Me, uncensored.
My friend Birdie and I were recently eating dinner in a neighborhood restaurant. Over wine and appetizers, we noticed the man at the table next to us. Both of us kept stealing glances, but we tried to stay cool. After all, we didn’t want to appear rude.
With hushed voices, we chatted about him.
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I’ve got a rant today, and it’s a BIG one. But this is a humor blog so I’ve posted it on another fabulous site that graciously allows me to rant and rave.
This piece is about my son, a recent airplane trip we took, and how pissed off I was during the whole experience. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t start screaming “DON’T BE A DICK!” to everyone on that airplane. Especially the flight attendant (what a dick).
Read the whole story on BLUNTmoms to find out why.
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Foxy Wine Pocket is a humor blog, but I also write serious stories. Usually, I publish those pieces elsewhere. Today, I’m honored to be at Scary Mommy sharing one such story about explaining miscarriage to my children. I hope you’ll follow me there.
Here’s a snippet to get you started:
The Two Missing Kids: Explaining Miscarriage to Children
My husband, our two kids, and I were at a social gathering this past Mother’s Day when we encountered a family with four children. My 8-year-old son, who is my youngest child, stopped near to them and looked at them longingly. He then pointed them out to me.
“That could have been our family,” he said quietly.
As my chest tightened and I fought back tears, I hugged him and kissed his head. I knew what he meant, but there wasn’t much I could say in response. Because he just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t comprehend that we never would have been a family with four children.
But, in his mind, there are two missing kids in our family. They are the pregnancies that I lost…
Please read the rest of the piece on Scary Mommy. Grab a tissue because this one even made Sarah at est.1975 cry.
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.)
So … yeah. I talked with Tara Kennedy-Kline from Parent Nation about my blog, food hoarding, Brazilians, and all sorts of fun things. I admit to having some breakfast wine before the interview because I was a little nervous. But Tara was (and is) lovely, and I’m sure you’ll want to listen to the conversation. Mostly, because I made an ass of myself. But also because we had a really good time together. She is a fun, FUN lady.
You can download the podcast of the show and listen to it whenever you want. My segment starts at 40:11. BUTT, you should listen to the whole thing. Who doesn’t want to learn about coffee enemas?
“Parent Nation, this ain’t your mama’s parenting show!”
Oh, and you should absolutely follow Tara and Parent Nation on Facebook and Twitter. Because I said so.
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.)
My freighbors (friends + neighbors) and my family had an epic block party on our street for Labor Day. (Actually it was the day before Labor Day because we need like to have Monday to recover. Genius, right?) As with all of our block parties, we obtained a permit to close down the street; we rented a bouncy house to babysit entertain the kids; and we had a shit-ton of delicious food and drink. (My freighbors are some seriously good cooks and bartenders.)
Sometimes we even like to kick the parties up a notch with a theme that includes decorations, games, and crafts for the kids. This time some asshole very creative type picked a circus theme for the party. Now I don’t mind circus themes in general, but you know what evil lurks at the circus, right? CLOWNS. Fucking clowns are always at the circus, and I HATE clowns. Fortunately for me, my freighbors promised no actual clowns—just some fun, circusy goodness.
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.)
BIG news today, friends. No, there are no naked pictures of me. Sorry. Except I’m not at all sorry—this is not that kind of blog despite those pesky search terms that lead people here.
No, the big news is that I’m going to be a published author. (Again.) Except this time I’ll have proof. See, the first time my work was published was in Dynamite Magazine in the 1980s. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep a copy of that issue (and no one over at Scholastic will answer my emails) so I have no physical evidence of my amazing feat of publication. And you can bet it was the MOST AMAZING BUMMER EVER PRINTED IN DYNAMITE MAGAZINE. EVER.
This time will be different.
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.)
Foxy Wine Pocket is a humor blog, but I also write serious shit. Today I’m over on BLUNTmoms talking about friendship loss. Here’s a teaser to get you started:
The first time I met Gwen* was our freshman year in college. I ran into her in a neighboring dormitory. She was waving her arms around wildly, screaming obscenities at her boyfriend, and basically ripping him a new asshole. I couldn’t quite figure out what he had done, but I could tell it was really bad. Her verbal assault on him was even worse. I turned to my roommate and said, “Remind me to never piss her off.”
Over the next two decades, I would tell that story dozens of times. It was always greeted with laughter, and, from those who knew Gwen, knowing looks. Gwen had passion—that was for sure. I always thought it was such a funny story of how I met my best friend. I never realized how ironic the story would become in our own relationship.
Please go read the rest on BLUNTmoms. Say something nice and/or share the piece too. But most of all, learn from my mistakes.
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.)
My husband and I have been married for over 17 years (obviously, I was a teen bride—OBVIOUSLY) so it can sometimes be a challenge to keep the spice in our sex life. We’ve used lots of things over the years: lingerie, toys, porn, you know the drill (we have never used a drill).
But my favorite “spice” is pubic hair art. That is, over the years, I’ve shaved various shapes into my pubic region: hearts, arrows, a martini glass, his initial, etc. (My God, I just realized that I’m an artist, and my medium is pubic hair.) If a particular piece doesn’t come out well, I just make it a Rorschach test, and we have great sex anyway.
(I will not be including any of those pictures with this post.)
For my husband’s last birthday, I decided to surprise him with a Brazilian. Now, I’ve never had a wax job on any part of me before, much less one where they remove everything from my hoo-ha. (I know, they don’t actually have to remove everything, but I figured go big or go home, right?) I decided that I could spare some hair in honor of my husband.
I didn’t think much of the whole process when I was scheduling the appointment, but honestly, I was a little nervous when the day came. When the technician arrived, I gave her a frightened look.
“First time?” she inquired.
“Yep,” I chirped softly.
She then proceeded to explain the process and how she was going to remove the most sensitive hair first and then the rest of it. Then she moved the blanket.
“Oh. Uhhhhh, well, first we need to trim the hair back a bit. Quite a bit.”
I guess I had a forest going on there. I silently cursed my Italian grandmother. And the technician proceeded to trim my pubes with teeny tiny scissors (at least she didn’t have to get out a chainsaw), which actually tickled a bit. So I giggled and then got nervous about giggling over someone touching my pubic hair. Because it seemed vaguely inappropriate. (But it felt kinda nice.)
“Okay, now that we’ve trimmed the hair, I’m going to remove the most sensitive area first.”
“I’ve pushed out two kids. How hard can this be?” I pretended to be brave.
“Okay, then, here I go.”
“HOLYMOTHEROFUCKINGSHITBALLSMOTHERFUCKER!!” I screamed in my head.
But what I uttered through clenched teeth was a weak, “I’m okay.”
And then she pressed her hand against my pubic bone (I assume to alleviate the pain).
“Harder! Harder! HARDERRRRR!” I screamed. Only that might have caused some more awkwardness.
After she threw me a weird glance, she assured me, “Well, that was the worst one. It gets easier from here.”
And it went like that for one fucking long session. Time became meaningless. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and not kicking her in the fucking face. Breathe in. Breathe out. Restrain foot. Repeat.
Fortunately, she was right. The first one was the worst. (But the rest sucked pretty hard too.) After removing all of my hair, she applied some sort of soothing salve. It had a name. I don’t remember it. I was kind a hoping for a massage. Or a cigarette.
But the awkward sexual innuendo and the pain are not the reasons I will no longer be getting Brazilians. No, I could deal with those again. There are three other reasons I will no longer be waxing the hooha:
1. After the technician left the room, I picked myself up off of the table. Actually I kind of slid off of the table in my own sweat. I walked over to the mirror to examine myself, and I was horrified. Not because I looked like a prepubescent girl (although that was slightly horrifying). I was horrified because it was at that moment that I realized that my pregnancy stretch marks went ALL THE WAY DOWN INTO MY TANTALIZING TRIANGLE. They looked like grotesque, greedy little fingers pointing the way down. Or lightening bolts threatening to strike any who enter.
Fortunately for me, my husband didn’t seem to notice the stretch marks. He was quite happy with the results. Also, he was too busy noticing that…
2… Without the hair there to provide a buffer, I was horny as hell. Constantly. This became a problem. (My husband didn’t think this was a problem.) It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing, I wanted to attack my husband. Or the waiter. Or the lamppost. Suffice it to say, we had a lot of sex over the next week. But the constant horniness only lasted until…
3… The hair started growing back, and I switched from ecstasy to agony. AGONY. Apparently—and no one warned me about this—I am not a good candidate for waxing. The itching, while annoying, was the least of my problems. Turns out that I am prone to ingrown hairs, and they hurt like a mofo. I started telling my husband I had boils and scurvy and bad, bad shit. I looked like a diseased slave from Game of Thrones. Not even a Dothraki would ravage me.
So, basically, I’m done with the Brazilians. Forever. I’ll stick to pubic hair art to spice things up.
I’m thinking about a chili pepper next.
Photo Credit: ssuaphoto / 123RF Stock Photo
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.)
So, funny story. I stumbled across this blog, Almost Coherent Parent, the other day, and I basically read the entire thing in one sitting. I commented on a ton of posts and then followed him all over social media. (I can be overwhelming like that. Just ask Sarah.)
AC Parent was nice enough to check out my blog, and we chit-chatted over the next several weeks. Then I noticed that we had a real-life friend, Peter, in common. So of course, I immediately texted Peter’s wife Bobbi to get the full low-down on AC Parent. (Again, overwhelming.)
GOOD NEWS: AC Parent is officially a Peter-and-Bobbi-approved “really good guy.” I mean, I already knew I liked the guy, but now I like him even more. He’s a great writer, and he not only shares funny stories, he also gives a little lesson at the end of each one, which I adore. Oh, and did I mention he live-tweeted his vasectomy?
Read his post below about when he met Peter and Bobbi, then read his entire blog like I did, and follow him on Facebook and Twitter.
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.)
In early June, I went to a blogging conference in Baltimore. It was a small, intimate conference hosted on a university and run by a team of seasoned, successful bloggers. Honestly, even though it was a relatively small group of attendees, I was scared shitless because 1) I’m socially awkward in large groups, and 2) I didn’t know a soul.
I mean, I had cultivated online relationships with a handful of bloggers, but I had never met any of them in real life. Would they like me in-person? Would I make an ass of myself? Okay, the second one was a given. But maybe they’d like me despite my assy-ness. Because my friend Sarah couldn’t go, I took Flat Sarah with me as a security blanket.
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.)
