There’s no Wine in Patience… or is there?

When it came to writing this week’s blog post, my brain was giving me the silent treatment. Generally, my ideas on what to write about stem from the asshole things my kids (or husband) have done, or from fake news I see on my social media feeds… both usually recipes for some good laughs.

Only this week, some serendipitous shit happened at my house. Normally, on any given day that ends in ‘y’, my house is like a game of War-Craft.  Only this week, my Beasts were actually quite civilized. Like, there were no patches of hair missing from any given scalp. No one took a direct shit on the floor and walked through it. No one poured maple syrup over their head. No one shoved cat food down our vents. It was a good week. So yes, what I’m saying is that I secretly hope my kids give me just a wee snippet of their true asshole colours, because otherwise I don’t have a blog to piss on.

As for social media, with the recent events brought on by that 70 year old DicToddler, social media has now become a platform for the world to voice their political fears. Fine. But because I try to steer clear of politics on this blog, social media has given me no lemons from which to make proverbial lemonade.

Until finally, what should appear in my inbox?! An article about *cough * “How to be more patient with your kids”.  No really… I couldn’t even make this shit up if I tried! Et Voilà, a blog post was born.


So here are the tips on how to be more patient with your kids. And, of course, my deep thoughts on them.

Treat your kids like house guests

Would you yell at your guest to put their shoes away? By treating your kids like house guests, this will keep the peace and everyone will be more likely to get along.

OK.  So here’s the thing… if my house guests behaved anything like my children, I’d throw their asses out at “Hello”. That said, I expect very little when it comes to house guests. Because, like us, they tend to be grief-stricken parents in need of a lobotomy. I must say though, I am quite the hostess with the mostess when it comes to entertaining. Upon arrival, I graciously offer our house guests an iWarned U Package. Inside, our house guests will find a Hazmat suit to protect against the toxicity of my house, plastic grocery bags to wear over their feet as booties, cotton balls to shove up their nostrils to mask the smell, earplugs, 2 Valium and an unlimited supply of wine to render them into a much-needed coma.

Get enough rest

“If you aren’t getting enough sleep, you will be crabby.  Try getting 7 hours of sleep tonight and see what a difference it makes.  (Maybe even aim for 8 hours!)”

In theory, this sounds like sage advice… only in practice it’s fluffy BS.  Because sleep and children are about as compatible as wine and decision-making. I’m three kids deep, and still haven’t found the Holy Grail of Sleep. Until I do, it’s a whine for a wine. Big J and I enjoy a couple of romantic shots of wine, and we’re off to bed like two drunk peas in a pod. Now that’s compatibility for ya’!

Don’t argue with your children

“Make a rule and stick to it and there will be no arguing necessary because it won’t get them anywhere.  Instead, try being empathetic towards them.”

I too try not to argue with my kids. Instead, I simply ignore them. You see, I’m no child psychologist, but the evidence is pretty clear that children lack in the brain department. Since having kids, I believe “blow your brains out” has a whole new meaning to it. Here’s my theory: basically kids have runny noses from birth. And when they sneeze, a massive thick yellow worm of mucus exits from their nose, sticking to their lips, and dangles mid-air from their chin. They then promptly smear it horizontally across their face with their Neanderthal hands.  I am now convinced that when they sneeze, they are literally blowing their brains out, cell by cell. It’s the only explanation! So I agree, it’s not fair to argue with someone who has the IQ of a squirrel.

Be prepared

“The root of impatient behavior is always the same: you are unprepared… Causing you to lose your temper. Being prepared stops this.”

News flash!!! You can organize yourself until the cows come home, but that doesn’t guarantee the kids will go along with the plan. Simply putting socks on a toddler requires a PhD in Fuckery. So just STOP!  Really,  just stop. Stop wasting your imaginary time preparing for your imaginary well-behaved children. It’s a little game I play with myself called “Who F’ing Cares? Not Me”. Seriously, if you can’t beat ’em… join ’em!

Drink more water and eat better

“Yes, it is true.  You are what you eat. Also if you don’t drink water,  you aren’t going to be as happy.”

Well, when I’m not hiding in the pantry shoving Oreo’s down my throat, I tend to eat the leftovers that I scraped off the floor. So if I am what I eat, that makes me the family dog.  But I do agree with her about the importance of drinking more to stay happy. She means water, I mean wine. Po-tay-to… Po-tah-to!

Take a break

“After you lose your temper, it can take 1/2 an hour to calm back down. Have your whole family spend time reading in their bedrooms for 30 minutes until everyone feels better.”

Really, it just get better and better, non? If I were to shut my Beasts in their bedrooms alone for more than one minute, it’d turn into a scene from Lord of the Flies. And I’m almost positive they’d make me Roger! Pray/Prey!  I know I keep going back to the Valium and wine, but it really is like taking a break… a long, well-deserved cognitive brain-numbing break. Plus, the kids love it… they call it the “Mommy Is a Rock” game.


Listen. Reality is, there is no shortage of tips and resources when it comes to parenting. But at the end of the day, it comes down to parenting the way that works best for YOU. Kids are little people who are simply doing the best they can… You’re all they have. Remember, you don’t want rush something that you want to last forever. So yes, try to be patient. Be kind. Be understanding. Parenting is one of the hardest and least rewarding jobs ever. So if you do lose your patience (and you will!), forgive yourself for being, well, human. And rather than wanting to blow your own brains out, take a minute and go stand outside… ’cause you are outstanding. You really really are, Mamas!


Red Whino

P.S. If you don’t want to take my asshole parenting advice (I beg you, please don’t!), here’s the article.

The March Against Madness

They say it’s the little things in life that count… which naturally got me thinking of the Women’s March! You know… THAT little thing? That little thing that was the biggest protest in US history? That little thing was awesome.  And it was necessary. And it was time!

As I watched with giddy exitement as this historic event unfolded, something kept nagging at me. It was like Dèja Vu. It all seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on what. That is until dinner time that same night…

You see, dinner time with my 3 Beasts is like involuntarily being thrown into a MMA cage fight. Because toddlers are little tyrannical dictators… or, as I like to call them, Dictoddlers. They have a false sense of entitlement and no ethical morals. They lack the ability to differentiate between reality and Lala fucking Land.  They govern without consequence or fear. They are ruthless, but at the same time a donkey could outsmart them. Sound like *cough* someone else who’s recently… Oh, I don’t know… become President?

If you think about it, these little unstable 2-foot DicToddlers have been marching all over us since Adam and Eve.  For centuries, we strong-ass, nasty mothers have been silently protesting against these little shits in hopes of regaining our sanity, our basic human rights, and our ability to have a SOLO shower from time to time.

Everyday I mentally march against my DicToddlers. But the Women’s March gave me the courage and motivation to act. I’m ready! I’ve made up my Mommy Madness March signs. As of tomorrow, I’m gonna hike up my maternity leggings, throw on a vomit-free sweater, and I’m gonna march around my goddamn house chanting ” Keep Your Tiny Hands Off My Junk!”


As your mother, I just want to pee… ALONE!  And I want to walk without a screaming parasite attached to my leg. I want to go a day without being asked why “Mommy’s arms flap like a flag”, or if “Mommy really IS Santa Claus” (as you gently stroke my stomach).
Well, to be honest, I too want to build a wall. Difference being that Mexicans, Muslims, and anyone with 2 legs and a heart beat are welcome on my side of the wall. On the other side of the wall, during the hours of 8pm to 8am, reside the DicToddlers. Really, it’s just a baby gate on steroids. But trust me, they will remain a threat, because If You Build It, THEY Will Come! My kids would have that wall crashing all around me in a nanosecond.
Like Trump, my children have waged war on the environment… The environment being our house, or really anything they come into contact with. Nothing says collaborative teamwork like three DicToddlers armed with a wooden spatula, a hockey stick and plate of spaghetti… ‘Cause THESE are the true weapons of mass destruction.
When it comes to DicToddlers, gender inequality is rampant… particularly towards Dear Ole’ Mom. And I’m not just saying this as the mother of boys. Girl or boy, DicToddlers all see their mothers as their Bitch. They reek havoc on our body, tear us apart to make their grand entrance, and then proceed to thank us by making demands, 24/7. And I’m not sure if they are simply not aware, or if they couldn’t care less, that they also have a father who is very capable… but noooo it has to be Mommy!
Not only do women get paid less in general, but mothers get paid in kisses and venomous love! I once read about some jackass financier who said if mothers were paid for, well… mothering, that their salary would average an annual $170K. When in reality, instead of being paid… WE pay! And oh, do we pay dearly! With a side dish of F-U!
My kids have a comprehensive health care plan of their own. It’s called the Mommy Mommy Mommy Vomit Plan. And it ensures they get sick… anytime… anywhere… all the time… all 3 at the same time. And the only guaranteeing provision is when, in turn, Mommy suffers from their cold, flu and plague, none of them will give a shit.

To be quite fair, these DicToddlers do not throw shade when it comes to race, religion or sexual orientation. ‘Cause really, they don’t give a rats’ ass if you are white, black, green or blue… gay, bi, Trans, straight, crooked or zigzag’ed… Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, circumcised, not circumcised, pierced, tattooed, inked, Crayola’ed or Sharpie’ed… They will come for you! They will sniff you out. They will find you. And they will suffocate you with their irrational  demands. They will spit their venom at you. They will squeeze the life out of you, slooowly and with great pleasure. There are no prejudices when it comes to toddlers. They are very accepting of us all… until they turn on you. Hail hath no fury like a scorned toddler!  To a toddler, we are one…we are ALL victims!




But at the end of the day there are two fundamental difference between my Mommy Madness March and the Women’s March that we just witnessed. One, as much as Trump himself behaves like a toddler, real toddlers… our toddlers… have hearts of gold. They ooze out innocence and genuine love. So really, there is no comparison.  Secondly, and more importantly, this post was written with good-intentioned humour. I would never want to diminish the power of what took place on Jan 21st.

So, is it the little things in life that matter? ‘Cause sometimes it’s the little things in life that make me think of Trump’s penis… Oops, I meant Pence. All of whom are lacking in the “mighty” department. Toddlers are little, but they are mighty. The Women’s March… THAT little thing?!? It too was mighty. Because sometimes it’s about taking a mighty stand to make change. Whether it’s a parent to a child, a woman to a man, or a nation to a leader. We all need to unite and stay strong in the face of adversity, be it a DicToddler or otherwise.  And THAT, my Whinos, ain’t no “alternative fact”.

Red Whino

The up side of down…

Note: The points and opinions expressed in this post do no necessarily reflect the topics and details that any proud parent (or brother) might want to hear (or envision). Consider this your warning! xoxo

You can imagine my horror when I stepped out of the shower the other day and shockingly thought I’d grown a third nipple… only to realize it was my belly button!

I mean, seriously? I spent 9 months lugging around a watermelon, followed by 17 hours of trying to birth the watermelon, only to have the watermelon cut out of me! And I’ve since managed (God only knows how!) to keep the watermelon alive via my very own built-in watermelons! After all that, the least the Boob Gods’ could have done is gifted me with a nice, solid set of knockers, non?  Apparently not! The price of motherhood is not only sleepless nights, but long, listless girlz too!

I’ve always been… shall we say, well stacked! But this is craziness! I’m like Dolly Parton, only without the waistline!  And all you lucky ABC’s out there are probably asking if I want some fromage with my whine (yes, please!). It’s like the straight hair versus curly hair… one is never happy with what they’ve got. And I want PERKY!

Honestly, is it too much to ask that my girlz be the first to enter a room? Or that I not make a clapping noise when I laugh, and have to pretend to clap like a seal to mask the sound? Or that I not sweep the floors when I walk around? Is this too much to ask for an ole’ Mama? It’s not always about keeping up with the Jones’, People. Bigger is not always better! (Unless of course we’re talking about… OK, I’ll stop now!)

So why the sudden obsession? Well, firstly, go back and read the first sentence of this post! Nuff’ said! And to add damage where damage is done, I’ve just come back from Miami! This is the world capital of plastic beautiful women (some of whom I’m certain were even men). These girls have got it made – no joke! Perky C-sides by the seaside!

So I’ve decided that Big J I need to get me a perky set… not to be confused with Percocet! Then again, I’ve heard some side effects of Percocet is loss of appetite! Hmmm… I’ve also heard unusual thoughts and behaviour can occur… So I can’t help but wonder if I’m already taking Percocet! Thoughts?

My affordable makeover... Just call me The Illusionist!

My affordable makeover… Just call me The Illusionist!

And I can already hear all you tree-hugging, bark-eating, yoga-noodling, soy-drinking (probably B-cupping) people telling me to love my God-given body. And I will do!

But really it’s about finding the up side of down (far down)! And that is for now my only boob job will be breastfeeding my Little Orange Crush. And it really doesn’t get much better… rock socks, and all!

OK. Whining over! On to bigger and better bottles.

Now, about that fromage…

Cheers, Red Whino

PS. T-shirt to appease Big J. Let him pretend think he’s got some “control”…

To appease Big J... Let him think he's got some "control"...

To appease Big J… Let him think he’s got some “control”…

Now a proud member of the Mile Hi Club…!!!

If I had a dollar for every time Big J asked me to join the Mile High Club with him, I’d be one rich ass woman .

Well, it happened. That’s right, you know me… The tigress! Hear me roar! Grrrrr!!!

OK, well, not really!  We are still not members of THE Mile High Club… or at least not the club you’re thinking of! If only, because I am too much of a chicken shit.

Oh my poor, sweet Big J... He still holds on to hope... Bless Him!

Oh my poor, sweet Big J… He still holds on to hope… Bless Him!

If you still believe in the authenticity of Milli Vanilli and are yet to join the rest of civilization, you may have never heard of the exclusive Mile High Club (but OMG… remember Blame It On The Rain? Loved it so so much! Am so downloading it, like, today!).  On the flip side, maybe some of you brazen perverts are members of the Club having snuck off with a lucky friend for a quickie in those nasty (nasty!!!) bathrooms. There’s also the Mile “HIGH” Club, where a little puff puff puff a la Bob Marley style is enjoyed… in the nasty (NASTY!!!) bathroom on a plane. Then there’s those brave, brave souls who have had a puff puff after a quick romp. Sweet Jeezuz, these peeps are Platinum members. They deserve a medal!

Anyhow… back to me! So we have landed in Florida and survived our first flight with the Little Orange Crush. Ugh…We’ve now officially become “those” people. Big J and I used to hate boarding a plane only to learn we were sitting anywhere near a child…”near” as in, on the same plane. And now here we are, subjecting poor innocent victims people to our untamed monkey, with no chance of escape… Funny how karma works, non?  How one night with one too many vodkas can really come back to bite you in the ass. Consider this your warning!

Anyways, so after miraculously checking in 18 tons worth of baby equipment, they somehow let us through Customs… “Yes Officer, I promise the white powder baggie is Formula for my baby.” Wink! Wink!

And from there, we embarked on one long ass journey. Oh, man… the days of getting drunk and passing out relaxing on a plane are over for Big J and me. We have entered the 7th circle of hell when it comes to travelling. Actually, on a side note, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to the old fart in front of us who had the misfortune of having his hair plugs pulled at for 3 hours straight. It wasn’t me… I promise! I’d have to be drunk to do something like that, and we have already established that I’m now a classy sober mom.

Other than my child trying to make hair extensions out of hair plugs, some orchestrated screaming and an epic explosion of the derrière (Huggies may want to rethink their brand promise of “24 hour protection”! And how about diapers that contain the contents of an epic explosion, eh Huggies? My Little Orange Crush turned into more of a little shit head for a bit!). Anyways, we are now proud members of a different kind of Mile Hi Club. And no, that wasn’t a typo… the Mile “HI” Club. Proud Mama that I am, my Little Orange Crush gave his first wave ‘hello’ on the plane to some lucky stewardess. I was so proud, I withdrew some of our retirement savings and celebrated with a $28 drop of wine.

Anyways, as elite members of The Club, we were given free – FREE – crayons! Membership does have its privileges, my friends! Unless you’re Big J that is, who still begs asks if I’ll join him in the back… only I notice there’s little to no hope left in him when he asks. I think our new reality is finally sinking in for my Big J… that the only “highs” in our lives now are blood pressure and debt. Welcome to the club, Honey!

I dreamed a dream…

Last night our septic tank alarm went off indicating that yet another hearty, fibrous year was had by all in our household. Grossed out? Don’t worry, this post isn’t about our shit tank. BUT… it turns out the septic alarm may just have saved my life (and my marriage!)

So, as I was sayin’, the alarm went off in the middle of the night. I woke in a panic. I thought it was the fire alarm going off.

OUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!! Wake the husband!!! Grab the 3 Beasts!!! Round up the fur balls!!! Grab the photo albums (Does anyone even do albums anymore? Grab the iPhones, I guess!)!!!

These are probably the things most people would think about if their house was burning down. But not I! The narcissist in me surfaced. The only thing I was thinkin’ was: “OMG… A hot firefighter is going to come to my rescue, and I’m wearing f-ing granny underwear!!!”

That’s right! You heard me! I not only own granny underwear… I wear granny underwear. And I f-ing LOVE them!!! After my c-sections, I couldn’t handle low-riders rubbing against my scars. So I invested in ONE pair of big-honking, rotten-cotton panties. And I am totally ashamed to say… I went back for more! Pink ones. Blue ones. Black ones. White ones. Ones with little flowers… so cute. Polkadots. Stripes. You name it. I’ve got ’em! And to think, all these years I’ve been shoving a lace banana string up my ass! Well, no more I say! NO MORE!

That is until the septic alarm went off! So there I was… a damsel in distress. Waiting to be rescued by my 50 Shades of Clooney… And I’m wearing granny underwear. And, to make matters worse, I also haven’t shaved in… well, let’s just say, I’m sporting a bit of Playoff season scruff!

But, alas, it was not meant to be. My house was unfortunetely not on fire! There will be no sweaty, hot, sculpted, ripped firefighter to my rescue. But let me tell you, I will not take such frivolous risks again. Oh no, I am prepared. I am ready. I am hot! I’m gonna fight fire with fire!

From now on, I will shave. I will even paint on my eyebrows before bedtime. But I have decided I just love my grannies’ too damn much to stop wearing them. So, instead, I’ll seduce my 50 Shades of Clooney with a special message just for him:


So, you see, it’s a win-win situation. Our septic alarm went off… I dreamed a dream… And now my Big J will benefit from a newly plucked wife, and I’m fully prepared to be whisked off into the sunset should my house hopefully ever burn down.

Cheers, Red Whino

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Is there really life after children?

Diagnosis Mom

Last week, the following comment was posted on my blog: “I’m here to tell all you young ‘uns that there is a life after children….you just have to have patience, intestinal fortitude and a big ole bottle of VODKA…the wine is just the “chaser”.”

This got me thinking… Is there really life after children?  Could this person be right?  Or are they just taking some seriously good drugs?

You see, this advice only seems to come from mothers whose children have long since left the nest. Coincidence or conspiracy? When you’re deep in the throes of mommyhood, it seems there’s no escaping it… like, EVER! Actually the lyric ‘no one gets out alive’ comes to mind.

Ok. So maybe there is life after children. But Holy Hannah with Honey on Top…. do you ever have to endure a long-ass 18 years to get there!

While I have a long way to go, I have decided to start mapping out my life-after-babies bucket list:

I will retire to a spa… Firstly, so I can resume my love affair with my dear Shower. Secondly, and more importantly, because they have strict “No children” policies.

I will buy super fancy locks and a kick-ass alarm system… Once the kids are out, they are just that OUT! F*ck this Boomerang thing! The locks will be changed.  There will be no drive-by’s. Visits with Mom and Dad will be by appointment only!

No more Minivans! Sing it… NO MORE MINIVANS!!!  I am getting myself a 2-door sports car. No backseat. No trunk space. I will play MY music. There will be no crumbs stuck to the roof, no dirty diapers mysteriously stashed in the glove compartment. There will be one set of keys which I will wear in a child-proof locket around my neck! They can take transit!

I will travel… lightly! No more looking like a snail on steroids at the airport. I will go to kids-free resorts and I will drink pina coladas until I spontaneously combust!

I will eat out, like, in an actual public restaurants. Can you imagine? And Big J and I will determine when it’s time to leave. And if we happen to be asked to leave, it’ll only be because we’ve enjoyed one too many G n’ Ts… and not, I repeat not, because our child threw a plate of spaghetti on a woman’s head thinking her roots needed a touch up.

I will sleep in, everyday, all day! ‘Nuff said! And if I choose to have an all-nighter, it’ll be for very different reasons…

So there you have it… My life-after-babies bucket list.

So, IS there life after children? Sure. A different kind of life; one with less dependency and chaos, no doubt. But for now, I am all too happy to enjoy this life and all its glory, chaos and insanity. The sports car can wait…

I look over at my children and I want to scream at the top of my lungs: STOP THE CLOCK!!! STOP THE CLOCK!!! It’s going by too fast.

And while a big bottle of vodka was deemed a neccesity for the formative parenting years… a glass (or three) of wine will have to suffice for now! After all, it was vodka that got me into this whole predicament in the first place!


Red Whino

PS. What’s on your life-after-babies bucket list?

PPS. Or, if you have already made it to the home stretch, chime in… is there really life after children?!?

Dear Shower,

Surely by now, you’re wondering where I’ve been. I know you deserve an explanation as to why I’ve been so absent (just think about how those around me feel).

Oh my dear, dear Shower… We’ve enjoyed a long, steamy love affair, have we not? There was a time when I couldn’t go a day without you. Hot is what it was… HOT!

It’s amazing, my husband not only knew about us, but encouraged it. He loved my little rendez-vous with you, Shower. In fact, I even think it made him want me more. So refreshed was I after a romp with you that my husband didn’t mind coming after you. Actually, remember the times when we would ask him to join us? Oh, how we’ve had some wet and steamy times, haven’t we, Shower?

The thing is, I’ve recently had a child, and I just can’t seem to find the time for you anymore. But know this… I am lost without you.

I’m not looking so great since we’ve been apart. Nobody can make me feel like you do. Clean, wholesome. Please don’t think this is a goodbye, but rather a smell-ya-later.

Love always,

Your dirty little secret

steamy shower