How to Be Super Creepy with Your Doctor, Courtesy of Calm-Ass Husband

A lag in writing has been mostly due to my being ill. Like, SICK. Luckily, I’m feeling much better, but as if my body didn’t make it clear enough to me that it’s pissed off, I finished my illness off with a UTI.

Those of you who are longtime readers of my blog, in addition to clearly being raging perverts, probably remember that I am prone to UTIs. The last major one that I had ended up with Calm-ass Husband rushing me to the emergency room because it progressed so fast and furious that it turned into a kidney infection. That was when I had morphine for the first time, and immediately began a stream of verbal diarrhea that trumps any kind I’ve had after too many glasses of wine. It began with essentially hitting on my nurse (in my defense, she was insanely hot), and ended with mortifying Calm-ass Husband, who was then Calm-ass Boyfriend, in front of the doctor.

The doctor told Calm-ass Boyfriend that I had a urinary tract infection and began to list the reasons why I might have one, when I piped up,“It’s because we only see each other on the weekends and so we don’t get to do it during the week, so when he visits me we have a lot, a lot, a lot of sex. Like…a LOT.”

I’ve only seen CAH freeze with a smile on his face like that one other time, which was the first time he accompanied me to Colorado to visit my mom. She’d end up informing us that coconut oil is a fantastic natural lube. To her credit, she is totally right.

Sadly, this UTI is not bad enough to warrant more of the magical truth serum that removes the flimsy filter I have shoddily duct taped between my brain and my mouth. It did warrant my doctor stressing absolutely no sex until after my antibiotics are done. He said other things too, that were probably more important, but that is what I zeroed in on. I IM’d CAH as soon as I got off the phone.

Me: Bad news, no sex til after I’m done with my antibiotics.
CAH: Who said that??
Me: The doctor
CAH: Well….did he say what he defines as sex???
Me: Uh, no, and I didn’t ask
CAH: WHY NOT?

“Hey doc, when you say “no sex,” what do you define as sex? Are we talking p in the v specifically – or does hand and mouth stuff count, too?”

To be fair, it IS San Francisco, I’m sure he’s been asked worse.

The Mrs. Cunt Fungus Saga Continues: How to Stop Your Nosey Neighbors from Snooping Through Your Trash

Many of you may remember my neighbor, a lady I affectionately call Mrs. Cunt Fungus. Mrs. Cunt Fungus is the cunt down the street from me who insists on making snide and passive aggressive comments about my dogs, blissfully unaware of the fact that I will cut a bitch for messing with my dogs.

Well it had been a blissful few months without so much as a peep from Mrs. Cunt Fungus and her life partner, Mrs. Sloppy Slit. Until today.

See, Calm-ass Husband and I recently ordered a small dumpster to clear our house of unneeded stuff. I love days when we get rid of stuff. It’s so cleansing.

But leave it to Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit to ruin this beloved time for me.

Calm-ass Husband came home from work early today, to meet a repairman who was coming by to repair our leaky washer. When he pulled up to our house, he found Sloppy Slit in our driveway, looking through our fucking dumpster. She understandably looked shocked, likely expecting that she would get away with her shameless dumpster diving in the middle of the day, in the middle of a work week.

CAH got out of his car and gave her a “WTF?” look, and she went on to say how she is a “recycler,” noticed the stuff we were throwing away, and would like to keep a few things we tossed. CAH, being nice and calm, cleaned the stuff off and gave it to her. Then called me to tell me what happened, betting that I’d have a less rational response.

He was right. He knows me well.

But I decided to be a bigger person and do the rational thing. Not having the contact information for Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit, I contacted our HOA, relayed what happened, and expressed my concern over neighbors possibly hurting themselves on broken glass and loose nails if rummaging through our trash. The HOA president responded with an equal level of concern, said she’d contact our property managers, and have them take care of it.

Then I went home, found 6 condoms left over from my and CAH’s days of dating, filled them with Cetaphil face cleanser, and strew them and the wrappers all over the surface of our trash.

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The “Get Rid of Nosey Neighbors Kit”. Yeah, I’m a lucky girl.

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If anything, they’ll be concerned about Wes’s hydration, considering, if they’re keeping track, these condoms appeared in the last 12 hours. I overdid it on that 3rd one from the bottom. That’s a quintuplet load.

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The staged “evidence”

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No corner of our dumpster was left untouched.

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I made sure that the “mother load” was front and center.

So, Cunt Fungus and Sloppy Slit, have fun rifling through my  and my husband’s staged night of fun. We made it extra creamy for you.

The Review of My Wedding Photographer I Wasn’t Allowed to Put on Yelp

Calm-ass Husband keeps me honest. Well, he keeps me socially polite, anyways. Most of the time I’m annoyed on the rare occasions that he makes me be nice, but I’m always grateful in retrospect.

Recently two events prompted me to finally write a review I’ve been dreading: my horrible wedding photographer.

I’ve been thinking about getting some work done to my nose, and finally decided to look into doing it next year. I know, my friends will be like, “What?? Your nose is fine!” Ok, yeah, let’s get this over with now, and then never go through this again:

Yes, my nose is fine. It’s not horrible. It doesn’t have a huge bump or a hook. My septum isn’t deviated. I don’t look like I’m Greek. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Are we done?

My nose is passable. But in my eyes, it’s not what I’d call a Prêt-à-Porter nose. I just need to take it to the nose tailor, if you will, and have it nipped in a pinch to better fit me, k?

Anyways, I was scouring reviews of local nose tailors, when that ever-present, nagging feeling that I’ve had for the past two years hit me: “Review your wedding photographer.” I stuffed it back down. I just wasn’t ready.

Then I logged on to Facebook and saw that my friend Melissa had posted pictures of her wedding; the sting of how long I waited for my wedding photos hit me again, for the umpteenth time (p.s. M – you looked stunning and the boobs were bangin’ in that dress!).

I finally decided to write a review. An honest review. And Calm-ass Husband took one look at that review and said, “Well…you’re not wrong…but….I think it’s better to post this on your blog and not Yelp.”

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Fine, I’ll give him the fact that I accused my wedding photographer of having a sloppy vagina, and those are serious charges to level. But it is true! So we made a deal, I will write a nicer review of her on Yelp, but I get to post the full review on here. So here it is, my sloppy vagina-d wedding photographer:

(Names have been changed to…sigh, because CAH made me)

“I’ve waited 2 years to write this review. Partly because I wanted to make sure that my frustration subsided enough to be fair, and partly because I like Sally as a person, and so was procrastinating.

I engaged Sally and Studio 6:66 Photography about a year and a few months before my wedding. I wanted both engagement and wedding photos. My husband, then fiance, lived in San Luis Obispo (attending grad school), and I was in Sacramento. That’s about a 5 hour drive. We scheduled the engagement photos about 10 months to my wedding date. I took a few days off work and went to SLO. The morning of our shoot, Sally’s husband texted me to say that Sally was having a personal health crisis. I won’t go into detail because it’s personal, but let’s just say that she was having a health issue in her lady tubes. Fair enough, shit happens. I recently had to wean off my beloved Cottonelle wet wipes because I learned that they don’t biodegrade, which means I am now having to SACRIFICE money to install a bidet in one of my bathrooms in order to both be kind to the environment, AND ensure that my Down South Lady Mouth is shiny and sparkly for when it gets a spontaneous visitor (AKA, my husband after a good golf game). So I totally get lady-area issues. We rescheduled and worked it out.

Flash-forward to a week before my wedding: I get an email from Sally with details of scheduling and last minute items for my wedding and, at the end of the email, as if an afterthought, she casually mentions that she is not only pregnant, but a week overdue. Um, what? You wait until a week before my wedding to tell me that you’re not only pregnant, but overdue? Let’s set aside the fact that my deadbeat Maid-of-Honor was a colossal loser when it came to so much as lifting a finger to assist (thanks to her, I had to cancel my own bridal shower), I was also working what should be an illegal amount of hours at a spirit-crushing, employee-soul-mudering factory, and, um, it was a week before my wedding.

I need to take a Evie Garland, Out of this World, break, touch my pointer fingers together, and freeze time so I can stop being polite, and channel the stressed out, anxious bride of two years ago:

Are you FUCKING kidding me? Are you out of your GODDAMN mind? Are you seriously such a fucking clueless jackass that you found it perfectly acceptable to mention to a bride, a week before her wedding, that you are pregnant and overdue? Do you think that, just because I share the same genitals as you, I’m going to nod understandingly, reveling in the miracle of life that you’re about to bring forward, rather than thinking about the fact that there is a high liklihood that amniotic fluid is going to free flow down the fucking aisle of the mission that insisted on metaphorically bending me over and ass-raping me financially for the privelege of getting married there when I’m not Catholic? Well screw you, you fucking naieve asshole. I could care less that you and your hipster husband created a little friction with your nether regions one night when you got drunk on Pabst Blue Ribbon while listening to deep cuts of Belle and Sebastian, reminiscing about your hipster college days. And what really pisses me off? What REALLY pisses me off, is that this is the second time your vagina issues have gotten in the way of your managing my engagement and wedding photography. What if I had emailed you after the wedding and said, “Hey, so thanks for photographing my wedding, but while I was sleeping, my vagina went rogue, cleaned out my bank account, and hopped the border to Mexico. So unfortunately, I can’t pay you.” You would be like, “God damn, woman, tell your vagina to get its shit together!”, right?

*And clapping my palms together, restarting time.*

In a panic, I forward my photographer’s email to my wedding planners, who thankfully managed the issue for me by replying to my photographer that this is not acceptable and she has to commit another professional photographer to us for my wedding day. Sidenote: she went into labor on our actual wedding day.

The photographers she got for us made it clear that they were just taking pictures and that Studio 6:66 was editing and sending us final pics. My wedding was in June – I did not get my photos until October. Not even the sneak peak on Facebook that I see my other friends tagged in. The swing photographer finally took pity on us and sent us a few photos so that we had something to show for our day while we were still in the spirit of our wedding.

Bottom line: Sally does not seem to know how to schedule around her vagina. In fact, in regards to organization, her vagina seems quite sloppy. So, as long as she’s not trying to spit out another kid, go for it. But I strongly recommend that you really make sure she’s not in the process of reproducing/gestating when she’s set to do your wedding.”

Fucking Gays

and their always making the rest of us look bad by being over-achievers. Yes, I stereotype, but only in good ways. That’s why I have no problem saying that it seems like black and asian women never age.

Bitches.

But I was impressed to hear the progress that gay mayor Jimmy Cummings (or shall I say, Gayor Cummings?) of Vicco Kentucky is making as a politician.

I tend to not identify with one political party because I dislike them all too much to commit. Repubes, Democrabbys – they both irritate me to no end. Especially if they lean really liberal or conservative; I hate extremes. You know who’s extreme? Westboro Baptist Church. They’re horrible.

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You know who else is extreme? Hippies. They need to take a shower.

College liberal no guns

Essentially, I am like a lost little lamb in the political field. I have my own set of ideals, and I’ve worked tirelessly to get “Wiseassican” recognized as a political party, but the people at the post office keep yelling at me to “get off their property,” and that “they have nothing to do with assigning political parties,” and, “maybe I should learn a thing or two about American politics before I propose to start my own political party.”

Like that’s stopped anyone else.

But I do believe we should let people live their lives however the hell makes them happy, so long as the safety of other people or animals is not compromised (I’m looking at you, people into bestiality – sick fucks). Want a polygamous marriage? Knock yourself out (but not so fast, hands off the minors). Want an open marriage? Go for it. Want to make love to your entire vegetable drawer? Have at it. Why should I care?

I don’t, because it doesn’t affect me. And people being gay, does not affect you. You know who affects you? Rapists on the loose. And they’re allowed to marry. A guy could literally rape a girl on her way home from school, and then go get married. Well, you know, if he already had the license and everything ready to go. But it could happen. How does that guy deserve more rights than your innocent gay neighbor who doesn’t rape kids and, let’s face it, is bringing your property value up?

And that is why I am so tired of hearing people who are too afraid to just admit they don’t like gays, hide behind the excuse, “I don’t want them shoving their views in my face.”

So said one particular a-hole, Pastor Truman Hurt, during a segment on the Colbert Show where they spotlighted the fact that Gayor Cummings led the successful passage of a fairness bill, making Vicco the smallest town in the country to pass such a bill. The fairness bill states that people cannot be fired or denied medical treatment based on things like their sexual preference. Hurt opposes this and says that this is basically paving the way for the gay community to take over and push their lifestyle down our throats. (Full video below)

Which is funny because, if half as many gays as religious people knocked on my door to force their lifestyle down my throat, then maybe that argument would be valid. But not one has. Not one. And I’ve not once heard any of those hateful assholes complaining about Jehova’s Witnesses and the like, who literally knock on your fucking door to shove their fucking lifestyle down your throat. Not once.

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At least the gays would probably come with some wine. Those Jehova’s Witnesses never bring booze, and after all these years of listening to them blather on, I’m yet to fully understand what it is they witnessed Jehova doing. It must’ve been some scary shit because he’s got them repping him hard.

Bottom line: I’d honestly respect these assholes more if they at least admitted that they don’t like gays. Better to be an honest asshole, than a lying asshole.

The Secret is Out, Us Child-Free Folks Love Hookers, Blow, and Swinging

Today I was reading an article by John Kinnear at the Huff Post, “5 Things Parents Need to Stop Saying to Non-Parents.” I shared it on my Facebook page and noted that I especially liked that it was written by a parent, when my fellow child-free-by-choice (CBC) friend, Theresa (you all know her from by her battle cry for small boobies) took issue with one part:

“As a non-parent I’m a bit upset that he told everyone about all the hookers & blow we have at our parties.”

Hookers and blow. He totally outed us.

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It’s not like we are trying to hide it in shame. It’s actually our way of being nice to parents; a little mercy, if you will.

The fact is, while our friends with kids are rattling on over their Monday-morning lattes about how their weekend was packed full of soccer games, barfing, swim lessons, kids’ birthday parties, and middle-of-the-night temper tantrums, we’re only nodding with feigned sympathy to be polite. We don’t WANT to rub in your face what our weekend was like, so we give a canned response, some variation of, “Oh, I just did some work around the house.”

The fact is, this is the typical weekend of the child-free:

1. Hookers and blow – thanks for outing us, John Kinnear. Yes, the cat is out of the bag: us CBCs love our hookers and blow. It’s really the biggest reason we chose to not have kids. It is SO difficult to have hooker and blow parties when you have kids hanging around. Even if the hooker does have a kid, they’re surprisingly hesitant to turn the blow party into a “blow and playdate” party. So we selflessly forego children. Look parents, until you’ve experienced a hookers and blow party, your life is truly not complete. You haven’t lived. It is a special experience, and words alone can not do it justice.

2. Swinging – oh come on, we all deny that it happens, but us CBCs throw the BEST swinging parties. The fact is, when we meet other couples who are also CBCs, we’re secretly sizing them up to determine if we’d sleep with them. If they make the cut, they’re invited. And we don’t do key parties anymore, that is so 70s (and, unlike 70s swinging parties, we’re all ridiculously hot). In fact, if you hear someone mention a “key party”, it’s a sure sign they’re a parent. We do smart phone parties. Everyone tosses their smartphones in a basket and then grabs someone elses. Each party has a “Designated Texter” and, when it’s time to switch partners, they simply text “Switch” to everyone.

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3. Not only do we wipe ourselves with money, we drink it, too – Remember that episode of South Park where it was revealed that Magic Johnson avoids developing full-blown AIDS because he puts his money in a blender and drinks it? Well us CBCs got a little nervous that our secret may be exposed because, the truth is, part of the secret to our happiness is the fact that we take extra money we save by not having children, throw it in the blender, and drink it. We are also part of a secret exchange program, where we trade stacks of cash for rolls of cash. Fresh cash against your ass is the most luxurious feeling in the world. I’m sad for those who cannot experience it, because it is life changing. Again, we weren’t hiding it to be secretive, we just didn’t want to rub it in the faces of our friends with kids while we watch them scrape together extra cash to put away for their kids’ college funds.

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4. We worship our vaginas and stomach skin in the mirror – it’s our form of religion. You know how parents do things like, have gratitude every day that their kids are healthy, or don’t need braces? Well us CBCs have seen the pictures of vaginas and stomachs post-birthing, and they truly inspire gratitude. I can stare at my vagina and be grateful that my vulva will never be stretched to the size of a soup bowl; Calm-ass Husband will never have to contemplate if it may be better suited to just prop me up on the couch, spoon some guacamole into my vagina, and grab some tortilla strips for a light snack while he watches The Killing. And we can rub our tummies and not read braille. Those aren’t tiger stripes – that is a goddamn sign of the coming apocalypse. It’s alien messaging and you derelict scientists need to start deciphering that shit like they’re the new crop circles.

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5. We have our own fight club. It involves bikinis and bukkake. But that’s all I can say because I’ve already broken the first rule.

So there it is. Mr. Kinnear let the cat out of the bag, but it is a bit of a relief. So now, when our parent friends look at us and say, “Why are YOU so tired, you probably just slept all weekend”, we can finally be honest and say, “Between the blow, gang bangs, vaginal worship and bukkake…..I’m EXHAUSTED!”

Tampa Bukkake. Not to be confused with the other Florida regional bukkake clubs.

Tampa Bukkake. Not to be confused with the other Florida regional bukkake clubs.

Cracking DaVagina Code: How to Diffuse an Argument With a Woman

Note: I am in no way a professional shrink. I just say the shit that pops into my head.

I was really tempted to simply write, “You can’t” and have that be the extent of my article. And probably all the legit professionals are going to read this and be like, “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m a trained professional and this is not how we do things.” Trainer professionals all secretly have potty mouths, we know it.

Also, many women will get annoyed that this doesn’t really encourage talking about “feelings,” or be all indignant and say, “Speak for yourself, this doesn’t apply to ME.” But really, they’re just mad that I’m revealing shit, like when magicians reveal how a trick is done. And this is geared towards dudes, not chicks.

There’s no denying, us women are OUTSTANDING at arguing. I don’t know if it is an innate ability, or learned; I’m not a psychologist or a bartender or a hairstylist, so I’m not professionally experienced with the inner workings of women. But one day, we just grow up, graduate from high school, and once that diploma is handed to us, it’s like we got a second, invisible diploma.

A diploma in “Argumentology”.

First of all, you guys could avoid 99.9% of all arguments if you could just learn to read our minds, which, by the way, we fully expect you to fucking do, yet you all refuse to get off your asses and even try.

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A man wrote this card, so it’s ok that I posted it.

Thirdly, start doing crosswords or sodoku or something to improve that memory. Because here’s a secret: while we do have excellent memories, some of the shit we “remember”, we either only remember vaguely and so are spinning in our favor, or we’re just plain making it up. We just know that a) your memory is shitty enough that you aren’t 100% sure we’re bluffing, so you won’t call BS on us and, b) you know calling BS will just enrage us and drag the argument out further.

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Or, if you’re feeling really gutsy, call our bluff. But you should know that the rules of Scrabble apply, so if you call our bluff and we can prove our memory is correct, you automatically lose a turn.

My friend's girlfriend played this in a Scrabble game. Turns out this word is in the Urban Dictionary, which I think makes it totally legit.

My friend’s girlfriend played this in a Scrabble game. Turns out this word is in the Urban Dictionary, which I think makes it totally legit.

Second, you have to understand that, much of the time, whatever it is we are arguing with you about is not the reason why we’re actually pissed. We’re pissed about something you did 2 weeks ago and it is manifesting in our irritation at the fact that you have the nerve to sit next to us on the couch and start watching videos on your iPhone while we are in the middle of watching an old episode of Private Practice.

Ok, that one may have gotten personal.

I know that, as I was mentioning that whatever it is we are arguing with you about is not the reason why we’re actually pissed, you men were all nodding your heads and thinking, “YES! Yes! Why do women do that? How are we supposed to know what you’re pissed about?!”

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I hate to beat a dead horse, but if you all knew how to read minds, you wouldn’t have to ask why we do it.

Also, you men are all about strategy, so this one’s on you. There is so much missed opportunity to be strategists here. You can crack the code. It’s within you to do it.

Sidenote: How has the term “Woman Strategist” not become a thing? Don’t worry, we’ll make it equal, there can be “Man Strategists”, too. Although that job wouldn’t pay as much because it’s far easier to crack the man code than the woman code, and women are still getting paid less than men (I threw that in there for the feminists who are reading this and about to throw a blood clot). Ladies, if you find a man whose code is hard to crack, move on. Trust me on this one. You’re not going to be the one to “fix” him. You’re not that special.

This is just like solving a mystery and you guys just need to play closer attention. Chances are good that, before the fight errupted, you already had a feeling that she was annoyed with you. You, of course, ignored that feeling and passed it off as gas or indigestion because bowel issues are way more pleasant than arguing.

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But every woman has a tell when she’s pissed, and you likely know what it is. So think back to when you noticed her irritation start: did she suddenly go quiet one day? Did she start slamming doors a bit harder? Did she give you short, quick, one-word answers like, “Fine” or “Whatever”? Yup, she’s pissed.

This is where my patented (not at all) method (hastily written words after too much coffee) will change your life (that statement is not proven and is unlikely).

Start a short list of her biggest complaints, think of it like an investigator’s notebook for mystery solving. Note the complaints she brings up a lot. If you find yourself blocked on complaints, try this exercise:

Finish this sentence in your head:

“I’m going to lose my shit if I hear her bitch about ___________ one more time.”

Write the answers to the blank on your list.

It doesn’t have to be a fancy list, just open a notes app in your phone and jot down a few of her voiced frustrations:

1. Wants me to take her to more chick flicks
2. Hates it when I belch at the dinner table
3. Gets annoyed when I watch videos on my iPhone right next to her while she’s watching old episodes of Private Practice

You don’t have to write this all in one sitting.  You may have blocked most of it out, so feel free to take notes as you go along.

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Now, when your wife or girlfriend gives her cue that lets you know she’s pissed, pull out your list and see which complaint best fits the scenario that occured just prior to the cold frost setting in. Now, here’s the important part that we all know you hate, but trust me, an ounce of prevention is a worth a pound of cure:

Be the one who brings it up. Bring up the thing on the list that you think it may be.

Even if you’re wrong about what is making her angry and she’s mad about something else, chances are good she will be caught off guard that you a) were proactive by being the one to bring it up and b) were listening at SOME point. And even if she’s pissy now, it won’t be as bad as it will be a few weeks down the line when it comes up by her exploding.

Also, this is a “duh”, but the best way to get her to stop bitching about something is to make an effort to fix it. Even if it doesn’t make sense, you may want to weigh which sucks-ass more: fixing the issue, or hearing her bitch about it and getting the cold shoulder.

Also, don’t underestimate the power of reminders on your phone. If something she complains about is something that can be solved by setting reminders on your phone, it’s worth the 60 seconds it will take to set a recurring reminder. And if you’re looking for a good app, Calm-ass Husband and I love Kahnoodle.

And if it has been two weeks and she’s been festering, go by my personal rule of thumb:

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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.

Example:

“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. (wisegeek.com, 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.

Example:

  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.