Vixen Chronicles

2008-07-05T13:24:00.002-05:00

How to smuggle a cat across country

I know I'm crazy, but I felt like I was being called to drive to San
Diego from San Antonio, instead of flying. I wanted to put my car on
the road and take any last minute things. One problem, what to do
with my cat?
I prepared him for the trip by training him to walk on a leash with a
harness.
Well, almost. I put the harness on him, and attached a leash and let
him run around like that for a few days.
First, he laid down flat and wouldn't move at all while the thing was
attached. Then he houdinied it and escaped. Probably buried the
thing in the Texas outback.
I started again and bought a better, escape proof one.
After about the fourth day, I tried to actually lead Kitty with the
thing.
He promptly walked on only his front paws and dragged his hind parts
behind him, all the time sporting a kitty smirk.
Finally, time to go.
I scooped up the unsuspecting Tik-Tak (backwards Kit-Kat), and
attempted to stuff him inside. He spread his paws like a cartoon
cat, first one way, then another to avoid going inside, so I was
forced to fold his little legs under him and push. Hard.
I wanted him to be happy, so I gave him a catnip filled mouse toy or
two and some treats, which he promptly refused, and started meowing
profusely. This was at 6AM last Friday.
On any given road trip, there's always more last minute stuff than
you think, so Kitty was seated in the backseat between my two kids,
underneath a small duffle and a crown of my youngest daughter's doll,
named, you guessed it, Baby.
Tik Tak meowed.
Cussed at me in cat (I'm fluent.)
Screamed.
And finally asked me over and over, "Why?".
It really did sound like that.
Somewhere on I-10, we stopped and I thought that maybe, the cat might
have to use the cat facilities.
I found some dirt, pulled over blocking the view of the Texas State
Trooper. (I was in Texas for years, it seemed).
I opened the door to the kitty kennel, grabbed the leash, opened the
car door and....
...nothing happened.
Kitty refused to come out.
He just looked at me with his "You gotta be kidding" cat face.
It was 113 degrees in the shade. But there was no shade.
I got him out of the box and he took shelter under the car. I tugged
on his leash to get him out, picked him up and dropped him in the dirt.
The damn cat growled at me.
Translation, "What about me makes you think I could use the
facilities under these conditions?"
I sighed, put the box on the ground, and this time, he gladly
scurried back inside. I repositioned the stuff in the car, and we
continued.
We stopped the first night in El Paso. I searched the internet for
pet friendly hotels, and booked a room.
I quickly discovered that they usually mean dogs only, so I had to
think on my feet.
W covered the cat with my kid's blankie, I distracted the clerk and
we got her into the room.
I'd brought along a travel kitty litter box, which I prepared in the
room. He ran under the bed and refused to go.
We changed the litter, put out some food, and coaxed Kitty out of
hiding.
She made us pay first, but finally came out.
He kept meowing, so we turned on the TV to mute the sound. He
stopped. The damn cat wanted to watch the Disney Channel, so I left
it on all night.
By this time, I understood. I didn't own this cat. We were his staff.
I don't think he used the bathroom that first night.
We did this two more nights. The cat continued to meow and yell and cuss the entire way while I enjoyed the road. We discovered that there is a great nothingness between the two cities. There are times where my phone picked up a Mexican cell tower as we drove, Mexico on one side, and the US on the other. And I had no idea the Gobi desert was in the United States. When we rolled across the Arizona/California border, miles of white, drifting sand flowed around us in the heat. No need for a fence here. If anyone made it across those sands, they deserved to be here as much as the next guy. There were signs that said we should turn off our air conditioner to avoid overheating. Now that's dumb, and the cat agreed. Either way, we'd just be hot. I kept my windows rolled up and the air conditioner blowing, all the way down I-5. The only time I opened the window as when we were stopped by the border patrol. Three times.
Finally after three days of driving, we arrived in San Diego.
One again, I found a pet friendly hotel on the internet.
I was happy. We'd arrived.
And then we kept driving toward a place called 'Dog Beach". Things
got seedier and seedier. By the time we pulled up into the parking
lot, I was hoping that they didn't take cats.
It was a true "motel", where you drive into the parking lot, and park
face-in, in front of grey, industrial looking metal doors. Everyone
had long, messy hair. I'm talking humans, not dogs. It had one
saving grace, a pool. But the water was murky and it was dead smack
in the center of the parking lot. I couldn't help but wonder if they
let animals swim in there too. No thanks. The place looked like a
grade D pay by the hour motel.
This time, I was with the cat. I refused to get out of the car, and
sent my husband inside to check it out. I didn't care how road weary
I was.
At this point, my car was a better option, and I gotta tell you,
that's bad. After three days of driving, it was filled with kids
crumbs and shoes and they was barely any room to move.
I sat in the car and held my breath like a two year old, and the cat-
gods were with me. No cats allowed.
We went to a Marriott Residence Inn, and that made me, the kids and
the cat happy. He even had his own TV so he could watch the Disney
Channel all by himself.

The "F" in Fantastik

2008-06-15T21:04:00.005-05:00

Last weekend, the Femme Fantastik met in Seattle for the wind up of our two year tour. It took me a week to recover. No, seriously, we had a great reception everywhere we went. At Ft Lewis, we were the happy recipients of tote bags by Burberry as Thank you gifts. The military knows how to do it up, for sure. At Borders in Tacoma, we found a whole new audience. For whatever reason, Lori seemed to really attract a much older, male, caucasian demographic this go 'round. One of them shared his special talent with us. He could write that we were beautiful and intelligent upside down and backwards. How does one figure out that they can do that? We had to think long and hard about the invitation to dancing we received. In the long run, we turned it down. He didn't really want US to go, just her. Oh well.
The book club that evening was fantastic, too. They were patient while we joked with each other and told some of each others secrets.
All of these were great, none of them were the highlight for me.
I also visited the first Starbucks and watched fish get thrown at the market in the rain. (Yes, it was hard for me not to notice the cold, rain and the tiny bit of snow, considering I'd left sunny, 100 degree temperatures.)
But the thing that topped it all was hanging out with the Femmes. Femmes after dark? We found a place that stayed open real late, ordered some appetizers and a few martinis. After I stopped dodging Reshonda's bullets--she hates to eat at a place where its hard to pronounce what's on the menu--we settled in.
I haven't been joining the Femme authors on a lot of things this last go round, but this is the part I like best. We're all different as can be, but somehow the chemistry makes our own brand of Sex in The cIty.
The martinis got lower and we shared out stuff. We caught up. We gave each other advice. Laughed at the countriness, the goofy, the fashionista, the diva and the realness among us. (Betcha can't guess who is who..)
We shared what we love about out marriages. And what we hate.
What we loved about being single. And what we hate.
What we love about motherhood. Our jobs. Woman stuff.
The cool thing is, it might be months before we are all together again, but I know that we will pick right up from where we left off.
Over the course of the two year Femme Fantastik Tour, we formed a bond. A good and real friendship. And that's quite a feat, considering that as women, we spend so much time taking care of the other people in our lives, that we forget to take care of us and at some point, we stop making new friends. You stop sharing yourselves with others not already close to you.
In reality, there is not much you can hide when you share hotel rooms, long car rides, and bikini waxing stories.
We shared all those things, and more, and despite all the STUFF we found out about each other, we were able to put aside our competitiveness and discover that we like each other, despite our strange relationships,our countriness, prissiness, goofiness, divaness, shoe fetishes, jewelry-joneses and frankness. Now that is FANTASTIK.

Fwd: New Pics - ghetto prom 2

2008-05-22T10:21:00.000-05:00

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Pitiful Proms

2008-05-22T10:02:00.005-05:00

Every year, I get pictures of "ghetto Proms" in my inbox. This last round has left me wondering, "Are these pictures for real?" Every other dress, make that nine out of the ten, had open middles or skin showing holes down the side, some with cheap material stretched so thin over the offending flesh, they look ready to burst any minute. These girls looked like sausages ready to burst the casing. Does everyone at these high school suffer from a severe case of bad taste? Often, in addition to being half dresses, the dresses are really mini dresses with a train tacked onto the butt to make a part of the dress floor length. How many black women can afford to have ANYTHING tacked onto their rear ends? I know a lot of you saw the video of the young woman who was denied entrance to her prom in Houston last week, because her dress violated school policy. She caused a scene and the police were called, all over a dress that she'll surely (hopefully) be embarrassed that she even considered wearing in ten years. Or even two years.
This last email, the girls even had cheap looking garters on their exposed thighs. Let's say that none of these people in the dresses have any taste. What about the people they live with? No one said to them, "Sweetie, that just looks trashy?" Or "You look like a reject from a second class Carnivale."
Barring that, are there no mirrors in these peoples' homes?
I remember my prom. I was barely 16, and my very strict (too strict) father, didn't want me to go. In my house, I wasn't allowed to date yet. My older sister intervened, and my father broke down and bought me a dress, then drove me to the prom and promptly picked me up afterwards so that I wouldn't end up riding in a car with my already driving date. (I wasn't. We're talking New York here.)
The dress? I hated it. It was pink, and yes, ball gown length. And the only skin it showed were my shoulders, which by the way, wee elegantly covered with a lace shrug.
But I wasn't in any ghetto prom pictures.
I remember fighting with him in the store.
He ignored my pleas for a short, tighter, more exciting garment. Whenever I picked up something that he didn't think was appropriate, he'd screw up his face and say something like, "Hell, no." or "We don't have any hookers in this house." (Yeah, he was rough.)
I know that if we hadn't agreed on a dress, I wouldn't be going to the prom. Period.
Harsh?
Maybe.
But I don't cringe when I look at my prom picture today, nor am I embarrassed to show it to my kids.
I just say, "I hated that dress."
There's no substitute for parenting.

2008-05-12T13:00:00.001-05:00

I haven't blogged in awhile because I had nothing to say, nothing I
was excited about, but today that changed. I arrived home from an
out of town trip to find a package on my doorstep, one that I'd been
waiting for awhile, three weeks to be exact. Three weeks ago, my
favorite jeans developed a hole. Now that they've added lycra to
things, jeans will run on you like pantyhose, and my did, in a place
I couldn't cover up. I was devastated. These weren't old navy sale
jeans, but 200 dollar/pair jobs, ones that I'd had for two years.
I'd tried on no less than thirty pairs to find them. I'm sure most of
you ladies can relate, especially if you are curvy. Good jeans are
hard to find, and these were not only good, but comfortable and
broken in, the kind you always grabbed first, that make you look hot
on the worst of days.
I took a picture of the hole and sent it it my sister. She's my
fashion consultant, my go-to girl. I wanted to know if I could get
away with a patch on the hole.
After she stopped laughing at me, she tried to coax me into just
tossing my beloved jeans. "You'll look like a hippie!"
I wasn't going to be deterred. I did an internet search on how to
patch jeans. I was depressed, but then I found Denim Therapy.
They claimed they could Fix, not patch my jeans, said it would be
invisible. Instead of a patch, they would re-weave the fabric to
make jeans fabulous again.
I decided to try it. What did I have to lose? The jeans were beyond
my repair skills
I filled out a form and they emailed me a shipping label and a
diagram of a pair of jeans. I was supposed to mark it, showing them
the exact area I needed repaired, which I did.
I packed up my beloved jeans, let the UPS dude pry them from my
hands, and I waited.
After three days I got an email with an estimate. 50 bucks. 50
bucks, and I would have my hip-huggers back.
I calculated the time I would spend trying to find a new pair of best
friend jeans, the cost of the time I would spend making them feel
like the ones I had sent in felt, and decided it was worth it.
I emailed my go ahead, and then, two weeks later, almost to the day
that I mailed them, I got them back. I was so excited, I undressed
in front of a window. Its kind of a good thing I have no neighbors.
And my jeans were perfect!
There's some white mesh stuff of the inside and I can see the reweave
a little on the inside, but from the outside they are perfect. Looks
like they never had a hole. I can be dressed again.
www.denimtherapy.com

revenge of the machines

2008-04-02T13:01:00.002-05:00

I have been on blog silence while I recover from a little bump on my head. Don't worry, I'm okay. It's just that for the past few weeks, machinery has been out to get me. I know that sounds crazy, but I'm not paranoid. You'll see once you hear my story. I have literally been living in a Stephen King novel.
It all started a few weeks ago, on a rainy morning. We had the usual early-morning rush. My kids couldn't find their stuff, and they told me they'd left something in the trunk of their father's car. I went to this car, brand to remain nameless, opened the trunk, and peered inside. This trunk is is very heavy, and it has a hydraulic assist on it. It's the kind that opens automatically with the remote. I stuck my head inside. It was almost as if someone tapped me on the back and try to push me inside, only I didn't fall. Then the trunk came down on its own and tried to bite me, swallow me up. That's right it closed on my head. Now this trunk is shaped like a big forklift. Since the push wasn't successful, I was only halfway in, and it caught me right on the forehead.
No Jokes, okay? I was hurt.
I saw stars for a moment, and then the pain radiated throughout my body. It traveled around to the back of my head, and then ran down my spine. I had a quick flash of being found there, like one of those toys they stuff in the back of the Trunk that looks like you've closed Garfield back there, but his butt is still sticking out. I was alone with my children, and was concerned that they would find me. I shook off the pain as I felt a knot rising on my head. It took a few minutes for the stars and planets I was seeing to go away, but I pulled myself together and got my kids to school on time.
But that wasn't the only thing. A few days later, I was loading one of my beautiful new dishwashers. Of course I purchased the latest in technology. It had all the bells and whistles, literally. I stood in front of it and turned around to grab something to put inside. When I turned back around the door fell open, and hit me in a place on the leg there feels like it's directly connected to your core. Once again my body radiated with pain. I bruises, and another knot rose on my leg that would quickly rival the one on my head.
I thought the worst was over. Another two days later, I hopped in my car, intent on taking my kids to NASA in Houston. I'm on the road on my way out of town, and all of a sudden my car swerves out of control. Note that this is a different car from the one that tried to eat me. I pulled over to the median. Lo! and behold holds, my almost new car had a very flat tire. A blow out. I called roadside assistance and I tried my best to entertain the kids as I waited for them to arrive. After half an hour, it was clear that they weren't coming to get me. They claimed they couldn't find me. Three different truckers had stopped to help and I had already turned them down. I tried to put the car up on the jack that came with it, and twice it fell off, The second time after I'd already gotten the tire off. The second time it fell off, the jack became unusable. This is a bad thing because my car now had no tire and it was sort of on the soft part of the road and was sitting on its rim on the side of the car, with me and two car kids in the back of it.
Finally, a good Samaritan came along. He was the Pastor of a Church in San Antonio, and he was on his way to a nearby Raceway. Who would've known I would have blown a tire right near a Raceway? This is another good thing because only the kind of jack they use on a Raceway would fit under my car, which was now so close to the ground you could maybe shove a toothpick under it. The kind fellow changed my tire and I headed home to change cars.
The machine conspiracy had been foiled again. It took me all this time to recover from my two bumps and my hurt feelings because I was sitting on the side of the road and a sports car with only three tires. By the way, that tire was so shredded that I could put my whole body in it. I'm recovered now.
I asked my lawyer if I get car manufacturer or the dishwasher maker, or even the people made the tire. Maybe the Jack manufacturer?
He shook his head It had the nerve to accuse me of being clumsy.
Whatever.

The Boutique is Now Open

2008-03-11T12:45:00.000-05:00

The Girl (IN) Ipanema

2008-02-23T22:22:00.003-06:00

Ipanema. Copacabana. Rio De Janeiro. Yeah.
Does this conjure up images of white sand beaches, near nekkid
women and men? Paradise? How about dengue fever?
I arrived in Rio with the travel book pictures etched in my head. I
just knew I was going to see, tall, tan, young, fabulous looking
people strolling down the beach. Well, sort of.
I'd packed several swim suits, to make sure that I would choose the
most appropriate one. I discovered that the Brazilians (the
cariocas) do not suffer from the same body hangups as we Americans.
They were no more beautiful than anything you might see on an
American beach, but Lawd, they were certainly more nekkid. I saw (or
didn't see) miles of cloth that had disappeared into the hinterlands
between many a butt cheek and grandpas in speedos.
When in Rio.....
Not really. I did pack my best tiny suit. Sort of like your skinny
jeans. The suit a good friend of me had once asked me to cover up
because she had a pre-adolescent son. And you know what, I was still
over-dressed.
I enjoyed the beach and the people watching anyway. Lots of flesh in
thousands of hues. And that dang song kept playing in my head. "Tall
and tan and young and lovely the girl from IPanema goes walking..."
or maybe "Nina in Ipanema." Nah, sounds like a porn flick.
In my short time in Rio, I also absolutely had to visit the statue of
the big Jesus, the one on every commercial about South America.
(Christ The Redeemer).
I cabbed it across town and let me say this, I didn't speak a word of
Portuguese before last week, but my spanish seemed to pay off. I was
able to read most things. Street signs. Roadside warnings. And the
billboards in every bus stop from the ministry of health warning
about preventing Dengue Fever.
Did I get a shot for that?
I enjoyed the statue and the views from the top, but when I got back
to my hotel I frantically searched the internet for clues. What were
the symptoms of Dengue and could I get it?
Striped mosquito bites. Headache. Why did I read this?
While sitting pool-side for an afternoon thirst quencher, I felt
little pricks around my ankles, and I immediately started to itch.
There were cats around, probably to keep rodents away. My hotel was
oceanside, tucked into a mountain and needed protection from the
critters. Cats meant no rodents. No rodents, no snakes. I was okay
with that.
Well, the cats, they had FLEAS. And the &*^% Fleas were biting me.
In a few minutes, I was itching al over and convinced Dengue was
going to set in, never mind that the internet said mosquitos were the
source of transmission and not Fleas.
I was twitching like a crack addict in withdrawal, but I still
considering my cultural quest as I hunted down the best feijoada, the
Brazilian equivalent of soul food. Feijoada is the Sunday meal that
the Brazilian slaves ate. I said it, I ate meat. I even have a
picture to prove it.
I paid though. Paid big. Two days of major heartburn.
I enjoyed Brazil. Immensely. The best part, fitting in. This was
one country where o one really stared and there was a distinct
absence of that feeling that black folks get almost everywhere else,
that fringe feeling. People didn't know what I was, and they didn't
care.

Me & The Cast and some Crew of Marrying up/Reflections

2008-02-07T13:19:00.000-06:00

IMG_0273.JPG
So, now that opening weekend is over, folks keep asking me if I was
happy with what I got. My answer is an unequivocal, yes. Actually,
I had no idea what to expect. I just tried to do each step to the
best of my ability and hoped it would add up to good. And what
exactly was each step? A whole lot. Writing the dern thing was only
the beginning. Being the Executive Producer meant that every little
detail rolled up to me. I mean everything, beginning with raising
the cash to making the show happen. Travel details-someone had to
make sure that each member of the cast and crew go to where they were
supposed to be, reasonably happy, safely and on time. Set building
had to happen on time and be functioning. There had to be a tech
rehearsal for the people who would operate the set and rehearsals for
the cast. Building had to be secured along with security. Wardrobe
had to be available. I'll tell you what, there were a lot of costume
changes. I'll have that in mind next time. My character alone wore
no less than five pairs of shoes in the two hour production. There
needed to be appropriate props for everyone, in the right place at
the right time. Program booklets had to be designed and printed, CD
inserts designed, printed and CD's pressed, T-Shirts for the crew and
for sale had to be designed, printed and paid for. Sound and
lighting had to be taken care of. Oh, and folks had to be fed.
All kinds of unanticipated things had to be fielded. I had to deal
with unpreparedness, attitudes (both good and bad), delays, city
permits, dusty spaces, funky travel schedules, excuses and bed bugs.
Or at least some of the actors did.
At some point, things just started happening by themselves. It was
like the show took over and I could have been screaming stop, but
that just wasn't going to happen. It literally felt like a tornado
had lifted it off my shoulders. My crew of many took it and ran. Not
just the actors, but the makeup artists, set dressers, ushers,
assistant director, stage manager, music director, lighting, camera-
folk, concession people...just a whole lot, probably the bigger crew
I ever supervised outside of my military days.
I sat in the silence in between the first show and took it all in.
This was a biiiig job, but all the pieces just came together like
magic. I'd done what I could do, delegated the rest, anything I
couldn't handle I just handed to the universe and the result was
wonderful. I even enjoyed my family bringing me the same bunch of
flowers at the end of every show. So, would I do it again?
Absolutely. I'm working on that now.

Marrying UP!

2008-02-04T17:05:00.000-06:00

So, I just go up from a twelve hour power nap. Executive production is sleep deprivation at its finest. The play opened and had a great weekend with an almost sold out show on Saturday. I learned a lot from this process.
First, People really like a woman with a gun. I had no idea that Dina (AKA NINA) would be such a hit, even though she was obviously supremely evil. I REALLY dug the mean woman with a gun and hot shoes myself. Of course the character was a shoe diva!
Second, I learned that your employees will eat your profits if left alone. That's right. I have video of my staff happily eating M & M's at the concession stand. I know who you are and you will be fined accordingly.
Third, I learned that there is no modesty in theater.
I had a cameo, but since the role was so small, I didn't have a mike. I had to share one with Li'L G since were were never on stage at the same time.
Logistically, it seemed like no problem to do a ten second mike change.
For the unfamiliar, the mike is on an elastic belt that velcros around your waist UNDER your clothes and then you place the ear piece on your ear.
Well, I stepped off stage ready to change mikes behind the scenes, and realized I had on a suit. So I unzipped quickly and ripped my shirt open, basically flashing the man and exposing my boobalas for the world to see. Of course, he was the ultimate professional. He didn't even miss a beat as he "dressed" me, even though with my four inch heels, his face was right at cleavage height. Another actor stood gaping. he couldn't believe he was seeing his boss in her skivvies. What I didn't realize was I wasn't far enough in the wings. I think I flashed some of the front row audience too. Good thing I was wearing a good bra!

Here's a clip. Sorry about the Cloverfield effect.

The Making of Marrying UP

2008-01-25T13:53:00.000-06:00

On The Set

2008-01-10T21:43:00.000-06:00

I went downtown three times today. Between visiting radio stations, pulling tickets from the box office and checking on the set, whew. I must have driven 100 miles or more. But it was all worth it, because at 5:21 PM this afternoon, I heard my name in lights, yessireeebob. The radio commercial for the play went live and I couldn't help but do the happy dance. My daughter heard it,too and she came running to my room. I am a rockstar in her eyes once again.

I went and looked at the beginning of the set building yesterday. We got past the sketches, but I gotta tell you, I held my breath the whole time. It still looks like sticks and straw to me. Or metal and wood, but Mark Sullivan from the SA Film District has a vision.

Here's a clip.

MARRYING UP!

2008-01-02T10:52:00.000-06:00

I know you have been waiting patiently, so here it is. I've been secretly getting it all together and here's the info.: The play is cast and set to go. Marrying up will have its Texas debut on Feb 2 and 3, in San Antonio at the Jo Long Theater. There will be two shows on those dates, at 3 and 8pm.

So, who's in it?

Here's the press release:

For Immediate Release

Contact: Lisa Horton 210.787.8637

From the pages to the stage…Bestselling Book by San Antonio Author now a Stage Play

Nina Foxx's

Marrying Up

(San Antonio, TX) – In the search for a husband, what's a woman to do? Make sure she marries up! At least that's the motto of Paris Montague and her meddling mother. Paris has got it all – beauty, brains and a fine man on her arm. There's just one problem – he's not the "caliber" of man she was looking for.

Tyson is content being Paris' sexy secret lover. He's a struggling brother chasing a dream and if Paris can just hang on long enough he'll prove he's worthy of her hand in marriage. But Tyson is about to face some stiff competition from the sexy, charismatic – and very rich Jabari Nolan. He's out to show Paris that when it comes to love, the best thing a woman can do is marry up.

Come experience one woman's discovery how all that glitters isn't gold and when it comes to matters of the heart, love has everything to do with it…

Based on the National Bestselling book by author Nina Foxx, Marrying Up is a stage play that's guaranteed to touch your emotions. This unique venture, produced by San Antonio-based Foxx Tale Productions stars R&B Swooners Gary "Li'l G" Jenkins (Silk) and Tony Terry, Comedienne Keisha Hunt (Comic View, Who's Got Jokes) Casme Barnes and Texas-based actors, Sondra Johnson, Reginald Johnson, Darrell Grant, Jacqueline Carter…and introducing Brooklyn Brewer.

"I'm excited about the play," says author Nina Foxx. "After the work was optioned the first time, I wasn't happy with what I saw. I got my rights back and this is my first attempt at writing, producing and directing. I love it when people tell me I can't.. We're starting in Texas and going from there. " Foxx plans ten shows, four have already been scheduled.

Foxx is producing the play in conjunction with The San Antonio Film District. "They built the sets and we are filming it. I'll be involved in everything, right down to film editing. It's a new model. In essence, we are filming a movie where the sets happen to be on a stage in front of a live audience. Five Cameras! I'm a hands on type of woman."

Tickets are $30 and available at TicketMaster.com.

Marrying Up

February 2nd - 3 PM and 8 PM February 3rd - 3 PM and 8 Pm

The Jo long Theater (at the Carver Community Cultural Center)
226 N Hackberry ~ San Antonio, TX

About Foxx Tale Productions

Foxx Tale Productions is a San Antonio-based minority-owned theater and film production company. Foxx Tale Productions is devoted to improving the state of theater in the African-American community by enlightening, entertaining and enriching through music and quality stories on the stage. With multicultural stories and universal themes, Foxx Tale Productions is garnering attention from around the country.

This is not a production of the Carver Community Cultural Center.

2007-12-29T17:14:00.001-06:00

Shanghai-Part II
I finally got to old town. I found historical buildings converted to
house modern day stores, including a Starbucks and McDonald's,
wedged right next to street stalls selling foods on a stick and other
Chinese goods.
When in Rome, right?
When I saw the choices, my courage waned. I was not a Bizarre Foods
Queen on this trip. Instead I chose to watch while a traveling
companion did his thing. His choice-a bird looking creature impaled
on sharp choptick, head and all. He chewed in what seemed like slow
motion, and it dawned on me then--All the open space around us, the
kind of space that would normally be teeming with pigeons, was
totally devoid of birds of any kind. My stomach turned over and
excuse the cliche, but I really did throw up a little in my mouth.
He was eating the rat of the sky. Other tourists stopped to watch
the over-sized hairy american eat the unidentified birdie. We moved
to find a restaurant, preferably one that served food we could
recognize.
Up to now, we'd been getting by with the kindness of strangers. We
spoke no Chinese and read even less. How would we find food we could
recognize that did not come from golden arches? And then, Buddha
answered my prayers (or led me to food enlightenment). An english
sign glowed like an oasis in the desert. "Tourist Authorized
Restaurant." I was starving and at this point I didn't care what the
sign meant. I wanted food that had not been impaled and that no
longer had a face.We stormed through the plastic strapped doorway and
every chinese face looked up at us, then pointed upstairs. Was I
being relegated to the back of the bus?
No, not everything is racial. I was being directed to an English
speaking waitress.
If you want to call it that.
The waitress made sure we sat in a spot with a good view, but I
couldn't undertsand her english at all. And the "english" menu
didn't help either.
It was exactly like the chinese menu, except the pictures were bigger.
How, exactly, would pictures help if I have no clue what they
represented?
I closed my eyes, pointed, and hoped for the best.
I murmured another prayer as the joking words on my Chinese colleague
the night before echoed in my head. "Why do Americans have a problem
with eating dog?" she said. "You have to get over that pet thing."
The food arrived, hot, with no faces, thank goodness. How bad could
it be? On dumpling thing had a straw sticking out of it and another
type, filled with greyish mystery meat, squirted me everytime I tried
to bite it.
We laughed and muddled through.

2007-12-27T14:06:00.000-06:00

I've been on blog silence. I've been busy, casting Marrying Up (more
about that later) and doing a little bit of traveling.

Shanghai

What do do when you have only one day in China? Everything you can.
After 16 hours of flying, I opted not to go to sleep. Instead, after
showering away the airplane grunge, I headed out for a drink with my
new chinese friend. It was a Sunday, but not the Sabbath here, so
everything was as open as a whorehouse in a Navy port of call.
Shanghai never closes, so even at ten pm on a Sunday, lights flashed
and locals filled the streets.
Locals-Let's explore that. I was told Shanghai was the expatriate
city of China, so it took a minute for me to see Chinese faces. What
I was seeing looked more like downtown Brooklyn that the Far East.
After a few drinks and the required tourist photos, I slept a little
and rose early, like 5AM early, and waited for the sun to come up.
I wasn't trying to be romantic. My body was confused and since I'd
crossed the international date line, it had no idea what day or time
it was. And I almost missed that sunrise. It was swallowed by
Chinese smog before it could peek over the horizon.
In what was supposed to be daylight, I ventured out. I stepped into
traffic and almost got run over by a hoard of bicycles.
More bicycles than cars. As I said a prayer under my breath, I
wondered, back home, if I got run over by a car, my butt would
(hopefully) be bumped to Jesus. If I got squashed by a bicycle in
Asia, would I be bumped to Buddha? I shook it off and chuckled, then
sputtered as the polluted air filled my lungs. Cough. cough. Hack.
Hack. I wished for a Micheal Jackson face mask like the locals were
sporting.
I had an ambitious day planned. I wanted to see the Famous Jade
Buddha Temple, The Bund, Old Shanghai to name a few. I had the
concierge write the directions down in Chinese since my Chinese
consisted of two words: Hello (Nihon), and thank you (Xie xie). I
quickly got to an another word as I walked. No! (Mao!)
I was trying to act like I wasn't tourist, but I quickly discovered
that it didn't matter. I was going to stick out like an sub-saharan
african in Siberia. I'd read in a book that the Chinese stared, but
this wasn't staring. These were looks that might earn an old-
fashioned beat down in New York. They had me checking to see if I
had a tail. I tried my best to not let it bother me and headed out to
purchase some souvenirs. I fought my way through the crowds and one
man almost fell off his bicycle he was staring so hard. Another
woman stepped in front of me and took pictures of me with her phone.
If I'd thought about it, I would have stopped and posed, charging for
each photo, but with the value of Chinese money, it would have taken
awhile to make any cash.
Then, a new discovery, the Shanghainese were touchy feely too. I
bought a Chinese style name stamp and now, feeling familiar, a woman
took the liberty of running her hand up and down my arm while she
said something that sounded like "Pwetee wadie."
I nodded and smiled. "Pretty lady. Yes. but no touchee."
I was ready to take her down for that but realized the ridiculousness
of my situation. I was outnumbered 18,000,000 plus to one. A really
bad Jackie Chan movie with me not on the winning team.
I grabbed my purchase and slunk away, accepting the memory of the
woman's fingers on my skin.

Why I Shop Online for the Holidays

2007-11-29T16:52:00.001-06:00

2007-11-20T08:05:00.000-06:00

Today is "book in store" day. Yep, my new book is finally here. Women read the title and they get it right away, but men? I'm not so sure. Guy, I'm not saying we don't need you. Of course we do. That's not the point.
Most people laugh when I tell them the name of my new book, but some ask me "What does your husband think about that?" You know what, he gets it.
No Girl Needs a Husband Seven Days a Week was not intended as an instructional manual on how to get rid of your bothersome significant other, instead it was supposed to be a look inside today's marriage. So many of us grow up looking for the knight in shining armour or the fairy tale happily ever after, only to be disappointed once we make the leap into matrimony. We find that its nothing like we thought and that "Until death do us part" may come earlier than we envisioned because one of us is plum going to kill the other.
Inside my story, you'll find three independent woman struggling to make their relationships and families work, while dealing with the not-so-picket fence demands of LIFE and the baggage they have brought with them.
I got the idea for the book from two sources. There was an article in the Chicago Sun-Times last summer, basically about the demise of marriage, and from looking at all my friends with commuter marriages. I have a very close friend and relative that has been married almost forty years (she got married when she was two). She lives in one state while her husband works in another. They get together on weekends and they have been doing this crazy commuter thing for almost ten years. Right after I got married, I asked her, "Don't you miss him?" She looked at me like I's lost my mind and uttered, "No girl needs a husband seven days a week." I saved that kernel and years later the idea for my book was born. Being separated from her husband part of the week has taught her how to be strong and solve her own problems (sometimes), just as my characters find that sometimes, they have to handle things for themselves. Sometimes, even though you are married, you have to rescue yourself.

2007-11-13T13:08:00.001-06:00

Me with Morgan Miller, The Queen of Sole in Miami Beach

Custom Shoes, Miami & Singelringen

2007-11-13T12:31:00.000-06:00

So, how was Miami? Certainly warmer than San Diego. I thought I was doomed to have a busted trip, but in the end it was saved by my stumble onto a custom shoe store. That's right, custom shoes.
Morgan Miller wasn't my first dance with shoes made especially for my tootsies. I actually had some made a few weeks ago by costume designer Ann Roth. (www.annrothshoes.com).
I picked the heel and the fabric along with a final embellishment and they arrived at my door with cards for me to give out to tell folks where they'd come from.
This time, I went to Morgan Miller (The Queen of Sole) in Miami Beach, picked a heel, picked a top and an embellishment. I even picked the color of the label in the sole. After two fittings and thirty minutes, Viola! Shoes. I REALLY liked this concept and Morgan and family were all very kind.
They even presented my shoes to me on a silver platter.

Other parts of my trip: The crowded Miami Book Fair, an interview with The Marc Bernier Show. I didn't get stuck in any elevators this time, but I did visit a restaurant called Tantra. I did an internet search to find cool places to eat and this one seemed like it was. Okay, actually, it was just at the top of the browser search.
I quickly discovered why they had to pay a premium for top placement.
Ick!
Not tantric. Made me want to throw a tantrum.
I was supposed to be sensual cuisine. More like senseless.
The entry way was carpeted with sod.
Yup, sod. As in a lawn in the vestibule.
Who thought that was a good idea? I mean, the heels on my exotic leather stilletos sunk into the grass and I was not happy.
Think picnic in good high heel shoes.
Then, it was so dark I thought that I'd lost my cool quotient or that old age eyes had suddenly set in. I couldn't read the dang menu. They offered me a flashlight.
My dirty martini looked more like a muddy mess.
And then my salmon was sitting on top of some burned stuff. I really wasn't sure if it was risotto or rice or....
The icing on the cake was the huge screen over the bar. We had to watch Indian Porn movies while eating.
Needless to say I won't go back there.

Where to next?
Well, I'll be in Baltimore County Thanksgiving weekend when the new book hits the shelves. Check out my webiste for details.
And after that? It looks like I'll be in LA, attending an event given by Hello Stllletto Shoe Club and Singelringen.

The two will host the event of the season for shoe lovers – a ‘Shoe Party’ featuring fashion bloggers, stylists, and other personalities, as well as other single life authors Bella DePaulo, Jane Ganahl, T. Murray, and Valerie Cabrera Krause; plus a ‘Stiletto Walk-Off’ presided over by a panel of fashion experts including Lauren Messiah aka “Fashion Kitty.” All attendees are invited to compete for prizes and the title of ‘best in shoe.’ The party takes place Wednesday evening, December 5th from 7-10pm at Zu Robata, THE hot new Japanese fusion tapas bar and shochu lounge located at 12217 Wilshire Boulevard (Bundy), 310-571-1920.

By wearing your most fabulous footwear to the event, you’ll be amongst well-heeled men and women helping those in transition. The admission charge is a minimum of one pair of new or gently worn women's or men's career (dress) shoes to support Working Wardrobes, a local nonprofit organization that assists men and women in crises re-enter the workforce through wardrobing and career development.

http://www.us.singelringen.com/

Singelringen ("Single Ring" in Swedish) is a unisex ring that serves to remind the single wearer that they are already complete; while open to possibilities. The ring features a turquoise acrylic layer shining over a sterling silver band engraved with "made in Sweden" and a unique registration number that provides access to the Singelringen Global Community. The ring was introduced in Scandinavia in April 2005. Singelringen is sold in over 20 countries, and has gained a strong following in trend setting countries such as Brazil and Japan.

I know I'm not single, but I totally get it. I'm going to wear a singleringen in celbration of the independant woman, the woman who gets that you have to love yourself first before someone else can love you (or you can love them). So many people rush to the altar only to find that they had their expectations all screwed up.
What better way to celebrate NO GIRL NEEDS A HUSBAND SEVEN DAYS A WEEK? That's the whole point of the book.

Me with Marc Bernier

2007-11-07T12:05:00.001-06:00

Sigh. You know stuff happens to me when I travel, right? I thought I'd overcome the travel gremlin, but I was wrong. I got back from San Diego late last night. It was a quick trip, there and back, no room for error, or so I thought. I covered all bases. I was willing to risk being rusty, by removing all creams, lotions, potions, and lipsticks from my bag. I even left my computer at home.

I hopped on my SouthWest plane so I could be on the west coast with a full day to burn. I was ready, seeing as how I'd heard that it never rains in sunny southern california.

Ha! Ha!

When I stepped off the plane I had to double check the city I'd landed in.

It looked more like Seattle than San Diego.

The day was gray and overcast and it was COLD.

No, strike that, freezing.

My leather coat that is a winter coat in San Antonio was being eaten whole by the San Diego chill.

I tugged it around my body, trying to keep out the cold and tried to find a Starbucks.

The beach is not pleasant in the cold.

My tootsies looked pretty in my alligator strappy sandals but they were quickly turning blue.

I did all my running aroundwhile I shivered, looking forward to retreating to my hotel room.

I finally got back there, late in the evening, cranked up the heat and phoned home to give folks the update.

After about twenty minutes of yakking, I was no warmer, so I broke my own rule about day clothes in a night bed. I crawled under the covers and tried to ignore the cold fog coming from my mouth.

This was more like an east coast winter than a west coast fall.

I checked the thermostat and my nose started to run.

It was fifty six degrees inside.

I called the front desk and they apologized profusely.

I had checked in one day before they turned on the heat. Of course.

They offered me a space heater.

I waited, and after about a half hour, they called back to tell me they'd run out of space heaters.

Of course. I wouldn't be me if things went as planned.

I put on my PJ's, and put my sweater back on on top, plus my jacket.

I wiped my nose for the tenth time and unmade the second bed in the room and transferred those covers, including the nasty, germ-full hotel quilt to the bed I planned to sleep in.

I crawled into the bed and wrapped up, but I was already cold to the bone.

As you can tell, I survived the night, and took a fast shower the next day.

Hopefully Miami will be better this weekend.

New Book News

2007-10-18T10:18:00.000-05:00

Hello Reader-Friends!

The countdown is on! My next book, No Girl Needs A Husband Seven Days a Week will be released in a few days. I'm excited. Remember that pre-orders are very important to an author, so I would certainly appreciate yours. Here are some early reviews from The Harpercollins first look program--

I LOVED this book! Nina Foxx is a wonderful author and I hope she continues to write because THIS BOOK is one to make you GIGGLE out loud and say, "oh no she/he didn't!" If you have girlfriends, then you can relate to this book. If you are married and struggling, you can relate to this book. Taking care of an elderly parent? Get this book. Nina Foxx writes so beautifully about the beauty of friendship and sisterhood, and I definitely recommend this book.
— Shelly (Henderson, NV)

This book was wonderful. While it dealt with serious issues such as infidelity, imprisonment and oh yeah, men. Foxx dealt them a witty, touching and ultimately memorable hand. With well-rounded characters and steamy chemistry between love interests, this trio of women made this book nearly unputdownable (if that is a word).
— Angela (Rancho Cordova, CA)

Nina Foxx is surely one of the best writers of African American chick lit and this did not disappoint. I loved it! The storyline kept me reading well into the night. Her characters were realistic and very, very funny. The three main characters -- Mai, Marie and Kennedy -- were very well drawn and they immediately became my own girlfriends. They each experienced some personal growth and the supporting characters were just as vivid. I really enjoyed this book! Thank you for a First Look.
— Idrissa (Newark, NJ)

This was way more than I expected, much more absorbing and thoughtful. This felt very real and psychologically affecting. You'll identify with many of the scenarios, and the more embarrassing the more it touches you. I'm so glad to recommend it.
— Jane (Shen, IA)

We all have our dirty little secrets, and it's have fun discovering the secrets of Nina Foxx's three main characters! If you don't have time to watch soap operas any more, this book will definitely scratch that itch!
— Dani (Mount Holly, NC)

Book Synopsis:
A husband can be good for a number of things:

* Companionship (when he's home)
* Household repairs (if he's handy)
* Good loving (if you're lucky), but . . . no girl needs a husband seven days a week!

Marie needs her "stay-at-home husband" to clean the house and babysit the kids, so she can take care of business coast-to-coast . . . and enjoy some harmless flirting on the side.

Mai's perfectly content to be the perfect wife to a successful corporate superstar—throwing lavish parties and organizing gala charity fundraisers. But it's funny how quickly everything can change with just a single phone call . . . from prison!

And high-powered ad exec Kennedy believes the best husband is no husband at all. Hot encounters with a succession of studs keep her going strong as she climbs to the top of her profession.

A spouse is fine as long as he doesn't screw up the rest of your life. Now three lovely ladies who think they have this "husband" thing all worked out are about to learn that, when it comes to love and marriage, "perfection" can always be improved upon. And it's going to be one wild ride!

Thanks!

Macchu PIcchu

2007-10-05T11:17:00.001-05:00

I thought I was in shape. And then I went to Machu Picchu. The day started innocently enough. After the night before, I drank more Coca tea and felt I was recovered from my altitude sickness. We were going to take the train to Macchu Picchu.
We were greeted at the train station by Peruvian dancers and mimosas, and then we boarded the most luxurious train I have ever seen. I felt like we’d stepped back into time when train travel was the way to travel. We were seated our a lavish dining table and plied with food and drink, including pisco sours, a form of whiskey sour made with Peru’s national drink, Pisco. I’d seen that on the travel channel too and didn’t want to think about the traditional way it was made, by people chewing the ingredients until they fermented, then spitting it into a vat.
The three car train ambled up the mountain path while musicians strolled its length and we snapped pictures of the country side, passing farmers and shepherds. Electric pole sliced through the stillness of the mountain beauty, every now an then snatching me back to the present day. The train is the only way up the mountain, other than walking for four days on the Inca trail. At times we were so close we could wave at the backpackers and their porters who chose to rough it. The route is too steep for an old fashioned straight run, the train had to bypass multiple switchbacks to make it. The end of the road is Aquas Calientes, and from there we boarded buses to continue our climb on a one lane road that was so steep I just had to close my eyes so I wouldn’t picture us rolling down the hill. There were a few times when we had to back up to let another bus pass.
We made it to the top, finally, and headed up to the breath-taking ruins of Macchu Picchu. Our guide was excellent and I couldn’t help picture and angered Inca just pushing someone off the side. And then it hit me. We just kept climbing up. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would burst and I had to stop to read several times. The air was so thin that my nose hair hurt. So much for cardio vascular fitness. I was having a great time, absorbing the history of the Andean people. At the top, you realize that you are standing between the Andes mountains above, and the Amazon jungle waaaay below. I dropped a rock over the side and it was still falling when it disappeared from view. I never heard it hit bottom. They said that a Canadian woman fell to her death a few months ago. She got overzealous with her picture taking. There would be rails everywhere if this was in the US. And then, and then, I had to go down. Narrow steps just carved into the side of the mountain. Lordy, lordy, lordy. Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha and the Incan gods, too. I crawled down the mountain backwards on hands and knees. No one laughed at me at all because they wanted to do the same thing. The whole trek was almost four hours and my legs were wobbly when I finally made it to the bottom and tea at the lodge.
Tomorrow, Saqsaywomon and Arequipa.

Altitude Sickness and Llama meat

2007-10-04T07:56:00.000-05:00

Llamas and Alpacas and Altitude Sickness.

I planned to hit the ground running. I hunkered down on my flight and worked it all out in my mind. It was midnight. We’d sleep on the plane, transfer at 5:00AM to a shuttle flight to Cusco, shower and be on our tour at 9. Riiiight.
First, both of my kids started wailing. The little one just wanted to go home. She hated the layover hotel and didn’t want to experience another no –tell motel. The big one wailed because they sat us ear the back of the plane and she hates that, she said it made her feel un-cared for, like I purposely told American Airlines to put us in the back of the plane.
“Mom, why didn’t YOU put us in first class?”
After I stopped laughing and helped to dry her tears, I told her that she was lucky to be on the flight at all. It would have been far cheaper to leave her home with a relative.
“But mom, I have flown first class before.”
She has not.
The closest she came was in the bulkhead row peering through the curtains, although she swears this is not the case.
“Sweetie, you are remembering a past life regression, dear, trust me, you have never flown up there.”
She eventually calmed down and I could not sleep. We raced through customs, and yes, our bags were actually there. Raced through the airport, checked back in to our domestic flight and made it on the flight just in the nick of time.
Our guide met us, we moved our tour to ten and headed for the showers.
And then I realized why my kids were really crying.
I’d bred little hotel snobs.
As soon as they entered our hotel, they relaxed and the smiles returned to their faces.
The hotel is a pre-colonial building, re-built twice after several earthquakes, beautifully redone.
They read the room service menu and laughed out loud. They were in love and happy again.
But I wasn’t. The floor was moving.
Things are different at 11000 feet.
They gave me coca tea, yup, same plant, to sip, said it would help with altitude sickness. (I promise you this is totally legal in Peru, non-intoxicating even. They even give it to kids).
I trudged all over the Sacred Valley, looking at ruins, enjoying the native guard of the highland peoples, trying to catch snatches of their Chechua language. Hard to do, they always spoke Spanish to us.
I met Alpacas and llamas and their cousins up close. We marveled at the shrinking glacier.
We stopped at the same market and community oven that the guy on Bizarre Foods did, hoping for an Andean Empanada, thought a minute about trying the roasted cuy (guinea pig), but it looked too much like a skinned rat on a stick. I trying llama instead, washed down with Inca Kola, It did not taste like chicken.
By the end of the day, my head was pounding.
I tried to nap.
Nausea set in.
Got some more coca tea.
It didn’t make me high, but it did make me run through the hotel lobby, mouth covering my hand, trying to make it…
I didn’t.
Altitude sickness is a motha….
Good hotel. I wasn’t even done yet and they cleaned the lobby.
And the bathroom.
And
They walked behind me, wheeling an oxygen tank.
I didn’t quite need that and I felt instantly better.
Tomorrow, Macchu Picchu.

Trip to The Sacred Valley-Stuck in Miami

2007-10-02T17:31:00.000-05:00

Right out of Dallas, we had a problem. Our flight from Dallas to Lima was delayed by more than an hour, making the possibility of making our connection ot Lima slim to none. That would cause an even bigger dilemma, if we missed that flght,we couldn't possibly chnge airlines in Lima as planned to get to Cusco, the heart of the Sacred Valley. American Airlines could or would not tell me anything except that I should go to Miami and they would talk to me there.

Note to self: In the future, let's try to avoid four connection trips.

I pulled out my I-phone and did a search If we missed that connecting flight to Lima,there were no other flights that night, exept one on LANperu, ther partner airline. I called the red trouble phone again. No, they could not get us seats on that flight, at least not from Dallas, so we crossed our fingers and got on the plane.

Bad move.

We rolled into the gate just as the flight to Lima rolled out.

We missed it by ten minutes, so did ten other people.
I watched the gate agent be rude to the the six people ahead of me, so I had a good idea what to expect.

"Could we by any chance get on that Lan Peru flight? It leaves in about and hour?"
She shook her head no. "I can get you on a flight tomorrow. We (American) have a flight that leaves in about 14 hours."

Fourteen hours in Miami with two kids and rainy weather didn't sound fun.Not to mention we would miss our tour.
I thought about it a moment, then checked the airport boards. That other lIma flight was only a few gates away.
"Can we have our luggage here, then?"
The gate agent snapped at me. Said everything but "Hell No." They would keep our luggage until the morning, but would gladly give us meal vouchers for there meals and a hotel room.
"Can we go without our luggage if we can get on the LanPeru flight ourselves?"
"Sorry," she said. "This is an international flight. You can't get on any flight without your luggage."
In other words, we were prisoners of Ameican Airlines.

I wasn't going to give up that easily though. It was alreasy the wee hours of the morning, but we ran all the way to the farthest point in the airport from us, to the Lan Airlines counter. Maybe they would be able to accept an American ticket (they were partners, right?) And we would end up on them anyway.

The attendant at the Lan counter blinked at me when I spoke. She spoke no english. I mean, for real. I looked over my shoulder to check the signs, make sur I was still in the US like i thought and hadn't somehow fallen off into Latim America without knowing. I was calm as I dug down deep. She was speaking text book spanish, not the mangled spanish I'd gotten used to in Texas. She looked relieved when she realized that we could speak, but she couldn't help me either She told me that since American had already claimed us, she coudln;t grab our itinererary. In fact, she couldn't touch it. She trembled in her loafers every time she said "American Airlines."
We were stuck.
Prisoners.
In Miami.
With no clothes.
But thank goodness that I was a firm believer in spare underwear.
I had spare underwear in my carry on for everyone. They laughed when I did that.
Who wold be laughing in the morning?
We made our way to the curb for the airport shuttle, barely catching it because the guy was zooming past. We flagged him down and in no less than five minutes found ourselves at...
....the roach motel where, again, no one spoke english, the piano was being played by drunken folk at 2AM, and they charged two dollars per toothbrush.

More tomorrow.....

Creating the Play-Finding Venues

2007-09-27T17:37:00.000-05:00