Monday, May 17, 2010


I find that I have a very visceral reaction to people who quote Scripture: I immediately dislike them.

When a person quotes from the Bible, I tend to think to myself, Oh dear, please stop being such an insufferable, sanctimonious prick. You judge people as much as anyone else, only you sound arrogant in your humility.

I suppose there is nothing intrinsically wrong with quoting Scripture. The problem is that people cannot do it without sounding horribly pretentious. More problematic is that it's nearly always done in a hypocritical manner. The judgmental adulterer tells us to let he without sin cast the first stone. Et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum.

Another part of my problem may be that many (if not most) people who quote Scripture do not know what they're talking about. Many so-called Christians cannot name the four books of the Gospel (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John). Many so-called Christians cannot name the first five books of The Old Testament (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy). And yet they're super-awesome at telling me that I should examine the log in my own eye rather than looking upon the speck in my brother's eye.

Regardless of why I have such a visceral reaction, I do. I cannot stand to be around those who quote the Bible or those who assert that they live and breathe the teachings of Christ, thereby refusing to judge people, all the while judging those who are not nearly as pious as they.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Death by chocolate.

My mother was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes about a decade ago. She's battled with her weight for the better part of her adult life, so I don't suppose this diagnosis should have been a surprise to anyone. Realize, however, that my mother was never one of those hugely obese people who ate entire chocolate cakes. Her BMI likely straddled the line between overweight and obese for many years until she lost 40 lbs when she was about 49 years old on a highly unhealthy diet (she ate nothing more than four shakes and a gallon of water per day) and dropped down to 135, which was within a healthy range for her height. Suffice it to say, she did not keep it off.

Since her diagnosis, Mom has managed her diabetes with a mix of diet, exercise, and oral medication. She tests her blood sugar when she should, and lives a reasonably healthy lifestyle.

Mom tells me that if she is ever diagnosed with any sort of painful and terminal illness, she will go out and eat an entire chocolate New York cheesecake. Death by chocolate, she calls it.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

The Pina Colada Song.

The Pina Colada song is an awful song. Have you actually listened to the lyrics? It's about two people who are together, but have never taken the time to actually learn about each other. It's tragic, for example, that they're together, unhappy, and that he doesn't even know that she loves pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, and that she's not into yoga and likes the taste champagne. Has she never told him? Has he never asked? Why are they even together? Moreover, why are they not upset when they run into each other after both have tried to cheat on each other? This is not a song about second chances. This is a reflection of most marriages there days -- short on communication, and heavy on resentment.

This is a song I do not relate to. I make sure that my partner knows exactly what I'm thinking, nearly all the time. Sometimes to my detriment.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


I hate semen.

Seriously. When I'm done with sex, I do this awesome gravity-defying thing to avoid getting it on my sheets. I mean, who wants to sleep on the wet spot? It's uncomfortable. Despite my avoidance, it always squishes out and runs down the inside of my thigh by the time I've darted to the bathroom after my amazing post-coital acrobatic feats of agility and grace. Sometimes it even makes an awesome not-quite-queef-but-definitely-fart-like noise as it seeps out. This is why I like being on top. When I'm done, I take the penis out of me and let the semen drip into Mr. Vixen (who is none-too-pleased, but puts up with it), at which point he grabs the cum towel from beside the bedside table. Unless he's left it next to his computer.

Life is much easier this way.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Pithy sayings.

Anyone who knows me knows that I cannot stand pithy sayings. This is why I would do horribly with any sort of 12-step programs. "It works if you work it" makes me want to stick ice picks into my pupils. "One day at a time" makes my stomach turn. "If you don't master your fear, your fear will master you" makes me want to invade a small town with a machine gun. And I'm a pacifist.

More importantly, though, is that most of these pithy sayings are blatantly false. Let's examine a few, shall we?

Treat others the way you would want to be treated.
I want people to be straight up and honest with me. If I ask, "Do these pants make me look fat?" and they actually do, in fact, make me look fat, I damned well wanna know about it. I want people to treat me respectfully, sure, but I don't want them to pussyfoot around like a bunch of waffling douchebags. I'd rather someone be bitchy than be superficially sweet and friendly -- at least those who are bitchy have a little edge, a little depth. If I treated people the way I want to be treated, I would have no friends. I'm more abrasive than most folks; an acquired taste. I understand that, which is why I treat people the way they want to be treated, not the way I might want to be treated if in the same situation.

If someone else jumped off a bridge, you wouldn't do the same, would you?
Hell yes I would. Jumping off a bridge is a fucking good time. A rollicking good time, even. Fun for the whole family. I mean, it would depend on the bridge, or course, and the water beneath it, the tides, how fast it was moving, and all sorts of other factors. But I certainly wouldn't foreclose the possibility of jumping off a bridge. I've seen others jump off a bridge before, and you know what I did? I did it, too. Then I swam to the shore and did it two more times. If I had the chance, I'd do it again.

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
Yes it does. Bacon. Bacon tastes as good as thin feels. The next person who tells me that nothing tastes as good as thin feels is getting my foot shoved up his or her ass. Seriously.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Things that annoy me.

In no particular order:

(1) Dunkin' Donuts' doughnuts. They always look better than they actually taste. Even if I have but a Munchkin, I am left thinking, "I wasted my time on this???" Once upon a time, they were made on premises. It seems those days are long gone, with little to show by way of quality doughnuts. Shame on you, Dunkin'. I shall be forced to purchase my confections elsewhere. (In fairness, I can't remember the last time I purchased a doughnut; someone brought some into work today, so I tried one. Meh.)

(2) Judges who don't understand the rules of evidence. It's one thing to put your thumb on the scale in order to favor the prosecution. I get that. I'm used to that. It's irritating, but not so bothersome as to cause fits of spavins and heaves. However, I had a judge actually say, sitting as tryer-of-fact, "If you're going to enter this in not for the truth of the matter asserted, you may as well be entering in a blank piece of paper, as I'm not going to read it." The evidence in question was a written statement, entered only to show that the statement was made and available to a certain individual. It was relevant to show how the individual responded upon receiving it. Surely, one would think reading it would be necessary. But not this judge. He just decided to create an appellate issue. For fun!

(3) Taylor Swift.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Married and dating.

I miss dating.

Every time I hear a single friend of mine going on and on about the flutters and fabulousness of new lust, I find myself envious. Thus, I set out to get back to dating.

I find, however, that it is hard to date while married. Every now and then I'll try platonic dating. Ya know, meeting new people, making new friends, getting out more. I need to get out more and I love people, so it always seems like a good idea. Because I find that most women are whiny, co-dependent wretches, I tend to gravitate towards hanging out with men. They appreciate my rape jokes more anyway.

I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that men do not understand what "platonic" means. The single ones want to fuck. The married ones want to fuck. The gay ones, not so much, but there's only so much Lady Gaga a girl can listen to in one sitting. And one of my gay guy friends actually did ask me to have sex with him, just to "try it out" with someone he trusted. Frankly, with my track record for monogamy being what it is (i.e, I completely suck at it), it's likely better not to tempt fate anyway.

So after discussing the issue with Mr. Vixen, we decided to start dating together. Having long since been involved in the swingers community starting at the tender age of 22, it wasn't difficult to convince him to jump in. Okay, so it was extremely difficult. Damned scruples. But I digress.

Our standards were high. We are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals. We sought the same. That was our first problem. Following that, we refused to deal with other people's crazy. In case you were unsure, swingers are fucking insane. They're usually trying to fix their marriages, and swinging is the step taken to do so before the more permanent "solution" of procreating.

Due to our high standards, our online swingers profile read thusly:

Turn-ons: polysyllaby, creativity, good grammar, musical and artistic talent, proper spelling, dry wit, emotional stability, sense of humor, curiosity, politesse and general etiquette, a love of good food, aptitude with tongue and fingers, extended foreplay.

Turn-offs (you will be ignored if you display the following traits): ppl who rite txtspk, tipe porely or mispel comon werds, rabid demands for sex now Now NOW!, cheating on a significant other (with or without sound rationalization), those looking to fill the void of their banal existence, those who in ANY way involve their children in the lifestyle (again, with or without sound rationalization).

Polyamorous? We're not. Nor are we interested. Ever. Why? We're still trapped in the conformist monogamist mindset and prone to jealousy because instead of spending several hours discussing the minutiae of our relationship and our "feelings" we watch true-crime documentaries on MSNBC. And really, teenage vampire-cult killings interest us far more than justifying our inability to commit to another person.

Our ideal people would not send us photos of their gaping orifices. Neither of us find gynecological and/or rectal exams terribly sexy, and though intellectually fascinating in an isn't-the-human-body-cool sort of way, we tend to reserve such musing for less lusty moments.

And as a perhaps-surprising addendum to the above, photos of your penises, gentlemen, are not likely to convince us that what we've really been missing all along in our sex-lives is a second protuberance, and that yours would make the perfect addition.

Be aware that single-sentence requests for face pics or to set up a meeting do not merit the dignity of a reply: not even one of our trademark devastating, witty, and clever retorts (ie, "you're a poopstick.") Sorry, but if you want a glimpse of our faces or a chance to meet in person, you'll have to introduce yourself and get to know us first. We know, the suspense is terrifying; I mean, we might be ugly, and then you'll have had an email conversation that didn't lead to sex. Really, we're selfish to demand you type more than "got pics?", but hey... we're evil. We're the reason you can't have nice things.

Bi-Curious? Ask yourself: if my boyfriend/husband/man were not watching me go down on this chick, would I still be interested in doing it? If yes, then perhaps you are genuinely questioning your sexual orientation at this time.

If no, please ask your man to smoke another guy's pole for your viewing enjoyment. After all, fair is fair.

We were in! Because, as I previously stated, we are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals, we got a pretty steady amount of inquires coming in. Most, we didn't bother responding to. Nope, not even our trademark and witty retort, "You are a poopstick." Many were written in text speak. Many reeked of crazy. Many were by people who were, well, really unattractive.

We met a handful of couples during our year-long experiment, and the dating was, indeed, fun. We had but one rule: No fucking on the first date. Other than that, it was a free-for-all of our combined personalities. Me, the coarse, brash, over-the-top and often inappropriate instigator. (I am "somewhat of an acquired taste," Mr. Vixen tells me, albeit "a bit more subdued" than usual.) Him, the shy, cynical, dry, quick-witted intellectual elitist. (Mr. Vixen insists that he is cynical in the "classical sense," but not in the way our society now understand the word. Reasonable people may disagree on this sentiment.)

We scared people off. One couple actually downshifted into small talk and asked me about my favorite books, which sent me into a discourse upon how John Irving films are crap as compared to his books, and how I've never forgiven John Grisham since reading The Painted House.

Sometimes, people scared us off. Like the loquacious librarian who drunkenly confessed she would sleep with anyone, and then began describing an unsavory scenario involving a first-time meeting with someone else's husband and a bout of vaginal discharge. Contrary to popular belief, I do think there are certain things people ought to keep to themselves.

A few couples were fun and we got along swimmingly with them. However, trying to navigate schedules when it came to other people's children (we don't have any ourselves, nor do we plan to) was tiresome. And so, despite many invitations for more scintillating activities, Mr. Vixen and I spent most of our time at home, watching MSNBC documentaries about teenage vampire cults.

As for me, I began to realize that maybe there's something to be said for not having to date people after all.

Friday, March 5, 2010

True confessions of a Snot Eater.

I eat my own snot.

There. I said it. And it's true. I suppose it's something I should be ashamed of, but I maintain that if we weren't supposed to eat our own snot, then the body would not produce something so delicious. It's also quite amazing that we've found a way to survive on our own substances. It's not cannibalism. Not quite. It's more like drinking milk from a cow. Stranded on a desert island, would you rather die or subsist on your own mucousy goodness? Sorry, but if given that choice, I'm gonna go for the snot every time.

Not only do I eat my own snot, but I bite my nails. After I get those wonderful little half-moons off, I chew on them. For hours. I twist them around in my mouth, I chase them with my tongue, and eventually, I bite them into tiny, tiny, microscopic bits. Sometimes, I run out of finger nails to chew on. This, of course, is not a problem. When there are no fingernails left, I move on to my toenails. Before you "eeew" at me, consider how sexy it is that I can get my foot into my mouth. Yeah. I'm that good.

I do draw the line, of course. I do not eat other people's snot, nor do I bite other people's nails. Upon reflection, I don't suppose it would be all that awful. I mean, I've swallowed semen. I've had other people's tongues in my mouth. Feet aren't my thing, but if I met someone who was really into it, I don't suppose I'd be beyond suckling someone's big toe.

So I don't understand why people get grossed out by, say, sweat. At the gym. Or sitting down someplace in a skirt after some guy sat there before you. Have you never traced your lover's neck or bicep or chest with your tongue? There's all sorts of sweat there. And don't even get me started on the musky aromatic scents of male in the testicle region.

I am left with a simple conclusion: Women who freak out about germs and are easily grossed out are prudes. I am unashamed of my snot-eating. Nay, I embrace my snot-eating. After all, if a chick puts snot in her mouth, you can't even begin to imagine all the other kinky shit she'll do for you.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

A note on politics.

Canada is everything the U.S. aspires to be.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Joys of lemon.

Many moons ago, I told you about Citrus Dude, who used and abused citrus fruit. He, for some odd reason, also put a hair clip on his balls. Why? Some questions are best left unanswered. I did not share the photo before, but I feel compelled to now. And so, without any further ado, I bring you, the Lemon Penis.

I never thought I would see a more embarrassed lemon than the one on Citrus Dude's manly protuberance. Look at it. So sad. So alone. So, so violated.

And then I discovered this old Weight Watchers recipe card from the 1970s, back when folks were encouraged to eat liver and make their own ketchup.

Salmon mousse. With lemons.

The citrus humiliation begins anew.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

You people (yes YOU!) are fucked up.

A while back, I entered some secret code into the bowels of this blog so that I can track where my visitors come from. I know if you've gotten to my blog via search engines (and I know which ones) or referred sites. I know where you live -- what country, state, and city. I know how many pages you view, which ones, and how long you read. Oh, yes. The Saucy Vixen is watching you.

Far more entertaining, however, are the keyword search results. I get to see what y'all enter into search engines that cause you to stagger across my blog. It seems you're seeking answers. So, I have compiled a list of answers for you, based upon what you've entered into the search engine. No need to thank me. Consider it a free service from someone who cares.

(1) No, you can no longer purchase used women's panties on eBay. That craze died sometime in the late 1990s. I know this because I used to grift creepy men with promises of panties from sexy college co-eds. Really, I just bought a $2 pair from TJ Maxx, packed in in a Ziploc bag (per popular request), and sold 'em for about $50 a pop. I was a very entrepreneurial college student. Mr. Vixen tells me that there are other websites that provide the used panty service now. I wish you luck.

(2) I have no clue how to hydrate beef jerky. It seems like an odd thing to do. I dare say that you'll never get a porterhouse steak from a bag of jerky. Warning: Do not attempt to hydrate jerky by warming it in a microwave after wetting it down. It cases smoke. And fire.

(3) Entering "Who is the women behind the saucy vixen blog" into Google will not magically provide you with my true identity.

(4) "Tiramisu" is not a sexual position. Many of you seem to think it is. This concerns me.

(5) If you're scouring the Internet for information in order to decide whether you should date men with children, you probably shouldn't.

(6) E-mailing with someone does not constitute cheating. I e-mail people all the time. I e-mail colleagues. I e-mail random guys I know. I e-mail my in-laws. I e-mail my parents. It would be foolish to assume that I am having sex with all these people. It would also be really disturbing.

(7) Marconi really does play the mamba. And a city built on rock and roll would be structurally unsound.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Judging the judgmental.

People often claim to be nonjudgmental. This is a bunch of hogwash.

I have never met anyone who is truly nonjudgmental. I will admit it. I judge people. I don't tolerate stupidity or covert racism disguised as economics and politics (this is far more insidious, in my view, than overt racism). I can't deal with people who would prefer to sacrifice civil rights in the name of public safety. And I can't stand those who judge people.

Hypocritical, I know.

Still, I have a hard time judging someone for being a drug addict. I cannot judge someone who has racked up an extensive criminal record because he has not been afforded equal opportunity or education (those who grow up in the 'hood have never learned that it is not "normal" to steal or use drugs -- these notions don't exist for people who have no role models that haven't served prison time). There are many issues on which reasonable people can disagree, and for the most part, I tend to leave these people alone. As long as folks aren't hurting others, I could give a rat's patootie how they live their lives.

But what irks me are those with highfalutin ideals who feel people should follow suit. I recently encountered the music videos of someone I went to high school with. I will ignore, for a moment, how grating her voice is and her two-dimensional-yet-trying-hard-t0-be-evocative lyrics. I will discuss, instead, the "message" she attempts to send.

In one song, she talks disparagingly about those who get by on their good looks and who are vain. What she seems to fail to understand is that not everyone in this world is smart. Not everyone can go to college or get an advanced degree. Not everyone, like her, came from White suburbia where knowledge and education were valued. And so, people are forced to get by on what they have. If someone has nothing more than good looks, what's wrong with getting by on them? Getting by on good looks is probably safer than turning tricks for crack in a back alley (which many of my and my husband's clients have done). If a person wants plastic surgery and can afford to get it, why should she give a fuck? Why should she care that people don't concentrate on expanding their minds? Some people honestly don't have that much of a mind to expand. There should be no shame in being intellectually average or less-than-average. If you got it, work it. Do what works for you.

In another song, this singer/songwriter talks about how she was called a "human Barbie doll" in high school because she was so delicate and slender. Oh, horrors of horrors! I wonder if anyone ever called her "fattie." Or "kike dyke." Or "retard." I got all of those, and yet I don't lament about it over a decade later. In the same song, she states how she was "hurt" and "irked" (newsflash: these words don't fucking rhyme, Ms. Not Getting By On Her Looks But Using Her Mind) when boys told her that cheerleading wasn't a sport. And then she states how she was a cheerleader because she "didn't know better."

I have several friends who were cheerleaders when they were younger. Perhaps they didn't know better, either. But they are damned good people now. The self-deprecation regarding cheerleading status is interesting, but not nearly as interesting as the fact that the worst thing that apparently ever happened to this girl was being called a "human Barbie doll." Lady, if that's the worst thing that's ever happened in your life, consider yourself lucky. You are wholly judgmental.

But so am I. I'm just not so fucking self-righteous about it. And I don't pretend it's something it's not. It's judgment.