Archive for the ‘pure foolishness’ Category

So I have come to a decision as of recently, one that won’t be put into action for *at least* ten years, probably more like 20.

Of course this decision hinges on a number of factors, the major ones being Spawn graduating from college and beginning a life separate from my husband and myself, and my parents no longer needing me.  And me retaining some semblance of health.  But I have a dream.

This dream is known as Retirement and while I am not anxious to be on the downward slope toward Eternity, retirement will be (I hope) a welcome state of being.

My husband assures me we will be able to retire, and I have my doubts about that, but for the sake of this dream I have allowed myself to reach this decision.

I have decided that I will become an artist in my retirement years.

I’m not even sure I will be a serious artist.  My current vision involves living a Bohemian lifestyle, throwing a lot of brightly colored paint around, and cutting my hair super short and coloring it some crazy color.

See also:  Mid-life crisis.

Those who know me know that I am more a Talbots kind of gal, raised with manners and sensible shoes, without an alternative bone in my body.   I have a sense of decorum, I can set a table properly for a dinner party, and I write thank you notes.  I live in a small town in the Upper South, where no one wears white shoes after Labor Day, and my politics are reserved for the voting booth.  In short, I am what is known as A Good Girl.

Once I get Spawn raised to Adulthood and I do not need to explain myself to my mother – the gloves are off.

I can hardly wait to become the person who will inspire eye-rolling in the adult version of Spawn.  Lord knows I am inspiring eye-rolling in the pre-teen version, and it’s not near as much fun as I anticipate the later version will be.  It’s entirely possible a suggestion will be made that I have my marbles checked.  I won’t care then, and I don’t care now.

All I know is, it’s good to have a goal.


— Mox


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Oh holy hell we’ve gone and done it now.


— Mox

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Meet Maxi. 

After five years of volunteering at the local no-kill shelter, no one was more surprised than me that this little guy barked his way into my heart.

He’s a Chiweenie.  I know, I’d never heard of it, either, but apparently the Chiweenie is a “designer dog”, a mix of Dauchshund and Chihuahua.  Now, Spawn has been crazy for Chihuahuas ever since Beverly Hills Chihuahua came out.  I’ve never seen the movie, but I know every line of it because the kid watched it over and over in the car during a thousand-mile trip a couple of years ago.  I suppose I should be glad that Beethoven isn’t a current movie.

So Spawn wanted a Chihuahua and me, well, I’m not so crazy about ankle-biter dogs.  I’m more of a terrier girl.  And definitely a cat person.  And damn those folks at the rescue center for putting a crate of tiny puppies in the cat room.  Every time I walked by, he went berserk.  So I got him out of the cage, and he snuggled up in my lap, and fell asleep.  And that was the point at which I knew I was in big trouble.

The thing about a new puppy?  It’s like having a newborn in the house.  Crying in the middle of the night.  Potty breaks at all hours.  Baby gates up.  A general upsetting of the household apple cart.

Four days into it and he seems to have acclimated pretty well.   First order of business was learning about cats.  He seems to be a quick study.  And he’d rather be in someone’s lap than just about anywhere else.  He’s pretty sociable, which is a big switch from the cats and something to learn to appreciate.  So other than trying to impress upon him that the world (and not my house) is his toilet and what NO means, so far so good.

If you’ve been keeping a tally of the Moxville Zoo, the population now looks like this:

  • Four cats in the house
  • Three cats outside
  • A turtle
  • A gerbil
  • About a million guppies
  • And now, a very small dog

I keep telling myself that Spawn will always remember Mom’s (mostly) willingness to have pets, and those memories will be golden someday.  Of course it helps that I like animals anyway (with the exception of things that slither) and have the capacity to care for them.

And I suppose it helps that I am a crazy person.



— Mox


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(Does not involve any female nudity.)  (Because that would be obvious.)

Step one:  Seat yourself in their midst.  Be oblivious to their existence.

Step two:  Take that honkin’ big designer purse and plunk it down, either on the table or in your lap.

Step three:  Start pulling stuff out of your purse.

After just a couple of minutes of cleaning out your purse in public, you’ll find the men in your midst watching you with rapt attention.  Sure, there will be the usual stuff — receipts, loose money, lipstick — that they expect to see, and if you’re like most women, there will be a selection of items that don’t quite make sense to the male mind.

You see, a woman’s purse is just about as close as a man can get to a Rosetta Stone.  Because a purse is so personal and private, the exposition of its contents can offer fascinating glimpses into a woman’s life.  A corkscrew, a socket wrench, a candy bar — whatever it is that you pull out of your purse will tell a man what he does and doesn’t know about you.  And what else he’d like to know.

Just be sure that whatever you do, don’t pull out a tampon.  That will sour the mystery quicker than anything else.



— Mox

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I have a confession to make:  I no longer like french fries.

This is a startling realization for me.  The other day I ordered a burger and instead of fries I ordered a side of cole slaw.  Why?  Because I could not face the thought of eating a french fry.

Perhaps this is the result of too many meals eaten in the car as of late.

Back in the day, I guarded my fries zealously from those who would pinch them from their little cardboard carton.  My mother was the worst offender, and I would get extremely irritated with her for mooching my fries.  “Get your own!” I’d tell her.

Nowadays I find myself doing the same to Spawn.  Oh how the tables have turned.

But is it just me, or have fries become less… tasty than they used to be?

While vacuuming out the car the other day (because the back seat had become rather dumpsteresque), I found some leftover fries in the floor.  Heaven knows how long they had been there, but I’d say it was more than a week.  And you know what?  They looked just as whole and fresh as if they were right out of the carton.

Yeah.  Not the most appetizing thing, come to think of it.

Let me tell you something.  When you are a mom and you are relegated to eating quite a lot of meals in the car, the decomposition rate of french fries tends to take up more brain space than it should.  Because, eww.

Don’t get me wrong, though — I still love a big ol’ plate of cheese fries and a bottle of ice-cold beer.  But only once in a while.

Does this mean I’ve become an adult?



— Mox


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Prelude:  6:45am — A thoroughly unsatisfying bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios with almond milk.  I know it’s not going to hold me until lunchtime but I eat it anyway.

9-ish am — Working from home.  Stomach begins to gurgle.  Try to stave it off as long as possible.

10-ish am — Oh, what the hell.  Go into kitchen and make a smoothie.  Bananas, strawberries, blueberries, vanilla yogurt, pineapple juice, and flaxseed oil.  All in all not too unhealthy save for all the sugar.  This will hold me for a while.

Noon — headed to the salon for a haircut, I start to think about what I’m going to grab for lunch.  Nothing too heavy, since I am cooking dinner tonight.  Trying a new recipe.  Plus that smoothie I had a couple of hours ago is keeping me from being too ravenous.  Settle on grabbing a chocolate malt from Sonic.

12:35pm — headed back out into the oppressive heat (seriously, is there no spring around here?) with my current plan for said chocolate malt still in place.

12:42pm — Knowing that the chocolate malt is not going to hold me until dinner, I begin to rethink my plan.

12:42:12pm — even though they put malteds back on our local Sonic menu, they don’t have the malt powder yet.  Because whoever runs our local Sonic wishes to deny me the malty goodness I so deserve.  I learned this on Sunday when I tried to order a malt.

12:43pm — maybe I’ll just get mozzarella sticks instead.  And a cherry Dr. Pepper.

12:44pm — or maybe chicken strips.  But just the strips.  If I get the meal it will come with fries and I don’t care for Sonic’s fries.

12:44:30pm — And the cherry Dr. Pepper.

12:44:36pm — could I substitute onion rings for the fries?

12:45pm — the onion rings give me heartburn, though.  Sooo not worth it.

12:46pm — I definitely don’t want a burger.  Hm.  Do I even have any money?

12:48pm — Wait.  I do have some gift cards from Wendy’s.

12:49-12:59pm — (proceeds to drive past the Sonic and make a path for Wendy’s instead)

1pm — Order the new berry almond chicken salad.  Feel virtuous.

1:05pm — Tell the cashier I need the almonds for my salad.  She tries to give me pecans.  I hand them back to her and tell her they’re pecans and she insists to me that’s what goes on the salad.

1:06pm — consider a snarky response — after all, it is the berry ALMOND chicken salad, is it not?

1:06:22pm — but no.  Proper nut topping secured, I head out for home.

1:17pm — enjoy my much healthier lunch.  Try not to wonder if it’s helping me to lose weight.

1:37pm — ponder when Sonic is going to get that damn malt powder in.



— Mox

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Not that I’ve been obsessing or anything, but I read something here recently about Will & Kate that gave me a bit of pause. 

It would seem, that in their quest for a measure of “normalcy” (whatever that may be for them) that the future Princess Catherine stays home and happily cooks dinner for her man most nights. 

Oh, honey.  You’ll get over that nonsense in time. 

I remember when the tide turned for me.  We had just moved into our second apartment, four upstairs rooms in an old Victorian house, when we made the happy discovery that there was a tavern only two blocks from our place.  My husband was working late evenings, and I refused to put dinner on the table at 8pm.  I mean, really.  No sense in that.  So we would walk down to the tavern, and more often than not, stagger home. 

Mostly, my husband’s schedule is the reason I don’t cook much.  A lot of nights he’s not home until well past Spawn’s bedtime, or not home at all.  And Spawn, well, is the Pickiest Kid On Earth.  I can get by with mac & cheese, tater tots, chicken noodle soup, or grilled cheese for the kid.  Me, I’ll whip up a little spaghetti carbonara or share the tater tots with Spawn.  Or just not eat at all.

I suppose this would bother me if I enjoyed cooking, but as it stands I don’t particularly like to cook.  I find it to be a tedious chore.  I mean, cooking for three isn’t a whole lot different from cooking for two, or one, in that there are quantities of food to be adjusted so that you don’t cook for an army that isn’t there.  I, for one, am not a huge fan of leftovers.  Then there is the prep and the cleanup, both of which would be a lot easier if I had a dishwasher that works. 

And really, after a while the whole romantic dinner thing sort of loses its’ luster.  You get wrapped up in the sturm und drang of daily living and honey, the honeymoon is pretty much over by that point.  And then cooking gets reduced to an action that just gets the job done, sustains life, and that’s it.  Nobody appreciates it.  In fact, for all you know, the family thinks that food appears on the table by magic. 

Does Will help clear the table when the meal’s over?  I mean, you’d wonder, seeing as how he’s been raised with a life of privilege, and that includes someone cleaning up after dinner.  I’d be willing to bet he’s not much one for picking up his own socks, much less carrying his plate to the sink. 

My advice, for what it’s worth, to Kate is this:  don’t do anything the first year of your marriage that you are not prepared to do for the rest of your life.  Call for takeout. 

— Mox

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