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A m*f*ing fox in a m*f*ing box

Happy Thanksgiving weekend everybody . . . and sorry for my rather "woe is me" monologue back there. War is hell. And now, having just wasted an hour of my life, I can honestly say "so is the Aristocrats".

Right now I am very tired.

One of the highlights of my turkey day was watching my dad descend into his basement and come up with a red box that said "popsicles" on it. At first I thought it was my birthday present. He is slightly grinning. His wife starts going "oh no, oh no".

In the box is a fox. Or, rather, the pelt of a fox. Head, tail, furry body and four limp paws.

Sent to him without fanfare or explanation from one of my grandmother's kamushkees, Polish for little old ladies that like dry martinis at lunch.

Sent as something that could be worn, like in a fancy way. So I tried it. I felt decidedly unfancy. Maybe it was my stripey H&M sweater dress. Or the silver animal draped around my acrylic-blend shoulders.

Foxy. Decidedly no.

Right now I can't help but picture Garth from Wayne's World making little ears and singing that song.

Cracking myself up at the expense of dead animals,

l.mom

11:45 p.m. 2007-11-24

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