Labels: bellydancing, burlesque, fearlessness, performance

Yeah, I know it's hard to read, but I couldn't find a better image. The text is:

Breakfast Theory: A Morning Methodology

Post Modern Toasties: "Like everything you've had before, all mixed up." More than just a cereal, it's a commentary on the nature of cereal-ness, cerealism, and the theory of cerealativity. Free decoding ring inside.

Deconstructionism Breakfast Food Product: Contents: Sugar, Fat, Verbage.
Mouse #1: "Pretty dry and flavorless, isn't it?"
Mouse #2: "Your question is informed, or should I say misinformed, by the conventional bourgeois cereal paradigms that center on such outmoded esculatory notions as taste, nutrition and edibility."

Foucault Flakes: "But it's empty." "But of course." "It's French, it must be good."
Finally, a breakfast commodity so complex that you need a theoretical apparatus to digest it. You won't want to eat it, you'll just want to read it. A literary tour de force: Breakfast as text!

Suddenly, I'm very hungry.

Labels: school

I got a most intriguing package in the mail yesterday from Madam Diva, a.k.a. Laura. She sent me...panties.

Now, before you start thinking this is some weird sort of Internet blog underwear exchange (still enjoying the bras, Musically Speaking?), there is a story to go with the fabulous undergarment.

In December, Schmutzie won a pair of tickets to the Chantal Kreviazuk concert in Cosmopolos. I was incredibly jealous because I am a big Chantal fan. Schmutzie, being not as big of a fan, graciously passed the tickets on to me. I was excited about going because I've seen Chantal in concert before and she's incredible live - she has a way of being very intimate with a large crowd of people. Plus, for this tour, her husband, Raine Maida, was opening for her, and I'm a fan of his as well. So, life was good. Then, the friend who was supposed to go to the concert with me couldn't go anymore, we had a long streak of -46 C weather plus a few blizzards, and I didn't want to make the tretcherous journey from Cityville to Cosmopolos all by myself. I thought it would be really bad karma to sell the tickets when I had come across them for free, so I decided to pay them forward. "Hmmmm...who do I know in Cosmopolos who would like to go?" Madam Diva immediately sprang to mind. Not that I know her, exactly, but we've been blog buddies for more than a year, and we did share some lovely moments at that puppet burlesque show and all. So, I coerced her address out of her ("Are you going to stalk me now?" she asked) and mailed the tix.

The concert was last Thursday and I didn't hear back from Laura about how it went. I thought she'd send an email or write a blog post or something, but nothing. Until the package. Which contained the above underwear, a letter, a thank-you card, and a picture book of the concert that Laura had illustrated herself to help make me feel as though I were there with them. What an awesome surprise. Above and beyond anything I could have expected. Here's part of what she wrote:

Savia,

Many thanks for the tickets! I picked you up a little sumpthin-sumpthin from the concert. As I'm looking through the array of T-shirts, CDs and keychains, I see it! Something any Fun Fearless Female would want! So, I make my way through the scores of couples - women who got tickets from their other halves for Valentine's Day and the men who were forced to go with them and looked somewhat uncomfortable by the whole idea. I got to the front and I looked the big burly merch salesman with the dreds and tattoos and said: "I need UNDERPANTS!" His face...was priceless.

They're pretty sweet hot pants! I highly recommend you wear them for your Sailor Boy and sing "Who wears short shorts?"! Or you can slide into your living room a la "Risky Business" while you shake your boo-tay to old time rock and roll.

I worried, briefly, that you might think I was strange for buying an almost complete stranger underthings. But then I remembered that the hot pants are awesome - and any weirdness would be overshadowed by your joy at receiving Chantal panties.

Cheers,

Madam "I'm not a weirdo cuz I bought you underpants" Diva

Yeah, you're weird, Laura. Keep in mind that I'm the gal who thinks an appropriate place to meet your blog buddy for the first time is a puppet burlesque show!

And, now, for your viewing pleasure, here's the fabulous picture book of the Chantal concert that Laura drew with her own two hands!

Looks like the perfect night. Thanks for sharing it with me, Laura. (And thanks for the panties - they are awesome, and they fit. I promise they will get packed in my luggage for my trip out to see Superstar at Easter.)

Labels: karma, underwear

Guess what? No, really guess. Okay, I'll give you a hint...I've just purchased some real estate. Okay, now guess, 'kay?

Still not getting it? Alright. You're taking all the fun out of this. Look at the very top of the page. No, higher. To the url address. Yes, that's the spot. Okay, tell me what's changed.

Finally! Yes, you're right - the address is what's changed. I'm now the proud owner of www.saviabella.com, all grown-up and such. And let me tell you, it was no small feat. Well, purchasing the address, that was easy. But then I had to manually transfer all of my posts and comments into Blogger and have Schmutzie figure out how to link the blog up with the new domain. Hours and hours of work have gone into that little url address, but it was worth it, I think. It feels like home.

Thanks so much, Schmutzie, for slaving over the keyboard and putting up with all my annoying little emails. I'm so happy, you have no idea.

And as for the rest of you, if you could change your links to the new address, that would be super rad (I'm bringing back the expression "super rad" by the way. Care to join me in my quest?)

And now, with bloodshot eyes from staring at the computer monitor for days and days upon end, I shall sit back and rule as the mistress of My Domain.

Labels: Schmutzie

I went to an art auction with Schmutzie and Palinode where we endeavoured to sell Schmutzie's very first framed photo (and we did! Woohoo!) I go to this auction every year but have never bought anything because I couldn't imagine spending that much money on a piece of art. (Keep in mind that this is the gal who can't bring herself to spend more than $40 on a pair of pants.) But this time, I was determined to leave with something. I needed to make a grown-up purchase, something that said, "I have arrived," and marked the fact that I finally have my first permanent career-type job. I didn't want to walk away with just any piece of art, but wanted to be open to buying something that jumped out at me, that spoke to me, that made me feel something. I walked in and immediately saw it:

I loved the bright colours, the way the artist had framed it, and the warm feeling it gave me. I knew it needed to be mine and immediately devised a strategy to make it so.

Here is my thinking on silent auctions: there is no point in bidding on the item throughout the night because you're just driving up the price and tipping off your opponent that you're interested in the piece. What you do is let the other people duke it out in a bidding war, lull them into a false sense of security, and then sweep in at the last second and outbid them.

Nasty, I know. But all's fair in love and art, right? And you've already been warned that Savia always comes out on top.

Throughout the night, I talked to people around the auction, asking about the artist and how much his work usually goes for. A friend of mine told me a story that made me want the painting even more. Apparently, the artist's work used to be really angry and dark. In fact, he did a whole series that focused on tombstones and rats. And then, he fell in love and his art completely changed. This painting was a reflection of that.

I monitored the bidding on the piece, watched the price rise from $175 to $200, figured out who had won the bidding war and kept an eye on him, a dude who was ruthlessly pursuing a number of works that night. It was clear he was determined to get every piece he had his eye on, and money was no object. I watched the smug look of victory on his face, until the final 30 seconds of the auction, when I waited until his back was turned and crept in to outbid him by $5. As I walked casually away from the table, I felt such a rush of adrenaline. Did I just do that? Did I just spend that much on art? Did I just swipe that painting out from under someone else's charge card?

Man, was he pissed.

When I signed over my life (ouch - that signature smarted a bit) and actually got the painting, I hugged it and named it Fred the Love Painting and said, "Don't worry, Fred, I will love you and hug you and take good care of you and appreciate you every single day. You can't tell me that smarmy dude would have done that. I'll never let anything bad happen to you, I promise."

Fred's up in my new office and makes me smile everytime I look at him. There's something about art that makes your day a bit brighter. And thinking about the love that went into the painting makes a big difference, too. Others feel it as well. Anyone who comes into my office is automatically drawn to Fred, by the colours and the lines. It makes me happy to see them enjoying him, too. He's the kind of love painting that just keeps on giving.

Best $205 I ever spent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think the little dude needs a hug.

Labels: art

It's a few days late, I know, but work's been busy and I haven't had the time to write about Valentine's Day until now.

In case you haven't already guessed, I'm not a fan. It seems like people either love or hate Valentine's Day, but there isn't much in between, is there? Some would say that those who hate Valentine's Day are bitter, lonely people who don't appreciate being reminded that they're going to die alone. Not so. I've disliked the holiday even when I have been in a relationship. I find it uncreative and commercial.

It's insulting to me that we have to be told to show our affection to someone on a designated day of the year. And that we are told exactly how to show that affection: a supper out, flowers, chocolates and lingerie.

Yawn. Boring.

I've never been one to follow convention. You had probably figured that one out already, hadn't you?

For the longest time, my friends and I spent Valentine's Day together. We booked a table at a favourite restaurant and made it a celebration of our friendship instead of one of romantic relationships. It was always a good time. We eventually fell out of that practice, though. I'm not sure why, but I'm guessing that relationships with men pushed our yearly ritual aside.

My least favourite Valentine's Day was about 13 years ago. C broke up with me one week before the day and I found out that he was taking another girl to a fancy schmantzy restaurant for supper. It wasn't a date - they had both broken up with people and were having supper to console each other on how difficult it was to break up with someone right before Valentine's Day. Uh, excuse me? You were the dumpers, not the dumpees! I still give him grief over this one, every once in awhile saying, out of the blue, "Hey, C, remember that year when you dumped me and then went out for Valentine's with that other girl?" His response is, typically, "It's been 13 years. Are you ever going to let it go?" My response always is, "No." I find this endlessly amusing. He doesn't. Sucks to be him, doesn't it?

In another relationship, I did do the Valentine's Day thing, but I did it my way. The Prof and I were in a long-distance relationship, and I planned out an elaborate gift for him. A dozen peach roses, dried to preserve their beauty and also show the fragility of relationships and the care and nurturing necessary to keep them intact. Then, I wrote a poem about how I felt about him and cut it up into 13 pieces, hanging a line of poetry with ribbon off each one of the roses and the final line around the bottom of the bouquet. The poem could be read in a multitude of ways, but the final line was always the same. I wrapped the piece of art in brown paper and handed it to him when he came to visit, with the instructions that he wasn't to open it until Valentine's Day, which was weeks away.

When the day came, he called me after he had opened it, and was genuinely surprised and touched by what I had done. He asked what I thought of his gift, but I hadn't received it yet, even though he had sent it by express post. Two days later, it arrived - a box of exquisite chocolates that had melted during the journey, and a video I had wanted but was unable to play because I didn't own a VCR.

By the time my next relationship rolled around, I had officially boycotted Valentine's Day, and let my boyfriend know it pretty much from day one. "But we have to celebrate something," he said. "Well, you'll have to figure that out, then, because there's no way I'm celebrating Valentine's Day." After some research, he discovered that Vietnamese Flag Day was around the same time. So, we agreed to celebrate the independence of Vietnam instead of the other V-day. On the special day, we gave each other replicas of the Vietnam flag that we had printed off our respective computers. I was thrilled, thinking, "He gets me. He understands this holiday is lame and now we can have our own quirky tradition that goes against the norm. Yay."

And then he said, "I have something else for you," and pulled out...wait for it...a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a video.

I've never been more disappointed, because in that moment, he showed me that he would never be able to go against the tradition and the social norms imposed by it. He had humoured me with the Vietnamese Flag Day celebration, but that was all. He was never going to change.

This year, early in the morning, before I had even contemplated rolling out of the cocoon I had fashioned out of my warm blankets, the phone rang. On the other end was a familiar voice, which said, "Happy Organic Free Range Emu Day." I immediately burst into a smile, "You remembered!" "Of course, I did," he said. "This is going to be the best Organic Free Range Emu Day, ever!" I exclaimed.

That was enough to put a smile on my face for the rest of the day, which became even better when I met Cee and the rest of the gang for supper at a restaurant we've been known to frequent. We spent the night chatting, laughing, and harassing male friend about whether the other patrons thought he was a stud for being at a table of six women, or just gay, finally settling on the conclusion that they probably thought he was a gay stud.

It was the perfect day. This is what it should all be about. Oh, and the fact that all the good chocolate is now on sale. Mmmm...chocolate.

Labels: holidays, relationships

Soon after asking cenobyte to write my bio, I was asked to write someone's obituary. Fortunately, it was only a hypothetical obituary for Superstar's assignment for gym class.

Okay, what's up with that? Why would you have to write your own obituary for gym class? Are they worried you're going to kick it while playing dodge ball and this way, they'll have something nice to give your family when they have to break the difficult news?

Anyway, Superstar thought it was a dumb assignment, so he asked me to do it for him. This is what I came up with (Personal details are deleted, of course. You are so not stealing my uber cool baby names, though you are welcome to try and guess what they are in the comments. Unless you actually know me and know what they are, then shhhhhh!):

Superstar passed away on Tuesday at the young age of 97. He lived his life with passion, adventure and a wicked sense of humour. In fact, his will specifically stated that he be buried face down so the world could...well, you get the point. Superstar will be remembered for all of the joy he brought into other people's lives, through his kindness, generosity, and willingness to help others in need. He was a good listener, the kind of person people went to for advice. He was always giving of his time, mentoring underprivileged youth, volunteering at homeless shelters and teaching his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to do the same. And he would do anything for a laugh - literally anything; his mother was said to remark on more than one occasion, "Have you no shame?"

He was shameless, it is true, but this shamelessness meant that he was willing to take risks, not only with his humour, but with his life path. He began his career in______, working as a _____ in _____ across British Columbia and Nova Scotia. He then went on to join the ______, spending a large amount of time in the Arctic and becoming a well-known advocate for environmental issues.

Superstar also undertook the rewarding and challenging role of father to three children, ____, ____ and ____, whom he adopted from Cambodia, Romania and Liberia with his life partner and soul mate, Savia. The strength of his character and his influence is reflected in his children's lives, as they have grown up to become the kind of people who work hard to give voice to the voiceless, power to the powerless and laughter to silent, stagnant rooms. When they are all together, there is so much love in such a small space that it is almost overwhelming, and they aren't afraid to share it with others. They have passed this attitude on to their children, who have passed it on to theirs, who will carry his legacy forward long after any of us reading this obituary is on the earth.

Labels: superstar

I was at a bit of a loss for a bio for this blog, so I enlisted the services of the lovely and talented (and only slightly sarcastic) cenobyte to write one for me. Here is what she came up with:

What can one say about the indominatable, the insatiable Saviabella? Hailing from the City of Fires in Italy, her name means "cute bellybutton". For generations, Saviabella has wowed the Western world with her underwater song and dance one-woman show entitled Silly Bella, which has been booked solid under Brodway in the East River for two years running.

Saviabella spends all her time as a woman, and in addition, she has a job that she excels at, regardless of her gender (which is female). Although her attempts at oyster shucking were a misunderstood foray into getting in touch with her masculine side, Saviabella does not let others' underestimations of her wit and sauciness delay her. She would someday like to teach ten or so students about the books that were written in big ol' houses a couple of hundred years ago.

Saviabella's secret powers (which this biographer cannot mention, on the grounds that they would no longer be secret, but let me assure you, they are impressive) are held in check by a red and black beaded brassiere she lifted from the slumbering form of a belly-dancing Amazon while on vacation in the Andes. She is viciously intelligent, charming, whole, and not afraid of clowns. Which may or may not be a good thing. That remains to be seen.

Works for me!

Labels: bio

The idea: Write a sentence about 20 people; one sentence per person, but don't mention who...

• You are the most talented, intelligent and wise person I know, and I want more than anything for you to be successful and happy.
• We've never met, but I know you'll be an amazing mother.
• You're the only person I consider to be family and I'm terrified of what I would do if something happened to you.
• The fact that you're wearing my bra right now makes me giggle.
• I want to see you more often, but you remind me of me at that age, and it brings back a lot of painful memories.
• I have forgiven you.
• I wish we could have a normal relationship but I wonder if there is just too much baggage there for that ever to happen.
• I am grateful every day that we are friends.
• You'd better have a good time at that concert, because remember: I know where you live.
• I worry that you'll die before I get a chance to see you again.
• I hope that my kids turn out like you.
• I wish I could believe that your lies and manipulations would catch up to you one day, but I know that you're so clueless that you won't even recognize it when it happens.
• I wonder if you realize how knowing you, even for that brief period of time, had such a positive effect on my life?
• Was it just a one-time thing or did you do it to other little girls, too?
• Is my life really that fascinating that you feel the need to constantly be checking up on what I'm doing...oh, wait, you're right, it is...carry on, then.
• I know we've known each other before.
• You were my best friend through one of the most difficult times in my life and I wish I knew how to find you now.
• I look forward to growing old with you.
• It makes me sad that you will never meet our children; I hope I get to know you well enough to tell them endearing and funny stories about you.
• I know you can do it on your own.

Labels: meme

A surprise from Musically Speaking, who knows I hate Valentine's Day with the passion of a thousand burning suns. But it's this great gift box from Lush, so who am I to complain? The card says:

Savia:

Roses are red, violets are blue. Be my valentine, or I will bite you.

Smoochies,
Musically Speaking

What choice do I have? I bruise very easily. Plus, the chick has already gotten into my underwear...

Oh, yeah, I guess you don't know that. I lost a cup size when I dropped all that weight, and I had these beautiful bras that were expensive and barely worn, so guess what Musically Speaking got in the mail this week?

My cups runneth over. Literally.

Labels: musically speaking, underwear

On the phone. A silly little game. Proof that Savia always comes out on top.

SuperStar: Oh, muffin.
Savia: Oh, muffin bottom.
SuperStar: Oh, sugar.
Savia: Oh, sugar bottom.
SuperStar: Oh, pork chop.
Savia: Oh, organic free range charbroiled emu ribs.
SuperStar: Organic free range charbroiled emu ribs?
Savia: Yes. Organic free range charbroiled emu ribs...bottom.
SuperStar: Really rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?
Savia: Yeah, you know you like it.

Labels: superstar

Do you love my new template or do you love my new template? I'm thinking you do, because what's not to love? The hot and talented Schmutzie made it just for me, she did.

I've always been drawn to this piece of art. When my brother and I went to Italy almost ten years ago, it was on the top of my list of things to see. I wanted to see the Sistine Chapel in the worst way, but mostly, I wanted to see her: the Delphic Sibyl. There is something about her face, a vulnerability in her eyes, yet a depth and knowledge as well. I think she is beautiful and powerful and wise. She is my inspiration.

So, yes, ten years ago, my brother and I went to Rome to visit my cousin Sonia. She and her friend Maria dragged us all over the place, excited to show us their city. What struck me about Rome is that there is art everywhere you look - famous art just hanging out on street corners, unpresumptuous yet spectacular. People go about their business around it; it's just part of the scenery of their everyday lives. Sonia took us to what seemed like every historic church in the city. Church after church with gilded gold statues and ornate, adorned ceilings. After awhile, my brother and I started to become disgusted with the spectacle. At one point, he turned to me and said, "You know these were totally paid for with indulgences." I nodded and we had a silent moment where we were both thinking the same thing: "God wouldn't want this. This is so very wrong."

Finally, we made our way to Vatican City and wove through room upon room of famous art, senses overwhelmed by the abundance and sheer mass of it all. We followed the numerous signs to the Sistine Chapel, expecting it would be a huge, ornate church like the others we had seen the past few days. But that's not at all what we found. Instead, we turned a corner to see a tiny, simple, white chapel. When we went inside, it was full of people, yet almost completely silent. The beautiful art on the ceilings and the walls jumped out at me. I searched the images for Delphica and found a spot on a plain wooden pew beneath her. She was stunning, almost alive with intensity of colour. There was such a sense of calm and beauty that I felt overwhelmed. Tears streaming down my face, I turned to my brother and said, "If there is a God, this is where he would want to be. This is what it's all about." He agreed.

I've never felt anything like it since. That place is incredibly sacred to me, so to have just a little piece of it in this space means so much.

Thank you, Schmutzie.

Labels: Schmutzie, Sistine Chapel, spirituality