And the winners are...

As I'm sure you'll recall (as you were twitching all weekend in anticipation), I promised my prototype "ninja fuck my blog" shirt to one of my readers. As usual, you guys were all great sports and left fantastic comments. It was hard to decide. Even harder knowing that Zazzle may pull my designs for being "in violation of Zazzle’s Acceptable Content Policy", so this may be an even more limited edition than I previously thought.*

After much consideration, the reader who will proclaim her love of ninjas, fucking and blogs across her boobs is.....

Deb from Deb on the Rocks. This was what she said:

Savia--You ARE the rock chick, and your blog is delicious--from the gorgeous design to the conversations in the comments. I recently realized i wasn't getting you on Twitter and I felt I had CHEATED myself out of goodness.

You are dirty, witty, a sassy writer and you lust after your cousins. How could readers NOT stalk you, that's what I want to know?

Really, your smart sensibility shows through, and I love your approach to blogging. Plus, you give good comment.

BUT, I want you to keep AND wear your shirt. Because wearing your own promo is the blog version of the rock chick. Rock yourself!

She then goes on to add:

For the record, your Italian adventures, your Rock Chick pilgrimage, your quirky egg adventures, and your description of singing come to mind as favorite.

Talk about giving good comment! I read this on a really low day, and it made me smile and feel all around amazing. It was just what I needed. And now, Deb, you'll get...I'm guessing a whoooole lotta attention. Let me know if the shirt gets you any action, okay? (Oh, and by the way, I've taken your advice and ordered myself a girlie pink "ninja fuck my blog" T-shirt. I made the name on the back a little smaller, but I imagine no one will notice it anyway - they'll be too busy staring at the front!)

Like I said, it was hard picking just one, so I decided on two runners up, because I'm in charge and I'm allowed to do that kinda thing.

The delicious Ms. Knuckle Toes helped inspire the shirt, so it doesn't seem fair that she shouldn't have one to show off her, as she calls it, "literary genius" (yes...that's what everyone at the Pub will be looking at...your geniusness.) So, I have a proposal for you, lady. I've ordered you one of my shirts and I am willing to send it your way in exchange for one of those uber-hot cleavage tops that you're selling on Etsy. Tit for tat? For the benefit of both of our tits and tats?

And for my favourite stalker, Sara, who wrote this:

Okay, so here's a really pathetic, potentially stalk-ish sounding confession: You were tagged in a meme back in September and one category was five songs that you know all the lyrics to. You listed your songs and I already had two of the five but I immediately downloaded the other three. And I LOVED them. I like your taste, your pizz-azz, and yeah, I like your blog.

How can I not send her a Savia mix CD? I recently sent Ceridwen two discs called, respectively, Cock and Cunt. You're in for a treat, Sara.

Thanks for playing, everyone. I think I'm going to have to start giving things away more often - this was fun. Deb and Sara - please drop me an email at saviabella at gmail dot com to let me know where you'd like me to send your prizes. And Knuckle Toes, you know where to find me.

*Zazzle doesn't like naughty language. Either that, or they're discriminating against ninjas. I'm guessing what happened is that some kid was surfing the new products, came across one of my shirts (the reverse image one) and said, "Mommy, what's a ninja fuck?" After which Mommy reported Savia to the authorities. But don't worry, I'm keeping my chin up. I won't let The Man get me down. Unless he's going down, and if that's the case...

You know you wanna

Guess what?

I have a T-shirt. See?


Now you, too, may proclaim your love of ninja fucking and blogs by letting your boobs do the talking (or man titties, depending on your gender).

And...here's the part where it gets all kinds of fun. Happy happy good times for the ninja fucking fans. I'm going to send one lucky reader my prototype T-shirt*.

It arrived in the mail today. It's purdy. I originally ordered it for myself, but it feels weird to have my blog address splayed across my back. Notice how I didn't say that it felt weird to have "ninja fuck my blog" splayed across my tits?

Yeah, you know me better than that.

Anyway, the shirt up for grabs is a ladies black fitted tee in large, which will fit you if you normally wear medium to large (they fit a bit small, but not as small as they claim on the website.)

If you want to win the shirt, just leave a comment telling me why you like my blog, your favourite entry (other than the ninja one), or anything else that will make me feel all warm and fuzzy. Or horny. I just need some love, people, and I'm willing to give stuff away to get it. Nothing like desperation to sell shirts, hey?

I'll post my favourite comment in an upcoming entry and will mail you the shirt posthaste. And I promise not to stalk you if you give me your mailing address. Just sayin'.

*The prototype shirt is slightly different than the one for sale on the Zazzle website. The writing's a bit higher and the address on the back is much bigger. So, that means it's one-of-a-kind and did I mention free? Free, I tells ya!

PS Many thanks to the lovely Ms. Knuckle Toes, whose brilliant and dirty mind helped me get the wording on the shirt just right.

PPS It's come to my attention that you can click on the link, but you can't search for the shirt or order it unless you have a Zazzle account and set your account's "maturity level" to PG-13. This is found under the "My Zazzle" and "Member Account".

Worst. Dates. Ever.

It's been awhile since I've been on a truly bad date, but that doesn't erase the oh-so-happy memories of first dates gone horribly wrong. So, I give you:

Savia's. Worst. Dates. Ever.

Honourable Mention: (Not technically a date, but traumatic nonetheless.)

#5. The Missing Link

I was 18 years old and C had just broken my heart. To cheer me up, some friends took me to the college bar, PJ Melon's, which was nicknamed PJ Minors because of its reputation for not turning people away for lack of ID. And if there was one thing I lacked at the time, aside from healthy self-esteem, it was bar-aged ID.

Unfortunately, the previous weekend, PJs had gotten raided by cops and fined heavily for having so many minors there. So, we weren't sure I'd be able to get in. Lucky me, one of the members of our group used to work at the bar as a bouncer. "You just have to pretend to be my girlfriend, and they won't card you," he said. We held hands, jumped the line, and they let us in without paying cover or showing ID. Sweet.

Once inside, my ex-bouncer fake boyfriend asked me to dance. It was the least I could do after he had helped me sneak in. As the night wore on, it was clear he was interested in more than a fake relationship. Uncomfortable. I wasn't ready to date yet, and, to put it nicely, this guy looked as though evolution had passed him by. With his sloped forehead, square jaw, and looming frame, all you had to do was give him a club and an animal skin and he would have passed for the missing link.

I tried to walk the fine line between being nice and showing interest. I couldn't blow him off, because he could get me kicked out and/or charged with underage drinking. I didn't want to lead him on in any way, because there was something about him that creeped me out. Beyond the missing link thing.

By the end of the night, my intuition had proven correct. As the bar was closing, a fight broke out between two drunks. Missing Link got in there to try and diffuse the conflict. But his solution involved punching one of the guys in the face. (Is that what they teach you at Underage Bar Bouncer School? Or is that why you're an ex-bouncer?)

Later, I noticed his knuckles were bleeding. While it was possible it was from dragging them on the ground, I asked anyway. "Fuck. I cut my knuckles on that guy's teeth," he said.

Yeah. Um. Bleeding knuckles from punching out a stranger = no fake second date for you. Low self-esteem or not, a gal's gotta draw the line somewhere. And the potential of getting clubbed over the head and dragged off by my hair is a line I'm not willing to cross. Ever.

The Contenders

#4. He Lost Me at Hello

A few years ago, a friend of a friend set me up on a date with a lawyer. Yeah, I know that should have tipped me off, but he was a former classical musician, so I figured there would be things we had in common.

When he picked me up, I noticed that he had put an anti-theft club on his steering wheel. I figured it was probably just habit and didn't think much of it until he said something along the lines of, "Not to insult your neighbourhood or anything, but..."

Okay, I know I live in HoodLite and all, but the likelihood of his car getting broken into in the two minutes that it took him to walk from his car to my house = not as likely as me hitting him over the head with his steering wheel club.

I politely pointed out all the new houses being built in my neighbourhood and talked about how it was turning around. He didn't seem convinced and instead flipped on the automatic locks.

As we were driving to supper, he asked what I did for a living. I told him I worked in public relations.

"Oh, so you're a spin doctor who manipulates people for a living."

A lawyer dissing my profession? Harsh. I politely explained what I did and how it wasn't at all like that. Again, he didn't seem convinced.

We continued to drive and he asked, "Where would you like to eat?"

I opened my mouth to answer and he quickly added, "I refuse to go to ____, and I think ____ is overrated, and there's no way I'm going to _____."

Which pretty much ruled out most of the good restaurants in the area. So, I said, "Well, we could always go to Shoppers Drug Mart and pick up a bag of chips and a Coke for supper."

"Wow, you really aren't picky, are you?" he sneered.

He was serious. He actually didn't get the fact that I was being sarcastic.

The fact that he picked up the tab for supper did not buy me back those four hours of my life.

#3. Why Is Margaret in the Forest?

Shortly after I was old enough to be at the bar, I ran into a guy who had gone to my high school. I didn't really know him because he was a year younger, but he was hot. And buff. And seemed like a nice enough guy. And did I mention hot? So, I gave him my phone number. When he called, we talked for four hours, and it was an awesome conversation. We agreed to go for lunch the next day.

I guess four hours was the limit of what we had in common, because this lunch date was painful. He was a professional football player and started every sentence with, "This one time, at the football clubhouse..."

I kept trying to steer the conversation into areas that didn't involve football, but he always brought it back to the clubhouse and all the cool footbally things that went on there.

After awhile, I blurted out, "Do you read?"

To which he responded, "Yeah. Sports Illustrated, the sports section of the newspaper..."

"No. I mean do you read books? Literature. That kind of thing?"

Blank stare.

"You know, like Margaret Atwood?"

"Margaret...At Wood?"

"She's perhaps the best-known Canadian author and my personal hero. You must have at least taken her in school."

Blank stare.

"The Handmaid's Tale, Cat's Eye, The Edible Woman?"

Blank stare.

Yeah, that cinched it. And resulted in me creating the rule that in order to date me, you have to at least have heard of Margaret Atwood.

#2. Poor Little Rich Boy

A few months later, I met a cute guy at the same bar. Our first conversation began with him waving a scholarly article in front of my face and saying, "Chiropractors hurt people. Read this." As I skimmed it, he explained that he had been going to school to become a chiropractor, but he came across research that led him to believe they hurt people, so he quit school and walked away from the profession.

Wow. He had ethics and a passion for helping people. That was hot. But there was just one thing I needed to know: "What do you think of Margaret Atwood?"

He answered, "She is completely overrated," and launched into a rant dissing my gal Maggie. We ended up having a heated debate on the author, which was all kinds of hot. Who doesn't want to make out after a passionate literary row? I had to see him again.

We went for lunch a few days later and it didn't take long for his true colours to show. Any one of these strikes was enough to kick his shit to the curb. But all three? Observe:

• He talked about his friend's father, the pharmacist, and how he and his friends liked to take his keys, break into the pharmacy, and steal drugs: "The great thing about pharmacists is that they really know how to abuse their drugs."
  
  
• He described a recent holiday in Mexico like so: "It was awesome. We went surfing and the beach was just beautiful. But the best thing about staying at the resort is that there was a really big wall to keep the poor people out, so you didn't have to see them and stuff. No one wants to think about that. It would wreck the vacation."
  
  
• He paid for lunch with Dr. Daddy's credit card.

After that date, I made another rule. It involved not dating spoiled rich brats who are high on stolen prescription drugs. Even if they do know who Margaret Atwood is.

And the Award for Worst. Date. Ever. Goes to:

#1. Mr. Pee Pee

I had just broken up with my first real love. Marlena got me high to stop me from crying and dragged me out to the bar. A guy there must have found my glassy-eyed non-crying self cute, because he followed me around all night until he got up the nerve to ask me to dance. We had barely talked when he asked for my phone number. I wouldn't normally give it out to a miscellaneous guy, but I was high and not crying and a boy liked me.

I regretted it the next day, but fortunately, he didn't call. Until a month later, that is. I guess he had been calling all along, but was too chicken to leave a message. The day he caught me at home, I was eating a bowl of cherries and feeling impulsive, so I agreed to supper.

Before I went, I called Marlena and said, "If I go missing or turn up dead in the lake, this is the name of the guy I went out with tonight. Write it down." Not that it would have done me much good, because I gave her the wrong last name. Oops.

I picked him up because I didn't want him knowing where I lived. When I went to the door, I was greeted with squalor. There were pizza boxes and fast food bags everywhere, as well as miscellaneous boxes and garbage. Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I asked: "Oh, did you just move in?"

"No. I've lived here for years."

Not a good sign. Another bad sign was that I swore I could smell alcohol on his breath. But for some reason, I still went out with him. I think I was trying to be nice. The supper conversation was nothing short of odd. At one point, he pointed to his two front teeth and said, "These are fake, see?" and tapped on them. "I got them knocked out playing hockey."

Charming.

Then, out of the blue, he started talking about how he used to have cancer and what that was like. In great detail. Which was weird because we had just been making small talk up until that point. Very small talk. Miniature talk, really. So, a big, intense first-date cancer talk with a complete stranger that you have no real connection with? A tad awkward and uncomfortable.

I drank a lot of iced tea.

Before we left the restaurant, I went to the bathroom. He didn't. It was still relatively early, so as I was driving him home, he suggested that I come watch TV at his place. Like I was going to set foot in that rat den again? Alone? With this freak? Thinking quickly, I suggested that we go for a walk around the lake instead.

Because that would make it easier to dump my body there? I have no idea what I was thinking.

So, we start walking down the path by the lake. We got to a dark, heavily-treed area and he said, "I gotta drain the snake." He then left me on the path, went into the treed area and proceeded to take the longest and loudest pee I'd ever heard in my life.

I stood in the middle of the pitch-black path by myself, with my personal alarm out in front of me, ready to pull the cord in case someone jumped out and tried to knife me, and listened to him pee for what seemed like five minutes, thinking, "You've got to be kidding me!"

After that, I told him I was tired and needed to take him home. When I dropped him off, he asked me in again, and I said no. Then, he actually went in for the goodnight kiss. Shocked, I instinctively pulled back and turned away from him. Flustered, he scrambled out of my car, getting his foot twisted in the seatbelt in his haste and fell on his face on the sidewalk.

Yup. Worst. Date. Ever.

What's yours?

May God have mercy on us all

Well, I've done it again.

Signed up for this dealie thinger.

You remember what happened last time, right? All kinds of weird shit. Just take a browse through my archives of last year's NaBloPoMo and you'll see what I'm talking about.

November is going to be an interesting ride.

Ode to a Diva

The other day, I was getting my new (to me, anyway) appliances delivered. You know you're old when you get really excited about Energy Star appliances. But they're energy efficient! And electronic! And there's even a light in the dryer. A light. Inside the fucking dryer. I tell ya, this is exciting shit.

The delivery guys were at my house for three hours trying to get my old appliances out and the new ones in. Apparently, back in 1946, people weren't as tall or as fat as they are now, and they didn't have disturbingly large furniture and appliances. I've learned the price of owning a character home is short, narrow doorways and halls. They seem charming at first, but you find out later that they do not make for easy appliance delivery (and you end up paying $238 instead of $86). It was kind of like playing Tetris, only instead of coloured blocks, you have a hundred-pound refrigerator coming at your head. Good times.

As they were trying to cram the stove through my hallway (after taking off the oven door and anything else that wasn't fused to the thing), one of the delivery guys looked at the picture Diva had painted for me and asked, "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yup. My friend painted that. It's a self-portrait."

"A self-portrait?" He asked, incredulously.

"Yes. It was to match that painting over there...which is what you think it is, too."

He didn't seem to know how to respond to that one. He just shook his head and said, "Alright then."

I sometimes forget that not everyone thinks the same as me. In fact, most people don't. But Diva and I get each other, and praise Jebus for that. Plus, you know you've got a real friend when she sends you her breast in the interoffice mail.

It's hard to believe that we've only known each other (in person) since January. I can't imagine not knowing her - she's become one of my closest friends and favourite people in the world. But maybe that's because we met here in the blogiverse, where people drop facades more easily and skip the small talk. It's pretty rare that you walk up to an acquaintance and say, "So, I was sexually abused when I was four. How are you doing today?" (Mind you, I wouldn't put it past me.) Yet, in the blogiverse, that's pretty much how it goes.

It was a fluke that I found her blog in the first place. It wasn't through someone else's links and, in fact, we had no links in common. I was just randomly clicking on blogs in the Saskatchewan webring on Diaryland and her name caught my eye. Madam Diva, hey? Sounds like my kinda gal. That, and her template had a big picture of a hand stretched under a bathroom stall, trying to grasp for a roll of toilet paper just beyond its reach, with the caption: "Life's a bitch."

I was sold before I read a word. And hooked when I did. I found her ex-Mormonism intriguing, and loved the fact that she was a singer. We had a lot in common. I read her for at least six months without commenting. I think I was a bit intimidated because she seemed so cool and I was worried she wouldn't think the same about me. Which, looking back, is ridiculous, but I was a new blogger and still finding my footing in the web world. Then, one day, she asked people to delurk because she had noticed a bunch of URLs in her stats that she didn't recognize. I couldn't think of anything to say except, "hello," but that was enough. Once she found my blog, she read all of my entries in one sitting, got as hooked on me as I was on her, and we started corresponding through comments and the odd email.

A few months later, Diva wrote an entry about how hard it was to meet people in a big city (she was living in C-Town at the time) and how lonely she was feeling. Just the previous day, I was talking to Musically Speaking and she had said the exact same thing. It didn't take me too long to put it together - they were both ex-Saskatchewanians (yes, that's a real word) living in C-town who had professional music training and were working in the same kind of job.

I decided they should be friends, even though I had never actually met Diva, and all I knew about her was what she had written on her blog. I ran the idea past Musically Speaking, and she was down with it, so I sent Diva an email that went something like:

Um, hi. I know you really don't know me, but I have this friend that I think you should meet. She's really awesome and from what I've read about you on your blog, I think you guys would hit it off. I promise that she is not crazy and you won't get stabbed in the head. And I know that if I were crazy, I would probably tell you that she's not crazy because that's what crazy people do. But I also promise that I'm not crazy. I know this is really weird because you've never met me, but as far as I can tell you guys are like the same person and you're both lonely and you should just meet each other already.

With a bit of (understandable) hesitation, Diva agreed. They went for tea and, as Musically Speaking reported, "She is such a sweetheart! We talked for hours and had so much in common. And she wasn't even wearing a hat made out of tin foil or anything!"

A few months later, Diva moved back to Saskatchewan, and we made a date to meet at, of all places, a puppet burlesque show. Can you tell I picked the place? Shortly afterward, through serendipity, fate, or something else bigger than both of us, we ended up working for the same organization. So, now, not only do we get to send each other comments and messages, but we also get to have fun with interoffice mail.

I am grateful everyday for her friendship. This gal has bought me concert panties, written lovely things about me on her blog, and given me sweet blog awards like this, this, and even this (despite the fact that my poem was more than a little pathetic.)

I've laughed with her, I've cried with her, and I've hit on both her and her husband at the same time (after which she photoshopped me into her wedding pictures, which was so fucking cool. She did an eerily good job of it, too, I might add.)

So, a toast to the lovely Diva... I know where we can find some wine:

Much love to you, lady. And give the hubby a big smooch for me.

The gift that keeps on giving

I'm giving Superstar Gonorrhea for Christmas. Shhhhh...don't tell. It's a secret.

The Clap is so cute if you just give him a chance to grow on you.

And my dear friend Alie is getting Syphilis as a late birthday present. Because I care.

A Pox for a fox.

Whoever came up with the idea to make the microbes of my favourite diseases into plush toys should get a fucking medal. And packaging the Clap and the Pox together for a discount? Well, when you think about it, it's only fair. I mean, if you get both of those diseases at the same time, the least they could give you is a discount. On account of all the itching and going crazy and death and whatnot.

(I just found out that the American version of the website has Herpes and Chlamydia packaged in with the other two. Lucky Americans. They always get the best stuff.)

I don't know about you, but my Christmas shopping is done like dinner. As long as I cooked the dinner properly and we all didn't end up with Salmonella, that is:

Weird Al's next big hit,
featuring a chorus of: "I'm sorry I gave you Salmonella-ella-ella-ella."

Midsummer monsoon

The reason I went to London this summer was to present a scholarly paper at an international conference. The morning of my presentation, my classmate and I hit the British Museum, because everyone had been telling us to go see the Egyptian mummies. I thought it sounded cool, and we had some time to kill.

Photo from The British Museum

It wasn't until I got there that I realized what mummies really were. These were dead bodies, human remains, laid out under glass for annoying tourists to gawk at.

Now you're thinking: Uh, Savia, that's what mummies are - dead people. Didn't you know that before you went?

Well, sure. We all know mummies are dead people. But do we think about what that really means? We view them as archaeological artifacts, tourist attractions, objets d'art, but we don't see them as people. If we did, they wouldn't be on display.

Yes, it's an ancient civilization. Yes, there aren't any relatives coming out of the woodwork to claim the bodies. Yes, the whole mummification thing is all kinds of cool.

But these are still people. Dead people. Human remains. From the other side of the world. They deserve respect. And being preyed upon by tourists with camcorders doesn't fall into that category.

As I went from display to display, I got more and more angry. Angry at the idiot archaeologists who unwrapped the mummies in the first place. Angry at the British Museum for putting them on display. Angry at the complicit tourists taking hundreds of digital pictures to show the folks at home.

The longer I took in the scene, the more enraged I felt. I began to see the British Museum in a different light. As a monument to colonialism. As a structure that encompasses the idea that Britain is the centre of civilization and had the right to go into other countries, impose its culture on the people living there, and take artifacts home to London to put on display (can you tell I took a postcolonial theory class right before my trip?)

And I fucking hated all those tourists. (Yes, I know I was one of them, but I was nowhere near as annoying.) Uh, asshole, the sign that says, "Do not touch" actually means that not only should you not touch that, you certainly shouldn't grope that ancient artifact with your greasy paws. Hey, we all want to touch it. Maybe some of us even want to lick it, but we don't.

Pricks.

I spent the morning in a mounting state of pissiness, fighting the urge to liberate everything in my sight back to the countries from which they came, and trying not to elbow the infuriating tourists in the head.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I went up to my classmate and told her I had to get out of there. "Why?" she asked. I gave her a brief rant of my position.

"But if they weren't here, how would anyone see them?" she asked.

"Why do we have to see them?" I responded. "They're dead bodies. What gives us the right to see them? And if they should be anywhere, they should be in Egypt, where they came from. Where do they get off putting dead bodies from the other side of the world on display for a bunch of tourists?"

We agreed to disagree. She wasn't seething with rage and, thus, was having a really good time and wanted to stay to take in a few more exhibits. I had get ready for my presentation anyway, so I left on my own.

In my state of righteous indignation, I got turned around and exited from a different door than we had entered. I didn't realize it until I was wandering around aimlessly, with no idea where I was. In the rain.

I didn't have a map, because my classmate had brought hers and I didn't think we would be separated. And I hadn't brought my umbrella, because the museum was only half a block from the residence where we were staying.

When I say it was raining, I'm not talking about a smattering of rain, or pouring rain, or raining cats and dogs. No, this was far more hardcore than anything I had experienced. This was a torrential downpour.

I know what you're thinking (because I'm a mind reader - just go with it). You're thinking, Savia, you're from Saskatchewan. It's so dry there that anytime a farmer spits in the wind, you consider it a torrential downpour.

True. I am a prairie princess, but this was a torrential downpour, even by Londoners' standards. The next day, it was on the front page of all the papers, labelled, "Midsummer Monsoon."

Granted, these are London papers, so they're prone to exaggeration - it's what they do. The first day I was in the city, I saw a story with the title, "Killer Ladybug Plague Hits the Capital!" That certainly caught my interest. But when I read on, I discovered that some foreign ladybug species had come in and started cannibalistically eating the local species. And also bit humans when it was especially hungry.

Oh, the horror.

The English are no strangers to hyperbole. However, they weren't kidding about the midsummer monsoon. A month's worth of rain fell in one hour that day. And lucky me, it was this hour I was wandering around lost without an umbrella-ella-ella-ella, a map, or any inkling of where I was or where I was going.

It was way worse than this. And I didn't have one of those brollie dealies.

I tried to shield myself with the plastic-wrapped "Mind the Gap" onesie I had picked up for my friend's baby. But after awhile, I just gave up. Getting soaked was inevitable. I didn't have the luxury of standing under awnings with the native Londoners to wait out the rain. I had a conference to get to. I just had to find a tube station, because once I was there, I would be able to figure out where I was and how to get back to the residence.

As I walked down the street, the Londoners smart enough to get in out of the rain pointed at me and laughed. I am not making this up. There was actual pointing and laughing. I wondered where the stereotype of overly polite British people came from. A street merchant selling cheap umbrellas asked me if I wanted to buy one. I started laughing, threw my waterlogged arms up in the air and said, "I don't really think it's going to help me now!"

I still had no idea where I was. Nothing looked familiar, and I was starting to get nervous. Fortunately, I came to a major street and saw a drug store. Surely someone there could help. When I walked in, people turned and stared. I must have been a truly pathetic sight. My hair was plastered against my head and my stylish trench was so soaked that it was dripping all over the floor.

I dripped my way to the cough/cold aisle and bought some British version of Tyl@nol Cold and Flu, because did I mention that on top of everything, I was already sick? I figured being soaked to the skin would just make it worse. That, and I might as well buy something to make up for the fact that someone was likely to slip in one of the growing puddles I was leaving in my wake.

The woman at the till looked at me sympathetically. While I wasn't in the mood for pity, I was just happy she wasn't pointing and laughing. I asked if they sold those full-body plastic rain ponchos. She said no. Then, I asked if she could direct me to the nearest tube station, which I thought was Russell Square. She gave me a blank look, and asked one of her co-workers where that was. He didn't know either, but told me how to get to the station he knew. It was a name I hadn't heard before, but I went anyway, longing for something, anything familiar so I could get out of this downpour and off to my conference.

I looked at the map once I got to the station and realized why no one at the drugstore knew what I was talking about - Russell Square was nowhere near there. I'm not sure how I wandered so far in the wrong direction, but I did.

I left wet spots on the seats of two trains and walked back to the residence. I peeled off my trench (soaked), my pants (soaked), my shirt (soaked) and my bra and underwear (soaked). I slid my feet out of my (expensive) leather walking sandals and cringed at the squooshy noise they made. I towelled off, put on dry clothes and a fresh pair of sandals, grabbed my conference paper and an umbrella (Hah! You're not going to soak me again, you bastard monsoon!) and stepped outside into...

...sunshine.

Motherfucking sunshine. Not a drop of rain anywhere. If it weren't for the wet pavement, you wouldn't have guessed there was precipitation at all.

It figures.

I didn't have time to swear at the weather - I had to get to my conference. I ran back to the tube station and took another two trains to the station nearest the conference, which was not really close to anywhere. I wove my way through the multitude of streets, narrowly missing getting hit by a bus not once, but twice. I knew I was going to be late, so I ran, trying not to trip on my sandals, hoping that I wasn't going to get lost again, and then getting lost, because this was a recurring theme of my trip, and pretty much anywhere I go.

I finally found the place, rushed to find the room my panel was in, and noted that all of that running had dried my hair. Sweet. At least when I walked into my own panel 30 minutes late, I wouldn't splash any of the other presenters when I turned my head.

Fortunately, one of the other dudes presented in my time slot. Once he was done, the chair asked, "Is Savia here yet?"

I waved.

"Did you get lost?"

"No, I was doing research for my next paper, which is about the quintessential London experience of getting stuck in a rainstorm."

Everyone laughed. I gave my presentation. It was alright. But nowhere near as interesting as the rest of my day.

Having and holding

Superstar sent me this picture with the caption: "This makes me think of you for some reason."

The thing was, he sent it from his mom and dad's email account. So, I had a mild aneurysm thinking that his dad was sending me naughty pictures.

Or, God, his mom.

Bastard.

But you gotta admit, he does know me pretty well (and that does look like about the right size...)

Savia the rock star, or how I spent my weekend

This weekend, I:

• Spent $85 on a hairdo that lasted 12 hours.
  
  
• Impressed the wedding make-up artist with my passion for eye makeup (More eyeliner. No, more. Like black, and thick and extending past my eye. And lashes, lots of lashes! I want glam. Glam! No, seriously, you need to put more eyeliner past the corners of my eyes) and willingness to try green eyeshadow for the first time, which I'm pleased to say that I was able to pull off. Because I'm a rock star.
  
  
• Made a spectacle of coming back down the aisle, where I got the best man to dip me on the way out (the bride and groom had dipped and kissed in the same spot). The rest of the wedding party then followed suit, much to the guests' and officiant's delight.
  
  
• Managed not to use the terms "motherfucker", "cocksucker", "fucking hell", "fuck me with a spatula" or "if she doesn't like it, fuck her in the ear" during any of my MC duties (though I did rename myself the Mistress of Ceremonies. The groom's mom loved that one and referred to me as Mistress Savia for the remainder of the weekend.)
  
  
• Refrained from hitting on the ever-so-cute best man, who has a girlfriend who lives with him and whose house I was staying at.
  
  
• Called the bluff of the gratuitously flirtatious groomsman, who turned out to be all talk and no action. I grabbed his ass and called him a clit tease.
  
  
• Vamped unapologetically for the cameras, both video and still.
  
  
• Convinced the guests that they had to sing instead of clink their glasses to get the bride and groom to kiss, and kicked it off with an impromptu a capella performance of "Sing Sing" by Serena Ryder.
  
  
• Made out with the bride in front of everyone at the reception (leaving a half moon of burgundy lipstick on her chin) when someone sang into the microphone and the groom wasn't around to kiss her.
  
  
• Made out with her again when the cameraman was upset that he didn't get a photo of the first make out session. (After which he kept showing everyone a close-up of the pic in the camera display window, saying, "You're a better kisser than the groom. Look at that! When you go for it, you just latch on, don't you?" To which I responded, "Hell, yeah. I'm Italian." Then we high-fived, because we Latin lovers need to stick together.)
  
  
• Told my former braces buddy (bastard got his off eight months ago) all about the wonders of the Rock Chick.
  
  
• Caught the bouquet, right out from in front of the face of the best man's girlfriend. Which probably saved her from losing an eye, because the very pointy stems were coming straight for her. However, this is the second bouquet I've caught in a row, which makes me a bit nervous.

The ominous bouquet, deceptively pretty, yet deadly in its predictions and trajectory.

• Got an astrological reading from my friend Willow that absolutely blew my mind.
  
  
• Spent an insane amount of time with Orpheus and Musically Speaking, two of my most favourite people in the world, who totally "get" me and find my fixation on vibrators, sex, threesomes, and shiny things endearing.



• Acquired a new piece of art, which I have named Fred the Head (because I seem to name all of my art Fred for some reason.) He reminds me that when something is truly beautiful, its flaws make it even more so.

Fred the Head.
Unless you've got a better name for him.
Yes, that is a challenge and there will be prizes.

A promise of boobs

Wow, that whole delurking, mo-foing shit was exhausting. Exhilarating, but exhausting. I think I may have sprained a finger from the flurry of comments I was making, here and on the many blogs I read. (Well, I suppose there could be other explanations for that injury. Ahem.)

Clearly, the only course of action in this tragic and unfortunate "injury" is to take a long, long-weekend and go to Calgary to party it up at Musically Speaking's wedding.

So, that means no posts until Tuesday-ish.

Hold on - hold on. Don't cry. Lest you go into Savia withdrawal, I have it on good authority that a hot boob shot featuring yours truly will be posted on the Internet by either Madam Diva or Schmutzie in the near future. Because I was wearing my new Schmutzie shirt. And my boobs were in it. And they looked hot. And Diva wanted to take a picture of them. And Schmutzie wanted a picture of someone wearing the shirt so people would know that her shirts make your boobs look hot.

To make a short story long.

Just think of it as a Thanksgiving present (but only for Canadians, so there!) Happy viewing!

Lurk-free zone, yo

Do you know what day it is? Drumroll please...

Oh yeah, it's delurk time. Can you dig it?

For those of you wondering about the official definition of the word "delurk", Urban Dictionary had this to say:

lurker
one who reads a blog without ever commenting on the posts

delurk
the act of entering an internet messageboard or chatroom discussion after a time spent browsing, esp. if suddenly prompted to do so.

I admit it - I'm a narcissistic comment whore. Like every other blogger out there. Hey, I don't have ads on my site - I'm just tap dancing here for your love. I need your adoration and acceptance. Love me, damnit!!

Loooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeee mmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!

For those of you who have delurked over the past few days - thank you. I've really enjoyed checking out your blogs and I've found some new ones that I wouldn't have otherwise. So, it's win/win. You give me the love, and I'll give it right back.

Now, do me. Comment style. Yeah, you know you want to.

As an added incentive, please feel free to scroll down to see some hot naked statue action.

You're welcome.

Naughty pictures of statues, Italian edition

At an Internet cafe in Rome, I wrote the following status update on my Facebook page:

Savia is taking very close up pictures of nude statues at the Vatican.

Most people thought I was kidding. Those who know me very well waited with bated breath for the naughty pics.

The top two pictures were taken at Tivoli, at an ancient ruin. I went with my hot cousins and we hiked around that damn thing for four hours in the midday sun. It was 44 C outside, not including the humidity. I got a burn even though I was wearing 30 SPF sunscreen (the hot twins had teased me about the level of the sunscreen, because they had never seen anything higher than 20 SPF. I couldn't break it to them that I also had 45 and 60 SPF stashed in my luggage. I wish I would have worn it, though that would have done nothing to protect me from the stifling heat.)

What I'm saying is: if you have to endure the heat of the seventh layer of hell, you gotta amuse yourself somehow.

It's a bum! A nice one, too.
I love this picture. I want to use it on my Christmas cards.
Happy holidays, indeed!

A little girlie action.
If you dig chicks who are mutilated and missing appendages.
How much you wanna bet that's going to be the #1 Google search for my blog now?

After Tivoli, I moved on to the Vatican. The Sistine Chapel is my favourite place in the world, as you've probably guessed by the main picture on my site, and the fact that I've gushed about it before. But the sucky thing about the Sistine Chapel is that to get to it, you have to go through the entire Vatican museum. Which takes a few hours because it's huge, and there are throngs of annoying motherfucking picture-taking tourists whom I wanted to bash over the head with a bottle of 30 SPF sunscreen.

Violence is never the answer. Crotch shots of statues, however, is.

Dude, you should really get that checked out.
Were you having a bit too much mutilated, appendage-free girlie action?
Oh, wait, it's a fig leaf.
In that case, does it ever come off, big boy?

A noble warrior. Or is he...

Oh Noes! I has broke wanger!
Maybe that's what happens when you leave a fig leaf on too long?

Hot naked torso action. He ain't goin' nowhere. My ultimate fuck buddy.

Something blue

My dear friend Musically Speaking is getting married to her soul mate this weekend. And I'm the maid of honour. So, I did what any good maid of honour would do. I mailed her a skimpy blue thong with the words "Something Blue" scrawled across the crotch.

She killed herself laughing.

I wish I could have found one that said, "Something Borrowed." Now, that would have been priceless.