Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 3

A Snake, an Ass, and a Chupacabra Walk into a Bar

Recently my teenage daughter asked us to join her in GISHWHES (the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen). This was a BIG ask. It required me to leave my house. To put on pants. To people. (I don’t people well.)

But my teenager asked so the only answer was, “Of course I will!” Which is probably what the creators intended. To bring people together and get them out of their comfort zones.

I approached this hunt like I do many things: reluctantly LABES OUT.

The scavenger hunt is made up of a bunch of silly, adorable, and heartwarming challenges. We searched the list as a family—to see what we could accomplish together. One of them immediately jumped out at us:

“Often misunderstood and rarely properly pronounced, chupacabras just need a good home. Adopt one and show us your favorite bonding moment.”

Chupacabras are strange mythical creatures. We couldn’t adopt one, but we could dress up our perfectly imperfect dwarf pittie, Scooter, as one. Scooter has a malformed spine, piranha teeth, a monstrous tongue, and an affinity for wearing costumes. (Fine, it’s possible we enjoy the dress-up more than he does.) Anyhow my daughter and I researched chupacabras, and once we discovered a tale about the very rare flying chupacabra, we knew exactly what to do.

Side note: we now call him “Chupie.” Sometimes we accidentally call him “Chalupa,” which is also oddly appropriate for this dog.

Our next challenge appealed to our sense of making fun of people satire.

“Pick a celebrity social media image post (or an advertisement) and recreate it with a subtle twist like Celeste Barber does. Tweet, Instagram or FB post your image side-by-side with the original image, “#embracereality @gishwhes” and your team name.”

My daughter helped us select our outfits, set up the photoshoot, and actually took and re-took the pictures.

A post shared by Foxy Wine Pocket (@foxywinepocket) on Aug 7, 2017 at 9:03pm PDT

Personally, I think we look hotter than the celebrities.

But those were pretty easy challenges, so I dug a little deeper, tried a little harder, until I came across this one:

“Write ‘Ass butt’ (in non-toxic kids finger paint or chalk!) on the hindquarters of an Ass.”

I sent a message to my friend Evelyn to see if she still had a donkey and if so, would that donkey let us paint on his butt. Fortunately Kong is a very mellow guy, and my friend is incredibly patient and easy going. (Requirements for being my friend.)

My daughter high-fived me when I told her I had lined up the donkey. She picked out the paint color and even begged me to take her with me the next morning for the fun.

This photo was our official submission.

 

This was my unofficial submission. Thanks again to Evelyn for letting us paint her ass.

But where is my daughter, you may ask. As fate would have it, she was not actually present for this challenge. She decided to sleep in that day. Even though she begged to go. Said she would accompany me. (Teenagers.) Which is pretty sad. Because she missed out on the following challenge:

“My wife is so trend-forward, she recently took a “goat yoga class” (it’s real; you can google it.) Without hurting, upsetting, or endangering ANY animal, show us the next trend in animal-infused yoga that she should get on board with.”

Fortunately for you, we video-taped my Snake Yoga. SNAKE YOGA!

You’re welcome.

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I Can’t Believe You Ate My Sandwich

My husband and I battled for the first time over a sandwich. This argument happened over twenty years ago, and I still haven’t quite forgiven him.

You see, I have food issues. Growing up in a family of eight, mealtime was a battlefield, and as the youngest, I was generally the loser. We kids fought for every piece of food and ate as quickly as possible to not go hungry. On the very rare occasions that my father bought fast food, he would buy three boxes of fries for the six of us. Spoiler Alert: The math never worked in my favor.

And another thing, I’m also picky. The seedy and watery residue from one tomato slice can ruin an entire burger. I’d rather cover my body in mayonnaise than eat one bite of it. I still have flashbacks from the time my parents threatened me with corporal punishment unless I ate a taco salad drowning in Catalina dressing. (I opted for the swat on the backside over choking down that sickly-sweet liquid horror.)

My husband witnessed the damage early in our dating years at lunch with some friends. When I got up to get more napkins, one of our friends reached over to take one of my fries. Mr. Foxy laughed hysterically as I nearly ripped off my friend’s head with my verbal assault of vitriol and damnation—over a fucking French fry.

So my husband went into this relationship in denial completely aware. He knew my history. I came with clear handling instructions. Maybe he just needed more practice—because he clearly wasn’t ready for The Epic Sandwich War of 1996.

The bloodshed happened a few months before we got married. We had traveled to Portland, Oregon for a job interview at a major manufacturing company. I was incredibly nervous about the interview.

I labored over my wardrobe choice. I debated how I should wear my hair, how much makeup I should apply, which pens made me look the most intellectual. I furiously read up on the company history and all their products. I needed to fake my way through sound like an expert.

I was a nervous wreck.

We flew in on a weekday morning. I hadn’t slept much the prior night so I was exhausted. At the time, Portland International Airport was under heavy construction, and we got lost on the way to the rental car place.

I was then nervous, exhausted, and a bit irritated.

Once we secured our car, we proceeded to drive to our hotel on the opposite side of the city—a good 45 minutes and 4 freeways away.

My husband asked, “You want to stop for anything to eat?”

“No, let’s just get to the hotel so I can do more interview prep.” (In hindsight that decision was a colossal mistake.)

Naturally, we went the wrong way on one of the freeways and ended up going the opposite direction of our hotel. We “calmly” turned around and worked with our MapQuest printouts together. “We are a TEAM,” I muttered through clenched teeth. We finally navigated through the confusing bridges and freeway system and managed to find our hotel after a couple of hours.

By that point, I was super hungry. Maybe a little hangry.

We noticed a deli near the hotel and decided to grab some sandwiches and drinks to bring with us to our hotel room. Although I was nervous, exhausted, irritable, and famished, I carefully placed my order: a turkey sandwich with extra pickles, peppers, and mustard. NO mayonnaise. NO tomatoes.

We checked in and went to our room. While I was using the facilities, my husband dumped the food on the coffee table prepared our meal. When I emerged from the bathroom, he was sitting in front of the television scarfing down one of the sandwiches. “Sorry I started without you. I was starving.”

“No problem. I am too.” I grabbed the other sandwich and sat down beside him. I took one bite, gagged, and spat out the food and the words, “WTF? This isn’t my sandwich?!!”

“Whaa?” He swallowed. “Of course that’s your sandwich. I’m eating mine.”

I squinted my eyes. “What’s in your sandwich?”

He lifted the bread. ‘Turkey, pickles—”

“Is there any mayo on your sandwich?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Yes?”

“YOU DON’T KNOW? Open. It. Up.” I performed a sandwich autopsy right then and there on the coffee table. “There’s no mayo in ‘your’ sandwich! And THIS one, holding ‘my’ sandwich like it was a soiled diaper, has mayo ALL OVER IT!”

He dropped his food. “Oh my gawd, I’m so sorry.”

Red fury coated my vision. “Sorry? Sorry?! You ate my fucking sandwich!”

He held out the remaining third of the sandwich he was eating, “Here. Eat this.”

So then I was nervous, exhausted, irritated, hangry, and insulted. “THAT IS NOT ENOUGH SANDWICH FOR ME.”

He pointed to the other sandwich. “Well, then eat mine.”

Steam came out of my ears. “I CAN’T EAT ANYTHING WITH MAYO OR TOMATOES. HOW COULD YOU NOT NOTICE YOU WERE EATING MY FUCKING SANDWICH?!”

He shrugged. “I was hungry. I thought I grabbed mine. I’ll go get you another one.”

“No.”I rolled my eyes. “I’ll just scrape off all of this crap from your sandwich and try to choke it down.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re not going to be a sandwich martyr. Let me go get you another sandwich.”

My face burned, and my hands were shaking. “I DON’T WANT A NEW SANDWICH. I WANT MY OLD SANDWICH.”

“Oh my gawd. Take the rest of this one, and I’ll go get you another.” He wisely left the room.

I ate the remaining portion (and the next sandwich) and eventually calmed down enough to nail that job interview and get the job. We lived very happily in Portland for almost thirteen years. But I never trusted him with any sandwiches again. For many years after, I conducted mandatory sandwich inspections before anyone was allowed to take a bite of anything. No food entered his mouth until I gave explicit approval.

Several years after the sandwich bloodbath, we had children. Because of those kids, I’m not nearly as picky or possessive of food anymore. (Or maybe I just look good by comparison.) And I’ve mostly forgiven my husband. But I’ve not forgotten. No, I’ll never forget. Whenever there is an injustice or a slight of any kind (not just food related), I mumble, “I can’t believe you ate my fucking sandwich.” Then I win. Always.

 

Photo Credit: keeweeboy / 123RF Stock Photo

The post I Can’t Believe You Ate My Sandwich appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

For Sale: My Husband’s Final Hopes and Dreams

I haven’t been camping in over a decade. Wanna know why? Because I hate it. I fucking hate it.

I guess I didn’t always find camping so detestable. I spent my summers in high school working as a counselor at a campground outside of Yosemite. Three full months of that camping shit. In college, I used to personally initiate camping trips on the weekends and during breaks—pitching a tent, hiking, fishing, cooking up my catch—all that crap. Even in my early married years, I actually enjoyed camping as a leisurely activity.

Me, as a camp counselor. Of course that dirty hippy loved camping. Of course she did.

But now? Camping is dead to me.

I guess it’s not so much that I hate camping per se. I just hate all the prep work—planning the meals, shopping for food, collecting supplies, packing the car like a life-sized Tetris game, cooking like a caveman without the proper tools and always forgetting that one essential item. And the dirt that gets in every tiny crevice of my body and inside my drink. And the bugs and the spiders and the human-eating mammals that are everywhere in nature. And not having a hot shower. And sleeping on the motherfucking ground. And the standoff between me and my husband to put the gear away when we get home that lasts so long several colonies of mold flourish and die in our cooler.

OKAY, FINE. I hate everything about camping. PER SE.

The last (meaning both “most recent in time” and “final”) camping trip we took as a family was before my son was born. My husband and I took our daughter out to scenic Mount Hood in Oregon. We wanted to share our love of the outdoors with her and expose her at a young age the camping life. I think I was even excited about trip.

But then she puked in her car seat on the way up the mountain, and I couldn’t get the potato-chip-vomit smell out of my car. And I had to change her diapers in the dirt without a proper hand-washing station nearby. And she didn’t sleep well. And keeping her safe and entertained was exhausting. And she spit out the fish we served.  And… and… AND I COULD GO ON FOREVER.

It was about that time I realized that my daughter would have been just as happy playing in the sandbox at the neighborhood park. And I wouldn’t have had to exert all of this non-existent energy and live in the dirt like an animal. And we could vacation where it was clean and comfortable. Where people cook food for you. And cater to your every need.

My husband captured the exact moment I realized camping was stupid.

I mean, if she had loved camping, I might have tried harder. I might have summoned up more enthusiasm. I might have given it another go. (I’m lying.)

See? Even she knew it was dumb.

On the way home, I told my husband there would be no more camping—at least not until the kids were potty trained. (I was lying.) He was disappointed, but ultimately understood. Changing dirty diapers in the wilderness was a powerful repellant.

After our youngest was (finally) using the toilet, my husband cheerfully brought up the idea of camping that summer. I screamed, “You shut your dirty mouth!” and ran screaming from the room. I politely declined and suggested maybe another year. I just wasn’t feeling it yet. (Another lie.) He brought it up repeatedly over the next few years until I finally declared I would not be camping ever again in this lifetime if I could help it. He was crushed. I was finally not lying.

“But Foxy,” you say. “You’re missing out on priceless memories.”

“Fuck that,” I say. “We can make memories in a motherfucking hotel.”

Anyhow, my anxiety-induced purging recently brought me to the garage where I discovered some backpacking gear. Not just regular camping supplies, but goddamn backpacking gear my husband bought when he was delusional, thinking his wife would not just camp again but leave the car miles away from the campground and carry all of our gear on our fucking backs.

I shudder even looking at this picture. Much to my husband’s dismay, this stove has never, ever been used. It’s a pretty nice one too. Not that I give a shit.

So yeah, the camping stove has got to go. It’s taking up too much space in my life and giving my husband a false sense of hope that he will ever achieve his dream of camping with me ever again. I will crush those dreams like tiny heads. I am a dream crusher. (A warm, clean, comfortable dream crusher at that.)

Me, camping out on a beautiful deck in Boulder with my Snuggie and a beverage. Secure in the fact that I had plumbing, a comfortable bed, and plentiful hot water nearby. The only thing that would have made it better was a good book.

Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to him. Not this way. And certainly NOT that way. Maybe I’ll just throw some dirt in his face to remind him how good he has it at home.

The post For Sale: My Husband’s Final Hopes and Dreams appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

Sometimes Anxiety Isn’t a Complete Asshole

When you live with anxiety, it can be difficult to distinguish between the symptoms of the condition and all of the bullshit going on around you. I frequently occasionally find myself asking, “Is this person being a jackass—or am I irritated because of my anxiety disorder?” (Sometimes it’s a tough call.)

Combine anxiety with depression, and those two jerks regularly have me paralyzed, wanting to complete a task but lacking the required energy. Unable to string together coherent thoughts. Unable to approach normal social situations with any grace (if I even make it out the door at all). Unable to function in the afternoon. Well, except binge-watching Netflix. I can always do that.

But sometimes, just sometimes, anxiety isn’t a complete asshole.

Recently I opened my spice cabinet and encountered the kind of disaster you’d see on an episode of Hoarders. Bottles crammed into every available space. Petrified herbs. Duplicate spices. Random oils used once to accommodate someone’s diet and then promptly forgotten. My shelves were puking the contents out the door.

Anxiety: Well, would you look at that. What a fucking mess. We should really clean out this cabinet.

Depression: Seriously? I just wanted some salt for my popcorn. Can we not do this right now? Please?

Anxiety: Maybe there are expired oils in there. Did you know that rancid oils contain free radicals, and those can lead to cancer? You want us all to die?

Depression: We’re all going to die eventually. Doesn’t a nap sound much better to you? I’m so tired. You look so tired too. We could snuggle?

Anxiety: But what if one of the spice bottles falls on the ground and smashes into a million teeny tiny pieces and even though we try to get them all the dog steps on one and gets a flesh wound and then the bloody gash festers and rots until gangrene sets in and we need to amputate his foot? What then?

Depression: Awww, I love our puppies. Let’s go cuddle with the puppies on the bed.

Anxiety: FOCUS. WE HAVE TO PROTECT THE DOGS BY SCOURING THIS CABINET. WE CANNOT SLEEP.

Depression: Fine, we can clean the cabinet. But just the one.

So Anxiety won, and I got to work cleaning. I pulled out the first spice bottle and a few came tumbling with it. Fortunately, none shattered on the floor. After I pulled everything out, I started reading labels. I found some spices that were older than my kids (ages 11 and 14). But this spice, this one takes the cake. (Sadly, there was no cake in the cabinet.)

This bottle has moved with me at least ten times over the years. TEN. TIMES.

It has a sell by date of 1995, which probably means I bought it in 1992 or 1993. It’s older than my and Mr. Foxy’s romance. And probably tastes like dirt. Actually, dirt is probably more flavorful than this bottle of dust. Also, what the fuck is marjoram anyhow? And why did I buy it over twenty years ago? What was I cooking—besides ramen and mac n’ cheese?

Purging the old spices and oils felt so good. Then I wiped down the shelves. And started organizing like a mo-fo.

Behold my beautiful spices.

I CATEGORIZED and ALPHABETIZED my spices, people. Who even does that? I do, apparently, given enough unchanneled anxiety.

Of course, I saved the fossilized marjoram as a badge of honor. Or maybe as a reminder to clean out the spice cabinet more often.

Oh hey! Look! There’s a newly released SUPER HILARIOUS book on the top of that stack. Order it here!

I’m not gonna lie—I love my newly cleaned cabinet. Turns out, anxiety wasn’t so bad in this case. Now I’m just waiting for this anxiety-induced productivity to kick in on the rest of the house. But maybe I’ll take a nap first.

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Of Love and Mixtapes

The first time I kissed Mr. Foxy, I immediately knew he was “the one.” Surreal and glittery and heart stopping, the moment our lips touched, I saw our entire future together, and it was warm and tingly. (I’m talking about the vision, not my lady parts.)

So what did I do after I discovered we were destined for each other? Well, I broke up with him. Naturally.

See, I started dating Mr. Foxy #waytoosoon after I had ended a long-term relationship. I knew I wasn’t ready for anything more than a rebound fling. But, goddammit, Mr. Foxy was so fucking adorable I just couldn’t not go out with him. So I did. Until it became abundantly clear that I needed to take some time away to deal with my shit.

It was a dark period in our (non)relationship. I was busy analyzing why my previous relationship failed (turns out we had vastly different emotional needs). And Mr. Foxy was busy waiting for me. He was (mostly) patient and even made me a mixtape to express every emotion he was feeling at the time.

Recently while cleaning my desk, I found said mixtape:

Among the treasures I unearthed that day: year-old unsent Thank You notes, plaster molds of my feet, pornographic looking Cheetos, a bag of hair I found in my daughter’s room, and the infamous mixtape from 1994.

The mixtape is titled “In a Little While…” and includes such beautiful (and not at all passive-aggressive) songs such as “Bad” by U2 (you know, the one about addiction) and “Black” by Pearl Jam (generally interpreted to be about unrequited love). Also featured are some slightly cheesy but ultimately straightforward and frozen-heart-melting songs like “The Last Worthless Evening” by Don Henley and “Don’t Let Him Steal Your Heart Away” by Phil Collins.

I think the smudged ink on the right might even be from tears.

The mixtape was truly inspired. An emotional masterpiece of sorts. And it worked (eventually). Mr. Foxy and I have been married for twenty years now.

Prior to that mixtape, I had only received one other. From an ex-boyfriend. Let’s call him John. John and I had (two) hot summer romances; neither of which endured. It was another case of incompatible needs. He needed to have sex. (I wouldn’t.) I needed him to be faithful. (He couldn’t.) I even walked in on him trying to get it on with another woman.

*jots down reminder to tell that story someday*

Anyhow, John made me his mixtape a year or two after our final breakup. I wasn’t interested in getting my heart broken a third time, and I wasn’t really into rock ballads at the time so I didn’t listen to it for a few years.

That was a mistake. Not because he could have won my heart back, but because that mixtape was sheer awesomeness. So awesome that Mr. Foxy and I were talking about it the other day while having a discussion about the best rock ballads of all time. I may or may not have been scream-singing those songs until Mr. Foxy took my beer bottle microphone away.

Unfortunately I couldn’t find the actual mixtape anywhere in my memory boxes, so I sent John a note to see if he remembered it. (Yes, we’re still friends. Well, “Facebook” friends; he’d probably hate me IRL.)

So random question for you. My friends and I were talking about the best rock ballads of all time. You made me an epic mix tape in about 1991 with some of my favorites. I can’t find the tape anywhere (which is weird because I keep everything) so I’m trying to remember the songs. Here’s what I remember (or have made up):

– Skid Row: I Remember You

– Tesla: Love Song

– Mötley Crüe: Without You

– Scorpions: Believe in Love

– Firehouse: Love of a Lifetime

– One other by White Lion or Whitestripes?

By any chance, do you remember what songs were on that tape? I realize that this is over 20 years ago, and you’ve probably long forgotten. But I thought I’d ask just in case.

Sadly—for all of us, really—John didn’t recall the specific songs. Perhaps he, like me, is too old to retrieve those details from the cracks in my memory. Or perhaps he purged our entire relationship from his brain.

Regardless, I applaud both him and Mr. Foxy for the genius employed in the making of their mixtapes. It’s challenging to tell a story with just a handful of songs. To communicate your subliminal (or overt, as it were) message. Honestly, I‘m not even sure which one I like better.

*record scratch*

YOU: WHAT?! You crazy bitch! Obviously Mr. Foxy’s is better.

ME: Well, I mean, sure. Maybe. But 80s Power Ballads! The long hair! The tight pants! The pageantry!

YOU: Uhhh, Mr. Foxy made his while he was lovingly waiting for you TO GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. John’s was an apology for being a shit. Two summers in a row!

ME: I know, but have you actually listened to Without You lately? It’s A-MAZING.

YOU: But U2? Pearl Jam? Peter Gabriel?

ME: But Mötley Crüe? Oh! I know, I can sing it for you. And you can be the jaguar from the video and crawl around on the floor. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about. Just get me a bottle of beer.

YOU: Nevermind. You win.

Anyhow, because mixtapes are a lost art, I hereby declare it to be Mixtape Revival Month. For my part, I made a virtual mixtape for my friend Christine Organ. She and I worked on a (very frustrating) project together this past year. I love her dearly, and she puts up with my nonsense on the regular.

What’s on your mixtape?

The post Of Love and Mixtapes appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

The Problem with Multi-Colored Rugs

We recently adopted quite possibly the most adorable puppy ever. On doggy death row because of several birth defects, Scooter has a difficult time walking straight and frequently stumbles around like a drunk. (No comparisons to me, thankyouverymuch.) But he’s a total sweetie, not in any pain, and a lovely companion.

And, OMG, LOOK AT THAT FACE.

Scooter keeps me company in the dining room where I write in a makeshift office space at the table. But the slippery wood floors are a bit tough for him to walk on. When he’s not on the area rug under the table, he often falls on his face. And his butt. And all over the place. (Again, no need for comparisons to yours truly.)

Anyhow, I decided to move my office downstairs to the basement, which is carpeted. The carpeting would make it easier for him to get around and to wrestle with our other dog, which would be great physical therapy.

So I gathered up my supplies from the dining room and brought the first load downstairs. I threw away moved my children’s art supplies from the desk-turned-craft-table, reclaimed it as my own, and started setting up my new writing station when I heard my husband’s frantic voice booming from upstairs, “YOU BETTER STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN!”

I had just been in the kitchen, and everything seemed okay. I shouted up, “Why?”

His panic increased. “THERE’S DOG SHIT EVERYWHERE!”

“Well, fuck. I’m glad I’m downstairs,” I muttered to myself. I figured I’d just stay down in the basement and let my husband deal with the mess. Having a new puppy was hard work, and his accidents didn’t always have to fall on my shoulders. I chuckled at my husband and continued moving things around the basement.

After a few minutes, he shouted down the stairs, “Is there poop on your shoes?”

“Of course not,” I incredulously replied while examining my left slipper. And then I lifted my right one. “Oh shit.” Poop. Lots of poop. A huge blob of poop. More like the smashed remains of what used to be a huge poop, squished in the sole of my slipper. (Remember, I have no sense of smell so my nose didn’t detect it.)

I removed my fouled footwear and headed back to my husband following a terrible trail of shite stains all the way across the basement floor, up the stairs, down the hall, and into the kitchen.

He regarded me with disgust. “The poo prints go out to the dining room.”

“Fortunately it was only on one slipper?” I sheepishly offered my glass-half-full point-of-view. That did nothing to appease him.

Despite our different perspectives on the issue, we worked together. I started on the splotches on the kitchen floor. My husband followed the trail of tears and excrement out into the dining room and looked for the source. He found a large pile of crap under the dining room table, cleverly camouflaged on our dark, multi-colored area rug.

It’s like Where’s Waldo except with dung. Find the Feces? Go ahead…I’ll wait until you find them.

He returned with a steaming bag and squinted at me. “So…exactly where did you walk?”

I lowered my head. “Well…I went from there through the kitchen and then downstairs.” My voice lowered to a whisper. “And then I walked all around the basement putting things away.”

We spent the next hour following the poop prints and scrubbing carpet (thank god for our gallon-sized jugs of Nature’s Miracle). Profanity may have been uttered. Loudly. And repeatedly. (Don’t worry. I totally followed the Rules of Swearing.)

How can such a cute little puppy expel so much poop?

After we finished, I dipped my hands in acid, retrieved some flip-flops, and proceeded to move more of my office out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and down to the basement.

When my shoe slid ever so slightly on one of the basement steps, I growled and turned back to see another walk of waste. Turning over my foot, I found more squished fecal matter on the bottom of my shoe.

“FUCK! More poop,” I spat up the stairs to my incompetent-cleaner-of-a-husband. “I stepped in MORE POOP.”

He was defensive. “But I cleaned it all up!”

“Apparently not.” I was annoyed. (But I was more relieved that I wasn’t the only poopetrator anymore.)

My husband and I went back into hazmat fecal fumigation. I tossed my flip-flops out the door (they landed right next to my shitty slippers) and scoured the kitchen floor while he searched the multi-colored rug (with a flashlight this time) for the second source.

As I finished decontaminating, my husband hollered from the dining room, “Eureka! I found it. It was disguised very well, dammit.” He cleaned up the second, somewhat smaller pile of poop, and we went about our evening.

At this point, out of (easy-to-slip-on) shoes, I walked barefoot around the house. I returned to the dining room one last time to retrieve my remaining items to bring downstairs.

“FUCKING HELL. I STEPPED IN MORE SHIT.”

My husband ran into the room looking like he’d just been punked. “No, you didn’t. I cleaned up both piles. BOTH PILES.”

So I lifted my foot up in front of his face and showed him.

“Oh. God. On your bare foot,” he started to laugh hysterically at my misfortune.

I squatted down, found the final source, then hopped on one foot to the bathtub to remove the remnants.

Anyhow, now I want to burn the entire house down. Starting with that fucking poop-camouflaging, shitty, awful, no-good, horrible multi-colored rug.

P.S. Here’s Scooter getting a bath after accidentally falling and flailing in poop. He’s really lucky he’s so damn cute.

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Rejected Bandages and Other Badges of Motherhood

“Bacon is my favorite long food!” At age three, my son gifted me one of my proudest mommy moments:

My child could properly categorize food, and he appreciated one of the most magical flavors in the world.

Not that I’m biased, but bacon really is the best long food. And flat food. And able-to-be-crumbled food. I’ve been known to mix it with nuts. Put it in pancakes. And create an entire dinner party menu in which every single dish—from appetizers to dessert—includes bacon.

To celebrate my son’s newfound enthusiasm for cured pork and to support his insatiable bandage habit (he goes through approximately 20,000 each week), I purchased a shit-ton of, you guessed it, bacon bandages.

My son glared at the box with skepticism. So I applied one to my arm to showcase the glamour. (I may have used jazz hands too.)

He squinted his eyes. “Do they smell like bacon?”

“Well, no,” I admitted. “But they look exactly like your favorite long food! How great is that?”

Naturally, he deemed them unacceptable. “You eat bacon; you don’t put it on boo-boos.”

I sighed, but didn’t argue. He’s a quirky kid, and I learned long ago to pick my battles. No point on debating a child who’s determined to tell the entire world you are pooping. Or who refuses to participate in any extra-curricular activities. Or who won’t let you use the word “shot.”

I tossed the rejected bandages into the first-aid graveyard cabinet, so they could get cozy with Dora the Explorer, Clifford, and the other bandages that were deemed “too polka dotty,” “too shiny,” or “too sticky.”

Not wanting my investment to go to waste, I started using the rejects for my own first-aid needs. Like when I tripped and scraped my knee walking up the stairs. Or when I cut my wrist while trying to carry fifty bags of groceries at once. (It still beat going back to the car.) Or the time I cut my finger trying to uncork a bottle of wine … that was a screw top. (I’m horribly klutzy and require medical treatment frequently.)

For the most part, I don’t even notice the silly designs on the rejected bandages anymore. They’re like badges of honor for surviving being a parent. Badges of motherhood. And they’re way more pleasant than other badges: like snot on your shirt because your kid used you as a tissue. Or crayon markings on the wall. Or random snacks you find in your bra. Which of course you eat.

But those markings are still better than the permanent badges—like c-section scars and stretch marks. Those fuckers suck. I once heard someone refer to stretch marks as tiger strips. Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever gets you through the day.

Unfortunately, that just doesn’t work on me. See for me, it’s not that I mind the sight of my stretch marks. No, sadly for me, my stretch marks go all the way down to my tantalizing triangle. So even with careful maintenance (not of the Brazilian kind), occasional ingrown hairs occur. And those gnarly beasts hurt like mofos.

Recently while I was shaving in the shower—tidying up the forest so to speak—I felt a large bump under the bush. Of course, my immediate thought was CANCER. (I’ve never heard of mons pubis cancer, but I’m sure it exists.) However, upon closer examination, I discovered a grossly inflamed follicle. Rather than letting it grow out or carefully extracting the hair with a needle, I attacked that monster with my fingernails. First I squeezed it like a giant zit. When that didn’t work, I scratched at it in an attempt to thin the skin’s surface. Then I poked at it with my razor until it was a bloody awful gash in my mufflepuff.

Anyhow long story short (and before you start wondering how this story went from bacon to pubic hair), that’s exactly how I ended up with a bacon bandage in my lady garden. After a full day, I had simply forgotten that I put it there.

But my husband found it that night. Apparently rejected bandages aren’t a turn on.

 

Photo Credit: misstuni / 123RF Stock Photo

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Beware of Bears in Canada

Much to the dismay of Canadians everywhere, many Americans feel like Canada is just another US state. A kinder, gentler, more apologetic US state, but a US state nonetheless. (Maybe it’s all of the beer, weed, and Tim Horton’s coffee y’all got up there, eh?)

Anyhow, because of that feeling (apologies to my Canadian friends), I didn’t think very carefully when I packed for my last trip to beautiful British Columbia. (That’s a province in Canada, in case you didn’t know. [I’m speaking mostly to my American friends now.]) But, as soon as I got on the plane, the Canada Border Services Agency (CBSA) Declaration Card forced me to confront my status as a foreign traveler.

“No problem,” I thought to myself. “I’m a US citizen. Our countries are on good terms (possibly only until November). I shouldn’t expect any hassles.”

I completed the top part of the form with my name, birthday, home address, etc. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. (Canadians probably don’t squeeze too terribly hard for fear they might hurt the lemon.) Then, I got to the “I am/we are bringing into Canada:” part of the form. Again, I wasn’t thinking much of it because I was not smuggling drugs or strange goods or anything nefarious. I was on vacation. (Without my family. OH, HELL YEAH!)

Here’s the thing though. When I travel alone, I bring protection with me in the form of pepper spray. It makes me feel safe. (I’ve never had to use it, but maybe that’s because I carry it in my hand whenever I walk alone in a strange place. I’m sure I look scary and bad-ass. Like a fucking ninja. NINJA!) And because of the “Canada is so familiar” feeling, I had brought the pepper spray in my suitcase on that particular trip. I hadn’t even given it a second thought. But suddenly I had to. And I had to declare it.

Good thing I forgot about the beef jerky in my backpack. Otherwise, this story might have had a very different ending. Also,  the word “jerky” makes me snicker like a 12-year-old boy.

After I de-boarded the plane, I took my completed Declarations form to the friendly Canadian Border Services Official. He smiled politely, like a good Canadian. “Welcome to Canada! Business or pleasure?”

I wanted to make a dirty joke but thought better of it. I mean, Canadians are nice, but could they handle full Foxy? “Pleasure. I’m on vacation.”

He scanned my passport. “You’re from the states?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and started reviewing the Declarations form. “Fabulous. We should get you right—Oh hey. You have pepper spray?”

I froze. “Yes. In my suitcase.”

He tilted his head. “What’s that for?”

“I keep it for personal protection,” I declared. (See what I did there?)

His face scrunched up. “Against bears?”

“Well, nooo. Against humans.” My voice grew quieter. “You know, in case someone attacks me?”

“Hmmm, okay.” He pointed to his left. “Go ahead to that line over there, please.”

He wasn’t pointing the airport exit. He sent me to the “Special” office. The place where I can only assume Canadians maliciously torture foreigners by eating poutine in front of them and not sharing. Those bastards.

In the nearly-empty room, two Border Services agents greeted me with friendly but confused expressions. The younger lad addressed me with a kind voice. “Welcome to Canada. What brings you to this line?”

I exhaled. “My guess is the pepper spray in my suitcase.”

He tilted his head. “You have pepper spray?”

“Yes. I carry it when I travel alone. For protection.”

He scrunched up his face. “From bears?”

“Well, no. From other people. You know, against someone who might attack me.”

He gave me a bewildered look. Like I was speaking a foreign language.

I clarified. “You know, personal protection?”

He shook his head slightly. Apparently, he didn’t know. Suddenly I felt much safer about traveling alone. But I had broken the law. Any I wasn’t emotionally prepared for poutine torture.

I vomited my apologies. “I’m so sorry. Obviously you can have the pepper spray. I wasn’t thinking when I left it in my suitcase. I mean, it’s Canada, not like a foreign country or anything. Well, you are a foreign country. NOT THAT YOU’RE FOREIGN. Geez, the US probably seems more foreign. Hell, sometimes I feel like a foreigner there. Oh my god, don’t listen to me. I’m so sorry. JUST TAKE THE PEPPER SPRAY!”

He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Oh, no worries. You declared the pepper spray. So you’re not in trouble. But, yeah, we can’t let you keep it. I’m terribly sorry about that.”

“No problem.” I let out a relieved sigh. “I’ve got another one at home anyhow.”

The smile disappeared. “Oh, do you have bears in your hometown?”

“Well, no. It’s also for predators.”

He frowned. “But not bears?”

Fucking hell. As if I didn’t have enough to be terrified of in America, now I was petrified of bears as well. I gritted my teeth. “NO.”

I had to fill out yet another form—this time relinquishing my pepper spray to the crown. I chatted some more with the friendly agents, who proceeded to give me self-defense tips. “You know, pepper spray is only going to incapacitate a person for a short time. You need to run like crazy after you spray him. Get out of there fast. Much like with a bear.”

Then they kindly escorted me to the airport exit and waved good-bye, wishing me a pleasant stay. All in all, it was an enjoyable exchange, proving once again that Canada is one of the nicest countries in the world. Right up until the agent asked, “By the way, where are you staying?”

“On Vancouver Island,” I replied. “In Tofino.”

“Oh, do be careful. There are lots of bears there.”

 

Photo Credit: jemastock / 123RF Stock Photo

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10 Ways We Delude Ourselves When The Kids Go Back To School

After a long summer break, your kids have finally started school again. You’ve got big plans and an endless supply of motivation. You are going to be hyper productive and complete ALLOFTHETHINGS on your ever-growing to-do list.

Well, I’ve got news for you. You, like the rest of us, are probably deluding yourself. The cold, hard reality is, you’ll likely never achieve those back-to-school goals.

Delusion #1: The entire family will go to bed at a reasonable time every night.

Reality: The first night you’re all awake because you’re nervous about school starting. The second night you’re all in bed early because you’re so exhausted from the first day—only to wake up in the middle of the night because you went to bed too early. The vicious cycle doesn’t even out for the kids for a couple of weeks. And it never does for you, because Netflix.

Delusion #2: You’re going to wake up early every school day to ensure a smooth morning routine for the entire family.

Reality: You get up early on the first day of school. Time is a little tight on day 2. By the third day, you’re hitting the snooze button repeatedly and leaving just enough time to cram some sandwiches in a bag, kiss their non-smiling faces, and fling them out the door to get to school on time.

Delusion #3: You’re going to exercise every day while the kids are at school.

Reality: You skip the first day because you’re too busy eating your celebratory brunch and drinking your celebratory mimosas with your other mom friends. You might squeeze in a workout or two in the first week before deciding that shopping at Costco totally counts as exercise.

Delusion #4: You’re going to get all of the laundry in the entire house washed, dried, folded and put away.

Reality: You manage to finish two loads in their entirety the first week. By the second, the laundry piles have once again overtaken your house. You’re ignoring the moldy towel smell emanating from somewhere in the kids’ rooms and learning to appreciate the artistic placement of the laundry baskets in the family room.

Delusion #5: You are going make healthy, organic, seasonal snacks and lunches.

Reality: Despite the protests of your picky eaters, the first week goes relatively well. By the second week, you’re stress-eating the homemade granola bars after finding the rotten fruit and veggie sticks in the produce bin and debating the nutritional value of fruit snacks.

Delusion #6: You are going to have patience and understanding during homework time.

Reality: The first few days go well because there isn’t much homework. By day 4 you are pouring wine, rocking in the corner and repeating, “Your dad can help you when he gets home.”

Delusion #7: You are going to create a special space for the kids to organize their homework.

Reality: After discovering that the homework drawers are still full of last year’s papers and art projects, the kids just start piling their work on the dining table. You relent because you never really eat there, and a brown paper sack works great for storage.

Delusion #8: You’re going to empty and scrub the refrigerator to remove summer’s footprint of juice, fruit, and barbecue.

Reality: You don’t really need to do that until Thanksgiving, right?

Delusion #9: Every weekend, you are going to do meal planning and shopping for the entire next week’s dinner.

Reality: You might make it two weeks—heck, even three. But by week four, you’re ordering pizza and Chinese take-out just like the rest of us.

Delusion #10: You’re going to purge and organize the kids’ rooms.

Reality: After all of the back-to-school madness, you say, “screw it,” and just keep the doors closed until the next school break. The same goes for your desk, the stack of mail in the entryway, and the pile of crap in the kitchen. Fall is right around the corner—you can hide them behind decorative pumpkins.

We all might be deluding ourselves, but we can still take solace in the fact that the kids are back at school. Another round of mimosas for everyone!

© 2015 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: imagesbavaria / 123RF Stock Photo

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The REAL Love Your Spouse Challenge

I’ve been seeing all these beautiful pictures of my friends and their spouses on Facebook in the “Love Your Spouse Challenge,” a seven-day challenge designed to “celebrate your special union.” First dates. Weddings. Nights out on the town. Perfection, right?

Some of you have even created hilarious spoofs by posting pictures of your grilled-cheese sandwiches, burritos, and doughnuts (don’t you call it “donut” or I will cut you). Hilarious, for sure, but not the real challenge.

The glamour shots aren’t the real challenge either though. It’s too easy to post flawless pictures of you and your spouse—special moments and occasions that highlight your love at its finest. What about the ugly moments? The hard ones? (That’s what she said.) The unflattering pictures? That’s where the real challenge comes in.

Allow me to up the ante.

Picture #1: Here we are on a catamaran on our honeymoon. Awww, so cute, right?

Well, moments before we took that photograph, my new husband got sea sick and hurled chunks off of the stern of the boat. The wind blew back splattered vomit on me. We’re smiling, but he was horrified. And I was horrified. And covered in puke bits.

Picture #2: Here we are at our baby shower hosted by our good friends. I am undoubtedly saying something loud, rude, or ridiculous (or some combo of the three).

But look at how calm and smiley Mr. Foxy looks, even though I was being obnoxious. His face radiates love. Right? That’s not an annoyed face, RIGHT?

Picture #3: Here we are holding our newborn son. My water broke during my morning shower so I have no make-up or hairstyle or anything. I’m not even sure I brushed my teeth. (Of course my husband was polished, clean, and ready for work. Fucker.)

Anyhow, it was a rough pregnancy preceded by two miscarriages. And a fast and furious delivery. The phlebotomist had to draw blood three times before they would give me my epidural. (The first sample wasn’t large enough; the second got lost somewhere between our room and the lab; the third finally made it to the right people who FINALLY okayed the epidural. Fuckers.) Also, I might have said some pretty awful things to my husband when he kept dropping my completely numb leg. Love and marriage, people.

Picture #4: Here we are barely holding it together at our son’s baptism.

My son wanted nothing to do with the entire event, and I’m struggling to contain him in my arms. (I left a trail of Cheerios from the church pew up to the altar.) Our daughter was done—just DONE. Mr. Foxy and I have “take the fucking picture right now” looks on our face. We went home and had booze, I’m sure. In the name of Jesus.

Picture #5: We’re barely holding it together again as The Wiggles at a Halloween party.

My son is plotting his escape. I’m gritting my teeth saying, “Just look at the camera so we can go have fun, dammit.” My husband is complaining about having to hold the guitar the whole night. And my daughter, who came up with this costume idea, just wants to go play with her best friend in the other room. Or make out with the candy bowl; I’m not sure.

Picture #6: Here I am with a picture of my love. Oh wait, that’s not my spouse—that’s Kevin Bacon. But, damn, I just love him so much. Not as much as Jason Bateman, but a whole hell of a lot. Of course, I love Mr. Foxy more than them both. Blah, blah, blah.

Picture #6 (for realz): Here we are dressed up as Ron Swanson and Tammy 2 from Parks and Recreation. It’s not a horrible picture, just a little (a lot) ridiculous. Certainly it’s no glamour shot.

What I remember most about this moment is that we were in a terrible fight that evening over something stupid. I have no idea what we were fighting about, but I’m sure I was right. We hardly spoke to each other at the party, and I was still pissed (the American version of the word, not the UK version) the next morning. But the wonderful thing about our marriage is that I know we’ll always work through those rough patches. Even if it requires scotch and beef jerky.

Picture #7: Here I am drinking wine with my other half. Shit, that’s my evil twin, not my spouse.

We do a lot of dumb shit together. She recently dumped her entire vodka-soda on me. Completely unprovoked, I swear. I love her so much.

The Real Picture #7: Here we’re at one of our freighborhood block parties, acting pretty stupid. I’ve got a wicked double-chin going on in the picture. He’s got a lampshade on his head. And a pink goatee. But, dammit, if we weren’t having a great time.

Bonus Shot: My husband intentionally took a horrible picture of himself in order to recreate an intentionally horrible (but nowhere to be found) driver’s license picture.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

Now, are you up for the REAL Love Your Spouse Challenge?

Cover Photo Credit: konstantynov / 123RF Stock Photo

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