Foxy – Page 2

I’m Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

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.)

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Things to Know Before Accidentally Exposing a Sex Abuse Scandal

By Foxy

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.

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 Has Foxy Gone?

By Foxy

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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Everybody Poops … Including the Neighbors

By Foxy

This is an embarrassing poop story. You know you want to read it. @foxywinepocket

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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A Snake, an Ass, and a Chupacabra Walk into a Bar

By Foxy

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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I Can’t Believe You Ate My Sandwich

By Foxy

Over twenty years ago, my husband ate my sandwich. I still haven't forgiven him. @foxywinepocket

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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For Sale: My Husband’s Final Hopes and Dreams

By Foxy

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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Sometimes Anxiety Isn’t a Complete Asshole

By Foxy

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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Of Love and Mixtapes

By Foxy

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.

[Read more…] about Of Love and Mixtapes

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.)

The Problem with Multi-Colored Rugs

By Foxy

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.

Multi-colored rugs and puppy poop created my worst nightmare.

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!”

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.)

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