The Saucy Vixen on Life.

John Holt and Tri-State Dating: An Update.

2012-01-11T12:09:00.002-05:00

You may remember back in October when I posted about one Mr. John Holt, and the matchmaking service he offers in the tri-state area (which I assume to be Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island).

I posted some e-mails he had sent to me in which he questioned my sanity and integrity because I had deigned to tell him that his web copy was difficult to read and grammatically improper. (The real truth is I thought I was being nice: I considered his copy to be functionally illiterate.)

It took him about three weeks to discover my postings. And that's when the threats started.

I have received no less than three (and likely more) e-mails from him claiming that I defamed him. Some of the correspondence demanded that I take down my posts. Other e-mails demanded that I turn myself in or make myself known to him so that he could serve process upon me. At least two messages from him referenced an "ongoing investigation" he was conducting to determine my "activities."

Not once did Mr. Holt actually ask me to take down the posts I'd written in which I'd provided my opinion of his unprofessionalism. Never did he say, "Look, I'm sorry I overreacted. Would you mind taking down those posts about my business?"

The irony is that I would have. A simple rational response or request from Mr. Holt was all that would have been necessary for me to take down my posts--my opinions--of him. But instead of acting like a reasonable person, Mr. Holt chose to lash out and threaten me with legal action.

And so I am left to wonder how the investigation into my "activities" in proceeding.

Euphemism.

2011-11-28T15:21:00.003-05:00

Today.

In which I take part in an online chat with a 47-year-old I've not met. He opens with a story of how he's been invited to have sex with a woman and her husband.

An excerpt:

ME: I don't judge people who swing. But sex with near-strangers is NOT my thing.

HIM: I've not experienced that....but would imbibe

ME: "imbibe" means "to drink"

HIM: I know......:)

ME: uh huh

HIM: drink from the secret, forbidden elixir in this case

ME: are you always so prosaic?

ME: because it's not secret, forbidden elixir.

ME: it's just fucking some guy's wife.

HIM: haven't thought of that.....perhaps....

I blocked him; he no longer has the ability to write or chat with me.

A brief First Amendment lesson.

2011-11-18T19:35:00.003-05:00

It has come to my attention that folks out there may be confused about our rights under the First Amendement, as well as what the definition of "defamation" is.

Since I am an attorney (and have studied First Amendment jurisprudence at length), I shall give you all this Brief Lesson in Three Paragraphs:

1. The Black Letter law is clear. Defamation is defined as "an intentional false communication that harms a person's reputation."

2. A statement of opinion is not defamatory. See Gertz v. Robert Welch, Inc., 418 U.S. 232 (1974). ("Under the First Amendment there is no such thing as a false idea. However pernicious an opinion may seem, we depend for its correction not on the conscience of judges and juries by on the competition of other ideas.")

3. Though private citizens (rather than public figures or limited public figures) need not prove "actual malice" in order to succeed on a claim of defamation, the truth (i.e., that which was published if factually true) is an absolute defense against defamation. Because defamation, by definition, is limited to false statements, true statements (written or oral) are protected by the First Amendment.

Untitled.

2011-11-07T12:16:00.004-05:00

September 24, 2005--1.40 p.m.

I realized something last night. It never stops. Love. Once you love someone, you don't fall out of love. It's always there and it's a part of you. So instead of trying to desperately fall out of love and stop caring, it's far simpler just to let that love go. Release it rather than fight against it. And remember how good it felt when it was a part of you and not just something that existed in a buried cavern inside yourself. Those people that I have loved... That love isn't gone. It's just faded, and I remember it as I'd remember a trip to the circus when I was five years old. A memory, dull, washed out, yet still alive.

I wrote that over six years ago in my journal. In retrospect, I am not sure who I was writing about. I suppose the most likely explanation would be that I was writing about Mike. Best Friend Mike, who has appeared in my ramblings since 2005. In fact, he appeared in my very first blog entry, Writing Without a Purpose. I wrote about him after our breakup-of-sorts. Apparently, I even wrote about this very journal passage back in 2006.

Mike has been my only love. I don't mean this in a love-is-unicorns-shitting-rainbows sort of way. There are no fairy tale endings. In real life, the prince rarely saves the damsel in distress and teen love grows into 40-something resentment. Life is strange and unpredictable and love follows life's path. Mark Twain put it best when he said, "Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense."

Nothing about my relationship with Mike ever made sense. Since our breakup six-plus years ago, I've gotten married, been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, been medicated, underwent therapy, realized the truth about addiction, kicked out my husband and filed for divorce. For the first time in my life, I am happy. I am content with my life and take solace in the day-to-day monotony as well as the little adventures that happen to everyone.

Mike and I spent this past Saturday together. It was the first time we've seen each other (or even really talked) in three years. It's the first time we've connected since I got married. The talk, the humor, the level of connection was not the same as it used to be.

It was stronger.

He is happy, too, no longer emotionally sapped from a brutal 14-year-marriage and terrible, wicked divorce from the first girl with whom he ever had sex. Like me, he is content with his life. He spends his evenings making art or pondering science and has his own little adventures. In 2005, we spent about a year together, unhappy as individuals and afraid to let ourselves be vulnerable, preferring to be numb, feeling better about it because each of us, in our misery, had company.

We are both happy now and therefore more at ease with ourselves and each other. The took a leap back into the friendship we'd had, but without the negative energy and the need to fight and the need to over analyze ever word we said to each other. We let ourselves be ourselves and enjoyed our time together.

He has tough work hours, though we have promised to see more of each other. We spoke on the phone last night for hours, like we used to, not realizing we'd talked for so long until both realizing it was past time to go to bed.

For the first time ever in our relationship (and perhaps in my life), I have let go of my fatalism. I am not concerned that things won't end well. I'm not looking to define our relationship with any specific labels or agenda. I am simply looking forward to seeing where this ride will take us.

My wish for everyone is a wonderful ride, wherever it leads.

My opinion of Tri-State Dating Service, owned by John Holt.

2011-10-26T14:08:00.008-05:00

The following post contains both opinion and fact: My opinion is based upon an e-mail exchange with John Holt, operator of Tri-State Dating Services. The e-mail exchange occurred on Wednesday, October 26, 2011. The e-mails have been incorporated in both this post and the post on this blog titled "Tri-State Dating Service: Spelling always counts."

The opinions expressed below are my own. The correspondence posted that was received by Mr. Holt has not been altered. The only thing I have removed from the correspondence is my first name (I have replaced my name with "SV" where pertinent).

At first, I was amused by what he perceived as an attack by me upon his website. What I had done was offer straight-up constructive criticism. I suppose I should have included more emoticons in my comment regarding his typos and lack of professional presentation on his website. (I have included links to his site on both this post and the post from earlier today so that anyone who reads this may decide for him or herself whether I have been fair in my assessment; reasonable people are absolutely entitled to disagree and I take no offense either way.)

Now I am amazed at the amazingly unprofessional correspondence I have received from this entrepreneur. I am bewildered and awe-struck that someone in the service industry would respond as Mr. Holt has responded to me in his fourth email of the day:

First of all, who in the world do you think you are? You attack my website and then become the defining person to tell me I am unprofessional. I guess my unprofessionalism has gotten me to my 20th year in business. What do you do for a living?

Do you want a seminar on chemistry? Why do you think I have been on the radio broadcasting my dating and relationship show since 2007. So you wear a suit to court, I wear a suit to business appointments, so what. The best way to describe you is symbolisim over substance. The judge follows the law. Do you seriously think a judge is going your clients way by the way your dressed. Bernie Madoff put on a suit every day. He is in prison. As far as presentation is concerned look me up in rhode island monthly magazine, click the link on my media page of my website. There have been favorable articles written about me. My presentation is so good that I get $500.00 per speaking appearance.

It was an attack by an angry woman not constructive criticism. Constructive criticism is delivered in a nice way , for instance , if you said, there are mistakes on your website you should correct and here they are then that would be constructive. Instead you give me a written toungue lashing about my unprofessionalism, are you kidding me?

You swing on the swings, now I am amused by you. I wouldn't let you near a man in my service if you paid me all the money in the world. You obviously have no idea. Go back to counseling because you have issues. I am very secure in myself to know you belong with no man.

John

Though I have since read the entire email, I did not read past "who in the world do you think you are" before I shot back this response:

John,

I didn't read past the first sentence.

Good luck to you,
SV

Within five minutes, I already had this response from him:

Yes you did, I can see the issues with you. I hope counseling helps. I have many members who are great counselors if you need a better one let me know, because the one your seeing is a failure.

I am not writing back because there is no purpose in doing so.

I am, however, posting this here. Not because I'm an angry woman (as Mr. Holt alluded to), but because I truly cannot believe that ANY professional in the world would treat a prospective client in this manner, regardless of what comment that prospective client/stranger made about his website.

Tri-State Dating Service: Spelling always counts.

2011-10-26T12:34:00.006-05:00

[Ed. Note: Upon writing the first draft of this post, I could not recall exactly how I had come to see the url for John Holt's Tri-State Dating Service. Upon further reflection, I have come to realize that it was not, in fact, a pop-up ad. Rather, I found the url on a regular (non-pop-up) ad.]

While surfing the 'net, I came across an ad for a dating "matchmaker" from the Tri-State Dating Service. I had no intent of using the service, but I used a white lie in my correspondence to make my point.

My comment in the "comment" section of the website:

I was thinking about using your service. However, when I read the "Realistic Matchmaking" page I found a lot of simple typos, misused or wrong words, and grammatical errors. These simple errors have led me to decide not to try your service. I strongly believe that how an individual or company presents himself/herself/itself is extremely important. In written media, a company must be aware of the first impressions it makes.

I'm sure you would advise your clients to maintain proper hygiene if they want to meet Mr. or Ms. Right. It's about advertising. The same is true of professional promotional and marketing tools. If I see that a company does not take the time to proofread what it puts out there in public, I do not trust that it will be thorough or accurate in providing services, either. In dating, looks matter. In marketing and written media, spelling still counts.

His THREE responses:

Good morning to the grammar police, Please accept my apologies for whatever errors you found on my web site, even though I never got below a B in college english courses I am not perfect. I am not a copy writer. My question to you is this. Would you rather have an english teacher match you with the right person or a matchmaker with 20 years of experience. I have had 3 copywriters go over my websitew and even they can't always find errors. Each page has gone through grammar and spellcheck.

Here is how I advise my clients. I tell them to stay away from anyone who lives in a fairytale world where they are looking for someone called Ms. or Mr. right there is no such human being. I further advise all people with anal retention issues to lighten up.

Furthermore looks have nothing to do with relationships so I would say your misguided. If you simply told me that I would tell you that you should not join my service as your to shallow a human being. If you simply wish to point out what mistakes you saw then please list them and send them to me and I will correct them.

Finally please ask yourself why you are still single. My impression is that someone who thinks it's all about how you look instead of delivering real results is a fool. I deliver results with realistic people. Advertising in many ways is a trap for small business and much of what has been said in advertising is false. You probably tried E harmony and found out about false advertising.

I wish you well and suggest you seek counseling for anal retention.

John

More advice from the matchmaker, Anyone who has a e mail address saucie.vixen can't be serious about finding anyone decent. This e mail address suggests other than virtuous behavior.

John

Hi again, I just called a colleague in the business and we had another laugh about the grammar police. I was wondering, does content count for anything? Does substance matter? Good luck to you.

My response:

John,

That was an amazingly unprofessional e-mail. It will not help you garner clients.

Looks are obviously not ALL that matters, but you seriously can't tell me that chemistry and sexual compatibility is NOT important in an romantic/intimate relationship. I'm not shallow: I'm realistic.

I've never tried eHarmony. I just happen to be a former copy editor with a background in advertising and marketing. Professionals should write professionally if they wish to be taken seriously. I'm a public defender, yet I still wear a suit to court because how I look affects how the judge perceives me AND my client. Presentation matters, and it is unrealistic to think otherwise.

When it comes to professionalism and appearances and making clients comfortable with one's professional capability, yes, I am anal retentive. It's important to show you pay attention to details. That said, my most favorite activity is finger-painting and swinging on swings. If you find that anal retentive, I take no issue with it. I don't care what you think of me. You're a stranger who got overly-defensive about constructive criticism. An appropriate response may have been to vent to your colleagues, roll your eyes, and then send a quick note saying, "I received your email. Thanks for pointing it out."

The fact that you got so riled up about a simple message from a stranger demonstrates that you are somewhat insecure. You know how I know this? Because I've spent time in counseling and have learned how to be confident and not to care what strangers I've not met think of me.

Of course content matters, but no one will reach the content if they're distracted by poor communication. This is true in all spheres of life.

The email address is connected to a blog I keep. I used it because it does not contain my last name. Your assumptions based upon it are that: assumptions. If you think I'm less than virtuous, you are entitled to your opinion. Suffice to say, I didn't think you'd want to receive an email from my other email address: unicornspoorainbows97@gmail.com (which appears as "Unicorns Poo Rainbows" in someone's inbox.

I love my life, whether single or coupled. I enjoy what I do, enjoy my time off, and surround myself with friends and activities I enjoy. I wish you a life with as much happiness as I have.

Regards,

It's happened again. AIDS Boy, The Sequel.

2011-10-25T12:04:00.014-05:00

Some of my very-long-time readers (if there are any left after my lengthy hiatus from the blogosphere) may remember my talk of Charlie, the law school Republican who accused me of giving him AIDS. This woefully tragic, yet hilarious story was the inspiration I used when warning women against sleeping with Republicans.

One would think that over a half-decade later I would heed my own advice. The truth is that I did not know Bert's (name changed, naturally) political views. I knew he was more to the center than I, but we didn't really talk politics. That was not the nature of our relationship. Our relationship was based on good old-fashioned fucking. Nothing more or less.

Being at the age of my sexual peak, and having been celibate for months during and after my last long-term relationship, I knew what I was looking for. Bert is a very sexy 50-year-old man who looks closer to the age of thirty-five. He has a daughter in college and his wife died about four months ago from cancer. A tragic story. Suffice to say, Bert had not been laid in a long time. I think it's safe to say that when a woman is dying of cancer, she's probably not putting out.

So Bert and I met. We had sex. For some of that sex, we did not use a condom. Yes, I know, I know. I could get pregnant! Worse, I could get HIV! But I figured that since Bert had not had sex with anyone other than his dead wife (while she was living, naturally) in twenty years, I didn't have much to worry about. And coitus interruptus totally works, right? RIGHT? So. There was that.

A week later Bert and I met again. Same sex, different day.

And about a week after that, I received this email:

So I gotta tell you I'm freaking out a little bit. Told my buddy about you and he asked if I had used a rubber. After telling him no he went off on me about all the risks etc. I told that I trusted you and felt certain you wouldn't engage if you felt there was a risk. I still feel that way but thats probably not the best decision.

Anyway... I get this unusual rash on my chest about 4-5 days ago and have no idea what is causing it. Now I'm really starting to worry that it's related to some std or something. Go online and read that a common symptom of HIV is a rash, often on the chest or trunk, that appears 2-4 weeks after exposure. My mind is now playing some very awful games on me. I know you have answered this once already but is there anyway this could be possible? Can u relieve my anxiety please??? There's probably a ton of explanations for this rash beside HIV, but man I'm freaked out. Help!!

Let's ignore the random text-speak and grammatical errors in this email for a moment, shall we? Because if I had known about that, chances are I never would have slept with the guy in the first place. (I've been relaxing my grammar standards lately, but that's a post for another time.)

I called Bert. I assured him I do not have HIV; I mentioned AGAIN to him that I get my blood tested between two and four times a year for a medical issue and that I have them throw in an STD panel just for good measure. And then I asked him about his political affiliation.

Republican.

I should have known.

The story of my life.

2011-10-24T18:50:00.006-05:00

An online stranger told me that I should write an autobiography. He knows nothing more of me than what I've put on some online profile and words we've exchanged via instant messenger.

"No one would read it," I told him.

"I would," he replied.

To which I said, "I was born to a middle class family on Long Island. I had three birthday parties at Hot Skates in Great Neck. Not much of a hook there."

"I have your hook," came his retort. "Are you ready for it?"

"Go on," I sighed, not expecting much.

And then he copied and pasted my own words--words I'd typed to him minutes before--and sent them back to me.

I tell dirty jokes, I don't leave the room to fart, I don't care about designer clothing or being a trophy wife. I clean up really well, but I'm definitely not high society. I'm too scrappy. Oh, and I used to be a slut and I've had sex with women. So there's that.

Perhaps my life is more interested than I'd originally thought.

A note to my hair stylist...

2011-09-27T11:50:00.002-05:00

...who has forgotten how much I love the '80s.

So I just made an appointment for October 18th to get my hair cut. I am writing to remind you not to forget your fucking crimper this time. If I am not crimped, I will be very, very angry. Do you really wanna see this broad angry?

Not to worry, though: I'll be sure to remind you as the 18th approaches.

Saucy Vixen

How difficult is it to get one's hair crimped these days?

After my appointment is over, I plan to play with My Little Ponies and Rainbow Bright for the rest of the day.

On addiction and divorce.

2011-09-20T12:16:00.004-05:00

Yes, dear readers, it has been a while. A long while. Far, far too long.

My life has changed quite a bit and I suppose those few of you left out there may be vaguely interested to know what's been going on. So I shall cut to the chase: I am getting divorced. I will be legally unmarried in early December. It's been a rather long time coming (almost half the time we've been married), and we've been a part for a while now. I took some time to file only because I was trying to work through some legal loopholes insofar as medical insurance (for him) was concerned.

Do not pity me or tell me you are sorry to hear of it. Be advised that I am quite content and happier than I was. See, marrying an addict can take a lot out of a person. In entries that are years old, you may remember my having stated that I would never date an addict. For reasons still oddly unknown, I overlooked that criterion when I chose to marry The Former Mister Vixen only a month after he proposed; nine months after we met.

When the relapse started in August 2010. There are details. Many, many, sordid and dirty little details that are of no consequence at this juncture. Suffice to say, enough became enough, and I found myself living alone once again.

I am the happiest I've been in a few years. I no longer have anyone financially or emotionally dependent on me. I no longer need to worry about the husband I didn't really love winding up dead in a gutter somewhere. I now have money to spend on myself (for instance, three years after losing 50 lbs, I finally bought myself a new wardrobe this past Saturday). My dogs (expensive as they are) keep me company. I meet new people and make new friends. The shyness of my youth has died and I find myself talking to strangers on an extremely regular basis. I meet people. I have fun. I contemplate my next move.

And as it once was, and is again, I cannot wait to see what happens next. My spirit of adventure has risen again and I intend to put it to good use. If anyone out there cares to join me, you are all welcome.

My soldier.

2011-01-18T10:32:00.002-05:00

A few years into the new millennium, a website came out called "Hot or Not." The purpose was to have people post pictures where the entire population of the Internet could rate you on a scale of 1 to 10. You could find out if you were hot. Or not.

Though I don't recall the site having a mailbox feature, I somehow started corresponding with Caleb. Caleb was a first of second lieutenant in the US Army, having graduated from West Point. He had entered on a whim, not ever expecting that there would be a war when he got out of school. He was 24 in the summer of 2004, when we met. I was 25 and had just finished my first year of law school. I was interning at a public defender's office, assisting with an attempted murder trial. I had just broken up with a boyfriend with whom I'd had the worst relationship of my life (before or after).

Caleb did something that kept him up when most of his men were sleeping, and so when he wasn't fighting, he spent his time e-mailing me.

I told Caleb everything. About my promiscuity, my past drug use, my boyfriend, my life. We flirted with each other -- nerdy flirting about such topics as Immanuel Kant (the old "I can't" joke). We talked about meeting up with each other in 2007, when he got out. He told me he was writing a book about life in Iraq, and continued to promise that he'd send me a chapter or two sometime to read over. He never did.

The last I heard from Caleb was in November of 2006. I still write him periodically to check in, see what he's up to. The Internet tells me that he's working in politics and living in Nevada, his home state. He wrote his book. I ordered it, but found it far too boring to read. I recently discovered that he is on Facebook. But with 2,000 friends, I don't particularly feel like reaching out to him in that venue. He's married, too.

I wrote him an e-mail today, though it's been over a year since my last one. I don't expect a response. But I adored him once and appreciate him still, both for his military service and for being my friend.

Scripture.

2010-05-17T17:35:00.004-05:00

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.

Death by chocolate.

2010-04-04T19:09:00.003-05:00

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.

The Pina Colada Song.

2010-03-21T10:59:00.001-05:00

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.

Semen.

2010-03-17T13:20:00.002-05:00

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.

Pithy sayings.

2010-03-16T15:17:00.003-05:00

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.

Things that annoy me.

2010-03-12T11:51:00.003-05:00

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.

Married and dating.

2010-03-10T19:14:00.011-05:00

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.

Do "real" lawyers use notes?

2010-03-09T09:20:00.004-05:00

It started like a bad joke.

Two Jews, a Muslim and an American soldier spend eight hours in a car together.

Only it wasn't a joke. At 5 am on a Thursday in February, it was my first foray into coaching a law school mock trial team. An eight hour drive to play one round and an eight our drive back. (Note, This competition was unique in that it only had two rounds: The preliminary and the final. Most intercollegiate mock trial competitions have three preliminary rounds, a quarter, semi and final round. This was an amazingly long drive for an amazingly short amount of play.)

Prior to practice, I lived and breathed mock trial. I participated in four intercollegiate competitions, one mock trial for trial advocacy class, and one day-long mock trial for the legal clinic I participated in during my third year of law school. Add to that two more mock trials for two different sets of new lawyer trainings, and one would think that I am a girl who has been mock trial'd out.

But no. Apparently, I needed more. So I volunteered to coach.

This is how I found myself driving to Pittsburgh at 5 a.m. in a car containing two Jews, a Muslim and an American soldier.

I knew my team was ill-prepared. I, after all, had been through the trial and tribulations of make-believe trials. I also knew that the fact pattern sucked balls (a motorcycle/car accident in which no material as to damages had been provided within the closed universe fact pattern), and that my team wasn't particularly gung ho. I was disappointed with their lack of enthusiasm and preparation, but wasn't about to do the work for them. We left, I with the knowledge that the team would be trounced.

And trounced they were. Trounced by a team of women whose pants were eaten by their asscracks. (Note to law students: Please, for the love of God, learn how to dress appropriately. Lawyering is not an episode of Ally McBeal. If you insist upon wearing suits a size or two too small, at least have the good sense to wear a thong. And men, wear belts. And lose the white socks.) Despite their ill-fitting clothes, these girls were killers in the courtroom. Well prepared, and with everything memorized, to boot!

My team of boys hemmed and hawed their way through opening statements and closing arguments. I won't even get into how god-awful the closing was. The examinations were lackluster, the presentation was lousy. It was just not good. Even for a team of first and second-year students up against a team of third-years students.

What struck me, however, was the judges' comments regarding notes. "Don't use notes," my boys were told.

Now, I've never practiced in the civil sphere. But as far as criminal law is concerned, I can only think of a few instances where notes have NOT been used. Granted, lawyers aren't generally tied to them, but I've seen bullet-pointed lists. Better to have it written down and review it than to miss something important. This is how I practice.

And so I am left to wonder. Do "real" lawyers use notes during trial? As a jury, would you be more or less persuaded by someone who uses unobtrusive notes? Are we really expected to be that perfect and polished all the time?

This issue of notes has been plaguing me since. I've put it out to some of my colleagues, past and present, and have gotten varying results. This Jew (sans the other Jew, Muslim and American soldier) is left a muddled ball of confusion.

True confessions of a Snot Eater.

2010-03-05T17:29:00.003-05:00

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.

A note on politics.

2010-03-03T08:07:00.000-05:00

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

Joys of lemon.

2010-03-01T18:59:00.008-05:00

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.

Breaking News.

2010-02-25T20:44:00.002-05:00

As I was watching TV this evening and dicking around on the Internet, the local news station broke in to tell me that police were in a high speed pursuit with an armed and dangerous "missing sex offender."

Apparently, Mr. Sex Offender had failed to register, making him a Super Scary Sex Offender. No mention of the underlying conviction.

I will concede, as I must, that it's not cool to run around in body armor with big guns. That really does render one "dangerous." And it may even be worthy of BREAKING NEWS from the local affiliate. But sex offender? How is this even remotely relevant to the fact that there's some loon running around with weaponry?

"If it bleeds, it leads." Ah, that journalistic axiom was never more true than it is in today's culture of mass hysteria and media-induced panic. If you can't scare 'em with blood and gore, guns and lunacy, scare 'em with sex offenders.

You people (yes YOU!) are fucked up.

2010-02-24T20:49:00.003-05:00

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.

A very Saluti Cahn update.

2010-02-24T20:20:00.003-05:00

A quick Google search revealed this page.

I tried to post on it, but found that the site would not accept my comment. But even more pathetic? Check out the time and date stamps on the comments.

Note to Saluti Cahn: If you're going to bother to create positive "comments" about what a great employer you are, you may want to: (1) use actual fake names rather than anonymous posters; and, more importantly, (2) stagger the dates. And times.

Seriously. You are beyond pathetic.

Judging the judgmental.

2010-01-06T19:03:00.002-05:00

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.

A Fourth Amendment quandary.

2009-08-03T08:38:00.003-05:00

A Fourth Amendment hypothetical:

Two men, Bartles and Jaymes, rob a pizza delivery man. One is wearing a mask and another is wearing -- you guessed it! -- a black hoodie. Bartles and Jaymes disappear into the night, only to be tracked down later by magical, Hoodie Man-detecting bloodhounds. Bartles and Jaymes are arrested for the robbery.

At the time of the arrest, a police officer realizes that -- hey! -- Bartles's car is parked two streets away. He takes it upon himself to conduct a warrantless search of Bartles's car, where lo and behold, he finds (gasp!) a mask and black hoodie. Instrumentalities of the crime! A further search of the locked trunk of the sedan reveals a few keys of coke. Score!

Bartles's defense attorney is understandably outraged by the search of the car and moves to suppress the evidence. In an amazing twist of fate, a judge decides to apply the law, and suppress the evidence against Bartles. Without the evidence, the charges are dropped.

Question: May the evidence found in Bartles's car be suppressed as it pertains to Jaymes? For the sake of argument, assume that the items can be linked to Jaymes. The jurisdiction does not have automatic standing.

When approached with this question, my initial reaction was that Jaymes's attorney cannot make it past the threshold inquiry of whether Jaymes has a reasonable expectation of privacy as to the contents of Bartles's car. When I proposed this to my non-lawyer friends, they found this patently offensive: How can the fruits of an egregiously illegal search be used against anyone? A valid question. Still, I could not get past the initial question as to Jaymes's reasonable expectation of privacy.

And then I discussed this with a friend of mine who happens to be a Fourth Amendment Idiot Savant. He suggested that the situation of Bartles and Jaymes could be likened to the area of law regarding guests. If a person invites you to stay in his home. just because you do not own the home does not mean that you give up any expectation of privacy to your belongings in the home. He suggested that by likening the search of the car to search and seizure law regarding guests, a reasonable suppression argument could be made for Jaymes.

Understand that this question pertains to a case a friend of mine is working on, and that I have not actually researched this issue. I'm just throwing it out there to see if anyone has any ideas.

Do we ever get over high school?

2009-08-01T18:09:00.003-05:00

Do we ever get over high school?

I don't mean whatever happened in high school, mind you. I mean the high school mentality. It seems to this humble writer that even adults -- those well into their 30s, 40s and 50s; those who should absolutely know better -- take sick and twisted pleasure in providing grist for the rumor mill. It doesn't seem to matter what the rumors are about or who they may hurt. Simply passing them about makes people feel, well, important.

The sorts of people I choose to spend my time with are not the sort of folks who go about spreading rumors. My friends and I tend to look at the bigger picture. We tend to concern ourselves with more important things. We tell raunchy and inappropriate jokes, we use vile language, and we refer to pedophiles as "kiddy diddlers." Perhaps because we spend our time split between matters of actual importance and hard-core fun-having, we don't feel the need to expend the energy spreading rumors about each other. We just don't care.

Oddly enough, the rumors tend to fly among certain people in an online community I am a part of. The rumor mongers are people I don't really spend my time communicating with anymore. It seems possible that I may be the subject of a particular rumor these days. When I told Chris about it, he told me not to even waste my time being annoyed by it, and that these people don't matter. While I recognize that he is right, I can't help but being annoyed.

Please, folks. Give it a rest. And if you suspect something, have the fucking balls to come straight to me and ask.

Update.

2009-07-22T21:04:00.003-05:00

What is going on in my life (for those who've asked):

(1) Trials and the prep that goes along with them.

(2) Chris goes into surgery on August 11, 2009. He has two weeks of post-op recovery in a wheelchair, during which time he will be living on a futon in the living room (our room is upstairs). After Labor Day, he goes to school to earn his Master's in Social Work.

(3) The associated stress from numbers 1 and 2 is causing bad skin and weight loss (I tend not to eat when I'm under stress).

(4) My hair is growing out and I look like a troll. The Jewfro shall reach epic proportions by fall.

That's all the news that's fit to print. Over and out.

On being a boss (and a father).

2009-07-22T10:42:00.002-05:00

My father was the type of boss everyone loves to have. In his heyday, he worked as Vice President of Purchasing and Procurement for large food corporations. As I understand it, the folks who worked under him were commodities buyers. My father was of the position that his company paid the people who worked for them a good salary to do what they did. They were hand-picked, and would not have been hired if they did not know how to do their jobs. Thus, he articulated a standard, and he let them work. He gave them enough space to do their jobs. He did not micromanage. Were mistakes made? Sure. But as Dad likes to point out, mistakes are part of the learning process. When his folks asked him for help, he was more than happy to lend a hand. And on top of that, he kept a small portion of the direct work himself. They need to know that the boss is keeping up with the industry and the trends, Dad would tell me. They need to know you can relate to what they are doing -- do as I do, and not just as I say.

The way my father managed his employees was not dissimilar from how he treated me when I was growing up. Expectations were brightly articulated. Empty threats did not exist in my household. For example, on a family trip to the Bronx Zoo, Dad told me and my sister that if we argued with each other in the car, he would turn around and take us home. We made it all the way to the parking lot of the zoo, before I exclaimed, "She's touching me! She's touching me!" Two hours after we had set out, in the parking lot of the zoo, Dad turned the car around and took us home. We learned at a young age that when he said something was unacceptable, he meant it.

At the same time, my parents once told me that kids reach a certain age where you have to trust that you raised them well enough, and let them make their own mistakes. As a teenager, I was never grounded. My parents were savvy enough to know that if I really wanted to go out, I'd find a way to sneak out. They granted me my independence when it was appropriate, and stood back to watch as I muddled my way through my later teen years and early adulthood, making all sorts of foolish mistakes. They pointed and laughed at these mistakes, too.

Chris did not have it so lucky. His father was also in upper management. An extremely Type A sort of fellow, Chris's dad kept a keen eye on everything that was going on. Unfortunately, he ended up micromanaging his children the way he micromanaged his workers. He would lament that Chris was not learning responsibility, but would forbid him to get a car. He dictated those decisions that should have been left to Chris. And worse, he never let Chris fail. Chris began drinking alcoholically at 17. When he crashed his car after a night of drinking, he was "punished" with a brand new car. After Chris was kicked out of his first college for drug use and told his folks that he wanted to get a job and move out, they told him no. (I've often argued that if Chris had really wanted to move out, he would have anyway.)

Because Chris's father managed Chris's life to the extent that he did, he never let Chris fail. I do not blame Chris's dad for Chris's alcoholism, drug addiction, or related paralysis. Chris made his own decisions and is left to live with them now. But it occurs to me that if Chris's father had been a different sort of boss, Chris would have ended up with a different sort of upbringing.

After my brief analysis of these starkly different management styles, I am left with the notion that one can tell a lot about a person's parenting by looking at that person's management style.

An observation.

2009-07-19T18:10:00.009-05:00

Look at that nose. That cute, little boyish, Peter Pan nose.

Now, let's compare.

Michael Jackson. Same nose.

Coincidence? I think not.

The world will never be the same.

2009-07-18T19:36:00.002-05:00

For years, I have been lamenting the downfall of the English language. In 1997, I refused to use emoticons. Since then, I've given in.

In 2000, I started all my Instant Messages with capital letters. While I still use periods, commas, and even semicolons where applicable, my usage of capital letters has lapsed.

In the mid-2000s, I refused to meet any online dating suitor who replaced the letter u for the word "you" or the letter r for the word "are." If I were still single, I would likely abide by this rule. I mean, a girl's gotta have standards, right?

Through it all, I bemoaned the death of English. I railed against poor grammar. My arguments were cogent and articulate. I always had something to say. And yet, when I saw this, words failed me.

I haven't eaten McDonald's since 2007, so boycotting them now shall be an easy thing to do.

Post Script on the whole weight loss thing.

2009-07-08T19:55:00.003-05:00

Remember this post from forever ago? Where I wailed about how I would never fit into my beautiful corduroy size 4 pants? The ones I'd never given away when I'd fattened out of all my old clothes? The pants that only fit me for a minute during my summer of liquor and pepperoni?

Remember those pants?

They're too big.

ODC: When life gives you lemons...

2009-07-08T19:13:00.009-05:00

Citrus Dude: 2002

I don't know his name and I don't know where he came from or how he found me. I only know that he really enjoyed citrus. And when I say he enjoyed citrus, I mean he enjoyed citrus. Biblically.

You don't get it yet?

Hmmm. How shall I put this? The man violated citrus. Grapefruits. Limes. Lemons. I never actually replied to this man. I never said, "I really dig how much you love this fruit." Not once. Perhaps if he had used a key lime or a kumquat, I may have responded. That would have been impressive.

What did I learn from this experience?

Clearly, when life gives you lemons.... put your cock in 'em.

Baby on board?

2009-07-07T17:38:00.003-05:00

On my way home today, I saw a "Baby on Board" sign on the station wagon driving in front of me. And I wondered: Does that really make anyone more cautious? Perhaps, in this age if litigiousness, people would be far more cautious around a car that had a sign proclaiming "Lawyer on Board." For while lawyers are a loathed group of folks, the consequences of careening into a lawyer could prove far more dire.

Patriotism (and Judah Maccabee).

2009-07-05T12:14:00.005-05:00

Blind patriotism is almost as dangerous as blind faith. They both lead to useless and avoidable wars. The only difference is that one is fought in the name of so-called freedom, while the other is fought in the name of God. More often than not, neither accomplishes anything.

In 1991, when we were ensconced in Dessert Storm, my Sunday Jew School decided to have a Parents' Day. We (both parents and 10 through 13-year-old students) were broken up into three groups. We were told to design a campaign platform and commercial for one of three candidates, who were running for US President. The three candidates were Hillel, Maimonides, and Judah Maccabee.

Maccabee's campaigners likened him to then-President George Bush, putting forth a wartime platform. During a campaign Q&A session, Maccabee's lead guy (a Jew School teacher who could not have been much older than 23) stated that Maccabee would be a strong leader, yet loving and compassionate as he spread freedom, much like Bush was spreading freedom to the Kuwaitis.

Though she had been exercising amazing self restraint up until that moment, my mother could no longer take it. Her hand shot up and Maccabee's Main Man called on her. "That's a bunch of bullshit," she exclaimed. A hush fell over the children. Yes, someone's mother had just used the word "bullshit" up against Warrior Maccabee. "Complete and total bullshit. We're not there helping to spread peace among the Kuwaitis. Bush could give a shit about the Kuwaitis. We're there for oil. It's about money, not freedom, peace, justice and the American Way."

And Mom was right. It was never about freedom for the Kuwaitis. Yet the spin doctors spin at they must to get the general population on board and keep approval ratings and morale up. It's one thing to fight in the name of freedom. But no one ever wants to admit when we're warring over money and oil: necessary commodities for us to continue living the lifestyle in which we have become accustomed.

(Ed note: Judah Maccabee won the election. I did not vote for him. Ever the precocious child, I submitted a write-in vote for Mario Cuomo.)

So when the Fourth of July rolls around and people start flag-waving and partaking in blind patriotism, I get annoyed. There is much talk of freedom, and thanks for our servicemen and women. And while I appreciate our armed forces and the people who dedicate their lives to working for said armed forces, I recognize that we've not fought a war since WWII that has anything to do with our freedom, or even with the imperial notion of spreading freedom to other places.

I am not the only one who thinks this way, either. Military Policy Analyst Andre Bacevich has argued that American foreign policy and American military policy is geared towards Americans having the ability to buy lots of stuff (i.e., the freedom to live comfortable lives as compared to the rest of the world) without having to make great sacrifice. And by "great sacrifice," he speaks about our armed forces.

It's interesting that we go on and on about how much we support or troops and efforts abroad. However, if you were to look at the racial and economic makeup of our enlisted men, you would find it tends to mimic our prison population: There is a disparate number of minority poor who serve in our military. And why? Because joining the military is what someone does when faced with no more appealing options (like college). Thus, we have an all-volunteer force comprised of uneducated people of the lower classes. Bonus: No political backlash when we do send troops abroad, as we can claim that they're all volunteering to begin with.

Don't believe me? Look at the numbers. In 2002, of enlisted men and women ages 18-25, the military was made of up 61.2% whites, as compared to 68.8% in the US population. African Americans in the military made up 21.8%, as compared to 13.1% of the US population. Hispanics made up 10% of the military as compared to 13.3% of the US population (interestingly, this group is under-represented in the military; I don't have enough data to extrapolate much from this). And "Other" made up 7% of the military as compared to 4.8% of the US population.

What is probably the most telling to me, however, is Congress. Congress is the only branch of government that is empowered to declare war. And from 1951 to 1992, at least half of Congress were military veterans. Not so today. As of 2007, only one-third of Congress were veterans. As for your Congressmen and women telling you that the understand the toll war takes on our children? Yeah, not so much. The rich don't go to war, folks. In 2007, only 9 of our 535 members of Congress had any children who had served in a war.

Blind patriotism is -- to use my mother's word -- bullshit. It's been a long time since we fought for anyone's freedom. We fight, rather, to keep ourselves free to live the way we want to leave, to keep the little guys down, and to ensure that we remain the premier Superpower in the world.

Twenty-three: The age of moron.

2009-06-28T17:27:00.003-05:00

Anecdotal evidence suggests that around the age of 23, human beings - roughly evenly distributed between the genders - undergo some sort of delusional state during which they ascribe to a variety of opinions on things and come to believe that anyone who thinks differently is an idiot.

I use the term 'delusional' quite intentionally, a delusion being a fixed false belief. Those of us who work with the mentally ill are, of course, aware that arguing against a false belief by rational analysis or empirical evidence is impossible; the same appears to be true when dealing with a 23-year-old, whether the discussion centers around the impersonal (science explains everything) or the personal (I am morally superior to others because I am polyamorous and have transcended such base concepts as 'reciprocity' in interpersonal relationships).

It is unclear to the present researcher whether such anecdotal evidence is indicative of a larger trend; whether it is merely isolated to those 23-year-olds who have recently graduated college with a head full of useless knowledge and a lingering suspicion that their college degree isn't as impressive as they had previously believed; whether it is a carry-over of unresolved adolescent angst; or whether it bears correlation to known scientific evidence demonstrating that typical brain development does not reach completion until around the age of 25. Is this delusional state a 'last huzzah' of the post-puberty race to reach that mythical state of "maturity", perhaps? I cannot say.

It is also unclear whether this delusional state affects all 23-year-olds, or the length of its persistence in some individuals. Anecdotal evidence from one individual - let us call him George B___... no, how about G____ Bush - appears to indicate that someone may retain this delusional state in spite of aging, becoming so-called 'Leader of the Free World', and having wasted tens of thousands of innocent lives to uphold such a delusion.

Never-the-less this researcher, in spite of her deep desire to believe that age does not of necessity reflect maturity, is coming to the conclusion that perhaps she need bear in mind, when speaking to a 23-year-old, that the vast majority of their ilk do, in fact, have their heads so far up their respective asses solely in order to better smell that shit which they find so sweet.

At this point she is willing to accept the many, many, MANY rebuttals he are sure await him from the many, many, MANY 23-year-olds which - he is sure - disagree with him, and the many many more mid-thirties men who wish to sleep with female 23-year-olds and believe that by disagreeing with the above, they somehow stand a better chance of doing so.

She also apologizes to those few, those precious few 23-year-olds who have achieved the maturity to understand that at the age of 23, there's still a lot of life to be lived and things to be learned. This researcher lauds you, and wishes that she had been as mature as you are when she was 23.

ODC: Sweater Man.

2009-06-16T19:07:00.005-05:00

Sweater Man: Winter 2000

Everyone has a kink.

Some people are turned on by leather and lace, whips and chains. Other people get off by inserting inanimate objects and phallic-shaped fruits and vegetables into their various orifices. Still more get all hot and bothered by watching and being watched in compromising positions.

Matt? Matt's kink was sweaters.

No, really. I met Matt back when America Online personal ads were free. Bored one night during my junior year of college, I found myself perusing the ads for kicks. He seemed to be everything I could ever want in a mate: a good-looking Jewish journalist. Just like me! So I added his screen name to my buddy list and promptly forgot about the ad.

Several months later, I saw the name on my list, but had no recollection of who he was. So I Instant Messaged him. As soon as I learned that he worked for Boston's Jewish newspaper, it clicked: Yes! Matt! The good-looking Jewish journalist. My thoughts spun wildly out of control and before I knew it I was daydreaming about starting a life with Matt. Two Jewish journalists traveling the world and the stumbling upon entertaining adventures -- the type of adventures that would provide us with years and years of personal anecdotes with which to write columns about. Could anything be better??

I came back to reality to see that Matt had asked me about my hobbies. Hmmmm. Hobbies. Other than partying and sleeping? I had to think fast. "I knit," I told him. And it wasn't altogether false. I had taken up knitting when I had tried to quit smoking. The knitting had given me carpal tunnel syndrome, so I'd gone back to the insidious cancer sticks. But every now and then I'd pick up the knitting needles and knit a friend a mangled, uneven scarf.

"Do you make sweaters?" he asked. Sweaters? Um. I paused, thinking of how to respond. Matt continued: "Because I have a lot of sweater patterns. I have a cabin on the Cape. Maybe we could go there this winter and knit together. I'd love to make sweaters with you."

I cabin on the Cape. It sounded good to me. I could agree to knit sweaters in exchange for a romantic weekend in a cabin on the Cape, complete with romantic, candlelit dinner for two in front of the roaring fire. "Sure," I said. "I'd like making sweaters together."

We exchanged numbers and it wasn't long before Matt called. We chit-chatted about the weather, life, Boston culture, and journalism in general. And then it came. "Do you wear lots of sweaters?" he asked.

"Well, I have lots of sweaters. I mean, this is Boston. But I don't tend to wear lots of sweaters at the same time."

"Oh," he said. And a pause. "Are you wearing a sweater now?"

Why yes, I was, in fact, wearing a sweater. "I sure am," I said. At his request, I described the sweater to him: a lavender, v-neck merino wool J Crew sweater. Very soft. A lovely hue. And oh-so-very comfortable.

The next day, he caught me online and Instant Messaged me. He asked me if I owned any mohair sweaters. I told him I did not. We chatted a bit more and agreed to meet for coffee two days hence.

I showed up at the coffee place about ten minutes early. Being early is a compulsion of mine. Apparently, it was a compulsion of his as well. We ordered our drinks and sat down. I noticed the Banana Republic bag at his feet, and asked him whether he had been shopping. He smiled shyly. "You could say that," he said. Okay then. So he's shy about paying too much for Banana Republic sweaters on Newbury Street. Hell, I would be, too. We talked for about an a half hour longer before I told him that I needed to book it if I was going to make it to my evening class on time. He asked if he could walk me to class. I told him I'd prefer if he didn't. With that, he awkwardly shoved the Banana Republic bag at me. I gave him a quizzical look. "It's for you," he said.

Oy vey. I gift on the first date. I opened the bag, unwrapped the tissue paper and found an absolutely gorgeous purple (my favorite color -- had I told him that?) medium-cabled mohair sweater. "I figure it would look good with a camisole on under it."

"Um. Thanks." I mean, what does a person say to a man who brings her a sweater on the first date? I left took off with the sweater and left him there without a hug or kiss. I didn't expect to hear from him.

I got an e-mail later that evening. He had a request. He wanted sweater erotica.

Why not? How harmful could sweater erotica be? So I penned him a letter about sitting in front of his fireplace in his cabin on the Cape. How he ran his fingers over my shoulders and down my back, savoring the feeling of my thick, delicious cashmere sweater. I wrote about how he slowly undressed me, peeling the cashmere off my supple, nubile body, revealing what lay beneath. Another sweater! This sensual erotic writing continued for four more layers of sweater.

Matt loved it! He ate that shit up. He complimented my writing style and told him I was the only woman he'd ever met who wrote so lovingly of sweaters. "The other women," he complained, "only ever write about one sweater before they are topless. Boobs are nice and all, but sweaters are where it's at." He continued, spinning yarns of women in full-body sweaters.

Then he hit me with his ultimate fantasy, and asked if I would comply. Matt wanted me to take all my sweaters (I had about 20 at the time), and and lay them out of my bed. He wanted me to toss the sweaters about like a salad, put on a full body knit suit, and lie in the middle of the bed, draped in sweater.

That's when I called it quits. I'm all about providing people with their fantasies, but I couldn't envision myself prancing among sweaters and being able to keep a straight face. After only a single date, we parted amicably.

About two years later, I was eating dinner with my roommate, her friend, and his fiance. I began retelling the story of Sweater Man in full, fluid detail. When I mentioned the publication he worked for -- before I got into his sweater fantasies -- the fiance stopped me. She asked, "Is Sweater Man's name Matt?" She explained how she had gone on a date with him about a year prior. "He kept eyeing me and rubbing his hands over my shoulders." I asked her what she had been wearing. "A brand new cashmere sweater." I then proceeded to tell her about the sweater erotica.

"Wow," she exclaimed. "That explains a lot."

ODC: Bathroom Boy.

2009-06-14T15:25:00.006-05:00

Bathroom Boy: Summer 2001

Men are pigs. It's true. What women don't realize, however, is that men are pigs because we allow them to be. At the tender age of 22, I had not yet come to this realization.

I don't remember how I met Darren or how he convinced me to come over to his apartment at 2 am some hot, sticky June morning while I was recovering from a urinary tract infection. But there I was, in the bedroom of a self-proclaimed 20-something entrepreneur (what he actually did, I can't say), making out. As he went to put his hand between my thighs, I stopped him. "No," I said. "I'm shy in the beginning." Ha! "Next time."

Apparently, "next time" couldn't come fast enough for Darren; he called me about three days later, on a Friday evening. I explained to Darren that I was going out with some friends that night. He assured me that what he had planned wouldn't take much time. After all, he also had plans that evening. But perhaps we could get together for a little pre-game, as it were. I would have had to be a complete moron not to realize what Darren was really after (which, given my state of idiocy at the time, was a complete possibility). He was relegating me to the opening act of the evening. Not particularly special, but interesting enough to pass a little time while waiting for the main event.

I don't recall being very taken with Darren. He was extremely hot, yes, but he reeked of doucebaggery. Yet with nothing better to do, and apparently with fairly low standards, I agreed to meet him at his place at about 6 that evening.

My hair was short at the time, in the beginning of the growing-out phase where I look more like a troll than a person. However, my biting with and charm and big boobs always tended to make up for my hair issues. So I threw on my favorite casual outfit: greenish khaki-ish pants with a very deep scoop-neck, flimsy black tank top that showed off my ample cleavage. I mean, REALLY showed off my ample cleavage such that a person could drown in it. I drove to Darren's place and rang the bell. As I expected, my outfit had the proper effect: he never once looked at my sprouting head of straw-hair.

"I have to take a shower before I go out," he told me. "Come." I knew from last time that Darren had a bathroom upstairs, adjacent to his bedroom. But instead of going up the stairs, he led me to the back of the house, to a bathroom off the kitchen. He turned on the shower, disrobed, got in, and motioned for me to do the same. I was hesitant at first, but figured, eh, fuck it. Why not?

There was nothing erotic about showering with Darren. Banish any thoughts of having a good time under the cascades of water, as we lathered each other up and caressed each other's soapy bodies. That is not what happened. Instead, he inelegantly pawed at me, and I was too bored with it to say anything. The only thing I really remember of the experience is that my cell phone started ringing mid-shower. I made a mental note to check my messages as soon as the asinine bathing activity had ended.

The shower didn't last long. We got out and toweled off. Darren wrapped a towel around his waist and stood at the threshold to the bathroom. "I'm going upstairs to get dressed. You -- you stay right here. Don't leave. Don't open the door until I knock." He was very clear on this point, and repeated it. "Do NOT open the door until I knock."

Fine, whatever. But seriously? Even then I wondered who he was hiding me from. A roommate? A girlfriend he had stored away in the bathroom upstairs? What was the deal with his piggish behavior? Though I questioned it, I didn't question him. Instead, I subserviently waited in the bathroom. Well, to be fair, waiting wasn't all I did. I toweled off my hair which had already started to spring forth from my head in its trollish manner, and I put on my underwear, bra, pants, and sandals. It was humid and I was sweaty, so I left my tank top sitting on the toilet seat as I checked my cell phone messages.

Checking my messages, however, proved to be a difficult task. There was only one tiny corner of the room that had cell phone reception, so I found myself standing on the commode, crouching right under the top of the window, so I could hear what the plans for the night were. I had to re-dial my message box about three times to get the gist of it. Near the last go-through, I heard the knock at the door.

Thank God, I thought. I'm tired of waiting in this fucking bathroom. I opened the door to find a sweaty (albeit extremely good-looking) rugby player standing there. "Um. Hi."

I stood there, speechless, in my black push-up bra, my phone to my ear.

"You...?"

Oh, right. Apparently it was my turn to say something. "Hi. I'm, uh. I'm a friend of Darren's. Yeah. Right. And I'm..." I looked at my watchless wrist before continuing. "I'm totally running late. See ya."

And with that, I bolted off in my pants and bra, cell phone in hand, and lucky that my keys were in my pants pocket. I didn't even pay attention to the kids next door who stared at me as I jogged out to my car. Once in my car, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was out! I was no longer held captive in the bathroom! Hallelujah! It was only at this point that I realized I'd left my shirt behind. My favorite shirt from two seasons prior that had been discontinued. Alas, I drove off without it.

As for Darren? I never heard from the bastard again. Prick. I mean, really, if you had banished some woman to your bathroom and she had disappeared after your roommate had knocked on the door, wouldn't you at least call to make sure she had gotten home okay? Wouldn't your sense of curiosity make you call? Unless, of course, the bathroom-roommate-discovery game was something they played often. Could it be? Was I on candid camera?

I've scoured the Internet and bad "reality" TV joke shows since and have never found footage of myself running topless out of Darren's bathroom. So at least I'm safe in that regard. Though I'm left to wonder how many women Darren did this to. Just how much of a pig was he, really?

For years I thought about what a dick Darren was. It wasn't until a few years ago that I realized, hey, Darren was a dick because I let him be a dick. What self respecting woman goes over for a booty call at 2 am? Moreover, what self respecting woman meets up with a guy who only makes enough time in his day to shower with her? Not one. That's it. None one self respecting woman would ever meet up with a guy who only makes enough time in his day to shower with her.

A few years later I ran into Darren at a bar. He asked my friend over to to his place. Even though I warned her, she went anyway. And got left in his bathroom.

Online Dating Chronicles: Pickles and Pomegranate Seeds.

2009-06-09T08:29:00.002-05:00

Pickles and Pomegranate Seeds: March 12, 2005

Adult FriendFinder bills itself as the biggest swingers community online. This is inaccurate. It's nothing more than a haven for married men and large women who want to get laid. I was introduced to the site in May 2001 by Douchebag Alcoholic (an installment for another day), who bought me a year's membership as a "surprise."

"Surprise!" I wanted to tell him. "Twenty-two year old bisexual women don't need the Internet to get laid." But, as always, I got addicted to the chat rooms. AFF, I found later, is much like the Hotel California: You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave. It's an insidious, vile thing. It stays with you for life.

So when the Evil Psychologist and I broke up in the summer of 2004, and my chronic insomnia became, well, chronic again, I found myself once again in the New England AFF chat room. On that Island of Misfit Toys, no one ever slept. Even when the Yahoo euchre addicts went to sleep, the AFF-ers chatted on. So at three, four, five in the morning, when no more games of interactive cards could be found, I would wander into the AFF chat room.

This is where I encountered Mike, whose user name was WiccaWolf, and whose grammar was atrocious. Though I would chat with him for hours, I refused to actually meet him. He was one of those individuals who, even well into his 30s, wrote in text-speak. I could not bring myself to meet up with someone who replaced "you" with "u" on a regular basis. A woman's got to have standards, after all.

Yet on March 12, 2005, after a few drinks and a crappy night out with the girls, I was bored, suffering from insomnia, and had nothing to do. So when I called Mike on a whim (using the number he'd given more four months prior, but had never called), he invited me to drive out to meet up with him and his two friends, a couple.

“I’m going to keep you on the phone for a while,” I said to Mike. I was in the parking lot of my apartment complex, talking on my cell phone though a hands-free headset, preparing myself for an hour’s drive. The night was chilly, but warmer than usual for a New England winter. It had been a few weeks since the last snowfall, so it seemed that the snowy season was over ahead of schedule. Everyone was excited about the prospect of no more snow. I checked out my reflection in my car window and ensured myself that yes, my teeny-bopper t-shirt really did make my boobs like good.

This strangely comforted me, and made me forget about my curly hair, which had been hastily pulled back and clipped into a messy ponytail. I was wearing a lightweight jacket of pink tweed over the t-shirt, and was perfectly comfortable. Except for the fact that I was about to drive an unfamiliar route at some ungodly hour, off to meet three people I’d never met. Driving at night makes me anxious. So does meeting strangers. “I’m going to keep you on the phone,” I repeated to Mike, “because I’m bad with directions.”

When I got off the highway at the designated spot, I found myself winding along serpentine roads, alternating nervously between the gas and the break. It was nearly 2 a.m., and I still couldn't figure out why I had ventured out. The night was foggy. The clouds seemed to have reached down to embrace my little Honda Civic. Even with my headlights piercing the darkness, I could hardly see a foot in front of me. The occasional oncoming set of headlights startled me, and I immediately slowed down each time a car came in my direction. What was I doing? I tried to look at the directions I’d jotted down, but between the darkness, fog, and hilly terrain, I couldn't make them out.

I drove for what seems like forever. Every minute that passed made me more and more nervous, until I became convinced that I was lost. My knuckles were white from gripping the wheel, and I veered to the right as I saw another oncoming car. My cell phone, resting on the passenger seat, flew out, hit the dashboard, and landed under my seat along with my lighter, cigarettes, and pack of gum. While driving, I reached down to feel for the phone, but only located the lighter. At the next side street, I took a sharp right and pulled over. I got out of the car, located my phone, and get back in, closing the door on the cord to the headset in the process. The battery was dangerously low, but I called Mike anyway. No answer. Crap. I was going to end up in the middle of nowhere, stuck in the fog and unable to contact any humans.

I continued to drive, hoping my directions were accurate. When I finally reach the street where my destination was, I was a frenzied mess. I slowed down, unsure of which driveway to pull into. I made a right turn at the single house that has a porch light on. I called Mike, and again, there was no answer. Fortunately, saw my car’s headlights, and was already standing in the driveway when I got out of the car. He was s tall – at least a foot taller than me – and bald. And tattooed. A tall, slightly-scary looking skinhead. How did I get myself into this? I concluded right then and there in the dark that he was decidedly unattractive.

Mike took me in and led me to the master bedroom suite, where Mike introduced me to Keeks. “Everyone wants to come here," he told me. "So you’re lucky. Everyone wants to fuck my wife." He paused before continuing. "I let Mike fuck my wife.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” I heard Jules yell from behind the wall.

Oh my holy fucking shit. Who are these people?

Jules called to Keeks. From the bathroom, I guessed. “See if she wants a drink.” Keeks looked at me inquisitively.

“Just water,” I responded.

“Water? What are you, a pussy? I thought you were a party girl.”

Both Keeks and Mike disappeared behind the wall for a moment. Then all three of them returned, and Keeks handed me a glass of ice water. I saw take Mike a sip from his own cup, one of those big, red plastic cups you find at frat parties. He cringed visibly. Mike sat down next to me again and lit a cigarette. I noted his chain smoking, and lit one of my own. Without my having noticed Keeks and Jules have disappeared. Mike and I are alone. And then Keeks magically appeared again. "What the fuck are you drinking?" he demanded of Mike.

"Vodka, soda and lime juice. It's not bad."

“Can I try?” I asked. Mike nodded his assent, and I took a sip of the lukewarm liquor and lime. Tastes like crap. “Nope, not bad at all,” I agreed.

From downstairs, came the sound of Jules swearing. “Come help me with the groceries,” she demanded. Mike and I were left alone.

“I’m tired,” I said, shifting into small talk. “The drive was absolutely awful. Fog. I swear, I’m never coming out here again.” I seemed to have broken the ice, and Mike and I began talking. As the minutes ticked by, the idle chatter became more and more comfortable, and we started really – really – talking. I began the way I normally do when I’m with strangers. My standard defense mechanism is to act gruff and hard, the way I’ve come across to him before in our sporadic online chat sessions.

“Everyone has a facade,” Mike explained to me. “It’s interesting to watch. The way people are. I like to break it down early on and see what’s really under the surface.”

“I don’t have a facade,” I quickly retorted.

“Right,” he said skeptically. “Because you’re really cold and uncaring?”

I started daydreaming and before I realized where the conversation had gone, Mike was talking about fantasies. I thought about my own life, my own fantasies, my own disappointments. “Fantasies,” I told him, “are better left unrealized.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I mean, right now I’m fantasizing about pizza. That would be a great fantasy realized.” We continued to talk. He put me at ease. In less than an hour, he’d already seen through me, seen that I’m not the rough and tough girl I pretended to me. I liked that about him. The conversation was light and fun and flowing nicely. The more we talk, the more attractive Mike became.

But it was late – past 3 in the morning, and we became weary from speech. Neither of us really notices that Keeks and Jules have been putting away groceries for the better part of an hour. The space between us on the futon had lessened, and Mike’s hand was on my thigh. He looked at me, and I looked back, mindful not to look directly into his eyes. I’m not sure how, but our lips met in a sweet, friendly kiss, and I hardly tasted the tangy vodka on his breath.

Suddenly, Keeks and Jules come back to the room, Jules carrying a tray of odd foods. Pepperoni, cheese, olives, salami, grapes. Mike reached for the encased meat. Me? I found myself snacking on pickles and pomegranate seeds.

I don't remember how the conversation continued, but I do remember Keeks and Jules getting up, disappearing behind a half-wall, to their bed. Mike kissed me again. I like the way he kisses, I decided. Not too foreceful or pushy. And before long, articles of clothing starting falling to the side of the futon we were lying on. I wasn't sexual aroused, but this was not new to me. At that point, it was rare that my sexual encounters ever resulted from my own primal desired. It was always about the men and their gratification. Most often, I simply consented, and more often that not, I would up merely a masturbatory accoutrement for my partner.

But something about Mike felt more comfortable than anything I'd experienced in a long while. I realized that it hadn't been sex I'd wanted, but human contact. Even if it’s illusory, the softer more sensual touching made me feel wanted and cared for. No one had cared for me in a long while, and even if it wasn't real, even if it lasted only for a morning, it felt good. I knew that in a day or two Mike will become another asshole I slept with who never called or saw me ever again – who used me for his own ego and gratification. I knew this, but at the moment, I didn't care.

Except the sex never came. Instead, the snow started falling right outside the window. Mike noticed first. "Wow," he said. "Those snowflakes are as big as Cadillacs." Ah, a man of wisdom.

We watched the sky change from black to blue, knowing it would be mere monents before the sun was on the horizon. We wrapped his arms around me. Watching snowflakes in the blue-black sky, Mike and I fell asleep.

Even now, I have no idea whether I slept for moments or for hours. I just remember wanting to wake up and leave before anyone else had risen. I crept down the stairs, and as I was about to let myself out of the front door, I heard Mike's voice. He was calling me from the kitchen. I turned to see him sitting with a heated-up frozen pizza. "This," he said, "is a wonderful fantasy realized."

I told him I had to go. He said he'd call me. I let him tell me this, knowing full well that I'd never hear from him again, and happy that for once, the guy who wouldn't call wouldn't end up being some asshole I slept with once upon a time.

Epilogue: As it turns out, Mike and I had an intersting relationship for the next nine months. If you've ever read any of my blog entries over the years, you'll likely recognize him as "Best Friend Mike." He even did my pinup-esque photo shoot in June 2008. At the end of those nine months, it became clear that while I wanted more, Mike was not ready. The pseudo-breakup I had with him (after all, one cannot have a real breakup with a pseudo-boyfriend) hurt me more than any other breakup ever has, before or since.

To Mike, I am thankful. Prior to meeting him, I was shy and awkward and suffered from severe social anxiety. Mike is the one who brought me, kicking and screaming, out of my comfort zone. He made me fun, not just to the people who knew me well, but to random strangers. He got me talking to strangers. We were partners in crime and our adventures are legendary.

Sadly, it's been about a year since I've seen him. Mike has been unlucky in transport. He always has some crazy story about his broken cars. Seriously. I could dedicate pages of text to his automobile woes. The last I heard from him was May 9, 2009 -- exactly a month ago. My wedding day. He called while we were getting our pictures taken, wanting to know if it was okay if he arrived late. I said of course.

He never arrived.

Online Dating Chronicles: The Beginning.

2009-06-08T21:49:00.007-05:00

While talking to my friend about her escapades in Internet dating, it dawned on me: I am a 10-year Online Dating Veteran. My first Internet date was in August 1996; my last was in May 2007. I suppose I should be ashamed or embarrassed because of this. Truth be known, it has provided me fabulous fodder for story telling. And so, I begin the Online Dating Chronicles (ODT). These will come in no particular order, except for this one.

The Beginning: August 1996

I don't remember his name. All I can remember for sure is that in August 1996, the day before my senior year of high school, I was an American Online chat room junkie. Back then, there were no unlimited plans, and so my parents were smart to attempt to limit my use to something like ten hours per month. Many of these hours were spent alongside my best friend, Jane Smith (her real name, folks), as we chatted to horny teenage boys far and wide.

I don't remember his name, but I do remember what I was wearing. I was halfway through my middle-class-guilt, I-only-shop-at-thrift-stores-and-dress-ridiculously phase. This means I hadn't quite started wearing the polyester brown leisure suits with the fly-collar pink gingham shirts. Not yet. I was only starting to look freakish. That night I was clad in men's jeans, size 29, pressed with creases down the front, and a white, blue, red, and pink short-sleeved knit number with a belt at the waist and a Peter Pan collar. This, I believed, was high fashion.

So in that, I headed to the Waffle House parking lot, 45 minutes away from me, with Best Friend Jane in tow. I knew nothing of this 18-year-old boy we were about to meet, except that he was a huge Insane Clown Posse fan, and that he drove a black, 1995 Honda Accord (I had told him my vehicle make and model as means of identification: a 1983 Nissan Maxima).

You must understand, of course, that I was even more culturally retarded at 17 than I am now. My taste in music included Cat Stevens, Billy Joel, Elton John, Sting, Paul Simon, and Joni Mitchell. I had no idea who ICP were, or that they did, indeed, dress like insane clowns. If I had known anything about their music or fashion sense, I may have run the other way.

We arrived at the Waffle House parking lot at about five to midnight. Jane and I got out of my car, cranked up our Simon and Garfunkel, and sat on the trunk, waiting for my gentleman caller. At 12:15, a black Honda Accord with tinted windows, and huge speakers sticking out of the back came rolling in, two inches from the ground, hubcaps spinning. Not only did this boy look as if he had a good three thousand dollars worth of stolen stereo equipment in his car, but he had totally pimped his.... Honda.

I don't recall the content of the conversation. Only that this boy looked like a troglodyte. Based upon his conversation, his only passions were ICP and his speakers. He went on and on about his stereo set-up and sound quality, while looking disapprovingly at my AM/FM stereo and tape deck. He asked Jane and I inside for waffles. We declined, explaining that the next day was the first day of our senior year of high school. After about ten minutes of discussion, we were on our way home.

Jane was spending the night, so we changed into our pajamas before giving my e-mail address one last check. Right as I signed on, up popped an Instant Message from ICP Boy.

"I'd really love to take your virginity," he said. Wow. What an opening.

"I'm not interested," I typed back.

For the next half hour, he kept insisting that he was "only being candid." I kept insisting that he had no clue what the definition of "candor" was, as I was giving it right back to him. Why Jane and I continued to talk to him for so long, I do not know. Perhaps it was the novelty of the situation, or the inherent addicting qualities of the medium.

He wrote me about two emails a day for the next month before finally giving up. The numerous Instant Messages he sent during that time period went unanswered.

And I learned my first valuable lesson when it comes to Internet dating: Never, ever, under any circumstances, use your primary e-mail account (especially one with your full name in it) or Instant Messenger user name to correspond with potential suitors. This one lesson served me well in the years that followed.

Memorial Day makes me cranky.

2009-05-25T08:41:00.002-05:00

World War II was the last war we fought that protected our troops or our freedom. Prior to that, an argument can be made that the Revolutionary War protected our freedom, but really, it was fought to protect the freedom of our landowning (read: white and rich) men.

I wholly support the troops and hate that our citizens have died in our wars. I support anyone willing to fight for what he believes in (whether or not I agree with it). I just wish we would get back to protecting our people and our freedom, rather than our political interests.

Note to self:

2009-05-09T07:33:00.001-05:00

The next time you get married, don't drink that much wine the night before.

That is all.

Seventeen Magazine.

2009-05-05T18:40:00.002-05:00

Yes, it is true. I, the Saucy Vixen, am a hoarder. Everything I have written since the 5th grade (1990), has been kept. It is saved and stored deep within the bowels of my MacBook. Nineteen years and six computers have gone by, and yet I still have it all.

In 11th grade (1995), I wrote a 10-page analysis of Seventeen Magazine. I came across it today and chuckled at the fact that I sound exactly the same then as I do now. (I've taken out the citations for ease of reading.)

When I read puns such as “road scholars," I want to cringe. When a girl asks if she can rub deodorant on her face so it won’t shine, I laugh out loud. I become even more amused when I see an article on how to look good, wearing your underwear on the outside of your clothing. And it’s all fine and dandy that they can find a bathing suit that minimizes your body flaws if you’re short, fat, busty, or have big thighs, but what if you have all of the above “flaws?” What then? Wear a tent?

All of the above questions simply lead up to the bigger, broader, eternal question that haunts Seventeen Magazine readers such as myself: Why do they publish this garbage? The answer is really quite simple. Somewhere in the vast expanse of Seventeen’s readership, there are actually people who want to know the exact definition of the word “shaving,” and why people who don’t shower for days smell “unpleasant."

So who exactly are these people who enjoy reading Seventeen? They are mostly urban or suburban girls between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. Girls hitting puberty who need to read about the different types of feminine protection and need to have visuals of lists of the advantages and disadvantages of each.

From the fourteen year olds who wonder about their first periods, to the eighteen year olds who ask if it’s possible to get pregnant without having sex, they all have one thing in common: everyone is a consumer. It’s no surprise that the manufactures and large companies have taken advantage of this fact.

The fallacy of "true" love.

2009-05-02T10:24:00.004-05:00

You know what drives me crazy? People who wax poetic about true love. Or those who profess to be "meant for each other." Every time I hear someone announce this incredibly trite cliche -- it's true love; we were meant for each other -- a small party of me wants to punch her (as it's usually a "her" as opposed to a "him") in the trachea.

(Ed note, Before I continue, it is imperative to understand that I do not believe in love as a feeling. I believe that love is an action. However, I am in a very small minority, and love as a feeling vs. love as an action is not what this entry is about. Today, we are discussing "true" love. Perhaps tomorrow we can delve into feelings vs. actions.)

I don't believe people know what they mean when they say love is "true." So I've started where all good lawyers should start when dealing with matters of statutory interpretation or matters of the heart: the dictionary. Some of the definitions didn't apply. Here is a sample of some that did.

(1) real; genuine; authentic. True feelings.

(2) loyal; faithful; steadfast. A true friend.

(3) reliable; unfailing. A true sign.

When most people speak of true love, I believe they speak of fluffy, bunnies-and-unicorns, hearts-and-stars, fields-of-clover, poop-tastes-like-candy and farts-smell-like roses love. They imagine flowers and fountains of chocolate. Happy endings (no, not THOSE happy endings, you perv) and chick flick fantasies, where the fat girl drops the weight, can afford Lasik and dental veneers and a tummy tuck, and gets the guy. Happy endings where the fat guy... well, the fat guy never gets anything; he's the comedic foil to the Prince Charming. But that's a diatribe for another day.

There is nothing pre-destined about love. God does not have a master plan. People aren't born with set soul mates -- they're not "meant" to be together. And while romance is nice, it takes a back seat to more important matters, like laundry, mortgage payments, and lawn mowing.

Yes, love can be true. It can be genuine and real, loyal and steadfast, reliable and unfailing. It can be. But it usually isn't. Applying those adjectives to love implies that romantic love is unconditional. It is not. Guess what? Fuck someone around enough, and he's probably not going to love you anymore. Loyalty lasts only so long when someone's being a right prick or stepping out on you. Ascribing the adjectives above to the word "true" does not describe love.

It describes co-dependence.

Not so anonymous anymore.

2009-04-27T08:33:00.003-05:00

When I started this blog, I was free to write about all sorts of things, as I was cloaked under the veil of anonymity that the Internet so easily provides. I wrote about relationships, personal thoughts, unimportant office dynamics, and the like.

In the past year, I've stopped writing not because I don't have anything to say, but because too many people know who I am. And so, I may be starting a new blog one of these days. I can't say for sure, because I don't know yet. But if you're interested in reading my newest rants and raves, hit me up at dearsaucyvixen@yahoo.com and I'll give you the new URL if and when I decide to start over.

I am clearly not a parent.

2009-01-22T15:43:00.001-05:00

To me, all newborns look the same.

It's true. People can fawn all they want, but the reality remains: A baby is a baby. At two weeks old, they're all kinda mushy and wrinkly looking. Some have light hair, some dark, the skin color may be different. But other than that... Yeah. The same.

Memories of turquoise ink.

2009-01-19T19:01:00.004-05:00

Two boys ever professed their love to me. I am married to the latter of the two.

The first, I met at a football game on October 15, 1993. I was fourteen years old. I don’t remember how it was we started talking, or exactly what it was we started talking about. I was painfully shy back then, so I’m sure we’d spent a few hours in close proximity without exchanging more than a few sentences. I can’t recall how or why, but for some reason, I found myself sitting alone with Dan McCue on the bleachers behind our high school's marching band.

Every school day thereafter, I’d find a way to see Dan. I accidentally ran into him in the lunch line. I altered my path between third and fourth periods from Speech class to Geometry so I could bump into him on his way from Latin IV. I started leaving school each day at 3:10 from the front door, rather than the back door, knowing his regular route home.

Every day we’d chat with my friends in front of school before walking home together. My friends all adored Dan. He was sweet, funny, and nice to us. He always smiled, always had something to say, and always made us all feel like people, instead of like freshman girls. They envied the time I spent with him on the way home. We would separate three blocks from my house and go our separate ways. Yet by mid-November, he was walking six blocks out of his way to bring me to my doorstep. He often did not arrive home until after 5:30.

Christmas came and went. He attended my New Year's Party, where he was the only boy. On January 2nd, he called me.

"I was wondering if you’d consider starting a relationship with me," he asked.

Consider starting a relationship? Not quite the way I would have said it, but it worked.

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone and emerged from the bathroom I’d locked myself into. A friend who was visiting was talking to my mom in the kitchen. “Dan asked me out.”

“Where?” my mother asked. Silly Mom.

“We’re together now.”

How simple. He asked, I accepted. Why can’t life always be so easy? Nothing -- before or since -- has ever been so easy. We were a couple. We started holding hands on the way home from school. For the first time in my life, I smiled on a regular basis. Our nighttime conversations began to get longer. He wrote me notes in turquoise ink that he passed to me in the hallway between Speech and Geometry. I still have all of them.

On Valentine's Day, he presented me with a stuffed hedgehog and professed his love for me. In February 15, 1994, I dumped him. Love? Who can fall in love so fast? I needed to to be, to grow, to learn, NOT to be tied down to Dan McCue.

I broke up with Dan because he told me he loved me. Truth be known, he was the best boyfriend I ever had. He gave me a hedgehog on Valentine’s Day. He penned me notes in turquoise ink. He walked me home and kissed me on the cheek.

Things were simple with him. I liked him a lot for the six weeks we were together, but I don’t know if I loved him. I can’t remember. I wasn’t very nice to him in the months after we broke up, but can chalk it up to being a 15-year-old girl. I remember him fondly and want to have loved him. I enjoyed talking to him and hope we stay in touch, but I don’t want to see him again. It’s easier to love someone from memory.

Epilogue: Dan McCue found me last week on Facebook.

Email cheating?

2009-01-14T17:45:00.003-05:00

I am having a relationship with a man not my husband.

Incidentally, I have not me this man. We only know each other in that quasi-anonymous way that many people know one another these days. We know each other only via the Internet. How we met is not important. Suffice to say that in the beginning, we only exchanged passing pleasantries. Nothing substantive was ever exchanged. We knew the other's geographical location, and basic biographical information, such as marital status and occupation.

As time went on (and it always does), more personal information was exchanged. Nothing huge. Nothing major. Simple things. Opinions. Not even opinions on big issues such as the death penalty or abortion. No dialogues involving legal theories were exchanged -- the sort of dialogues that really get my juices flowing. Instead, we spoke more generally, painted rather broad strokes about inane, inconsequential things. So inconsequential that I can't even think of any.

Recently, however, things have taken a more personal turn. We've discussed the more detailed intricacies of our respective lives. Again, nothing earth-shattering. Topics tend to revolve around basic human interactions and relationships. Yet we've come to understand the flavor of our separate personalities. We are different, of course, but we've recognized our similarities.

Nothing I've shared with this man is anything I've haven't shared with Chris. Nothing I've shared with this man is anything I haven't shared with friends. Hell, nothing I've shared with this man is anything I wouldn't share here, in another quasi-anonymous forum. I've even 'fessed up to Chris about my Secret Internet Boyfriend.

I am not doing anything wrong.

Yet something feels a little "wrong." A tad bit naughty.

Chris and I email flirt with other people. We joke about it. "You're totally email flirting with that girl," I'll say to him, as he writes to someone on okcupid dot com. Then the next day at work, he'll attempt to email flirt with me, with such romantic tidbits as, "I'd like to drive it into you like a railroad spike." (He's so poetic, my dearest darling.)

Despite the knowledge that I'm not doing anything, I've identified why it feels a bit off: I like this guy. I get little flutters when I see emails from him. I like that he's admitted to staying at work ten minutes past his usual departure time just to wait for my emailed response. The giddy schoolgirl in me giggles when he writes that he's logged in to check his email just for me (even though I know it's a lie). In short: I love the novelty.

In real life, he'd be all sorts of wrong for me, even if neither of us weren't married. He lives a gazillion miles away. He's all family-oriented. Though I've not actually asked (and how did I miss this?) he's likely a -- gasp! -- Republican.

I'll could continue rationalizing away in this post, if I so desired. But my self-indulgence is starting to get overblown, even for me. So I'll stop now.

And go check my email.

The Phantom Blower.

2008-12-20T11:25:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-12-17T15:25:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-12-16T15:41:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-12-16T08:30:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-11-18T13:40:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-07-27T08:29:00.004-05:00

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!

2008-07-26T19:34:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-06-22T17:39:00.006-05:00

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.

I R Sexy.

2008-04-28T18:15:00.000-05:00

Yeah baby, yeah.

Things that annoy me.

2008-04-24T20:57:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-03-26T18:25:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-03-19T06:13:00.005-05:00

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.

2008-03-09T19:09:00.002-05:00

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?

2008-02-27T20:25:00.003-05:00

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!

2008-02-25T21:07:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-02-24T17:44:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-02-20T21:01:00.004-05:00

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

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

Scary.

2008-02-20T20:57:00.001-05:00

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

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

Creepy.

Provincial much?

2008-02-13T22:03:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-02-13T20:11:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-02-08T20:20:00.001-05:00

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.)

2008-02-07T07:24:00.000-05:00

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."

2008-02-03T19:57:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-01-31T19:25:00.000-05:00

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?

Poetry, both Veggie and Non-Veggie.

2008-01-29T19:25:00.000-05:00

And so, my fixation with Vegetable Poetry continued last week with the following:

Ode to Corn
You can find it on the stalk or in kernels in a can.
It comes in frozen packages so you may stay on plan.
You can pop it in the microwave for a tasty treat, but
Whichever way you eat it, corn cannot be beat.

Ode to Arugala
Arugala, arugala,
You are so green and leafy.
I eat you every day at lunch
So that I won't be beefy.

Ode to the Onion
The onion is a lovely food,
Its insides firm and white.
It can be made in many ways
That bring tasty delight.
But it has one downfall --
One thing that I despise.
When I cut an onion,
It irritates my eyes.

Ode to Squash
Mix some butter in it,
Or drizzle it with oil.
Put it in to bake
While sitting on some foil.
Scoop it from its skin
And then sit down to nosh, on
That versatile veggie:
The very yummy squash.

Ode to Cabbage
The cabbage is a tasty veg
It comes in green and red.
You can put it into coleslaw,
Or eat it with some bread.

Ode to Brussels Sprouts
They're small and green and cute.
Of that there is no doubt.
They sometimes make you poot.
The delicious Brussels sprout.

Ode to the Turnip
Deep into the winter, it can be hard ti find
Vegetables in season. It grates upon my mind.
So in January, as snow falls on the ground, I
Look for foods that are grown far, far underground.
So I ear the turnip, so nutritious and so great. I
Put it into yummy soups that make me clean my plate.

Ode to Celery
When I'm feeling lonely, when I'm feeling blue, I
Want to put into my mouth something I can chew.
I shouldn't eat the cookies, I shouldn't eat the junk;
I shouldn't eat to get myself out of a horrid funk. So
When I feel downhearted, when I'm feeling beat, I
Turn to celery to munch: a nutritious treat.

Last week, I posted all these odes to the Weight Watchers message board. I had written them in the shower, in the bathroom, during lunch, and during a short break I took to make some tea. Posted 'em on the board and went about my life. But late into one afternoon, I discovered a strange phenomenon: Other folks had started posting their own odes. They are as follows (unedited and unabridged; the Saucy Vixen disclaims any and all poetic licenses taken in the following odes):

Ode to the Banana
Nana oh nana, all yellow and yummy
I blend you in smoothies that fill up my tummy
Nana oh nana, about you I rave
The all purpose fruit, and the one that I crave
Sliced into cereal or baked into bread
I think I will have you with PB instead
So the next time I'm craving a snack that is yummy
I'll grab a banana, to full up my tummy

Ode to Laughing Cow Cheese
I love my LC cheese,
The cow is very pretty,
Her earring swing around,
They helped inspire this ditty,
The cheese is soft and yummy,
I wish I had some now,
If I put some in my tummy,
I won't look like a cow.

Ode to a Treadmill
I really love my treadmill when I want to know my pace;
I run and run and ryn but I stay in just one place.
On my favorite of all treadmills, I run till I'm in pain;
But on my favorite treadmill, there is never cold or rain.
I'll never understand the people running in the street;
But I guess I'll never have to because we'll never meet.
I spend all my time a-running on my treadmill till I'm slim.
You will always find me running on my treadmill at the gym.

Ode to a Hula Hoop
When I first got my hula hoop
It fell right to the ground
But now I have the hang of it
I spin it round and round
It tones my abs and strengthens my core
and most of all -- it's never a bore!

Ode to a Burrito
Taco, burrito,
What's coming out of your speedo,
You've got troubles,
You're blowing bubbles.
Float, Float, Float, Float,
Putting around like a motor boat.
You Stink!

Ode to Taco Salad
How can they call you salad when "taco"'s also in your name?
I get you with grilled chicken but it's simply not the same.
I had to get you yesterday and you made me use all my FPs. [Ed note, Weight Watchers "Flex points."]
I thought that you would help me fulfill all of my HGs [Ed note, Weight Watchers "Health Guidelines."
I wish restaurants were honest and informed me that you were bad.
Because when I see you are 30 points it really makes me mad!

Ode to the Flex Board [The message board for people on the "Flex Plan."]
Mostly I'm a lurker
On the WW Flex Board.
Today I'm not a shirker,
You struck in me a chord.
The funny poems and odes I've read,
sure lighten up my day.
I couldn't let the moment pass,
without a big hooray!
Thanks to Saucy and the crew,
this afternoon just flew.
What a creative bunch... who knew?

Ode to Firing
These odes make me laugh,
We're all a but whacked,
But if my boss comes in here,
I'm bound to get sacked.

Ode to Hot Cocoa
Hot cocoa, hot cocoa
You make me go loco
You taste oh so sweet
On cold days we meet

Ode to Elliptical
I hate my elliptical
It makes me want to scream!
And every time I look at it
I want to eat ice cream!

After that bunch of odes, I had to get the ball rolling the next week. These are mine:

Ode to Dandelion Greens
You'd never guess how good it is
By looking at its name.
It's bitter when you fry it up;
There's nothing quite the same.
I cook mine with oil as I watch it heat and steam.
It's ever so delicious:
The dandelion green.

Ode to Bean Sprouts
They're white and they're crunchy.
They're so fun to eat.
You can put them in spring rolls
Or eat them with meat.
When you get downhearted,
When you start to pout,
Put that chin up and remember
The tiny bean sprout.

Ode to Cucumber
Cucumber, O cucumber,
You are so green and long.
You're crunch and you're crispy.
You keep me going strong.

Cucumber, O cucumber,
I sometimes stand agape, at
Your length and girth, and
Very phallic shape.

Ode to the Apple
Apple is a fruit
So crunchy and delicious.
Full of healthy sugars,
It's also quite nutritious.
I cut mine into slices
To eat after a meal.
I love its fibrous goodness;
The way it makes me feel.
Some eat theirs baked with sugar.
Or with some peanut butter. I
Just ate one plain
And wish I had another.

Ode to Grapes
In green, black or red,
With seeds or without,
Peeled or with skins,
They won't give you gout!
They're not high in carbs.
They're not high in fat.
I love me some grapes!
That is just that!

At which point other people once again began posting their own odes. Here are the odes on the Ode Bandwagon:

Ode to Peanut Butter Bliss Bars
Oh WW, when I want a Reese Cup, but not points left in the day
WW has made it possible in a creamy delicious way
No chocolate on top with peanut butter in the middle
It's reversed and it's really really little
Only one point that is tasty to my lips
And better, it doesn't add FAT to my hips

Ode to Flax Seed
Oh flax seeds you are so good
although some say you taste like wood
1 tiny tablespoon is all I need
I eat you to follow my mother's lead
I didn't know until from my plate you were gone
the effect you would have on my colon

Water Haiku
Water is good
Too much in the afternoon
I pee-dance in the car

But even despite all the creative juices flowing, I had my own masterpiece (as always). Because I'm just that good. Some back story: I had ridiculous PMS today. With no healthy snacks at work, I raided my desk drawer, where I store the Fiber One Bars that I eat once a day at about 3 p.m. How many did I have today? Three. Three damn Fiber One Bars. All that fiber. And all the gas that goes along with it. By 5 o'clock, I had a Fiber One Bar hangover. I wrote this:

Ode to Fiber One Bars
O Fiber One Bar,
How I love thee!
Today I've been hungry;
I've eaten three!
I have points to do it.
I should not be fazed.
However, my stomach
Is getting quite crazed.
I feel bad for my boyfriend
Who sleeps in my bed,
Who must deal with my stench
When it's fiber I'm fed.

Ode to Veggies. Or, The Saucy Vixen writes poetry.

2008-01-24T18:05:00.000-05:00

In a recent post, I discussed my fascination with the Weight Watchers message boards. Today, I found myself rather hungry about an hour prior to lunch. I began dreaming of my steamed broccoli. And so I composed this and posted it to the message board:

Ode to Broccoli
O broccoli, how I love thee,
Each tasty, yummy bite.
Each small piece, a tiny tree
Of gustatory delight.

You'd never believe it, but that little ode got me a following. I got requests! For asparagus and green beans and artichokes! And so these followed:

Ode to Asparagus
Asparagus, asparagus,
I put it on to steam.
Each bite, each crunch of wonderousness --
A veggie-licious dream.

Ode to the Green Bean
Steamed or grilled, it matters not;
I love my green bean so.
You can eat them with a meal
Or as a snack to go.

Ode to the Artichoke
The artichoke's a yummy food
Full of nutritious power.
When it's cultivated in the field
It grows a purple flower.

And that was that.

But I was on a role. People were demanding more poetry from the Veggie Poetry Lady. And so I wrote these:

Ode to the Carrot
The carrot has an orange hue,
So lovely and so bright.
Seeing it, I take my cue
And gobble every bite.

Ode to the Tomato
It goes well with lettuce greens.
I like it sliced on bread.
It has mushy insides,
And it's skin is colored red.
It is very pretty; it is flavorful, to boot.
But do not let that fool you, as it really is a fruit.

Ode to Eggplant
O aubergine, my purple friend, with your waxy skin,
I substitute you for fatty meat so I can become thin.
When I feel discouraged, when I want to say "I can't,"
I eat you up, my darling friend, my beautiful eggplant.

And then, there is my masterpiece. Please bear in mind that it was written for a Weight Watchers audience, and hence the reference to "points." If that part is offensive to you, skip those two lines.

Ode to Bell Pepper
The bell of Liberty rings out for everyone to hear.
But that's not the only bell around for those who gather here.
The bell of which I speak is found in many hues:
In green, in yellow, orange, and red; whichever you so choose.
The bell I speak of is delish regardless of it's color.
The pepper! O, it is a bell quite unlike any other.
Some enjoy it raw with salt, some like it dipped in cheese.
Some like it grilled, some like it stuffed; eat is as you please.
It has no points, so you can eat it without feeling blue.
But remember after one, those points, they do accrue.
O pepper, my pepper! I love you so! You are so fresh and classy.
The only downfall I perceive is when you make me gassy.

After reviewing my vegetable poetry, I think there may be something seriously wrong with me. Seriously.

Why I do what I do.

2008-01-23T20:29:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-01-22T21:45:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-01-22T21:32:00.000-05:00

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.

Butter anyone?

2008-01-15T07:09:00.000-05:00

Weight Watchers tells us that a reasonable and healthy rate of weight loss is anywhere from .5 to 2 pounds per week. I've been averaging about 1.5 per week (sometimes more, sometimes less).

In an effort to be encouraging, the website tells us how much a pound really is. To wit: four sticks of butter.

Which means I have lost 58 sticks of butter.

Mmmmm. Melty.

(Though, to be honest, the thought of all that butter is a tad nauseating.)

I totally moved it, moved it.

2008-01-14T22:18:00.000-05:00

My birthday is on Thursday. But Chris not me an early birthday present of Dance Dance Revolution. Yee-haw! He even brought his PS2 to my place so I could play. I have completely overextended myself, and my legs are killing me. But it rocks. Rocks!

I had poker night at my place on Saturday, and the game suffered from some pokerus interuptus as people felt the need to leave the game in order to move it, move it. And after five jiggers of tequila (ed note, Weight Watchers only has POINTS values for jiggers; not shots), I was totally rocking my body.

Note: My apologies for not writing much of late. And even more apologies for writing rather lackluster posts (like this one). I promise to get back to it soon. I have a legal rant in my head all ready to go. I just need to write it.

Belly dancer!

2008-01-07T20:18:00.000-05:00

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!

2008-01-03T19:14:00.000-05:00

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!

I like to move it, move it.

2007-12-29T09:45:00.000-05:00

As my friends know, I like to move it.

Which is why I am SO excited about Dance Dance Revolution.

Which is why I want it for my birthday, which is mid-January.

I have no idea how much this game costs, so I'm thinking that oodles of my friends can all chip in and then we can have a Dance Dance Revolution party. And we can all move it, move it.

Post Script. My friend tells me that if I don't have a Playstation (which I do not), they make plug-and-play versions of this game, but that they're "kinda lame." This displeases me. So, I guess I'll have to go without Dance Dance Revolution. But do not fret! I will soon have a belated (very belated) housewarming gathering, which will surely tun into our very own Saucy Dance Revolution Party and we shall all move it, move it together!

The rest of the world is getting fatter.

2007-12-26T11:40:00.000-05:00

I have never been so excited to weigh 146 pounds.

Yup, you heard right. The Saucy Vixen just admitted her weight to all five of her faithful readers out there. And in case you, my Saucy Readers, missed it the first time, I shall state it again: I have never been so excited to weigh 146 pounds.

And now, some history: I am only five-foot-two-inches tall. (I never really had a chance at tallhood, what with my father being 5'4" and my mother measuring in at a whopping 5'1".) In High School, my weight topped out at about 148 pounds. In college, instead of gaining, I lost. I went down to a mere 120, which was extremely difficult to maintain; throughout college I pretty much stayed at 125.

Then I graduated. And started a job I hated for a micro-managing boss with a hardcore Napoleon Complex. I found myself in a two-and-a-half year relationship that was amazingly unhealthy. And my weight soared to 165. The summer before law school, I brought it down to 140. But with the bar and my first job public defending, I ended up at a doctor's weigh-in on September 15, at 156.

So I decided to change my life. I started birth control and quit smoking. I got a new job. I started working out four times a week. And I told myself that I was eating better. But I wasn't eating better. Not better at all. Lean Pockets is not "better." Three bowls of cereal for dinner is not "better."

Frustrated with my lack of progress (as I had somehow managed to talk myself into really really thinking I was eating better), I joined Weight Watchers online almost exactly six weeks ago. At 156 pounds. And in those six weeks I lost ten pounds.

Now that in itself would be awesome, right? But it gets BETTER.

I am at my parents' place in Miami right now soaking up the sun. And I found paperwork documenting the physical I underwent before entering undergrad. At 148 pounds, I was in the 80th percentile of weight for people my age and height. How depressing.

And now? I checked. I'm at about the 40th percentile for people my age and height. Which means that even though I'm the same weight I was in high school, everyone else around me has gotten fatter. Cool, huh?

Which is why I've never been so excited to weigh 146 pounds.

Woo-hoo!

Western Massachusetts.

2007-12-16T16:34:00.000-05:00

Here's a tidbit for those of you who don't know:

When people talk about "Western Mass," what they really mean is "West of Boston." They don't even mean "farther West than Worcester." And Worcester is only about a third into the state.

Look at the map, people! There's an entire state out there. Big ol' open spaces. Rolling hillsides. Much more'n the big Can o' Beantown.

Be that as it may, people talk about "Western Mass" as if Boston is the center of the universe. The same way New Yorkers (at least those from The City) refer to Yonkers as "Upstate," not realizing that Dutchess County isn't on another planet. (In fact, it's not even half way up the state.)

How very provincial. When will the city dwellers learn?

Spinal tap update.

2007-12-13T09:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it's not all rainbows and gumdrops.

I felt a-okay on Tuesday, and so I went downstairs, took out the trash, made myself lunch for the next day, and tinkered about for an hour or so. After which, I had a raging pressure headache.

Yesterday, I woke up to go to work. Showered, got dressed. Then realized that the headache from standing or sitting upright was causing severe nausea. So I called the doctor's office. They told me to stay on my back and drink plenty of caffeine, take Tylenol, and stay hydrated. I explained the nausea, and the doc called in a prescription for anti-nausea meds.

I slept for about an hour thereafter, and woke up feeling sick, sick, sick. Picked up the meds at the pharmacy and took one. Which didn't help with the projectile vomiting. So I called Chris all upset, having convinced myself that I was dying from lack of a stomach lining. He came over and fed me soup and crackers and tea and flat Diet Coke. Which was awesome for him.

The problem? I missed another day of work yesterday, and am not going in today because of the pressure. Which I normally wouldn't mind so much, except that this was supposed to be my first full week of work. AND I'm leaving next Friday for a week to visit my parents. I suppose it's good that with my handy-dandy Mac laptop, I can still type and be flat on my back. Cool, huh? (Don't let that conjure up any unsavory images.)

The moral of this story?

Nope, there isn't one. Except that spinal taps suck and make you miss work.

Bedtime stories.

2007-12-11T15:15:00.000-05:00

Last night, being extremely bored, I asked Chris to read me a bedtime story from a children's book I picked up second-hand for a quarter. He read through the options and I chose Hansel and Gretel.

Now, bear in mind, that right before Chris got to bed, I took a sleeping pill. One of the remedies for the post-tap headache is lots of caffeine. So with two cups of coffee coursing through my veins, as well as the tenderness in my back, I knew I'd have a tough go with the whole sleep thing. So I settled in to listen to Chris read Hansel and Gretel, not realizing how loopy the sleeping pill had made me.

The story started off the way it always does, with the children's father all sad because there was not enough food in the larder for all four (the father, step-mother, and two children) to bite or sup. And, of course, the step-mother suggested that they leave the children out in the woods.

At that point, the story that I remembered (and I'd never read this particular version from this particular book) took a strange twist. Hansel got killed, somehow.

So this morning, I e-mailed Chris at work to ask him whether I remembered the strange version correctly. "Did Hansel die in that story you read me?"

He wrote back. "Yes. It was a bit of a twist on the traditional story. A vengeful and jealous God smote Hansel. But his step-mother reanimated him and then the story continued in the regular fashion."

Oh, alright. I accepted that I had come across a very strange version of Hansel and Gretel, and left it at that.

But in my stuck-in-bed boredom, I decided to read the story that I fell asleep during last night. And you know what? God did not smite anyone in this version of Hansel and Gretel! There was no magical reanimation! Chris took advantage of my drug-induced state and deviated from the story, adding religious elements and a not-so-nice God.

I should have him read me bedtime stories more often.

Spinal tap success.

2007-12-11T08:29:00.000-05:00

I had my spinal tap yesterday. And I want to start with the comment a kind reader left for me on my first post regarding the dreaded tap:

I still count my spinal tap as the most painful experience of my entire life. Make sure they give you some proper pain medication. If it isn't an opiate of some kind it isn't good enough.

First of all, who writes this to someone? I was worried enough as it was going in, but a comment like this is just mean and thoughtless. But more importantly, it's just downright wrong. I had my spinal tap yesterday, and I can tell anyone who is at all concerned about getting one: Whoever wrote that comment has clearly never suffered any pain greater than a paper cut.

This isn't to say that the procedure was all hearts and flowers, gumdrops and teddy bears. No. The doctor stuck a big ol' needle in my back. But before doing it, he shot me up with a whole lot of numbing stuff. There was some uncomfortable pressure while the needle went it. And then it was over. My back aches and feels a bit tender, but is no worse than lower back pain one gets during menstruation (I can only assume my helpful commenter was of the male persuasion) I get a dull, throbbing headache when I sit or stand up, but as long as I'm lying down for now, it's nothing that a cup of coffee, orange juice and some Tylenol can't take care of.

In fact, the doctor didn't even bother prescribing me opiates (though I can't really take them anyway). And from what I've heard from others, they only jack up to opiates if there is a consistent and extremely painful headache that lasts more than a day-and-a-half.

And so, to those of you who worried or expressed concern: Thanks. I have a bit of a headache, but I'm feeling a-okay. Chris drove me there and back and made me dinner afterwards and read to me when I got bored of having to lie on my back. (I'm still bored of lying on my back, but at least I get to communicate with you, my lovely, wonderful, caring readers; all two of you readers out there).

Another day of this back-lying-boredom, and then it's back to the new job. And that's what we call spinal tap success.

Part II: Justice?

2007-12-07T18:55:00.000-05:00

New job.

New state.

Words on the courthouse at the old job: Obedience to law is liberty.

Words on the courthouse at the new job: The welfare of the people is the highest law.

And they wonder why I left.

(See Part I here.)

A city built on Rock n' Roll...

2007-12-05T19:40:00.000-05:00

It's the second day of Channukah and I've not gotten any presents yet.

On top of that, my birthday is coming up on January 17. What do I want? I was this t-shirt. It's friggin' awesome!

(And it can be purchased here.)

Enlarge your penis.

2007-12-05T19:25:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to convince Chris to take penis-enlarging drugs.

Why?

Because I think it'd be awesome if his penis shot lasers. Like the Monster Cock.

Clarification: No, I don't really want Chris to get a penis enlargement. He already has a Monster Cock. Really, folks. He's hung. Hung like a jury with a seriously nagging doubt. (I love you, Chris. Thanks for putting up with me discussing your genitals in a public forum.)

On Hebrew school and improper word usage.

2007-12-03T19:54:00.001-05:00

My parents made me go to Hebrew school when I was a kid. It started off as once a week in Kindergarten. By fourth grade, I was going twice a week. And by sixth, it was thrice weekly.

Hebrew school was awful. We learned bible stories, and the teachers weren't too fond of my questioning the faith. The rabbis? Oh, they loved my silly questions, but the teachers were young do-gooder types who weren't quite sure how to handle my rambunctious ways.

Because of this, my folks let me become a Hebrew School Dropout in the eighth grade. The teacher was an ass and we'd all had enough.

And speaking of asses... The most irritating thing about Hebrew school (to me, at least) was improper word usage. In the seventh grade, we had some sort of ceremony (for what, I do not recall). Each of us presented either an English or Hebrew recitation of one of the Ten Commandments.

Saving the best for last, I was to recite the English text of the Tenth Commandment:

You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, his male or female slave, his ox or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's.

You know what they made me do? They made me say the word "donkey" instead of "ass." If they had let me just go ahead and use the A-word, everything would have gone smoothly. But because I was so very irritated that they changed the text for purposes of political correctness, I was so theatrical and so ridiculous in my recitation, that I was the only reciter who got a laugh from the audience.

The most egregious example of word usage tampering during my religious education was during the translation of my Torah portion during my Bat Mitzvah. I read Leviticus 26.3 through 26.13. To be sure, the text of Leviticus 16.13 is as follows:

I am the Lord your G-d who brought you out from the land of Egypt to be their slaves no more, who broke the bars of your yoke and who made you walk erect.

See the problem? If you guessed it was the word "erect," you are correct. Ding ding! I had to say the word "upright."

We all know of my penchant for proper syntax and my distaste of evolving usage (e.g., the fact that "melancholy" is now used as an adjective instead of a noun, the proper adjective form being "melancholic"). Given this, combined with the tampering with religious text for the sake of cleaning it up, is it really any wonder why I grew to hate organized religion?

"Why I need a spinal tap." Or, "Lenscrafters be damned!"

2007-12-02T20:20:00.000-05:00

Back in September, LensCrafters send me a coupon. A huge discount on new frames. Fifty percent off lenses. Yay! Since my glasses are more than two years old, and my visions seems to be a tad blurry in one eye, I went in for an eye exam, and to purchase some new specs.

I got my eye exam, and the optometrist told me that the prescription in my left eye was actually a bit higher than it needed to be. So she wrote up a new prescription. Then she told me that she saw something a bit worrisome in the back of my eyes and wanted to dilate my pupils.

I had never had my pupils dilated before. I get squeamish when it comes to eye drops. Also, I've always been extremely sensitive to light. But because I live only two minutes from LenscCrafters, and because the optometrist was insistent, I reluctantly agreed.

The dilation threw my balance off, and I had to drink a lot of water to keep from throwing up. (Please note that ever since I punctured an eardrum more'n a decade ago, I am particularly affected by anything that has the potential to throw my balance off.) Twenty minutes after the drops went in, I was back in the chair getting lights shined in my eyes.

After that, the optometrist wanted me to take visual fields test to check my peripheral vision.

I failed.

The eye doc sat me down again and explained that she was concerned. I had inflamed optic nerves, the likes of which she had learned about, but never seen. Even more distressing to her what that I seemed to have huge blind spots in my peripheral vision. She referred me to a neuro-opthamologist (there are only two in the state), and wrote him a letter herself.

Last week, I had my appointment. I was given more tests, and my visual fields were tested yet again. And again, I failed. The doc dilated my pupils again and told me the same thing: Inflamed optic nerves. However, he told me my case was "interesting."

"Most patients I have with inflamed optic nerves present with different symptoms," he explained. "They have intense headaches that last for three days. Debilitating headaches with headaches. They also have loss of vision for up to a minute at times. You don't seem to have any of these symptoms."

Right. So what was wrong?

Doc told me that what I have is most likely a congenital defect that I've always had; no one had ever noticed before. The fact that I never noticed a loss of peripheral vision means I've probably always had huge blind spots. The defect is called optic disc drusen. It is un-treatable, yet harmless. However, there is no way to diagnose it.

No way to diagnose it, that is, except for ruling out anything else it could be. Like stuff that would cause pressure on my spinal chord. Like tumors.

Hence the MRI and spinal tap.

Damn, you LensCrafters!

Roller Girl!

2007-11-30T20:34:00.000-05:00

A law school friend and I have decided to take up roller derby.

I am uncoordinated and unathletic. This'll be awesome!

Check up with me in a month to see if I've done it. I'm hoping it won't be like the swing dancing lessons I never took.

Ouch!

2007-11-27T16:25:00.001-05:00

I have to get a spinal tap.

I hear they hurt.

Not cool.

Love the one you're with?

2007-11-26T17:42:00.000-05:00

For a long time, I maintained that the song Escape (more commonly known as The Pina Colada Song) is the saddest song ever written.

Think about it: A guy who's tired of his lady (we'd been together too long; like a worn out recording of a favorite song) responds to a personal ad. Despite the fact that he has a girlfriend, he agrees to meet up with the woman at a bar in Southie. He gets there. She walks in. And who is it? His own lovely lady. And she says, "Oh. It's you." Then they laugh for a moment, and he says, "I never knew that you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, and the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne." To me, the guy sounded like a total douche. He didn't know anything about his girlfriend. They both tried to cheat on each other via the personal ads, and then found each other. Sad, sad, sad.

But then I realized that there's an even sadder song. Two sadder songs, in fact. I realized this during my third year in law school when I was canoodling with AIDS Boy (the boy who convinced himself I gave him AIDS, when he didn't have it -- I clearly didn't, either). I realized it when he told me that the reason he was marrying his fiance, despite the fact that he cheated on her at least thrice, was because she was the "least crazy" woman he'd ever dated.

He was settling down because he thought it was what he was "supposed" to do. He was marrying the girl he'd been with since he was sixteen years old for the same reasons he'd gone to law school instead of film school: (1) His parents wanted him to; and (2) it was the path of least resistance. It was expected of him. It was the right thing to do. Somehow.

The two of us were driving around town once, having eaten lunch and on our way to The Puppy Center (to look at baby Golden Doodles). A song came on:

And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with;
Love the one you're with.
Don't be angry, don't be sad,
Don't sit cryin' over good things you've had,
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something you do...
Love the one you're with.

It fit him. I told him so. "You're marrying this girl just because you you figure you should love the one you're with." He agreed, sort of. He told me how he wanted a wilder woman, a woman who doesn't dress in twin sets all the time, who's less conventional. This soliloquy, of course, ended with the predictable: "I've never met a girl like you before." Which can be a compliment, it's a statement that can make me all melty at times. But not from someone who's engaged. But since he couldn't find a wild woman, a fun woman, an open-minded type, since he always attracted the twin-set-and-pearls type, he was marrying the girl he'd been with for nearly a decade.

Love the one you're with.

In that moment, I decided that Love The One You're With is a sadder song than Escape.

Then I got home and downloaded the song. Or rather, I downloaded a little ol' medley of two songs. And I pondered these lyrics:

You can't always get what you want.
But if you try sometimes, well you just might find
You get what you need.

Whether my friend got what he needed from Twin Set Fiance, I can't say. But that little medley struck me as a marriage of the two saddest songs ever written.

Because after all, if you can't always get what you want, you may as well love the one you're with.

What is your city built on?

2007-11-25T15:53:00.000-05:00

As many of you know, Jefferson Starship believes that "this city" was built on rock and roll.

In an effort not to work on my motion to suppress scheduled for tomorrow, I have decided to do some research regarding what various cities have been built on. Because surely, they can't all be built on rock and roll.

As it turns out, the city in which I live is built both on "compliments by many people" as well as on "the Connecticut River flood plain." Not as exciting as being built on rock and roll, is it?

So I've turned to the city in which I currently work. Ah. It's built on "low and level ground."

Boring!

What about Columbus, Ohio, where I went to high school? A tad bit more interesting: "The real Columbus is built on the people whose families have been here for more then a century, the hard working men and women who work the land." This should not be confused with the Knights of Columbus, which is built on patriotism. (Clearly, Columbus, Ohio is not built on patriotism.)

I've lived in other places, as well. Like Boston. And let me tell you, Boston is a jackpot. It's built on "specific types of man-made land." Other parts of Boston are built on tidal flats. In short, Boston is built on a collection of peninsulas.

And so it goes. Having established that few, in any cities, are built on rock and roll, I ask you, gentle readers, to share: What is your city built on?

The only thing I remember from torts...

2007-11-23T19:49:00.000-05:00

This may very well be the only case I really remember from first year torts class (not counting Palsgraf, of course).

"We are called upon to determine whether United Airlines took adequate measures to deal with that elementary notion of physics - what goes up, must come down. For, while the skies are friendly enough, the ground can be a mighty dangerous place when heavy objects tumble from overhead compartments."

Andrews v. American Airlines

What not to do the morning after Thanksgiving.

2007-11-23T13:55:00.001-05:00

Go to the gym.

Suffer through a workout burping up turkey and pie.

Not a good idea.

Don't use Bank of America.

2007-11-20T07:29:00.000-05:00

Let this be a recommendation not to use Bank of America.

I was formerly a BankBoston customer. Which then got bought by Fleet. Which was then bought by Bank of America. My primary checking account is t an online checking account that bears an interest rate of over 4%. I still maintain my Bank of America account so that I can deposit my house-mate's rent check without having to mail it in. That is the only thing I use it for. However, to avoid a maintenance fee, I need to keep a balance of $750 in the account. While I can do this, I find it annoying.

So. I decided to see if there's any way I can reduce my minimum balance without paying a maintenance fee (which is ridiculous, really; they're the ones making money by holding my cash; I get little out of it). I saw a Special Offer(!) on the web site. For a Limited Time Only, Bank of America was waiving the service fee on a different account that did not require a minimum balance.

Awesome. I called and switched.

Then I read the fine print. And called back.

As it turns out, in order to waive the fee, one needs to have at least one monthly direct deposit into the account. Unless, of course, one opens the account online. 'Cause it's an Exclusive Online Offer. Which, as I mentioned, is for a Limited Time Only. I don't do direct deposit on that account; it goes into my online interest-bearing account.

So I called back. And confirmed that they are, indeed, assholes.

Me: So you're telling me that your existing customers have to pay the fee, while new customers do not?

Phone Rep: Well, it is a promotional offer.

Me: Well, switch my account back. Which I will be closing next week.

Phone Rep: Sure. Is there anything else we can help you with today?

Don't use Bank of America.

I'll keep you posted on who has better deals.