Foxy Wine Pocket

Me, uncensored.

The Inappropriate Text Message

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The Inappropriate Text Message @foxywinepocket #conversationswithcolin #donttextpooppictures

“iPod Touch” by Niki Odolphie is licensed under CC BY 2.0. Cropped and added title graphic overlay.

Sometimes I worry about my son Colin. I worry because he tends to play by himself rather than join in group play. I worry because he has little to no interest in extracurricular activities. I worry because he can be socially awkward and brutally honest. Mostly I delight in his quirkiness, but sometimes I worry about him. Because I’m his mom, and that’s what I do.

Colin put my mind at ease the other day. He’s normal. A perfectly normal 8-year-old boy. How do I know?

[Read more…] about The Inappropriate Text Message


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The Pooping Tree

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Remember the book, “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein? It’s a beautiful tale of the lifelong relationship between a boy and a tree. (I always choke up when reading it to my kids. No, really. I do.) Despite some interpretations, “The Giving Tree” is generally seen as a heart-warming story of unconditional love.

Well, the story I’m about to tell you is not one of those heart-warming stories.

It is the story of a horribly fucked-up tree called, “The Pooping Tree.” The Pooping Tree is a giant Sycamore in our parking strip (that’s the area in between the sidewalk and the street). And every year, during Pooping Season, bird shit falls from the tree like tears from a teenage girl. Pooping Season is basically late Winter to late Spring—from early February through early May. So that’s almost three months of continuous bird shit.

See the ominous dark clouds around the tree? A shit storm is brewing...

See the ominous dark clouds around the tree? A shit storm is brewing…

The tree is actually horrible all year round. The fuzzy balls (those two words always make me giggle) blow allergy-laden crap all over the house and yard. It’s like fuzzy shitty snow all over the grass. The amount of leaves it drops is un-fucking-believable. Even though I wait for the wind to blow a majority of the leaves down the street prior to raking, I still fill up the entire length of my house with piles and piles of leaves the entire Fall season. I hate this tree.

All that being said, during Pooping Season, the tree is at its very worst. Friends and family know to park across or down the street—anywhere but under that tree. We actually clean the garage every January so that we can park our cars in there. (California real estate is so ridiculous; most folks treat their garages as extra rooms.) In the middle of Pooping Season, the bird droppings actually sound like rain when they hit the ground. My husband was taking out the recycling last week, ran back inside, and said, “I’m not taking that out right now. It’s raining shit.” Indeed it was.

Ahhhhh, the Spring has arrived.

Ahhhhh, Spring has arrived.

My friend, who is an Ornithologist (a bird specialist), came over during the first Pooping Season, briefly surveyed the neighborhood trees, and started laughing. “Yeah, it’s a mystery,” she said. “We don’t fully understand why the birds pick the trees they do. But they’ve definitely made yours the toilet tree.”

Gee, thanks. That’s helpful.

After our first full year living with this tree, I got a permit to trim the damn thing. See, given its location in the parking strip, it’s not actually my tree (it belongs to the city), but I have to pay for (and get a permit for) all trimming and maintenance. That year, I had the tree trimmer hack off as much as possible in the hopes that I could reduce the pooping range, but there are legal limits to what you can trim. And even though I kept screaming, “Take that fucker DOWN! MORE! MORE! MORE!” the arborist largely ignored me.

Of course, the tree grew back stronger and taller than ever. Desperate, I started trying natural bird scare tactics. I put a bobbly-headed owl in the yard. The birds don’t give a shit about the owl. (Actually, they give far too many shits.) They remain unafraid.

This owl isn't fooling anyone. Hell, the squirrels dry hump it daily.

This owl isn’t fooling anyone. Hell, the squirrels dry hump it daily.

I have played recordings of predator sounds. But I don’t think the birds can hear the recordings over their squawking and shitting. And the recording started scaring the neighborhood children. So I had to stop.

Two years ago when a tree branch that was a good 16” in diameter was broken and dangling from the tree, I decided to take the “This Tree is Dangerous” approach.  I have a friend who is a federal forester, and he confirmed that this Sycamore has no business being on a residential street. I called the city arborist to explain that the tree is too big for our street and that it needed to be removed or it might kill someone. He came down, took one look at it, and told me, “Yeah. You can’t take it out yet. Call me in 10 years.”

Thanks. That’s helpful.

So then I started my “Die, Tree, DIE!” campaign. Last year when I put in some new plants in the parking strip, I was having a problem with dogs killing them. So I put out this sign:

Come on. I dare you. Kill the Sycamore.

Come on. I dare you. Kill the Sycamore.

Sadly, the dogs just peed on the sign. Now my sign and the new plants are dead. And the nasty Sycamore lives on.

Actually, I guess the root of the problem isn’t my horrible tree. It’s the trees across the street that produce the berries that the birds eat and then fly to our toilet tree to poop all over the place. THOSE are the bastards we need to kill.

These are evil trees. If you kill them, I will love you forever. And gift you my bobbly-headed owl.

These are evil trees. If you kill them, I will love you forever. And gift you my bobbly-headed owl. You might have to scrape off some squirrel semen though.

Sadly, my husband, the tree hugger, is against tree murder. (I am too, I guess—except during Pooping Season.) So he won’t let me poison the evil trees. And apparently torching the trees is illegal and shit. Sigh…

(Ironically) our house is located close to a church so we get a fair amount of church parking every Sunday. And each Sunday during Pooping Season, the pious churchgoers get a horrible surprise after attending church services.

Here’s your reward for being a good Christian. (Note the Pooping Tree mocking me in the reflection.)

Here’s your reward for being a good Christian. (Note the Pooping Tree mocking me in the reflection.)

I actually feel bad for these people. I mean, they go to church presumably to better themselves and better the world, and then they literally get shit on. I feel so bad for them that I made another sign:

I totally got pooped on posting this sign. Bitches.

I totally got pooped on posting this sign. Bitches.

See? I’m nothing if not helpful.


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Fun Fact Friday: Autofellatio

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So I was researching the actual term “blow job” as part of my follow-up for the blow job poll. And I came across this interesting fact:

“It is physically possible for men who have sufficient flexibility, penis size or a combination of the two to perform fellatio by oneself as a form of masturbation, such act is called autofellatio. Few men possess sufficient flexibility and penis length to safely perform the necessary frontbend.[7] However, increased flexibility achieved via gravity-assisted positions, and physical training such as gymnastics, contortion, or yoga may make it possible for some.”

Ummmm, wow. I had never really thought about this. In fact, it’s really kinda frightening. But it might explain the high percentage of men I see doing yoga.


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I Dream of Vagina Pockets

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I dream of vagina pockets. Apparently. @foxywinepocket

Me: “I had a really bizarre dream last night.”

Mr. Foxy (only half paying attention because—let’s face it—I have a lot of bizarre dreams): “Yeah? What about?”

Me: “Well, I shoved a bunch of popcorn in my vagina.”

Mr. Foxy (now paying very close attention): “You did what?!”

Me: “I shoved a bunch of popcorn in my vagina. I’m not sure why though—I don’t really remember that part.”

Mr. Foxy: “Well, were you saving it for later?”

Me: “No, I got it out during the dream.”

Mr. Foxy: “Did you get off on it?”

Me: “No. It wasn’t a sexual dream.”

Mr. Foxy: “Did you not have any pockets free then?”

Me: “Guess not. Well, except for the pocket it my vagina. Of course.”

Mr. Foxy: “Of course. I know how you love pockets.”

Me: “Indeed I do. Especially vagina pockets. Apparently.”

Mr. Foxy (determined to solve the mystery): “Was it movie popcorn?”

Me: “I don’t think so. It’s weird ‘cuz I don’t even eat popcorn. Except for Target popcorn. But this was popcorn of indeterminate origin. In my vagina pocket.”

I thought I had coined a new term, but nope. It’s in Urban Dictionary already. But I totally like my definition better.

Photo by: Flickr

“Jeans pocket” by Dvortygirl is licensed under CC BY 2.0

(^^That’s^^ not a vagina pocket. And I’m not going to post one. This isn’t *that* kind of blog.)

Photo Credit: choreograph / 123RF Stock Photo


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How College Boys Prepare You for Kids (TMI Alert)

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How College Boys Prepare You for Kids #TMI #noreally #itwaseverywhere @foxywinepocket

During my late college years, my boyfriend’s best friend, Paul, stayed with me and my boyfriend for the weekend. Now, I was not Paul’s biggest fan. I called him Eddie Haskell (behind his back) because he was very polite in front of the parents but a complete shit-head when parental units weren’t around. He was definitely more of a guy’s-guy and was always doing stupid boy things (making rude sounds, making rude comments, making rude gestures, etc., which ironically all sound like fun things now) and monopolizing my boyfriend’s time. He also cheated on his girlfriend. And I don’t like cheaters. But he was my boyfriend’s best friend so there wasn’t much I could do.

Anyhow, Paul came up for the weekend, and he and my boyfriend bought a case of beer to celebrate being young, obnoxious, and boy-ish. They bought the case for the whole weekend. (Yes, we were all light-weights, but none of us had kids yet.) They both got completely shit-faced the very first night. They were being loud and obnoxious and rude the entire time. After enduring their stupidity for an hour or so, I rolled my eyes and retired to my bedroom. I read a book for a couple of hours and went to sleep long before their antics had subsided. (God. This is terrifying to realize that I was already an old lady in my early twenties.)

I woke up the next morning prepared to go to the library to work on my paper because I knew there would be no point in trying to stay home to do it. My boyfriend was sleeping very soundly, and the apartment was absolutely silent. I put on some clothes and went down the hall to use the bathroom, hoping to make a silent getaway before the boys woke back up to do more boy things.

I pushed on the bathroom door, but it wouldn’t budge more than a couple of inches. What the fuck did they do, I wondered, already getting angry. I was picturing some wet towels or dirty clothes on the floor, so I leaned into the door and forced my way into the bathroom.

Oh, sweet Jesus—major mistake.

Now, before I describe what I found, I should tell you that I grew up with four brothers and one sister, and all six of us shared one bathroom. Four stinky boys and all of their antics my entire life. I also worked multiple summers at a family camp cleaning bathrooms. (I cleaned more toilets in one summer than most people have cleaned their entire lives.) But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what I was about to walk into.

First, came the wall of stench. It was a force so powerful it almost knocked me to the ground. It was an unmistakable mixture of fecal matter and vomit that had been marinating in a small windowless bathroom for hours. An older, wiser me would have immediately turned around and walked out the door. But that young, indignant me needed to know exactly what offense had been committed. So I held my breath and forced myself to fully examine the crime scene.

And there was Paul. Passed out on the bathroom floor. (I had shoved his feet and lower legs back when I forced the door open.)  His crumpled pants and underwear were pushed down around his ankles. There was a long streak of brown going across the toilet seat, down the toilet bowl, and on to the floor. There was pepperoni pizza puke splattered all over the toilet lid and seat. And on the floor and the floor mat. And the side of the sink. And side of the bathtub. And on the walls. It was like someone had blown up an Italian dinner all over my bathroom. And all over Paul.

To cap off this lovely scene: there was a giant piece of shit on the floor a couple of inches away … from Paul’s bare, white, pimply ass.

I didn’t stay there very long, but it was long enough to surmise what happened. Seems Paul had too much to drink, made his way into the bathroom, and puked everywhere. Sometime in the middle of that puke-fest, he decided he needed to take a dump. So he turned around, pulled down his pants, and proceeded to do just that. Only this was interrupted by the need to puke again (mid-poop, mind you), so instead of grabbing a garbage can or something vaguely rational, he turned around to puke in (near, really) the toilet—all while still taking a shit. And, in the middle of all of this, he must have passed out.

I left the bathroom quickly and shut the door. I wrote a note and left the apartment as fast as I could. I used the complex bathroom and stayed at the library all day. These were the days before mobile phones so I didn’t check in with my boyfriend. I just stayed out of the apartment long enough to ensure I wasn’t going to be the one cleaning up that disaster. When I came home late that evening, the bathroom, though vaguely reeking of Italian shit-puke soup, was spotless. And my bathmat freshly washed. And Paul was nowhere to be found. Seems he was smart enough to not show his face to me again that day. My boyfriend and I didn’t speak of this. Ever.

So, why am I bringing up this so-disgusting-you’d-think-I’m-making-it-up-but-I’m-not-because-this-shit-happens-to-me-all-of-the-time memory? Because the scene in the bathroom post-Colin-bath last week reminded me of that day. Fortunately, there’s no vomit involved, but it appears he had some sort of pooping problem that ended up on the toilet and the floor and the bath. When I got there, he was half-naked on the bath mat trying to pull up his pajama pants.  (Don’t worry, he and the bath mat took another bath.) As I was cleaning up the mess, I thought about Paul—and about how his college antics made this parental chore seem much less daunting. And I was thankful to him for that. And that his bare white pimply ass was nowhere in sight.


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Dream A Little Dream

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Last week I had a dream that I was going to Blowjob School. Seriously. It was Blowjob School. I took a course on how to give the best blowjob in the world. You would think this would be amazing. Well, at least Mr. Foxy would. But, before I could put any of my new-found knowledge to practice, the zombies came, and the world came to an end.

Poor Mr. Foxy. Even in my dreams he can’t get a decent blowjob.

(Before any of you try to analyze this dream in too much detail, I had just finished my Blowjob Questionnaire and the latest episode of The Walking Dead.)


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Don’t Read This If You Hate Porn

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Hypothetically speaking, what do you do with reject porn? The stuff you find, you know, hypothetically unwatchable? I mean, you can’t (hypothetically) sell it on eBay. Well, I guess you could, but, ewww, gross. I wouldn’t (hypothetically) buy porn off of eBay. And I wouldn’t want my seller’s reviews to reflect a porn sale.

Do you (hypothetically) give it away on Craig’s List or freecycle.org?  I sure don’t want to meet the person who trolls those sites for giveaway porn. And I sure the fuck don’t want them to meet me. Donate it to charity? Hmmm, that’s one fine gesture of Goodwill. But I don’t think I’d take that tax write-off.

Fuck if I know. So I just threw it away. Hypothetically.


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Anonymous Poll: What Do You Think of Blowjobs?

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You people don’t seem to comment on or “like” articles about sex. Or maybe you’re just not reading them—I don’t know. But other not-nearly-as-pleasant bodily functions don’t seem to bother you so it got me thinking. Maybe we need to do this more anonymously. You know, so no one can prove you expressed any opinion whatsoever about sex.

Hence, I have created this highly scientific anonymous poll specifically focusing on blowjobs. I’ve talked about blowjobs a couple of times before: once in a ridiculous “book review” and once in a follow-up article that used empirical and measurable evidence to prove my assertion from the first article that women don’t love giving blowjobs as much as the silly protagonist from the book. One of you disagreed. One of you agreed. Most of you remained very, very silent.

So I’m making it easy for you. Here’s your chance to tell me what you think. I promise not to tell your husband/boyfriend/whatever. Because I can’t—it’s anonymous.

Please be honest…and only the fairer sex need respond. I already know what men think about them.

 

This poll is closed! Poll activity:
Start date 01:01:00
End date 01:01:00
Poll Results:
What are your thoughts on giving blowjobs to your guy? (Check all that apply.)


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