Why You’re Probably a Terrible Parent if You Have Me Babysit Your Kids

One of the many reasons I’ve chosen to not have kids is because I can’t take the pressure of forming young minds.  I just know that, despite my best efforts, I’d end up raising the next Ted Bundy or Florida face-eater.

Also, I don’t want to give up day drinking.

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Sidenote: It has been awhile since we have had a good serial killer. I keep trying to think of some recent ones, and I keep coming up with serial killers from the 90s, at best.

One of the things that comes along with the territory of not having kids is that you are prime babysitting candidate for your friends who did have kids and now spend all of their time trying to plan nights out away from them. The problem is that, since I don’t have kids, I tend to second-guess myself constantly when babysitting.

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Not long ago I babysat the youngest son of some friends while they took their oldest son to an appointment. Not 15 minutes after they left, I had to pee. Which left me with a dilemma: do I close the door to pee and leave a two-year-old unattended? Or do I leave the door open and possibly expose my vajay to a toddler? It was a toss-up so I had to call them and ask which was worse: leaving a toddler unattended or exposing my vajay to their youngest child?

After they got done laughing they said that they usually just leave the door open.

Also, if your kid turns out to look like this, STOP HAVING KIDS.

This is your child after being babysat by me. Any questions?

But exposing yourself to a toddler is not something you just assume is ok, right? Like, I don’t want him to be in therapy 20 years down the road and be all, “Things were going great until I saw my babysitter’s vajay, and then life was downhill from there.” Or worse, have it be some kind of turning point that turns him into a serial killer who murders hookers and writes “babysitter’s vajay” in blood on their dead bodies. Although then we’d finally have a more recent serial killer to reference.

And that is my point: I don’t know how the minds of kids are formed and even the shit that seems weird to me, I now just take in stride as what must be normal. I had a mom tell me the “funniest” story about how her toddler daughter shoved a tampon in her diaper because she had seen her mom do it so many times. There was part of me that was thinking, “Huh, that’s weird. Is inserting tampons in front of your child a normal thing?” but at that point, I figured that there must be so many rules to parenting, that I don’t realize which are normal and which are, in fact, bat-shit insane. At that point she could have ended the story with, “So I gave her a shot of whiskey and a smoke and sent her outside to play,” and I would have been like, “Oh, that sounds like fun.” Even though the tampon thing did kind of weird me out.

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Actually, you know what? I’m just going to put it out there: stop inserting tampons into your vag when your kids are around. If I did remember seeing that shit, it would stick with me. In a weird and uncomfortable way. I am the voice of the children. Knock it off. They don’t need to see shit going into your vag.

You think it’s bad when kids stick stuff up their noses.

And it is worse when babysitting girls because I am more keenly aware of the fact that their delicate little egos being damaged could lead to things like growing up to be a day-drinking foul mouth who writes about vagina mugshots and boner pills.

I do promise to not turn your kid into the next Bieber, which is probably worse than a serial killer or a day drinker.

I do promise to not turn your kid into the next Bieber, which is probably worse than a serial killer or a day drinker.

I once babysat the newly adopted tot of some friends and, as it was my first time with this little girl (who would later be the flower girl in my wedding), I wanted to make a good impression.

I took my little flower-girl-to-be to the food co-op to grab some snacks before we hit the park (oh yeah, I was pulling out all the stops). As I sat their with her in the produce aisle, trying to decide what to get for us to eat, my brain was like, “Strawberries would be good….no I think I heard once that you’re not supposed to give young toddlers strawberries…..blueberries? choking hazard…..bananas! No…..I think those can cause tummy aches. Apples? Shit…..I think those cause diarrhea.”

Suddenly it was no longer the produce section of the grocery store I was standing in, it was a baby killing field.

It wasn’t long before a lady with a cart was cooing over the baby and saying how darling she was. “Thanks,” I said, “She was just adopted. I have no idea what to feed her.” I went back to picking out produce before I realized how that sounded and turned around to clarify that I was not the one who had just adopted this baby, and to assure her that the baby’s actual parents did know what to feed her. Unfortunately the lady was nowhere to be seen. Presumably because she ran off to alert the proper authorities.

Of course, at this point, the poor kid started crying, so I quickly picked out a snack and gave it to her. Then kicked myself the rest of the night because I had just taught her to self-soothe with food. So….thanks Aunt Jess for Baby’s First Eating Disorder.

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Stop fucking making me divide by 12 in my head!

So rest assured, if you have a boy, I will turn him into a serial killer. And if you have a girl, I will ensure she has body issues and an eating disorder. And will probably day drink.

Parents: think twice before entrusting me with the care of your precious children.

A Web MD Diagnosis Should Be Sufficient for Getting Some Xanax

I don’t think it is FAIR that wine is not allowed to come with a Xanax pocket in the wine cork!

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WHY are these not a package deal??

I invented The Wine Cork Pocket and everything!

A crude representation of The Wine Cork Pocket

A crude representation of The Wine Cork Pocket

But wine makers are like, “There’s no way to open a bottle of wine that is corked with The Wine Cork Pocket and not drive the corkscrew through the Xanax.”

But that is just a slap in the face to the out-of-the-box thinking that led to the WineRack.

Who the hell is buying a size Small? You buy a size up to fit more wine, get with it.

Who the hell is buying a size Small? You buy a size up to fit more wine, get with it.

Plus, if wine could just come with a complimentary Xanax, it saves us from harassing our doctors who are like, “We can’t just give you Xanax just because Web MD says you have ‘general anxiety’.”

Which is BULL because, why the hell did I choose Kaiser Permanente as my healthcare provider if they are not going to offer a maximum of the very minimum of healthcare? Sure Kaiser, be stingy with the Xanax, but post a fucking flu shot pusher at every access point in your damn building, and then look at me like the outbreak monkey when I say I’d rather just catch the flu. My ability to recover from illness is rock solid but I have a very old neighbor who is mean to my dogs so I am just waiting to catch the flu so I can sneeze on her a few times. Don’t judge me Kaiser. It’s called natural selection. And you don’t know how crazy I get when someone messes with my dogs.

I’m just saying, if I wanted ethical care, I would have gone with just about any other health insurance provider but Kaiser. And Kaiser offers phone appointments rather than in-person appointments, so you can’t tell me those doctors aren’t just checking Web MD while you list your symptoms, anyways.

And Web MD clearly states that I need Xanax due to my excessive caffeine use. And the patronizing nurse didn’t help:

Nurse: Well then just cut back on your caffeine use
Me: But I need the caffeine to chase away my wine hangovers
Nurse: Then you need to cut down on your wine consumption
Me: I need to drink wine because I can’t sleep due to all my caffeine consumption, and ARE YOU EVEN FUCKING LISTENING TO ANYTHING THAT I AM SAYING?
Nurse: Mrs. Harris, you need to calm down
Me: THAT IS WHY I NEED THE XANAX!!!

Get your shit together, Kaiser!

Get your shit together, Kaiser!

Then she said she was going to email me information, which I assumed was nurse code for, “I can get you what you need on the black market but can’t say this over the Kaiser phone lines,” but all she sent me was a note that said, “I hope this helps you” along with a link to therapistlocator.net. At first I was surprised that there even is a rapist locator online, and was slightly offended that she’d think I’d want to find one, but then I remembered that I told her that part of my anxiety is awaiting the Calm-ass Husband to finally live out my fantasy of surprising me one night by putting on a ski mask and pretending to break into the house. Which will be some totally hot role play, but the element of surprise is what is really heightening my anxiety. And I do believe it was at this point that she said she was going to email me some information that she thought would help me.

But to be quite honest, if she had just given me the damn Xanax instead of worrying about improving my sex life, it kind of would have killed two birds with one stone.

Fucking Kaiser.

Vagina Fun Facts From Florida Friday

It is that time once again! Where I close the week out with the strange and insane from Florida, but only as it pertains to vaginas.

Today’s Vagina Fun Fact From Florida was sent to me by a special gal who is as finely-tuned at fighting off pervy animal control officers with ninja-like style as I. This story frankly, could not be any more perfect for Vagina Fun Facts From Florida.

This doesn’t directly involve a vagina per se, but the perpetrator in this story has a vagina, and her name is just too perfect to not give a special mention.

It seems that police in Daytona Beach were sent out to the Sun and Surf motel to see about a domestic disturbance. When they got there, the disturbance turned out to be caused by one Miss Heather D. Beaver. Ms. Beaver, to you.

Angry Beaver

Angry Beaver

Turns out that the 21-year-old Ms. Beaver got a little jealous when she saw her boyfriend talking to another woman and decided to retaliate by pulling out a gun. But instead of shooting it, she just threw the bullets at him.

Worst villainess, ever.

Once the cops got there, Ms. Beaver barricaded herself in the room. As they tried to negotiate with her, the Beav began firing off rounds from her weapon while opening and closing the door and yelling.

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The cops fired back with four canisters of tear gas, right into her room. But she is one resilient little Beaver and that just made her angry. So she fired off more rounds at the cops. That resulted in 4 more canisters of tear gas, and the Beav surrendered.

Among the charges that the Beav is facing is Attempted Murder of a Law Enforcement Officer. Ouch.

Guys, I think they’re being a little hard on the Beaver.

I hope you all had a stupendously lovely week, here is the roundup of some of my articles that you may have missed this week:

And a bonus classic article:

Stay Sunny!

Are You a WINK?

Do you know how many mom bloggers there are?

A kajillion. I know for a fact because I spent all last week counting.

Do you know how many blogs for child-free wives who love wine there are? Not nearly as many. I can’t give you an exact count because I am so exhausted from counting all the mom blogs.

I want to find these other women, my brethren. My fellow WINK wives.

WINK = Wine Inebriated No Kids. *

*I don’t want to discriminate against girlfriends who are not yet/don’t want to be wives, or lesbians who are unable to/don’t want to marry. So you’re welcome to join in.

** Ok fine, if you are a man, or a woman with kids, you can probably sneak in if you keep your topics of discussion to: wine, wine in the media, wine throughout history, wine’s impact on agriculture. Just kidding, we talk about boobs, vaginas and rescuing animals, didn’t you read my site tagline?

Calm-ass Husband and I already are part of the DINK lifestyle – Dual Income No Kids.

But that is too broad. I want to find my sisters in arms. Rather – my wives in wineglasses.

I need a Grindr for WINKs.

For those of you who don’t know what Grindr is, I’d like to welcome you, middle-aged women of the midwest. I’m really excited that you found my blog!

Grindr is basically a way gay men find other gay men in their immediate vicinity to hook up. Ugh, sorry, you might be middle-aged and from the midwest. “Hook up” means casual sex. Grindr takes all the work out of a good old fashioned booty call. You can literally log in and see who is around you and what they’re looking for, and then just meet for sex. I downloaded it to my phone to see who was looking for a good time around me:

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Hopefully someone who develops apps is reading my blog and develops a WINK app. I even came up with my profile already:

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Until then, I’m doing three things. Creating and introducing WINK (ta da!), starting WINK Wife Wednesdays, which will have either my favorite wine recipe or favorite wine product, and unveiling the badge below.

Bare the badge proudly on your website, or on your Facebook page (grab the HTML below the picture and add it to your website):

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In Defense of Soldiers, Morphine, and Uzette Salazar: With No Apologies to the Extremist Feminists

Disclaimer: I have no problem with most feminists. Just like I have no problems with most religions. I do, however, have a problem with anyone who takes their beliefs to the extreme, like Westboro Baptist Church. Note that when I am speaking of “the feminists” below, it is the extremists. Those who see the world, and everything that happens within it, through man hating, feminist-tinted glasses.

I had morphine once a few years ago and it was UH-MAZING!

That was back when the Calm-ass Husband was my Calm-ass Boyfriend and we were doing a long distance relationship while he was off at school getting claws sunk into him by a simple midwest girl who looks like a pug dog his Master in City and Regional Planning, which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds.

He had to rush me to the emergency room one weekend while visiting because I had terrible pain in my back, which turned out to be a raging urinary tract infection. They gave me morphine almost right away and, once the morphine was on board, words just started falling out of my mouth with absolutely no filter.

“You’re really pretty,” I purred to the nurse, who was inserting an IV into my hand. She nicely smiled and thanked me, but was probably thinking, “If I get hit on by one more doped-up morphine patient….”

Then the doctor came and told my Calm-ass Boyfriend that I had a urinary tract infection and began to list the reasons why I might have one, when I piped up,

“It’s because we only see each other on the weekends and so we don’t get to do it during the week, so when he visits me we have a lot, a lot, a lot of sex. Like…a LOT.”

I’ve only seen CAH freeze with a smile on his face like that one other time, which was the first time he flew to Colorado with me to visit my mom and she informed us that coconut oil is a fantastic natural lube. To her credit, she is totally right.

CAH said my little morphine outburst was humiliating. But I say, c’mon, the doctor was a dude like anyone else. You know he was mentally high-fiving CAH for being a super stud. If he knew that I would later send CAH a bunch of vagina pictures for the purpose of making him identify which one was mine, it would have been a double high-five.

Before you read the rest of this post: I request that, if you are able to listen to music, you hit “play” on the below video before scrolling down to read. I feel this post needs this specific musical accompaniment while you read it. To drive my point home:

Click here and then press “play” on the video, then come back over to my article

Recently it came to light that a soldier in Afghanistan – who just had both of his fucking legs blown off – asked the army medic treating him to see her boobs. Rather, he asked her for a second shot of morphine – because his fucking legs just got blown off – and she said she was unable to do so because she had already given him one shot, and a second shot could actually be harmful. So he said, “Well do something useful and show me your boobs.”

She refused. Which was totally her right, she was not required to bare her breasts. Also, she probably knew that, since he was on morphine, he was having verbal diarrhea of the mouth. And also, both of his fucking legs just got blown off. For all he knew, his number was up and he just wanted to see a beautiful pair of breasts one more time before he died.

I heard about this story on my favorite San Francisco morning radio show, Sarah and Vinnie at 97.3 (you should totally listen to it via podcast). The show’s producer, Uzette Salazar, jokingly chided the paramedic and said that, were it her, she would have bared her breasts to the fallen soldier.

And then the texts came in. Mean, angry, ugly texts, stating that Uzette had set the women’s movement back with that comment, even calling her a DITZ for saying that. Because referring to a woman who states her opinion as a “ditz” is totally furthering the women’s movement. When did the women’s movement turn into the thinking that women can state their opinion, but only so long as it aligns with someone else’s? God forbid you have a thought of your own. You might hurt your pretty little brain.

Well let me say this: It was the paramedics right to refuse to show her breasts, but I would have loudly applauded her if she did, and I would proudly bare my breasts to a fallen soldier. Hell, I’d proudly bare them to a random guy who asked if I thought he was actually dying. It’s his last moment, is showing your boobs really so terrible? Because to be honest, if I were dying, I may want to fondle a ball sack one last time before I go. Does that mean I am objectifying men?

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At the heart of it, when we are dying, we are just people. We are women who love men, men who love women, men who love men, or women who love women. Whatever our taste is, we are just people. And I am going to venture to say that, a soldier who’s just been gravely injured on the field, who possibly thinks he may be about to die, is no longer just “a soldier” out there. He is a guy who had a childhood, went to school, maybe played sports or loved video games, and grew up and decided to join the military. He has parents and friends and favorite TV shows. He’s probably had his heart broken at least once, and maybe he loves tacos or barbecue. Maybe he’s wishing for his girlfriend or wife. Or maybe he’s just wanting his mommy. And THAT is the guy laying on that field, maybe dying, or, at the very least, having just lost both of his fucking legs. And all he sees in front of him is a pretty girl. And since he’s a boy, who sees a pretty girl, and is in an unimaginable amount of pain, he wants to see a pair of boobs. For possibly the last time. He’s not a chauvinist – he’s a person. We are built to be sexual.

DO YOU HEAR THAT FEMINISTS? WE ARE BUILT TO BE SEXUAL. IT’S NATURE.

And in closing, I would like to point out that Jon Hamm’s bulge made the news this week. Just his bulge. His beautiful, glorious bulge.

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And I did not hear one feminist come to his defense, saying that we are reducing him to a body part, despite his repeated requests for people to stop talking about it (sorry Jon, I’m only talking about it to make a point). But if it had been January Jones’s camel toe, the feminists would have rallied that the media was reducing her to a body part. And if she had begged the media to stop talking about it, the feminist backlash would have been even worse.

Ladies, we have pretty parts. Men have sexy parts. Let’s not lose sight of this in the quest for equal pay and the right to fight in combat. To do this is to downplay that we are human, first and foremost.

And for those feminists who are pissed at this post and/or Uzette Salazar’s comment:

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Trader Joe’s Magic Boner Pills: How Trader Joe’s Men’s Daily Multivitamins Will Cause Sleepless Nights

Calm-ass Husband is a good boy. Like – goody two-shoes kind of good. He went to boarding school in England, never really partied in his youth, has never done a drug in his life, and generally did as he was told.

I, on the other hand, was forced by the cold hand of my dictator mother to go to private Catholic school because apparently public schools are “too full of gang violence” and private schools offer “better college preparation,” blah blah blah. I was less than thrilled with this plan, especially given that it was a Catholic high school, and me and the big bald guy in the sky have an equal amount of belief in each other.

I know what you’re thinking, “But God has infinite power, why would He be bald? He’d just give Himself hair.” And now realizing that God can’t control his own balding is making you question your whole belief system, and everything you’ve ever held to be dear and true is crumbling beneath your feet.

Relax, that is the devil talking. God is not having male pattern baldness. He Bics it. For the ladies.

To give you an idea of my how my young mind worked at the tender age of 14 (which will also give you insight on how I got to be the way that I am now), I walked into my first day of school at this private Catholic institution and saw a note on the door to the science lab that said, “Jesus, please fix the science room faucets – they’re leaking.”

I immediately thought to myself, “Holy shit, they pray for EVERYTHING here!”.

It wasn’t until later that I learned that our mexican janitor’s name was Jesus.

Since I went to  private Catholic school with kids who had a lot of financial means, too much time on their hands, and minimal supervision, we did a shit load of drugs  I learned a lot about the drug culture through casual observation and careful avoidance.

Where is this all going?

Well lately the Calm-ass Husband has been cutely using the term “sticky icky” when he’s referring to something sticky. It sounds adorable falling from his innocent, supple lips. But because my high school had an abundance of drugs which we did constantly behind the church a good health curiculum, I am more familiar with drug terminology than CAH and I don’t have the heart to tell him that “sticky icky” is a pot reference.

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, they totally taught the term “sticky icky” in health class. They also taught us Grand Daddy Purp, turf, Biznack, rachet jaw, H Bombs, and Disco Biscuits. It was a very progressive health class and I’m frankly not completely convinced that some of those nuns didn’t confiscate drugs from the students purely to give themselves something to do later when they were kicking back at the nunnery.

Mom is so proud of all the money she invested in tuition for my private Catholic high schooling. But hey, I’m not in a gang!

Sadly, I am now old and my days of partying it up and having fun are long gone. Disco Biscuits have become multi-vitamins. Which leads me to my new discovery.

Bonerific

Bonerific

Trader Joe’s Men’s Daily Multivitamins. AKA: Trader Joe’s Boner Pills!

I started giving these to CAH because, now that I’m his wife, I have a new interest in things like, “cholesterol” and “prostrate health.” I cannot yet vouch for what these pills are doing for his cholesterol, but let me tell you about the most amazing side effect we discovered. Rather, you can read about it in the letter I wrote to the Trader Joe’s feedback email address:

Dear Trader Joe’s,

I bought my husband your Men’s Daily Multivitamin in the vain hope that I could convince him to throw one down his gullet when he remembered. He is terrible at taking pills, you see, and being newlyweds, I didn’t want to nag too hard. We wives like to gradually add the nagging a bit at a time, so as to ease our husbands into it.

Well, my husband has been taking your Men’s Daily Multi vitamins for two weeks now and, I don’t know what kind of magic super stud potion you all concocted over there, but ever since he’s been taking them regularly my husband has been, um, “Pitching tent” right and left. Much more so in the last two weeks than in the four years that we’ve been together. Needless to say, I don’t have to push him to take the vitamins now – he happily takes them on his own.

I can’t thank you enough. Seriously. Whatever mixture you have going into those pills, don’t stop. It is perfect as is. My only regret is that I didn’t get him those vitamins two months ago when I was reading the 50 Shades of Grey Trilogy. I vote that you change the name from “Men’s Daily Multi Vitamin” to, “Trader Joe’s Magic Boner Pills.”

Thank you again.

Love,

a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very happy wife.

I’m disappointed to note that Trader Joe’s has not gotten back to me on my rebranding idea, and I’ve noticed in the stores that the pills are still called Men’s Daily Multivitamins.

It’s a shame, really, because I do believe that they’d see an uptick in sales if they were to go ahead and rename them Trader Joe’s Magic Boner Pills.

P.S. CAH usually proofs these but I decided to not have him do so this time because he’d probably talk me out of this post, just like he talked me out of the one where I rattled on about how my vajay is my best feature. I want this post to be just as much of a surprise to him as it is to all of you. It keeps our marriage interesting and non-boring. Also, I think he dies a little inside every time I press “publish.” So here I go……

Spoiler Alert On Life After Your Wedding: What to Expect Immediately After Getting Married

Wedding season is coming so I decided to weigh-in on life after your wedding now that it has been almost two years since mine.

Spoiler alerts ahead.

Not much

Not much

After me and the Calm-ass Husband got married, it was weird. Weird because everyone asked if it felt different, and it didn’t. I was fully expecting it would.

The morning after I got married, I did two things:

1. Praised myself for actually having sex on my wedding night when everyone told me that I would be too tired (drunkenly getting on all fours and yelling, “HAVE AT IT” totally counts)

2. Proceeded to remove about 1,327 bobby pins from my hair.

Seriously. I didn’t even have a full updo, how were there so many fucking bobby pins in my hair?

But that was it. I fully expected that, the morning after I got married, I would wake up with cartoon blue birds flying around my head. I’d be wearing a light pink quilted 3/4 sleeve swing robe and a matching pink chiffon scarf around my (suddenly) blonde hair in rollers, and my new husband would be smoking a pipe at the dinette set, reading the paper.

“Hello, darling,” he’d say, in that weird old-timey accent that actors had in the 1950s.

No one ever told me that, in reality, you wake up hungover because, instead of riding off in a limo after your reception is over, your dad will say “Hey let’s go get some shots at the bar next door”, which you will think is an EXCELLENT idea since you’re already pretty drunk and, as it turns out, if you walk into a bar in a wedding dress, EVERYONE in the bar will just keep buying you shots (keep THAT in mind, future brides).

Also, you will probably wake up to all of your relatives texting you to come downstairs and have breakfast already, and your friends texting you to inform you how hammered they got the night before (and you praise yourself for just buying Two Buck Chuck as your wedding wine and soaking the labels off in the tub and replacing them with personalized wedding labels because you knew after a few glasses of wine, none of the guests would care that it was cheap). And the wedding dress that you once took such pains to lovingly protect is now sprawled across the floor like some scrap you found on the clearance rack at Target. And after you apply your makeup to be sure to look halfway presentable when you go downstairs to grab breakfast, you realize that you will probably never again look as pretty as you did when you had on your wedding makeup and princess dress. And allllll of that planning that you’ve done for a year, maybe more, is over in the blink of an eye and you’re just left standing there like, “Well, back to reality.”

Also, your new husband is as hungover as you, wearing the same boxers he always wears.

Luckily he looks hot in boxers.

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But, it really feels no different. Because you were already committed to your husband for life. And you already knew you’d love him forever. And he already felt confident that you’d love him through sickness and health, and you already knew for sure that he would stick by you through thick and thin. The only people who are now sure of it, are the people who attended your wedding.

And they, too, are now waking up, hungover from cheap wine, so they probably already forgot.

And after your wedding, you will go out with friends and family for the first time since they saw you get married, and their happy, shiny faces will say, “SO?!?!?!” expectantly, and you will be like, “Soooo…..???” and they will be like, “Does it feel different??” and you will be like, “No not really, other than that when I finally do snap and murder someone, my husband won’t be required to testify against me.”

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And you will go on your honeymoon and come back, and life will go on. And not much else is different. And maybe you will try to make it different by calling each other “Mr.” and “Mrs.”, but that only halfway works because he was always technically a “Mr.” Or maybe you will relish in your new legal power and, when he’s blissfully drifting off to sleep, you will lean over and whisper in his ear, “Now it will be my decision when to pull the plug….”, and softly kiss his earlobe as his eyes snap open.

Or perhaps when you do things that annoy him, like throw pinecones in the recycling bin, he will just sigh and shake his head and say, “I love you. I have to now. It’s the law.” and you will be like, “YUP! And I have the paperwork to prove it, you are legally required to love me….FOR LIFE!!!”.

Also, you will go on Pinterest and see all these other brides-to-be, or hopeful someday brides, pinning all these great wedding ideas and think, “Fuck, why didn’t I do THAT??” in a fit of wedding remorse.

But that is about it. You don’t suddenly live in a land of sunshine and unicorns, because you were hopefully living there anyway.

So there is the spoiler alert on your life after wedding. But hey, if you’re lucky, your hilarious new Mother-in-Law, who loves to cut a rug, will own the dance floor with moves that make the entire cast and crew of Dancing with the Stars jealous.

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