K-Y Thinks Your Vagina Smells Funny

Let’s just get this out of the way…I’ve been watching TLC for 4 hours.

As a result, I’ve seen a lot of ads tonight. One for K-Y “Yours+Mine Couples Lubricant” caught my attention. Just what exactly would be the advantage of his and hers lubes? I have yet to find my lubricant to be just too masculine for me. Would I have better orgasms if I pumped pearlescent lube from a more feminine dispenser? What makes a lube his or hers anyway?

Rage-Lady

Here’s the deal.  I just wanted a nap.  I worked hard for a whole two hours of school today and wanted an unwarranted reward for this accomplishment.  As I left the house this morning, I could already hear the rumblings of your bass and feared for the worst upon my return.  As expected, the techno was eminating from just above my bedroom when I got home today.  After lunch and a half hour or so of auditory respite, I figured you must have been finished with your relaxing morning grunts.

I was wrong.

Twenty four minutes into my delicious nap, the familiar beat restarted.  I jolted awake, released the teddy bear from my sweet embrace and threw off my sleep mask – it had begun…again.  I lay there imagining how this bizarre blend of Mortal Kombat and The Party Boy Song could appeal to anyone.  My body filled with a hot rage.  My senses sharpened.  Each sound became more pronounced.  It was fight or flight.

Previously I had chosen to remain silent during you solitary afternoon grunt-and-cough-fests due to some deeply held delusion that your noisy days forgave my auditory sins at night.  But today, today it was on.

Well, after I peed.

You were clearly in your bathroom, still enjoying one minute samples of each vile song.  I decided that yelling at you from my toilet was lacking in dignity, and if there’s one thing that the Kitten PJ’s I was sporting represented, it’s dignity.

Instead, I repeatedly attempted to slam the bathroom door.  Unfortunately, it appears that it is impossible to make a reasonable noise with that door-frame combo.  I moved to the bedroom, the scene of the bass-y crime.  Somehow in the delay from bathroom to bedroom, I became increasingly crazed.  I slammed that motherfucker a solid four times before the adrenaline coursing through my nap-desperate veins tookits full, crazy control.  I stormed into the bedroom, grabbed my full length Wal-Mart mirror and sought my revenge.  Swinging the mirror around like only an irate lady in Kitten PJ’s can, I hit the ceiling.  Then the closet and finally the wall.  Letting out a groan of frustration, I dented that wall in the most embarassingly pitiful manifestation of rage I have ever been witness to.

I half expected a response to this insanity, but was answered only by the same stupid beat.  It was time to wreak some actual havoc.  In a frenzy, I stormed out to the living room and grabbed my ipod.  With little ability to select a suitable song for revenge, I found Fall Out Boy (?!) and cranked it a level that was totally unbearable.  I then spent 20 minutes suffering through music at a volume I could barely stand myself.

The techno has stopped, but my mission has not.  How will the battle take shape from here?  I imagine an army of crazies in standard issue Kitten PJ’s toting Wal-Mart mirrors taking to the streets…

With Gratitude

Dear Neighbours,

I just wanted to send a quick shout out and thank you for the charming musical interlude this morning.  Sometimes I worry that I will sleep comfortably and without interruption on Thursdays, the only day I have to sleep in.  Thank god you were there to ensure that I would not carelessly slumber on this one day of the week.

I especially appreciate your determination to introduce me to so many variations of the same techno theme by changing tracks every 30 seconds starting at 8:30 this morning.  Now I will never be forced to resort to question the Yahoo community, like this poor soul, to select a good background song for my Myspace.

Thank you also for the 16 minute silence at 9:00.  As I was just falling asleep again, you brought back the party upstairs.  I am so happy to be witness to the soundtrack to what I can only imagine is exercise or bizarre masturbatory activities.  (I have no other explanation for the coughing and gasping which occurs between songs).

Finally, thank you for teaching me that fighting against the sweet beat of techno is futile.  I would never have pounded the ceiling with bruise-inducing results if I had realized this only translated to “KEEP IT THE SAME VOLUME! I LOVE IT!”

With Sincere Gratitude,

Your Downstairs Neighbour

PS – Perhaps later tonight, I can repay you with a lesson in Andrew WK?  Meatloaf?  Let me know.

The Flossy, Flossy

Remember Glamour Shots? Not so much? Basically, they were a chance for otherwise dumpy women to live out their vaseline obscured fantasies while flaunting borrowed and bedazzled leather jackets or the occasional boa.

I have a vague memory of dragging my mom into a Glamour Shots type of studio at Bellis Fair mall. Located right next to the Disney Store, this classy little enclave appealed to all of my little girl senses. There were photos of women all trussed up, surrounding a centre island where one could purchase a makeover and photoshoot package. Although I had no idea what exactly this store was, I knew that it peeved my mom and was relentlessly tacky – which of course is the way to a young girl’s heart.

Obviously I wanted in. I made a connection between these women and the Disney Store, forming some sort of unstoppable princess fantasy. At Bellis Fair. Luxury.

These studios seem to have targeted average women and offered them a taste of glamour, as though it was something they were incapable of in their everyday lives. I can’t deny that I would love to get my makeup professionally done and then have flattering photos taken…but there must be some kind of commentary on how we regard beauty and women hidden in here. And, regardless of era, is there any way that these images evoke glamour? Most importantly, why is that collar-pop stance a supposed glamour standard?

 

The fuzzy lense is so intense, that it’s hard to determine this lady’s age, gender or sense of irony.

The company, shockingly, still exists. While the general look of the photos has progressed, the contrived poses and generous blurring remain as trademarks.

For the record, I would totally be down if they still had all those props and I could coyly look past my sparkly lapel into a vaseline lens.