Kathryn Leehane's Blog

Dear God I Suck at This…

This isn’t me. It’s Alyson Shelton. She’s famous. And so much better at this than I am.

Look. I’m just a humble writer who likes to use silly words and crappy photos to relay my anecdotes. But there are so many highfalutin new technologies on social media nowadays. Like Lives. And Stories. And TikToks. I’m not cut out for this shit. I mean, come on, I’ve got unread Instagram messages from 233 weeks ago. I don’t know the difference between Stories and Reels and how the hell you people add all that colorful text to your photos. Shit, I even broadcast the video of my Aunt Ramona’s funeral IN THE WRONG ORIENTATION. (You could see it fine if you tilted your head to the side.)

But seriously. Why do we gotta make everything so fancy and complicated? Isn’t plain text enough? (Don’t mind me. I’m just a grumpy middle-aged woman yelling at you to get off my technological lawn. Not this blog lawn though. You have to stay here. Obviously.)

Okay, back to the point of this story. Recently Alyson Shelton, an award-winning screenwriter and essayist, invited me to participate in her series, Where I’m From. (I don’t know why either.) The series is inspired by the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Leon and uses a writing prompt/template created by Fred First.

Basically, it’s like a Mad Lib for micro memoir. I love that shit. Talking about myself? Check. Writing prompts to get me off my lazy ass inspire me? Check. Airing out my dirty childhood laundry to make you send me money for therapy help me heal? Checkity Check Check.

Only, Alyson didn’t just want me to write a poem. She also wanted me to do an Instagram Live to discuss said poem.

***VERY LOUD RECORD SCRATCH HERE***

People. That meant I had to actually use Instagram Live. (I’d never used Instagram Live.) That I had to push the right buttons to make everything work. (I don’t push technology buttons well.) THAT I HAD TO LOOK AT MYSELF WHILE TALKING. (Does anyone actually enjoy that?!)

Alyson sent me very clear and detailed instructions. Multiple times. She made it seem so easy. I spent weeks working on the poem. Carefully selected a childhood photo of myself. Updated my bio. And���before the deadline even���sent all the things Alyson requested for this godforsaken Instagram Live that I really didn’t want to do.

So I was feeling pretty good. And I might have even gotten a little cocky after I successfully shared her story on both my Instagram and Facebook feeds advertising our upcoming conversation.

Proof I successfully shared Alyson’s story. I know. I’m shocked too.

But the morning of? I was pretty nervous. So I showered (!!!!!). Even put on some make-up. And I spent way too fucking long an absolutely appropriately short amount of I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing time positioning my phone so I could:

Show off my fabulous new necklace from Burn Jewels + Vibes;Make sure my hair, in it’s awkward growing-out stage, didn’t look like a 70s pyramid hairstyle; andShowcase some of the fabulous up-cycled doll art in my office.

Spoiler alert: I failed on all three fronts.

But I did manage to press all the right buttons to join the Instagram Live. ON TIME. And Alyson and I managed to chat for a few minutes before I (accidentally, I swear) dropped out of the Live. Alyson generously blamed wonky technology for the failure. But we all know it was me.

The second attempt was successful … in keeping the connection from dropping. But I immediately noticed that the bottom of my face was cut off.

I should have left it like this. At least you couldn’t see my multiple chins.

Instead of just going with what was working, I tried to fix the camera. That was precariously propped against my laptop screen. At barely an angle. You can probably guess what happened next:

And then:

Yeah. I’m an idiot.

Alyson, the gracious professional she is, again played it off beautifully and blamed technology WHEN OF COURSE WE ALL KNOW IT WAS ME. AGAIN.

I eventually got the phone to stay put, and we had a lovely conversation despite my gaffs and my 70s pyramid hair and my eyes freaking out every time they saw my face on the screen. WHY DO THEY MAKE US LOOK AT OURSELVES? (It’s possible I don’t know how to turn off that feature. Or if you even can.) I read my poem without puking, and we discussed it and our newly released anthology and the importance of breaking the silence on taboo topics.

Folks, it’s a motherfucking miracle. I mostly successfully participated in an Instagram Live. If you don’t believe me, you can watch the video that bitch the lovely and talented and professional Alyson put on YouTube. (I really don’t know what my hands are doing in the preview screen, I swear.)

You can also:

Read my poem. Fair warning: It ain’t a funny Foxy post. It’s dark. (The first version was even darker.)Check out the anthology, The Loss of a Lifetime: Grieving Siblings Share Stories of Love, Loss, and Hope, Alyson and I discussed. Maybe even buy it. It’s an incredible resource I wish I’d had when my brother died. For realz. (My essay, like the poem, is not funny.) Teach me how to use TikTok. I once asked my daughter to help me. They agreed but never brought it back up again. I think they know I’m a lost cause.

Even though the Instagram Live was successful, I’m still devastated you didn’t get to see my up-cycled doll art. So here are a few pieces:

Not gonna lie. I had a really hard time limiting myself to three pictures. Maybe I should give y’all a virtual tour of my office sometime.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

The post Dear God I Suck at This… appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

The Big Reveal

No, I’m not getting naked in this post. This isn’t that kind of blog.

Did I finish my manuscript last year? No.

But did I accomplish my other 2022 writing goals*? Also no.

But did I get my greedy little mitts on a copy of the 1984 Dynamite Magazine that published my first joke?

FUCK YEAH I DID.

Remember Dynamite Magazine? Of course, you do. (Please don’t tell me you’re too young to remember because then I’ll just feel older than I already do.) In its heyday, Dynamite Magazine was the essential pop-culture and activity publication for children and tweens, and it included a feature called Bummers. Bummers were (not-really-funny) jokes that started with, “Don’t you hate it when…” Readers were invited to submit an ending to that sentence. Examples might include:

Don’t you hate it when your brother eats the last cookie!Don’t you hate it when your parents forget your birthday!Don’t you hate it when the cat barfs on your bed!

Again, the “jokes” weren’t really that funny. The entire section was more like a Complainers Club or training to become a grumpy old person. (Don’t even say a word, Mr. Foxy.) Regardless, tens of thousands of kids across the U.S. wanted their Bummer published because fame and fortune awaited. If your one-liner was accepted, Dynamite would publish and illustrate it and send you $5 to boot. $5 could have bought at least 20 candy bars in those days.

Now as many of you know, I grew up with five older siblings, and there was a lot of healthy and (mostly) unhealthy competition throughout my childhood. We were rarely weren’t always very nice to each other, and battles erupted over simple things like competing for the last cookie. (Obviously I was an angel and not at all at fault for any of the screaming or fighting or property damage done to my parents’ house. Obviously.) Who could get published first in Dynamite Magazine was no exception.

Throughout the 70s and early 80s, Dynamite must have received hundreds of submissions from my brothers, and Not. One. Was. Accepted. When I talked about submitting a few of my own ideas, my brothers laughed at me and told me I would fail just like them. Not to be deterred, I sent in my submission, and a few months later received an acceptance letter and a big fat check for $5! This development really pissed off my older siblings. And that, possibly more than the prospect of getting published, made me very happy. Also, it was the first time I was paid for my “writing.” I basked in my glory … and promptly spent my earnings on candy. Probably Starbars or Whatchamacallits.

Tragically, I did not keep a copy of my Bummer. In fact, years later I couldn’t even remember exactly when it was published—or who was on the cover. If you’ve been a long-time Foxy Fan (Do we have buttons for that? I feel like we need buttons for that.) or if I annoy know you in real life, you’ve probably heard me bitch and moan about not keeping a copy of said Bummer. A LOT.

Well, after decades of regret, years of loud complaining, and two weeks of actually doing something about it, I have finally been reunited with the issue of Dynamite Magazine that contains my Bummer. Drum roll, please…

BAM! There it is. And I only had to purchase 47 other issues of Dynamite to find this one. Hashtag winning?

And now the best part … my Bummer. So there was supposed to be a big Bummer Unveiling Party with booze, buttons, and Bummers, but honestly, Mr. Foxy and I are tired AF. There just ain’t no more steam in the engine. So we’re going to have the unveiling right here on my blog. (I still might make buttons though.)

Before I show you my Bummer, I need you to lower your expectations because, remember, Bummers weren’t actually all that funny.

Nope. Go lower.

Even lower.

A scooch more.

Okay, here you go:

My Bummer. It’s a thing of (rather unfunny) beauty. Truly, my life is now complete.

There you have it, friends. My published Bummer.

Now, it’s too bad Dynamite Magazine isn’t around anymore because my husband has a submission: “Don’t you hate it when your wife spends all your money on eBay looking for a dumb joke she wrote in grade school!”

Maybe I should give him $5.

*While I didn’t accomplish all my 2022 writing goals, I did make significant progress on my manuscript. And I won an Honorable Mention in the Erma Bombeck writing contest. And I even got an acceptance from a beloved literary magazine (that essay should be coming out early this year). So I’m calling 2022 a motherfucking win.

Cover Photo Credit: rpm1 / 123RF Stock Photo
Dynamite Magazine Cover and Bummer Copyright © 1984 Scholastic, Inc.

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Get the Fuck Out of My Shower

That’s not me, I swear. But it could be.

I am a shower tyrant. I always have been. Much to my family’s dismay, I don’t want anyone with, near, or even in the vicinity of me when I’m showering.

I trace this back to my childhood. When I was in preschool, I would shower with my older sister. She would help me shampoo my hair and make sure I was cleaning all my parts. But she stood in front of the shower nozzle the entire time and would only periodically lean from side to side to give me some of the spray. So most of the time, I was cold and yearning for an uninterrupted flow of warm water. Even at that tender young age, I remember thinking, “Fuck this shit. I want my own damn shower.”

Ever since then, I’ve always prized my solo shower. It’s my special time to think and relax and wash away the prior day. It is my ME time.

My husband is not so thrilled with my shower stance, and it’s been a difficult rule to enforce. I guess this is my fault, really. Early in our fornicating years, I may have indulged him with a little sexy time in the shower. But eventually that got old, and I reclaimed the stall as my own. (My god, that’s as bad as a blow job bait-and-bail, isn’t it?) For many years, I repeatedly rebuffed my husband’s requests for a shared shower. “I’m trying to get clean! I don’t need your goo on me!”

He then suggested we try showering together for intimacy, not sex. Every once in a while, I’d give in, but we quickly discovered we have different preferences for water temperature. He likes just it barely warm whereas I prefer water so hot it practically melts off your face. “Just get out,” I insisted during one such lukewarm shower-for-two. There could be no temperature compromise.

Once I had kids, however, a solo shower became an entirely different challenge. Even finding the time to hose off was difficult, let alone time to relax. I’d squeeze it in during naptime or wake up at ungodly hours to ensure uninterrupted relaxation and cleansing.

I explained my dilemma to a friend, and she replied, “Why don’t you just let your daughter play outside the stall?” I eyed her doubtfully. She assured me it was possible and suggested I bring a few toys for my daughter while I showered in peace.

I was right to be skeptical—it wasn’t that easy. And it certainly wasn’t peaceful. My child quickly bored of her own playthings and would search the room for other “toys.” She would make telescopes out of tampons (clean ones), create maxi pad (again, clean ones) art on the wall, and wreak havoc in my bathroom. I tried to distract her by drawing pictures on the fogged-up stall door so I could shower mostly uninterrupted. That seemed to work for a while. It wasn’t total relaxation, but it would have to do.

Then one day during shower time, she pointed to my stomach and said, “Baby.”

I patted my fleshy pooch and looked down. Great. Now my kid is insulting my baby weight too?! I thought that was just my mother me. “No, sweetie, there’s no baby in here.”

She pointed more dramatically and raised her voice, “BABY!”

“No. There is NO baby in here. Mommy’s tummy is just really big, all right?!”

“NO,” she hollered and then crawled over to touch the shower door. “BABY!”

My daughter didn’t think I was pregnant. She just wanted me to draw a baby on the shower door. *facepalm*

After that incident, my solo shower time became about more than just attaining Zen. It was also about preserving my dignity. I made sure to get up early enough to shower without an audience or self-inflicted insult. Some days I would just skip it altogether. (Cleanliness is overrated, right?)

I managed a few years of interruption-free showers and was just getting my shower mojo back when my preschooler son ruined the whole thing. It started off innocent enough. He’d barge in during shower time and make some observations.

“Mommy, how come you don’t have hairy boobies like Daddy?”

“Mommy, why is your tummy so mushy?”

“Mommy, how come you don’t have hair on your ‘gina anymore? You had some yesterday.”

After that last one, I asked my son to please get the fuck out give me privacy in the bathroom. To respect the closed door. To leave me the fuck alone. That worked for a while, but the temptation was just too great, I suppose, because he came in to ask me how many friends he could invite to his birthday party … which was three months away. I sighed and answered his question as I dried off with a towel.

He examined my stomach through the shower stall and “helpfully” suggested, “You know, Mommy, you should really try Celtrixa. You could see dramatic results in two weeks.”

“Uhhh, what now?” I stammered.

“You know, those stretch marks on your stomach? You’ve got a lot of them, but Celtrixa reduces stretch marks by seventy-five percent. And it works on new and old stretch marks.”

What. The. Fuck.

“You know, just because the television tells you something, that doesn’t always mean it’s true. Can you please leave while I finish in here?”

“Uhhh, Mommy. Celtrixa has clinically-proven results. And you can see dramatic results within two weeks. Two weeks!” He was very excited for me.

“Okay then. Thanks for the information. It’s time to leave the bathroom. Please get out. NOW.”

“Okay. But, Mommy, you should really consider Celtrixa.”

After that final blow, I took more drastic measures to ensure my privacy. If my kid could recite commercials and clinical results, he could read and follow some explicit rules. I hung a sign outside my bathroom door:

“Unless someone is bleeding or the house is on fire,
DO NOT come in here when the door is closed.
Any violation will result in an automatic $20 fine.”

That did the trick, and I got my shower back from my children. Now if I could only keep my husband out. I think I’m gonna have to destroy his ATM card.

The original version of this essay was published in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone.

Photo Credits: bowie15 / 123RF Stock Photo

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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…

An Act of Love

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?”

“NO,” I hissed and clenched my teeth, concentrating on not soiling myself in front of everyone, while simultaneously cursing my husband for the furry alien that was breaking my vagina. As soon as I held my beautiful baby, however, I began to care more about her tresses than I wanted to admit.

True to the nurse’s word, my newborn daughter boasted a full head of hair that only thickened as she aged. I brushed it while she nursed. Stroked it as she slept. Delighted in washing it—even when mine hadn’t seen a shower in days. Tending to her thick tresses made me feel like a mother. It became an act of love.

Isn’t she the cutest? TELL ME SHE’S THE CUTEST.

For years, I relished being her personal beautician, singing as I blow-dried her lustrous locks. Practicing ABCs as I detangled her chestnut strands. Laughing together as I created lopsided pigtails and zany Dr. Seuss styles.

You guys. There were so many cute pictures. It was hard to limit myself to just two.

In Kindergarten, when my daughter announced she wanted hair “short in the back and longer in front—like yours, Mommy,” I had mixed emotions. While I delighted in her admiration, she wouldn’t require my styling assistance anymore. It was her choice, however, and I needed to loosen my hold. Though my hand trembled, I squeezed her chubby fingers as the stylist lopped off her ponytail. Together we said a bittersweet goodbye to those silky strands, and she generously donated nine inches of her beautiful hair to charity.

Y’all. I already knew I was in trouble.

Fortunately, her mane grew back as quickly as the height marks on our wall. For years, I created hundreds of coiffure masterpieces: complicated braids, elegant twists, and cascading curls. When my daughter decided to cut her hair again, there was no apprehension. “I’ve got this, Mom.” My big girl could handle the change on her own, and I let her, only shedding a few tears.

SHE IS A WAY BETTER HUMAN THAN I AM.

By the time she hit the tween years, I wasn’t allowed near her hair. Or her room. Or her, for that matter. My nose didn’t protest—despite my shampooing tips, her silky curls had morphed into a greasy mess that reeked of Eau de Garbage. I could track her down anywhere by following the stench. Still, I missed our special time together.

One afternoon, I found a baffling rat’s nest of hair in the bathroom. When questioned, my daughter sheepishly revealed a sheared patch near the nape of her neck and reluctantly admitted she needed help detangling the other knots. I stifled a gasp and for the first time in months, gingerly lifted the grimy clumps and gulped. “I think I just found Jimmy Hoffa.”

She reluctantly admitted she needed my assistance. I brought her to my hairstylist. and there were no tears or trepidation, just determination, as we tackled the problem together. Soon her hair was shiny and polished, the shorn spot only visible upon close inspection. Mercifully her head didn’t stink either. But she was still a tween, and the messy ponytails returned too quickly.

That’s the hair I found in her garbage can. Yes, I kept it. No, I wasn’t allowed to take pictures of her. Yes, there are explanations for the other shit in the picture.

The passing years added inches to both her body and her hair. In high school, when she tentatively presented a picture of an edgy pixie cut, one I never could have braved, I exclaimed, “That would look amazing on you!” (I left out the part about how short hair is easier to de-funk.) I gave her the gentle push she needed to take the reins.

The next day, I watched expert hands transform my daughter. As her hair was cut shorter, she sat up taller. As her mane shrank, her smile grew. Chopping off her hair allowed her to express her individuality. Showcase her personality. Display her confidence. By taking charge of her hairstyle, she’s learning to embrace her growing independence. And I’m learning that letting her do so is also an act of love.

She’s so much cooler than I will ever be.

That’s the end of the essay, but because this is my blog and I do what I want, here’s another picture of my girl.

I mean, are you kidding me?! She’s the fucking best. And again, so much cooler than I will ever be.

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Bless the Baby, but Fuck All the Fluids

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 still have three-and-a-half weeks to go! I just started maternity leave! 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.

On the way to the hospital, gushes of neonatal nectar started bursting out. My pad couldn’t contain all the fluids. The seat around me became damp. I kept muttering, “I’m so sorry. The baby balloon wasn’t supposed to pop this early.” Fortunately, Carrie got us to the hospital quickly. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the pool of womb water forming in her car.

When we entered the hospital, the admitting nurse examined each of us up and down. It was probably a site to behold—two very pregnant women standing at the registration desk. She looked back and forth at each of us and finally asked, “Who’s in labor?”

“That would be me,” I replied. “I’m not actually peeing, I swear,” pointing to my visibly wet maternity jeans.

After they checked me into my room, I tried to reach my husband again, but he still didn’t answer. I left a message, “Hey. The baby is busting out early. If you’re still on-campus, come directly to the hospital. If you’re home, come directly to the hospital. Oh, and sorry about the mess in the bathroom.”

The nurse arrived, reviewed my chart, noted I wasn’t having contractions, and eyed me suspiciously, “We need run a test to make sure it’s really amniotic fluid.”

“Well, it’s either that or my vagina is crying—really big tears.”

She didn’t appreciate my humor nor the gush of sac sauce that flooded her hands as she put the test strip in my hoo-ha.

My husband and the contractions arrived about the same time. As my labor progressed over the next few hours, the pain became the most intense I’d ever experienced. I sounded like a myriad of wounded animals dying a thousand deaths as I staggered up and down the hospital halls white-knuckling the handrails along the walls. Dripping. Of course I was still dripping.

The nurse gently suggested I use the birthing tub, as warm water might soothe the pain (or at least move the cacophony out of the hallway). My husband led me over to the Jacuzzi and prepared the water as I wailed in pain behind him, “Hurry up! OOH-AAH, OOH-AAH—I need to relax!”

I finally lowered my hefty body into the tub, closed my eyes, and took a few deep breaths. With the final exhalation, I hurled the entire contents of my stomach into the warm, bubbling water.

The vomit floating around me momentarily distracted me from the labor pain.

I needed to get out of the water, but I couldn’t get up by myself. My husband bravely reached into the amnio–puke soup to help. I then stood there, hand against the wall, trying to catch my breath before the next contraction arrived, dripping and covered in regurgitated food bits. Without a word, my husband proceeded to hose down my enormous naked body.

“Make sure you—OOH-AAH, OOH-AAH—get the chunks off my ass,” I helpfully directed between contractions.

Fortunately, the anesthesiologist arrived shortly after my barf bath to take me out of my misery. The next several hours were relatively uneventful. I lay in the hospital bed watching my contractions on the monitor while my husband slept (and snored—so much snoring) beside me. In the early dawn, the doctors decided it was time to get the real party started so they pumped me full of Pitocin (to help progress labor) and antibiotics (to kill anything they hadn’t tested for because I wasn’t supposed to be in labor yet).

As we waited for my cervix to dilate, back labor forced me on all fours with a nurse firmly rubbing down my back. I was like a naked, screaming, interactive museum display. It was painful and mortifying, but at least I wasn’t puking anymore. Then it came time to push. So I pushed. And pushed. In between pushing, one of the nurses exclaimed that my daughter had a lovely head of hair. “Would you like me to get a mirror so you can see?” she excitedly inquired.

I’d seen enough of my bodily fluids for a while. “Uh, no.”

The doctor then explained my baby was ready to come out, but she was stuck because my baby gate was too narrow. He suggested an episiotomy to help her escape. I agreed and watched in horror as he whipped out his shiny scalpel. Turns out the epidural wasn’t quite strong enough because I felt that sharp blade slicing my perineum.

“FUUUUCK!” I screamed. I imagined blood spraying in all directions.

My daughter then practically shot out of my body—along with the rest of the uterus juice, which splashed audibly on the hospital floor. I didn’t care. My beautiful baby girl had finally arrived. Three-and-a-half weeks early. Dripping with blood and goo.

Now, I know what you’re really thinking: With all these fluids, I bet there was even more. I bet she pooped on the table.

Well, we’ll never know. I invoked the only acceptable “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy during delivery, and my husband graciously agreed to take that secret to his grave.

This blog post is dedicated to my dear friend, Quirky Chrissy, who just had her first baby—he’s a CUTIE (and hopefully gross-fluid-free). The original version of this essay was published in It’s Really Ten Months: Special Delivery.

Photo Credits: moellerthomsen / 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.)

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Beware of Killer Tampons

“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.”

In fact, from the first day I got my period, my mother insisted I use only sanitary napkins. “You’re not ready for the responsibility,” she asserted. “Tampons can seriously hurt you if not used correctly.”

I imagined a vagina without protective gear getting mangled in a roller-blading accident, but being a generally compliant child, I used the damn pads. Unfortunately, those cotton ponies felt like bulky diapers advertising: “SHE’S ON HER PERIOD. AND HER MOM WON’T LET HER USE TAMPONS.”

For months I walked around like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (well, woman) with a load in my pants. Clenching my thighs together anytime I lowered myself into a chair, trying to keep the rag in place. And praying the pad didn’t fold over and trap my developing pubes in adhesive. Jerking and twerking while standing up to ensure it didn’t come loose. And constantly (but not so discreetly) pushing up my maxi muff while walking to prevent any leaks.

Tampons, on the other hand, promised a new free world where I could twirl in a flower-filled field while birds sang around me. Though I could hear my mother’s stern voice in my head, my desire to not wear a panty saddle was too strong. After my friend gave me my first hit, I used my hard-earned allowance to purchase my very own box of tampons. I snuck them into the house like alcohol or drugs or deadly weapons. My very own sanitary contraband.

Without any maternal guidance, I spread eagle in front of a mirror and finally got that sucker inside while reassuring my Catholic guilt I was still a virgin. As an added bonus, I gave myself a better lesson on female genital anatomy than my health classes, teachers, and books combined.

For the duration of my period, I didn’t walk—I glided across the floor, performing a female freedom dance. I sat down and stood up repeatedly, giddy with the confidence of a whack-a-mole who would never be hit. No longer needing to grab my own crotch to prevent spillage, my days of fear and loathing in Las Vaginas had ended.

Eventually my mom caught on to my deception and delivered her infamous Tampon Talk of Terror: “Wash your hands before you handle them. Every time! Replace them every four hours. At minimum! Change them every time you use the toilet. Especially if you have a bowel movement! Be careful of cross-contamination. No germs! If you leave them in too long, you will get Toxic Shock Syndrome, and you will DIE.”

I whimpered, “You make them sound like they are murder sticks.” 

“They can be!” She hissed.

While I risked death for freedom, the anxiety ate away at me. I kept careful inventory and counted out the appropriate number of vagina slims to use each day during my cycle. I set an alarm on my 80s digital watch to alert me when my worry-free four hours had ended. I wrote myself reminders in the bathroom to ensure I didn’t decompose overnight.

My mother didn’t help ease my stress. She’d pester me every month, asking if I was changing my tampons regularly. Leaving T.S.S. warnings in the bathroom. Tapping on my bedroom door at night to ensure I wasn’t sleeping with a cotton mouse.

Despite my careful attention to period hygiene, tampon specters haunted my subconscious. In my nightmares, I would sit down on the toilet to change my tampon, with my mother frothing at the mouth and pounding on the bathroom door, only to realize I had not one but dozens of cotton corks still inside me. Or I’d dream that I went to the OB/GYN and instead of a pap smear, the doctor would spend hours scraping out petrified tampons, turning my insides into a cavernous (but exceptionally clean) flesh bucket.

These nightmares tormented me well into my adult years. I would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, furiously examining myself to ensure I hadn’t forgotten to remove a crotch swab. In the shower, I would perform my own pelvic exam to ensure my baby chute was empty. I matched every empty wrapper to a used product in the trash. I was fastidious about my hooha hygiene; I would not become an after-school special about Toxic Shock Syndrome.

When my own daughter started her menstrual cycle, I didn’t want to cause her a lifetime of tampon terror. And I certainly didn’t want to sound like my mother. At the same time I worried about her deplorable hygiene habits (because T.S.S. is real), so after explaining how both pads and tampons work, I suggested she use pads for the first year. I might have also made some obscene hand gestures to sway her away from tampons. She quickly agreed.

Other than a few emergency pad runs at midnight, things generally went well on the period front. At least she never complained about the sanitary napkins. A year later, however, she finally inquired about using the murder sticks. I gave both my consent and my carefully-worded warning: “Sure, we can go buy some. But you have to promise to change them every four hours and never leave one in overnight.”

She squinted her eyes and cocked her head. “Okay, but why?”

I really want to say that I sat down with her and explained everything calmly and rationally. That I didn’t pass along my own tampon anxiety. That I didn’t become my mother. But that would be a lie.

Pointing my finger at her like a dagger, I replied, “Because they can kill you if leave them in too long.”

Thus the Tampon Talk of Terror lives on. I hope neither one of us dies.

The original version of this essay was published in But Did You Die? Photo Credit: dazdraperma / 123RF Stock Photo

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The Perfect Wife

Spoiler Alert: That’s not me.

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.

The first order of business was to find the Perfect Dress. Because I’d not yet lost all my pregnancy weight, I embarked upon a quest for that magical dress to disguise my postpartum pooch and enhance my breastfeeding boobs. It took several shopping sessions and many bribes in the form of lollipops and chocolate to keep the three-year-old quiet. Some trips were interrupted by a howling baby demanding to nurse; some were aborted because of threenager tantrums. Once I even ran out of a store pushing a stroller with a screaming preschooler foisted over my shoulder. After much agony (for everyone), I finally found The One: the dress that made my breasts look amazing.

I then purchased the perfect shoes and the requisite Spanx and borrowed the perfect necklace from my best friend. To complete the package, I scheduled hair and makeup appointments. (I needed an expert to cover those eye bags. Seriously.) Because I absolutely wanted to impress my husband and his colleagues feel human again.

The company hosted the party at a nearby hotel, so my husband reserved a room for us. The promise of wild hotel sex prompted me to make a deal with the devil Grandma to do the overnight babysitting, including the late night and early morning baby feedings. I pumped before I left, and we had enough breastmilk in the refrigerator that I could drink the free wine and pump-and-dump before bed with no gap in the milk supply chain.

The hair and makeup were a breeze…mostly because I didn’t have to do the work.

He was so much more than a makeup artist; he was a magician.

Dressing myself, however, was another matter. Perhaps I should have put on the Spanx before hair and makeup because I tugged and shimmied and labored my way into that shapewear for a good ten minutes. The entire exercise was just that—a workout. After a couple of blotting wipes, I managed to remove the sheen, smooth out the wobbly bits, and adorn myself with beautiful attire.

My husband’s jaw dropped when I entered the living room. I was The Perfect Wife. “Mommy, you wook beawtiful!” my daughter exclaimed as I used my arms to fend off the animals and offspring. No one was going to ruin my perfection.

Sure the picture is crooked, but just LOOK AT ME, errr, I mean US.

After dazzling my family and then leaving them behind in the dust, I felt liberated. Entering the ballroom on my husband’s arm and immediately being offered champagne by the tuxedo-clad servers, I felt glamorous. Talking to adults who didn’t need their faces wiped, their food cut up, or their undergarments changed, I felt like a brand-new person.

“This is what perfection feels like,” I whispered to my drink.

The first glass of wine transformed me into an outgoing, articulate person who rocked meeting and mingling with the executives. I was polite, graceful, and witty. They all loved me, of course. (I’m sure it wasn’t my impressive cleavage.)

Over dinner, I drank some more wine and befriended my husband’s colleagues and their spouses. I politely chucked at the office shenanigans and politics I’d left behind three years earlier. I didn’t even cry once thinking about my groundhog-day-like existence back home. (It was probably the wine.)

Because I was still breastfeeding my son, I hadn’t consumed much alcohol in over a year. Because I was severely sleep-deprived, I didn’t notice the waiter constantly refilling my wine glass. And because I was being squeezed to death by a spandex boa constrictor around my waist, I picked at my dinner like an obstinate child. Still, my mummy wrap was quickly becoming intolerable.

I excused myself to go to the restroom. Maybe a quick trip could relieve some of the pressure building inside of me. Using the toilet with Spanx presented a dilemma I’d never before faced: should I take off the deathtrap to pee freely or should I use the pre-cut hole in the bottom of the shapewear instead? Remembering my spandex aerobics from earlier in the evening, I opted for the latter. I awkwardly straddled the toilet, tried to pry open the hole wide enough, and attempted to pee straight through the opening. Between my drunken swaying and the screwed-up nature of my post-partum nether regions, it was like pouring a gallon of milk through the eye of a needle. Though I managed to empty my bladder, I might have peed a little on the undergarment. Maybe.

Having achieved some relief, I cleaned up the best I could and staggered out of the bathroom, using the wall for leverage. Across the hallway, Mr. Foxy eyed me with concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Greath!” I raised my arm triumphantly.

“Uh, let’s get you up to our room.” He secured his arm around my waist, and we quietly exited the party.

By the time we arrived upstairs, my head was spinning, I was sweating, and the elastic vice around my stomach and nether regions was going in for the kill. My insides churned, and I could feel saliva pooling in my mouth. “I’m gonna hurl.”

I stumble-ran to the toilet. I fell to my knees and heard my nylons rip as the bile rose in my throat. No longer the perfect wife, I became Mt. Vesuvius—spewing vomit everywhere: in the toilet, on the floor, on myself. The sheer force of the eruptions even caused me to hit my head on the toilet tank. Also, I might have peed a little. Again. Maybe.

When the puke storm passed, I hobbled over to the bed, and face-planted on the mattress. My stomach flipped. I was panting. Dizzy. Woozy. The Spanx was cutting off my circulation, crushing my internal organs. I was going to die. Sounding like my preschooler, I whined, “Can you take off my Thpanx? PLEATHE? It’th trying to kill me.”

Mr. Foxy’s initial concern gave way to confusion. “Uh, your what?!”

“My Thpanx! The giant grandma underwear that ith thqueezing me to death!” I flopped over and pulled up my dress to show him. “I’m going to thwow up my inerds.”

Horror flashed in his eyes, but he quickly concealed it and ran over. He gave the shapewear a gentle tug; it didn’t budge.

“You’re gonna have to pull harder. It’s like a thecond thkin.” I tossed my head back and forth on the bed.

So he pulled a little more. They still didn’t budge. “HARDER!” I commanded. (That’s what she said.) Spit flew from my mouth and landed on my face. And my chest. And the bedspread.

Steely-eyed, he crouched down and prepared for battle. He yanked my Spanx…and my entire body down the length of the bed. As my butt crash-landed on the carpet, I realized I was stuck. “Oh fuck. It’th hooked to my bwa by those thrappy thingys. You’re gonna have to sthrip me.”

Not even remotely sexy, Mr. Foxy undressed his semi-conscious, sticky, reeking-of-vomit-and-pee wife right there on the floor. Every article of clothing. Probably not what he had imagined when he booked the hotel room. Once he stripped me, he heaved me into bed, very similar to hoisting a giant, flailing octopus into a cradle. My body melted into the mattress, completely exhausted.

Mr. Foxy’s hand touched my shoulder. “Uhhh, Foxy? You’re leaking.”

I was mystified. Disoriented. “What?”

“You’re leaking milk.” He spoke slowly. “All over yourself.”

My hands flew to my hard and slippery boobs. “I need to pump.” I started crying. “But I can’t move.”

“I’ll get the pump for you.” Mr. Foxy retrieved my breastpump and set it up for me while I helplessly watched. He eyed me cautiously. “Do you want some help?”

I waved him away. “Nooo. I can do dis mythelf.”

“You sure?” Doubt dripped from his words.

“YETH!”

Fortunately, I was already naked, so there wasn’t much to do except hold the pump parts to my chest. Unfortunately, between the wine and sleep deprivation, I kept passing out falling asleep during the extraction. My arms would fall, dropping the pump parts. Breast milk poured down my chest, on the sheets, on the pillows.

Whether he was full of horror or mercy, my husband finally took over. He propped up the pillows and positioned me upright. He held the pumps against my chest.

He. Pumped. My. Breastmilk. For. Me.

The gentle tug at my nipples was the last thing I felt before I passed out for good.

I woke up the next morning to the stench of Eau de Sour Milk, Vomit, and Pee. Dried bodily fluids sullied my body. Honestly, I would have been cleaner at home. (Fortunately for everyone, there are no After photos.) The hotel room, however, was spotless. My husband had cleaned and put away the breastpump parts. He had tidied up the mess I made in the bathroom. He had carefully placed my filthy clothing in a bag (to be sent directly to the cleaners). In the end, I was not even close to the perfect wife, but Mr. Foxy was most definitely the perfect husband.

The original version of this essay was published in I Just Want to Be Perfect. Photo Credit: peggyblume / 123RF Stock Photo

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I Do NOT Recommend This Diet Plan

When I was in the 4th 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.”

Now some of you may be asking why a nine-year-old was allowed to stay up that late to watch SNL. And why a nine-year-old was even allowed to watch that show at all. Well, let’s just say, I was the youngest of six kids, and there was very little, if any, supervision of any kind television screening at that point. Let’s also just say that it was a really good thing I wasn’t in that same classroom reenacting skits from The Benny Hill Show, which I also watched, instead.

But, damn, those Doug and Wendy Whiner sketches were funny.

Changing the subject (-ish), this past St. Patrick’s Day, I enjoyed plenty of cabbage (not the boiled kind *barf a million times*) like a good semi-Irish lass, a veggie-filled salad, and an apple. (YES, there was other food throughout the day too, but that’s not relevant to my story.)

The next day I felt a twinge in my abdomen. I thought, oh bloody hell, this is what I get for being so fucking healthy. I drank some more gin water and went about my day night.

By Friday, the twinge turned into a jabby, hurty sensation. I might have been a tad bit dramatic leaning against the walls all over the house and groaning loudly.

“You got COVID?” Mr. Foxy jokingly asked.

I testily replied, “No, I don’t have COVID, asshole.” Oh shit, do I have COVID?

Back in bed with my heating pad pressed firmly against my abdomen, I was running through all the horrid diseases I could possibly have. I was practically writing my obituary and making sure everyone in the house knew my last wishes. “Cremate me, will you? And put me in the root ball of a tree.” (Then I giggled about becoming tree balls.)

“Will you stop? It’s not a Toomah!” Mr. Foxy hollered while waiting on me hand and foot heating up some soup for me.

By Saturday, the pain was un-fucking-bearable. (Because it’s always unbearable on the weekends when your doctor’s office is closed, amiright?) So I spent that afternoon in the ER being poked and prodded, providing samples of bodily fluids (not the good kind), and getting a CAT scan, with and without contrast. (Fun fact: when they inject the iodine into your IV, it feels like you’re peeing.) After a few hours, the doctor returned with the diagnosis. As you might have guessed by now, I’ve got DI-VER-TICU-LII-TIS. (Cue the annoying whining.)

Those of you who have experienced diverticulitis probably just grabbed your lower left side and groaned. Those of you who haven’t? Well, let’s just say that, like having a kid, until you have one, YOU DON’T KNOW.

Diverticulitis is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad infection (or inflammation) of the pouches (called diverticula) that can form in your intestines.

See those nasty balls on the right? Those are the fucking fuckers right there. Fuck them.

It seems my family history of this condition has finally caught up with me. Well, that, and my bad habits of the past few incredibly stressful years probably hastened it along. The lovely doctor wrote me various prescriptions and sent me home with instructions to rest, drink clear fluids for 48 hours, and then eat a low-fiber diet until the flare subsides.

Now I’m not going to say why my mom knows this (because I’d hate for any blame for my genetically fucked-up bowels to fall her way), but after the diagnosis, she texted me, “Ensure is your friend.”

When I replied that I was on clear fluids for the next few days, she responded simply, “Oh my.”

I guess my current bout with this shit is on the nastier side. Because of course it is.

Fortunately, the prescribed drugs took effect within a day. Yay doctors! Yay drugs! Yay science!

Unfortunately, while I’m on these drugs, I must adhere to the following rules:

No exercising.No drinking alcohol.No prolonged exposure to sunlight.

One of these rules sucks harder than the other two. But, just like Meg Ryan in French Kiss, I WILL TRIUMPH.

As an added bonus, I’ve already lost a few pounds. DO NOT USE THIS DIET PLAN. IT’S FUCKING HORRIBLE. 0 OUT OF 10. I DO NOT RECOMMEND.

Anyhow, I’m starting a new club. Who are my other Foxy Divers out there? Wait. That sounded wrong.

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

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.

Christmas is right around the corner. (It is right? I know sure what month it is anymore.) As I lovingly gazed at my holy clowns, something just didn’t sit right with me.

The clowns seemed somehow vulnerable and exposed. Someone (*cough, cough* Mr. Foxy) might try to murder one of them by pushing them off the edge of the end table. Also, there wasn’t enough room for my wine glass, but I swear that wasn’t my primary motivation. Really and truly, I just wanted to keep my clown babies safe.

So, I built a barn for my Clown Nativity set.

I’m not gonna lie—this project was longer and harder than I thought it would be. After having wasted spent invested all that money on my beautiful baby dolls, I knew Mr. Foxy would be pissed if I spent any money on this project. So I contacted one my neighbors who had a huge pile of good, hard wood. Materials acquired.

Then came the construction. I mean, I’m crafty and shit, but my carpentry skills are seriously lacking. (Jesus would not approve. Or maybe he would because it’s a nativity set? hashtag meta) I found some sort of electric saw and just started hacking at the wood. I had a basic idea of what I wanted, and I was letting the spirit of the clowns move me. I ended up with wood in multiple sizes and shapes.

For the assembly, I started out pounding the wood, but that didn’t work out so well because we don’t have a worktable or clamps or anything like that. Also, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Then, after far too much time handling the wood, I realized that—once again—screwing was the best option. Only, I couldn’t do that alone. So I dragged Mr. Foxy out to the garage so he could screw with me. Basically, I held the wood while he screwed.

After we finished together, I spent the afternoon playing with the wood by myself—adding a decorative roof and a back wall and flooring and a star and some fairy lights. I also burned myself multiple times in the process, to which Mr. Foxy insisted was sign that this project was too fucked-up even by Foxy standards. But I just ignored him. And aren’t you glad I did? Because, BEHOLD, my even more awesome-er, and not at all fucked up, Clown Nativity set!

It’s a beaut, right? Good, hard wood solves everything. OH! You might notice a change in the cast of clowns. Yeah, so I made each of them audition for their roles again, and I discovered the clown previously playing the role of Wise Clown with Wine wasn’t living up to his potential. He needed to be Joseph. I mean, just look at his terrified eyes. And surely Joseph would be the one supplying the wine for his lovely bride. Surely.

The Nativity set even has some thatchy, twiggy decor along the bottom front of the barn. Nooo, I didn’t spend two whole days taking apart an old wreath and then soaking the twigs in water overnight and then tying them to a straight pipe and then drying them out until the next day. YOU did.

Now my clowns are all secure, and I don’t have to worry about their safety. I think they’re even happier now, too. They’re still smiling and boozing and making music. And Mary is still the most happy mother known to clownkind. Just look at her face:

LOOK. AT. IT.

Because Christmas and pandemics and shit.

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What���s Your New Pandemic Hobby?

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.

It started innocently enough. I just wanted to re-create a horrific tree that someone had seen on the Internet last year, and because it involved dolls (and was a bit fucked-up), they immediately thought of me and sent me a picture. (I can���t remember who you are, and you probably shouldn���t reveal yourself at this point because Mr. Foxy may or may not hate you.)

So I purchased a fake tree and started scouring online auction sites for dolls���or doll parts���I wasn���t picky. (Okay, when I say it that way, it sounds a little off-kilter.) Anyhow, I found this one auction that had the perfect number of dolls and other crazy shit. Naturally, I bid on it.

Just look at those two in the middle.

But, fuck. I wasn���t watching the auction carefully enough. Maybe I got distracted by the impending apocalypse or the flaming dumpster fire that is our country right now. Whatever the reason, while I wasn’t paying attention, I was outbid by two dollars. Two measly dollars! I would have paid at least fifty twenty (seriously, one hundred, but don’t tell Mr. Foxy) more for that freak show.

I. Was. Devastated. Fetal-position devastated. I-can���t-look-at-that-picture-without-crying devastated. I���ve-been-trapped-in-my-house-with-two-teenagers-for-several-months devastated.

When I finally pulled myself back together, I dove head-first back into the auction site. My grief at losing the first auction made me blind to what I was bidding on���I just wanted dolls. My grief led me to bid on so many new ones���trying to reclaim what I felt was rightfully mine. My grief made me want ALL THE DOLLS within my reach. (Just don’t ask me how much they all cost.)

When the bidding ended, the packages started to arrive. Like, a lot of them. Every day Mr. Foxy would dread coming up from the basement (that’s where he works, not where I imprison him) because he said he knew that “fresh horrors” awaited him. (He has an unsophisticated palate.)

You guys. This isn’t even half of them.

Once I received and dismembered all the dolls I���d ���won,��� I realized I hadn’t planned properly. Some of the dolls were too small for my doll tree. Some of them were porcelain and thus too heavy. This one ��� well, I just fell in love with her and her ���fuck everything��� attitude. I couldn’t imagine harming her in any way. I carry her around with me everyday, even to bed. Okay, I don’t really, but now I feel like I should.

Her sweet little face looks really pissed off, and she���s crying.
I FEEL YOU SO HARD, MY PRECIOUS.

It was obvious I didn���t have enough ���appropriate��� doll parts for my project. This was a HUGE problem. Apparently not everyone in the house agreed. Though Mr. Foxy was ready to throttle me, I needed to bid on more dolls, right? I mean, I HAD TO. I had a dream to fulfill. So, I placed more bids. On more auctions. Maybe even a few more. Dear gawd, maybe too many, but LOOK! All my auction ���wins��� enabled me to complete the perfect Doll Limb Tree.

Just look at her! Doesn’t she just grab you?

At night her eyes glow red and everything. But now that I���m looking at her here, I think she needs more arms. Don’t ya agree? Of course you do. You’re Doll Limb Tree aficionados too.

After I completed my glorious tree, I realized I had a new problem. Before the tree was complete, I didn���t have enough doll arms. After the tree was complete, I had a shit-ton of other leftover doll parts. Legs, heads, torsos, too-small arms, too-small legs, too-small heads, and tiny torsos. Also, a fuck-ton of doll clothes.

Despite Mr. Foxy urging me to ���BURN THEM ALL��� in a funeral pyre, I decided to get innovative. I found a way to display all many a few of the extra legs, all the little leftover heads, and the big leftover heads. Okay, FINE, just a small portion of the big leftover heads. Who knew I���d have so much head? (That���s what she said.)

My family won’t go into the breakfast room anymore. Oh! If you look really hard, you can see my Doll Parts Tree in the background. She lights up and night and stares at the neighbors walking by.

Honestly, though? Putting doll parts in jars seemed too easy, too amateurish. I needed to get more drunk ingenious. “What about another tree?” (Yes, I was talking to myself at this point in the pandemic.) “Maybe smaller? Perhaps using up the smaller leftover doll limbs? Gawd-damn, you’re on fire!”

BOOM! I���m a motherfucking Picasso. Oh. She also lights up at night.

I then realized that some of the dolls in my family had removable eyes. After hacking them out and leaving them all over the house for Mr. Foxy to find, I devised a plan for the heads���MOOD LIGHTING!

It’s fine. I���m fine. Everything is FINE. Stop asking me.

Even after these extraordinary showpieces, I didn���t feel like I was pushing myself quite hard enough. I mean, the first tree was a recreation of something someone had sent me from the Internet. The other projects didn���t require that much in the way of talent or creativity. I needed to flex my artistic muscles more. I needed to reach for greatness.

The vision came to me in the middle of drinking the night. A creation so bold and breathtaking it belonged at the Louvre. It was as if DaVinci’s ghost had swaddled me in a fresco. Enshrouded me in canvas. Bathed me in his essence.

Okay, FINE. I found another picture on the Internet.

Unfortunately for my attention-span but fortunately for my attempt to pass the mind-numbing abyss of pandemic time, this project required me to put forth some actual effort. I scoured my house and garage for supplies, but couldn���t find anything appropriate for the foundation of the art piece. I scrolled through page after page on amazon.com and auction sites to no avail. Finally, in my local Buy Nothing Facebook group, a generous neighbor was offering up a shelf-set that would provide the framework for this art installation. (I’m going to go out on a limb and say she had no idea I would pervert her gift in this fashion.) The shelving was a bit small, perhaps, but I would make it work.

Next, I removed the frame from a gawd-awful clown painting Aunt Ramona forced on gifted me years back. (Don���t worry, fam, the painting is still in-tact and ready to be moved to your house ANYTIME.) I spent a ridiculous amount of time and many failed efforts trying to figure out how to attach the shelves to the frame so as to preserve the frame’s beauty. Turns out, all I needed was a couple of screws. (That’s also what she said.)

I meticulously prepared the doll parts. My neighbors stared curiously at me as I scraped doll faces and arms and feet along my concrete driveway. I spent hours, nay days, arranging and rearranging the sculpture. I molded. I hot-glued. I contorted doll parts in ungodly ways. I was the potter, and the dolls were my clay. Mr. Foxy pretended not to notice perfection in the making, but he slipped up when he suggested I add some lighting. (Come on, you know you love my girls, Mr. Foxy.)

Finally, the day came for my big unveiling. Only the dogs attended, but even they knew they were witnessing an historic moment in time. Behold…

My pi��ce de r����sis��tance. Also an excellent way to keep my family out of my office.

I just took your breath away, didn’t I? I know. I get it. I could stare at this masterpiece for hours each day. Sometimes I do. I move my chair around the room to admire it from various angles. To decipher the layers of complexity. To bask in my immeasurable artistry.

But you guys, I still have so many more dolls and doll parts. So. Many. More. Which officially makes Up-cycled Doll Art my new pandemic hobby. Mr. Foxy strongly objects to this notion, but I wonder if he’ll change his mind when I start adding blood.

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