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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, Smiling Bella
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May 11, 2008
Smiling Bella featured on Willow's Web Astrology

My friend Willow, an astrologer, has used my post-jaw surgery recovery as an example of "Saturn in Virgo" behaviour and linked to my Smiling Bella website in the May issue of her monthly Astro Perspective. She says:

Saturn has been going retrograde for the past three months or so, allowing us to come to terms with a lot of issues related to health, diet, personal habits and trimming the fat in all areas of life/self - whatever we need to deal with before moving forward in life. Saturn has forced us to take responsibility for being our best selves and for making the adjustments and refinements we know we need to make in order for our lives (and ourselves) to function long-term in a sustainable, healthy way....
Virgo relates to service, self-mastery and holistic health, so we’re being challenged to make the changes we know we need to make in the pursuit of holistic health - body, mind, emotions, spirit....

I've noticed people doing a lot of home renovation projects lately (definite Virgo territory - related to improving what already exists) and dealing with long-standing health issues.
A textbook Saturn in Virgo experience is the one my journalism school friend, Bella, is going through (major jaw surgery). Check her story out at: http://www.smilingbella.com/. Bella’s taking responsibility for having a pain-free life - doing what she needs to do and dealing with (relatively) short-term pain for long-term gain. Virgo is co-ruled by Chiron (healing) and Mercury (communication), so jaw surgery affecting her speech and the healing process afterward are very much Saturn in Virgo territory.
It was helpful to see my situation through her lens and to be reminded that all of the discomfort and difficulty I've been facing lately is necessary for me to have a better quality of life in the long run.

If you're interested in astrology, I'd highly recommend Willow's sites. I am always amazed at how her insights speak directly to my life (even when I'm not mentioned.)
Labels: astrology, jaw surgery, Smiling Bella
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May 10, 2008
Un-bridaled shower

The Bee is marrying her soul mate in a few weeks, so you know what that means: more wedding showers and stagettes for Savia. If you haven't figured it out already, I'll spell it out: I'm not a traditional kinda gal. If I ever get married, which I'm not entirely sure I want to do, there will be no white dress, no bridesmaids, and no minister telling me who and when to kiss. Savia don't play that.

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?
Labels: weddings
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May 6, 2008
Shhh...mommy doesn't like it when you cry

My blog is a toddler today.

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.

Again.

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...

Cheers, Internets!
Here's to another year of debauchery and ninja fucking!
Labels: blogging
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