Watching football, writing about relationships & everyday health || Man Utd 🔴 || Just sharing what I notice
Joined August 2026
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My husband has charged his phone to 43% every night for 6 years. Never 100%. Never 50%. Just 43%.
I always thought he was just weird about his battery.
Last night our power went out. I asked him why 43%.
He got quiet. Then he said...
My Gen Z roommate complained that I kept using his cooking oil, so I bought a separate bottle and labelled it with my name. He looked at it and said, “That's fair. We should respect ownership.” The following morning, I found my bottle untouched, but he'd used my...
The year I turned 35, my wife ran off with my childhood best friend. On the third day, his wife showed up at my door.
She didn’t cry or make a scene. She walked in carrying a bag of groceries, set it down in the kitchen, and said, “Let’s join forces and live together.” I nearly choked on my water. “What did you say?” As she sorted through the vegetables, she said, “They ran off and left us behind. The kids still have to go to school, and we still have to get by. You cook, I do the laundry, we keep our money separate, and we’ll sort things out when they come back.”
I thought it over for three days and agreed. She moved into the spare bedroom. She got up at six every morning to make porridge and helped both kids with their homework in the evenings. I worked on a construction site, and she worked the checkout at a supermarket nearby. At the end of the month, she brought out a little notebook to settle accounts: “This month, utilities were 320, groceries were 800. You owe 560.” She didn’t ask for a penny more.
Six months later, my wife came back, sobbing that the guy wasn’t reliable. Before I could say anything, my best friend’s wife came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands, and said, “You can come back, but let’s settle up first.” My wife looked at the detailed accounts on the table and turned green.
She shrugged.
“Last Tuesday you came home, said you were exhausted, and fell asleep in two minutes. I started kissing your neck and you kept saying ‘mmm’ and pulling me closer. Then you flipped me over and finished in like four minutes. You passed back out before I even got my shirt back on.”
I blinked.
“That happened?”
“You did that twice last week.”
The therapist raised her eyebrows.
“So from his perspective those nights don’t exist?”
My wife nodded.
“Exactly. And the other night he woke up at 3 a.m., reached for me, and we had sex without either of us saying a single word. He was asleep again before I came back from the bathroom.”
I looked at the therapist.
“Is this normal?”
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The therapist stayed quiet for a second.
“It’s common. But it only works if both of you are actually okay with it.”
My wife stopped smiling.
“I’m not always sure.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I don’t know if you actually want me or if your body is just responding because I’m there. And when I try to talk about it later you laugh and say ‘we had sex, what’s the problem?’”
I didn’t say anything.
The therapist leaned forward.
“Intimacy only counts for both people when both people feel like they were part of it.”
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My wife reached for my hand.
“I don’t need five times a week. I just need to know you still choose me when you’re conscious.”
I squeezed her hand.
“I do. I just… get home and shut down. I didn’t realize you were reading those nights as me wanting you.”
“I was reading them as you not wanting me enough to stay awake.”
That one hit.
The therapist closed her notebook.
“So maybe the goal isn’t a higher number. Maybe it’s fewer nights where one of you is guessing.”
My wife nodded.
“And maybe you stop pretending to be asleep when I want to talk after.”
I laughed.
“Now you’re just adding terms.”
my cousin started working at the Preço Baixo supermarket and he won’t be getting a 5-day work week with 2 days off, instead he’ll get an extra hour for lunch instead of a day off, so my aunt asked me what he could do in this case and I replied: aunt, he has to accept it because that was the offer his candidate wanted
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saying my cousin, a bozominion, that it’s going to be like this there. it started there two weeks ago. he told my aunt the story above, i’m not making anything up. the fact is she came to ask me what to do and i told her to tell him to accept any deal with his boss since that’s what he wanted anyway
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I’m just gonna be honest: when I was 19, at the height of the pandemic, I fell head over heels for an insanely cute girl at university. I used asking her to join the team I managed as an excuse to hit on her, but we only ever chatted on Instagram now and then. One day, she agreed to lend me some Demon Slayer manga, and we met outside her apartment. But the moment she took off her mask to take a photo,
I said it out loud.
Right in front of her, I blurted out, “You’re cute…”
And to make matters worse, I did it twice.
We were only in the same English class and talked every now and then, so
just getting her to agree to lend me her Demon Slayer manga
had me so happy that I immediately called my best friend and told him,
“Dude! That insanely cute girl is going to lend me her Demon Slayer manga!”
In fact, we only got to meet outside her apartment for a few minutes that day.
I was so nervous that I honestly can’t remember what we talked about lol
I think it was probably Demon Slayer or some college assignment, something like that.
But I didn’t want to just take the manga and leave.
So I said,
“Hey, let’s take a photo!”
The moment she said, “Sure!” and took off her mask, “You’re cute…” slipped out.
I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me,
but she laughed and said, “Yeah, let’s take one!”
My mind went completely blank.
And I was so nervous
that I ended up holding my phone at a low angle.
Her: “Why are you shooting from down there?! lol”
Me: “Oh, sorry, sorry lol”
Doing my awkward introvert thing,
I hurriedly tilted the phone upward
and took another one, moving a little closer than before.
Click.
We looked at the photo together.
She looked so incredibly cute in the photo, too,
that “You’re cute…” slipped out again.
Then she said,
“I can hear you, you know lol”
I was so embarrassed
that I can’t remember what I said back.
But I still remember clearly
that she was laughing.
Years have passed since then,
but that photo is still in a private folder
in Google Photos.
A photo I started taking from a low angle,
that was by no means a good shot.
But to me that day,
it was a single photo more precious than the entire Demon Slayer manga series.
By the way,
whether I ended up dating her or not—that’s for next time.
Those few precious minutes with someone you like can become a memory you never forget, no matter how many years go by.
If you finally get some time alone together, I want you to laugh together naturally instead of ending up too nervous to enjoy it, and for them to think, “I want to see you again,” on the way home.
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The doorman at our building had been working there for 28 years.
At a meeting, 18 residents voted to fire him to save $3,700 a month.
Antonio listened to the result without saying a word.
As everyone was about to get up, he pulled out a folder.
What was inside changed that meeting...
The president tried to interrupt him.
—Antonio, we understand you're upset, but the decision has already been made.
—I'm not upset. I just want you to hear me out for five minutes.
He took out the budget from the company that was going to replace him.
—It says here you'll save $3,700 a month. Right?
—Exactly.
—And has anyone read what that includes?
Silence.
Antonio began to read.
The company would only be there Monday through Friday, six hours a day. Emergencies, public holidays, and any work outside the contract would be charged separately.
—I'm here eight hours. And when a pipe bursts on a Sunday, I come in too.
One of the neighbors spoke up.
—Well, Antonio, but we can't pay more just out of sentimentality either.
Antonio nodded.
—I agree. That's why I brought the numbers.
He took out another sheet.
It was the calculation a labor advisor had prepared for him.
After 28 years, his dismissal would cost the community about $390,000 in severance, final pay, and other costs.
—Saving $3,700 a month, it would take you almost nine years to recoup that money. And that doesn't even count the company's additional bills.
The president started going through the papers.
Then Antonio said something no one expected.
—But I didn't come to ask you to change the vote.
He looked at the neighbors.
—In March I turn 65. I'd been thinking about retiring for months. I had eleven months left.
An uncomfortable silence fell.
—You could have asked me. We would have arranged my departure, found a replacement, and you would have saved yourselves all this.
The neighbor who had spoken about sentimentality looked down.
The president asked him:
—And what do we do now?
Antonio closed the folder.
—What you should have done before voting. Talk to me.
That night they held the vote again.
This time, the 18 neighbors who had supported his dismissal voted against it.
Antonio stayed until his retirement.
And the community ended up hiring the new company when he left.
By the way, the supposed savings of $3,700 had disappeared from the final budget. The company charged quite a bit more to cover the eight hours Antonio worked.
Sometimes, what's expensive isn't keeping someone on.
It's making decisions about them without having asked them anything.
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Estrella Nora retweeted
Immigration Officer: “Good morning. Are you applying for a Canadian study permit?”
Student: “Yes, ma'am.”
Immigration Officer: “You're 24. What program have you been accepted into?”
Student: “A two-year Business Administration diploma at a college in Ontario.”
Immigration Officer: “You already hold a bachelor's degree in Economics. Why go to Canada for another business-related program?”
Student: “My degree gave me a broad foundation in economics, but it didn't provide much hands-on training in how businesses operate. I've been working as an accounts assistant, and I want to build practical skills in budgeting, business planning, and management.”
Immigration Officer: “When did you graduate?”
Student: “In 2023.”
Immigration Officer: “What have you been doing since graduation?”
Student: “I've been working at a small accounting firm. I started there as an intern and was later offered a full-time job.”
Immigration Officer: “Why did you select this particular college?”
Student: “I compared a few programs, and this one includes courses in financial management, business communication, and operations. The tuition was also within what my sponsor could reasonably afford, which mattered.”
Immigration Officer: “Who is sponsoring your studies?”
Student: “My uncle.”
Immigration Officer: “Why isn't your father paying for your education?”...
Estrella Nora retweeted
I have a bit of a dilemma, and honestly, I don’t know if I’m being unreasonable.
My boyfriend has a problem with my male best friend. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and in all those years, nothing romantic has ever happened between us. He’s more like family to me, and he’s always been there for me. My boyfriend and I have been together for eight months, so I suggested they meet, spend some time together and get to know each other. I thought that might help him feel more comfortable. But he refused. He said I should simply stop talking to my best friend.
That’s where I have a problem. I’m being asked to walk away from a friendship that has lasted over 15 years for a relationship that’s only eight months old. And honestly, I don’t think that’s fair.
I found out my son was cheating on his wife on a Tuesday at the Costco in Hadley, Massachusetts. I recognized the woman in a photograph on her phone.
I was reaching for a pack of paper towels when her phone lit up on the shopping cart. A message preview appeared.
Thursday night again? Same hotel? I miss you already.
The photo above it showed Gavin standing in a hotel bathroom with his shirt off, wearing a smirk I'd known since he was fourteen and used to blame broken things on everyone except himself.
I looked at the woman's face. She was young, maybe thirty. I'd seen her at Gavin's company Christmas party the previous year. Her name was Brielle.
She noticed me looking, grabbed her phone, and walked away without saying a word.
I stood there holding a pack of paper towels, trying to convince myself I'd misunderstood what I'd just seen.
I drove home with a rotisserie chicken on the passenger seat and didn't touch it.
Gavin's wife, Marisol, had been my daughter-in-law for eleven years. She called me every Sunday, even when she was exhausted. She brought me soup when I had my gallbladder removed and never once made me feel like I was an obligation.
She was also raising my three grandchildren: Nico, nine, Lucia, six, and Teo, who was barely two and thought every dog in the world was named Dog Dog.
I sat in my driveway for forty minutes with the engine off.
And I want to be honest about what I was thinking, because I've told this story many times and usually skip this part.
I wasn't immediately thinking about Marisol.
I was thinking, Maybe I didn't see what I think I saw.
I was thinking, He's my son.
And I was remembering something that happened thirty-six years earlier.
My own mother-in-law had known my husband was cheating. I'd gone to her kitchen crying, asking if she'd noticed anything strange.
She looked at me across the table and said, "Men make mistakes, Pauline. Don't make a federal case out of it."
I went home and stayed quiet. I spent the next thirty years pretending I hadn't been humiliated.
I wasn't going to do that to Marisol.
I put the chicken in the fridge, took out my phone, and called my son….
"Mom, I'm at work," Gavin said.
"No, you're not."
There was a pause.
"You're somewhere with a bathroom mirror," I continued. "And apparently you're going back to the same hotel on Thursday."
The silence lasted eight seconds.
I counted every one.
"I don't know what you think you saw," he finally said.
"I saw enough."
"Mom, please. Don't get involved in something you don't understand."
I almost laughed.
"Your wife is raising three kids with you. I understand plenty."
He lowered his voice.
"It's complicated."
"It isn't. There's a woman named Brielle, and you're taking her to hotels."
He didn't answer.
I gave him until Thursday morning to tell Marisol himself. Not because I thought he deserved another chance to hide it, but because I wanted her to hear it from him before she heard it from me.
"If you haven't told her by Thursday, I will."
"You're going to blow up my whole life."
"No, Gavin. You already did that."
He hung up.
Thursday came. I hadn't received a call, a message, or even an excuse.
At 9:10 that morning, I drove to Marisol's house. She'd given me a spare key years earlier for emergencies.
I found her in the kitchen packing three lunchboxes. Teo was sitting on the floor eating a banana in his diaper. The radio was playing quietly.
"Pauline?" she said, smiling. "You're early. Is everything okay?"
I sat down at the kitchen table.
"Sweetheart, I need you to sit down. I'm not going to say this well."
Her smile disappeared.
I told her about Costco, Brielle, the message, and the hotel.
I didn't leave anything out.
When I finished, she picked up Teo, kissed his head, and stood there quietly.
Then she asked, "How long have you known?"
"Since Tuesday."
She looked at me.
"You could have waited for him to tell me. That's what most people would have done."
"That's what my mother-in-law did to me. I'm not doing that to you."
Marisol stared at the kitchen counter for a moment.
Then she walked to a cabinet, pulled out a thin manila folder, and placed it in front of me.
Inside were hotel receipts, credit card statements, screenshots of messages, and a handwritten list of dates.
"I've known for five weeks," she said. "I just kept hoping there was something I was missing."
I looked at the folder. My hands stayed in my lap. I didn't know what to do with them.
After a few seconds I asked, "Does Gavin know you know?"
She shook her head.
"No. I've been waiting until I had enough evidence to speak to a lawyer."
Then she sat opposite me.
"Thank you for telling me. I don't think you understand how much that means."
I reached across the table and held her hand.
For the first time since Tuesday, I felt like I could breathe.
The divorce took seven months.
Marisol hired an attorney, separated their finances, and made arrangements for the children. Gavin tried to convince everyone that his marriage had been falling apart long before Brielle.
I didn't defend him.
When Marisol's attorney asked me to testify about what I'd seen and the conversation I'd had with Gavin, I agreed. I told the truth about what I'd witnessed and what he'd said when I confronted him.
I wore my good navy dress to court.
Gavin looked at me across the room like I'd walked into a church and thrown a chair.
I looked right back.
That was four years ago.
Some members of Gavin's family stopped speaking to me. His aunt told me I should have handled the situation privately. One cousin said I had embarrassed him in front of his children.
But most of the family stayed close to Marisol.
My sister still sends the children birthday cards. My brother-in-law helped Marisol repair her fence. The cousins in Tucson still invite her and the children for Christmas.
Nobody held a family meeting to decide whose side they were on.
They simply kept showing up for the person who needed them.
Gavin calls me occasionally, usually from a number I don't recognize. His voicemails always begin the same way.
"Hey, Mom. Long time."
I listen, but I rarely call back.
Marisol and I talk every Tuesday and Friday. She's the one who taught me how to use a group chat, which I now use to send my grandchildren pictures of squirrels.
She came to my seventieth birthday and gave a toast.
She said, "Pauline once drove to my house with a rotisserie chicken in her fridge and the truth in her hands. I've never forgotten that."
Last month, Nico, who is thirteen now and has recently decided he's too cool for everything, sat beside me at the kitchen table while I worked on a crossword.
After a few minutes, he asked, "Gram, did you know Dad was a jerk before Mom did?"
I put down my pen.
"Yes."
"Was it hard telling her? Because that's your son."
I thought about the forty minutes in my driveway. The phone call. The look on Marisol's face when I told her.
"Yeah," I said. "It was hard."
He nodded, reached into his hoodie pocket, and placed a small folded card on the table.
It was written in the crooked handwriting of a boy who hated writing.
Gram,
Thank you for picking Mom. I know that was your son.
Love, Nico.
P.S. Can you teach me to make the chicken?
I read it twice.
Then I got up, found a magnet, and put it on the refrigerator.
I still have that card.
And I've never bought another rotisserie chicken without thinking about that Tuesday.
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