Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 2

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 fucking 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 what she said.)

I meticulously prepared the doll parts. One of 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 pièce de ré·sis·tance

You guys. I still have so many more dolls and doll parts. So. Many. More. I guess up-cycled doll art is my new pandemic hobby. I need to add blood.

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.)

The post What’s Your New Pandemic Hobby? appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

What Do You Do with a Headless Doll ��� and Other Random Questions

It���s possible I have a problem. Fine, I have several problems, but medication takes care of the worst of them. However, much to my husband���s dismay, I may have developed a problematic obsession with dolls and clowns. And it doesn���t seem to be slowing down anytime soon.

It���s gotten so bad, people are constantly offering me their “unwanted” dolls and clowns. In fact, the other day, my freighbor (friend + neighbor) offered me a clown, but specified that she didn���t want to see it altered or cut up or bloodied in anyway. Clearly, I had to decline her offer. I mean, I can not be shackled like that.

But for this story, let me take you back in time a bit. Remember when I obsessed over a certain fabulous doll at a silent school auction?

Actually, I really wanted all the dolls on the table, but I was having a tough time figuring out exactly how to justify the purchases to Mr. Foxy. He’s a really understanding guy, but it’s possible that sometimes I push things a little too far. This felt like one of those times.

Fortunately, when I was drinking talking with another mom at the event, she mentioned how her daughter, Alex, wanted one of those dolls for her Halloween costume.

Alex’s plans included beheading the doll���because she only wanted the body of the doll, but not the head. (Honestly, at this point, I wondered if our children had been switched at birth.) My friend didn’t want to buy her daughter a doll to dismember (which I totally get), so I naturally decided I needed to step up to the plate. I WOULD BE A PATRON OF THE ARTS. And how could Mr. Foxy be mad that I helped fulfilled a little girl���s hopes and dreams?

So I bid on the whole lot of dolls. And hovered. And maybe got into a silent bidding war over one of them. But I “won.” OH HOW I WON. I brought my new girls home to get to work on my project. And Alex’s.

I’d initially planned to make a guillotine to behead the doll (and invite Alex and a few friends to watch), but I quickly realized it was porcelain���that wouldn���t work so well with a giant blade. Also? Maybe it would be a little dangerous and perhaps not the best example to set for the children. I’m nothing if not responsible, right?!. Right.

Anyhow, I beheaded the doll by myself by cutting off the string that attached it to the body, and then the entire body fell apart. I guess that string was connecting the head and torso and all the limbs and shit. Well, fuck. So I packed up all the body parts (minus the head���I had other plans for that) in a bag, and gave them to my son (Alex’s classmate). ���Uhhh, can you tell Alex that the body parts came apart when I cut off the head, but it should be pretty easy to put them back together?���

My son stared at me blankly. ���I don���t even want to know what this is about, do I?��� (He learned early on not to question such things.) And because he’s the most responsible person in our family (seriously), he transferred the beheaded doll to his classmate just in time for Halloween.

BEHOLD. The beheaded doll. Oh, yes, and Alex, too.

YOU. GUYS. OMG, is she not the very best? I mean, how could I not give her a beheaded doll? This is the most fantastic costumes in all of the costumes. BEHEADED DOLL.

You probably already know what happened to the head, but if you don���t, go read this post. It’s sure to fill you with, uhhh, joy? Maybe watch some puppy videos after.

Okay, but YOU. GUYS. It gets even better. You have to see the Thank You note this wonderful small human sent me:

Did I not tell you she was a fucking great artist? Just look at that guillotine ��� and the head rolling on the floor. I might have to adopt Alex.

So THAT is what you do with a headless doll, folks. Thank you Alex for perfectly illustrating the answer to the question in all of our heads.

Okay, here are answers to other random questions:

1) What do you do with a bag of clown cupcake picks your cousin brings you as a hostess gift?

Display them in your antique ashtray, of course.

2) What do you do with the horrific clown head (filled with booze, BTW) Aunt Ramona insists you take home?

You display it prominently in your living room and use it in the background of your Zoom calls.

3) Where do you stash additional doll purchases you need to hide from your partner?

In the garage, of course. In a stack of giveaway shit he���ll never see because you prepare all that stuff for donation. [Editor’s Note: This is Mr. Foxy editing this post for his beloved wife–you’re busted! Good luck finding your secret stash now! Mwahaha!]

Rest up, my pretties. We’ve got work to do.

YOU GUYS KNOW ANOTHER REALLY FUCK-ED UP FABULOUS DOLL PROJECT IS COMING, RIGHT?!

Stay tuned…

The post What Do You Do with a Headless Doll ��� and Other Random Questions appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

What Do You Do with a Headless Doll … and Other Random Questions

It’s possible I have a problem. Fine, I have several problems, but medication takes care of the worst of them. However, much to my husband’s dismay, I may have developed a problematic obsession with dolls and clowns. And it doesn’t seem to be slowing down anytime soon.

It’s gotten so bad, people are constantly offering me their “unwanted” dolls and clowns. In fact, the other day, my freighbor (friend + neighbor) offered me a clown, but specified that she didn’t want to see it altered or cut up or bloodied in anyway. Clearly, I had to decline her offer. I mean, I can not be shackled like that.

But for this story, let me take you back in time a bit. Remember when I obsessed over a certain fabulous doll at a silent school auction?

Actually, I really wanted all the dolls on the table, but I was having a tough time figuring out exactly how to justify the purchases to Mr. Foxy. He’s a really understanding guy, but it’s possible that sometimes I push things a little too far. This felt like one of those times.

Fortunately, when I was drinking talking with another mom at the event, she mentioned how her daughter, Alex, wanted one of those dolls for her Halloween costume.

Alex’s plans included beheading the doll—because she only wanted the body of the doll, but not the head. (Honestly, at this point, I wondered if our children had been switched at birth.) My friend didn’t want to buy her daughter a doll to dismember (which I totally get), so I naturally decided I needed to step up to the plate. I WOULD BE A PATRON OF THE ARTS. And how could Mr. Foxy be mad that I helped fulfilled a little girl’s hopes and dreams?

So I bid on the whole lot of dolls. And hovered. And maybe got into a silent bidding war over one of them. But I “won.” OH HOW I WON. I brought my new girls home to get to work on my project. And Alex’s.

I’d initially planned to make a guillotine to behead the doll (and invite Alex and a few friends to watch), but I quickly realized it was porcelain—that wouldn’t work so well with a giant blade. Also? Maybe it would be a little dangerous and perhaps not the best example to set for the children. I’m nothing if not responsible, right?!. Right.

Anyhow, I beheaded the doll by myself by cutting off the string that attached it to the body, and then the entire body fell apart. I guess that string was connecting the head and torso and all the limbs and shit. Well, fuck. So I packed up all the body parts (minus the head—I had other plans for that) in a bag, and gave them to my son (Alex’s classmate). “Uhhh, can you tell Alex that the body parts came apart when I cut off the head, but it should be pretty easy to put them back together?”

My son stared at me blankly. “I don’t even want to know what this is about, do I?” (He learned early on not to question such things.) And because he’s the most responsible person in our family (seriously), he transferred the beheaded doll to his classmate just in time for Halloween.

BEHOLD. The beheaded doll. Oh, yes, and Alex, too.

YOU. GUYS. OMG, is she not the very best? I mean, how could I not give her a beheaded doll? This is the most fantastic costumes in all of the costumes. BEHEADED DOLL.

You probably already know what happened to the head, but if you don’t, go read this post. It’s sure to fill you with, uhhh, joy? Maybe watch some puppy videos after.

Okay, but YOU. GUYS. It gets even better. You have to see the Thank You note this wonderful small human sent me:

Did I not tell you she was a fucking great artist? Just look at that guillotine … and the head rolling on the floor. I might have to adopt Alex.

So THAT is what you do with a headless doll, folks. Thank you Alex for perfectly illustrating the answer to the question in all of our heads.

Okay, here are answers to other random questions:

1) What do you do with a bag of clown cupcake picks your cousin brings you as a hostess gift?

Display them in your antique ashtray, of course.

2) What do you do with the horrific clown head (filled with booze, BTW) Aunt Ramona insists you take home?

You display it prominently in your living room and use it in the background of your Zoom calls.

3) Where do you stash additional doll purchases you need to hide from your partner?

In the garage, of course. In a stack of giveaway shit he’ll never see because you prepare all that stuff for donation. [Editor’s Note: This is Mr. Foxy editing this post for his beloved wife–you’re busted! Good luck finding your secret stash now! Mwahaha!]

Rest up, my pretties. We’ve got work to do.

YOU GUYS KNOW ANOTHER REALLY FUCK-ED UP FABULOUS DOLL PROJECT IS COMING, RIGHT?!

Stay tuned…

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.)

The post What Do You Do with a Headless Doll … and Other Random Questions appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

What Do You Do with a Bunch of Clowns Nobody Wants?

No, the answer isn’t “throw them in the dumpster.” Or “douse them with acid.” Or even “incinerate them in a funeral pyre.”

I mean, not when they’re your 100-year-old Aunt Ramona’s clowns.

No, that just won’t do them justice…

See, Aunt Ramona has always loved clowns, and she and my late Uncle Willie had a ridiculously obscene amount of fucked-up clown art (figurines, paintings, wall hangings, etc.) all throughout their house for many years. Their family room used to be a horrific shrine for the sadistic little shits. As a young child, I’d walk into the room, and those aberrations of nature would glare at me from all directions. I would cower in the corner trying to escape their wicked antics and visual assaults.

That display is directly responsible for my coulrophobia. Those nefarious fuckers freak the shit out of me. Like make me shake uncontrollably, chew off my fingernails, and weep. I don’t even like the “friendly” clowns at kids’ parties. (Who the fuck hires a clown for a kid party anyway?!)  You can add clowns to my random list of things that terrify me: heights, raw tomatoes, being grabbed around the ankles…

Shit. I digress. Back to Aunt Ramona. See, she is getting on in her years (don’t get me started—I’m not ready), and she wants to place many of her possessions before she goes, and I’ve been helping her do that. She’s especially been wanting to re-home her “precious” clown collection.

Here’s a typical conversation between us:

Aunt Ramona: Who do you think would like this clown?

Me: No one. Everyone hates clowns, Aunt Ramona. They’re horrible, evil things. Especially that one. *points to one that eventually ends up in my home*

Aunt Ramona: That’s not true. They’re so happy and cheerful.

Me: NO, they’re not. They are waiting for you to fall asleep so they can kill you.

Aunt Ramona: Well, maybe they're gonna kill YOU, but not me.

(These are exactly the kinds of conversations we have on the regular. She may be 100, but she’s seriously fucking awesome.)

This one ended up in my home, and I’ve learned to embrace him. He’s whisper-screaming murderous plots and is full of 50-year-old whiskey because he was a bowling trophy Uncle Willie won. (It’s a toss-up which will kill you first: the clown or the whiskey.)

At Aunt Ramona’s 99th birthday party, I suggested we hand out clowns as party favors. She thought that was a fantastic idea, so I set up a table to display all the creatures and graciously offered them to guests throughout the party. Only, as you may have guessed, no one wanted the clowns. So there we were, stuck with a bunch of horrific clowns and no home for them. Aunt Ramona turned to me, “I guess I’m realizing people don’t like clowns so much anymore.”

Gawddammit, that tugged at my cold-dead heart. “You know what, Aunt Ramona? I have the perfect place for them. I’ll take them all.”

That made her soooooo happy. But me? Not so much.

I was seriously lacking a plan for the clowns. I couldn’t throw them away—I just couldn’t. They’ll forever remind me of my great aunt. (And they would probably haunt me from the dump.) I contemplated various options for destroying displaying them: putting one in each kitchen cabinet, hiding them in people’s closets, lining the front pathway as a way to greet visitors. For a short time, one of them lived in the trunk of my car as a way to ward off would-be thieves. My daughter named him Jerry. Jerry the Trunk Clown. I kinda miss that little fucker.

Anyhow, Mr. Foxy was already irritated at the prominent placement of Mr. Murder Whiskey Clown in our living room (and in the background of all my Zoom calls), so I decided perhaps these clowns should become seasonal decor. Since I already have a Halloween display and a Valentine’s Day clown orgy seemed a bit too much (even by Foxy standards), I set my sights on Christmas. I mean, Baby Jesus would have loved clowns, right? TOTALLY.

During one anxiety-filled (due to no reason in particular) afternoon, I created the most spectacular Christmas display ever known to humankind. People, I sewed and hot glued and wept tears of joy.

BEHOLD, IT’S A MOTHERFUCKING CLOWN NATIVITY SET.

Just look at how happy they are! Smiling, boozing, making music, and shit. All in Clown Baby Jesus’s honor. Doesn’t Clown Mary look so peaceful? Look at her smile! And, Clown Joseph, with his umbrella? He’s ready for any storm. Or battle, depending upon the circumstances. I guess the Clown Shepherd is a little tall, but you need tall shepherds to deal with the flocks of clown animals. They’re sketchy AF.

LOOK, even the Little Drummer Clown Boy is there, playing on his instrument filled with bloody hearts.

Christmas-y AF. A moment of silence, please.

YOU GUYS. It’s like Christmas in July! Or is it August? Time has no meaning anymore. I’m just gonna drink some Murder Clown whiskey. Cheers!

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.)

The post What Do You Do with a Bunch of Clowns Nobody Wants? appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

Where Did the Murder Hornets Go?

Mr. Foxy and I have a looong history with rescue animals. When we met, I had a rat, and he had a bunny. After we started dating, he added a kitten (because he’s allergic to dogs), and not to be outdone, I adopted a cat of my own. Then, after we moved in together got married, we found an abandoned kitty in the parking lot of Chili’s restaurant so (obviously) we instantly had a third cat (named Chili, of course). Somewhere along the line, the bunny moved to a farm, and the rat died. (RIP, Buttercup.)

Then, a couple of years later, we stupidly added a fourth cat. (He was the devil.) And a few years after that, a dog (because Mr. Foxy decided he wasn’t going to be allergic to them anymore). A year after that, a second dog.

If you’re keeping tally, you will note that at the height of our insanity, we had four cats and two dogs. At the same time. So what did we do after that?

We immediately started having children. Naturally.

The first decade of the new millennium is a smelly blur of morning sickness, cat puke, sleep deprivation, dirty litter boxes, undiagnosed post-partum anxiety, diapers, crying babies, and barking dogs. (I’m fine now, I tell you. FINE. Totally fine. 100%) There were good moments too; I have the pictures of prove it (to myself).

Uhhh, Foxy? I thought you said this post was about murder hornets.

Patience, young grasshopper, I’m getting there.

Fast-forward to today, we currently have zero cats (seventeen years of litter boxes were quite enough for me, thankyouverymuch) and a menagerie of rescue dogs. Three to be exact. It’s probably a good thing that three dogs is the legal limit in our city, or we’d have at least five more. (We love dogs.)

Three dogs are too fucking many dogs.

Mimi is the red-nose pittie. We adopted her eight years ago, the day before she was scheduled to be euthanized for kennel stress. Sweetest dog ever (and a total bed hog), she has converted a lot of non-pitbull-loving people.

Scooter is the blue-nose dwarf pittie with the tongue out; you might recognize him from Instagram. He has a fuck-ton of birth defects and could barely walk when we adopted him as a puppy three years ago. But he is the sweetest meatloaf ever (with horrendous breath).

Mr. D is the little chi-dog on the right. He’s an asshole.

Seriously, Mr. D is a senior Chihuahua (or a Bolivian jungle rat—we’re not sure) we adopted almost two years ago when his foster home burned down in the Camp wildfires. He’s repaid us by being a total dick to everyone and bossing around the other dogs. Okay, he’s not actually a dick to me. He loves me. Like thinks-I’m-a-goddess loves me. Follows me everywhere and showers me with affection. Howls when I’m behind a closed door. I call him Pikachu—because he’s essentially my Pokémon. But he hates everyone else. Well, unless I’m not around; then he’s a total gigolo.

Asshole, I tell you. A total asshole.

No Foxy, seriously. Where are the fucking murder hornets?

We’re almost there. For realz.

Soooo pandemic-induced shelter-in-place has led to boredom, anxiety cleaning, and new hobbies. My daughter is into art. I’ve taken to crying in the fetal position. My son has taken to photographing the dogs (he took that fabulous one above). And Mr. Foxy has taken to, well, a lot of things. Some expensive things. But, fortunately, some very funny, creative things.

And with that introduction, I present to you, The Murder Hornets…

Let’s face it, the dogs of the world are the real winners during this pandemic.

Here’s the track list for the album:

I Poop Where I Want
You’re Going Too Slow (Prepping My Meal)
*You* Move Over, I’m Comfortable
Stuck in the Jungle
I Guess I Live Here Now
You Forgot About Me Again
I *FIT*
You Gonna Eat That?
Oh! Hot Lunch!

Gawddammit, Foxy. Those aren’t real murder hornets; it’s a fictitious band. I mean, they’re seriously fucking cute, but … Murder. Hornets. Now.

 

FINE. Here’s your fucking murder hornet.

 

I told you he’s an asshole. Appropriately, I bought orange dye and a bee costume I forgot to photograph because I was so excited to cut the balls off. (That’s what she said.) I dyed the costume, but forgot to take a picture of that too. (One of the many reasons I’m not a craft blogger.) Hot-glued some pipe cleaners to the head, and BOOM! Murder Hornet. Asshole chi-dog murder hornet.

Clearly, y’all are gonna wanna pin this shit. For sure.

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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“That Girl Who Wouldn’t Shut Up”

Okay, foxy friends, I know I haven’t been around much the past few years. Sure, I’ve popped in once or twice to reassure you that I didn’t join a cult and to show you my fucked-up FABULOUS Porcelain Doll Funeral/Murder Scene display. But I really haven’t been around.

Here’s the thing: I’VE MISSED YOU. I’ve missed this blog and telling silly stories. And interacting with y’all on social media. And all that other shit. But I think things are going to get better now. I mean, not on the global apocalypse front, but better on Foxy Wine Pocket. I mean, just get a load of this story…

In October 2017, before I fell off the face of the blog, I published an essay, When the Legal System Fails Sexual Assault Victims, We Have to Find Our Own Closure, in The Washington Post. In the OpEd, I wrote about the many ways sexual abuse survivors find closure, and—without naming names—shared my own experience with sexual abuse at my high school.

(Y’all didn’t believe me when I said my range extended beyond brazilians and fart horror stories, did you?)

Before I gave the final go-ahead to the editor, I asked Mr. Foxy if I should go through with it—if I should actually make the story public. He responded as he always does, “You need to ask yourself what’s the worst thing that can happen, and then decide if you can live with it.”

I thought carefully downed a gin-and-tonic and replied, “Well, if the school principal even sees it, which I doubt she will, I guess she’ll hate me forever, and then I’ll never be invited to another reunion ever again.”

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! OH MY GOD, I WAS SO FUCKING NAIVE.

Because, as you may recall, instead of achieving any sort of closure, I blew up a 10,000-gallon can of worms all over my high school. I released the Kraken all over the city. I nuked the motherfucking floodgates.

Lemme tell ya, not everyone was happy about it. Indeed, a lot of people had some not-so-nice things to say about me whilst hiding behind a computer screen like a chicken shit. I was called a “liar” (sooo uncreative) and an “opportunist” (yeah, ‘cuz this was exactly the kind of attention I wanted) and a “disgruntled alum” (who lives by and has donated to the school and attends every reunion possible) and a “wack-job” (way to mental-illness shame, ex-friend) and even “one of the most hated people in all of San Jose.” (HAHAHA!!! Ohmygawd, that one still kills me.)

But—by far—my mostest favorite thing that I was called is, “that girl who wouldn’t shut up.”

THAT. GIRL. WHO. WOULDN’T. SHUT. UP.

Shut the front door, I’m changing my job title this instant. Ordering new business cards. Updating my resume. I’m tattooing that shit all over my forehead. (Okay, Mr. Foxy doesn’t want that on my forehead, but he promised he’d put it on my tombstone.)

YOU’RE GAWDDAMN RIGHT I wouldn’t shut up. There were *dozens* of girls abused at my high school over the decades. Multiple abusers. So much fucking trauma. And the very people who covered up the abuse were STILL WORKING AT THE SCHOOL. I wasn’t going to stop screaming until they stepped up and did the right thing.

And, as always, because I’m nothing if not helpful, I’d like to pass along some proven techniques for not shutting the fuck up. (Disclaimer: Your mileage may vary. Please don’t get arrested. Or murdered.)

Tell your story to anyone who will listen. Over and over and over again. Grocery store clerk? Yep. Bank teller? Oh yeah. What about the crossing guard? ESPECIALLY HER. Lather, rinse, repeat ad-nauseam.
Become best friends with your local media peeps. Put their numbers on speed-dial. Send cookies with story ideas to their offices. (Okay, I didn’t actually send cookies.) But let them know about every single bit of progress or even when a school official farts.
Organize your own town hall. Who says you have to be an elected official or someone of relative importance? Clearly not I! Prepare your talking points, tell all your new best friends in the media, and spread the word across the Internet. Then, BLAST THAT SHIT OVER FACEBOOK LIVE.
Make flyers. Plaster them in the local coffee shops. On community billboards. At neighborhood hang-outs. Sprinkle them all over town like some kind of bad-ass Truth Fairy.
Bombard your local newspaper with Letters to the Editor. Like weekly. Eventually, they’ll just want you to go away so they’ll publish one. Maybe two.
Bribe Cozy up next to local Rotary Club members so you get invited to speak at one of their meetings.
Continue to annoy the shit out of the Board members with emails, social media posts, postcards to their houses (only if the addresses are publicly available, of course), press releases, and the like.
Go to every Board of Supervisors and City Council meeting you can and speak out during the Open Comment section. Even if they can’t (or won’t) do anything, you get to make the name of your abuser—and the people who covered up for him—part of public record. Not gonna lie, that feels fucking fantastic.
Make buttons. Hold a vigil. Meet with the Bishop and the Mayor. Speak out in support of new legislation. Create a website. And a Facebook page and a Twitter account and Instagram and…
Park your giant-ass truck in front of the school during board meetings and on the new (because you got the old one to “resign”) president’s very first day in the office.

I don’t fuck around, people.

While you’re doing the opposite of shutting up, maybe don’t swear as much as I do in this post. (I didn’t use profanity when speaking in public, I swear.) But please, never, ever shut up. Because all that not shutting up will be worth it, I promise.

Nearly three years after I published that essay about closure (HAHAHAHA!), the pay-off finally arrived. This month, under the leadership of their new president, my high school released the findings from an independent investigation (that they initiated!) into allegations of past sexual abuse and misconduct. They also released a letter apologizing to the survivors, outlining the support they are offering to us, and detailing the changes they’ve made at the school to protect all students going forward. Accountability. Transparency. Compassion. BOOM.

Foxy friends, I’m so fucking proud of my alma mater. And I’m so fucking grateful for all the supporters and advocates who didn’t shut up with me. Most importantly, I have so much admiration and compassion for all the survivors whose strength and courage brought us to this moment.

Put yourself out there, people. Make some fucking noise. Be the fucking change we need in this world. Do not ever shut up—not even in the face of haters. I’ll even lend you my megaphone. xoxo

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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I’m Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

My 16-year-old daughter recently declared, “Thank goodness Mom bypassed the Pinterest Mom phase and went straight to the Crazy Old Lady phase.”

As I sit here, midday, in my lounge pants and bathrobe with tissues shoved up both sleeves, petting my tiny, spoiled lap dog, and grumbling about the state of the world, I just don’t understand what she is referring to.

Okay, FINE. It’s possible hanging out so much with my 99-year-old Great Aunt Ramona has hastened my transition to Crazy Old Lady more quickly than I’d realized. Especially when it comes to the random (and what Mr. Foxy might call “disturbing”) shit I’ve started to collect.

For instance, this past year, I bought an entire collection of handmade porcelain dolls at a local silent auction. (I don’t even like porcelain dolls.)

Okay. Lemme back up a bit. See, I seem to have developed a reputation of sorts amongst my friends for collecting odd items. It *might* be related to the antique ash-tray-turned-candy-dish that greets all our guests in the front room. Or the creepy, booze-filled clown head I keep by my writing desk.

So, when this beauty made her way to the auction floor, my friends who were running the auction immediately texted me.

I have a feeling my friends said, “Ask Foxy. She’ll buy anything.”

It was love at first sight. Her smile! Her furry costume! Her crazy eyes! What’s not to love? I pictured myself carrying her with me everywhere in a sling—to the store, to my kids’ schools, out to eat. She was going to be my Pokémon.

By the time the silent auction came around, I was ready to take down anyone who might stand in the way between me and my girl. But then I saw her friends.

I gasped. And then a warm, fuzzy feeling spread across my entire body.

An entirely new plan formulated in my mind. A vision so beautiful, so grand, so delightful, I bid on each and every one of those dolls. It didn’t matter the cost—all the girls had to be mine.

Oddly enough, they weren’t getting too many bids, but still I hovered. Oh, did I hover. Until one woman bid on the Irish doll (third from the left) and mentioned that it looked just like her granddaughter. My cold, dead heart decided to let her have it. I may be a bit twisted, but I’m no monster, people.

I only had to go to war with some lady who wanted the baby dressed in yellow. That girl was central to my artistic vision so I fought to the death … well, I outbid her by $10. By the end of the auction, the Doll Gods blessed me with ten new beautiful children. I carefully carried my precious, irreplaceable cargo away in a garbage bag.

MINE. ALL MINE. (Just don’t ask me how much I “won” them for.)

When I got home and showed Mr. Foxy my exquisite prizes, he stared blankly at me. When I described my vision for the girls, he walked out of the room. I guess he wasn’t as enamored with my planned art installation as I was. His lack of enthusiasm was a bit disappointing, but nevertheless, I persisted.

Oh, did I persist. BEHOLD, my girls in all their glory. Proudly on display in my front window.

You’re weeping right now with joy and amazement, right?

It really is a sight to behold. I’m not sure just what part of the funeral display I love the best … the pageantry, the blood, the harp?

Okay, who am I kidding?! It’s my O.G. She’s my favorite, hands down. Would you look at her? I mean, LOOK. AT. HER.

Where is the body that belongs with the severed doll head on the left, you ask? That’s a story for another day.

This gorgeous exhibit blessed my home for two-and-a-half months last year. The only reason I took it down was to make way for my Christmas clown collection (again, a story for another day).

This year, Mr. Foxy begged asked me to limit my art exhibit to the month October. Let it just be a Halloween display, he pled. We bickered for a bit, and I accused him of trying to kneecap my creativity. When my neighbor chimed in with her support of Mr. Foxy’s plan, I just glared at her. NOBODY ASKED YOU, KAREN.

But Mr. Foxy and I have been married for over 20 years for good reason. He knows when to stand his ground and when to just let me have my way compromise. My artistic genius? Well, it’s been on display since September 1st.

You’re welcome.

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Things to Know Before Accidentally Exposing a Sex Abuse Scandal

Hello? *tap, tap, tap* Is this thing on?

Oh hey. Remember me? It’s Foxy. I used to tell you funny stories. Well, I’m still here, and I still like to write ridiculous shit. I’m still collecting phallic Cheetos, snuggling with my rescue puppies, and enjoying all things wine and bacon. Alas, I have a new hobby—apparently—which is to inadvertently uncover decades-long sexual misconduct scandals and make myself a public target for hate speech and victim shaming.

I wish I were kidding on that last one.

See, I’ve been writing more non-humor over the past year or so. (Believe it or not, I can get serious.) I’ve published several essays about my brother’s suicide, which definitely fall into the NOT AT ALL FUNNY category. You are welcome to read both “Hide and Seek” and “Reclaiming Lost Love.” Just keep a box of tissues nearby. And maybe a basket of puppies.

I also shared my #MeToo story on The Washington Post in an OpEd about the many ways sexual abuse survivors find healing. Even though I’d written about closure, all hell broke loose. While I hadn’t disclosed any names, dozens of women recognized my abuser and the school and came forward with their own accounts of childhood sexual abuse at that very same school. I suddenly found myself at the epicenter of a ginormous scandal. So I became an advocate for the victims and for student safety, and it became (more than) a full-time job.

Throughout the whole ordeal, I’ve learned a few things, and because I’m nothing if not helpful, I’m going to share some key learnings so you’re prepared for when you unintentionally unearth a sexual abuse scandal of your very own.

It will hijack your life. When you learn that over a dozen predators got away with abusing 35+ girls and that at least twenty people who should have called the police, didn’t actually do so, it will break your heart into a million little pieces. Trying to make sense of it all tends to consume all of your time and energy. Don’t fight it. Lean into it. Channel your rage, hurt, and disgust to help other people. As an added bonus, you can use the sudden disappearance of your free time as an excuse to order take-out every night or to skip cleaning your house for months.

You’re going to have to talk to people. I know. It’s hard. I hate peopling too. But when exposing decades of criminal behavior and calling for leadership and policy changes, conversing with actual humans is required. School administrators, the police, reporters, church officials, government peeps—you’ll want to talk with them all. Repeatedly. Maybe camp out on their doorsteps. You might even need to get a little loud and a little creative, perhaps by testifying in support of new legislation, presenting to local organizations, and being interviewed for documentaries.

Social media is your friend. All that time you used to spend procrastinating hard at work on social media will come in very handy with the newly discovered wrongdoings. Sometimes, people don’t want to hear what you have to say, and they will refuse to listen to the facts. Social media can help deliver your message. After I was publicly called a liar by school leadership and repeatedly denied a meeting with the board, I created a website and social media accounts on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to help convey mine. BOOM.

They’re probably going to remove you from their mailing list. Sadly, you won’t receive exciting alumni updates or faculty news, but just think—no more donation requests! (Actually they still asked me for a donation after the whole thing blew up.) It also means you probably won’t be invited to the next all-alumnae reunion. If you decide to go anyhow (because you’ve got labes of steel), your side of the venue will probably be deserted. Choose your seat carefully—maybe one by the bar or close to the good snacks.

https://www.foxywinepocket.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/HSreunion.mp4

 

You’re going to lose some friends. It’s inevitable in these types of situations. Yeah, it might sting a little, but if they’re defending sexual predators and/or the people who covered up sexual abuse, you don’t want them as friends anyhow. Seriously, fuck the haters. (But not literally.) You’ll make up for it by meeting new friends. Ones who become advocates with you. Ones who aren’t afraid to make some noise. Ones who make you superhero capes and shit.

I love you, Keli.

You will need to take a shower daily. I know, this sounds damn-near impossible, but you need to do it. Whenever the school releases a scathing or misleading statement about you to the press, reporters are going to want to talk to you RIGHTNOW, not later after you’ve washed your hair. Be ready for it. And maybe wear something besides lounge pants every day, just in case.

You’re gonna need a bigger truck. Your critics can shut off the news and turn off their computers, but it’s really hard to ignore a giant fucking banner facing them on their way to a school board meeting or a donor function. My car is too small for this banner, but fortunately for everyone, my mom has a nice big truck.

My critics might liken me to herpes, but I see myself as glitter—no matter how hard you try, you can’t get rid of me. Also, I sparkle.

Self-care is important. People are going to be pretty awful to you so remember to take good care of yourself. I’ve received hate mail, threats, and harassing private messages. I been called a “disgruntled alum,” a “liar,” an “opportunist,” and even “one of the most hated people in San Jose.” Now, I grew up with four older brothers, so deflecting verbal abuse seems to be my super power, but in case you didn’t, maybe schedule a massage, take a walk in nature, or bathe in a giant vat of vodka. Then you too can get creative with your hate mail.

I hung it right by my writing desk—for inspiration.

It. Goes. So. Slowly. As difficult as it is to believe, some people just don’t want to face the truth, and they don’t want to do the right thing. (Even when they’re nuns. Go figure.) So you’re going to have to be patient. And persistent AF. It’s been a year and a half for me, and we’ve made some good progress. The school has enacted some policy changes (you know, like follow the fucking law), and two former administrators at the heart of the scandal have since left their positions. But the school leadership has yet to take any responsibility, initiate an independent investigation, or have a compassionate response to the victims. So, I’ve got some more work to do. *rolls up sleeves and orders megaphone and another giant banner*

I’m not gonna lie—advocacy work is fucking exhausting, and it hasn’t left me a lot of time for personal writing. But it is incredibly rewarding. And rest assured, I’m still doing weird shit, and I can’t wait to tell you all about the shenanigans. In the meantime, here’s a picture of a hard cock.

It was a gift from Aunt Ramona. Because of course it was.

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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Where Has Foxy Gone?

 

I know. I haven’t been posting very much. But I swear it’s for a good reason. No, I didn’t taking pole dancing lessons. Or join a cult devoted to worshipping and snuggling with puppies. Heck, I didn’t even go on a round-the-world trip to drink delicious wine find myself.

No, what I’ve been working on is far more serious. You see, as a teenager I was sexually abused by one of my teachers. Though I reported it to the school and eventually to the police, I was never able to get justice. And my abuser remained at the school for years—putting thousands of young girls at risk.

He died a couple of years ago, bringing an end to a painful chapter of my life.

Last Fall I wrote an essay, “When the Legal System Fails Sexual Assault Victims, We Have to Find Our Own Closure,” for The Washington Post. In that piece, I was talking about healing and closure. I wanted to move on and put it all behind me.

But that’s not what happened.

Though I didn’t use his name, many people recognized my abuser and came forward to tell their own stories of abuse at Presentation High School. I could have turned my backs on these victims, but that’s not what good people do. So, I have spent the past several months advocating for the survivors and trying to protect current and future students at the school and in the surrounding communities. BELIEVE ME, I’d rather be telling dirty jokes and engaging in ridiculous shenanigans, but we do what we have to do.

Fortunately, some people understand the importance of my advocacy. Scary Mommy graciously featured our movement on their website. Take a look. Give it a read. And help us protect our children from sexual abuse.

You can also check out Make Pres Safe for more information.

Thank you for sticking with me as I take this slight—but very important—detour in my life.

xoxo,

Foxy

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Everybody Poops … Including the Neighbors

I often hear my fellow moms say they just want to go to the bathroom alone—that they want some privacy when nature calls. Honestly, I can’t really relate to this predicament at all. I’ve never had that wish.

Because I’ve never gone to the bathroom alone. Not in my entire life.

Growing up in a large family, I shared a bathroom with my five siblings. To speed up throughput, my mom installed saloon-style doors to separate the toilet and shower area from the sink and mirror area. (Genius move, if you ask me.) Still, while the doors may have created some visual privacy, they did nothing to dampen the, erm, sounds from the toilet. We heard everything going on with everybody. EVERYTHING.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that if I wanted any time in the bathroom truly to myself, I either had to get up really early or stay up really late. I’ve always prized sleep so neither one of those alternatives worked for me. Instead, I quickly learned to just let it go no matter who was nearby. Otherwise I would have suffered many an accident on the floor. Or my bowels would have exploded.

In high school I spent my summers living and working at a campground outside of Yosemite that had dormitory-style bathrooms. We were a little wilder and a little more free there, so no one really cared too much about privacy. One of my best friends and I even made up a bathroom song (based on a church tune, naturally) for when we were sitting next to each other in the stalls:

My pee is flowing like a river

Flowing out of you and me

Flowing out into the sewer

Setting all the bladders free.

(I’ll spare you the verse for poop.)

When I got to college, we had co-ed dormitories. Which also meant we had co-ed bathrooms, and a co-ed audience to any and all evacuations. There was literally no alternative to pooping within earshot of said co-ed audience, but unlike some people, I really wasn’t all that bothered by it. Honestly, it wasn’t much different than my house growing up. And I wasn’t about to miss my window of opportunity by holding it in.

This philosophy continued into my adult years. When my husband and I were still dating, we took a trip up to Lake Tahoe with some friends. After indulging in too many bacon-wrapped filet mignons at the casino buffet, I excused myself to use the toilet. As the liquid horror poured from my ass, a sound like someone angrily kick-starting a Harley Davidson echoed throughout the bathroom. The other women in the vicinity were effectively silenced. I didn’t really care, but clearly I was making them uncomfortable, so I started flushing the toilet every time an eruption occurred.

Outside of the facilities, my husband and his friend waited for me as a line of appalled women walked out of the bathroom.

Horrified women (simultaneously): “OH… MY…. GAWD!!!!”

My husband and friend (simultaneously): “That must be Foxy.”

These are things I’m used to, folks. My poor husband, however, was not.

When we got married, there wasn’t any privacy in our one-bathroom apartment. This didn’t faze me, but my husband had some trouble adjusting.

Me (through the bathroom door): “Hey, what do you want for dinner?”

Husband (from the porcelain throne): “Uhhhh, could we talk about this later?”

Me: “Why? You’re free right now.”

Husband: “…”

Me: “Okay, fine. We’ll talk when you’re done pooping.”

Husband: “Thank you. ‘Cuz, really?”

Me: “EVERYBODY POOPS, Mr. Foxy.”

Our cats learned quickly that someone in the bathroom was stationary and available for head scratches.  They would come in to get their fill. They had no pride. They didn’t care if I was shit-petting them.

And once we got dogs, there was a whole new level of interaction in the bathroom. Dogs are like “OH HEY! What you doing?” “OH HEY! What’s that smell?” “OH HEY! Did you step on a frog?” They even learned to bring me the ball so we could play fetch from the toilet.

Multitasking, people.

So when I had kids, it was no big deal to take them with me into the bathroom. Or to have them come in because they wanted to hang out.  I’ve signed report cards on the toilet. I’ve put on my son’s neck gear. (Don’t worry: this was pre-wiping, folks. I’m not unsanitary.) I’ve had deep discussions about which boys at school are cute, and I’ve helped my daughter pick out which shoes go best with her outfit. I’m not saying that I love doing this with my kids around, but I’m used to it.

When you gotta go, you gotta go. It’s just life.

Because I’ve gotten so used to animals and kids being with me in the bathroom, I just leave the bathroom door open all the time. (Personal energy conservation. Seriously.) So this happens a lot:

Husband (walking into the bedroom): “Where’s the [insert any easily located item from my house]? Oh, sorry. You’re on the toilet.”

Me: “No problem. It’s in the…”

Husband: “I’ll ask later. Close the door.”

Me: “What?! I’m only pooping.”

Husband: “Where’s the line, Foxy? CLOSE THE DOOR!”

Me: “EVERYBODY POOPS, Mr. Foxy.”

Husband: *walks away*

Honestly, I wish R.E.M. sang about that instead.

So we’ve established I’m pretty lackadaisical when it comes to pooping in front of other people. 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.

Don’t worry. I remember to close the bathroom door when company comes over. Most of the time.  I do know where the line is.

At least I thought I did.

Recently our street was having a block party. It was late in the evening, and I really had to pee.  Since our house is way down on the corner (and I’m super lazy, remember?), I asked my neighbor if I could use her bathroom. Naturally she said yes.

I went inside their house and over to the bathroom. I knocked softly on the door.  Nothing. I tried the handle. Unlocked. So I opened the door only to walk in on…

My neighbor’s husband.

Pants down.

Taking a shit. (While reading Popular Mechanics.)

That article must have been very engrossing, because I guess he didn’t hear me knock. But he sure heard the door open.

“Uhhh, THIS IS OCCUPIED!” he stammered as I walked in the room.

My jaw dropped, and I froze. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.”

And I turned around and left the bathroom faster than…well, as fast as someone who just walked in on her neighbor’s husband taking a shit. And I haven’t spoken to him since. Or looked him in the eye. Or read Popular Mechanics. (Not that I have ever read it in the first place.)

I guess we found our definitive line that day…but you know what? I can’t help but wonder if we could have avoided the whole mess had he kept the door open.

 

Photo Credit: denisnata / 123RF Stock Photo

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