May 20, 2008
The money shot
KY Company
Johnson & Johnson Inc.
Montreal, Canada H1N 2G4
To Whom It May Concern:
Re: Sensual "Mist" Personal Lubricant
(Did you notice the nifty quotation marks around the word "mist" there? That's what we English majors call "foreshadowing." You'll want to remember that for later, m'kay?)
I was walking through my favourite drug store today looking for something to buy. Because that's what I do when I'm bored or depressed: wander around Shoppers Drug Mart and look for interesting things to buy. It cheers me up.
My friend Palinode has a theory that part of what makes Shoppers Drug Mart such a pleasurable and addictive shopping experience is that there are a number of things you can buy at low price points, so you end up picking up a whole bunch of things thinking that you're not spending a lot, until you get the bill and you've somehow purchased $67 worth of organic snack food and mistable personal lubricant. But by that point, you don't really care because you have all of this awesome stuff. That you really didn't need in the first place but looks cool in the bag while you're taking it home. And for the first five minutes you're at home.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
My favourite part of the Shoppers Drug Mart experience is the hidden sale shelf. Every store has one - you just have to look for it. (Back of the store, on an end shelf, or on some shelving by the post office, FYI.) And there, in that great mecca, you find all kinds of things that you didn't even know you couldn't live without. And they're on sale. And not just any sale - we're talking super duper on sale here, people!!
So, you can imagine my excitement, Mr. or Ms. To Whom It May Concern Who Works at KY (you thought I forgot I was writing a letter to you, didn't you?), when I saw the KY Sensual Mist mistable personal lubricant on the super duper sale shelf, marked down from $18.99 to $4.99. Wow! That's quite the deal. How could I not pick it up?
The promise of misty sex.
But not sex with someone named Misty.
That would have cost more.
I must say that the price certainly enticed me, but the truth is that I've always been a little curious about this product. Its misty and convenient claim intrigued me. And being a lube junkie (the slipperier the better), I'm always up for something new.
When I got home, Superstar was already at my place, putting up drywall. That was enough to get my motor running, because what's hotter than a sweaty man renovating your house?
I pulled out the bottle and said, "Look what I got! It's mistable lube, see?" and proceeded to try and spray it on my hand to show him. After pumping it several times to get it going, I felt the liquid building up in the nozzle until it squirted forth and...
...splat.
Now, I ask you, Mr. or Ms. To Whom It May Concern Who Works at KY, what sound does a mist make?
Shhhh. Maybe. Pffft. Sure. But splat? I don't think so.
No, splat is the sound of a wad of lube jizz landing on your hand.
At first, I thought it might be a glitch of the nozzle being used for the first time, so I tried it again.
Splat.
And again.
Splat.
And again. Because I don't learn from the first three times. (Hey, I'm an optimist. Sue me.)
Splat.
As you can probably imagine, the dripping, slippery wads of lube jizz on my hand kind of killed the mood. Mostly because I became obsessed with whatever possessed your company to call what came out of that bottle a "mist."
In case you were wondering what non-misty lube jizz looks like, please allow my hot model Superstar to demonstrate with his big, manly hands:
Anticipating the sensual mist.
Ooooohhh...sensual.
Oh, baby, it's the money shot!
Which is more a stream than a mist, wouldn't you say?
Drippy wad o' jizz, which is also not a mist.
More like the stuff you wipe on the covers
and hope your mom doesn't find.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
After Superstar had been sufficiently "misted" with lube, I asked him questions to compare his experience to the one promised on the back of the box. (I used to be a journalist. Can you tell?)
Savia: Was this a "new, fun way to apply lubricant where you want it without interrupting the moment?"
Superstar: Hmm...it was new. And if on my hand was where I wanted it, I guess that worked.
Savia: But did it interrupt the moment?
Superstar: Well, you did drag me away from drywalling to spray lube jizz all over my hand, so, yeah, it did interrupt the moment!
Savia: Did it have a "sensuous spray"?
Superstar: Not so much.
Savia: And did it feel "natural" and go on "gently and conveniently"?
Superstar: I guess.
Savia: Would you agree with this statement in regards to the aforementioned product: "Less mess, more intimacy..."?
Superstar: [Looking down at his hand dripping with lube jizz] Can I go back to drywalling now?
This is the part of the letter where I tell you how disappointed I am in your product and how it's false advertising and blah, blah, blah. But, hell, it was $5 and I got to jizz on my boyfriend. That doesn't happen everyday. So, thanks for the blog post, KY.
In Lube We Trust,
Saviabella
Labels: consumerism, sex
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May 19, 2008
A pox on my house
Not too long ago, I was lamenting to Schmutzie about how boring my pets are. I mean, her cats are always up to something blogworthy, so much so that if she wanted to be a full-time cat blogger, she would have more than enough material to make her potential cat food sponsors happy.
But my pets, not so much.
The cats are mellow and flop around a lot, and the dog thinks she's a cat and pretty much sleeps all day. They're sweet animals who don't cause me much hassle, which is why you don't hear about them a lot. They're not worth blogging about unless the dog tries to commit suicide or one of the cats gets stuck inside a wall, which doesn't happen very often. Booorrriiingg.
Unfortunately, I got what I wished for. One morning, my black and white cat woke me up with purrs and cuddles like he usually does. Only this time, I noticed something was wrong. His chin had huge pustules and oozing sores on it.
I freaked out. We have been doing renovations and the fiberglass insulation was exposed, so I was worried that he had been eating it.
I called the vet, frantic. The woman at the other end couldn't get me in for a few days but asked if the cat had been eating out of a plastic bowl. Apparently, some cats develop plastic allergies and end up getting similar sores on their chins. This wasn't my cat's problem, as I feed my animals out of metal bowls.
Once I got in to the vet, he took a look at the cat and said, "This is classic feline acne."
Huh? Cats get zits?
Cat acne?
Cacne?
But he's not even a teenager.
I guess it's really common. A Google search found me this lovely image, to show you what "classic" cacne looks like:
Mmmm...cacne.
The vet gave me a special scrub that I have to use on my cat's chin twice a day. Yes, you heard that correctly: I have to give my cat daily anti-cacne facials.
And squeeze his zits.
And take him back to the vet several times for antibiotic and steroid shots to keep it under control.
So far, I have spent more than $180 to treat the cacne outbreak. Which means I spend more money on my cat's skin than I do on my own. Fucking cat gets facials and spa treatments and what does Savia get? Cacne pus under her fingernails, that's what.
If you ever hear me complaining about my pets being too boring again, please just mockingly hold up a bottle of Clear@sil until I slink away in shame.
I'll thank you for it later.
(Though I have to admit, squeezing the cacne is kind of fun. Gross, but fun.)
Labels: pets
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May 16, 2008
Where, oh where is George when you need him?
I am longing for my
ex-boyfriend, George the Morphine Dispenser.Sure, he was a fair weather boyfriend and was only there for me during the high-flying good times in the hospital, and then the bastard dumped me and never called again, but I don't fucking care. If I knew where to find him right now, I'd beg on my knees for him to take me back and I wouldn't even care if he cheated on me with all the other jaw surgery patients.
I'm not usually the kind of gal who likes to share her men, but in this case, I'd make an exception. Do you hear that George? It's all about you, baby.
You see, I just came back from a physiotherapy session. Not just any physiotherapy session, but one with the Grand Pouba of Jaw Physiotherapy. The Man with Thumbs of Steel. The Jaw Master.
This dude is in such high demand that the only appointment I could get with him was 8:30 at night. And even then, I didn't actually get in to see him until 9:30.
Now, my regular physiotherapist is pretty hard core. She often makes me gasp and wince in pain, to which she responds, "That doesn't hurt. You just think it does" and continues merrily dislocating my jaw from the rest of my head.
But this dude, this dude took it to a whole new level. He used his hands to inflict more pain than
this torture device ever could.
The pain was so intense, I had tears in my eyes, I was crying out, and I actually started doing Lamaze breathing to try and get through. Or at least I think it was Lamaze breathing. I'm not sure what I was doing. For all I know, I did birth a baby on that physiotherapy table.
If so, and you're out there somewhere, kid, your name is George. And your daddy is a deadbeat loser who abandoned both of us in our time of need.
No, I didn't mean that. It's the pain talking. I love you George! Come back!! (The older George, not the hypothetical baby George. Unless the older George comes back, then I suppose the baby's welcome, too. Because I'll be high enough that, hell, the more the merrier.)
Motherfucker.
Anyway, the thing is, I went in to that appointment tonight only being able to open my mouth 30 mm, and I left with 36 mm to my name.
My surgeon told me at my last appointment that if I could open 40 mm, he would be a happy camper (a "normal" mouth opening, teeth to teeth, is 40-50 mm).
So half an hour of pain (and lord knows how much more pain over the next few days) brought me to the point where I can almost open my mouth like a normal person. I guess what they say really is true: No pain, no gain.
Fucking "they". Why are "they" always right? And who the fuck are "they" anyway? And why does there always have to be pain involved? Fucking sadists, "they" are.
Pricks.
Can you tell I don't deal well with pain? If so, what tipped you off?
And in other news, I'm really glad I didn't get rid of those leftover painkillers from my surgery. I don't think I've been this high since the last time George and I made out.
And in unrelated news: Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Labels: jaw surgery
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