Foxy Wine Pocket

Me, uncensored.

“I Have an Announcement to Make: My Mom Is Pooping!”

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My Mom is Pooping!

I should start by saying that, normally, I like pooping. I think it is one of life’s underrated pleasures. It’s such sweet relief to feel lighter, less clogged, and cleansed. My favorite is pooping right before getting into the shower—I feel like a new woman ready to take on the day. I even have an unofficial Poop Club with two of my friends in which we text each other after we’ve pooped. (I think I just broke the first rule of Poop Club.) We congratulate each other much like you might congratulate a child in the midst of potty-training. Sometimes we even send each other selfies while on the toilet. Yeah. I know. Not everyone gets it. My husband being one of them. He remains horrified by all discussions of pooping.

But, here’s the thing: I don’t love pooping all of the time. Let’s face it, it’s not always a pleasant experience. And it’s not always at convenient times or places. I especially don’t love pooping when people not in the bathroom know EXACTLY what’s going on. And that’s where this story comes in…

So I’m driving my two kids to my daughter’s piano lessons when that distinct rumbling—that intense gurgling—in my abdomen starts. Ooooooohhhhhh, that’s not a good feeling—like magma moving violently deep inside a volcano. My entire face involuntarily scrunches up, and I slowly shake my head back and forth. My palms get a little clammy, and my whole body cringes as the bowel cramps start. This is not going to be one of those pleasant poops.

If I were headed to Target or Costco, it would be one thing—you can poop fairly anonymously in their bathrooms. But I was headed to piano lessons in a tiny little music and dance studio. The bathroom is just across the waiting room. And the waiting room is always jam-packed with moms and grandmas (and the occasional dad) and little siblings waiting. Bored. With nothing to do. Not my ideal pooping location. Especially with the major earth catastrophe I’m sure is coming.

By the time we arrive at the studio. I’m sweating and shaking all over. I clench my butt cheeks to hold back the tsunami that’s brewing. I’m walking very awkwardly but VERY rapidly across the parking lot to the front door. This isn’t going to end well unless I get to the bathroom RIGHT NOW. The waiting room is full, OF COURSE, but I’ve got tunnel vision toward the bathroom. I bark at my kids to sit in the waiting area, and my son Colin announces he needs to go to the bathroom too. OF COURSE HE DOES. Fuck. I’m dying here. I don’t have time for this. Normally I’d check the men’s bathroom before letting him go in, but there was simply no time. I shove him toward the appropriate bathroom and make a beeline for mine.

I can not get my pants undone fast enough. I have to get on that toilet. I fumble with the button and zipper, but I make it. Just. In. Time. I’ll spare you the details, but I let out a huge sigh of relief to open the flood gates. Unfortunately, this is clearly going to take some time. I’m guessing the berries I had for breakfast were overripe. Or, oh dear god, I’ve mistaken my regular green tea for the detox green tea. Whatever. I’m on the toilet now, and that’s all that matters. I glance at my watch. My daughter has a few more minutes before her lesson starts. My son is in the other bathroom. The torrential downpour is relentless, but I’ve got some time, I think.

All of the sudden, I hear a very loud voice on the other side of the bathroom door: “MOOOOM! ARE YOU DONE YET?!”

It’s Colin. Shit. (Literally.) He’s less than 10 feet from the other parents in the waiting room. Shit.

Me (whisper-screaming): “No, Colin. I’m not done yet. Go sit in the waiting room with your sister.”

I didn’t think I’d been in there that long, but I’m not thinking entirely clearly at this point. My head is spinning a little bit as the earth seems to move inside of me.

Colin (just plain screaming): “HOW LONG IS IT GONNA TAKE YOU?!”

Me (still trying to whisper-scream through the sweat and pain): “I’ll be done soon, Colin. Go wait with your sister.”

I think I’ve bought myself some more time. I wipe down my forehead with some toilet paper. I focus on my breathing. I’m trying to hurry things along, but it’s a fine line between expediency and hemorrhoids. A few moments pass. More violent eruptions.

Colin (still yelling): “MOM! YOU’RE TAKING A **REALLY** LONG TIME.”

Oh my god. I can only imagine what the dozen or so folks in the waiting area are thinking. I might be mortified, but all I can feel is intense relief as this landslide flows out of my ass and the cramping starts to decrease.

Me (slightly hysterical at this point): “Colin. Go wait with your sister.”

Colin: “SHE’S GONE WITH THE TEACHER. HOW LONG IS THIS GOING TO TAKE YOU?!”

Me (exhausted now but not quite done): “Colin. Just. Go. Sit. Back. Down. PLEEEAAASE.”

A few more moments of peace. Well, you can’t hear any voices anyhow. What’s going on in the toilet is an entirely different matter.

Colin (slightly panicked): “SERIOUSLY, MOM. YOU’RE TAKING A REALLY LONG TIME. ARE YOU WASHING YOUR HANDS?”

Me (pleading and swearing under my breath): “Yes, Colin. I’m washing my hands. Go sit back down.”

I bought myself just enough time to finish up (for now), wash my hands, and go join Colin back in the waiting room. I take a deep breath and summon up my courage to go face the audience waiting for me. They all know what’s been going on. I mean, you can’t even pretend to not know with all of the commotion Colin made.

I hug my son and thank him for waiting for me (he misses the sarcasm in my voice). Mostly I’m just thankful I physically survived that unnatural disaster. And I keep my head held high as I walk across the waiting room with all 13 or so sets of eyes staring at me. A little toddler looks at me and then whispers something to his mom (clearly he has more tact than Colin). The mom nods and shushes him. I walk all of the way to the only empty seat in the room, sit down, and just thank the pooping gods I didn’t crap my pants in front of these people. Because that’s about the only thing worse I can imagine at this point.

Time to teach Colin some more lessons on discretion. And throw out the detox tea.


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She Never Said That

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We’re drinking beer and eating chips and avocado salsa verde (from Zanotto’s, of course). Dan offers me a chip that is really 3 chips fried together.

Me: “No thanks. That’s too big.”

Dan: “That’s what she said.”

Me: “Let me make this clear: she never said that. Ever.”


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Still Crazy (Immature) After All of These Years

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Here’s why Dan and I get along so well—even after 20 years. We were having our family dinner (i.e., kids were present) the other night, and Dan was eating asparagus. He looked at it strangely.

Dan: “This asparagus spear is missing the tip.”

Me: “The tip is the best part.”

Silence. Exchange of knowing looks. Smirks on faces.

Dan mouths: “That’s what she said.”

Me: “I was going to say that too. But notice I bit my tongue and didn’t… It was really hard.”

Suppressed laughter. More knowing looks. I might have spit out a little food.

Yes, we’re really 12-year-old boys.

Photo: Benson Kua / Flickr

“Asparagus” by Benson Kua is licensed under CC BY 2.0

 


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Blowjobs Part II (Wherein Where My Husband Still Doesn’t Get One)

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No_sign2

I recently received some hate mail feedback on my ridiculous book “review” (you might want to read that, if you haven’t already) implying that, clearly, I must just suck (pun intended…always) because women don’t hate giving blowjobs as much as I stated. The feedback went on to imply that if I were a better wife, I’d be giving my husband blowjobs daily. At that point, I started to suspect Mr. Foxy was creating fake email addresses just to send these email comments to me. But whatever.

In my defense, I never said I hated giving blowjobs; I merely stated that most women don’t enjoy them as much as the protagonist in the book. But I lacked hard data to support this statement so I decided to conduct a very scientific research study on what women really think about giving blowjobs.

Now, I used to work at a high tech company designing needs assessments, audience analyses, and all sorts of professional (and very expensive) research projects. I’m an also expert in developing psychometrically-sound certification exams as well. Probably, you haven’t heard of psychometrics (don’t click that link–you’ll fall asleep) until now. But I seriously used to do that shit. Just believe me when I tell you that this was a very sound study*. It was painstakingly designed to collect unbiased data on women’s enjoyment of blowjobs.

Research Subject #1

Me: “Your thoughts on blowjobs. Go.”
RS #1: “Quicker than sex.”
Me: “Would you say you enjoy blowjobs?”
RS #1: “Enjoy might be too strong a word. I definitely don’t mind them and can fake that I enjoy them very well and very easily. I definitely use them as a way to get out of sex. And of course, they’re always part of foreplay.”

What I really love is that RS #1 didn’t even bat an eyelash when I sent her this text. She answered me as if this is the way we talk everyday. (Okay, so it’s the way we talk everyday.) But so far so good. I had collected important feedback and was pleased to see that it corresponded with my original assertions. But I wanted some stronger, irrefutable data.

So I moved on to Research Subject #2.

Research Subject #2

Me: “Doing some research. What do you think of blowjobs?”
RS #2: “I love them.”
Me: “Huh. You’re skewing my data. I’m going to delete this text.”

Unfortunately Research Subject #2 wasn’t home when I called so I contacted Research Subject #3.

Research Subject #3

Me: “What’s your position on blowjobs?” (HAHA–position–get it?! I’m full of fun and giggles.)
RS #3: “If I want something…a girl’s weekend or a new purse, it’s a handy tool.”

BINGO. This was exactly what I was looking for. I was very much enjoying RS #3’s answers. I dug even further.

Me: “Do you enjoy them?”
RS #3: “WTF? Who actually enjoys that shit? Although I did hear that if the guy eats pineapple, it make the experience ‘sweeter.'”

(Gagged a bit. Took a couple of deep. Regained my composure.)

Me: “So you actually swallow?!”
RS #3: “Ah HELL NO! I was just giving important information. LOL. [My husband] is too polite.”

(Oh, thank god. I knew we were friends for a reason.)

Me: “Thank you for your input. As it coincides with my opinion, I will allow it into my research project.”

At this point, I knew I had great stuff, but I felt like I needed to collect just a wee bit more data in order for this study to be sound. But I don’t have that many friends with whom I can discuss blowjobs via text message. So the research study stalled for a bit.

A week later, on an outing with our kids (who were out of earshot, I swear), I ambushed interviewed Research Subject #4.

Research Subject #4

Me: “Alright, this may seem intrusive, but I need to know what you think of blowjobs.”
RS #4: “It’s a necessary evil.”

Again, I’ve got to hand it to my friends. They don’t even pause or get uncomfortable or take the slightest offense at my invasive questions.

RS #4: “I mean, it’s the quickest and easiest way to get it done and then I can go to bed.”

And there you go. Yep, exactly my point.

Now one of the great things about text conversations is that you can end them at any time, and you aren’t distracted by facial expressions and other odd noises that people make when talking about sex. Since this live conversation went on for quite some time and I had to disclose additional information about myself and my opinions, I think it’s safer for everyone to not include the rest of the transcript. And, really, I had collected all of the data necessary for this scientific and statistically significant research study.

Summary

Honestly, I think the data speaks for itself, and there is no need to analyze this further. But in case it’s not clear: women don’t enjoy giving blowjobs as much as the protagonist of the book (and men might want). It’s not that we hate them; we just don’t enthusiastically jump at every chance to give them. And we certainly don’t swallow if we don’t have to (at least not without a mint or something). We still love our partners, I promise. Especially when they give us purses and let us go to sleep.

Coming Soon: Blowjobs Part III (The One Where I Ask You What You Think)

*To maintain the integrity of the data and thus the validity of the entire research project, I have removed all names. It has absolutely nothing to do with any husband potentially taking offense to the responses. Really.


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Sex, Lies, and Instant Replays

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Sex, Lies, and Instant Replays @foxywinepocket #humor

Recently, I was in the awkward position (pun intended—you’ll get it soon) of not wanting to tell the Urgent Care doctor exactly how I injured myself. I mean, I wanted an accurate diagnosis and proper treatment, but how do you tell the doctor, “I was having wild sex with my husband when I dislocated my kneecap?”

*pauses for effect*

Should I have told him the truth? Should I have described the exact sexual position? Should I have given him all of the details? Maybe… I don’t know. But I’m much bolder in print. It’s much harder to say these things to a person’s face. So I wimped out, and I LIED.

Well, maybe I stretched the truth a bit. I told him that I was crawling around on the floor (somewhat true), cleaning up after a party (well, there was a sort of party going on), and dislocated my kneecap when I abruptly changed positions (absolutely true).

I’m not sure he bought it though. The doctor listened to my story, squinted his eyes at me, and said, “Must have been some party.”

With my head held high, I replied, “Yes. Yes, it was.”

To make matters worse, I ran into my friend’s (extremely conservative) husband on my way out of the Urgent Care Center. He spied my limp and the knee brace and asked me about my injury. I couldn’t even bring myself to continue the lie I had told the doctor so I just muttered something about falling down the stairs. Which, in all honesty, happens more often than I’d care to admit.

Then, when I got home, I had to answer to my children. Unfortunately, they weren’t satisfied with my simple explanation of falling down the stairs. They asked multiple questions. They forced me to craft a fictitious account in excruciating detail. They made me act out the whole fake accident in slow motion.

I had become a lying liar who lies—with both words and actions.

When I texted my best friend about this later, she found the whole situation absolutely hilarious. (Bitch.) And she might have made fun of me a little. (A lot.) Clearly, she had no idea what kind of pain I was in. Not to mention that I didn’t get to finish, well, you know… Dislocating your kneecap has a way of ending all fun—very suddenly.

She then sent me this little snippet from Wikipedia: “Patellar dislocations occur with significant regularity, particular[ly] with young female athletes.”

It’s possible highly probable that she was still making fun of me, but I choose to view that excerpt as a gift. She had just given me my new lie.

Should this ever happen again, I plan to look the doctor directly in the eye and say, “Oh, you know. I’m an athlete—I did this during training.” Notice I left out the “young” part—there’s no way he would buy that one.

But, friends, here’s the God’s honest truth: it’s all fun and games … until you dislocate your patella.

Photo Credit: wavebreakmediamicro / 123RF Stock Photo


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Warning: I’m Gonna Talk About Blowjobs

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I read a lot of books. Actually, that might be a bit of an understatement. I’m an insatiable reader and frequently spend my time reading when I should be sleeping or cleaning or exercising or playing with the kids or something more productive. Whatever. I’m not too picky either—I enjoy all genres: crime, historical fiction, memoirs, literary fiction, chick lit, non-fiction, young adult, you name it. I’d like to think I’m a professional reader. (Because that sounds better than professional avoider.)

Recently a friend suggested I read Bared to You. I was currently in between books so I figured I’d give it a shot. Yes, it’s a smut read along the lines of the Fifty Shades series. I guess there are a lot of desperate-housewife types out there who like to escape in a nice, juicy sex story. It’s not my favorite genre, but, hey, I’m an equal opportunity reader.

Frankly, I was disappointed with this book. Sure, the storyline was mildly entertaining and the sex scenes hot, but I had a problem with this little thing called suspension of disbelief. (Long definition here. Shorter one here. Or just read on.) Suspension of disbelief is where you look beyond the crap that just can’t happen in real life so that you can enjoy the entertainment in front of you, whether it be a book, a movie, a magic show, etc. For example, you know the magician’s bunny isn’t actually shitting multi-colored scarves, but damn, that’s just fun to watch.

So back to the book. I mean, I could get passed the ridiculous premise of a young, stunningly beautiful, New York socialite returning back to the big city because she landed a great advertising job right out of college. I could get passed the fact that she lives with her best friend who is a male model (who followed her across the country, but they’ve never hooked up) in a swanky pad that most rich people cannot afford. I could get passed the fact that she, when basically looking like crap, catches the eye of the owner of the building in which she works (he’s a late-20-something, gorgeous, ripped, gazillionaire), and they fall instantly in lust. Oh, did I mention that she used to date a rock star who wrote a song about her? And that she is still red-carpet ready after getting down with her guy in the limo? But, whatever, I was totally fine with the whole redonkulous, fantasy-land storyline. That wasn’t the problem.

Here’s where I drew the line (and where the subject line of this article comes in—I warned you). Nobody, I mean, nobody likes giving blowjobs as much as the main character does. Seriously. No. One. And Eva, our gorgeous, rich, lucky-as-shit heroine, can’t seem to get enough of it. That chick gave her guy, Gideon, a blowjob every single chance she got, and that’s just not real life, folks. I can only suspend my disbelief so much.

You might say, “I don’t know, Foxy. You do those sorts of things when you’re courting—when you’re trying to land your beautiful, tortured, rich guy.” And, yes, I will give you that. There are things you do early on in the relationship, but that doesn’t necessary mean that they are your very favorite things. But Eva, AKA Miss Blowjob, drools just thinking about Gideon’s penis—every part and texture and taste. Holy cow, she’s got nouns and adjectives for everything penis related. Really. She gets off on the whole thing. And, while most of us who still perform this favor from time to time try to figure out a way to transition to a different position before you-know-what happens, Eva greedily gulps that shit down. Doesn’t even gag. Or use a mint to help drown out the nasty taste. Nope. I’m sorry. That just doesn’t happen. Totally and completely unbelievable.

All that being said, I finished book one and book two in two days and have ordered the next one already. (Sorry, Dan, you’re still not getting a blowjob tonight.)


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