a buckle bunny, but then again, I didn't want to.

Where to begin? Ah, yes, the stench. The smell of cow manure hit us the moment we entered the arena. Did I mention the cabaret was taking place right next to where the cattle were housed? You could even see them, situated conveniently behind the bar. Nothing like the odour of cow shit to inspire you to drink - maybe that was the philosophy behind this event? My friends took turns burying their noses in my cleavage to distract themselves - Hugo Boss should change the marketing for its Deep Red perfume. Maybe something like: Deep Red: Will mask the stench of even the rankest bovine manure. If you're into that sort of thing. And we know you are, you naughty, dirty girl.

Surprisingly, we became acclimatized to the smell in no time and had a really great time. There are many opportunities for people watching at a drunken cowboy cabaret:

-The actual buckle bunnies, who weren't wearing a hell of a lot, even though it must have been at least -20 degrees outside (not including the wind chill).

-The shooter girls who ignored us (and we actually wanted to buy shooters) so they could hit on the superstar rodeo guys, who were definitely getting laid that night, at least three times each, perhaps all at the same time.

-The drunk guy who peed himself after commandeering my friend's chair at our table, and who later tried to hit on Cee, pee stain still wet on the front of his jeans. I wrapped myself around her and said, "She's with me," and he drunkenly stumbled away. (I can't believe that actually worked. Most guys hit on us harder when we pull that one. That's how drunk Mr. Pee Pee Pants was.)

-The drunk guy in the wheelchair who wheeled up to another friend of ours and rubbed his head against her ass. She didn't know what to do, because the dude was in a wheelchair for Christsake. Less than five minutes later, dude fell out of his wheelchair because he was so drunk. Didn't your mother ever teach you: never drink and wheel?

-Angry drunk cowboy who almost kicked Polka King's and my asses for rowdy jive dancing to "Runaround Sue". Unlike most, we actually knew what we were doing, but in an arena packed with cowboys and buckle bunnies, you're bound to jive dance into someone. And we jive danced into the wrong someone. Three times. He was not impressed. I looked him up and down. He could totally take Polka King. But I was pretty sure I could take him. "Don't worry, Polka King," I whispered in his ear, "I will defend your honour."

-All of the cute young cowboys who gravitated toward Red. She's gorgeous, nice, approachable, and has pheromones coming out the yin yang. I couldn't blame them for following her around. If I were a young cowboy, I'd do the same. Damn, she's hot.

-Hearing another friend's running commentary on the slow creep of her underwear down to the bottom of her jeans. I think they were too big or the elastic was shot? Either way, she came back from the bathroom at one point in the night with a suspicious bulge in her pocket. We tried to convince her to throw them at the band (who were actually pretty good). No dice. Maybe after a few more rye and cokes?

But by far the high point of the night for me was male friend's description of the rowdy drunken cowboy bathroom behaviour. He sat down at our table (in the same chair that Mr. Pee Pee Pants would later wet himself in) with a traumatized look on his face. I knew that look. It was the same look he had when he came back from the men's bathroom in the dive bar a few months earlier. "What happened? You can tell me." I prompted. He seemed as though he couldn't even talk about it, spending some time to find a way to put it delicately: "All I can say is, if you go to the bathroom, don't wash your hands. I know that's a weird thing to say, but don't do it."

He then proceeded to weave a tale, complete with hand gestures and bizarre facial expressions, that still has me laughing hysterically, days later. Apparently, drunken cowboys aren't used to waiting in line for the bathroom (try being a girl - we always have to wait!) They get impatient. There were a bunch of cowboys crowded into each bathroom stall, peeing into the same toilet. And a few of them weren't able to aim that well, (prompting male friend to make a hand gesture similar to a fireman losing control of his fire hose). Mr. Pee Pee Pants himself was there as well, but he was so drunk that he was unable to pee except in intermittent spurts. Other cowboys were trying to give him tips as he peed all over himself and the bathroom.

Then, just as male friend was washing his hands, a drunken cowboy sidled up to the same sink and began peeing there. The other drunken cowboys thought this was a grand idea and proceeded to use the sinks, too. A helpful cowboy gave them the tip to turn on the taps to help wash everything down.

Male friend got the hell out of there and twitched back at our table, wondering if he'd ever be the same person again after the horror of what he'd seen. I considered offering to let him smell my cleavage again (you know, like smelling salts or something), and questioned if my love of dive bars was going to scar him for life one of these days.

Oh my god, I hurt from laughing. That was, by far, one of the best nights ever. But you know what? If I ever have to pick between riding a horse and a cowboy, I choose the horse!

Migraine

Tonight was the night I was to make my cane dancing debut. (Note: I was able to kick that cane's sorry ass and make that motherfucker stay on my head after all.) The day started off pretty well. I went to the venue to help set up at 2 p.m. My jaw was feeling a little off and it felt as though it might be acting up, so I took a super strength liquid @dvil before I left the house. At about 3 p.m., I knew something was wrong. I felt detached from the world around me. Everything seemed a little fuzzy, as though there were a grey haze in the room. The pain began in my lower jaw and slowly crept up the side of my face to my temples, and then across my forehead. I ignored it. There is work to do, and I have to perform tonight. They need me. I'll get past it. It will go away, I told myself.

I heard my name. It sounded ethereal to me, like it was coming through a bank of clouds or a thick fog. It sounded pretty. I like my name. I couldn't tell who was saying it, or if it was just in my mind. Savia. Savia. I finally figured out that someone was talking to me. But I couldn't tell what she was saying. She was gesturing something, asking me to perform some menial task. I smiled and nodded to make her go away. I still don't know what she said. I didn't care. My mind fixated on one thought: I have to get out of here. Get out. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout. I popped another liquid @dvil. Something was very wrong.

Close to tears, I went up to my dance instructor, "I think I'm getting a migraine. I think it's really bad. I think I need to lie down." I must have looked pretty rough, because she let me go right away, asking if I'd be okay to perform that night. "I...don't...know." I couldn't think that far ahead. I just needed to get out of there.

I have no idea how I made it home. How I got behind that wheel or turned that key. I only remember snippets of the car ride. I remember sobbing the whole way home, looking in the rear view mirror to see my eyelashes clumped together from the moisture, my face streaked with tears. I remember the searing pain radiating up the sides of my face. I don't remember the other cars or the streetlights or the route I took. It was as though an automatic pilot took over.

When I got home, the phone was ringing. Its shrill ring pierced my ears. I turned off all the lights - they were too bright. Darkness. Darkness. Silence. It hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts. The call was from Cee. I phoned her back, sobbing, sobbing. The pain wouldn't stop. The tears wouldn't stop. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was choking. "It...hurts...so...much. It feels...claustrophobic...inside my head. Nothing will touch it. I can't make it stop. It hurts it hurts. I'm letting everyone down."

She said the perfect things. The absolute most perfect things. I stopped crying. The drugs kicked in. I went to bed. My body felt heavy and limp and sunk into the mattress. I felt drunk. It took too much effort to move. Heavy and limp. Helpless yet safe. I started shaking and shivering, suddenly very cold. The cats curled up on top of me to keep me warm. Darkness. Warmth. Peace.

When I woke up, I felt a bit better, but still drunk. I called Muscially Speaking and cried to her on the phone for awhile. She said the most perfect things, too. I reminded myself that I'm on the wait list for jaw surgery and that, hopefully, in a few months, this will all be over. I began to long for the bone saw.

I never did the cane dance. But for the record, if I had, it would have rocked.

Baggage Claim

I found this in a very old journal. It's funny how some things never change.

Baggage Claim

As we boarded Air Canada flight 3522,
it was obvious that I was travelling lighter than you.
With my backpack, purse and camera,
all matching of course,
I was the picture of the prepared traveller.
I don't pretend not to have baggage;
it's there for all to see.
I don't even lock it.

Undo a zipper in a compartment
and you'll find a pedophile curled up in there.
Try not to give him too much air;
he doesn't deserve it.
Unbutton another pocket
and you'll see a small alcoholic male role model.
Don't worry, though;
he's just a stuffed doll.
A velcro flap will reveal
some mother issues
(What gal doesn't have them?),
but velcro is pretty strong.

I don't mind if customs goes through my bags;
I have nothing to hide.
But what about you?

Your luggage is mismatched,
beat-up,
old.
You have a carry on,
two suitcases with wheels
a laptop computer,
a garment bag,
two large cartons...
Oh, yes, and your cat drugged up in a crate.

You checked two of your bags under my name
to avoid paying extra fees.
Yet you disappeared
as I was being stripped
and probed.
Never looked back when I called for help.

I still have your baggage in my living room.
It's been almost two years.
When are you going to come and pick it up?

Or should I just toss it
out
with my banana peels
and pickle brine?

Poetry Thursday

I wrote this years ago about a toxic person whom I had to cut out of my life. I am trotting it out in honour of Poetry Thursday and as a reminder to myself that it's never a mistake to kick that shit to the curb.

Island Goddess

Michelle
Shelly
Shell of a human being
Face fat and bloated like a corpse floated out to sea
You thought you could sea me
But as I went under for the third time
I found the shore line
and left you
to dance on your island
Alone.

(Perhaps instead of dancing around
in your grass skirt
you should have learned
to swim.)

Philosophy

I was telling a friend of mine about my Year of Fearlessness campaign today. "I have a story to tell you about fearlessness," she said.

Her husband does a lot of hang gliding, and he explained his process to her like this:

"I stand on the edge of a cliff. And if the conditions are right, I commit. I run off that cliff, and I never look back."

Commit. Run off the cliff. Never look back.

I can't think of a better way to capture what I'm trying to do right now - that just says it all.

Oh, and if you're tired of hearing me talk about fearlessness, go and read Grumpiest Girl in the Room's entry on the topic. (Thanks for the link, Schmutzie.)

Acts of fearlessness, the third

I received an email from a friend the other day that began, "I have a little proposition for you..." Apparently, she's having a festive party and wants me to dance as part of the evening's entertainment.

Once I read that, I immediately started hyperventilating and stuck my head between my knees. Okay, bellydancing in front of a bunch of strangers on a stage is one thing. Dancing half-naked in front of my friends - in a word: Aaaaaaghhhh!

No one I know has seen me dance yet. It's more than a little intimidating. I think what's hard about it is that when you're on a stage, in whatever role, you play a character. Strangers don't know who you really are - they can believe the illusion without much effort. Your friends, though - they know it's an act, so you have to work even harder to get them to buy into it. And you care what they think - you want them to like it. You want to make sure it's perfect; you want them to be proud of you. And that's the intimidating part - not so much that they'll judge you, but the fact that you'll judge yourself on their behalf.

As I was sitting there, head between my knees, almost passing out at the prospect of the half-naked friend lap dance gig, I remembered, oh, yeah. Year of fearlessness. Fuck. Well, I've got to do it. Made a promise on my blog. Gotta be accountable to the readers.

(Hi guys! This is what happens when you open up your life to the Internets - you have to be accountable and all that crap. Motherfucker. What was I thinking?)

So, I did what any fearless girl would. I emailed my friend and told her I'd do it. Then I put my head back between my knees for awhile because I felt dizzy. And after that, I bought a red bra (seemed festive to me) and some sequins, and I made this:

And...uh...that's my costume. Yup...that's what I'm going to wear, I am.

So, I'm thinking - body image issues? Pretty much over. Or they're going to have to be, because I'm going to shake what the good dude gave me. And it's going to rock.

Everybody dance now!

Oh happy day

When you look back on your life, what stands out as your happiest moment? The first thing that pops into my mind is my high school graduation, which to some would seem odd, considering all that I've accomplished since then. But if you knew my whole story, this revelation wouldn't surprise you.

My Grade 12 year was a difficult one. My first boyfriend, the first man I had ever loved and trusted, had left to follow his dream to join the army. I was devastated. I remember spending hours lying in a dark room, crying. I let my homework slide, I wrote him everyday, I lamented my loss to the high school guidance counsellor on a regular basis. (His advice? Men are like buses - another one will come along before you know it. "But I like my bus!" I cried.) We did maintain a long-distance relationship, but eventually, I realized that my adolescent trauma was affecting my grades, and I'd better pull my shit together and knock it off, so I did.

Part of the reason grades were so important to me was that my family was poor, and I knew that I wouldn't make it to university if I didn't get scholarships, and lots of them. My father's death had left us without an income, except for the federal widow and orphan pension and some money in a savings account. After seven years, the savings dried up and my mother tried to get a job. However, because she had been a stay-at-home mom since I was born, she found that most workplaces viewed her as unqualified. It was absolutely demoralizing for her and for us to watch her be rejected again and again and again. We ended up on welfare, and that barely covered the bills. I remember opening the fridge on more than one occasion to find it empty. There were times she didn't eat so that we could. No one knew how bad it was for us. My brother and I went to school every day like everyone else, dressed like everyone else, laughed like everyone else. They never knew the difference.

I did have a job to help me with some spending money, but I ended up injuring my back lifting a heavy box and could no longer work there because my boss refused to move me to a different area. I spend much of this year high on painkillers and in physiotherapy as a result. I did get worker's compensation for a few months, but eventually, they cut me off, too.

And then there was the day that will stand out in my memory as The Worst Day of My Life. The day my brother and I almost became orphans. Our lives weren't perfect, but we had been maintaining some semblance of normalcy; we were trying our best to be regular teenagers like everyone else. And then this day came along and shattered every illusion we had. Getting called into the principal's office, being told by a social worker that our mother was in the hospital and had almost died. Looking into each other's olive green eyes and knowing that we, the two of us, were the only people we could count on in this world. Holding each other and sobbing.

In the following weeks, I became the mom, visiting my mother in the hospital, paying bills, doing the grocery shopping, cooking, making sure my brother didn't get into too much trouble, and somehow finding time to study, do homework and apply for numerous scholarships. Looking back, I have no idea how I did all that, at the age of 17. I don't know if I could do it now.

I was terrified. Terrified that I wouldn't make it to university. Terrified that I would fall through the cracks. Terrified that I wouldn't be a success. Terrified that I would have to live by the cards that I had been dealt by life.

But then high school graduation came. I sat on that stage, in the front row of a class of 250 students, shaking with anticipation. This was the moment of truth. The scholarships and awards were announced before the diplomas were handed out. I heard my name called. I jumped up, walked across the stage, accepted the scholarship, and made a circle back to my seat. Then, I heard my name called again. And again. And again. And again. I made that loop around that stage five or six times. Although I didn't have the highest average in my graduating class (I think I was seventh), I racked up more scholarships and awards than those with grades much higher than mine.

My guidance counsellor, who knew everything that had happened that year, was at the end of the stage, high-fiving me every time I came by. When I went across yet again to accept my diploma, I looked at him and said, "Oh my god, I made it. I'm really going to university, aren't I?" He replied, "Yes, you are, Savia. You did it," and hugged me.

I couldn't stop beaming. In fact, when you see the pictures of me from that day, I am absolutely glowing with joy. I still can't believe all that I had to go through to make it there. I can't look back on that time without getting choked up. But it also reminds me of the incredible inner strength I have, and had even at that young age.

That girl didn't need to be rescued. She saved herself.

Reason #57 why...

...you shouldn't bellydance with a cane on your head in your kitchen:

Damn. I really liked that wine glass. It had a green stem and blue goblet - it kind of looked like a tulip. I guess I will have to keep my next wine party to five people.

Why was I dancing with a cane on my head in my kitchen, you ask? Because when I was dancing with a cane on my head in my living room, I took out the light on my ceiling fan.

This little hobby of mine is starting to get very expensive, and more than a little dangerous. But I'm not going to quit until I can get that motherfucking cane to balance on my head, damnit.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm stubborn as all hell, and if someone ever tells me that I can't do or have something, I'm even more determined to make it so. What Savia wants, Savia gets, no exceptions, babycakes. I've lived the majority of my life proving people wrong. So, the short version of the story is that this cane better quit fucking with me or I’m going to take that bastard out. I don't care if I smash every lamp, glass, and appliance in my house, or even bonk a few animals on the head in the process, this cane is going to stay on my head, 'cause I said so.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a house full of breakables that need my graceful touch.

Minor disappointments

Last night, I was in the bathroom at a pub, brushing some spinach dip out of my braces, when a woman came in. She checked herself out in the mirror, used the facilities, washed her hands, and left.

And that was it. It was so disappointing, considering what happened the last time I was in this situation.

As the door closed behind her, I wanted to yell out, "I'm brushing my teeth at the bar! Don't you realize that this is The Hottest Thing Ever?

I guess the Universe doesn't always hand you blog entries on a silver platter.

Sigh.

Important distinction

Dance instructor: Savia, your movements are too big - you're dancing with your legs too far apart. Remember what I told you: bellydancers dance with their knees together; strippers dance with their legs apart.

Oops! It appears my secret living room cabaret dancing has been creeping into my professional dancing. But for the record, I dance like a hooker, not a stripper. There's a big difference.

Human rights violations and all that jazz

George Bush should hire my orthodontist to torture suspected terrorists into submission.

While strapped in the chair, I had the urge to scream out: "Yes, it's true! I kill baby kittens in my spare time and I like it! Please, just stop!"

Dear motherfucking lord.

Excuse me while I medicate myself into an oblivion.

Expect magic

I'm a control freak, I admit it. Or at least I used to be. I'm starting to get better; I'm starting to, as the alcoholics like to say, "Let go and let god." It's been a gradual progression, this letting go of absolute power, and sometimes, you still have to pry me out of the driver's seat of my life by my fingernails. But the more I go along with it, the more I realize that there are times when you just have to let the Universe take you where it may.

About a year ago, I was meditating and a phrase popped into my head. It was, "What is yours will come to you." I had been worrying, over thinking, and trying to meticulously plan my life, because that's what I do. And suddenly, there was this seemingly random thought, this passive idea that flew in the face of everything that I believed, everything that I thought I was. It terrified and excited me at the same time. It felt profound. Really? So you're saying that if it's mine, then it will be mine. It will just be. I don't have to fight all the time. I don't have to kill myself trying to meet all of these goals. It will just come when it's time.

I wrote the words on a post-it note and stuck it on my computer. Actually, I put the note on the side of my computer so no one coming into my office would be able to see it. But I knew it was there. After a few months, I was a little less timid and moved the note to the front of the computer. One of my coworkers noticed it and made me another note to stick beside it. This one said, simply, "Expect magic." Eventually, both notes just became part of the scenery. I no longer noticed the words; they just blended into the background of my everyday life.

Just yesterday, my eyes focused on them again and I saw them as if for the first time. I finally understood the full impact of what they meant, because I realized that it's actually happened. What is mine has come to me, in the most unexpected and wonderful way. On my birthday, something happened that will change my life. I have a feeling it will change aspects of my life that I'm not even aware of yet. It seems as though this amazing thing just fell out of the sky into my lap. The way it came about - through chance, through the kindness and thoughtfulness of others, through the culmination of everything that I've done in my personal and professional life - it was as though the Universe was handing me this exceptional gift. Like it was saying, "Here you go, Savia. We've been saving this just for you."

Oddly enough, my first instinct was to fight it, to run from it, to sabotage it somehow. As though maybe I didn't really deserve this or that it must be some mistake. But then I remembered the notes, and I knew: this is it. This is what I've been waiting for. It has come, and it is mine.

I'm not wearing my good shoes for this one

There comes a time in a thirty-something gal's life when you just gotta kick that shit to the curb.

Allow me to demonstrate:

Ah, that feels so much better. I've really got to do that more often. Actually, I know I will.

I've spent so much of my life making excuses for other people's behaviour, putting myself in their shoes, sacrificing my needs to make everyone else feel better. But you know what? I've had enough. It's time to clean house. It's time to stop taking on other people's shit.

No more loser men with so much baggage that Air Canada won't fly their asses to Moose Jaw (thanks to Musically Speaking for that lovely turn of phrase), no more excuses for treating me disrespectfully, no more soul-sucking "friends", no more sociopathic chameleons, no more allowing people to manipulate me into feeling sorry for them over stuff that they've done to themselves, no more feeling guilty for putting myself first. I'm done. The shit is getting kicked to the curb, my friends. Because that's where it belongs.

Any questions?

Book me

I like to analyze people, to understand what makes them tick. Sometimes I'll ask them something out of the blue, just to see what their response will be. One of my favourite questions, at the moment, is: "What is the one book you think everyone should read, and why?" I think you can learn a lot about people by the way they answer this question. There is no wrong answer - you could say just about anything as long as you had a good reason why. Okay, maybe there is one wrong answer, and that would be, "I never read novels." But that alone tells you a lot about the person, so you're always learning something new with this one.

Last year, my dear friend, Musically Speaking, moved far, far away to live with Orpheus. She assured me he was a wonderful, and our friend Dee had been the one to set them up, but I had never met the guy, myself. I was worried about her making this huge life change and moving to a place where she would know no one other than him. I finally got the chance to meet him this April, under less than stellar circumstances (the day after Dee's funeral, at a wedding, and also the day my ex had begun lying to me.) I had told Musically Speaking in advance, "This dude has to prove to me that he's worthy of you, so I'm going to give him the gears." I grilled the poor guy all night about his intentions toward my friend. And then, I gave him the kicker, the ultimate question, "Quick, tell me the one book you think everyone should read, and why."

Without blinking, he said, "I think dystopian fiction is really important," and then listed off several books, including 1984 by George Orwell, which is also on my list.

My knees buckled. "Oh, my god, he said dystopian," I thought. The very fact that he even knows that word is hot. "Okay, you can marry her. But if you fuck her over, ever, I'm coming after you. Do you understand?" He did. So, we danced all night. They got engaged two months later. And I'm going to tell this story at their wedding, minus the swearing, of course.

It's not fair to ask anyone this kind of a question without having your own response prepared, so I have a list upon which I draw when people try to turn the tables on me. The book and explanation I choose depend on my mood and to whom I'm talking at the time. Here's the current short list:

1. Night by Elie Weisel
2. Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
3. Howard's End by E.M. Forster
4. Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris
5. Middlemarch by George Eliot
6. Life of Pi by Yann Martel
7. 1984 by George Orwell
8. Fall on Your Knees by Ann Marie Macdonald
9. Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M. Coetzee
10. The Bone People by Keri Hulme

Okay, you've got mine. Now, tell me yours. Keep in mind that I will be judging you on your response. That's the whole point, isn't it?

Fucking utensils, a guide

Recently, my gal schmutzie posted a poem that contained the lines, "we'll get high/and fuck kitchen utensils". I have become a little fixated on this idea of fucking utensils ever since. How would one go about it? Which utensils would be fuck-friendly, if any? I mean, a lot of them are quite pointy. Maybe you would have to be really high to fuck them. These are the things I think about, but then again, I'm a procrastinator, so it helps fill the void.

I went through my kitchen and separated my utensils into a few categories: "Definitely Not Fuckable", "Potentially Fuckable, Perhaps with Some Modification", and "Sure, Let's Fuck". This is not an exhaustive list, because the inventory was taken in my kitchen, and you don't need a lot of utensils to order take-out. Please feel free to make your own additions in the comments.*

Definitely Not Fuckable:
-Sharp, pointy knives (Dull ones may work, I suppose.)
-Anything with prongs ("Let's fork" is a great pick-up line, but not very practical when it comes to actual forking.)
-Corkscrew (Ironic you can't screw this, isn't it?)
-Tongs with the serrated edges (Ow.)
-Cheese grater (Yikes!)

Potentially Fuckable, Perhaps with Some Modification:
-Wooden spoon (As long as you're careful to avoid splinters.)
-Can opener (The hand-held kind; handle first, of course.)
-Garlic press (See instructions for can opener.)
-Ladle (Business end first only if you're really experienced and have gradually worked your way up through other utensils. Otherwise, stick to the handle. Tee hee - I said "stick".)
-Measuring cups (See instructions for ladle.)

Sure, Let's Fuck:
-Chopsticks
-Measuring spoons
-Salad tongs
-Spatula (Start with the thinner ones and progress to the wider varieties.)
-Whisk

Happy utensil fucking, my dear Internets. Play safe, and remember that lube is your best friend. (And I'm guessing that the higher you are, the better.)

*Saviabella cannot be held legally responsible for any injuries that may result from improper utensil fucking techniques or inadequate use of lubricant.

Acts of fearlessness, the second

Earlier this month, I decided to make a change to the way I live my life. I am making a concerted effort to become fearless. And it all starts with the little things.

I hate malls. I hate the people who go to malls. Particularly around Christmas time. People brushing up against you with their screaming kids. Ugh. No. I'll do my shopping in August or online, thank you very much. As an introvert, I find that when I'm out in public situations with crowds of strangers, I tend not to notice individuals. I have no desire to scan the crowd in search of someone I may know or want to know. I never look anyone in the eye - I pretend they're not there. If guys look at me, I often quickly look away. In these situations, I even dread running into an acquaintance because it would distract me from the task at hand and would keep me in this situation longer. My mind wanders and my eyes become unfocussed. I get in and get out, and that's the way it's always been.

But, lately, I've begun to wonder: What would it be like if I did things differently, if I stepped outside of my comfort zone and began reaching out to others, even others I don't know? In our urban society, people are so disconnected from one another. What if we tried to connect with strangers, even in a small way? What if we did look each other in the eye, smile, say 'hi', strike up random conversations? What would our world be like then?

I went shopping today. One mall in town has a pool hall in it. As I was walking by, a cute guy came out of the pub. I saw him look directly at me. I felt my stomach clench and I wanted to look away and avoid eye contact as usual. But then something surprising happened. I met his gaze burst into the biggest smile imaginable - there were teeth and everything. He smiled back and said, "You have a beautiful smile." I smiled again, and said, "Well, thank you very much," and continued walking by.

It felt so good. And every time I think about it, it makes me smile more. I haven't stopped all day.

Eww?

There's this guy that I see around a lot and I have a total crush on him. He's really hot. I ran into him the other day and was gushing to my friend about it.

Savia: He's so incredibly hot. He's tall, with broad shoulders, really beautiful green eyes, full lips, this great jaw line...

And then I stopped, because I began to realize that this guy, the guy I had been lusting after for the last year, the guy who has this intangible hotness about him that I can't exactly put my finger on...he kinda looks like my brother.

Oh dear god. What is wrong with me? I'm hot for a dude that looks like my bro. Like, they could be brothers, which would make him my brother, too, which is really, really wrong.

But then, I realized something else. My brother looks exactly like me. People often ask if we're twins. In fact, there have been times we mess with people and tell them we are. One of those times was on his 19th birthday. After telling everyone we were twins, I then said, "Yeah, I wanted to take him out for his 19th birthday." The gal I was talking to said, "Doesn't that make it your birthday, too?" I paused, confused, and then replied, "Oh, I guess so. I forgot."

So, if I'm hot for a dude who looks like my brother, and my brother looks exactly like me, then it naturally follows that I'm hot for myself. I want to do me.

Trust Savia to take narcissism to a new level. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something ahem to take care of...

Fitness, drama queen style

Today, I got up and went to work, where I had electrodes strapped to me, my fat was pinched and prodded by a relative stranger, and I was politely asked to contort my body in ways that were more than a little unnatural. Now, you may be wondering, gee, Savia's never mentioned working as a paid guinea pig before. This process is actually sold to us as a benefit of employment. Each year, we're entitled to a free, very thorough fitness assessment. I had my first one done last April and thought it would be kind of neat to get one done now, after I had lost all the weight, just to see the difference it made on paper.

I got the same Fitness Dude as last year, and we had a lot of fun. His schedule was supposed to be totally open today and he was looking forward to a day off, and then I went and booked the appointment late yesterday. His first thought? "Damn!" Until he saw my name, and then it was, "Oh, it's Savia. Well, this will be fun." This dude had only met me once before and he already knew that I'm more than a little entertaining in these situations.

I really like to laugh at myself, and I had a lot of material today. First, there was the treadmill test. Last year I walked it, but this time I let him convince me to run.

Fitness Dude: So, are you a runner?
Savia: [Laughs hysterically] Hell no! But I can dance with a cane on my head.
Fitness Dude: [Laughs and shakes his head] That's pretty impressive. But it probably won't come in handy today. For this test, you need to be able to run for about six minutes, and we'll increase the grade on the treadmill at regular intervals. Do you think you can do that?
Savia: Oh, yeah, sure, that won't be hard.

Fitness Dude starts the treadmill. Savia warms up with a brisk walk for a few minutes and then begins to run. There is a chart on the wall that gauges the comfort or discomfort of the runner in numerical form, ranging from one to 20. One is no effort at all, 10 is moderate, 17 is very difficult, 20 is psychotically impossible. You get the drift.

Fitness Dude: Are you comfortable at this pace?
Savia: I'd be more comfortable if my ass weren't flopping and jiggling around back there. What the hell is that?
Fitness Dude: Maybe we could set that as a goal for next time. You could start running more and it would end up jiggling less.
Savia: Ah, I'm a bellydancer. It's supposed to jiggle. Half our moves involve the jiggling of ass fat. [Looks eagerly at clock on computer] Hey - the clock is almost at six minutes. That means I can stop, right?
Fitness Dude: Um, actually, we only started running at the three-minute mark, so you still have three minutes left.
Savia: Oh, dear god, I'm going to die.
Fitness Dude: You can stop at any time, but the longer you're on, the better your results will be.
Savia: I can't do this. I can't do this. How can this only be three minutes??
Fitness Dude: You can totally do this. Only two minutes and thirty seconds left.
Savia: Seventeen!
Fitness Dude: What?
Savia: Seventeen [pointing at wall chart] That's what this is - seventeen! Seventeen, damnit!! Oh dear mother of god.
Fitness Dude: Let me know when it gets to eighteen.
Savia: Is it over yet?
Fitness Dude: Two minutes.
Savia: I'm going to die and my corpse will fly off this treadmill, or maybe even get caught in the belt, and you're going to have to deal with that, you know? My tragic and gory death will be on your head.
[Okay, maybe I only thought that one. It's all very foggy and delirious in my head.]
Fitness Dude: You're doing great. We're almost there.
Savia: Kill me now.

I did finally make it to the end without dying or becoming conveyor belt road kill, which was a plus. I never thought six minutes could be so long. The other test that almost killed me was the push-ups. I am a stereotypical girl with no upper body strength, and I know this. But for some reason, I was really cocky going into this test.

Fitness Dude: So, you ready for this?
Savia: Totally. How many of these did I do last year?
Fitness Dude: I'm not telling you.
Savia: But I want to kick my own ass!
Fitness Dude: Just do as many as you can.
Savia: I think I did 25 or something. [Psyching herself up, while lying face down on a mat] Hey Self. Yeah, I'm talking to you. You think you're so tough. Well, I'm taking you down - I'm going to kick your ass, Self! Oh, yeah, just watch me. You'll be sorry you ever met me! Take that!! [Starts doing push-ups]
Fitness Dude: [Laughing] One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...
Savia: Oh my god, I can't do this. This is really hard.
Fitness Dude: Keep going - you can do it.
Savia: I'm totally not going to kick my own ass.
Fitness Dude: 10, 11, 12...
Savia: Seventeen! This is seventeen!
Fitness Dude: 20, 21, 22...
Savia: [Picks a number to aim for and sets her stubborn mind on getting there. Mumbles something incoherent to self.]
Fitness Dude: 29, 30, 31
Savia: [Collapses on the mat, out of breath] I...just...wanted...to do as many...push-ups...as years I've been...alive.
Fitness Dude: Wanna know how many you did last year?
Savia: [Mumbling face-first into the mat Mmmmmnnnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhmmmm
Fitness Dude: You only did 20 last year - that's quite the improvement. And you wanted to stop after eight. Good job! Now, we're done, so you can go and get changed.
Savia: [Mumbling into mat] Do I have to? Can't I just stay here? I...can't...move...my...arms. See? [Her pathetic arm barely raises from the mat and flops back down. Sadly, this is not an overdramatic exaggeration.]
Fitness Dude: [Laughing his head off] Seriously, you made my morning.

Later, he walked me through the results. The strength and flexibility stayed pretty much the same, as did the cardio and blood pressure. The big difference was in the measurements and weight. Since last April, I had lost 31 pounds, 14.4 inches, and five points off my BMI rating. But here was the kicker: I had lost major inches off every body part - 6.6 off my waist, 3.2 off my chest, and 5.8 off my hips. But my thighs? After losing 31 pounds, I had actually gained 1.2 inches on each of those suckers!

Motherfucker!! When he told me, I couldn't stop laughing. I've had these thighs since Grade Seven, so I've accepted them, but 31 pounds and no difference? That just killed me. Fitness Dude tried to blame it on his measurement-taking abilities, but I knew better. You just can't fuck with heredity. Sometimes, you just gotta accept your god-given shape and love it for what it is.

31 and counting

It was my 31st birthday yesterday. A friend of mine called to wish me a happy one and teased, "You're 21 today, aren't you?"

"I'm 31 and I'm proud of it, thank you very much," was my response. I feel no need to hold on to my 20s. I hold no nostalgia for a time that I characterize as feeling lost and unsure of myself, my direction in life, and who I was. For me, hitting 30 was a relief, a new beginning, and with it came the feeling that I was finally starting to catch up to the age I felt inside. Everything suddenly started to fall into place in my life. I began feeling more secure in myself, taking more risks, and my body dropped the excess weight it had been carrying for half a decade.

About 10 months into being 30, though, things really began to change. It's hard to describe. I began feeling really happy, productive, creative, energetic, and just plain good about myself. I am positively vibrating with energy and emotion, a variety of feelings trapped just beneath the surface threatening to break through at any moment.

When I went to visit Famous Writer recently, she asked me why I was picking up this piece of creative writing now, after ten years of it sitting in a drawer.

"I don't know for sure. It just needs to be written. I just know it has to be done. I think it has something to do with being 30." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wondered if they sounded a bit nuts. I'm 30, so I have to write this? What the heck is that supposed to mean? But she understood. She knew exactly what I was getting at:

"There's nothing like being 30, is there, Savia? The past and the present are both rushing at you at the same time. Things are coming at you from all sides and you feel completely overwhelmed. It's almost like hitting puberty again. All these hormones are coursing through your body and you don't even know who you are anymore. But you have to remember, they're your hormones. It's still you in there. The time between 30 and 37 is a time of incredible energy, life force and creativity. There is a strong, almost insatiable drive for life. There is nothing that compares to being 30. The only thing that comes anywhere close is turning 50."

She described what I was feeling so well that I had tears of gratitude welling in my eyes. It was such a relief to know that this was real, that I wasn't going crazy, that this was something special that I could channel and make my own. I no longer felt like throwing up. Instead, I just wanted to write.

Acts of fearlessness, the first

A few weeks ago, I undertook my first act of fearlessness. I pressed "send" on an email, a very significant email, an email that both terrified and excited me. The moment I clicked that button, the screen blurred before my eyes and a wave of nausea washed over me. Oh, dear god, what have I done?

The email contained a piece of creative writing I had begun ten years earlier and then locked in a drawer. I would think about it every once in awhile, wondering if I should do something with it, submit it somewhere, have someone read it. I had this strong feeling that there was something there, but at the same time, I was terrified that there really wasn't anything special about it. That maybe it was too overdramatic. That people would judge me as a person based on what I had written, and their judgment would be: who the hell does she think she is? She can't write worth shit. The piece's existence nagged at me in the back of my head, but I continued to push it down and avoid it. I struggled between wanting to know its potential and not wanting to know. It actually wasn't much of a struggle - my "ignorance is bliss" instinct continued to win the day quite handily, like an Olympic athlete competing against an elementary school student.

Then, this summer, something happened. It was like a door opened and suddenly, I had all kinds of ideas for the piece. I started talking about it to other people, telling them about the plot, the characters, the themes, the vision. I opened the drawer, blew off the dust, and began adding new scenes, character traits, dialogue. The piece began to evolve, almost on its own. It's like it said, "Tough shit, Savia. I'm going to see the light of day whether you like it or not. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The hard way involves plucking out those little hairs on your eyebrows that make you sneeze, and you know how much you hate that. But either way, I'm coming up and you're going to have to fall into line, bitch."

With an attitude like that, what choice did I have? Clearly, it meant business and I was along for the ride. After a certain point, I had stared at it and worked at it long enough that I didn't know what to do anymore. I needed to talk to someone who knew the genre and who could help steer me in the right direction. The feeling was even stronger, that feeling that there was something there in this piece, something powerful. But for some reason, it wasn't working. Something was off, something wasn't quite right, and I needed help. That's where the email came in. I mustered up the courage to send the piece to a Famous Writer for a critique.

When she finally contacted me for an appointment, and I realized she'd actually be reading my work, the piece that no one, not even my best friends had read, I started hyperventalating. I emailed Schmutzie right away: "Schmutzie! Famous Writer got back to me and we're going to meet this week to talk about my writing. Now, I'm going to crawl under my desk and throw up on my own shoes. Just thought you should know."

Her response was: "If you were a rabbit, you wouldn't have this problem. It is physiologically impossible for a rabbit to vomit."

For some reason, that made me feel better. Having a weird and wonderful fact about quiet, vomitless furry creatures on which my paranoid could fixate was strangely comforting. She always knows the right thing to say, that Schmutzie.

So, I took my Gr@vol and tentatively inched my way into Famous Writer's office, not knowing what to expect. Would she think my writing was pure tripe? Would she wonder what kind of fucked up childhood I must have had to produce this kind of piece? Would she tear me to shreds? Did she have anything to say that would actually help me? Did she even know what she was talking about? I had no clue. All I knew is that I had to do this. And I had to do it without retching on either of our persons or footwear.

We spoke for more than an hour and a half. About everything. Writing, music, turning 30, creative drive, hormones - just everything. She asked me provocative questions about my work that started the wheels in my head turning - making me see all kinds of possibilities to take the piece in a different direction, to make it even more powerful. And then she said the magic words, "Your instincts are right. There is something there. You just have to sit down and write, and it will come."

There is something there. And I'm going to find it.

Procrastination vacation probation

Guess what I've been doing? Actually, guess what I've not been doing? And then after that, what I did? Are you totally confused? That's because I'm high on ginseng and caffeine and adrenaline right now and I don't make a whole lot of sense, even in my own fucked up little head! Because what I was doing was procrastinating, and what I was not doing was my seminar paper, and then what I did at the last possible second was said paper, and now I'm all strung out and hyper because it's over.

Woo hoo.

Now, you're probably thinking, Savia, haven't you learned anything from this whole experience? And the answer is: no, you can bet my sweet bellydancing ass that I haven't. I had four whole days to do this paper and I didn't actually sit down to write it until 12:30 p.m. today. Did I mention I had to deliver it at 7 p.m.? So, what the heck was I doing all weekend that I couldn't actually get around to the damn thing? Well, there was a whooooooooole lot of this shit and then there was party preparation and general obsessing about how people would judge me based on my house. And generally just plain, old fashioned all-around avoidance. On the plus side, I didn't make myself cry over it this time. See, I'm getting better.

Twitch

So, in celebration of my release from the hell that I created for myself, I give you a list of words that rhyme with procrastination, which may or may not have been what I was doing, thinking or feeling when I was definitely not working on my paper. I'll let you decide which ones are real, and if I missed anything really obvious that I should have been thinking, feeling or doing, please let me know in the comments.

Sedation
Administration
Masturbation
Vibration
Gyration
Examination
Deviation
Self-congratulation
Reconsideration
Procreation
Extermination
Domination
Penetration
Relaxation
Alienation
Conjugation
Determination
Ovulation
Fixation
Proliferation
Incapacitation
Misappropriation
Confabulation
Fornication
Rehydration
Constipation
Detoxification
Exfoliation
Isolation
Hesitation
Oration
Commemoration
Gesticulation
Impersonation
Annihilation
Cannibalization
Tubal ligation
Fire station

International party girl

My birthday is in a few days, and lovely surprises have already started showing up on my doorstep. In one day, three presents arrived, and they all had something in common - each came from a different part of the world. First, there were the earrings. A friend bought them from an artist on the streets of Bratislava. Aren't they beautiful?

I left my house to run an errand. I returned to find a gift bag inside the door with a tiny red box in it.

Inside was a beautiful bracelet from The Bee. She had sent it all the way from China, with a little note that said, "Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas, Savia. I kind of blew my wad on this present. Keep in mind that I only make $600 a month! I hope you like it."

I love it, Bee! It's perfect - it even matches the tattoo I gave myself for my birthday last year.

Thank you!! I'm never taking it off.

That night, I had some friends over for a party that actually wasn't a birthday party, but one friend brought a present anyway. It's a gorgeous book she bought for me when she was in Rome. I was touched that she thought of me while she was there. It meant so much to be holding something, however small, that came from my home. It reminded me how much I need to go back.

Three international presents in one day? You can't tell me that's a coincidence. I think the Universe is trying to tell me something - like get your ass on a plane, Savia!

I get the hint, okay? I'm working on it.

What? Everyone doesn't do this?

Right now, I'm cleaning up my house because I'm having the gang over for a party later. Ah, who am I kidding? You totally know I hired someone else to clean my house in anticipation of visitors. Best $50 I ever spent, thank you very much. So, in actuality, no I'm not cleaning, but I am thinking about what my house says about me. Two of the people coming over tonight have never been here before, and I wonder what kind of insights they will get into my personality based on how I've expressed myself in this little wartime abode.

The first thing you'll notice when entering my house is the colours. I don't believe in white walls. My entry way is an earthy olive green, my living room/dining room is a deep red wine, the hallway is peach, and the kitchen has wine and ocean blue accents. The porch/laundry room is painted in a watercolour yellow effect with a white and yellow checkerboard ceiling, and the room I'm sitting in right now is a sunny yellow, with an ocean blue ceiling and door. (I've done a funky yellow smoke effect over the blue on the ceiling to lessen its severity.) I know it sounds a bit weird, but the colours work quite well together.

I have wind chimes and ornaments I've collected hanging from doorways and ceilings, and there is framed art everywhere - Italian oil paintings, Group of Seven prints, even a painting I did myself. I've also framed a lot of pictures of my friends doing some of the crazy things we do, and those are strewn around in the living room. (Some of my favourites are from this night.) Then, of course, there's my collection of magnetic literary finger puppets, which I display as not only art but also potential entertainment.

Colourful, arty, quirky - I do think my house shows people who I am. But my guests don't get the full effect until they go to the bathroom. You haven't met quirk until you've visited "John".

This summer, the fabulous Teebs had a contest where she asked her readers to submit photos of some of the weird crazy shit in their houses. My submission netted an honourable mention. Here it is:

I have a framed photo of a prominent local politician on my toilet. Okay, let me rephrase that. The photo isn't of him on my toilet - I mean, that would be scandalous. The framed photo of him sits on the top of my toilet tank. I put it there when I moved into my house five years ago because I didn't know what to do with this picture. I have no idea where I got the idea to put him on the can, but once I did, I couldn't stop laughing, so he's been there ever since. Other people have had varying reactions to it, particularly the guys who visit my "John". They seem to think it's creepy that the politician is staring at them while they're taking a whiz. I think that makes it even more amusing.

(Does this really surprise you, Internets? I am, after all, the kind of gal who gives the gift of expired eggs as a token of affection!)

Today, I added a little extra touch to make the bathroom even quirkier, if that's possible. You see, my toilet doesn't always flush - it's got a little trick to it. I've always meant to put a note on it for my guests, but have never gotten around to it. Yesterday, the perfect solution hit me: who better to deliver the message but my "John" himself! So, I made a cartoon speech bubble and taped it to the side of the politician's mouth. Then, I wrote the following in fuschia marker:

Hi, I'm famous politician! And this is a finicky toilet. If it doesn't flush, just lift the lid on the tank and press down on the brown disc and try again. P.S. Don't forget to vote!

Don't ever let anyone tell you that politicians aren't useful!

Just call me fearless

"I have not ceased being fearful, but I have ceased to let fear control me. I have accepted fear as a part of life — specifically the fear of change, the fear of the unknown; and I have gone ahead despite the pounding in my heart that says: turn back, turn back, you'll die if you venture too far." — Erica Jong

Musically Speaking sent me this quote awhile ago, and it sums up how I've been feeling lately. There has been so much change, so much upheaval in my life over the past year that I am starting to get used to it. It's no longer scary - it's kind of exciting. I used to be the kind of person who liked stability, who liked to know what to expect from people, who had every aspect of my life planned out in great detail, who feared the unknown. Now, everything has changed. I'm finding I no longer crave that kind of order. I'm actually enjoying not knowing, and it's so freeing.

Some of this has to do with the major surgery for which I am currently on a wait list. I have at least a year to wait, and I'm grateful for that, because I really don't want to think about it too much at this point. I need that time to get my head around what I've signed myself up for. I'm a bit of a control freak, and the thought of being unconscious while someone breaks part of my face is more than a little unsettling. To get my mind off of that, I start thinking about the fact that when under anesthetic, anything could happen. This could be it. This could be the last year I am on this earth.

You're probably thinking, "Savia, quit being a drama queen," but bear with me here. If this is my last year, what kind of year do I want it to be? What do I want to achieve so that when it's time to go under the bone saw (I wish I were kidding, but this is really what's going to happen!), I will have no regrets.

So, here are my Last Year on Earth Resolutions:

I will live my life fearlessly.
I will take risks.
I will laugh.
I will love.
I will spend quality time with the people who are important to me.
I will stop worrying about stupid little things that don't really matter.
I will stay away from drama that does not occur on a stage.
I will have an insane amount of screaming multiple orgasms.
I will go into that audition and give that director the lap dance of her life.
I will go to Italy to see my relatives before it's too late and they have left this earth.
I will try anything once.
I will follow what my intuition tells me even if it seems crazy.
I will take every great opportunity that comes my way.
I will smile at strangers; heck, I'll even strike up quirky conversations with random people.
I will flirt mercilessly and shamelessly.
I will take no prisoners. Well, maybe a few. Only if they're really cute and I get to handcuff them to the cage I'm keeping them in.
I will put my creative writing out into the world (under my real name).
I will make decisions with conviction and stop questioning my judgement.
I will live life in the moment, without dwelling on the past or fixating on the "what ifs".
I will just be me, and fuck what anyone thinks.

Arianna Huffington was on the Colbert Report a few months ago, talking about her latest book, On Becoming Fearless. She said: "Most of our fears are illusions....We need an epidemic of fearlessness, because the same way that fear is contagious, fearlessness is contagious."

Hell, let's make it a pandemic. Who's with me?

Survival of the fittest

My black and white cat is obsessed with my literary finger puppets. I keep putting them out of his reach and he keeps jumping to more extreme heights to get at them. I came home the other day to find Charles Darwin clenched in his jaws. It seemed somehow fitting. How do you like that, you sexist bastard? And how about the fact that my finger is currently up your ass? Who's fittest now?

In somewhat related news, Palinode answered my question, yes he did!

Secret single behaviour

I'm an introvert, which surprises most people when I tell them. I think part of it has to do with the fact that there are all these misperceptions about what introverts are. Like that we're shy and insecure and don't talk much. So, when you're the kind of gal who puts herself on display half-naked on a stage, says shocking things in rooms full of strangers just to see what they will do, flirts incessantly with pretty much anyone, and who doesn't ever shut the fuck up, then yes, they are surprised when you tell them you're an introvert.

But as I see it, the distinction boils down to this: do you recharge your batteries by being around other people, or by being alone? I love going out and being social, but I need to balance it off with some alone time, or else I feel like I'm in a cult or something. It goes a little something like this: You're nice and all, but I need to get the fuck away from you right now. Please stop trying to steal my soul. Have a nice day.

I like my alone time. I guard it jealously. I feel a strange affinity with people who get married and maintain separate residences. Okay, maybe I wouldn't take it this far, but I totally get where they're coming from. Sometimes, I just need to stare at a wall and collect my thoughts. Other times, however, I partake in rituals better known as secret single behaviour. You know what I'm talking about. That weird shit you do when no one's around. Crazy weird shit. Oh, you know you do it, too. So, you're not going to admit it? Okay, here's the deal: I'll show you mine if you show me yours in the comments. As a gesture of good faith, here goes:

1. Shit I don't do

a) I don't clean. Screw that shit. Life is too short. I've got better things to do. I keep my house tidy, and I clean the obvious stuff, but I like to keep it on the superficial level. When I have people over, I hire someone in advance to make the place shine. It's worth every penny.

b) I don't cook. My oven has been broken for months and I didn't even notice. It's a shame, because I am a super fantabulous cook. We're talking gourmet Italian food from scratch kind of cook. We're talking orgasm in your mouth kind of cook. But it's too much effort to do for one. I save that for people I'm trying to impress. Many a man has fallen for me over my fettuccine with vodka cream sauce. Probably a few women, too. It's just that good.

2. Loungie shit

a) On Saturday afternoons, I like to have a shower or a bath, put on a terry cloth robe and a towel on my head, and curl up on the couch with two purring cats and a freak dog to watch all the shows I've taped for the week. I set my VCR like TiVo - archaic, but it works - to hook my little addictions to my veins. And, yes, one of them is Oprah. I like the shows where she catches the child molesters. They make me cry. I'm happy the bastards are off the streets, but I hurt deeply for the children they leave behind - I know from experience that their lives will never be the same again.

b) Staring at a wall. Just thinking. Thinking about the connections between events and people. Finding patterns in the chaos. Seeing symbols and metaphors in everything around me. Analyzing my life. Others' lives. If everything happens for a reason, what is the reason in this? If that didn't happen, where would I be today? What does it all mean?

c) Facials. With a green tea tree oil face mask. Sometimes done while watching Oprah and/or staring at a wall.

d) Talking on my portable phone in my underwear, wandering all over my house while practicing bellydancing moves.

e) Naked Time! Lounging around naked in my house is one of my favourite things to do. Everyone should be naked way more often, in my opinion. It's freeing and it helps you accept your body and who you are. Lately, however, I've been struggling between my need for nudity and my personal obligation to the Kyoto Accord. Last year, I retrofitted my house to be environmentally friendly and installed a programmable thermostat that keeps it quite cool. This puts a kink in Naked Time. Maybe Naked Time will have to be a seasonal thing? Sigh. Thoughts? Suggestions? Help me out here, Internets!

3. Savia's secret living room cabaret show!

I'm a performer in most situations, but you haven't lived until you've seen my secret living room cabaret show. And you're never going to see it, because I wouldn't put it on if anyone were around. But since we're friends and all, I'll give you a glimpse. It's a multifaceted show - there's something in it for everyone!

a) Savia the opera star. In this act, I strut around my living room singing arias. My current obsession is "The Laughing Song" from Die Fledermaus, which is my favourite soprano opera solo ever. (I bet my gals Roo, Musically Speaking and Madam-Diva know what I'm talking about here.) The character makes her singing voice sound like laughter - it's complex, challenging, fun and kinda cheeky. I love it. One day, I will actually perform this at a recital or an audition, but for now, it's relegated to the living room opera house.

b) Bellydance mania. This is actually legitimate rehearsal time. I have to learn choreography for the dance troupe I just joined (I had to audition for it and I made it in, I did, I did!). I'm making my debut in a few weeks and the almost daily rehearsal helps calm my nerves. I spend a lot of time in my living room bellydancing while balancing a cane on my head - I'm really proud of that trick. Another thing I'm working on is choreography for a solo to perform sometime in the next year, if I ever get enough nerve. I can't think about it too much, because it stresses me out, but it's my own creation - a funky bellydance/hip-hop fusion number to "Hey Mama" by the BlackEyedPeas. There is a lot of ass shaking going on in it. It's all about the ass. But what isn't, really?

c) Dancing like a hooker. Now, this is different than the bellydancing, because that's a legitimate art form that has structure and requires incredible muscle control, technique and talent. Dancing like a hooker is - uh - just, well...dancing like a hooker. I don't know how else to describe it but to say that I just let my body go and it's a hell of a lot of fun. My current soundtrack for dancing like a hooker is "Maneater" by Nelly Furtado (i.e. "you either want to be with me or be me") and "Striptease" by Hawksley Workman (that one's kinda self-explanatory). These moves invariably see the light of day when the gang and I go dancing at the dive bar. All that hooker dancing in private ends up affecting my public dancing style - it's beyond my control, really. You just have to move like the music tells ya. And at the dive bar, no one knows you, so you don't actually care if they think you dance like a hooker. Plus, I like saying the word "hooker." A lot.

d) Musical theatre with a naughty twist. This is a combo of the singing, bellydancing and dancing like a hooker, only to musical theatre. Right now, I'm choreographing something to "Roxie" from the musical Chicago. I'm currently working up the guts to do this baby up for real in an audition. There's this musical performance I audition for most years and always get cast as a chorus member. This time, I want a solo, damnit. And with this baby, I may have a shot. But to work, it must be done with conviction and absolute fearlessness, hence the living room midnight show. Can I strut into an audition and pretty much give the director a lap dance? Only time will tell. I'll let you know.

Okay Internets, I've shown you mine - now show me yours.