The Vapors, Vintavoyeurism, and the Paula Deen Effect

One of the most popular articles on this site is “Five Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn“, which means that you are all vintavoyeurs like me.

Vintavoyeur (noun) – those who are fascinated with the sexuality of people from the past.


“He spends all day locked in his room with old Playboys from the 1960s, he’s such a vintavoyeur.”

See boys, I just made you sound like a classy connoisseur of antique pornography, and not just some dude jerking it to a box of porn mags he found when he was cleaning out his dead grandpa’s attic. You could totally put “Vintavoyeur” on your online dating profile and get more hits because women will find it intriguing. And then 6 months into your relationship, when she stops by your house early to surprise you and gets pissed because she found you passed out in your room with an old copy of Penthouse and a wet, dirty sock half-hanging off your wang, you can say, “You have no right to be pissed, you knew from the very beginning that I’m a vintavoyeur” and then she’ll be all, “I don’t even know what that MEANS, I just saw it on your dating profile and thought it was french. YOU DON’T EVEN SPEAK FRENCH!”. And then you can be all smug and say, “Well, that’s what you get for not bothering to ask me about it. It’s like you don’t even care about my interests, you just like that I look good on paper.”

And then she’ll look like a selfish, uncaring bitch and you win.

You’re welcome guys, you are welcome.

Vintavoyeurism, the difference between a perv...

Vintavoyeurism, the difference between a perv…

and a classy gentleman.

and a classy gentleman.

If any of you actually read the text around the Victorian porn pictures, you’ll see that I’m working on a historical fiction book that centers around the south, and one of the most intriguing things I’ve learned in my research is about an old medical condition called “the Vapors”. The Vapors:

In the Victorian era, a wide variety of conditions that primarily affected women were referred to as “the vapors.” Women were viewed as fundamentally weak during this period, and they were also believed to be more susceptible to a range of medical complaints. The stereotypical Victorian image of a woman swooning against a couch is a classic depiction of a woman who has been overcome by the vapors. Currently, this is not a recognized medical diagnosis. (, but corroborated by tons of other sources who didn’t define it as concisely.)

WHY is this no longer a medical diagnosis?! Is it because we are no longer required to wear a hundred pounds of clothing in 100 degree weather and so don’t swoon as much? Because it doesn’t mean that we don’t want to. I love swooning and would personally swoon at least 3 times a day if swooning were permitted. Especially if it meant that Calm-ass Husband would finally have to break down and buy me a fainting couch.

I'd put it right next to his gaming spot so that when he's spending too much time gaming and I need attention, i can just swoon next to him.

I’d put it right next to his gaming spot so that when he’s spending too much time gaming and I need attention, i can just swoon next to him.

How much easier would our lives be if the Vapors were still around? We could blame everything on it. Nowadays all we have to blame stuff on is our periods, but this only typically works with our significant others. It’s not like we can go to our bosses and be like, “Sorry I was a bitch to you this morning, I’m on my period.” But we could go to our bosses and say, “Sorry I was out of sorts this morning, I have the Vapors.” Then to prove our point, we would swoon on the nearby fainting couch that would now be mandated in all working environments to prevent all of the workers comp head injury claims.

The Vapors would work anywhere, too, not just work. At the house of a friend of your significant other’s who you hate? No problem, meekly say, “I have the Vapors” and swoon. You’re significant other will be hustling you home to wipe your brow with a cold rag in no time. Arguing with a store manager about the fact that you are trying to return a dress that you both know you’ve worn at least a handful of times and he’s saying he won’t take it because of the deodorant stains? Just hold the back of your hand to your forehead and utter, “Oh dear, I’m afraid this stress is giving me the Vapors” and swoon. You’ll be walking out of there with your money back before you know it.

Granted, I’m sure many of you are saying, “But Wiseass Wife, this will surely set the women’s movement back 100 years.” Don’t worry, we’re good. Do you think 100 years ago a woman would have had the audacity to set up a blog where she lets loose a tirade of asinine and foul thoughts? No, she wouldn’t have even been allowed to get online. Plus, I say if we introduce it quietly enough, no one will really notice. We can basically have our cake and eat it, too. We’ll have the younger girls and elderly women start it since these things are generally more tolerated from them. It’s the Paula Deen effect.

The Paula Deen effect – The phenomenon whereby racist, sexist, and other things considered offensive are only considered so when uttered by anyone between the ages of 12 years old and 70 years old.


  1. “I cannot believe Paula Deen said the ‘n’ word, I hope she goes down in flames, that wretched dragon woman.”
  2. “You have got to come to my family barbecue this weekend, my 90-year old grandma gets drunk and starts spewing racist profanities. It’s hilarious.”

and here is the 3rd example, which I borrowed from my friend Jenny, who actually received this from a classmate as a child. Hilarious, right?

Would not be so funny if this were from someone between the ages of 12-70 years old.

Would not be so funny if this were from someone between the ages of 12-70 years old.

I think I’ve made my case. Unfortunately, writing is hard work and it has given me the Vapors. I’m off to swoon.


I’m Officially in Valium Withdrawal. Also, I Use My Nipples as an Icebreaker Now.

It’s official: I’m in Valium withdrawal.

Note: Symptoms include fuzzy brain, and every time I re-read this thing, I find a shit-ton of typos, and I seem to be wavering back and forth between tenses. So, I’ve done the best I can with the fried brain that Valium has left me. Apologies for anything glaringly wrong.

After only 3 weeks of use, I’m full-on addicted. Which is weird because I’m not even craving more of it, let alone whoring myself out for a few hits of the “Yellow Vs”.

Note: Yellow Vs is the street name for the 5mg Valium pills. And to prove how much I’m not a Valium junkie, I had to Google “street name for Valium”.

But there I was on Monday night, feeling like I was having a heart attack. The shittiest part of it is that I was in the middle of making dinner for “Anniversary v2.0”. I felt so terrible after I so viciously poisoned Calm-ass Husband at Anniversay v1.o, that I wanted to make him another special dinner that did not cause projectile vomiting.

When I Googled "Valium addiction", this came up on a website for a treatment center in Kansas. I'm pretty sure that is a sexual assault picture. I guess if you're a Valium addict, you're more likely to get sexually assaulted. Also, I don't know which symptom "dehydrat" is, but it sounds scary.

When I Googled “Valium addiction”, this came up on a website for an addiction treatment center in Kansas. Unless “man hands” is a symptom of Valium withdrawal, I’m pretty sure that is a sexual assault picture. Also, I don’t know which symptom “dehydrat” is, but it sounds scary. Also, I hope I never have to get addiction treatment in Kansas.

But apparently our anniversary dinners are cursed because, halfway through making dinner, I was sweating profusely and my heart was pounding. It felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. Then I started to feel like I felt like I was going to throw up. So I finished making dinner (because I’m a fucking trooper) and went to bed with the hopes that it would be better in the morning. By the next morning, it wasn’t, so I decided to give the good ole’ advice nurse a jingle.

Nurse: This is Nurse (name changed to protect innocent nurses), how can I help you?
Me: Hi Nurse, my heart has been beating really fast since last night. I feel like I’m having a heart attack, I think. I’ve never had one before, so I’m not sure.
Nurse: Have you ever experienced this before?
Me: Well, it’s not unusual for this to happen a little right before I’m about to get my period, and I’m on the 28th day of my cycle, so the timing is normal, but the duration is not.
Nurse: I’m sorry, my phone is cutting in and out, what did you say?
Me: I said it’s somewhat normal because I’m on the 28th day of my cycle.
Me: No, no….but if I were, I think I could have figured out the cause of my fast heart rate on my own.

So she finally told me to come in and see my doctor and made an appointment for that morning. When I got in, a young intern of about 18 checked me in, and then the nurse overseeing her came in and told me to take off my top and bra so they could place EKG leads. She asked me if I’ve ever had an EKG and I mentioned I had one right before my breast reduction surgery.

I whipped off my top and bra and laid back while they both started placing the leads around my boobs. Before long they were commenting on how great my breast reduction scars turned out. Then it got really quiet as they were placing EKG leads/examining my boob scars. It got a little awkward, so I, being at practically near-Harvard-level genius when it comes to making awkward situations even more awkward, blurted out,

“They put my nipples back on sideways!”

Both of them froze and slowly looked down at my nipples. So I go on to say, “I still have tiny scars from when my nipples were pierced during my young and wild days and, when I woke up from surgery, the holes were vertical instead of horizontal.”

NOT my pierced nipples, but an idea of how the holes would look were my nipples on me the right way. Now they're top to bottom. Also, if this chick isn't in a band called, "Nips Take Flight," she's missing a golden opportunity.

NOT my pierced nipples, but an idea of how the holes would look were my nipples on me the right way. Now they’re top to bottom. Also, if this chick isn’t in a band called, “Nips Take Flight,” she’s missing a golden opportunity.

“Wow!”, they exclaimed as they both leaned in and moved my boobs to the center to look closer at my nipples. It was at that point that the doctor moved my left boob aside to listen to my heart. So I’m pretty sure I was in a 4-way girl orgy that day.

After the doctor read my EKG and further listened to my heart she assured me, “You’re fine, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your heart.”

“Ok”, I said in disbelief, “so am I just crazy? Because it feels like it’s going to pop right out of my chest.”

She took a look at the long list of medications I’ve been on since I was diagnosed with a bulging disc. “Which of these medications are you still taking?”, she asked suspiciously. I told her that I was only on the anti-inflammatory, and that I stopped taking the Valium a few days before because the pain was better.

Doctor: Did you just stop, or did you wean yourself off of the Valium?
Me: I just stopped.
Doctor: You’re not supposed to just stop, you have to wean yourself off of it.
Me: Ok, no one said anything about that; what does this have to do with my phantom heart attack?
Doctor: You’re in Valium withdrawal.
Me: WHAT? That’s a THING? I’m not even craving it. I was only on it for 3 weeks. And I researched my symptoms online and Dr. Google said that I am clearly having a heart attack.
Doctor: Your heart is fine. You’re in withdrawal. It will go away soon, but in the mean time, no chocolate, alcohol or coffee until the withdrawal is over.
Me: (muttering) Great, this withdrawal may as well fucking kill me now.
Doctor: I’m sorry?
Me: Nothing, thanks, I’m going to go home and wait to see dead babies crawl across my ceiling.

So I went home and waited for my transformation from loving wife, to Tyrone Biggoms.


But instead of Tyrone, I turned into the Hulk. Because anxiety turned into irritability, which turned into full-on rage. And lots of sweating. I was basically rage-sweating. And try as I might to relax on the couch, poor CAH’s presence was giving me what I imagine roid-rage feels like.


So CAH set about to looking up symptoms of Valium withdrawal, because they hadn’t been fully explained to me at the doctor and I assumed it would just be the racing heart.

CAH: Look, it says here that, um, extreme irritability is a symptom of Valium. So…
Me: Yeah, I’m sorry I called you a fucking dickhead earlier. It was the withdrawal talking.
CAH: I didn’t hear you call me that.
Me: Hmmm?

So the cautionary tale here is that, if you are ever on Valium, wean yourself off that shit.

But another takeaway here, ladies, is that you should never underestimate the value of your nipples as an icebreaker.

It’s worked for the Kardashians time..


and time…



kris jenner nipple

Typos Suck, and I Have a Bulging Disc, Not a Bulging Dick

Just like when Calm-ass Husband tells me about his job, my eyes glaze over when people tell me about their medical problems. I’m an empathy-based listener, so telling me, “I’ve been in the worst pain of my life” will get more of my attention than “I have cancer”. It’s not that I don’t care that you have cancer, I just better identify with how you are actually feeling.

That is why I have not really mentioned my injury. The injury that has kept me from posting regularly the last few months. I assume you will be just as bored as I am when people talk about medical problems. And I won’t go into detail.

I have a bulging disc. Or as I almost sent in an email to my 60-something neighbor before proof-reading it, a “bulging dick”.

It hurts, it sucks, blah blah blah. Calm-ass Husband had to take me to the ER for lidocaine injections twice because my shoulder was spasming, whine whine.

But I swear, I’ve been down and in tons of pain and that’s why I’ve been MIA. Look, here’s proof:

A fuck load of drugs, which, btw, don't do shit for a bulging disc.

A fuck load of drugs, which, btw, don’t do shit for a bulging disc.

And drugs don’t do shit for a bulging disc, by the way. I got Percocet, which vaguely helped, but then while doing research on it, I kept reading things from other Percocet users like, “I’m up to 8 a day”, and, “When I stop taking it, the withdrawals make me vomit.” which terrified me and so I’ve only taken it twice.

But you readers are ON MY FUCKING ASS. Which, ok, I kind of love. But I’ve been getting emails of “where did you go”, and comments from friends, such as, “I noticed you haven’t posted on Wiseass Wife in awhile.” And then my friend Collin on Facebook, after BADGERING ME RELENTLESSLY TO THE POINT WHERE I WAS CURLED UP IN A BALL IN TEARS about my choice to not have kids (ok, ok, fine, it was one Facebook comment and I found it kind of cute and endearing), mentioned something about it.

So I will explain the highlights and lowlights of my life while I’ve been in chronic pain and on drugs so that you understand why there’s not been much to write about because I’ve literally been the most boring person on the planet (and don’t say I didn’t warn you):

Highlight #1: Tending to my garden

Look at my bush!

Look at my bush!

Most of my free days are spent in awe of the fact that I’ve managed to keep plants alive. Look how bushy my lemon balm and sweet potatoes have become. Which leads me to #2.

Highlight#2: Tending to my downstairs garden without sobbing

The main body part that has been affected by my bulging disc has been my right shoulder and arm. The pain has been excruciating. And of course the assholes at the ER were all, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?”. On the first visit I said, “I hate this question, because I’m sure if my arm had just been cut off, that would definitely be a 10, but I can say this is the worst pain that I have ever felt in my life.” The second time I went to the ER and they asked me that question, it was after I begged my primary care physician, a female Kaiser doctor in San Rafael, for pain meds, and she declined me because “pain medication can be habituating” (even though I don’t have a history of addiction), so my answer was something to the effect of, “THE SAME FUCKING THING IT WAS LAST TIME BECAUSE NOT A GOD DAMNED FUCKING THING HAS BEEN DONE ABOUT IT SINCE THE FIRST FUCKING TIME I WAS IN THIS GOD DAMN FUCKING PLACE.”, to which the nurse said, “So I’ll take that as a “10” on the pain scale.” Then he asked me, in front of my husband, if I “felt safe at home”. I told CAH that he should have given me a stern look and said, “You know what to say,” but I guess he was too “concerned” about my “sobbing” and “screaming of obscenities” to take advantage of the colossal failure of Kaiser Permanente to offer a safe space for potentially battered women.

This is one of the symptoms I noted on my intake form.

This is one of the symptoms I noted on my intake form.

I’m sorry, I digress. I often get distracted by the massive failure of Kaiser Permanente to actually do something productive. And all you Kaiser patients who have found them to be “not so bad”, give it time: they’ll miss your breast lump or colon mass soon enough, and catch it just in time for your funeral. Here’s my personal list:

1. My sweet family friend Doug: stomach problems diagnosed as “indigestion” by Kaiser. Sent home with anti-acids and told to “wait it out”. Died a year later from metastasized stomach cancer. Kissing his cold, hard cheek, one last time while he lay in his casket was not the highlight of my life.

2. My best friend’s grandfather: lung mass operation postponed for a month because his Kaiser doctor went on vacation. Died 6 months later from metastasized cancer. Hope that vacation was worth it.

3. My neighbor’s wife’s breast cancer: presented as a bruise on her breast with “orange-peel-like” consistency. Sent home with instructions to give it time to heal (much like mine). Died within the year of breast cancer.

And then my own personal issue with them 10 years ago, which I won’t divulge publicly, but let’s just say, they owe me one. So when I do walk in there and ask them to tie my tubes, I don’t want to hear any bullshit about me only being 35 with no kids. Just tie those fuckers and be glad I didn’t sue your negligent asses.

So needless to say, can’t wait until hubby has open enrollment and we can switch to insurance that doesn’t concern themselves more with how much money they can make per patient, than actual diagnostic work-up.

Oh, also, I’m still waiting for my return phone call, Jamison.

Although big ups to my AMAZING physical therapist and spinal surgeon. Kaiser must have outsourced the hiring the days they were hired.

Anyhoo, my right arm is my predominant arm. Which has made most things I do regularly, such as writing, very painful. So the high point of my life recently was shaving my hoo-ha without sobbing hysterically, charging out of the shower, throwing my razor at CAH and screaming, “YOU BETTER APPRECIATE THIS, MOTHERFUCKER, AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE SPOTTY PATCHES I COULDN’T REACH.”

Seriously, guys. you can’t appreciate the squatting, pulling, and grunting that goes into making our girly bits all pretty and smooth for you. And as I established in a prior post, my vagina is my best feature. Well, I pointed out in a prior post that I wanted to write about how my vagina is my best feature, but CAH strongly requested that I didn’t. So out of respect for my husband, I won’t point out how it’s like two little butterflies fluttering around a pink rose. It’s a work of art.

But writing about it is just one of the ways that my husband and I don’t see eye to eye. Which brings me to the next point.

Highlight #3: My husband and I don’t agree on everything and that is ok.

I recently watched an episode of Private Practice (don’t judge me, being home alone, hopped up on drugs, makes you binge watch things you wouldn’t normally watch) and a baby was born with some androgynous defect where it had both a penis and a vagina and had a 70% chance of identifying as a girl and 30% as a boy. The parents had to decide whether to assign it a gender, or let it grow older and decide. So I explained this predicament to CAH and said:

Me: Let’s see how like-minded we are. At the count of 3, we each say what we would do in this situation.

CAH: Ok….

Me: 1…2….3….


We were both stunned. I was stunned that he went with “girl” and he was stunned that he didn’t think of “drown it”. Clearly he’s never seen the “Joy Luck Club”.

Highlight #4: I went to the World War Z premier and saw Brad Pitt

‘Nuff said

Highlight #5: Birds came to my homemade bird feeder and I assumed a SWAT posture and filmed them.

Again, ’nuff said

Highlight #6: While looking for a new general practitioner, I read the best doctor review ever.


Highlight #7: I unsubscribed from American Apparel newsletters because they had the audacity to send two newsletters in one day.

And let’s face it, no one is actually buying their overpriced basics. We just go to the website for the half-naked models.

Screen shot 2013-06-29 at 12.01.48 AM Screen shot 2013-06-29 at 12.02.32 AM Screen shot 2013-06-29 at 12.04.14 AM Screen shot 2013-06-29 at 12.07.20 AM Screen shot 2013-06-29 at 12.07.59 AM

And now you know why posts have been scarce. But the good news is that I’m beginning to feel much better and so will work to increase them back to normalcy as soon as possible.

Have a good weekend!

Not All Men From Las Vegas Are Douchebags (For Ladies with Little Boobies, Everywhere)

As I mentioned last week, I will be writing a weekly column for, where readers are invited to write in with questions they may have about sex, and I will answer them with the all the authority of someone with absolutely no medical/professional background. I invited people on Facebook to write to thewiseasswife at gmail dot com with their questions, and got an anecdote that was so hilarious, I couldn’t not share it.

It’s not a question, so much as a hilarious story from a friend of mine, about meeting her boyfriend, and having tiny boobs. When she sent it to me, I knew it was gold and had to be posted here. Enjoy:

Seven years ago my good friend, Julie, introduced me to my now boyfriend Tom. Having just gotten out of a drama ridden ten year relationship I had no intention of even tapping my big toe into the flames awaiting outside of the frying pan I had just leaped out of. He was incredibly attractive, so I knew that I at least wanted to have sex with him. However, there were only two tangible facts I knew about him thanks to Julie’s boyfriend (man friends don’t really provide the greatest information).

He was born and raised in Las Vegas. All I could picture was the parade of vaginas, albeit bedazzled and well groomed vaginas, that he must have been exposed to. I envisioned a pie chart (pun intended) entitled TOM’S EXPOSURE TO LAS VEGAS VAGINAS BY CATEGORY where the largest slice was relegated to stripper-ginas, the next to cocktail-waitress-ginas and finally the smallest sliver to the wanna-be-stripper-or-cocktail-waitress-girls-from-his-high-school-ginas.

Screen shot 2013-04-16 at 9.33.51 AM

He had only ever dated girls with big-ol’-boobies. To be clear, I think boobies are fabulous but as a grown ass adult who could still fit into a Hannah Montana tween bra, I knew he’d be in for a whole new landscape. Based on my limited research comprised mostly of visits to Las Vegas for bachelorette parties, I knew Las Vegas as not only the land of bedazzled vaginas, but the land of big-ol’-boobies be they fake or God given.

Fast forward a couple of months and many, many rum & Cokes later to one of our very first make out sessions. Oh the kissing and the grinding and the…painfully obvious avoidance of second base. He rubbed my back, my ass and strangely even my stomach. It became so distracting that I started to fixate on the image evolving in my mind. I saw myself as a child’s playground where the tan bark is the imaginary lava. Avoiding the lava is the cardinal rule. DON’T TOUCH THE LAVA! Except in this case my tiny boobs were the lava. Was he thinking in his head, “DON’T TOUCH THE TINY BOOBS!”

I had had enough. Being in my 30’s and having come out of that aforementioned ten year debacle of a relationship, I was far more bold than I had ever been. I already am what friends call “filter challenged”, meaning that the filter between my mind and my mouth rarely function as society would like it to. I broke from the lip lock and blurted out, “Are you afraid of my boobs?”

He visibly shuttered. Seems my question, while poignant, was a tad shocking even for a guy born and raised in sin city. Fortunately, my self esteem was not in danger because of two things:

1) I had gotten over being self conscious about my boobs over a decade ago.

2) I live in a world where if I really wanted boobies of big ol’ proportions, I could go out & buy them.

I really, really wanted my boobies touched, so if this guy wasn’t going to be willing to work through this, then game over.
His response was completely unexpected. I’m not even sure what answer I expected. I suppose, I thought he’d get defensive and things would fall apart and that would be fine because I was perfectly content with dying in a one bedroom apartment where myself and my future pack of ten cats lived.

“I’m afraid to hurt you”, he said, “I mean afraid to hurt them, I guess.” I immediately thought, “Jesus! What the hell does he intend to do to my poor boobs?! Is he going to clean & jerk them?” The room quickly went from sexy hot to “can we please open a window or turn on a fan before I die” kind of hot. Awkward.

I assured him that this was not a legitimate concern, but that I was thrilled with his honesty. That exchange actually set the tone for our entire relationship. Me saying painfully awkward things and him compelled to respond with painful honesty. It has worked for seven years. He has learned, with some instruction and encouragement, how to manage tiny tweenager-sized boobs with great skill and he has yet to hurt me. In this case, a little honesty went a long way. My boobs still thank me.

Pinterest’s War Against Boobs, An Open Letter to Pinterest

Pinterest recently notified me that it removed one of my pins, entitled Evgeniya Rudaya, because it is considered too nude. The offensive hardcore pornographic picture in question:

evgeniya rudaya

Horribly offensive photo

This devil’s photo prompted Pinterest to send the following email:

Hi Jess Harris,

I’m sorry to say that we had to remove one of your pins from Pinterest. The reason is, it looks like the pin may have had nudity on it.

The pin was called “Evgeniya Rudaya” and it was on your board Keepin’ the marriage fresh. Could you please remove any other pins like this from your account?

Right now we don’t allow nudity on Pinterest, because a lot of people use our site at work and around their families. We’ve outlined all this in our acceptable use policy.

If we made a mistake and your pin didn’t have nudity on it, we’re really sorry. Please let us know so we can keep improving our process.

Thanks so much for using Pinterest.
The Pinterest Team

While I respect Pinterest’s guidelines, I respectfully disagree with this decision. So I wrote them back:

Dear Pinterest,

You recently emailed me to say you removed one of my pins because it contained nudity. I located that pin (attached) – which by the way is all over Pinterest in other pins – will those be removed as well?

I disagree that this pin constitutes nudity for two reasons:

1) The lovely model in the picture is wearing a negligee and, although it is see-through, there are strategically placed shadows covering any bits that might offend Pinterest’s gentle sensibilities. If you squint really hard, you can see the outline of a nipple, but to me nudity entails a private part hitting you directly in the eye. Well, maybe not in a literal sense – but if you see a nude, you know it right away without having to squint. Also, how is seeing a hint of a breast in this context somehow worse than the breastfeeding pictures on Pinterest? (Nothing against breastfeeding pictures, they’re lovely, I’m just saying I don’t get the difference)

2) As you noted in your email, the pin was removed from the board that I have entitled “Keepin’ the Marriage Fresh.” Why would I pin a nude picture to a board meant to keep my marriage fresh? Isn’t that pinning the blatantly obvious? I know that simply stripping nude will do the trick, I don’t need to pin a picture of a naked girl as a reminder that I should get naked every now and then to keep the husband happy. That would be like having a board entitled “Teeth,” and then pinning pictures of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and floss.

I think that Pinterest is meant for inspiration and I find it a shame that such a pretty and tasteful picture is considered too pornographic. Especially for a website that consistently allows the quote, “We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.” to be attributed to Dr. Seuss, when anyone with HALF a brain knows that it was from the book True Love, by Robert Fulghum! Are nude women REALLY worse than the flagrant misquoting of authors?

Also, my husband grew up in England and he says that boobs are on TVs everywhere. Boobs are even in their newspapers. Bare boobs. I’d also like to point out that England has less gun violence than America. I think it is because America shows more violence in media than boobs, and perhaps if we balanced out the violence in media with more boobs, there wouldn’t be so much violence in the real world. This is where Pinterest has the opportunity to create more peace. With boobs. Be the change, Pinterest.

The offensive pin you removed is attached. I was in a bit of a conundrum as I didn’t want to send it to you as-is and risk offending you all over again, but I also needed it to be original so that you could see what I was describing in reason 1. In the end I compromised and only covered her right breast. If the left breast is still too overwhelming, I suggest closing your left eye and seeing if that helps.

Jess Harris
the Wiseass Wife

Only half as offensive

Only half as offensive


And if you’d like to pin this article, here is a “non-offensive” version of the picture to pin:



Five Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn (Complete with Semi-Pornographic Victorian Pictures)

Why am I looking at Victorian porn, you ask? Perfectly reasonable question.

victorian porn

Well, aside from my curiosity over the assertion of others that women used to have pubic hair, I’ve been quietly writing a book. The book is a historical fiction, and even though it is fiction, it is still historical. Therefore, the book should probably be somewhat accurate so that when it gets published and becomes wildly successful, the history snobs can’t sit there and be like, “Well Worthington (historical snob name), she would have a perfectly fine book on her hands were it not for the fact that she described the house’s study as having a copy of Emile Gallé’s Écrits Pour l’art 1884-89, which is preposterous since her story takes place in 1907, and we know that Galle’s book was not published until 1908.” And then Worthington would be like, “Mmmmm, quite right Alexander. Perhaps in her next book she will claim the lady of the house was using a tea bag in 1902.”

Fucking Worthington and Alexander. Judgemental bastards.

Because there are seedy elements in this book, I am doing major research on the seedy life of the Victorian era. Those were some kinky mo fos.



I won’t even touch the rampant incest that is lacing Victorian porn, but I will say that incest was seriously no big deal. I guess the sex-pool was scant back then? I don’t know – that is a question for Worthington and Alexander – but there were a lot of siblings getting busy.


victorian porn

But brother-lovin’ aside, here are five things I learned while reading a lot of Victorian porn:

1. They were really into hair. Like, not just in the normal spots it grows, but a girl with hairy nipples, or hair on her back, was considered a serious sex pot. The hairier, the merrier.

2. Casual sex often meant addressing the person formally, like, “Oh Mrs. Rose, do let me kiss your thighs.” I find it charming – when did booty calls become so informal?

3. Instead of turning out the lights, they shut off the gas. Of course, naughty Victorian girls left the gas on.

4. They often referred to the man’s penis as “the little gentleman.” How cute is that? It makes me picture a dignified penis, wearing a top hat and a monocle. I’m kind of thinking of renaming CAH’s to “the little gentleman.” I’m not sure if he will be up for that. He is definitely not up for the tiny top hat and monocle. I already asked.

5. The vagina is referred to as “Lady Jane.” Some may know this euphemism from the book Lady Chatterly’s Lover, but turns out that D.H. Lawrence was not the originator of this formal style of vaginal address. Of course, I do not know if “Lady Jane” was used across all classes. Lower class women’s vaginas were probably called, “Mrs. Jane,” like how servants were addressed. Or if it were an unmarried vagina, “Miss Jane.” Of course, it would have been “Ms. Jane” if it was a progressive vagina.

“But referring to a vagina as ‘Ms.’ does not denote a feminist vagina. The term Ms. was actually first proposed in 1901 to save people embarassment from improperly addressing a woman whose marital status was unknown.”

Shut up, Worthington.

victorian porn