Me, uncensored.
No, the answer isn’t “throw them in the dumpster.” Or “douse them with acid.” Or even “incinerate them in a funeral pyre.”
I mean, not when they’re your 100-year-old Aunt Ramona’s clowns.
No, that just won’t do them justice…
[Read more…] about What Do You Do with a Bunch of Clowns Nobody Wants?
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Mr. Foxy and I have a looong history with rescue animals. When we met, I had a rat, and he had a bunny. After we started dating, he added a kitten (because he’s allergic to dogs), and not to be outdone, I adopted a cat of my own. Then, after we moved in together got married, we found an abandoned kitty in the parking lot of Chili’s restaurant so (obviously) we instantly had a third cat (named Chili, of course). Somewhere along the line, the bunny moved to a farm, and the rat died. (RIP, Buttercup.)
Then, a couple of years later, we stupidly added a fourth cat. (He was the devil.) And a few years after that, a dog (because Mr. Foxy decided he wasn’t going to be allergic to them anymore). A year after that, a second dog.
If you’re keeping tally, you will note that at the height of our insanity, we had four cats and two dogs. At the same time. So what did we do after that?
[Read more…] about Where Did the Murder Hornets Go?
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Okay, foxy friends, I know I haven’t been around much the past few years. Sure, I’ve popped in once or twice to reassure you that I didn’t join a cult and to show you my fucked-up FABULOUS Porcelain Doll Funeral/Murder Scene display. But I really haven’t been around.
Here’s the thing: I’VE MISSED YOU. I’ve missed this blog and telling silly stories. And interacting with y’all on social media. And all that other shit. But I think things are going to get better now. I mean, not on the global apocalypse front, but better on Foxy Wine Pocket. I mean, just get a load of this story…
[Read more…] about “That Girl Who Wouldn’t Shut Up”
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My 16-year-old daughter recently declared, “Thank goodness Mom bypassed the Pinterest Mom phase and went straight to the Crazy Old Lady phase.”
As I sit here, midday, in my lounge pants and bathrobe with tissues shoved up both sleeves, petting my tiny, spoiled lap dog, and grumbling about the state of the world, I just don’t understand what she is referring to.
Okay, FINE. It’s possible hanging out so much with my 99-year-old Great Aunt Ramona has hastened my transition to Crazy Old Lady more quickly than I’d realized. Especially when it comes to the random (and what Mr. Foxy might call “disturbing”) shit I’ve started to collect.
For instance, this past year, I bought an entire collection of handmade porcelain dolls at a local silent auction. (I don’t even like porcelain dolls.)
[Read more…] about I’m Why We Can’t Have Nice Things
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Hello? *tap, tap, tap* Is this thing on?
Oh hey. Remember me? It’s Foxy. I used to tell you funny stories. Well, I’m still here, and I still like to write ridiculous shit. I’m still collecting phallic Cheetos, snuggling with my rescue puppies, and enjoying all things wine and bacon. Alas, I have a new hobby—apparently—which is to inadvertently uncover decades-long sexual misconduct scandals and make myself a public target for hate speech and victim shaming.
I wish I were kidding on that last one.
[Read more…] about Things to Know Before Accidentally Exposing a Sex Abuse Scandal
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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.
[Read more…] about Where Has Foxy Gone?
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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.
[Read more…] about Everybody Poops … Including the Neighbors
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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.
[Read more…] about A Snake, an Ass, and a Chupacabra Walk into a Bar
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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.
[Read more…] about I Can’t Believe You Ate My Sandwich
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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.
[Read more…] about For Sale: My Husband’s Final Hopes and Dreams
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