Tag Archives: sex

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.

http://kidsactivitiesblog.com/81196/how-to-be-more-patient-with-your-kids

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.

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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

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

Monkey see. Monkey say.

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Being the responsible mother I am, I diligently drag my three kids to their swim lessons every week… regardless of the ironic fact that I would like to drown myself in the process. That is until…

I realized the gossip that happens in the change room is good… actually, better than good. Like, highschool-locker room kinda good.  So, after I’ve learned those who are having affairs and polishing off bottles of wine by 9am, and allowing their kids to watch more than 23.4 minutes of screentime a day, I also overhear the “cute” gossip.

Anonymous Mom: Jacob, when you’re finished getting dressed, we’ll go get some lunch. Are you hungry, Honey? Mommy is very hungry.

Totally normal, right? Waaaait for it…

Jacob: Is that why you were eating Daddy’s penis last night, Mommy?

OH-NO-HE-DIDN’T!!!! (Snap! Snap!)

I tried so hard to pretend I didn’t hear. I really did! But I was right next to them. Like, right next to them. I frantically tried to appear too busy to have noticed… diapering then re-diapering, diapering then re-diapering my child’s dry, clean diaper.  But I ain’t no Academy Award winning actress! I couldn’t help but burst into a hyena-like laughter.

Only Anonymous Mom wasn’t really as amused by it all as I was. In fact, she was quickly turning a deep shade of purple. This (for obvious reasons) made me laugh even more. Seriously, this mom could write her own 50 Shades of Embarrassed.

I mean, what do you say in that situation? Seriously?

“Sucks to be you?” Pun TOTALLY intended!

She clearly wasn’t impressed by her son’s unfiltered verbatim. But wouldn’t you just laugh if off? I mean, woman to woman, we can joke about these things, non?

Anyways, she wasn’t having any of it. So I just shrugged and said “Ha! Kids will say the darndest things, eh?”

But it did get me thinking… Big J and I have a little intruders of our own who roam the house at night. So we, as responsible and horny parents, must take the necessary precautions to prevent such run-ins.

But when I told Big J about it, we had different perspectives on how best to handle such a run-in. His thinking was we simply invest in some child-proof door handles. Me? Well, I was thinking it’d be safer if Mama simply goes on a “hunger strike”. I even tried to convince him that it might result in a slimmer, sexier me… Right?

So the question I put forth to you is: how does one keep the fire burnin’ when the little rug rats have descended from the womb?

Cheers, Red Whino

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