Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 12

How Do You Know I Love You?

For you Foxy Wine Pocket regulars, it might surprise you to hear that I’m generally a shy, mild-mannered person.

That is, I’m a shy, mild-mannered person when you first meet me. Once I’m comfortable with you, I immediately start over-sharing and making snide remarks. In fact, you know I really like you when I make snarky comments directed at you.

But how do you know that I really love you? That I might BFF propose to you? That my heart just might explode with my Foxy affection?

When I start bugging the shit out of you. Yep, that’s me. I act like a 12-year-old boy that tugs on the hair of that girl he has a crush on.

I’M THAT PERSON.

Let me give you an example. (Oh, I’ve got plenty, but this one has video.) One night when I was out with my freighbors (friends + neighbors) for an outdoor movie, I possibly definitely had consumed too much wine. In fact, I know I had too much wine because:

Mr. Foxy heard my voice halfway down the street and replied, “Oh great. You gave my wife wine.”
I started a wrestling match with my freighbor, Starla, on their front lawn.

See, I love Starla. She’s my evil twin (or I’m the evil one—I can’t remember). I love her so much that I thought it would be fun to start messing with her and her lawn chair. You know, tipping it over and other really annoying fun stuff. (She probably didn’t think it was as much fun as I did.) This ridiculousness eventually escalated into a drunken midnight wrestling match between the two of us.

Yes, I initiated a wrestling match with Starla. ALL BECAUSE I LOVE HER.

The match was short-lived. Primarily because Starla repeatedly handed me my ass on a platter. (I’d like to think it was because of the wine, but I’m fairly 100% certain that she could beat me sober too.) But also because I quickly lost steam having fully demonstrated my love for my freighbor.

I’m not sure she had the best night ever.

Fortunately, for the rest of my freighbors, I provided good, clean entertainment. Unfortunately for me, my other freighbor took some video of the end of the wrestling match. The part when I had resigned my sad, ass-beaten state to defeat. She later sent me the incriminating evidence.

Things to note in the video:

I’m the one on the bottom.
Animal House is the incredibly appropriate movie playing on the screen behind us.
My freighbor, Dylan, has the best laugh anywhere. (He told me the next day I provided him with the most effective ab workout ever. YOU’RE WELCOME, DYLAN.)
When another freighbor expressed concern about Starla hurting me, Starla replied, “I am not the problem here!”

Truly, she wasn’t.

After I watched the video, I replied to the freighbor who sent it.

Me: “This video is priceless.”

Freighbor: “Ya. Funny thing is that that wasn’t even close to the funniest part.”

Let’s be glad she didn’t think to record the earlier parts. The part where I make the biggest ass of myself you could really see how just much I love Starla.

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What Have You Done for California Lately?

Are you sick of hearing about the drought in California? Want all of the whining to end? Just wish we would stop flushing and let the yellow mellow so it would be over?

Yeah, me too. Sadly, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. Or at least until she cries enough frozen tears to replenish our snow packs and reservoirs.

Whether you love California or hate it or you live here or not, our drought is your problem too. Why, you ask? Because we feed you. California produces about half of the fruits, veggies, and nuts (hehehe, I said nuts) grown in the United States. We also provide about a quarter of the country’s cream and milk. And we need water to produce those things for you.

You like to eat and drink fancy coffee beverages, right?

We Californians are all facing mandatory 25% water consumption cut-backs. (This is serious shit, people.) In an effort to help conservation efforts across the entire country, I have come up with my own list of helpful water-saving tips.

You can ridicule me thank me later.

Take fewer showers. This should probably go without saying. Every other day should be fine. Heck, once or twice a week if you really want to help. This does mean that you’ll have to stop exercising daily—because you don’t want to offend anyone with your incredible stink. But these are the sacrifices we make for the greater good.
Take shorter showers. When you do take your infrequent showers, be quick and efficient. That means no extras: no facial scrubs, no deep conditioning, and absolutely no shaving. Your excessive body hair can be a daily reminder of the growing need for more water.
Shower with your husband. Hi, Mr. Foxy here. Just hacked into Foxy’s Wordpress account to make sure this one was added. (Nice try, dear husband.)
Let your lawn die and use reclaimed water for your plants. Water just a couple of times during the week and only in the morning. Or better yet, you can do what I do: just let all of the plants die from not watering them at all. It’s amazingly easy to incorporate this tip into your daily routine.
Don’t wash the car. Washing your car wastes an incredible amount of water that could otherwise be used to water our state’s crops. Besides, I’m tired of the dichotomy of a clean exterior and a filthy interior. Why not have the outside match the inside of the car? Your squalid trashcan on wheels is helping the planet.
Do less laundry. Washing machines—even efficient ones—use a lot of water. You should wear clothes until they look or smell dirty. Don’t forget to turn them inside out for another couple of wears. In fact, I’m going to go one step further and buy at least two new wardrobes for myself. That way, I won’t have to waste water doing laundry until the drought is over.
Stop cooking so much. All that food preparation requires water. And all of those dirty dishes need to be washed… WITH WATER. For criminy sake, stop with all of that homemade, healthy eating and just order pizza and Chinese for the next few years or so.
Stop cleaning. Think about it. Mopping your floors means you use an entire bucket of water. That is precious water that could be used to hydrate the earth. Every time you scrub the toilet, you flush cloud tears down the drain. What a waste. Just stop cleaning altogether. Your MIL comes over and makes a snide remark about the state of your house? Tell her that her excessive cleaning and water consumption is exacerbating global warming and hurting orphans in third-world countries. Throw in a disgusted look while you’re at it.
Stop eating so much beef and almonds. The manufacturing of these products requires an excessive amount of water. So slow it down. We should all be eating crickets. Apparently.

And, finally, my most important tip?

Drink more wine. Enough said.

(Seriously though, folks, we’re all in this together. Do your fucking part. Please?)

The post What Have You Done for California Lately? appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

I Just Want a Frakkin’ Cup of Coffee

I’m a simple girl, with simple needs. Okay, that’s total bullshit, but my caffeine needs are simple. I like coffee, and I like a lot of it.

I’m incredibly spoiled because Mr. Foxy makes a pot of magic brew every morning, which is a good thing because when left to my own devices, shit like this happens.

Recently I had coffee with my friend Andy from Almost Coherent Parent. He’s also a writer. Only he’s a much better one than I am. And he’s super smart. (But somehow he still likes me. Hmmm, maybe he’s not so smart…)

Anyhow, he’s from out of state and I rarely venture out of my house so we were both at a loss for where to meet. We finally settled on a coffee house about midway between our two locations.

I was running a bit late so Andy got there before me and settled in the back. I couldn’t see him or get to him because I was coffee-blocked by the line of customers. That was going out the door.

Holy shit, people. It’s coffee, not a ride at Disneyland. (Actually, I avoid those lines as well.)

The line was actually longer when I got in it. But I had to text Andy to ensure he knew I was still alive. Also, it was not a straight line from Mr. Flappy Pockets to the ordering counter. I added some handy arrows so you know how the line meandered inside the cafe.

Once I finally got inside, I looked at the menu. And I cried.

I mean, I just wanted a simple cup of coffee. With some milk so that the hole in my stomach doesn’t grow quite so rapidly. I texted Andy from across the cafe, “There are too many fucking choices. Can’t I just order coffee?”

No. No you can not.

Because there are a bazillion decisions that you must make first about your individually brewed cup. Regular coffee, specialty coffee, or tea? Dark Roast, Medium Roast, Light Roast, or Why Bother Decaf? Hot or cold? Chocolatey, earthy, or smoky? Hints of clove, weed, or camel-toe? Hell, they’ll even put fresh mint in your coffee. (For the record, I have never heard of this mint phenomena. I think I must be old.)

Fortunately(?), being in a long-ass line, I had plenty of time to contemplate my endless choices. Honestly, it was like throwing a dart at a gun target. I eventually settled on the Tesora. Guess why?

It tastes like two of my favorite things. At least that’s what sign told me. I just tasted coffee.

After my ridiculously long selection process, I started to take note of the other customers. My eyes were assaulted by more skinny jeans, tattoos, ironic t-shirts, and facial hair sculptures than in Portlandia. Apparently this coffee establishment attracts a certain type of clientele … which does not include me. (Don’t ever change, hipsters. I pink puffy heart you and your rockabilly ways.)

As I winded through the line maze and got closer to the counter, I could hear the (oddly) friendly interactions.

Bubbly Barista: “Hi-Ho! What can I prepare for you today?”

Picky Patron: “Hmmmm… I’m just not sure. This is just so difficult.”

Bouncing Barista: “I’m here to make your coffee dreams come true.” (I shit you not—they talk like that.)

Peevish Patron: “Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.” (Her voice was starting to grate on my pre-caffeinated nerves.)

Bursting Barista: “Well, what are you in the mood for?”

Petulant Patron: “I don’t know. It’s just … I just don’t know what I should put in my mouth today.”

I had a few suggestions for her.

Finally it was my turn to order. Only I did it wrong. After standing behind the counter for five million minutes and not getting any action, I erroneously assumed I was supposed to order at the register. The cordial cashier escorted me back to the barista.

Boisterous Barista: “Good morning, Friend! What can I prepare for you today?”

Murderous Me: “Uh, I’ll have a large Tesora with an inch of milk.”

Beneficent Barista: “Fabulous choice. Would you like whole, 2%, non-fat, goat, almond, breast, or unicorn milk?”

Fine. He didn’t say that. But he did offer me way too many choices and then insist I try my beverage to ensure it was to my satisfaction. (After it was done … UMPTEEN MINUTES LATER.)

When I finally signed the loan paperwork paid for my drink, I was able to meet up with Andy at the table in the back. His 5 o’clock shadow told me I’d been in line entirely too long.

Me: “That took forever. Why is it so difficult to get a simple cup of coffee?”

Andy: “Yes, they’ve certainly fetishized coffee here. That seems to be a new trend.” (See, I told you he was smart and shit.)

Me: “Blargh.” (That’s about all the smartness I could manage.)

Andy: “Indeed.”

We enjoyed our coffee and conversation. Of course, a short while later I had to use the restroom. (Caffeine will do that too you.)  Fortunately, there aren’t many options when using the toilet so my trip to the loo was without confusion or delay. Although I did notice these puppies in the tiny, window-less room.

You’d think that people who know so much about coffee beans, mint, and botanical shit would put these plants by a window or something. They’ll die in here from lack of sunlight. If the patchouli stink doesn’t kill them first.

 

Andy and I had a great discussion about the world of writing. We’re both no-frills, straight-forward kind of writers. We just like to tell good stories. Only Andy likes to tell humorous stories with some sort of moral or lesson, whereas I like to tell funny stories with absolutely no point whatsoever. (Take this one, for instance.)

Fortunately, we can still be friends.

We got so busy talking, however, that we forgot to take an ussie. I tried to recreate one. Which do you like better?

Is that a saddle above your head, Andy? Where did you take this shot?

 

P.S. For the record, the customer service really was outstanding and the coffee delicious. The caring cashier even took a buck off of my total because I was clearly an idiot a new customer.

The post I Just Want a Frakkin’ Cup of Coffee appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

Do You Let Your Kids Swear?

I use profanity freely in my writing. I also swear in casual conversation. But I don’t generally curse in front of my kids. (I swear.)

So naturally one might ask if I let my own kids swear…

My nine-year-old son knows what some of the bad words are, but he doesn’t ever use them. He’s more entertained by potty words like “fart” and “poop.” (I have to admit that those are pretty great words too.)

My twelve-year-old daughter, however, has entered a whole new phase of her life. And a new world of words has opened up to her. She has started to experiment. She uses profanity in her own (non-school) writing. She knows the double-meaning behind my F ring. And she once even said “shit” in front of me (and then gave me a conspiratorial grin).

You know what? I’m okay with that. I really am. But I do have a few guidelines for her. I detailed them over at Scary Mommy in 9 Rules of Swearing for My Children. Go check them out. Whether or not you let your own kids swear, you’re sure to be entertained.

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How Do You Survive?

As you know, Foxy Wine Pocket is a humor blog. It’s a humor blog because I like to write about all things funny, and I like to make people laugh, including myself.

I love laughter. It’s part of how I cope. How I make it through the day. How I survive.

See, I live with chronic depression and have been living with it for my entire adult life. More recently, I have also been struggling with anxiety. And I’ve found that laughter is one of my most important forms of therapy.

Another part of my therapy is writing, and I am honored to be included in the anthology, Surviving Mental Illness Through Humor. The book is filled with forty-one stories. Some of them are humor, and some are much more serious. All of these stories are told to help combat the stigma associated with mental illness.

And to help people know that they are not alone.

I have two essays in this important book. One of them, you will recognize as distinctly Foxy. It’s called “Everybody Poops—Including the Neighbors.” In it, I tell funny stories about, well, pooping. It’s something that I have no problem talking about … and laughing at. I talk about it as freely as I wish people would talk about mental illnesses.

My other essay is called “In the Aftermath of Loss.” It’s a very different piece. One that you won’t find on my blog. It begins by describing my struggle with depression and then details my more recent journey with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and anxiety following my brother’s suicide. It’s a deeply personal story, and it was very difficult for me to write. (In fact, it’s even difficult for me to type these words right now.)

But I did write it. I wrote it because I want to help people. I wrote it because I want people who are struggling to know that they are not alone. And I wrote it because I want other people to come to a deeper understanding of mental illness.

I join thirty-five other writers in telling our stories. My hope is that you will follow us there and read and share the stories.

Because mental illness needs more awareness and understanding.

Because we need to laugh this stigma into submission.

Because nobody should suffer alone.

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