What’s Saliva got to do with it

As a biochemical engineering student, I was dealing with “chemical composition of saliva” and “sperm survival.” I came across something on the Internet last week or so
that said “saliva can kill sperm”. WHAT?! Are you serious?! (That was my reaction) Sometimes I swear the Internet is the devil, LOL, so tempting yet so confusing. In my research, I found a few different things.  I guess that’s what we can expect on the Internet because there are so many different resources and so many different interpretations. So, I just wanted to share with you some of the things that I have found: 

“It’s true that saliva contains bacteria that could contaminate an ejaculate, but if you go down on your wife before penetration, I doubt there would be enough saliva on the head of your penis to interfere with conception

Knowing that most of them(bacteria found in your mouth) are gram negative. They’re abit extremophilic. They can survive under extreme conditions but does that mean he can’t go down on you. I don’t think I can deal with him not going down on me. No seriously! Don’t know about you. LOL! :). But wait, saliva can have a negative effect on sperm. If he has enough sperms then it’s unlikely to make a major difference, but if he has a low sperm count then you need every single sperm especially if you TTC.

“Saliva has digestive enzymes in it that stop sperm from swimming on contact—not so good if you want them to reach the egg!”

Ehhh! Ok, I guess. Where does that leave us? Does it mean we can’t use it as a lubricant? Wait…

“spit is probably the world’s oldest sex lube, something singles and couples have been using in a pinch since the beginning of time. If sperm and saliva are not on contact during the intercourse, you have nothing to worry about.”

My take on it: I figure that one single ejaculate contains millions of sperm and we need just ONE of those to fertilize my egg. I don’t plan on stopping my normal course of activity in fear of killing my partner’s sperm. I mean… would you?!

So have you heard or read about this before? What are your thoughts? I’m dying to know!


There are a few things about life that you convince yourself of as an adult. For example, when you’re laying naked in front of your doctor while he pokes various things into your orifices, you tell yourself that he is a professional and he sees this all the time so you have absolutely nothing to worry about. You convince yourself that when you’re at the gym, your trainer is more concerned with your form than the fact that you gained 37 pounds over Christmas. You tell yourself that your bartender knows that you are just tying one on and isn’t whispering to his wife that you’re an alcoholic when he sees you at church.

Despite our insecurities, we convince ourselves that this is the truth so we can carry on with our lives.

I tend to run at 100 miles an hour, all the time. I study, I have a side job, I write, and I’m working on some super secret side projects. I’ve been keeping up this pace since I started varsity, and I never thought that it would catch up to me. I keep my body fueled with a very specific combination of weed and energy drinks, and it’s worked for me for almost 10 years.

I was at Varsity on Thursday, and all the sudden I got dizzy. I blew it off, decided it was my blood sugar, and immediately remedied the situation with an emergency Diet Coke. It didn’t help.

I figured I was tired, and went back to work.

It was only when I almost passed out walking across the piazza that I realized something was Wrong with a capital “W”. Thank the lord for my friend Mary*, who was kind enough to walk me to the clinic on campus, if only so she didn’t find me passed out face down in the parking lot in a pile of snow.

Some poking, prodding and a few tests involving needles later, I got my diagnosis.

Exhaustion and dehydration.

To which my response was a simple “Exhaustion and dehydration? Who the fuck do I look like? Lindsay Lohan?”

Turns out, weed, energy drinks and a gallon of Diet Coke do not a healthy diet make. It’s been a few days and I’m almost feeling back to my normal spunky self. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t spook me a little bit. So I decided it was time to get back on the “taking care of myself like an adult” wagon.

Alie over at Hyperbole and a Half wrote a great blog post about how she decides to be an adult, makes it approximately one day, and then burns herself out. She then rebels, starting the vicious cycle all over again. I am equally guilty of this, but this time is different. I don’t ever want to feel like I felt on Thursday again.

The first place I went was the grocery store. Time to stock up on food that doesn’t have sugar/glucose listed as the main ingredient and Gatoraide.

In her post, Alie writes “For a little while, I actually feel grown-up and responsible. I strut around with my head held high, looking the other responsible people in the eye with that knowing glance that says “I understand. I’m responsible now too. Just look at my groceries.”

I’m concerned with making sure I make lasting changes, so I started where I always start: Lots of fruit, vegetables and chicken. I threw my purchases onto the belt and waited while the cashier scanned my order.

I had always convinced myself that the people who work at the store don’t actually look at what you’re buying. Much like doctors, dentists, trainers, and the person who waxes your bikini, they’ve seen it all before and they don’t actually give a flying shit either way.

The cashier hit total, and smiled at me.

“Yours is the healthiest order I’ve seen all day”.

At that second, my world changed. We were lied to. They do notice what we buy. Flash back to the time I bought stain remover, hand lotion, condoms, sugar free chocolate syrup and batteries in one transaction. Facepalm.

My life might never be the same. Now that I know the truth, I will never be able to buy all of my items at the same place. God forbid I need condoms or tampons, I might have to leave the town. Never will I be able to go to the gynecologist without wondering who I’m being compared to. I may never get anything on my body waxed again ever.

But, one good thing came from this.

If I was the healthiest order she had seen all day by process of elimination, that means every other order was less healthy than mine. Which means only one thing.

I won.

I won at being an adult today, and the rest of you can suck it. I’m going to sit here and bask in my well deserved glory.

The only thing that could make this better? Some weed and Monster.

*Who I owe so much thanks to. You’re such a great friend, and I appreciate you so much!


Generally speaking, I like gifts shopping. Once I get over the hurdle of buying things for other people, I tend to do pretty well.

However, the one thing that sucks is that I have yet to figure out exactly how to do all of my shopping online, thus I am forced to deal with actual people. Which isn’t always so bad, I was actually having a pretty pleasant shopping trip.

Until I stopped at WoolWorths.

They had these over the knee black suede boots I had to buy right now or I will absolutely die so I stopped in. After grabbing a few things, I stood with the other 9 people in line. After waiting a ridiculous amount of time, I finally got to the checkout.

I decided to get my brother and his girlfriend an ornament with their new baby’s handprint in it (cute right?), and I was checking out the cashier who I will refer to as “Miss Mary Sunshine” noticed it.
The conversation went like this:
MMS: That’s cute.
Me: I think so too! I have a new niece and I think that would be a sweet gift.
MMS: They have one of these for pets at Sandton.
Me: Seriously?
MMS: Yea.

At this point, a smart person would’ve let her finish scanning my crap and gotten the hell out of there, but the alarm bells hadn’t gone off yet. (Remind me to get those looked at) But No, I had to open my big fat cake hole and continue the conversation.
Me: I never noticed that, I should check it out for my Mom.
MMS: I was going to get one for my sisters dog. She has a Pekinhuahua (Ok, I made that part up. I can’t remember what kind of fucking dog it was, sue me).
Me: Aww how cute.
MMS: Not really.
Me: ….
MMS: I think they’re ugly creatures.
Me: I guess I get spoiled with my cute little Pomeranian.
MMS: Yea, well my dog died in my arms so I decided no more animals for me.

Now, I’m not a terrible person all the time, and I have total sympathy for anyone who has lost a beloved pet, and this was obviously a recent event. So, against my better judgment, I decided to keep talking to her while she scanned out all eight million things I fucking bought because this is the longest most uncomfortable conversation ever.

The Dumbass Also Known As Me: I’m so sorry to hear that.
MMS: Yea, I loved her alot.
Me: That’s really rough especially this time of year.
Holy lord how many more things can I possibly have in that cart?!
MMS: It was 6 years ago.

Six. Years. Ago. It was at that point that the absurdity of this conversation hit me, and in spite of myself I let out a half smile. It was either that or uncontrollable laughter, so I chose the smile as not to offend everyone.

Me: Well I can see why you’d decide no more animals. I’d be lost if something happened to Zoe, we’ve always had dogs around.
MMS: Well, it’s easy to say that. Just wait till one of your dogs dies, then you’ll understand.

It was right about then that I decided that I hated this woman. I’m 23 years old, I don’t know how old she thought my dog was, but I think it’s pretty safe to assume that someone who is almost mid-20 who has always had dogs around has probably experienced the loss of a pet at some point. Or owns the oldest dog in the history of the goddamn world.

I might have gotten a little mean.

Me: I’ve actually lost 3 dogs.
MMS: And you just replaced it with another one? I don’t understand how people just do that.
Me: Not replaced, we rescued another dog and it just happened to be after one of my dogs passed.
MMS: So you replaced her.
Me: That’s a little harsh. Are you always like this?
MMS: Excuse me?
Me: Non wonder your dog died, it was probably trying to get the fuck away from you and decided death was better than listening to any more of your shit.

And then I grabbed my bags, turned on my heel and left.

I may be the worst person ever. And surely this woman hate me right now


This saturday I get to watch one of my closest friends get married. My wingwoman and partner in crime; my best friend and my worst influence. My roommate from university, and the co-MOH at my own wedding, I’ve spent countless hours at her parent’s house, shooting ridiculous home videos and watching way too many bad rom-coms. Over the years, we’ve seen our fair share of crap. Family illnesses, breakups, breakthroughs, breakdowns. And, even though I know I’m not going to see her nearly as much as I’d like to after her she gets married, I know we’ll always be friends.

I know this because of all the people in my life, she was the first person who ever told me those three oh so important words. The phrase that stops you in your tracks and punches you right in the gut. It’s a short little sentence that catches you offguard and makes you really think about your life.

She was the first one to look me in the eyes and say,

“I’m just sayin’…”

Yep, my carwash copilot and beach-hopping buddy will always have a special place in my heart because, once upon a time, she called me on my shit.

You see, my friend only utters those three words after she’s said something so brutally honest it requires a cushion to soften the blow. It’s an immediate cop-out; a quick denial to contradict the point that’s just been made. It’s subtle, but poignant. The perfect balance of sarcasm and sincerity.

It used to drive me insane when she’d say it to me. It was like she could never stand behind her opinion; instead of stating the facts, she had to discredit them in order to protect her feelings.

Now I realize she wasn’t protecting herself, she was doing her best to protect me.

I’m not the only person she’s used those words on. I imagine her fiancée has heard them more than a million times by now. I’ve heard her say it to her sister, to every one of our close friends. When it comes to blunt, cutting honesty, she’s your woman. There’s no skirting the issue or sugarcoating the delivery; she will tell you exactly how it is, whether you want to hear it or not.

And sure, sometimes it hurts. But more often than not, it helps. It’s refreshing always knowing where she stands. Knowing that she’ll never bullshit me when I need an honest answer. It’s that directness that I most appreciate about our friendship.

In fact, it’s one of the things that, as I get older, I look for when building new relationships. It’s weird, but I can honestly say that all of my closet friends, the ones that I’ve come to lean on over the years, possess this talent for tough love.

I guess you could say my friends are all kind of assholes.
And that’s exactly why I love them.

When things first started falling apart in my relationship, with a man I really loved, two of my girlfriends forced me to accept the fact that, hard as I was trying, it wasn’t going to work.

When I flew to another Australia to try and sort through all the rubble and find my footing, it was through the candor of an old friend that I was reminded who I was outside of the mistakes.

And when things got really bad, it was through the honesty of a friend that I learned sometimes things have to break before they can be made whole.

So on Sunday, after the celebration is over and we head back to our corners of the world, I’ll give her a hug, tell her I love her, and make her promise never to change.

And when she responds by saying, “What happened to you last night? You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”

I’ll smile and wait for those three familiar words…

“I’m just sayin’.”

Congratulations Westy, you’re going to make a beautiful bride.


Wow. This year is already going by quickly…it’s already almost Valentine’s Day.

I know you’re probably expecting some bitter diatribe about how Valentine’s Day is a holiday fabricated by greeting card companies for the sole purpose of quilting us into buying things for people we generally take for granted as if one sweeping gesture once a year is an acceptable time frame for telling the people you love that you in fact love them.

I’m one of those crazy ass people who loves people despite some of them doing absolutely horrible things to me. I’m hard to get to know, but once I love you, you’re pretty much screwed and unless you light me on fire, there’s a good chance I’ll love you forever.

Actually, that’s not true. My best friend once lit me on fire, and I still consider him my best friend. And he considers me his, even though I kicked him in the face in retaliation.

In the past 6 months (next Saturday), my life has changed pretty dramatically. I refuse to wait once a year to tell the people who are important to me that they are.

However, I’ve been really sucking it up in the forgiveness department. Valentine’s Day always brings up all the old relationships. Usually in the form of people calling me to tell me that they’re sorry and they miss me.

After that, I don’t hear from them for another 364 days.

Which means one thing: They didn’t really miss me, and they weren’t really sorry. They were sorry they were alone on Valentine’s Day. Or they missed me this one particular day of the year.

I know that I’m not always the easiest to approach. So I decided that this year would be different. All the people who miss me because they are lonely on a stupid holiday contrived by a greeting card company can fuck themselves.

For the people who genuinely do want to rekindle some sort of friendship, but are afraid I will make them bleed out of their faces if they approach me again, I’ll talk to them.

It might not be comfortable, it might not be the flowers and candy bullshit that this holiday was created for, and it might not be what people consider normal but I’ve tried to be more like Mackenzie. She could forgive anyone for anything, so there’s no reason I can’t either. If more people acted that way, I think Valentine’s Day would suck a lot less for most of us.

That being said: if you’re one of my guy friends you better pony up for some flowers or get ready to listen to me bitch for the next year.


People keep coming up to me and telling me how impressed they are by how strong I am. About how great it is that I moved and how impressive it is that Ive been able to keep everything together despite all of the recent bullshit. How lucky I am to be strong because that makes everything magically ok.

They’re all assholes. Was that inappropriate? It’s not any less appropriate than telling me I’m strong like it makes all the problems in the world go away. It doesn’t. All it does is tell me about a character trait that’s totally irrelevant to the conversation.

Of course I’ve kept it together. I don’t have the luxury of curling up in a ball for a week because I have a broken heart. If I don’t go to work, I don’t have a job. If I don’t have a job, my bills don’t get paid. Being tough isn’t a trait you develop one day because you think it sounds like fun. You do it because you don’t really have a choice otherwise, so you might as well suck it up, Nancy.

Strong or not there’s only so much hurt you can handle all at once before things start to fall apart. Even the strongest people in the world have a breaking point. Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. Everyone falls apart. Everyone has scars. Some just hide it better than others is all.

I caught a glimpse, a very tiny glimpse, of something that might actually start to turn this shit show around for me.



I don’t like it.



If I chase it and it doesn’t work, I’m going to wind up so much farther down and out than I was to start with that I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it. If I don’t’ chase it, I’m stuck in a perpetual state of feeling like this. Which honestly, isn’t that good.


I’ve never been a big believer in hope. At best I always thought it was bullshit. Something people held on to for lack of any other option. Something to keep you sane in a world that doesn’t make sense. Right up there with believing in God, I always considered hope to be something people did to make themselves feel better when they couldn’t afford a new pair of shoes.



At it’s worst, hope seems like a cruel joke. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen someone so far down that they seem like they’ll never be able to get up again, and they always say the same thing. “I have hope”. Inevitably what seems like a change in luck comes along and blows up in their face. Their perpetual hope winds up leaving them a bigger mess than they were to start with.



Never been a big fan. Tried it a few times anyway. Didn’t work out well for me. Actually, I don’t ever think it’s worked out well for me. That being said, I think I need a little of it right now. A little pointless, stupid hope. Something to maybe make the universe feel alright again.



A breath of fresh air maybe.



But all I can see are the ways it won’t work. The million ways that I get my ass handed to me one more time because why the hell not? Kick her while she’s down.



Because I’m a fucking idiot, I’m grasping at that little shred of hope like maybe this time it’ll be different than the plethora of other times I’ve thought that and had my spirit stomped on. I have to. I’ve run out of alternatives.



I guess I hope if I keep chasing it like an idiot, I’ll eventually come out ahead. Kind of like those people who are convinced they’ll win the lottery someday.


They probably won’t. But there’s always that chance


For 18 months I’d been waiting. Biding my time until life shifted weight. During those days, I cried my tears, drowned my sorrows, and forgot my worth. I burned bridges and built walls, lost control and found my failings. I wandered and I wondered, anxiously anticipating the day when the waves of self-loathing would stop crashing against the shore of my heart.

I was waiting for that one moment; the instant when things would change and the past truly becomes the past.

It’s a quiet movement, a tiny bend in time hidden in the space between yesterday and today. It’s like the kindness of a friend, the potential in a first kiss, or the longing of a last dance; something so insignificant, it has the power to change your life. It’s hidden in a glance and slipped beneath a smile. That moment when your imperfections become perfect and your battles scars become badges of honour.

Sadly, that moment isn’t meant for you or me. It’s intentionally elusive. A puff of smoke on the wind; a single drop in the ocean.

It’s what we all look forward to, lust after, and long for. But, try as we might, we can never quite catch it. Instead of holding it in our arms and celebrating its arrival, it hurries past like a stranger on the street. Unacknowledged and unappreciated; an unrequited love just out of reach.

It’s a heartbreaking thought, knowing that you’ll never find yourself in that moment. Like a love letter with no signature, or a song with an unfinished refrain; you’re left wondering what it would have felt like, what you would have felt like, the instant things were finally ok.

Moving forward is a slow process, one that’s filled with subtle victories. Lesser experiences that, when combined, soothe the sting, soften the blow, and smooth the edges. As much as you want to, need to, comprehend the healing, it’s foolish to expect that you’ll ever really understand. Your job is simply to live whatever life your mended heart can.

Because in the space before the moment, the hours before the understanding, that’s when you change.

You can’t be whole until you’ve found your holes. Until you’ve fallen from grace and lost your way, you can’t see what’s standing right in front of you. Instead, you overlook the little details, ignore the kindest words. You hurt the ones you love, and fall in love with your hurt.

We accept the love we think we deserve; only then can we mend and make peace with the past. Your bad decisions can never be undone; you can never unsay the hurtful words, or erase your worst memories. Just know that your mistakes are what make you, not what break you.

To those of you who are waiting for your moment, searching for the silence of self-acceptance, this is a gentle reminder to be kinder to yourself. Calm the voice in your head that refuses to let you heal. Your moment is coming.

The beautiful part is that you don’t know it now, and you won’t know it then.


I hate writing sometimes.

I really do.

A lot of other mediums allow for some kind of social interaction. Writing really isn’t one of them. Not that I’m knocking people who can socialize while doing their thing, it just so happens that writing isn’t really one of those things.

At the end of the day, I wind up sitting alone in a room with my laptop, trying to pick one idea out of the millions of thoughts that run through my head. There’s never a clear idea, it’s mostly abstract shapes, half formed ideas, and the occasional snippet of a sentence.

What people seem to miss is that even though my writing tends to be funny, it’s still incredibly painful. Every time I write, I’m ripping the stitches on something. Every joke comes from a little bit of pain, disappointment, sadness, rejection, heartbreak or missed opportunity. The logical choice would be to simply not write.

For someone like me that isn’t an option. I might not update my blog every day, but I do write everyday. Otherwise, the same thoughts just swirl in my head and chip away at me until I can hardly function. There are days that no matter how hard I try I can’t get the thoughts out on paper. The problem is just by trying all of those thoughts wind up front and center, but there’s absolutely no abreaction because my words just won’t work.

Those days are the worst. How do you explain to the people around you that you’re 2000 miles from home and kind of a mess because the one outlet you have from the stress of the move, relationship issues and new job rips the stitches on things you didn’t know you felt anymore? How do you tell someone that you can’t eat, you can’t sleep and you just kind of need someone who gets it?

There are days when I would kill just to have someone sit next to me on the couch while I tried to string words together into thoughts that make some sort of sense. This is one of those days. It’s all I can do not to curl up in a ball on my floor and cry.

The problem with writing is how easy it is to get stuck in your own head. It’s even harder when you don’t have anyone to shake you out of it every once in awhile and remind you that you’re not broken.

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