Purge and binge

I am officially banned from every shopping mall in this city.

Now, you're probably thinking, Ah, Savia has gone overboard on the Christmas shopping. Not so. Savia finished her Christmas shopping in early November because she hates malls and people at Christmas time. They give me mall rage. Also, I have this thing that if I see something that reminds me of someone, I buy it right away regardless of what time of year it is, because chances are once you go back for it later, it is invariably gone and you're kicking yourself that you didn't buy it in the first place. So, shopping for others is always done early. People hate me for this, so please feel free to join them.

Ironically, after all that early shopping to avoid crowds in malls, I decided to shop for myself right before Christmas. A lot. Because it finally sunk in that none of my clothes fit. They are all four sizes too big. It took awhile for this to hit me, because the last 30 pounds came off incredibly fast and my brain hasn't had a chance to catch up to my body. I have this really warped body image where I look in the mirror and see myself the way I used to look and don't really notice that my clothes are hanging off of me. A few weeks ago, I started wading through my clothes and putting the ones aside that didn't fit anymore. This is what I came up with:

And I've even added a few things since I took that picture. I don't think the photo does it justice - it's insane how many clothes are in that pile. It's an entire wardrobe. There have to be at least a dozen jeans in there. And everything else imaginable, too - work clothes, casual clothes, formal clothes - you name it. I've barely worn some of them.

It was really hard to put a lot of those clothes in the pile. Part of me wants to hang on to them "just in case." But another part of me keeps telling myself, "Let the past go" and "It's time to move on with your life." I can't hold on to this stuff. It feels like it's weighing me down just by being here. There is a lot of baggage in this pile. Clothes that I bought when I started the really toxic abusive job, clothes that I wore before I had my own sense of style and just bought everything plain that the Gap had to offer in black, tan and grey. Clothes that I wore before I really discovered who I am. But I kept wearing these clothes for years because they were there and they fit, even though they were not what I would buy if I were picking things out for myself today. Part of it is my upbringing - when you grow up poor, you feel as though you have to a) buy everything on sale and b) wear everything you buy on sale forever and ever until they fall apart. Because otherwise, you're being wasteful.

Anyway, after trying on everything I owned, I finally got the hint and realized that I needed a whole new wardrobe. I could count on my fingers and toes the items that were left in my closet after The Great Purge. (It was a little like those poor victims on What Not to Wear, when Stacy and Clinton desecrate their wardrobes and leave them with nothing but some empty hangers a credit card.) And since I'm starting from scratch, I finally get to buy clothes that reflect who I am. In the course of a week, I spent more than $1,000 on clothes. When I tell people about it, they look at me like I'm on crack, and I tend to agree with them, because it does sound nuts. I am still trying to get my head around it myself, because I've never done anything like that before. But I needed to do it because I was just tired of making do and wearing clothes that made me feel bad about myself. It was like I was waiting for the weight to come back by wearing them and keeping them around. It was time to turn over a new leaf and have my external self show the world who I really am, instead of hiding behind this old baggage.

However, in case you're wondering if I've totally abandoned my frugal roots, you'll be reassured to know that there were only four items that I bought that cost more than $40 in all of my shopping trips. They were a winter coat ($75), leather boots ($70) designer shoes ($50), and a blazer ($54). But don't let the low prices fool you - I managed to find some really funky, original nice pieces because I know how to bargain shop, and most of my stuff was picked up at Winners on super sale. So, yes, even my indulgences are frugal.

I'm not looking forward to getting my credit card bill next month, but I know it's worth it. Because when I look in the mirror now, I see the me that I've always wanted to be. And while part of me is scared that this external representation is temporary and that if I blink or look away for too long, somehow the weight is all going to come back and nothing that I own will fit and, and I will have lost myself once more, and and and... But then, I just take a deep breath and think, none of that matters, because in this moment, this is it. This is me.

Finally.

Savia wears Prada

My dear friend The Homemaker has been spending some time in The Big Apple as of late and asked me what I wanted for Christmas because there is much better selection there than there is in Hickville, Saskatchewan. My answer, of course, was "Hello! I'm a purse whore. I'm so much of a purse whore that if I could fuck a designer bag, you know I would. I mean, it would be a lot more comfortable than fucking utensils, let me tell you. So, you have got to buy me a knock-off Prada bag from some shifty dude on the street!"

She took my enthusiastic rant under advisement and set out to find me the perfect knock-off bag. Now, something you need to know about The Homemaker is that she is meticulous in her research, and quality is of the utmost importance to her. She does not take her quests for presents lightly, which is why she always manages to get me the most amazing gifts. I always look forward to opening whatever she's brought home, because I know it will be fabulous.

This year, however, was even more fabulous than I could imagine. I opened the beautifully wrapped box to find a brown Prada bag.

I squealed with delight and hugged it close to my chest. "Thank you so much! It's exactly what I wanted!!"

"I think it's real," The Homemaker said.

"What??"

The Homemaker had gone to several street venders over the course of the last few weeks. She studied the stitching, the labels, the linings and had put her hand in enough Prada bags to begin to tell the difference between the ones that were real and the cheap knock-offs.

There is a hilarious story that goes along with the purchase of the bag, but there is no way that I could tell it as well as The Homemaker did, so I'm not even going to try. Suffice it to say, the events of the day added to her impression that this was an authentic bag.

I was in shock. A real Prada bag. Seriously? Me, Savia, who has never spent more than $40 on a pair of pants owns a $400 Prada bag? The gal who grew up without food in the fridge now has an item mentioned on Sex and the City? How is that even possible? It seems so surreal.

For days, I couldn't actually touch the bag. It was intimidating - too perfect, too expensive, too decadent. I didn't want to sully it with my crappy stuff. My newest favourite bag, a mini leopard-print Guess number (with matching wallet), suddenly looked like a piece of shit, and I love that purse. I began to feel paranoid that something would happen to the bag if I took it out, that somehow it would get wrecked, or I would be mugged for the precious Prada.

And then I thought about something The Prof taught me when we were together. Something that changed the way I look at the world. He had a collection of vintage drinking glasses from the 1950s and would just use them as his everyday glassware. "They're really valuable. Aren't you worried that they'll get broken?" I asked. And his answer was, "This way, I'm enjoying them everyday. You can't enjoy something if you just leave it on a shelf or in a display case. If they get broken, at least I can say I enjoyed them while I had them."

Before I met him, I had always been the kind of person to put the things that I really liked or valued away, saving them only for some special occasion because I was so afraid that something would happen to them or that by using them, it would make them less special. Now, I use my favourite things first and often, because why have something fabulous if you can't enjoy it? I decided this would be my philosophy with the Prada. It's going to be my everyday bag and I'm going to sling it around town until it falls apart. Plus, if I kept it locked in a closet after all the trouble The Homemaker went through to get it, you can bet she would totally kick my ass.

I went shopping the other day (after buying a brown Kenneth Cole wallet at Winners that was only barely worthy of being inside the Prada) and took the bag out for the first time. No one noticed the fabulousness that is the Prada bag. Not the people mulling through the malls or the store clerks or those I passed in the streets. And then I realized, it's fucking Saskatchewan. No one knows this is a Prada, much less an authentic one. And no one cares.

But I know. And that's all that matters.

The book meme

I know I've gone AWOL on all y'all for a week now, but I've been recuperating from the craziness that was my grad class. So there will be more entries soon, I promise. In the meantime, I leave you with this very cool meme, for which I was tagged by the fantabulous Schmutzie.

Here are the meme's rules:

1. Grab the book closest to you.
2. Open it to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence.
3. Post the next three sentences on your website.
4. Name the book and its author.
5. Tag three people to do the same.

Here is mine:

"He trundled away through the woods, the cries of amphibian anguish receding behind him. Served them right, he thought, sadly and a little bitterly. King Log had retired to a villa in the Alps, where he is at present sprouting a fine crop of shitake mushrooms and working on his memoirs, one word at a time."
-"King Log in Exhile", The Tent by Margaret Atwood.

Ah, classic Atwood. "Trundled" is the best. word. ever. Okay, I tag Musically Speaking, Palinode and Orpheus.

Why I do this to myself, I have no idea

So, it's Sunday and I've got this 20-page grad paper to write. It's due on Monday. I haven't started it yet. There is a knot of stress in the pit of my stomach. But, like my friend Cee says, "Procrastination is crack to writers." So just call me a junkie. I find that I write in spurts or waves, so I thought that in between those spurts, it might be interesting to chronicle exactly how this lovely paper comes into being. (If it does. Please, dear god, say it will.) So, for your enjoyment, and my misery, here is my day:

8:30 a.m. Wake up. Tell self it would be a really good idea to start paper right away. Nah, too tired. Stay in bed instead.

9:30 a.m. Alarm goes off. Tell self it would be a really good idea to get up. Nah, still too tired. Set alarm for 10 a.m. instead.

10 a.m. Alarm goes off again. Feel knot of stress in stomach. Go downstairs and dry heave into sink. Go back to bed. Snooze alarm.

11 a.m. Convince self that a hot shower would help wake me up and motivate me to get moving on paper. Take insanely hot shower. Wrap self in terry cloth robe. Go back to bed.

11:30 a.m. Eat cereal. Try to convince self to get started on paper. No. Hair has to dry first.

11:45 a.m. Realize home is not a good place to be, motivation wise. Bed is too soft. Put on clothes and drive to school. Try not to cry during car ride.

12 p.m. At school. Make pot of tea. Get glass of water. Send a few emails. Think about introduction of paper. Try not to cry.

12:30 p.m. Write. Write. Write. Three whole pages. Woo hoo. Celebrate success. Only 17 to go. Think about how depressing that is.

2 p.m. Calculate how long it will take to write remainder of pages at this rate. Three pages took an hour and a half. That means...ugh I'm going to be here all day and night. Head hurts. Take a break. Walk around campus. Think about how great it will be once this is done. Buy orange juice from vending machine for energy.

2:20 p.m. Begin blog entry about writing essay. Think that this time could be better spent actually writing the essay, damnit.

2:26 p.m. Write. Write. Write. I begin to wonder if my introduction may be too long. I'm at the end of page four and I haven't even written my thesis statement yet. I wonder if that's a bad thing, if my prof will be pissed off. And then I think, page four - woo hoo! Only 16 pages to go! And then I think, damn. 16 pages. That's a lot. When is this going to be over?

3:07 p.m. Just finished orange juice. Have to pee.

3:18 p.m. Finally write thesis statement. Time for a break!

3:30 p.m. Back to the grind. Write. Write. Write.

4 p.m. Finished page six. Woo hoo! Blood sugar crashing. Realize that the only things I've eaten today are cereal and orange juice. Begin to forage for food. Go to only campus cafeteria that's open and order extremely greasy chicken fingers and fries. Watch them bubble in grease and then go directly into styrofoam container. Wonder if the grease will melt the styrofoam and somehow give me cancer.

4:18 p.m. Eat "supper." Think about the pecan crusted flounder my personal chef made and how if I were at home, I could be eating that instead. Feel my arteries clogging. The fries are undercooked. Bleck. Put food aside.

4:34 p.m. Lie on the floor for awhile, wondering if this paper will ever get done.

4:43 p.m. Back at it. Head hurts. Take a liquid @dvil.

5:35 p.m. On page nine. Woo hoo! Almost halfway there. Go for another walk around campus to clear head. See another student sitting on a couch with her face in her hands, staring at a wall. Feel her pain. See handmade poster on campus bulletin board that reads: "Are you a caffeine energy drink drinker? If so, call me at..." Wonder if it's a scientific study or just a really quirky singles ad. Contemplate calling the number just to see. My brain feels mushy. Wonder if I will be out of here by midnight at this rate.

5:59 p.m. Lie on floor again. So very mentally exhausted. Wish I had a caffeine energy drink. Wonder if I call the number, will they give me one?

6:16 p.m. Check my blog stats. Think it's very cool that I have a regular reader from Kuala Lumpur. Hello whoever you are! Welcome!!

6:21 p.m. Here we go again. Write. Write. Write.

7:11 p.m. Wonder if the structure of the essay makes any sense. Don't care. Keep writing.

7:34 p.m. Page 12. Nice!! Eight more to go. Which could potentially take four more hours. Wish the smell of grease from "supper" weren't still lingering in the room. Get paranoid and email myself a copy of the essay, just in case. Realize I'm on a different computer, so I can vote for Schmutzie as the Best Canadian Blog in the 2006 Weblog Awards again. Vote for Schmutzie.

7:47 p.m. Wish I would have started this damn thing yesterday. Or the day before. That would have been a smart thing to do. Jaw feels like it's seizing up. Wonder if it's too soon for another liquid @advil. Smell of grease in room starts to make me feel nauseated. Start to feel dizzy. Throw food in garbage.

8:20 p.m. On page 14. Begin to wonder if a change of scenery would help or if I should just keep at it. My whole body hurts. Wonder if I should go home and have another insanely hot shower. Man, would that feel good.

8:25 p.m. Decide to go home and have an insanely hot shower. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

9 p.m. Get home. Give puppy a treat to alleviate guilt over having left her alone all day. Get in insanely hot shower. Stay there a very long time.

9:18 p.m. Wrap self in terry cloth robe. Eat some of personal chef's pasta casserole. It has a fancier name than that, but I don't care enough to look it up. Much better than campus grease fest that was "supper". Lie on couch. Stare at ceiling. Feel jaw seize up. Yup, it's definitely time for another liquid @dvil. End up having that instead of chocolate.

9:45 p.m. Take SAD light upstairs. Maybe I can convince myself it's daytime and will actually have enough energy to write the final six pages of this monstrosity.

9:55 p.m. Lie down on soft bed and wait for liquid @dvil to kick in. Hope it's as fast as the bottle says.

10:15 p.m. Change out of robe and into comfy sweats. Start at it again.

10:58 p.m. Not quite done page 14. Brain is mushy. I don't think I can do this anymore. Might be a good time to call it a night and get up early in the morning to get at it again. Of course, this means I'll be writing six pages of a term paper and studying for a final exam in the same day, which is incredibly stupid, but what can you do?

11:30 p.m. Still not sleeping. Take sleeping pill. It doesn't work.

1:30 a.m. Sleep fitfully. I think. Not really sure if actually slept. Dream about term paper. If slept, that is. If not, just obsessed about term paper.

6 a.m. Wake up. Neck, shoulders and jaw seizing up. Leave message for massage therapist to see if I can get in for emergency appointment. Get heating pad. Turn computer on and open term paper file. Go back to bed.

6:30 a.m. Listen to sounds of cat throwing up downstairs. Try not to let it activate my gag reflex. Stay in bed.

7:35 a.m. Heat up heating pad in microwave. Forget space heater is also on. Blow breaker for kitchen/upstairs. Freak out because computer may have lost term paper. Double check. It's okay. Reset alarm clock time only to snooze it.

8:26 a.m. Stomach in knots. Dry heave in sink. Make chamomile tea. Curl up on couch with tea, heating pad, and pup. Stare at ceiling. Wonder how it has come to this.

9 a.m. At it again. Write. Write. Write. Get call from massage therapist. She can't get me in until tomorrow. Damnit.

9:30 a.m. Eat granola bar. Check email. Read today's positive thought. Apparently, I AM the presence of God expressing in my life. Who knew? Cat is clawing at door to room and yowling at me, pissed that I won't let him in. Bastard.

10 a.m. On page 16. Stomach is acting up. Go heat up heating pad again. Only this time, remember to turn off heater. Lie down on soft bed with cat who used to be yowling but is now purring. Stare at ceiling.

11 a.m. Whole body hurts. Take insanely hot shower. Lie on couch in terry cloth robe with pup. Stare at wall. Eat a fruit cup. Feel jaw clenching up again. Take another liquid @dvil.

11:36 a.m. Back at the computer. When will this be over?

12:37 p.m. On page 18. Woo hoo. Almost there. Get paranoid and email essay to self, just in case. Feeling hungry. Eat last serving of personal chef's fancy schmancy casserole. Praise Jebus that I hired the dude, becauase otherwise, I might starve. Or eat more grease. Bleck. Giggle at kitties, who are entwined in each other's limbs.

12:54 p.m. Back to the grindstone. So close, but yet so far.

2:23 p.m. On page 20. Just have to write conclusion. Decide it's better left to tomorrow morning, along with the editing. Prof will understand. Brain is mushy and must preserve it for final exam. Damn, I still have to study for the final exam, which is in less than five hours.

Enough of this blog shit - I've gotta go!

Paying it forward

In my last entry, I told you how my friend Tammie inspired me to pay her kindness forward and brighten other people's days. That night, I went through my entire house and came up with the above stack o' stuff to donate to my local women's shelter (note the black and white cat, just perched and getting ready to destroy my lovely pile).

It filled three very large bags (and then some) and included:

-three gift sets of shower gel and lotion (the nice stuff)
-green tea scented bath salts
-a loofah sponge
-four trial sized shower gel
-two trial sized deodorant
-three mini bottles of hand sanitizer
-travel pacs of shampoo and conditioner
-bubble bath
-fizzy bath tablets
-four lavender scented candles
-an aromatherapy gift set
-a photo album
-a teddy bear
-a pack of Christmas greeting cards
-a funky pen
-a teddy bear figurine
-six really good books, ones I enjoyed but know I probably won't read again, books that I think might actually inspire and help people, such as All Over but the Shoutin' by Rick Bragg and A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. I also threw in The Pilot's Wife and Jane Austen Book Club for good measure. So, you see, it's not as though I saddled them with Bleak House or anything!
-seven professionally framed prints, one of which made Schmutzie exclaim: "Hey, it's your version of the Lady of Shalott poster!" Yes, and let's never speak of that again.

It was cathartic to go through my house and think about the things I don't really use, the things that perhaps once represented who I was but no longer do (see above framed print - yikes!) When I gathered it all up and took it out of my house, I felt so light, no longer weighed down by these artifacts from my past.

Schmutzie and I went together to deliver the booty, and the people at the front desk of the shelter seemed genuinely surprised and pleased at the donation. "We really need things like this to put in the Christmas gift bags for the residents!"

They gave me a thank you card that told me my generosity helped to make the shelter a more comfortable environment to meet the needs of women and children. At the bottom was one of my favourite quotes: "Be the change you wish to see in the world" - Ghandi.

When I left, I felt even lighter. It was a really good day.

How are you going to pay it forward this holiday season?

_____________________________

Oh, and by the way:

Vote for Schmutzie's Milkmoney Or Not, Here I Come as the 2006 Weblog Awards Best Canadian Blog

A little slice of sunshine

It was bitterly cold on Monday. And I was bitter about it. I don't know what it is, but Saskatchewan winters don't get any easier, no matter how long you've lived here. I wonder if we get lulled into a false sense of security during our insanely hot but short summer. Add to that a lack of a real autumn, and you get winter shock. Like shell shock, only colder. Waaaay colder. Anyway, I had been sick for more than two weeks with this nasty flu, but still had to drag myself to work because, well, there was work to do. I lugged myself home and up my walk, which was so piled with snow that I was surprised to see that the mailman had delivered anything to me that day. He often refuses when I've been less than diligent about shovelling.

When I opened my screen door, there it was. A package. The package. The one promised to me by my friend I've never met, Tammie from Soul Gardening. I was so excited - she had said she was going to send me something in response to this entry, and I was curious to know what it was.

But first, I marvelled at the fact that this parcel had come all the way from Florida. Perhaps one of the farthest places from here without leaving North America. And certainly one of the farthest places in terms of weather. I imagined Tammie in her summer clothes packing these items into the bubble wrap envelope, perhaps even wiping a bead of sweat (well, she probably doesn't sweat - she glows ;) from her brow. It is sent across two countries and numerous time zones (I'm guessing - I haven't checked how many) to arrive here, in sub-zero temperatures, to be opened by me, wearing a black wool coat with thermal mitts, a scarf wound around my head with a nose that won't stop running.

I tore it open. And it was the perfect thing - Arianna Huffington's book On Becoming Fearless, a pair of zills for bellydancing, and a bindi. There was also a beautiful card, which was my favourite part, because I got to see Tammie's handwriting and of course, she said the most perfect things, because she always does. And, there was even a present in there for Schmutzie, which made her day, too.

It's interesting, because you would think that I would already have all of these things. I've been ranting about fearlessness for a month now, but I haven't had the time to buy the book, though I've been meaning to. I almost bought a pair of zills last weekend, but put that off, too. And I've always wanted to wear a bindi when I dance, but keep forgetting to pick some up. In my thank you email to Tammie, I accused her of being psychic. It was the perfect gift, and we haven't even met in person(yet).

Yesterday, one of my dearest friends, Musically Speaking, was having a really rough time. She lives in another province, so we don't get to talk a lot except by email. The one I received from her that day was full of weariness and stress. I almost didn't recognize that it was from her, because it sounded like a completely different person than the happy, effervescent gal I know. Inspired by Tammie's act of kindness toward me, I decided that I was going to do something to brighten Musically Speaking's day. I did some detective work and enlisted some co-conspirators to find out her work address, and sent half a dozen pink roses that arrived at her office less than two hours after she sent the email. She was thrilled and said that it totally turned her day around. I was just happy to pay it forward.

Last night, grappling with insomnia and thoughts of the 20-page grad paper that I have to write in the next few days and still don't entirely know what I'm writing it on, I started thinking about the women who have to live in the women's shelter in my city in order to be safe from their abusive partners. I thought about all of the things I have in my house that I've never really used - all of those nice baskets of bath and shower gels and lotions, books, ornaments. They're all just sitting there, not doing anything. I'm sure I'll get around to using them eventually, but it could take years. So, I decided that I'm going to take everything down to the women's shelter and give it to them to distribute to the residents there. And that pretty much cured my insomnia for the night.

Thanks again, Tammie, for bringing a little slice of sunshine not only to me, but also for inspiring me to do the same for others.

AOF#4: The office Christmas party

In my last entry, I promised you I'd tell you about my fourth act of fearlessness. A few weeks ago, the theme for my office Christmas party was announced. It was to be a Night of Mystery party - you know the drill, everyone gets a character in advance and dresses the part; sometime in the night, a "murder" occurs and you have to figure out whodunnit. At first, I was really excited. I mean, hello - drama queen in the office - was I going to work it or what?

Our party was set in the 1920s during prohibition and everyone was cast as flappers and gangsters, with a cop, a detective and some wait staff thrown in for good measure. We were handed our characters at a staff meeting. Mine was the jazz singer who was determined to be the star of the Hollywood director's new film. It was the perfect role and I couldn't wait to strut my stuff. At the end of the meeting, they asked us to go around the room and introduce our characters. Everyone read their character descriptions from the page. However, when it was my turn, I didn't bother with that. Instead, in a low sultry voice, I said, "I'm Diva and I'm a star. And the audience loves me. And I love them. And they love me for loving them and I love them for loving me."

Everyone stared at me, shocked into silence; then, they started laughing. I guess they weren't expecting that. It was a weird feeling, because I suddenly felt really uncomfortable in the situation. I started shaking, like it was a really big deal that I had just recited a line in character (for those of you keeping track, it's from the song "Roxie" from Chicago, one of my living room cabaret mainstays). Then I remembered, these aren't theatre people. With my theatre friends, I can say and do just about anything and they don't bat an eyelash. This is a professional workplace - a totally different context, a world where people operate within more restricted boundaries. It makes me feel more restricted, like I have to behave like everyone else. And if I stray beyond those boundaries, my fight or flight instinct kicks in and it becomes uncomfortable or difficult to just be myself.

A few days later, I reread my character description and there was something I had missed: Diva was supposed to sing a special song for the director to show him why she should be cast as the star in his movie. I went to the organizers and asked them if they were serious. "We'd really love it if you'd do it. We'll get you a microphone and CD player and everything."

Oh. My. God. Singing in front of my co-workers? I started shaking at the thought of it. But then guess what I remembered? Motherfucking year of fearlessness. So, of course I had to say "yes" even though I was terrified as all hell.

I went home and, after much searching on the Internet, found the karaoke track for "All that Jazz". I practiced and practiced, and even came up with some choreography for the instrumental parts. I've done the song numerous times at dive karaoke bars, so I thought, I'll just get on the stage and pretend that my coworkers are a bunch of rednecks, and Karaoke Savia will just take over. It will be fine.

The day of the party, I donned my red bobbed flippy wig, insanely thick fake eyelashes, a red and black feather boa, red lipstick, tons of black eyeliner and a spaghetti-strapped little black dress and sauntered off to the party. When I got there, I was surprised at what I found. Everyone looked amazing - they had put so much thought into all their costumes. It really felt like a 20s jazz bar. I was impressed.

After awhile, I was told I was up in about 10 minutes. I wasn't as nervous as I thought I'd be; everyone was so into their characters and the party that it put me at ease. Plus, I had my armour - my costume, my CD, and my choreography. I was set.

Before I was about to go on, we tested the CD. It didn't work. We tried it again. Nope. An old CD player, it refused to recognize the burnt disc. (Bad karma for illegally downloading the karaoke song, perhaps? Damn, my friend Musically Speaking was right: Karma is a real bitch!) Then, they gave me an out, with sympathy in their voices: "You're going to have to sing it without music. Do you still want to do this?"

Oh. My. God. A cappella? No music - just my voice and that's it. Could this get any worse? And then...then I realized that there was no stage. You see, when there's a stage, it's easier to pretend you're someone else. You're elevated above the audience and you can look over their heads instead of into their eyes. You can hide on a stage. But there was no stage. And there was no music. All of the armour was gone, except for a cheap wig, a flimsy boa, and far too much make-up.

"I'm completely freaked out, so I have to do it. Year of fearlessness," I blurted automatically.

"Wow, you're brave," the organizer said. "You've got some serious balls. I could never do that." Somehow, that didn't really help.

I stood there staring at the bar, trying to figure out how I was going to deal with this. And then, something happened. Diva kind of took over. I started thinking like her. "If there's no music, that means I can sing it the way I want to sing it. I can sing the verses I want. I can change the rhythms and the tempos and skip all the stupid instrumental stuff. I can make it my own."

When they announced my number, I took the microphone and began speaking into it in character, back still to the audience. I can't remember exactly what I said, but it went something like, "This one goes out to my favourite director, Hal. It's special, just for you, baby. Now, my band doesn't know this song, but I guess that's their problem, not mine. Because I'm going to sing it without any accompaniment to show you just how talented I am. And when you hear this, you're going to have no choice but to make me the star of your movie."

Yeah. This character wasn't modest in the least, but she wouldn't be, right? I figured that if I was going to go for it, I had to go all the way. I had no idea what it would sound like when I opened my mouth (particularly because I had had the flu for the past week and was losing my voice, because being healthy would make all of this just a little too easy, I suppose), but I couldn't have any doubts in my mind when I did it - I had to believe I was a star in order to pull it off. When I turned around, all my coworkers were arranged in a semi-circle around me, staring. Holy fuck, talk about intimidating. (I told this story to my friend C last night, and he said, "They were standing in a circle staring at you? And you had to sing? That's my worst nightmare!) I fixated on the guy playing the director and refused to look at anyone else, "You're going to love this, Hal."

I took a deep breath and out of my mouth came

Come on babe, why don't we paint the town...

in a deep, slow, sultry, alto jazz voice that I had never heard before.

Holy shit! It actually sounded good. I sang three verses of the song, at about half-tempo with jazzy embellishments. At one point, everyone started snapping along, which was kind of a rush, but I couldn't look at them - it freaked me out too much. I just kept staring at Hal. Until the end, my very favourite lines of the song, when I just closed my eyes and belted:

Oh, I'm no one's wife, but oh I love my life. And all...that...jazz. That jazz.

As soon as I was done, everyone started clapping. I still couldn't look at them. I don't even think I bowed or acknowledged the applause. I just walked away and stood at the bar, staring at the wood for a good 10 minutes and shaking like a leaf, adrenaline coursing through my veins. People came up to me and told me how awesome it was. But I couldn't talk to them, or even really absorb or acknowledge what they were saying. All I could do was stare at the bar and shake. "I can't believe I just did that," I kept thinking. It felt so surreal.

But I did do it. Hell, I even won the Drama Queen certificate for best performance (I'm certifiable!)And I'd do it again, baby. Because now that it's over, it feels so fucking good. As Roxie would say, "That's show biz...kid."

Year of Fearlessness - Wooooo Hooooo!!!