Foxy

Of Love and Haircuts

This seemingly random (and completely staged) photo may not make sense right away, but I swear it will. This was one of the VERY FEW photos of my daughter’s tween hair I ever got. Just keep reading.

The nurse cooed at the creature emerging from my crowning cervix. “Ohhh, she has so much hair! Do you want me to put a mirror down here so you can see it?”

That is how the original essay began, but the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition limited me to 450 words, so I had to cut them.

I also had a few other irreverent jokes, but if I’m being honest, those lines didn’t really capture the spirit of Erma herself. And that was the whole point of the contest.

So I cut them as well and submitted a 449-word essay to the contest (I’m sure you can imagine how hard it is for me to limit my words), and GUESS WHAT? I won an Honorable Mention!

That recognition felt pretty darn good. You know, since the world is a dumpster fire, and the rejections letters are taking over my Inbox. (It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)

Anyhow, you can read my award-winning essay on the Erma Bombeck website. I also invite you to read a more Foxy-fied version (with pictures!!!) right here. Then, tell me which one you like more—or better yet, tell me how much you love them both! Please? Pretty please? I’ll be your best friend…

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Bless the Baby, but Fuck All the Fluids

By Foxy

With a few weeks left in my first pregnancy, my bladder broke. Like, I literally couldn’t stop the pee.

Fortunately, I was sitting on the toilet when it happened. I’d just finished peeing for the thousandth time that day and started to wipe when more liquid shot out. I wiped again, and even more came out. As I sat there contemplating wearing an adult diaper for the next few weeks, I noticed the tissue was slightly pinkish, not yellow. I gave it a quick sniff (barf) and confirmed it wasn’t urine.

Relief at not facing incontinence led to the horror that my water bag was busted. Impossible! I just started maternity leave! I still have three-and-a-half weeks to go! I haven’t packed my hospital bag!

I called my husband multiple times. Unfortunately, he didn’t answer because he was in class so I called my friend, Carrie, who lived close by. She was thirty-four weeks pregnant with her third child. She would know what to do.

“Hang tight,” she said. “I’ll be right there.” I attached a ginormous maxi pad to my underwear, grabbed my keys, and waited by the door. Slowly dripping like an old faucet with a broken washer.

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Beware of Killer Tampons

By Foxy

“Did you get it in yet?” My best friend whisper-screamed through the gap in the school bathroom stall.

“No. I can’t seem to find the hole.” My twelve-year-old hands shook, and I dropped a second tampon in the toilet. “Shit.”

“Well, that should only happen if you put it in the wrong hole,” my feminine-hygiene-product dealer joked.

My voice tinged with hysteria. “I just can’t figure out how to get it in.”

Her voice was calm; clearly she’d put many a period plug up her hot pocket. “Look, I gave you three. Why don’t you try the last one at home.”

That thought terrified me. “Maybe … but my mom will kill me if she finds out I’m using tampons.”

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The Perfect Wife

By Foxy

The invitation to my husband’s company Christmas party could not have arrived at a better time. Like a summons from heaven, we were invited to don elegant clothing, dine amongst corporate elite, and spend the evening at an upscale hotel.

I wept tears of joy.

See, at the time, I had a three-year-old daughter, an infant son, two large dogs, and four cats under my round-the-clock care. (Take my advice: just have the baby; don’t pretend you’re not ready and adopt too many animals instead.) Still nursing my son, I was severely sleep deprived and generally ragged. Showers were infrequent (as was any basic hygiene), and milk, bodily fluids, and other mysterious substances constantly covered my skin and clothing. My best outfit included some capri maternity jeans from Old Navy and whatever machine-washable shirt didn’t have stains on it.

I was desperate for an adult night out without anyone clinging to me, needing to be comforted, fed, or changed. I was desperate to feel clean and beautiful. I was desperate for a full night’s sleep.

Oh yeah, I also wanted to support my husband, Mr. Foxy. Recently promoted, he wanted to make a good impression with the new VPs and the CEO. Arm candy couldn’t hurt. Operation “Be the Perfect Wife in Exchange for a Free Night on the Town” commenced.

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I Do NOT Recommend This Diet Plan

By Foxy

When I was in the 4^th grade, I reenacted a Saturday Night Live skit in front of my entire class. It was one of the Doug and Wendy Whiner skits wherein they loudly and annoyingly proclaim, “We’ve got DI-VER-TICU-LII-TIS.” My classmates laughed, but it was almost certainly at me making an ass of myself rather than understanding any of the dialogue.

When I told that story to my friend Rabbit, she replied, “Of course you did.”

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How Do You Make a Clown Nativity Set Even More Awesome?

By Foxy

No, Mr. Foxy, the answer is not “Throw it into the 2020 dumpster fire!” STOP SUGGESTING THAT.

As you may recall, earlier this year, I wrote about my Clown Nativity set. Or maybe you purged that story from your brain. Seriously though, compared to some of my other whacked-out projects, the Clown Nativity set is pretty benign. In fact, I think it’s awesome. But, because the pandemic is making me do crazy shit, I wanted to make it even more awesome-er.

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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.)

What’s Your New Pandemic Hobby?

By Foxy

Folks, shit’s about to get weird ‘round here.

When government ineptitude first led to shelter-in-place, I figured I’d make the best of my time at home. I Kon-mari’d the fuck out of some closets and cabinets. I fixed a necklace (in two minutes) that had been broken for six years. I even filled out the baby books for my children (who are 17 and 14). Eventually, I ran out of projects and got tired of doom-scrolling and rage-tweeting. So I decided that a new hobby was the key to my pandemic paradise.

Now, I’ve been watching y’all. Not in a creepy way, I swear. But I’ve been ~~judging~~ reviewing what you’re posting on Facebook and Instagram and the like. I know some of you are exercising more. Some of you are making sourdough bread with your own starter named Earl. Y’all are reading more, doing puzzles, and even learning new languages. Good for you.

I took my productivity in a positively Foxy direction: dolls. My new hobby began with “let’s make a creepy Halloween decoration (that’s what Mr. Foxy calls it, but we all know it will be up year-round).” But it got so much worse. SO. MUCH. WORSE.

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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.)

What Do You Do with a Headless Doll … and Other Random Questions

By Foxy

It’s possible I have a problem. Fine, I have several problems, but medication takes care of the worst of them. However, much to my husband’s dismay, I may have developed a problematic obsession with dolls and clowns. And it doesn’t seem to be slowing down anytime soon.

It’s gotten so bad, people are constantly offering me their “unwanted” dolls and clowns. In fact, the other day, my freighbor (friend + neighbor) offered me a clown, but specified that she didn’t want to see it altered or cut up or bloodied in anyway. Clearly, I had to decline her offer. I mean, I can not be shackled like that.

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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.)

What Do You Do with a Bunch of Clowns Nobody Wants?

By Foxy

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…

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.)

Where Did the Murder Hornets Go?

By Foxy

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?

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