Toxic Vixens

There are many reasons I’m happy that I’m not a guy. Jock itch issues, the inability to give birth, the fact that I can smile at other men and get attention easily without someone thinking I’m a mo are just a few reasons, but the main reason I’m glad I’m not a guy is because I am attracted to every evil, devious, scheming woman that comes across my t.v. screen.

Whether it’s Rebecca from Passions or Karen from Will & Grace, if there’s a dysfunctional, addicted, shallow bitch within 100 miles, I want to be front and center for all of her pithy comments and wicked plots. I think I’ve always been attracted to the wrong kind of woman. It started at a young age with a Scarlett O’Hara obsession and took off from there. As a six year old, my mother let me watch Gone with the Wind for the first time in hopes that I would want to emulate the character that shared my namesake; instead I hung on every catty word uttered by the gorgeous Scarlett. She had style, she had balls, and she had a man who was so into her. Even when Rhett walked out at the end of the film, I knew deep down in my heart that he would be back for more, because these mentally and verbally abusive chicks are passionate and exciting. Sure, they might need an entire drum of Prozac to keep from going off the deep end, but it’s never a dull moment with these dolls.

My love of the wrong woman continued as I got deeper into the world of elementary school. I was the girl who wanted to be the Wicked Witch of the West for Halloween, and secretly knew I was going to grow up to be Alexis Carrington after watching just a few episodes of Dynasty. I developed something of a Joan Collins fetish at age 11 when I snuck out of bed at 2:00 AM shortly after we got cable television and watched The Bitch.

Fortunately, by the time I reached junior high, my penchant for toxic ladies managed to net me friends who were complete headcases. I was the quiet listener, while my friends were anorexic, backstabbing, two-faced bitches who taught me valuable skills like how to lie, sneak out of the house, and cry on queue. It was all about them all of the time, and they would regularly cut our relationship off at will, only to phone me weeks later with a sappy, superficial apology that I would inevitably accept.

Oddly enough, my relationships with men haven’t been as dramatic. I have had quite a cache of normal boyfriends, dates, and lovers. My husband is a straight-laced, kind fellow with honor and ethics, so at this point I’m guessing that my saving grace from a lifetime of misery is entirely due to the fact that I’m a woman and not a man. If I was a man, I would, without a doubt, be paying alimony to some drunken ex-wife with more baggage than my brother-in-law on a two week vacation. I would endure endless late night phone calls filled with liquor, tears, and a slew of curse words. The sex might be fantastic, but the mind games that followed would be absolute hell.

By the time I left art school, I managed to rid my real world of toxic females and relegated my love of dangerous dysfunctional gals to the big and small screens. I love watching wicked women weave wonderful webs of wanton wreckage. I revel in their abilities to effectively destroy those around them knowing that those same masochists will be back for more. I watch Karen from Will & Grace insult and abuse the people around her and I’m fascinated by her drunken wit and cruel charm. I rarely miss an episode of Passions, because I want to see what the fabulous and spoiled Rebecca will do next. She’s a gal that likes to have fun, loves to have sex (particularly with younger men), and will do anything to keep her power and social status. Aside from my two television standbys, I am also the wacky gal that would have enjoyed at least ten more minutes of Veruca Salt in Charlie & the Chocolate Factory and can’t wait for X-Men 3 just to see the return of Mystique.

Industries such as Playboy and The Price is Right may have built their audience by selling their women as the sweet, girl-next-door types, but I’ll take the bitch in the back of the room drinking a Vodka Tonic any day. The girl next door might turn into the picture perfect wife who will have your dinner waiting when you get home from work, but she’ll never hurl the plate at your head and tell you to order Chinese take-out. Miss Perfect will never be the life of the party after drinking too much, nor give you the level of excited passion that her more dysfunctional, possibly institutionalized, sister is capable of.

Maybe the toxic vixen is what I secretly aspire to be, but for now I’ll thank my lucky stars that I’m not a man and wait with baited breath for that Joan Collins movie marathon on the Lifetime Network.