The Phantom Blower.

The Phantom Blower is at it again.

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

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

Daily Confession.

I have a crush on someone.

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

The novelty is amusing and entertaining, though.

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

Weight Watchers if following me.

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

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

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

Weight Watchers is following me.

My friends tell me I'm paranoid.

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

The futility of toilet paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My life is boring.

I had nothing to say.

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

Moving on...

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

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

Now let's talk substance.

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

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

That means you, too, Beyonce.

They should have made the bleeding stop.

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

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

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

The Saucy Vixen... Live!

You heard it....

Live! On the Internets!

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

Please make the bleeding stop.

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

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

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

I changed the radio station, stat. And heard:

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

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

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

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

I turned the radio off. I was stressed.

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

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

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

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

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

"Keep breathing."

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

Dear Deity, please make the bleeding stop.

Things that annoy me.

In no particular order.

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

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

3. Jewel.
'Nuff said.

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

To be continued...

Hitched.

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

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

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