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?

Drugstore.com cleared that mystery right up for me. The products are identical with the exception of a few important ingredients. “His” has the added advantage of honey and sucralose, presumably to improve flavour. The special additive in “Hers?” Parfum. Straight up ladies, K-Y thinks your business stinks. But if you’re feeling peckish, they’ve got somethin’ honey flavoured all lined up. I wonder what happens if you accidently use His? Do you have to fend off the advances of Winnie the freaking Pooh?

There has been an influx of these gimmicky drugstore products in recent years, and in my experience, they have all been miserable failures. While I can appreciate how taking vibrators and lubricant out of the porn stores and into the family planning aisle might work to normalize these essentials, I have found the drugstore options to perform poorly.

Let’s take for example, Durex’s past contributions to these saucy drugstore items. Durex carries a line of products under the “Play” banner, including their “Tingling” lube. It turns out, that tingle comes courtesy of spearmint. It didn’t tingle so much as burn with a minty vengeance. To recreate this sensation at home, simply masturbate with toothpaste.

Then there is that vibrating ring. When the ads for this first came out, I was psyched. Finally, a cheap, hands-off means of buzzing myself off during sex. But this little guy doesn’t have enough buzz in it to do shit. Not only does it vibrate feebly, mocking you in its useless pink bullet; but without resting consistently where it needs to be, it can’t remain in one spot long enough to get the job done. According to the description, the buzz lasts 20 minutes. I’m sure you’re more likely to have stomped on the godamn thing than gotten off on it in that time.

Is it possible that these drugstore alternatives have the potential to normalize formerly taboo “marital aids?” I support any movement that makes it normal and desirable to walk into Shopper’s and leave with a bag full of vibrating goodies. But with such poor execution, these options are definitely not preferable to anything I’ve gotten elsewhere. And with a company like K-Y telling me that my junk stinks and I should eagerly lap up my boyfriend’s, I’m pretty sure I won’t trust any future contributions. It seems to me that even though it might be more expensive and inconvenient to hit up classy adult store or website, the superior quality is a whole lot more satisfying.

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…

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.

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.