Tag Archives: Humor

Shit Happens… Oh Yes It Does!

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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!

Cheers,

A Humble Red Whino

I DO annoy you… For better or worse!

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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.

HAIR IN SHOWER
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.

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

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I’M A BIG MOUTH
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!

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“ALTERNATIVE” CLEANING
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!

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EVERYTHING HAVING TO DO WITH MY CAR
“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.

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MY PHONE
“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!

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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.

Cheers,

Red Whino

We women gettin’ shit done this Valentine’s Day!

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Oh, we women! We women love to talk. We talk, and we talk, and we talk some more. We talk about meaningful intellectual stuff, sure. But we also talk shit. We talk shit about our kids. We talk shit about our husbands. And, let’s be honest, we talk shit about each other. It’s a total shit storm of laughter and gossipy fun when we women get together.

I was out the other day with some friends (no really, it’s true) and it was a total bitchfest.  We bitched about our barbaric offspring, our spoon-fed husbands, the toxic state of our house, our cottage-cheese asses, our “sea food” diets, and our ever-increasing dependency on coffee and wine to numb it all away. As women, we take mental notes, we compare, we silently judge, we mask our envy and we share our opinions.

We also offer extremely helpful advice to one another. Because we women have an answer for everything. We suggest trendy parenting books. We pass around the number of a good house cleaner. We share exercise regimes. Diet tips. We clink our glasses together, all in the name of wine with a splash of whine.  You name it, we solve it. But the one thing we don’t have answers for? Our bloody husbands. We bitch. We commiserate. We empathize. We nod in the unfortunate familiarity of it all. But we can’t really offer any advice because turns out there’s no  golden “Man”ual.

We get all wobbly kneed and blindsided by the sparkly diamond ring. And poof, just like that, we marry our Prince Charming… Only to discover that underneath that princely charm lies a Neanderthal child who can’t take care of themselves.

Now listen, I don’t want to be dissin’ on your man, or mine for that matter. Big J is a good man. He is loyal.  He works hard. He smells good. And he puts up with my crazy. But sometimes I fear that Big J is a toddler trapped inside a grown man’s body. Because, like my children, he has an impressively lengthy list of things that drive me bat-shit crazy.

So based on my years of marriage and intimate bitchfests, I’ve made a list of “R U F-ing Kidding Me?” Husband Moments. But I’ll give credit where credit is due… these are not all about Big J (although some are!).

THE TOILET SEAT
A fairly large percentage of men are totally and utterly incapable of putting the lid down. Period.
SOLUTION: Find a picture of your mother, his mother-in-law, and tape it to the rim of the toilet, and write “Nice balls!”… WhoaHaHa! I guarantee you, he’ll learn to pee sitting down… unless your mom looks like Christie Brinkley, in which case you have no case!

FACIAL HAIR IN SINK
They need to shave. Fine. I get it.  But is it really so hard to run the water and do a quick rince for 5 seconds after?!
SOLUTION: It’ll take some time, but collect that speckled shit into a ziplock bag. During dinner when he asks you to “pass the pepper”, whip out your baggie and sprinkle that shit on his food. He’ll start rinsing.

INABILITY TO HEAR BABY CRYING AT NIGHT
Why we women are stereotyped as “high maintenance” I’ll never know. We are workhorses! ‘Sleeping Beauty’ should have been a man… and there certainly wouldn’t have been any Kiss of Love comin’ from we women.
SOLUTION: One word… Taser! Zzz…

LAUNDRY BIN
Dirty clothes go in the bin. Like, is it really that hard to grasp? Even a donkey could figure this one out.
SOLUTION: Clearly, they need incentive. I’ve invented a laundry “Bin For Him”. I’m bringing laundry and porn together. Load for a load!

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SPORTS
I swear man’s brain is literally split down the middle… or nearly, with 51% porn, 49% sports. I truly believe they have a genetic predisposition to ignore all else that life has to offer.
SOLUTION: This won’t be an easy one to crack. But maybe this time it’s about marrying sports with porn. During the game, get out your little pink duster, strip down to your sexies, step into some heels, and do a little dusting around the TV.  If he doesn’t reciprocate, he is either having an affair or gay. In which case, your marriage just got, well, more interesting.

TOOTHPASTE ATROCITY
Crikey… No need to explain. I’m just going to post a picture of the fuckery I awaken to every morning.

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SOLUTION: I honestly don’t have one. Although the one thing that Melania Trump said that proved to me she just might have an IQ higher than a pigeon is when she said the secret to a good marriage is separate bathrooms. Word up, Melania!

DOESN’T KNOW WHERE ANYTHING IS:
“Ummm… you live here too, right?”, says almost every wife.  ‘Cause if after all this time, he’s still asking where the toilet paper is kept, then we women should be really worried about what’s on our towels. ‘Cause I’m thinking those markings ain’t from no mascara, yo!
SOLUTION: Just leave! Go! Book yourselves into a hotel, a spa, a brothel. Anywhere. Let him figure that shit out on his own. It’s time he pulled up his big boy pants. Hopefully AFTER wiping… and with toilet paper!

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EMPTY CONTAINERS
They put empty milk cartons back in the fridge, empty cereal boxes in the pantry, ice cream, condiments. You name it!
SOLUTION: Empty all their beers out (or better yet, drink them), and restock their case or the fridge with empties. Most effective if done on game night. He’ll get the point… fast!

They say you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink. Or in the case of we women… you can make a man your husband, but you cannot make him think.  Well, I disagree. While our Dear Husbands may never be as awesome and flawless as we women *cough*, I have total faith that they are indeed “trainable”. What’s more, my Solutions don’t only benefit we women, but our husbands too. You see, as a husband, if you’d only stop doing the things on the “R U F-ing Kidding Me?” list, your chances of getting laid increase substantially.

And, well, with Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I just thought I’d help a bro’ out…

You’re welcome.

Cheers,

Red Whino

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

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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.

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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.

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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!

Cheers,

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.

How to be Patient

The March Against Madness

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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!”

 

BODILY RIGHTS
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).
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IMMIGRATION RIGHTS
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.
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ENVIRONMENTAL RIGHTS
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.
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GENDER INEQUALITY
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!
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WAGE INEQUALITY
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!
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HEALTH CARE
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.
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RACE, RELIGION AND LGBTQ INEQUALITY

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!

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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”.

Cheers,
Red Whino

Watch out Movember… Chewbacca is in da’ house!

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Ah, Movember… The month where men walk around like 70s porn stars turned pedophiles. Tom Selleck they ain’t, my friends. I also love Movember as everyone thinks that I too am participating in it for charity. When really I’m just a lazy ChiaPet in desperate need of a pair of facial pliers, and the energy to do something about it!

And it’s only gotten worse as I’ve aged… both the hygienic laziness and the amount of unwanted hairs that have sprung up.  I’ll let you in on a little secret: Aging Women = weird-ass hormones = random hairs in random places. And this fact, coupled with the laziness factor, I’ve willingly allowed myself to morph into Mama Chewbacca. And I just can’t be bothered to break out the ole’ weedwacker. Ya know?

Oh sure, you hear of those “vintage” women who go on and on (and on!) about their raging ‘whore’mones… (Ugh! Envy is a terrible thing, is it not?). But have you noticed it’s always the skinny ones who say this? “Oh, I love my voluptuous curves!” Ya, I bet you do… you 100 pound, size 0, B cup, carrot-nibbling bunny! Try this one on for size, why don’t you… Put on a sumo fat suit and THEN try and have sexy time with your sweetie… I dare you!  The reat of us bring a whole new meaning to the ‘Big Bang Theory’.

As if my sumo sex suit and Chewbacca Syndrome aren`t bad enough… the other day, I happened to look down and see a long, white hair on my chest. “Whatev’, just cat hair”, I thought.  Only when I went to pluck it off, my skin rose up with it like a f*cking teepee.

Turns out, in addition to my Play Off Season leg hairs and my Movember stash, I’m apparently now growing a patch of chest hair!  THIS is the reason G-d made wine!

I know, you’re probably thinking “just pluck the bloody thing and get over yourself“. Fair enough! Only, here’s the thing… I HAD just plucked the stupid, white, long-ass hair the day before. And it came back! IT. CAME. BACK.

But rather than worry that, unbeknownst to me,  I may be undergoing a sex change… I decided to be optimistic about the whole thing with a wine-glass-half-full approach: I now look at  my random, long-ass chest hair is proof of my super powers as a woman! Not only do I grow beautiful babies, but I also happen to grow chest hair (Singular… For now, anyway!). That`s right, where my stretch marks are my tiger stripes… my lonesome chest hair is simply the fuzzy lining on the beast. (Work with me here, ok? `Cause I’m one step away from the ledge on this one!) Plus, Big J could use some unexpected teeth flossing every now and then… if you know what I mean!

Chewbacca

So next time someone tells me I need to “grow some hair on my chest”, I’ll proudly rip open my shirt Superman style, and do a little Godzilla chest pumping.  I just hope no one tells me to “grow a set of balls“… Cause, at this rate, who da` hell knows what’s in store for Mama Chewbacca next! Sigh…

Cheers,

Red Whino

Sexually “her-ass” my ass, please!

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The older I get… And, errrr, the longer I stay married, the more I’ve come to appreciate being sexually harassed. It’s kinda become an unexpected, but oh-so-welcome, form of flirting to me… Some much, much needed attention to keep this ole’ bat’s self-confidence alive.

SH pic

All this to say, I’m being harassed… finally! Only this time, I need it to STOP!

You see, there’s this mother from one of the programs I take my Beasts to… And well, I made the mistake of giving her my cell number, and have since been harassed with a slew of  “let’s get together” (smiley face) texts.

Here’s the thing, this Mother Of A Harasser is 20. Twenty!!! B-Jeezuz! Me? I’ve lived long enough to have shit myself in public. I’ve reached the stage where I’m asking myself what this whole “aging like a fine wine” bullshit is really all about… ‘Cause so far I’m aging like a f*cking carton of milk!  And I’m not only talking about my face! My boobs and vagina aren’t aging all that well either! When your boobs are longer than your shirt, and your vagina longer than your shorts, you know you’ve LONG passed the expiry date!

And there’s more, as if the whole 20-year-old thing isn’t bad enough… She still lives at home with Mommy and Daddy, and probably has a poster of Nickelback on her wall. So seriously, what could Miss Teen Whoopsy Baby and I possibly have to talk about at our little “get together”? How back in the Stone Ages when I was her age, a teen pregnancy meant a hop, skip and a jump to the nearest “clinic”, NOT unrealistic dreams of a reality teen pregnancy show? OMG! Do you hear me? I swear, sometimes I open my mouth and my mother sneaks out!

But anyways, the point of this post is this… I was telling Big J about how I’m being stalked by a 20 year old Mother Of A Harasser, and how I need his advice on how best to ditch her, gently!

So naturally, being the attentive, caring husband he is, Big J showed his genuine concern about the whole situation by asking me if she was hot?

“Ummm… She has a good body, I guess”, I replied.

To which he replied, “Good enough. I’ll just cover her face with a picture of you… my beautiful wife. (OK. Now I want you to repeat this last sentence out loud. Only this time, I want you to really emphasize the words “beautiful wife” while trying unsuccessfully to give a seductive look… Followed by a wink! Ewww, right?)

I looked at him in utter disbelief that this is his idea of verbal foreplay.

“What? It’s a compliment, Honey! It shows that I don’t want to think about anyone else but you. Only you, babe.” And he winked, again!

You’re probably thinking: Big J, you Jack Ass! Inside voice… Use your Inside voice, Man!

Me? It wasn’t so much his assy comment that surprised me. Rather his misguided self-confidence of automatically assuming that a 20 year old with a good body would want him! That he’d be the one having to cover her face…

I told him so much.

He responds by singing “I got the moves like Jagger”.  Ugh! And while my first instinct was to quote Jagger, ‘I can’t get no… Satisfaction!’ I refrained. Thing is, I guess he did have a point. I mean, I am the one who promised to spend the rest of my sex life with him. And I am the one who got knocked up in a nano-second… 3 times over!

So there you have it. It’s Big J and Red Whino 4 eva’!  So while he might fantasize about 20-year-old bodies topped with his wife’s milk-carton face. And I might fantasize about trading in his aging ass for a younger, firmer version, for now we’ll both just have to hope somebody throws some good ole’ sexual harassment our way every now and then. ‘Cause even though Big J thinks he’s  Mr. Don Juan who got da’ moves like Jagger… he better not sexually “Her-Ass” anyone – or anything-  other than MY Ass!

Cheers,

Red Whino

WISH YOU WERE HEREditarily not like your Mama when you hit your teen years…

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Karma can be a bitch, non? I’m going to share a little secret with you… I was ummm, well, a f*cking nightmare when I was a teenager. I’m sure my Mama will comment below in TOTAL agreement… Unless she’s still suffering from PTSD, which is very possible, if not probable! Anyways, so you can understand why I’m dreading the day my Beasts reaches their teen years! All I can say is ‘payback’!

My three Beasts keep me busy. Yet while I barely have time to wipe my own ass… I somehow find the time to indulge in f*cking Pinterest! It seems my priorities are ass backwards.

Anyways, according to Pinterest, all “good” mothers write a ‘Wish List’ for their children each year on their birthday. They then collect the Wish Lists in a jar. All together now… Awwww!!! Then 18 years later, the oh-so-lucky child gets to read their mothers’ wishes… making them feel like even bigger failures than their teenage selves already do.

So I figured, why not share with the world my Wish List for my little Beasts:

Wish 1: On Teen Pregnancy
Let me be very clear on this… This Grandma will not be raising Baby Whoops. You are to wear TWO condoms AT ALL TIMES… whether you’re sexting, sexing, studying or sleeping! I will ensure condom dispensers are readily available to you at all times! I will even be so kind as to throw a couple rubbers in my purse, so when you steal money from my wallet you’ll be reminded yet again to ‘suit up’! Yes, in a weird way I am encouraging you to steal money out of my wallet… if only to shove more condoms down your pants.

Wish 2: On drinking n’ drugs
It’s inevitable, I know! Trust me, your ole’ Mama didn’t spend her teen years celebrating Pi Day with a square head who celebrated the characteristics of a circle. So you can’t pull the wool over my eyes on this one, Boys. Just be smart about it! Know your limits. Know when it’s no longer ‘cool’. You don’t have to be the jackass who does ‘keg stands’… it can only lead to broken ankles and diarrhea (errr, or so I’ve heard). And trust me there’s nothing worse than having a broken ankles AND diarrhea (again, hearsay!)… You just can’t get there in time, you know? Me either! Also, promise me that if you smoke a joint, you’ll do it while listening to Pink Floyd, and not f*cking Justin Timberlake!

Wish 3: On Career Choices
I want you all to be happy in whatever you boys choose to do. I don’t want you to become a Harvard-graduate, brain surgeon simply to please little ole’ me (nudge, nudge, wink, wink!!!) I want you to choose a career you truly love.  I know, I know, easier said than done. ‘Cause trust me, I know only to well how hard it is to find something you love and get paid for it. I am still trying to find someone who’ll pay me to drink and sleep! That said, it would be wise to choose a rather lucrative career in order to cover the luxury retirement living I’m expecting to reside… cause otherwise Mama’s movin’ in!

Wish 4: On physical appearance
Wear whatever you want…I don’t care… just wear a G-d damn belt! As cute as your ass is at the ripe age of one, no one needs to see it in it’s 16-years of harry glory. And tattoo yourself crazy! Just promise me not to tattoo Simba from the Lion King onto your chest! Yes, what seemed like a promising young man to your Mama at one time just happened to take off his shirt… and let’s just say the moment was ova’. OVA’! And who knows, maybe you’ll even get a tattoo for your old Lady? How about an “I love My Mommy” tat right on your forehead? That way when you spend your entire life with your face in your phone at the table, I’ll look over and see “I love my Mommy” staring back at me. It’ll make me feel all warm and fuzzy… almost like we’re verbally communicating. What’s that? You don’t know what ‘verbal communication’ is? Sigh…

After writing out my Wish List for my Beasts, the looong day-to-day demands of their infancy and toddler years are just foreplay for the shit that’s to come. Oh, Karma… throw me a wishbone, will ya? Penance and all that, non?

Or maybe the joke will be on me. Maybe I’ll end up with kids who are home before curfew… kids who prefer studying over a hazzy Pink Floyd session… kids who are not at risk of becoming teen fathers because they prefers one-handed sexting… kids who really want to be surgeons! I mean, what the hell would I do with kids like that?

Only I hear Karma whisper softly over my shoulder… “Dream on, Lady… Dream on… It’s payback time, Mama! P-A-Y-B-A-C-K!!!” So I get out my pen and paper to make yet one last wish for my Beasts. I pray that they are not like their Mama in their teen years… or their father for that matter.

Wish #5? Shine on you crazy children. Shine on!

Cheers, Red Whino

In other non-related news… and for some shameless self-promotion… I’m featured as a Kick Ass Mom Blogger on Strolling The City In Heels.  It’s written by a funky mom named Emma, and it’s a great site for easy tips on fashion, beauty products, and good reads. Since following this blog, I’ve gone from wearing tie-dye t-shirts with elastic-waisted pants and white runners with black socks, to being a fashion-force on the playground. Really, she’s doing society a favour with her blog. Check it out!

Sex after children

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So lately I’ve been asking myself the age old question… Is there sex after children? I mean seriously, what IS the secret to bringing back those wild, teenage-like romping days?

I receive a lot of requests from many of you on topics you’d like me to write about. I totally don’t know why, but the one I get over and over and over again is for me to share my thoughts on ‘sex after children’.

I’m humbled (if not a little confused?) that you’re interested in my opinion on such matters.  In fact, Big J is even more perplexed about this one. “Why are they asking YOU? What do YOU know about sex after kids?” Point taken, Honey! Point taken!” Although we did end up with three kids in three years… so I must know a little somethin’about sex after children. I’m just obviously lacking when I comes to knowing anything about birth control.

But seriously, how does one ever find the time to have sex in a post-baby world? Between diaper changes and wine consumption, I’m spent… if not a little drunk!

Anyways, I Googled. And here’s the thing… The Top 5 Tips on how to keep the sex a rockin’ after the kids’ come a knockin’ just make me want to punch someone in the throat!

Tip #1: Schedule it in!
At first, it doesn’t sound very romantic… but it kinda makes sense, right? I mean, truth is, most working adults fall into a sort of ‘sex routine’ well before the kids arrive. And there’s no question that things do slow down in a kid-invaded household, so sure it’s a nice idea to schedule in some “sexy” time. But it’s a bit of a turn-off when you have to include the YEAR in which that sexy time will happen… or possible not happen. Nothing says “I love you” like sex in 2019!

Tip#2:  Tell him you’re fantasizing about him even though you don’t have time to actually have sex
Apparently you can verbally engage in sexual intercourse without ever having to ‘do it’, and it’s just as satisfying.  I can see Big J being ‘into it’ for maybe a nano-second… after that it’s just empty promises that’ll lead to a sex fight. And I always say, keep the fights clean and the sex dirty.  So seriously, save the fantasies for Tom Brady, and sex for your husband (while fantasizing about Tom Brady, of course!)

Tip #3: Change your mindset
They say to stop looking at sex as yet another chore. Ummm… but according to Tip #1, it’s on my ‘To Do’ list… MAKING IT A CHORE! It’s yet another thing us Mamas have to ‘get done’ before we can close our aging eyelids and slip into a coma from which we wish to never wake. Me? I try to look at sex like a much-needed glass of wine, cause there’s nothing like a glass of wine to put me in the mood for… well, another glass of wine! I digress…

Tip #4: Date night
Apparently going out for dinner will miraculously turn us into wild horny animals!  Maybe it’s just me… but the thought of having to shower and put on a bra exhausts me. In addition to painting on my eyebrows and caking some makeup on, I just don’t have it in me! I guess the dinner is supposed to be foreplay? To that I say, simply brushing your teeth is foreplay enough for me these days!

Tip #5: “Too tired” is not an excuse
Ugh! I’m too tired to even give this one the attention it doesn’t deserve… All I have to say is that’s what the internet is for, Boyz! Use it…!

But seriously, you asked for my advice, so here it is: the only way to spice up your sex life in a post-baby world is to… wait for it…  JUST HAVE SEX! Just getter’ done! Pour yourself a nice glass of wine, and then a couple more, and go for it! You never know, you just might enjoy yourself… Or is that the wine talking?

Cheers,

Red Whino

Dear Non-Parents…

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These days it seems like we’re all cheering for one team or another. Pepsi vs. Coke. Boob versus bottle. Aniston vs. Angelina (Still? Or have we all moved on?).  Trump versus, well almost everyone. And, of course, the ever-lasting feud… Team Parents vs. Non-Parents.

When it comes to the whole Parent vs. Non-Parent debacle, I’m totally a team player. When I’m with Non-Parents, I try very hard not to talk about my 3 Beasts… Just kidding, it’s actually quite easy and refreshing to forget about them.  Instead, I happily sit back and listen to the Non-Parents complain about their perfect f*cking child-free lives. (Insert eye roll!)

It seems Non-Parents have found yet another thing in their perfect child-free lives to complain about. Apparently, we ‘Parents’ say hurtful things to them. Sniff! Sniff!  I came across this following article: Five Things Parents Need to Stop Saying to Non-Parents. I ever-so-patiently read through it only to come to the conclusion that Non-Parents are just a bunch of whiny jerks. I mean, by intentionally not bringing a child into the world, these Non-Parents are able to maintain their sanity, body shape, livelihood, and liver. Really, they have a golden horseshoe shoved so far up their you-know-whats, they aren’t even able to appreciate it. IgnorANUS! (Oh, envy is a terrible thing. Is it not?)

But what about us parents? What about the hurtful things Non-Parents shouldn’t say to US?

Here is MY list of the Five Things Non-Parents Should Stop Saying to Parents:

“Sorry my house is such a mess”

Ok. Fine. So you think because your pastel, silk throw pillows haven’t been ‘fluffed’ and because you have a spec of dusk beside your glistening toilet (that I would eat off of, by the way), that your house is a mess.

Here. Try this: Go home. Smear peanut butter, jam and Cheese Whiz all over your sofa. Then squeeze honey all over your carpet, and empty a tub of icecream over top (for good measure, of course!). Now spray about 30 grape juiceboxes all over your walls and windows (note: must be grape, apple juice simply doesn’t do enough damage). Now toss a couple of fish sticks and chicken nuggets behind your sofa and leave them there for 9 months. Last, but not least, grab a Sharpie and scribble all over your plasma screen. THEN tell me your f*cking house is a mess!

“I feel fat”

Here, try this one on for size… Put your perfectly-pedicured, callus-free feet in my fat-ass shoes for a second. Then strap a nap sack on backwards. Fill it with 60 pounds of soiled diapers. Then take 2 melons and shove them down your bra. (Note: If your bra is not touching the floor, your melons aren’t heavy enough. Try again!) Now take 2 loafs of bread, soak them in water and tape them to your outer thighs. Now take 1025 apples and scatter them around the room, and squat down and pick them all up while wearing your “mom suit”. THEN tell me you feel fat… I dare you!

“Sorry I’m late. I slept through my alarm”

The fact that after an uninterrupted sleep, you have the ability to sleep through your alarm indicates to me that you basically slept in! To which I reply: Screw you!

Try this instead: Right when you are about to sit down and relax for the evening… Don’t! Get up and go catch yourself a bird (must be alive). Now sit down, and attempt to keep the bird on your lap while you read the same story, over and over and over again. When the bird starts to squawk and peck at your face to the point of blood, smile and tell the bird that you love it to the moon and back again. Now for beddy bye bye BYE, grab a 30 pound cinder block. Slow dance with the chuck of cement for about 2 hours. Wake up at 12:30am. Repeat. Wake up at 2:30am. Repeat. Wake up at 4:30am and start your day… with a smile, of course! As I said… screw you and your alarm!

“I SO need a vacation”

Don’t we all! But you see, here’s the difference. Your vacation will be just that… a vacation. You will fly to the destination of your choosing. You will relax. You will drink. You will feast. You will REST.

For those of us who are serving a life sentence for one drunken night of unprotected sex, we then further suffer the consequences by having to go to f*cking Disney World… every year… for eternity!

“I’m so broke”

I hear ya’. Michael Kors bags don’t come cheap these days, do they?

How ’bout this instead… Every week, go to the grocery store and simply hand over your wallet. Then go to the bank and have them drain ALL your accounts, retirement savings and stocks and bonds, along with your dignity. Most likely this won’t be enough to cover your car payments, loans and mortgage. Oh well, what can you do? Nothing says I LOVE YOU like DEBT!  Simply go home and drink copious amounts of wine… because really it’s the only ‘liquid asset’ to your name at this point.

People, the reality is Parents and Non-Parents tend to drift apart in the post-baby-world. Only it’s NOT because they have little left in common, rather because their once stylish, fun, hygienic friends now smell like they’ve marinated themselves in vomit and peanut butter, wear sweat pants (with elastic ankles), have a blank look in their eyes and drive minivans. Trust me, I don’t want to hang out with myself either!

But really, I think we all just need to get over ourselves. In the end, whether a Parents or a Non-Parents… we all still have one thing in common: WINE!

So let’s leave our sensitivity caps at the door… Let’s simply come together and agree to whine less, and wine more.

Cheers,

Red Whino

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PS. Please know that when I refer to “Non-Parents” in the above post, I am referring to those who intentionally chose not to have children, or want them eventually but just not yet. I am NOT referring to the ‘non-parents’ who are desperately trying to bring a wee one into their lives, whether via adoption, surrogacy, IVF or the good ole’ fashion way. I already consider you Team Parent… cause eventually your dream will come true and you’ll be driving a minivan in no time. Peace!