May 31, 2008
Except for the hosts.
I'm sure you've endured a similar type of event. The fundraiser for the struggling non-profit group hosted by two "local celebrities" who think they are much more important and charming than they really are. The banter is awkward and scripted. This, unfortunately, is better than when they try to ad lib and be funny, which they never truly accomplish, instead leaving awkward silence and tumbleweeds in their wake.
Near the end of intermission, I left to go to the bathroom, and by the time I came back, the hosts were at it again. As I walked in, I caught the tail end of the male host's (obviously) ad-libbed banter. He was making some comment about how the female host "liked all the women" in our city. I didn't catch it all, but the gist was that he was making a "joke" implying that she is a lesbian.
"Well, this is going to be interesting," I thought, knowing that the female host is not a lesbian and is cohabiting with a male "local celebrity," and everyone knows it. I was curious to see if she could gracefully extract herself from this awkward situation.
"Well, you know, I do have someone special here with me tonight," she said. "...my daughter."
Ha ha. It was a lame save, but it did the trick, right? I expected that they would just continue on with the program.
Nope. Female host had to make everyone really, really certain that she liked the cock, so she did not end her defence of her honour with the lame joke.
"Seriously, folks, I do have a partner here with me tonight, right over there, and he is male. And let me tell you, he's all man. He's the kind of man who will go to yoga with you. Now that's a man, am I right ladies? That's a real man."
As she continued on about what a man her partner is, Nat and I looked at each other, incredulous.
Nat: Gay panic!!
Savia: Oh my God!
Nat: At a theatre fundraiser!
Savia: I know!!
Which led to this little exchange between the two of us on Facebook later on:
Nat (status update): Nat is a little in love with Savia.
Savia: Aww... I'm more than a little in love with you, too, Nat. Thanks for an awesome date.....Uh...that being implied, I would like to state that I have a partner, and he is ALL man. The kind of man that would go to yoga with a woman. A REAL man. Who is not a woman. Did I mention he's male? Because he is. A man. Who is with me. A woman. Though he's not a woman. Because we are heterosexual. And not gay at all. We have sex you know. After yoga. And he has a penis, because he's a man.
Nat: Hee hee. GAY PANIC!
Savia: My partner is such a man that when he goes to yoga with me, his gargantuously huge penis hits him in the face when he goes into downward dog position. I had to make him a special penis yoga strap because it was becoming such a problem. Because he is ALL man and I am with him, which makes me straight.
Savia: Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. Some of my best friends are gay. I'm not though.
Nat: Are you SURE you like penis? Cause I think you might like boobs. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just sayin'.
Proving the point that if you protest a little too much, it inspires more suspicion. Go figure.
Just letting you know that next time, Female Host, it might be best to stick with the lame joke and quit while you're ahead or giving head or [insert other inappropriate penis joke about head here. Which I'm making because I like giving penises head. Because I'm straight.]
May 30, 2008
May 20, 2008
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?
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...
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.
And again. Because I don't learn from the first three times. (Hey, I'm an optimist. Sue me.)
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.
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,
May 19, 2008
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?
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:
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.)
May 16, 2008
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.
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.)
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.
Can you tell I don't deal well with pain? If so, what tipped you off?
May 10, 2008
But I accept that not everyone is like me, and what I want most is for my friends to be happy and have the kind of weddings they can look back on with no regrets. So, even though it's not what I would do, I support their decisions and play along with the traditions.
But that doesn't mean that I'm well-behaved at these events, as we have witnessed. So far, there was the wedding where I traumatized an old lady by making out with Jane, the one where Jane and I tried to go skinny dipping, and the one where I made out with the bride at the reception head table and created no end of havoc.
I think a pattern is emerging. Hey, it's not my fault there are always hot chicks at these things.
A few weeks ago, I got two invites: one to the Bee's stagette, and the other to her wedding shower. The invitation said that the theme of the stagette was "A Glamorous Stagette" and that we should all dress "glam" for it.
I got excited, and wrote back: "Now, how 'glam' are we talking? Will people be wearing prom dresses?" because I thought that was a pretty awesome concept for a stagette. I was impressed the Bee's friend had thought of it, because I had been under the impression that she was a more traditional type.
The response I got back was laden with diplomacy. (The voice I hear in my head when I read it is very flat and stilted, like, "I'm trying very hard not to judge you.") It said: "In terms of 'glam', it can be anything you feel fabulous in. Now if it's a prom dress, go for it, but I don't know that anyone has expressed taking it that far. I am wearing a little black dress or a pair of nice black dress pants with a sexy top (weather pending)."
Of course, I couldn't just leave it at that. I wrote back: "Clearly, my brain doesn't work the same as normal people's. When I read 'glam', I think either prom dress or 80s glam rocker. Or an interesting combination of the two. Which, come to think of it, hmmmm....."
Which elicited another heavily diplomatic response to wear whatever I felt comfortable in. So, yeah, not as non-traditional as I had thought.
Last night was the Bee's wedding shower, a potluck affair. I've met her close friends in passing on several occasions, but I really don't know them well. In fact, I pretty much didn't know anyone at the event, save the Bee and her mom. But there were mimosas, so that helped.
After the munching, we, of course, had to play shower games. I am, for the most part, anti-shower games. Though I will pick wedding shower games over lame baby shower games any day of the week. And did I mention that there were mimosas? Because there were. And they were good.
Still, when they announced that we were going to play the "let's made wedding dresses out of toilet paper" game, I threw up in my mouth a little. For one, the tree hugger in me cringes to see toilet paper being wasted this way. But it also always goes the same way - everyone makes traditional wedding dresses out of toilet paper. There's creativity, but it's all within a narrow traditional vein.
When I got put in a group with the funky bridesmaid with the face piercings, bleach blond spiky hair, and funky fashion sense, I jumped up and down. If anyone was going to be cool with my plans, it would be her. The other two women who were in our group were older ladies who were friends with the Bee's mom.
I sucked back my mimosa with one gulp and announced to my group, "Okay, here's the concept: we're going with slutty chic."
I was surprised when not only did they not bat an eyelash at my suggestion, but they also embraced it. One of the ladies immediately said, "The dress needs to be crotchless!" I liked her.
As the three other teams made strapless, elegant toilet paper gowns, we fashioned a bikini top, crotchless thong panties, knee pads and wrist guards. We topped it off with over sized bows on her head and ass, and circular glow sticks underneath her top so it would look like her nipples were glowing through the toilet paper.
And the piece de resistance? When my idea for nipple tassels didn't work out, I said, "It just needs something more...I know! She needs a whip." The two older ladies jumped to the task, braiding a whip handle out of toilet paper with a makeshift cat o' nine tails.
In case you were wondering, we totally won the competition. Who says tradition has to be boring?
May 6, 2008
Let me rephrase that: my blog is a toddler with a deadbeat mother who was too busy to notice that her spawn was celebrating a blogiversary today.
While her three-year-old blog was at home alone, unsupervised, in an Interweb full of pointy edges and German orthodontic fetishists, this blog's sole parent was out whooping it up, drinking a whole glass of red wine and painting the town Merlot with her craaaaaazy party friend Nat.
In fact, said drunken, neglectful mother did not even realize it was her toddler's blogiversary until she checked her Crackberry for shits and giggles and noticed a few new comments on her last post from blogiversary well-wishers.
Absolute strangers who are kind enough to stop by people's blogs on their blogiversaries. Strangers who would probably report Savia to the authorities of the blogiverse if they realized the extent to which she neglects her blog and its important milestones.
So, Saviabella Blog, mommy is really sorry she forgot your birthday.
But next year will be different, I promise.
Now drink this bottle of cough syrup and go to bed already.
Wait, let me take a sip of that first...
Here's to another year of debauchery and ninja fucking!