Do I make you horny, Baby?

Spring has sprung… finally! The days are getting warmer. Little birdies are a chirpin’. The smell of charcoaled carcass on the BBQ fills the air. Corpse-coloured legs are starting to get their stride on. Tankinis and Daisy Dukes’ are being dusted off. Flip flops are a flippin’. Love is in the air.

Everyone is coming out of hibernation after a long Canadian winter. Everyone’s feeling a little frisky… busy getting busy! (Did you know that next to Christmas, April is the most popular month to conceive? Well, now you do!)

Tis’ the Season for Spring Fever! Ladies throw on their little tank-tops and push-up bras, guys flex there biceps, and everyone is all like “Oh, baby baby”… Et Voila! A seed is planted. Also, it rains a lot in April, and well, what else is there to do when it rains, right? But apparently no one is wearing their protective rain gear.

Ahhh good ole’ Spring! What’s not to love…

I’ll tell you what… Horniness! And I’m not talking about the Spring Fever kind of horniness. No… I’m talking about horny f-cking yellow toe nails with crusty feet! Jeyzuz! If you’re going to impose opened-toed shoes on the world, make sure your feet don’t look like a dog’s breakfast!

Seriously, I was standing in line the other day, and the man’s feet in front of me looked like they were right out of Deliverance!

Every year it’s the same! Everyone strips down to their skivvies and flip flops. Fine…Great! But why can’t people objectively see what their feet really look like? And I’m not talking about genetically gross feet… like those who’s second toe is 3 times longer than their big toe! ‘Cause it’s not their fault. There is little to be done about genetically ugly feet.

I’m talking about maintenance… HYGIENE! This is within our control, and we owe it to each other to ensure our feet are presentable. Otherwise, put your feet away! And no, socks with sandals is NOT the solution!

Really, there’s no excuse for such atrocities. It’s such a simple fix… get a bloody pedicure!!!  I’ve done my due diligence and had my Spring pedi. Next I’m going to get Big J in there so they can attempt to rid him of his tribal, coal-walking, horny feet.

And who knows… once we’ve dealt with Big J’s horny feet, this Big Mama might just have a lil’ Spring Fever left in her after all…


Red Whino

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From Horny to Horny... $10... Me Love You Long Time...

From Horny to Horny…
$10… Me Love You Long Time…

‘Dem moms be smart asses… and pretty smart too!

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SMART…. the latest buzz word.  It seems to be all the rage these days. Smart phones. Smart books. Smart cars. Smart Food. Smart Serve. What about Smart Moms?  Or do they even exist?

Oh, stereotypes!  Gotta love ’em, right?! ‘Cause let me tell you, when it comes to  stay-at- home moms in particular… there are ALOT of them!  But let’s be honest, stereotypes have evolved for a reason. So yes, many of them are true… But definitely not all. Like, believe it or not, there ARE smart stay-at-home moms. True story! Because being a stay-at-home mom does not automatically make you lazy, boring, or stupid. I mean sure, there are some lazy, boring and stupid ones. No doubt. But guess what? There are also alot of lazy, boring and stupid people in the workforce. Again, true story! Just because a woman chooses to forgo her career path, does not mean she’s a few fries short of a happy meal.

Since I myself made the decision to give up my career to stay home, I have been subject to these stereotypes on many occasions. I have often been made to feel lesser, or that I’m not able to contribute to conversations as I am obviously too “simple” a woman. Funny thing is, I have far more education than most of the people who have tried to belittle me.

But here’s the thing, for me, being educated doesn’t automatically make you “smart”. It shows that you are dedicated and able to commit, of course. But I’ve met many professionals who have bad luck when it comes to, well, thinking. And others who are sooooo f-ing boring… Zzz! Just as I’ve met ALOT of brilliant and successful individuals who have studied at the University of Life!

I spent more years pounding the corporate pavement than I have negotiating with DicToddlers. So I am confident enough to say, they both have their challenges, both can be mentally draining and both require having a bit of, well, smarts. That said, for many (I’ll even go so far as to say “most”) work environments it’s really all about knowing how to play the game. Knowing how to talk the talk, and walk the walk. Being smart is somewhat of an acting skill acquired on the iSmart Shelf in the supply room.

It got me thinking (yeh, that’s right… thinking!) that if ever, as a stay-at-home mom, you are feeling undervalued or made to feel inadequate to the “stereotypers”, I’ve come up with a bullet proof list of ways to pull the wool over ‘dem Smart People’s eyes. So next time you’re at a dinner party (bahaha, I know right?! Past my bedtime too) try these.

List of how to NOT let people know how stupid you really are:

First and foremost! Because OMG ‘dem Smart People fall over themselves for those who are smart enough to have formal credentials. And I don’t just mean in written form. No no, you need to verbalize the shit out of your “letters”. Make them up if you need to… ‘dem Smart People won’t even know the difference. Introduce yourself using them… “Hi, I’m Red Whino, PhD AW, AK… It’s a pleasure to meet you”. (AW… ass wiping. AK… ass kissing). ‘Cause hell ya’ do you ever sound important!

2. USE iSmart MATH
Even if you suck ass at math, ‘dem Smart People luv big numbers. Speak in percentages or, ohhh, fractions to further impress. Even if your numbers are completely off, they won’t notice… you had ’em at “numerical value”.


By Jeezuz, they flock to this shit like flies on horse dung. And best part is, these words mean nothing… NOTHING!  Using corporate buzz words is the best way to appear smart when you have no clue what they’re talking about… and I bet your bottom dollar they too have no idea what anyone’s talking about. Try it… Throw a “Let’s park that idea” and they’ll all look to you nodding, and impressed as if you’d found the solution on how to impeach the Trumpanzee. It’s honestly like magic verbal diarrhea.


In the middle of your conversation, have your phone ring. Answer with your full name AND credentials.  Look apologetically at ‘dem Smart People. Then revert to #3 and use those f-ing buzz words like a Boss, yo!  “I’d definitely like to discuss this more, maybe we can table this until tomorrow morning?” Honestly, they’ll think you’re in the FBI or some shit. Noone needs to know that it was your babysitter telling you that your offspring smeared feces on the wall, again.  Noone’s business!

The classic geeks chic… Because only smart people wear glasses, obviously. But we moms are tired… sooooo tired. So I came up with the perfect pair of Mom Glasses. They give the appearance of giving two shits, while letting you get some much-deserved zzz’s.


Stay-at-home moms don’t just wear yoga pants and high oily ponytails, nope… we also have a closet full of facial expressions. Remember, only 35% of what you actually say matters, the rest is non-verbal. So put on your Fake Oscar Face. Here are a few “go to” faces to make when trying to pretend that you’re smart.


Carry reading materials with you that shows you are relevant, oh, and able to read more than just a board book, or 50 Shades of Shit. Bonus: You can order this as a slip cover to cover up the unintelligible bubble gum mom garbage you really read, obviously.


Truth is, we’re only as smart as we want to be. You don’t have to go to Harvard to know how to pick up a book or newspaper.  So at the end of the day, just be yourself. Because truly intelligent people tend to care less of what others think. Also, we are all “smart” in our own capacities… we all have our own vault of knowledge. Where an accountant may be better with numbers, than a lawyer is with words, than a mother is with project management. Also, as a stay-at-home mom you are responsible for raising the next generation, and during the most influencial and formative years of their little lives. That’s no small feat, so give yourself some credit. In the end… iSmart…uSmart… We all smart! We too are ‘dem Smart People.

The moms I know, whether working or home, tend to be the smartest, funniest, sassiest women I’ve ever met. They certainly don’t need to pull a Milli Vanilli and pretend to be anything other than themselves. They are survivors. They are not only smart… but also a bunch of smart asses. And they are not only pretty… but pretty smart too. And of that, I’m pretty sure!


Red Whino


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To my future daughter-in-laws


Now I’m a pretty open person, and it’s not often I meet someone that I don’t really like. I have a fairly large repertoire of friends, because if I like you… I like you. Period. I don’t care if you’re white, black or blue (that goes for hair AND skin colour). I don’t care if you’re gay, straight or twisted. I don’t care if you’re Muslim, Jewish, Catholic or nothing in particular. I don’t care if you’re a granola crunching vegetarian or a blood sucking carnivor. I don’t care if you have a degree from Harvard or the School of Hard Knocks. I don’t care if you prefer red over white, beer over vodka, or just a mean green tea. If you are Good People and have a sense of humour, I’m gonna like you.  Even if you don’t have a great sense of humour, I’m still probably going to like you… just don’t come a callin’ on a Friday night, kapeesh?

So here I am thinking I’m a lover of everyone and anyone, until I see some jackass wearing this shirt.

download (16)

And a few days later, I come across this on my FB news’ feed.


I realized that maybe I actually can’t tolerate everyone, after all. Because, I just want to punch these types of parents in the throat. They are bullies. Plain and simple.

But it did get me thinking… Before I know it, my boys will be teens venturing into the dating world. (If you want to read my views of how I’ll parent the teen years, click here.) And from there, I will eventually become a mother-in-law… three times over. So I decided to pen an open letter to my three future daughter-in-laws… or son-in-laws, cause, well, you just never know.

Using the above FB post as my guideline, here are my 10 Commandments for my future daughter-in-laws:

If you love your job, great. Keep it. If you don’t, find another. If you’re in between jobs, it happens. If you chose not to work, that’s between you and my son. If you’re trying to find your passion, more power to you. Life is short. We can hang out. Figure out your next move over a coffee… with Bailey’s. I also have plenty of chores to keep you busy and motivated. Just kidding, or not.

Well, well, well, ain’t this a bitchy thing to say…  nevertheless so true. As mentioned, I befriend those from all walks of life. UNLESS… you have skin that tans like sweet caramel toffee sans les freckles. You have a chiseled body like Gisele’s without the gym. Or you can stuff your face with Cheetos à la Fromage Fondant, and still look like, well, Gisele. You see, envy is a terrible thing. So there IS a chance I may not like you, but only because I want to be you.

This is true. I am. I’m everywhere. I’m all over the map. I’m up. I’m down. I’m going. I’m staying. I can. I can’t. I will. I won’t. Not to say I’m unpredictable or unstable…. ’cause Whoa Nelly who needs an unstable mother-in-law?!? I’m just a colourful, at times tipsy, soul… but not in a “drive you crazy” kinda way. Unless you ask my husband, but what do they know, right daughter-in-law? Ha! See? We’ll have fun together, us.

“He hit me. No he did. No he did. Did not. Did too.”… “Give it back. No. It’s mine. No mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.”  Childish shit, right? That’s how I feel about this statement. ‘Cause really unless you’re a mosquito or a fruit fly, I have no desire to crush you. Here’s the deal… You and my son will have your ups and downs. You’ll want to kill him at times (trust me, I’ve lived with him too. I know!). You may even break his heart. It happens.  My job raising my son is to instill in him the tools to cope. We’ve all had to… it’s part of life.

Yup, for your sake I hope you are afraid of the dark. And if you’re not, pretend to be. This will help get you out of nightime feedings. You’re welcome.

Listen, I just told your future husband that if he eats enough broccoli it eventually starts to taste like chocolate. He fell for it. No seriously, he did! So who am I to judge? Trust me, nothing wrong with a little white lie… or a little white wine, but now I’m just being greedy! As for lying to him or to me… there’s really no need. And same applies to you, it’s a two-way street. Anyways, I’m your MIL, just omit when necessary.

As long as you’re not hopping into bed naked with me… I could care less what you choose to wear, or not. Here’s the thing, we “older” women have worked fucking hard to ensure you lovely young women get the respect you deserve… no matter your fashion choices. Also, my son will be raised to NEVER make assumptions about a woman based on what she’s wearing, or not wearing, so why would I? Be yourself. Wear whatever you want and don’t let anyone make you feel less than who you are for it.

Nope. He won’t. He may have entered this life from my vagina, but he will exit with yours. So, from my vagina to yours, I’m here to tell you that he will love you more. He SHOULD love you more. I’m Ok with that.

Ya. You read that right… BACK to jail. I too made some questionable decisions in my younger wild days. (Stupid really… I got caught peeing in a parking lot, and happened to be, errrr, a wee bit intoxicated, and well, under age. Triple whammy!). Point is, I’ve definitely “Been there. Done that.” I have a few good stories up my sleeve. They make for some good laughs. Join me.

Ummm… no. For his sake, your sake, my sake and every therapist in the world’s sake… whatever you’re doing to him, don’t involve ‘dis Mama. But seriously, as I mentioned in #4, it’s your relationship. There are good days, and not so good days. It’s for you two to figure out. But it can make for some good reality TV type shit. So you’ll just find me on the sidelines sippin’ on gin n’ juice… laid back!

You see future daughter-in-law, if he chooses you, then I choose you. For better or for worse. So rather than intimidate you with shotguns and threats, or assume the worst of you, I will welcome you with open arms.

You will eventually be the one to kiss him goodnight. To hold his hand. To enjoy his laughter. To share his dreams. And I’m ok with that. Until then, I will do my very best to raise a strong, creative, loving and respectful human being. A boy who will grow into a beautiful young man. Your man. And you? You will be his heart, his life, his wife.  And me? Well, I’ll finally have my girl.

(Or, if my son marries a man, and “you” happen to be a son-in-law, well what’s another set of balls at this point?)

Until then, I’ll savour every little kiss and bedtime snuggle with my boys. That said, I look forward to many beverages and years of laughter between just us girls.

And so, from my vagina to yours… we got this, girl!


Red Whino

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Shit Happens… Oh Yes It Does!


Today, I’m in a generous mood. So much so that I’m going to let you in on a little Red Whine Diaries’ story… one from the Vault Of Shame. I’ll probably regret sharing this one, but what the hell,  here goes nothing…

Be warned though, ’cause it could happen to you too! In fact, I bet it already has…

So not so very long ago, I was lucky enough to waste three precious hours of my sacred life in bumper-to-bumper Toronto traffic. The upside was that My 3 Beasts were sleeping peacefully in the back… it was a beautiful day out, so I was able to lower the windows and enjoy a nice, smoggy, nitrogen oxide-induced breeze… Tunes were blazin’. Really, it wasn’t all that bad. That is, until…

Rumble, rumble! An enchilada-induced bubble made its way across my lower abdomen.  I straighten my spine… OMG! OMG! OMG! No! No! No! Shit! Shit! Shit! (Literally!) Please do not let this happen to me… again! Think of something else! Anything else!

– 99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer!!!… Didn’t help!

– Kegel ass exercise… Didn’t help!

– Shove random pieces of gum in my mouth (not sure why, but seemed like the logical thing to do)… Didn’t help!

– Meditate! That’s right! I tried build a mental dam and block the flow of Mr. Poo… Didn’t help!

– Maybe it’s just a fart? I was too scared to find out.

No, this was the real deal… Coming at me like a freight train!  Keep in mind, I’m stuck in traffic… on a higway!!! There was no way to make a quick turn or exit anytime soon . I was stuck between a rock and a hard poo. My head was spinning around like the Exorcist, scouting out the neighbouring cars. Do they know what’s happening? Are they aware there is a 40 year old mother in the minivan next to them who is about to shit her pants?

Well, that time I was spared. Mr Poo retracted his head like a turtle in distress. I was able to effectively do my kegel ass clenches just in time to pull into a gas station at Mock 10.

However, there was another time, also not so very long ago, that I ended up having to frantically resort to a Glad Tupperware container… in my car. Yes, that’s right,  I am a grown woman and I took a shit… in Tupperware… in my car! Sigh…

They do advertise it as "TO GO"... Just sayin'...

Do they advertise it as “TO GO” for people like me? Or is it just a coincidental pun?

A humbling experience to say the least! One that has cost me hours of therapy.

You’re probably wondering why I feel the need to share this with you? Well, here’s the thing… My Little Orange Crush is fully shitter trained, although to my surprise, he too shit his pants the other day (the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!). You see, he was playing a game of hockey, the score was tied, and he needed to score the winning goal… so naturally, one cannot call a time-out, but would rather drop a grenade in their pants. Naturally! Also My Agent Orange has been showing interest in torturing me with potty bootcamp.

So, seeing that I too shit myself in public… who am I to tell my sons to use the toilet? Or teach them any etiquette for that matter? Seriously, the Mom who succumbed to dropping a load into her LUNCH Glad Tupperware, in the car no less?!?

I’m thinking the whole potty training thing is so overrated anyways. I mean, there IS something to be said about wearing diapers! God only knows I wish I had been sporting them that fateful day… Plus, you only end up back in them later in life anyway, right? So why even bother?

With the exception of a lobotomy, the only way to get through life after an incident like that is to look at it from the bright side. What I do know is this… My incident has made me a better, more understanding mother. ‘Cause when My Beasts do have “accidents” in their tighty-whities, or Tupperware for that matter, I understand better than anyone that, yes oh yes indeed, shit does happen!


A Humble Red Whino

Talk about Lucky!


St. Patrick’s Day… I’d been waiting for today… excited to share some news with family and friends… Lucky Baby #4 was “coming soon”. Our very own little 4 leaf clover!

Pause. Rewind. One week ago, I lay on the bed for an ultrasound and I happened to catch the look on the technician’s face. It was subtle… but I knew. “There is no longer a heartbeat.” I was 13 weeks along. I’m not sure what she said after… The walls were closing in on me. I blacked out everything that followed.

It’s still fresh. It’s still raw. I thought we were in the clear. I allowed myself to daydream of onsies, all nighters and projectile poop. I haven’t shared the news of my miscarriage with many people. I’ve kept my circle small. But even within that small circle, I was surprised to learned how many have also suffered a miscarriage. I never knew. And I couldn’t help but wonder… Why aren’t we talking about our miscarriages? Sadly, it’s a question I can now also ask myself. Because until now, I too, have only shared with my nearest and dearest. Why is that? Is it too painful? Too soon? Am I ashamed? Do I feel I’ve failed somehow? Yes to all of the above. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that these reasons were exactly why I needed to talk about it.

No one knows what to say to someone who has miscarried, especially if they haven’t been through it themselves.  Truth is, there are no “right” words.  In fact, there are NO words. Just BE. Be there.

A good friend said to me, “Let me know when you’re ready to get drunk.” I hesitated, somewhat surprised, “I don’t really want to.” Her response? “That’s exactly why you need to. You’ve got to let it out… talk it out…. cry it out… When you’re ready.” And she was right. Because we tend to clam up. Bottle up the pain, the loss, and the anger. For whatever reason, we wait until that golden 12-week mark before we share broadly the news of our pregnancies, and if a miscarriage happens within that time, we internalize.

Because let’s be honest, a miscarriage isn’t as tragic or devastating as say, the death of a loved one, a cancer diagnosis, life-threatening illness of a child, etc. Regardless, a miscarriage IS significant. And it deserves to be acknowledged for the loss that it is. By not talking about our miscarriages, we risk minimizing it to something less than what it is. Because it hurts, alot.

For me, it comes in waves. Waking up in the morning is the worst time for me… because the reality of it sets in all over again. It wasn’t just a nightmare… it happened, still. I was chopping vegetables and tears just started to roll off my cheeks. I immediately sat the kids in front of the TV, and went outside, got in my minivan, and I screamed and cried at the top of my lungs, and I pounded that steering wheel until my hands were blue. Because it hurts, alot.

I see pregnant women. I see mothers pushing strollers. I see newborns. I even look at my own beautiful children. And I’m reminded that Lucky #4 isn’t “coming soon”. And it hurts, alot.

I watch my husband scurry around, not quite sure of the best way to handle it. He’s been loving. He’s been supportive. He’s taken my lead on when to talk about it. But it’s also his loss. He’s also sad. And that hurts me, alot.

I know some women have experienced multiple miscarriages. I know I’m fortunate to have 3 healthy beautiful children.  Trust me, I know. Everyone’s story is different. It’s not about comparing mine to yours, and yours to mine. It’s about bringing life to our miscarriages.

So this St. Patrick’s Day, I still want to bring life to my Lucky #4. Because ironically, that’s what Lucky #4 gave me, life. It gave life to new possibilities. It gave life to my wants. It gave new life to MY life. Though a great blow, my miscarriage strangely made me look at my life through a new lense.  ‘Cause the truth is, no matter how much I hurt, I can always find something that makes my life “lucky”. My family. My good friends. My health. Laughter. Even my tears. And so my Lucky #4, when your heart stopped, it gave mine new meaning. And that’s something that makes you worth talking about. So while for only a short time, I dared to dream there’d be an “us”, for you, I count my lucky stars! I got this, baby.

Cheers, Red Whino

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I DO annoy you… For better or worse!

Ah, marriage… for better or worse… in sickness and health… annoyances and all… We are in it together, forever! In last weeks’ post, we talked shit about our husbands and their annoying habits. But my rule of thumb is, if you’re gonna talk shit about somebody else… you’d better be able to talk shit about yourself too. So after airing some of Big J’s annoying habits, it’s only fair that I now throw myself under the bus.

All in the name of research for my blog, I asked Big J to list some things I do that annoy him. He looked at me like a deer in headlights. Nope, he wasn’t taking the bait. “I’d like my lawyer present, please”, he wisely replied.

So, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and divulge my deepest and darkest annoying habits to y’all… Ones I can only imagine annoy my husband to no end.

It’s probably safe to say this universally annoys all men, or gay women with short hair. I can’t shed a f*cking pound of baby weight, but as the self-proclaimed Mama Chewbacca I sure as hell can shed me some hair. But it doesn’t end there. It’s not just the nasty nest of hair that collects down the drain. Admittedly, it’s that I sometime wipe my hair on the tiles in an attempt to untangle it from my fingers after shampooing… and ummm forget to wash it off the wall.  Eeek… Yes, I totally just admitted to that publicly. See? I totally can talk shit about myself too.

Give me a taste of my own medicine by sending me ever-so-subtle, hairy messages. Then again, Shed Happens!


I talk. I share. I have no privacy boundaries (e.g. this blog). While Big J has learned to shrug it off or slip into a beer-induced coma, I know many husbands struggle with their wives’ gift of the gab. For me, discretion is not my thing.  I am who I am… and I am unapologetic about it. It’s also how I choose my tribe. If people are easily offended or feel that my openness is in poor taste, they simply aren’t my People.

SOLUTION: Big J should start by trying to occupy my mouth by kissing me more often… REALLY giving me something to talk about! Or just put a sock in it… that might work too!


We have 3 young children. Our house reflects this. Period. It’s chaotic.  It looks like Toys R Us on steroids. There is usually a mysterious smell wafting throughout. The accumulation of food in between the couch pillows could feed a small country. I often think we’ve been burglarized when I come home, only to realize it’s actually just how we live. Baby #3 was our Hall Pass. We are exempt from having a clean”ish” house. But… BUT… when people are coming over, I need to give the impression that we live out of a Martha Stewart magazine… Fake News! I become militant in my orders, Big J might even argue borderline psychotic. Understandably, it annoys him. Not because I want the house clean”er”, it’s the “guest” towels, guest throw pillows, guest picture frames, and guest decorative shit. It’s the “ALTERNATIVE arti-FACTS” that annoys BIG J.

SOLUTION: We need to re-think how we welcome our guests. Because not only am I tired of keeping up this facad, but it’s also exhausting having to put on my bra AND my eyebrows in the same day. Also I’m just annoying my husband! So maybe the trick is putting up “ALTERNATIVE arti-FACTS” that scare our guests off. Thanks for coming… now be gone!


“Wife” and “car” in the same sentence make Big J’s blood boil. Errrr… I *cough* don’t necessarily take the best care of my cars. It’s safe to say one is best to wear a HazMat suit when entering my car. I’ve always been this way. My car is filled to the brim with lovingly tossed coffee cups, napkins, banana peels, mail, shoulder pads circa 1987, shoes, makeup, clothes, more random shoes. There are revolting smells that linger for months. You name it, it’s in my car.  I am also one to go the extra mile… on empty… always! And I rarely remember to change my winter tires… a good ole’ Canadian girl is always prepared for snow in July. And finally, I once filled my windshield washer tank with engine oil. Whoops!

SOLUTION: There isn’t one. You can’t change a leopard’s spots. Let’s just agree that I take care of the babies, you take care of the car.


“My name is Kate, and I am an addict.” I admit it. I need it. I can’t live without it. And it drives Big J NUTS.  In my defence (bonus to writing about my own annoying habits), I do have ” loose” restrictions on when and where I use my phone. I limit the amount of time I’m on it around my Beasts… unless they’re watching TV… which as a result, is now  always! I allow no electronic devices at the dinner table…. so we now eat watching TV!  I only check it when stopped at red lights, and some yellow, but never while driving… well, on a highway… and I have a TV in my car for the kids so they won’t even notice! Ok. Ok. I’m kidding. But really, it’s not so much the amount of time I spend on my beloved phone, it’s the useless shit I waste my life on that bothers Big J. Like planning an imaginary unattainable unicorn life on Pinterest… followed by secretly self-injecting myself into people’s lives whom I’ve never met on Facebook. I digress…

SOLUTION: Like any addict, Big J needs to stage an intervention. Come at me from all sides, when I’m least expecting it. Cry me some crocodile tears and take that crack phone away from me. But you’d better run fast Big Man. ‘Cause Mama will hunt you down… just obviously not using my GPS app!


So there you have it… I too can talk shit about myself, and admit to my annoying habits. But in a weird way, it’s these little annoyances that Big J and I bring to our marriage that make us, well US. We don’t do conventional… It’s not our thing. We surpassed the flowers, excuse me’s, and leaving the room to fart on our first date. Because for us, we don’t have to hold hands, buy flowers, or do Valentines to show one another our love. Instead, it’s when Big J pours me my coffee, starts my car on a cold morning, or reminds me to wash my underwear and clean behind my ears… It’s the look he gave me when  I birthed him each of his children. THOSE are the things that count. To be honest, it’s the messy cars, clogged drains, crusty toothpaste tubes and left up toilet seats that add to the laughter in our already chaotic life. Those are the immeasurable ways that Big J and I measure our love. This Is Us… annoyances and all.


Red Whino