Me, uncensored.
I know. I haven’t been posting very much. But I swear it’s for a good reason. No, I didn’t taking pole dancing lessons. Or join a cult devoted to worshipping and snuggling with puppies. Heck, I didn’t even go on a round-the-world trip to drink delicious wine find myself.
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I often hear my fellow moms say they just want to go to the bathroom alone—that they want some privacy when nature calls. Honestly, I can’t really relate to this predicament at all. I’ve never had that wish.
Because I’ve never gone to the bathroom alone. Not in my entire life.
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Recently my teenage daughter asked us to join her in GISHWHES (the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen). This was a BIG ask. It required me to leave my house. To put on pants. To people. (I don’t people well.)
But my teenager asked so the only answer was, “Of course I will!” Which is probably what the creators intended. To bring people together and get them out of their comfort zones.
I approached this hunt like I do many things: reluctantly LABES OUT.
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My husband and I battled for the first time over a sandwich. This argument happened over twenty years ago, and I still haven’t quite forgiven him.
You see, I have food issues. Growing up in a family of eight, mealtime was a battlefield, and as the youngest, I was generally the loser. We kids fought for every piece of food and ate as quickly as possible to not go hungry. On the very rare occasions that my father bought fast food, he would buy three boxes of fries for the six of us. Spoiler Alert: The math never worked in my favor.
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I haven’t been camping in over a decade. Wanna know why? Because I hate it. I fucking hate it.
I guess I didn’t always find camping so detestable. I spent my summers in high school working as a counselor at a campground outside of Yosemite. Three full months of that camping shit. In college, I used to personally initiate camping trips on the weekends and during breaks—pitching a tent, hiking, fishing, cooking up my catch—all that crap. Even in my early married years, I actually enjoyed camping as a leisurely activity.
Me, as a camp counselor. Of course that dirty hippy loved camping. Of course she did.
But now? Camping is dead to me.
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When you live with anxiety, it can be difficult to distinguish between the symptoms of the condition and all of the bullshit going on around you. I frequently occasionally find myself asking, “Is this person being a jackass—or am I irritated because of my anxiety disorder?” (Sometimes it’s a tough call.)
Combine anxiety with depression, and those two jerks regularly have me paralyzed, wanting to complete a task but lacking the required energy. Unable to string together coherent thoughts. Unable to approach normal social situations with any grace (if I even make it out the door at all). Unable to function in the afternoon. Well, except binge-watching Netflix. I can always do that.
But sometimes, just sometimes, anxiety isn’t a complete asshole.
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The first time I kissed Mr. Foxy, I immediately knew he was “the one.” Surreal and glittery and heart stopping, the moment our lips touched, I saw our entire future together, and it was warm and tingly. (I’m talking about the vision, not my lady parts.)
So what did I do after I discovered we were destined for each other? Well, I broke up with him. Naturally.
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We recently adopted quite possibly the most adorable puppy ever. On doggy death row because of several birth defects, Scooter has a difficult time walking straight and frequently stumbles around like a drunk. (No comparisons to me, thankyouverymuch.) But he’s a total sweetie, not in any pain, and a lovely companion.
And, OMG, LOOK AT THAT FACE.
Scooter keeps me company in the dining room where I write in a makeshift office space at the table. But the slippery wood floors are a bit tough for him to walk on. When he’s not on the area rug under the table, he often falls on his face. And his butt. And all over the place. (Again, no need for comparisons to yours truly.)
Anyhow, I decided to move my office downstairs to the basement, which is carpeted. The carpeting would make it easier for him to get around and to wrestle with our other dog, which would be great physical therapy.
So I gathered up my supplies from the dining room and brought the first load downstairs. I threw away moved my children’s art supplies from the desk-turned-craft-table, reclaimed it as my own, and started setting up my new writing station when I heard my husband’s frantic voice booming from upstairs, “YOU BETTER STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN!”
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“Bacon is my favorite long food!” At age three, my son gifted me one of my proudest mommy moments:
My child could properly categorize food, and he appreciated one of the most magical flavors in the world.
Not that I’m biased, but bacon really is the best long food. And flat food. And able-to-be-crumbled food. I’ve been known to mix it with nuts. Put it in pancakes. And create an entire dinner party menu in which every single dish—from appetizers to dessert—includes bacon.
To celebrate my son’s newfound enthusiasm for cured pork and to support his insatiable bandage habit (he goes through approximately 20,000 each week), I purchased a shit-ton of, you guessed it, bacon bandages.
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Much to the dismay of Canadians everywhere, many Americans feel like Canada is just another US state. A kinder, gentler, more apologetic US state, but a US state nonetheless. (Maybe it’s all of the beer, weed, and Tim Horton’s coffee y’all got up there, eh?)
Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)
