In-valid

I'm struggling. Struggling to be well. Struggling to maintain a positive attitude. Struggling against the perceptions of others. Just struggling.

It's funny. You prepare and you do your research and you're ready for the worst when going in for major surgery. But that's the easy part. What they don't tell you is what happens afterward.

When you get your face cracked open, you expect that there will be massive swelling, nasty bruises and grotesque stitches. You mentally prepare yourself for that, and when it happens, it's not quite as bad as you thought it would be. You figure that once your jaw gets unwired and the physical signs of the procedure are gone, you're home free.

If you want the truth, I would gladly go back to having my jaw wired shut right now. Because the moment the wires came off was when things started getting difficult.

I expected that it would be tough to eat for awhile, but not for as long as it has been. I still can't eat anything chewy or hard (raisins or fresh vegetables, for instance), because I literally can't chew it. And it's been more than two and a half months since the surgery now.

I expected that my mouth would have a limited opening for awhile, but I didn't expect that getting my range of motion back would be such a painful, slow struggle.

I expected that I would have some pain and that I might be tired, but I didn't expect that every physical action would be so exhausting.

Anesthetic stays in your body for up to a year after surgery. It slows you down, you forget things, you lose your train of thought, you stumble into doorways, and you get tired easily. After major surgery, your immune system is compromised, you're more susceptible to viruses and they hit you a lot harder than they did before.

You go to the mirror and see someone staring back at you who looks fantastic and you can't figure out why she just can't get her shit together already. The surgery is over. The time off work is over. Why is it getting harder instead of easier? What the hell is wrong with me?

One day, I posted this status on Facebook: "Savia looks absolutely fabulous but feels utterly miserable." It's rare that I have a status that is less than racy or bizarre, so a friend of mine who had major brain surgery a few years ago responded with concern. I wrote him back:

It's the post-surgery stuff. Everyone is so supportive when you're just out of surgery and you look like hell. Flowers, cards, understanding, etc. But once you look okay, they forget that you've been through this major procedure and treat you like you're back to normal. But you're not.

I'm finding right now to be one of the most difficult times because I look great - you'd never know I had surgery. However, I'm so tired and everything is an effort. I misplace things, use the wrong words, forget what I'm doing, etc. Stupid anesthetic brain. Anyway, it's tough.

How long was it for you until you felt fully functional after surgery?

His response was right on the mark:

How long? In my case, I'm still waiting....The way I thought about what you're describing was to re-pronounce the word 'invalid' - i.e. as 'valid' with a prefix, meaning 'not a valid person.' I suspect that like mine, your inner person is seeking validation for the experience and the way it's making her feel. How to find validation? I dunno. Is it frivolous to suggest dark eye shadow UNDER the eyes, a sallow make-up foundation, and a carefully understated limp?

It felt good to talk to someone who knows what this is like. These days, I just feel frustrated. Frustrated that I can't do everything that I could do before. Frustrated that anything that contributes to my stress levels becomes unmanageable quickly. Frustrated that just when I think I'm doing okay, something as simple as chanting in a mellow yoga class re-injures my jaw and leaves me with crippling migraines for four days straight.

Frustrated that the people around me respond, if at all, with patronization or their own frustration at my lack of ability to be my usual high-functioning, overachieving, reliable self.

Frustrated, alienated, alone. Depressed. In-valid.

More ninja fucking shirts

I got a comment the other day from a new reader, John, who was admiring my "ninja fuck my blog" shirts* and asked, "Does it come in blue for boys?"

Well, it does now!**

Saviabella for Men by saviabella

The small writing on this shirt means that you'll have women (or men, depending on your preference, of course) cozying up to you to read your shirt. Guaranteed to get you lots of attention wherever you go.

And, as always, we still have the two other styles available for the ladies:

Pink Saviabella Tee

Saviabella Blog Tee Reverse

If anyone else has T-shirt design requests, please let me know. Here at Casa Bella, we aim to please those who aim to ninja fuck this blog.

*Anyone wondering how the term "ninja fuck" came to be associated with this blog should read this entry.

**To buy any of these shirts, you have to have a Zazzle account, which you can get at www.zazzle.com. Also, you have to change your Zazzle "account settings" to PG13. Then, you'll be able to click on the link and get your very own smut shirt. Not sure why Zazzle makes all this so complicated. Maybe I need to take my ninja fucking business elsewhere?

I be pimpin', yo

My blog has been featured in the most recent edition of Five Star Friday. What is this Five Star Friday of which I speak, you ask?

Well, it's the brain child of my good friend Schmutzie, who wanted to spread some good warm fuzzy karma around the blog world. But she's not the one who decides which entries are featured - anyone can submit their favourite entries and they get on the list. No judgement, no hierarchies, no playing favourites. Just a place to share great writing, in all its forms. Not to pimp it out or anything. Except I'm totally pimping it out because it rocks.

Speaking of good writing, the post from my blog that was chosen for this week's Five Star Friday was not written by me. It was a guest post written by the fabulous Madam Diva, who is wholly deserving of five stars and then some.

So, please check out Five Star Friday, consider submitting your favourite posts from the blogs you read, and swing by Diva's place to show her some love.

Which reminds me, I still owe Diva a guest post. How on earth am I going to live up to the one she wrote me?

Willkommen, Welcome

A few months ago, I started a second blog to chronicle my jaw surgery. My vision was that it would be a site for people seeking out information about what to expect when they went under the bone saw. I also saw it as a good way for my co-workers, family and friends to see how I was doing while I was at home recovering. The site contains all of the entries I've written here on the topic, and also has some additional information geared at people facing jaw surgery.

As it's a site for public consumption, I removed all swearing and references to sex from the entries before I cross posted them at Smiling Bella. Maybe I'm being overly cautious, but I'm guessing my co-workers do not want to envision me playing with sex toys and ninja fucking. (Well, there may be a couple who wouldn't mind - I'm looking at you, Diva - but they would be in the minority.)

It's a specialized site that I've promoted on the jaw surgery forums I frequent, so it has a small, specific audience. I get an average of 15-30 hits per day, with spikes that reach 50-60 at the highest. So, when I went to my stats page the other day and saw that my jaw surgery blog had gotten 599 hits in one day, I was more than a little surprised.

I did some digging to see where all of these new readers were coming from, and the same website popped up for all of them. It appeared to be a forum for people with braces. When I tried to click on the link, it wouldn't let me in without a user name and password. So, I created one, expecting admission would be immediate. Not so much. My membership had to be approved by the site administrator first. While I waited for the approval, I watched my stat counter reach more than 500 hits again the next day.

When I finally received my Willkommen email (that should have been my first sign), I began clicking around to see what the site was about and why I was suddenly so popular.

While nothing on the site is overtly stated, it quickly became clear to me that it isn't a support group for people with braces, as I had assumed by its name.

It is...

wait for it...

a German orthodontic fetish site.

Yes, my friends, there are smarmy German dudes jerking off to my shiny silver smile and imagining their jizz dripping off my arch wires.

And now, you're not going to be able to get that image out of your head, are you? Sorry about that. But I figure that I should not be left alone with my overactive and disgusting imagination, so I'm bringing you along with me.

The page where my jaw surgery blog URL is posted is titled, "erwachsene frauen" or "adult women" and all it contains is links and links and links to pictures of women with braces. The pictures aren't dirty or provocative, just pictures of unsuspecting women smiling with braces on their teeth. I imagine that part of the thrill for these guys is the fact that the women don't know their pictures are being used in this way; they are unknowing participants or even victims of this fetish.

And while part of me is a little disturbed by this development, I do have to note that after my URL were not one, but two exclamation points.

Yup, braces or not, I've still got it.

Celebratory censorship

I ran into my good friend Nat at the sex show this weekend. After the requisite, "What did you buy?" questions - She: nothing yet. Me: beige 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets - ...

(Yes, I know. I went to a sex show and bought not just cotton sheets, but beige cotton sheets. But in my defense, it's because my goodie drawer runneth over with every interesting sex toy worth owning. That, and I also bought some very cute pasties. But more on that later.)

...she informed me that my blog had been censored at our friend's workplace. He had tried to read my blog on one of his breaks and instead of being entertained with stories of cucumber dildos, sex toys and ninja fucking (come on, how can you not buy one of those shirts?), he got a message stating that my site had been blocked for "pornographic content."

Upon learning this, I jumped up and down and cheered, "Yay! I've been censored by workplaces!" Because, really, when the search terms that bring people to your blog include "italian lesbian porn" and "my boobs hurt from all that fucking", you kind of expect these things to happen. And it's far more fun to celebrate them than it is to lament them.

Today, I was bragging D-man about my new-found censorship celebrity and he gave me some seemingly foolproof advice to help my readers get around this little problem. While there are a number of services that allow people to surf banned websites without being tracked, many workplaces are aware of these and ban them as well (as is the case in our friend's workplace.) But, there's a way around that, too, thanks to smartypants D.

Go to Google Translate and type the blog URL under "Translate a Web Page." Then, instead of translating it into another language, pick a language you wish my blog was in and "translate" it from that into English - Korean to English, Portuguese to English, Italian to English - it doesn't matter. My blog is all multi-cultural that way. Upon "translating" to English, the blog will pop up on the Google page and will register as a Google hit instead of a hit on my blog, thus avoiding the censorship entirely.

Because the only thing cooler than being censored by my friend's workplace is teaching people how to stick it to the censors.

You're welcome.

Now, surf safe, and don't forget to wear protection. You never know what kind of viruses you could pick up on some of these naughty blogs.

Just get a Rock Chick already

This made me laugh out loud. Gotta love those Brits. Enjoy!

Tools of the trade

Tomorrow marks the two-month anniversary of my jaw surgery. It's hard to believe that eight weeks has passed since my super high-five happy times, but here we are.

The bruising is gone, the swelling is gone, those awful wires binding my jaw together are gone, and people tell me that I look like a million bucks. And yet, my recovery is not over. Not in the least. There's the small matter of being able to open my mouth and chew things (and the other delightful things that are possible when you can open your mouth fully, if you get my drift.) Yeah, that little detail.

After I got my jaw unwired, I could only open my mouth a few millimetres. My surgeon gave me some exercises to do to help get my opening back. After one month, I was only able to open my mouth 15 millimetres.

In case you're wondering how much that is, here's a ruler. Put some household objects up to it and imagine only being able to open your mouth that wide.

15 mm = One thumb's width.
The diameter of a small coin.
Less than one Scrabble tile.
And keep in mind, it's 15 mm, teeth to teeth.

Do you know what you can eat when you can only open your mouth 15 mm? Not a whole lot. Unless you chop it up into eensie teensie little pieces.

The situation of sharing the same food as my friend's baby was getting kind of old. Not to mention the fact that Superstar was very much out of luck on Steak and a Blow Job Day this year. I mean, the guy was already out of luck on the steak part because he's a vegetarian, but to miss out on the BJ? Well, I had to get on top of that sucker. So, I ran to my physiotherapist, stat.

She stretched my jaw, moved it around, massaged it, and then handed me this:

I wondered if perhaps she was giving me some tools
so I could break into the pharmacy late at night
and swipe some of the good drugs
so I would no longer care that I couldn't really eat
or service my man.

Alas, this was not the case.
I was supposed to use this device to stretch my mouth open.
That piece on the end goes into your mouth,
and then you use the grip to crank it open.

Seriously??
Look, I don't like you, and you don't like me,
but we're in this together, so we better make the best of it, alright?

At first, I couldn't even get my mouth around the thing.
But after a few stretches, I was ready.
I wasn't able to crank it open for quite some time,
but after a few weeks of baby steps...

>

Crank, crank, crank, crank, crank.
That's five, in case you were counting.
25 millimetres.

25 mm=two finger widths
The spine of a substantial self-help book
The width of a fork.

And might I mention,
it feels as comfortable as it looks.

The thing is, 25 mm is not enough. My surgeon won't let me go back to my orthodontist for braces adjustments until I reach 30 mm. And I am not considered fully recovered from this surgery until I have a "functional opening", which is around 40 mm. The physiotherapy torture device has 10 clicks on it. I have only been able to reach 5-6 clicks at this point.

This is what the torture device looks like when open 10 clicks.
Incidentally, 10 clicks is what I need to work up to in order to
...ahem...
make Superstar a happy camper.
We measured.

More than a little daunting.

Infuriating, really.

But mostly depressing.

But I'll keep at it. I'm a trooper that way. A pathetic trooper who can't open her mouth wide enough to eat an ice cream cone, but a trooper nonetheless.

No surprises here

I took one of those online Myers-Briggs personality tests (found via JAB_au.) They always come out the same. I'm an INFJ, which is the rarest of personality types. Only one per cent of the population falls into this category. This either makes me very special or very misunderstood. Or both.

I found it interesting to note that the list includes Adam Sandler, Chaucer and Oprah. We INFJs are an eclectic group, to say the least.



What's your personality type?

There will be blood

Warning Sign #1 that you may need to scale down the painkillers:

• You read the label on one of your pill bottles as: "Take with blood" and then contemplate (for several moments) how you would go about doing this, before finally realizing that it actually says: "Take with food."

Reason #33

Remember when I wrote that list of 32 reasons I love Superstar for his 32nd birthday? Well, I was thinking, technically, it's his 33rd year on the planet, so I should be able to add another reason to the list, right? One to grow on, let's say.

#33. I've been sick. Like really sick. Like whole body aches, can't get out of bed, coughing up a lung, unable to digest food, living in PJs, not leaving the house for two weeks kind of sick. Oh, and did I mention that my jaw's still healing, which means I'm not allowed to chew anything yet? Good, good times for Savia.

Superstar has come to visit every day, just showing up on my doorstep unannounced. Yesterday was the sickest I can remember being for a long time. Running to the bathroom every few minutes, being unable to digest so much as broth. He brought biscotti and made gourmet rooibos tea for me to soak it in so it would be soft enough to gum down.

Surprisingly, it did settle my stomach. Why was it that I had done the same thing for myself all day and it just made me sicker, but when he did it, it made everything better?

Today, he showed up with groceries: ginger root to make stomach-calming tea, bananas, strawberries and instant oatmeal. He knew I was running out of gummable, palatable food and was too sick to pick up my own supplies.

That was so very thoughtful and sweet, and in my weakened state, enough to make my knees buckle a bit.

But then he dealt the final blow...not only did he get the organic oatmeal, but he read all of the labels and compared them to each other to find the package with the highest amount of fibre and the lowest amount of sugar. To make sure I was getting the most nutritional bang for his buck.

Worth an addition to the list, no?

Now, please excuse me while I gum down a bowl of minced strawberries.