The Phantom Blower.

The Phantom Blower is at it again.

Every year, he gets out his snow blower and blows the snow from my driveway, walkway, and sidewalk. He does one or two of the neighbors' drives as well. I have no idea who he is or why he decides to do this with every snowfall.

This is my second year living in this house, and I really should go out and introduce myself to the Phantom Blower -- offer to pay the intermeddler, I suppose. But really, I'm quite shy about such things. Oddly, a part of me is afraid of the Phantom Blower.

Daily Confession.

I have a crush on someone.

It's not a Ruin The Marriage sort of crush. No, it's a passing crush. It's a fluffy meaninglessness. Mostly, it's a distraction from real life that will never be acted upon, even if the crushee were interested (he's not), available (he's not), or geographically desirable (he's not).

The novelty is amusing and entertaining, though.

I'll be surprised if my crush lasts through the end of the week.

Weight Watchers if following me.

Those who have actually kept up with my poor, dying blog may remember that I joined Weight Watchers Online back in November 2007. By April, I had reached my goal weight, having dropped 26 lbs. Over the next few months, I dropped another 10, bringing the Total Weight Lost number to 36.

Having successfully completed my Lifestyle Change ("Stop dieting, start living" the commercials urge), I stopped tracking all my food and stopped counting POINTS, relying instead on what I had learned, combined with my increased exercise. Thus, since August, I've been maintaining my weight, having stopped the hard core Weight Watcher-ing. (Wouldn't that just be Weight Watching? I digress...)

But Weight Watchers if following me. I checked my gmail, only to be greeted by an ad telling me that I can eat whatever I desire on Weight Watchers (to which I bellow a hearty "bullshit"). Then I logged onto hotmail, only to be told that Weight Watchers has a brand new program for men (they don't -- it's the same as the women's program; men just get more points and a special message board titled Guys On A Diet, which kind of contradicts the entire "stop dieting" philosophy).

Weight Watchers is following me.

My friends tell me I'm paranoid.

But just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not really out to get me.

The futility of toilet paper.

Oatmeal makes my nose run. It's true. Gustatory rhinitis, it's called. Every morning, I have the same breakfast: oatmeal made with skim milk, 2 teaspoons of brown sugar, a sprinkle of cinnamon and a cut-up banana. And every morning, my nose runs.

Thus, before I leave each morning, I head to the downstairs bathroom and grab a sheet of toilet paper on which to wipe my running nose, reasoning that the toilet paper is less expensive than the more-conveniently-place paper napkins located on the kitchen table.

This morning, I thought to myself: Saucy, is toilet paper actually less expensive than paper napkins? You buy both in bulk. You should look into it. For normal people, the inner monologue would have stopped here. For me, of course, it did not.

I began pondering the use of toilet paper. It's ridiculous, really, that we use tiny scraps of paper to wipe our asses and nether regions. Paper! The same substance we use for printing money and court transcripts is used to clean feces. Coincidence? I think not.

Truth is, toilet paper has a long and colorful history. Indeed, TP (as some refer to it) was first mentioned in China in 589 AD. Some travelers to China found this an odd -- nay, a disgusting(!) abomination. As a Muslin traveler to China in 851 AD remarked, "They [the Chinese] are not careful about cleanliness, and they do not wash themselves with water when they have done their necessities; but they only wipe themselves with paper."

Even now, nearing the end of 2009, there are cultures that use water and would not deign to merely wipe themselves with paper. In fact, in much of Southeast Asia, people use little or no toilet paper, particularly in rural areas. Instead, there are reservoirs in the toilet room that are used for cleaning oneself (this is why it's not Kosher to use your necessities-cleaning hand for eating, I'm told; my source, however, may be incorrect, so if he is, do not cast stones upon me). Now this part is exciting to me: In some upscale homes, a water hose is used -- you know, like the one that attaches to your kitchen sink. In the end, you're wet, but you're clean. This seems like a superior system, and one making much lest waste.

Much like a bidet, really. Sadly, however, the bidet did little to assuage the onslaught of TP marketing. The bidet was invented in 1710, and though it gained some popularity, toilet paper was still used by the majority of Westerners.

I won't bore you any longer toilet paper's tortured history. If you want to, you may view it here.

In the meantime, the toilet paper in my house is going to be used for nose-blowing only. Or at least until I can get hoses installed in my two bathrooms.

The Saucy Vixen is back... and ranting about Beyonce.

First, I beg your forgiveness: In the past month, a handful of readers (the few, the strong) have asked me why I've stopped blogging. The sad truth is simply that I have nothing interesting to say. I know you are all shocked and appalled by this admission. The Saucy Vixen? With nothing to say?? Alas, it is true.

My life is boring.

I had nothing to say.

Nothing.

Until about two days ago. I was on my home from work, and yet again, I suffered from my chronic affliction of listening to song lyrics. I've tried to do this less frequently of late. I've tried ignoring lyrics, knowing that the result will only upset me. I leave my radio off and hum tuneless melodies to myself. But stuck in the throes of a migraine-like headache, I had the radio on low (to keep myself from having to think, you see), and heard this:

If I were a boy
Even just for a day
I'd roll out of bed in the morning
And throw on what I wanted and go.

Drink beer with the guys
And chase after girls.
I'd kick it with who I wanted
And I'd never get confronted for it
Cause they stick up for me.

Let's stop here and discuss style for a moment. I know that poetry is dead. I know that things such as form and syntax are antiquated notions, especially given today's generation of grammatically apathetic troglodytes. But really, that didn't rhyme, it didn't scan, and it all-around sucked. Beyonce, I hate you. I hold you partially responsible for bringing down the level of literacy in this country. You are, after all, a role model. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Moving on...

If I were a boy
I would turn off my phone
Tell everyone it's broken
So they'd think that I was sleeping alone.

I’d put myself first
and make the rules as I go.
Cause I know that she’ll be faithful,
Waiting for me to come home, to come home.

Now let's talk substance.

Ever wonder why men suck so much? Ever wonder why they're such dogs, why they pull ridiculous shit and get away with it, why they act poorly? Because we--women--expect them to. We bitch and moan about how awful they are. We lament to our girlfriends about 'em. They did this, they did that, what have I done to deserve this? Then we write crappy, non-scanning songs about how boys suck.

It's self-fulfilling prophecy, ladies. If you don't want your man to get away with this crap, don't let him. Stop whining and start doing.

That means you, too, Beyonce.

They should have made the bleeding stop.

Remember back when I asked for them to make the bleeding stop? They should have listened. They should have listened when I asked them to make the bleeding stop. They REALLY should have listened.

Then, to add insult to injury, my beloved Gideon mocked my beautiful rendition of We Built This City.

You know what this means, don't you? I think you do. The bleeding must now continue Saucy Vixen Style.

The Saucy Vixen... Live!

You heard it....

Live! On the Internets!

(Psssst. Someone discovered singsnap dot come this weekend. It's karaoke for your computer. My condolences; I can't sing.)

Please make the bleeding stop.

Not since Gwen Stefani drove me bananas (B-A-N-A-N-A-S) in the summer of 2005 with Hollaback Girl has a song irritated and angered me as much as Leona Lewis's Bleeding Love.

Bleeding Love is following me. It is ubiquitous. I cannot escape it. Wednesday morning I got into my car to go to work. I turned on the radio only to be greeted with:

But I don't care what they say, I'm in love with you.
They try to pull me away but they don't know the truth.

I changed the radio station, stat. And heard:

My heart's crippled by the vein that I keep on closing.
You cut me open.

I turned off the radio and drove the rest of the way to work in silence.

After work, I drove home. I took a chance and flipped on the radio only to be bombarded with:

Keep bleeding
I keep, keep bleeding love.
Keep bleeding, keep keep bleeding love.
You cut me open.

I turned the radio off. I was stressed.

Great, I thought. I can totally see this playing out at work. My brain started spinning, and strange, twisted little daydreams floated into my consciousness. I could see myself going to lockup to do an arraignment and meet with a client accused of stabbing his girlfriend. "It's not my fault," he'd say to me. "I was just doing what she always sang to me. She wanted to bleed love. Keep bleeding, keep keep bleeding. You cut me open and I keep bleeding, keep keep bleeding love."

Oy vey. Something seriously wasn't right. The song was seriously stressing me out. I needed to relax. So I decided to head straight to my 6:15 yoga class.

Once there, things began to look up. No Leona Lewis. Nothing driving me bananas. No scary daydreams. Just soft music, toning, and stretching.

Then: Headstand time. Not the easiest of enterprises, but something challenging and worthwhile. While I was inverted, eyes closed, trying not to tip over, my yoga instructor urged me, "Keep bleeding."

My heart nearly stopped. Still upside, down, I asked: "What?!"

"Keep breathing."

Even when it's not really there, the bleeding won't stop following me.

Dear Deity, please make the bleeding stop.

Things that annoy me.

In no particular order.

1. People who don't use the Shift Key.
What I mean by this, specifically, is people who refuse to start sentences with capital letters. I realize that schools are no longer concerned with proper grammar or syntax. Apparently, it hinders creativity. But folks, seriously, you're not e.e. cummings. Drop the charade and muster up enough effort to place you finger on the damn Shift Key. Capitals and periods. It's pretty basic.

2. Ayn Rand.
Please, Ms. Rand, hit me with your 12-foot-long symbolism stick again. I'm not sure I caught it the first time. Just in case I may have missed something, please add a 50-page self-indulgent soliloquy into an already overly-verbose tome. Kill. Me. Now. Put me out of my misery. Ayn Rand is dated, useless drivel. If you were in college in the '60s and dig her, I'll grant concession. But if you're a 20-something self-described geek, dork, or literature maven, grow up. You are the equivalent of a trenchcoat-wearing poet. And those went out of style in the '90s when we were still teenagers.

3. Jewel.
'Nuff said.

4. Legislation mandating DNA samples upon arrest.
I have a better idea. Why not have everyone give a sample at birth? Especially the men. After all, every male is a potential rapist, right? Right? Apparently, the presumption of innocence no longer applies, so taking people's biological material is a-ok if we can justify the intrusion with the good ol' public safety rationale. Long live the Patriot Act. Huzzah.

To be continued...

Hitched.

You heard it here first. I totally got hitched today. My newly-appointed husband was wholly inappropriate and tried to make me laugh during the civil ceremony. And speaking of inappropriate...

The Town Clerk not only awards marriage licenses, but doles out hunting licenses. They had posted a flyer with drawings of different birds. The husband may have been inappropriate during the ceremony, but I was the one who laughed at at the bird name "woodcock."

I'm such a child. Thus, I find it amusing that people depend on me to get them outta The Pokey.

On marriage and health costs.

I have Intracranial Hypertension. So no private insurance company will underwrite me and cover this condition.

Currently, I work on a contract basis for the state (which, I hope, shall someday change). The only practical meaning of this is that I have to pay quarterly estimated tax (no biggie) and I don't get health benefits (biggie). I should note that I accepted this position when I was able to get health coverage out-of-pocket for $125 a month; my diagnosis came about a month after I accepted the position. Would it have changed my mind? Maybe. But this is the state in which I want to work, and hell, they pay a lot better than where I was regardless of the benefits situation, even if I don't see the extra I'm making because of medical costs. Which brings me to...

My COBRA payments are a little under $500 per month. I'm also out of network, so I gotta shell out $80 or so every time I have to see the neuro-opthamologist. The MRI and spinal tap? Yeah, it would have cost me thousands without insurance, but given the rising prices of gas (and hence everything else), times are tough, and the extra $800 in medical costs I had weren't just laying around.

Chris just landed a full-time gig. With benefits. They have a domestic partnership bit for health insurance, except that we'd be paying tax on both the employee AND the employer contributions (I think it's a 20/80 split on benefits). More anti-gay sentiment. Disgusting.

His insurance kicks in May 1. My last COBRA payment goes in the mail this morning. And on Monday, we go to Town Hall and get married. Thirteen months early. My mom wasn't thrilled. I told her she should be happy we're not living in sin. The scary part? No blood tests, no waiting period. Thirty bucks and a photo ID will get any schmuck married, so long as he or she is getting married to an opposite-gendered individual. This schmuck is spending an extra $10 for a certified copy of the marriage license.

The real wedding is on May 9, 2009. You're all invited.

My fiance is handicapable.

My fiance cannot feel his feet.

This, of course, has been a bone of contention, because when he says he cannot feel his feet, what he means is that he cannot feel his feet in space. He can, however, feel pain and temperature. How do I know this? He once kicked me under the table while we were sitting at the diner. When I told him he had kicked me, he shrugged it off, saying, "I can't feel my feet."

I contemplated this statement for a moment and got a brilliant idea. "Excellent. Then at the next poker night, you should light them on fire. Or throw swords through 'em. Awesome party tricks."

He sighed, and responded: "I can feel pain, you know."

A lie! "So you can feel your feet," I said. And that's what happens when you date a trial lawyer. But I digress....

In addition to not feeling his feet (thus making him handicapable), Chris is also a recovering alcoholic. These two things are his two best qualities. And why?

(1) I always have a designated driver when I go out.

(2) Not only do I have a designated driver, but we get a parking spot up front.

I love that my fiance is handicapable.

What do airplanes, ropes and Arabs have in common?

What do airplanes, ropes and Arabs have in common?

According to Oleta Adams, they're all ways to "get here."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at these horrid lyrics. Each verse just gets progressively worse than the one before it. Seriously.

You can reach me by railway, you can reach me by Trailway.
You can reach me on an airplane, you can reach me with your mind.
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man.
I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can.

You can reach me by sail boat, climb a tree and swing rope to rope.
Take a sled and slide down the slope, into these arms of mine.
You can jump on a speedy colt, cross the border in a blaze of hope.
I don't care how you gt here, just get here if you can.

You can windsurf into my life, take me up on a carpet ride.
You can make it in a big balloon, but you better make it soon.
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man.
I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can.

Come up with a moral lesson and win a prize!

Spoiler alert: I'm ruining the end of tonight's episode of Moment of Truth.

The premise of this television show: Contestants answer a series of questions while attached to a lie detector test. Then they go on the show and answer the questions on network prime-time television. The more questions the contestant answers "correctly," the more money she wins. The contestant may change her answer from what she answered while strapped to the lie detector machine (which is so accurate that it's inadmissible in court). If the contestant lies, all money is lost.

On tonight's episode, Contestant Laura won $100k. She decided to try for $200k because she'd already destroyed herself and her marriage. She had admitted to stealing money from an employer. She admitted to taking off her wedding ring when she went out with the girls. She admitted to believing that her ex-boyfriend is the man she should have married. She admitted to cheating on her husband of two years.

And then the question. You know. THE question. The question where she lost it all.

"Do you think you're a good person?"

She answered yes.

The lie detector determined that was a lie.

Oh, how The Saucy Vixen laughed and laughed.

The moral of the story? Hmmmm.... whoever comes up with the best Moral of the Story wins a prize, Saucy Vixen style!

On writing comfortably.

When I was in law school, a professor told my Constitutional Law class that Justice Holmes wrote his opinions on a writing desk that had no place to sit down. Indeed, it was a standing-up writing desk. I always pictured a black-robed, old white guy standing behind a lectern, penning old-school opinions; short and sweet opinions, opining, among other things, that three generations of imbeciles are enough. The standing-up desk was the reason why Justice Holmes's opinions tended to be short: it's no fun pontificating for pages when you gotta do it standing up.

Similarly, I generally write my blog entries while sitting on the futon I got for college graduation. While I do sit down, the futon is still not a comfortable place to write from. Which is why I'm so excited that I just purchased a recliner from the local Goodwill. It's blue and matches the carpeting in my office/den. I spent my afternoon today filing old utilities bills and pay stubs (in a filing cabinet; yes, I'm just that anal), and rearranging the room to fit my handy-dandy new recliner.

And now I am prone in my recliner, listening to Cyndi Lauper, and typing comfortably away.

Given this new development, I can only hope it leads to better bigger and better blog entries.

Look at my freakishly large hands.

In this photo, my freakishly small hands look freakishly large.

But for those who asked, it shows the engagement ring.

Scary.

People born in 1987 are old enough to drink. Legally.

Even scarier: People born in 1990 are old enough to vote.

Creepy.

Provincial much?

The reason I majored in print journalism as opposed to broadcast journalism is because I was never able to handle local news. Though there is local news in print, there's so much more in broadcast. And it happens to be on right now; it's all puffery having to do with random local people and their battles with the snow and freezing rain.

I swear, if the world were ever to end, the local headline would read thusly:

"World ends; Connecticut man sees it."

Sad.

It saddens me that Donald Sutherland's career has been reduced to being the voice on the Simply Orange orange juice commercials.

No matter what, I'll always love you, Donald.

Spirituality is yummy.

I'm not much of a spiritual person. I'm not into religion. The God concept tends to elude me. I just try to live well, hope for the best, and prepare for the worst. It's the cautious optimist in me. Maybe some day I'll write a post detailing my thoughts regarding spirituality a bit further.

Today is not that day.

Those who know me know that my betrothed, Chris, cooks for me. All the time. I love it. The way to my heart was certainly through my stomach, and Chris figured that out really early on. The first date was curry. The second date was tuna steaks. And so on and so forth.

While I am not into spirituality, and while I'm not into cooking, I am certainly into eating. Which is why I was rather tickled my Chris's most recent blog post in which he compares spirituality to cooking.

Engaged. (That was fast.)

I had a bad day yesterday. My medication gives me heartburn and it was in full swing. Chris and I were arguing about ridiculous things via text messages. Pathetic. I wanted to get home, eat an egg, and crawl into bed.

No such luck.

When I got home, I came in through the kitchen door. I saw candles lit in the kitchen and my first thought was, "Great. What the hell is my house-mate doing with my candles?"

When I got inside, I heard music. A song from a mix CD that Chris gave me on our second date. "I Want You" by Holly Cole. (Cue "aaaaaaaaw" sound.)

In the middle of the circle of candles was a huge chocolate cake with "Marry Me" written in green. It's pictured above in mirror image (because it was taken with a web cam). A ring was sitting in front of the cake. My mother's engagement ring setting set with my birthstone, a garnet -- semi-precious, just like me.

I found Chris upstairs, where I said yes.

Then proceeded to tell him that I had a stomachache; seems we got the married couple but down already.

The cake was delicious. We're engaged. I love him.

Gettin' hitched, but not "engaged."

My boyfriend has a Facebook account.

I refuse to have a Facebook account.

If I did, however (have a Facebook account, that is), I would know that he has listed his relationship status as "engaged."

Truth is, Chris and I decided to get married sometime back in December. In an effort to assuage my nerves prior to my spinal tap, we planned the hypothetical wedding. We will have no ceremony. Instead, we'll just do it up at the courthouse where religion won't be an issue. There will be no bridesmaids or groomsmen at the reception. I will wear purple instead of white. We will have a make-your-own sundae bar instead of a wedding cake. And so on and so forth.

I did not care much about a formal proposal. It's romantic, sure, and would be nice, I suppose, but it's never been that important to me. I figured we would elect to get married (which we did), tell the appropriate people, do the legal stuff, and throw a not-too-fancy, not-too-expensive, but fun-for-the-ages party when the time is right. That would be that.

But no. My betrothed wants a formal proposal. He wants a ring exchange of sorts (sans diamond, of course, since we're so socially conscious). I told him that so long as the proposal includes chocolate cake with green frosting, I'll accept his formal proposal whenever he decides to make it.

In the meantime, however, I refuse to call ourselves "engaged," regardless of what his Facebook profile says. If he wants to propose, then he's gotta play by the rules; we are not engaged until I say yes.

The forensic psychologist who lost his way.

Boundaries of law, ethics and personal morality -- how far should they really be pushed? An illustrative (and true!) story:

Prior to law school, I dated a forensic psychologist for several years. When we met, he was finishing up his post-doc at Harvard. I fell in love with his story more than with him. A product of the New York City foster care system, he had beaten the odds, gotten out of the ghetto, earned his Psy.D. and did his pre- and post-doc training at Yale and Harvard. Even better, my mother could tell her friends that I was dating a Jewish doctor from New York -- who could ask for more?

More than his story, I admired how much compassion he showed. He wasn't just someone who wanted to testify for a living, earning six figures a year by living on the witness stand as a hired gun for rich white folk. He wanted to help people. He wanted to make the world a better place. This is what was most attractive to me.

Sadly, however, my forensic psychologist boyfriend was not humble. Perhaps his deep-seated self-esteem problems had manifest in a way that made him act cocky and arrogant. Even though it annoyed me, I overlooked it, because he was one hell of a clinician.

He called me yesterday. The pretext of the call was to see how I was doing. The real reason: Forensic Psychologist had been cited in a Connecticut Appellate Court decision published on January 29. He wanted to brag. He also wanted to see if I had a copy. Lucky me, I happened to have my Connecticut Law Journal on hand, so I read him the pertinent sections of the case, having to do with -- get this -- predictive neglect in the context of a care and protection case. Predict neglect? Alas, that's a discussion for another day...

In the process of tooting his proverbial horn, Forensic Psychologist described his next venture to me: He wants to start a substance abuse treatment clinic for the wealthy teenagers. The elite. The folks with money. Specifically, the parents who want to give their kids a chance.

A chance at what? A chance at getting proper treatment regardless of its cost? That would seem almost plausible. But no. Forensic Psychologist was invited to speak at a meeting in a wealthy Connecticut suburb regarding a new city ordinance having to do with the underage possession of alcohol. The parents were outraged; they knew their kids drink, and didn't want the kids getting into trouble.

Thus, an idea was born. Forensic Psychologist wants to give these wealthy teenagers a chance to lie. Let me repeat:

A chance to lie.

By not accepting insurance, there will be no paper trail. So when these kids are asked on college applications, "Have you ever received substance abuse treatment?" they will be able to check the No box without the lie ever catching up with them.

The entire concept is repugnant to my sense of moral righteousness. I told him so. To which he responded: "Everyone lies. Besides, it's not as if I'm telling them to lie."

Plausible deniabilty by someone who should know better. He is giving them the vehicle by which to lie. He is complicit in perpetrating a fraud. He is essentially saying to these kids: "When you're rich, you can get away with lying. It's okay." By his actions, Forensic Psychologist is creating a wider chasm of social stratification. When I explained this to him, he saw nothing wrong. He honestly thinks he is doing a good thing; he truly has convinced himself that he is helping people.

But at what expense to society?

Why I do what I do.

I'm tired of explaining that the Fourth Amendment (eroded thought it may be) is not a technicality. I'm tired of soapboxing when people ask me how I could stand to defend the people I defend. Tired of having to say over and over again, "We, as a society, treat our poor people like shit and then wonder why they're the ones committing, or at the very least, accused of a lot of the crime that goes down."

It's become tedious to debate whether the presumption of innocence actually exists to most juryfolk (I believe it does not). It's gotten old pontificating upon the fact that while most people out there can recite the standard of "guilt beyond a reasonable doubt," prospective jurors still state during voir dire that if a defendant has been arrested, then he must have done something wrong.

But mostly, I'm exhausted from explaining to people that by defending the rights of the indigent, I'm defending the rights of everyone.

And when I explain to the naysayers that by defending the rights of the indigent, my cohorts and I are defending the rights of everyone, I find that this is the only story that ever seems to get my point across.

Introducing ourselves to the jury pool prior to selecting a jury:

Prosecutor: Good morning. I'm Attorney Prosecutor and I represent the people of the State.

Defense Attorney: Hi. I'm Saucy Vixen. I also represent the people of the State. I just happen to have one sitting next to me.

My birthday could have taken place in 1987.

My birthday was last Thursday.

And even though it's 2008, it could have taken place 21 years ago.

Why?

Chris got me an original Mannequin movie poster. "She's making her move in theaters on February 13," the poster reads. That's below the line telling me that "Some guys have all the luck." Andrew McCarthy on a motorcycle wearing jeans, a waistcoat, and a tux jacket, with a mannequin riding bitch. Rock!

But that wasn't the best part.

The best part?

A framed, mint condition, 45 (that's vinyl, folks) of the single "We Built This City."

My birthday could have taken place in 1987.

That's just how awesome I am.

Similarities between taxes and Weight Watchers.

I am the Saucy Vixen and I am a Weight Watchers message board addict.

I cruise the boards and dole out advice. I provide encouragement to those who feel discouraged by their small increments of weight loss. I suggest healthy-eating ideas and low-POINTS-value tips. I make snarky observations and castigate the few who deserve it (and since I'm really a softy on the inside this doesn't happen often). I learn about high-fiber options to add to my daily diet that will keep me regular. I take down recipes for nearly-fat-free chicken cordon bleu that I will never prepare, as I do not cook.

One of my favorite pastimes on the message boards is reading posts from folks who whine about how many daily POINTS they are allotted. When I started Weight Watchers, I was allowed 21 POINT in addition to my Weekly POINTS Allowance of 35 (that's 35 POINTS to use during the week however you please; a POINT is calculated based on calories, fat and fiber content of any given food; on average, a POINT is about 50 calories, give or take).

Every now and then, someone whines and moans about how her daily target POINTs is only 18. And when that happens, I am reminded of rich Republican folk.

Rich Republican folk, in my experience, tend to be very concerned about the Government taking their money. They don't like paying for programs. They don't want poor people receiving welfare, or -- God forbid -- appointed counsel, if it means that their hard-earned money will be stolen via income tax. They get very aggravated when their income is reduced by thousands of dollars because of taxes.

My take on the tax issue: I wish I had their problem. I wish the Government were taking thousands of dollars from me. Because if they were taking that much money from me, that'd mean that I had a lot of cash. High taxes means high income. I don't see the cause for complaint.

People on Weight Watchers who are allotted 18 daily target POINTS have either lost a lot, or started out weighing a little. Eighteen POINTS is as low as it goes; it's the bottom. You can't get any fewer than 18 POINTS per day. And so, when I hear people whining about how few POINTS Weight Watchers gives 'em, my perspective is the same as when rich folk complain about paying too much in taxes: I wish I had that problem.

Belly dancer!

First it was swing dancing.

I decided against it because I am far too uncoordinated. And the partner I found was a bit of a meathead who was clearly lookin' for some action. Which I clearly wasn't going to provide since I have the best boyfriend ever. My final excuse was that the lessons I found didn't fit in with my work-out schedule.

Then it was roller derby.

As it turns out, the league in the state in which I live in over an hour away, which was going to make weeknight practices difficult. Worse, however, was the fact that the woman who coordinates said derby is Best Friend Mike's most recent ex-girlfriend. So I looked at the league in the neighboring state. However, that was too far away to ever make the weeknight practices. Sadly, roller derby leagues are not sweeping New England. No crazy fun girls in fishnets and roller skates for the Saucy Vixen. A travesty!

So now it's belly dancing.

Great exercise. And Lord knows I have a belly. Chris tells me that belly dancing is perfect for me. He says I'm sexy and Semitic and slinky and all the things that work well for belly dancers. What with the Weight Watchers lifestyle change, I'm thirteen pounds lighter than I was two months ago, so I'm not even too self conscious to try it out.

The problem? Even though I have no issue with arguing in court or negotiating with prosecutors or asking cross questions, I hate talking to service people. I'm strangely afraid of calling for pizza. I hate asking for help at the library. So the thought of calling places up and asking about classes and times is terrifying to me. As soon as I get over this, I'll be making phone calls and signing up for a class.

He's been holding out on me!

My boyfriend's birthday is on January 1. Which means in my recovering-from-too-much-tequila hungover state, I was subjected to a family dinner, complete with his parents, grandparents, and eighteen-year-old brother.

In discussing what his brother did for the New Year, it was divulged that he stayed up until three a.m. playing Guitar Hero. At that point, I expressed by burning desire to own Dance Dance Revolution (DDR), but my problem with the fact that I do not out a Playstation game console.

"He has a PS2," Chris's brother informed me.

I was taken aback.

Shocked.

Angry.

That bastard! Knowing of my love for dancing on electronically connected pads, Chris had neglected to inform me that he owned a PS2. No. Rather, he merely turned to me and explained, "I use it to watch DVDs."

Well!

Surely DVD-watching as his parents' house cannot be as important as my love of the dance. And so I said to him: "Chris! Surely DVD-watching here cannot be as important as my love of the dance!"

He agreed. And agreed to bring it over, if not for good, then at least temporarily so that I can DDR myself into oblivion.

Now all I need to do is get the game. So I can have dance battles in my bordello-styled living room.

Rock!