I Am Woman, See Me Bellydance

Well, I'm back at 'er, after a long spell toiling for the bitch goddess Opera. Loved it, but working both the opera chorus and the Science Centre sucked up almost every minute of free time I had. And the weekend after, my sister came a-callin' from Calgary (the first time any family member has ever come just to visit lil' ol' me). So my time was still not my own.

So now here I sit, in the flotsam and jetsam of my basement suite, avoiding housework like it's the flu.

Lots of stuff has crossed my news desk in the last week, including Kathryn Bigelow's historic Best Director win at the Oscars, the beginning of the Paralympics, which CTV dutifully relegated to second-string (must play the advertisers' tune..), more violence in Belleville, ON., and the minimal media coverage of International Women's Day in Canada. Is that latter thing a good sign or a bad sign? Good in that maybe we've come far enough that we don't need a day to recognise our accomplishments? Bad in that well, it's International, if not Universal, and in some places quite a big deal, but not in The True North Strong and Free, where there's still plenty of inequality. And why isn't it International Women's MONTH, for heaven's sake? More than half the population of the world is female. You'd think we warranted more than a measly 24 hours to celebrate ourselves. And it's been celebrated since 1911. Next year is the centenary, for the love of all that's feminine! Give us our month!! We are, after all, ruled by monthly cycles!!!!

Speaking of the feminine and of celebrations, my friend had an early birthday get-together at a west-side club which was featuring a funky belly-dancing extravaganza. There was a groovy, gypsy-ish/middle eastern-ish band, guest belly dancers, and a room full of women young and old who were shaking their thangs and gyrating for all they were worth. I haven't been surrounded by that much estrogen since my last Stitch 'n Bitch, which was quite a while ago. All these smiling women swaying their hips, and waving their arms, swathed in filmy skirts and scarves sporting sparkly sequins (a little alliteration, woot!), made me feel good, very good.

My friend's boyfriend wasn't all that wowed by what he felt was this odd combination of navel-gazing and contrived, sexualized exhibitionism, but I felt it was a rather unique and peculiarly feminine thing, 'cause it really wasn't for the guys at all.. For me, it was an unusual, but not unwelcome, celebration of our individual selves and our shared experiences. Kind of a bellydancing love-in.

Sweet.