August 29, 2025 • 29 mins
How should we define wealth? To find the answer, your humble host, Adryana Jade, tells the story behind her obsession with shopping…and how it reveals the true definition of being rich.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:03):
This is red Pilled America. This Labor Day holiday, we're
giving you fifty percent off of our annual redpilled America
dot com entry level membership. If you've been hesitating becoming
a backstage subscriber, now's the time to join. Just go
do redpilled America dot com and click the Labor Day
offer near the top of the page. Then enter discount
(00:23):
code Labor Day fifty for fifty percent off an annual
entry level subscription. You'll get add free access to our
entire catalog of episodes. Join the fanbam and support storytelling
that aligns with your values. This Labor Day, help us
save America one story at a time.
Speaker 2 (00:39):
Now onto the show.
Speaker 1 (00:43):
Wealth. It's what every American seems to desire. The driving
force behind the American dream appears to be the ability
to buy things. I need you.
Speaker 3 (00:54):
Guys to watch me talk about my watches. I'm really rich.
Speaker 1 (00:58):
If I want the new Massarati, I'MC twenty the Spider.
Speaker 2 (01:01):
I'm gonna text my boy, Yeah, fully back every option
and it's gonna come out the bank, and I gonna
know this.
Speaker 1 (01:06):
I'm you know, if I'm going for forty five days,
I like to take forty five watches with me. But
the dumbest question I've ever asked myself, I said, well,
you know, how much does the earth cost?
Speaker 2 (01:16):
Kim Kardashian just bought Elon Musk's robot.
Speaker 1 (01:20):
But does the ability to buy things make you rich?
How should Americans define wealth?
Speaker 2 (01:28):
I'm Patrick Carelchi and I'm Adriana Cortes and.
Speaker 1 (01:32):
This is Red Pilled America, a storytelling show.
Speaker 2 (01:36):
This is not another talk show covering the day's news.
We're all about telling stories.
Speaker 1 (01:41):
Stories. Hollywood doesn't want you to hear stories.
Speaker 2 (01:44):
The media mocks stories about everyday Americans at the globalist ignore.
Speaker 1 (01:50):
You can think of Red Pilled America as audio documentaries,
and we promise only one thing, the truth. Welcome to
Red America. How should Americans define wealth? Define the answer?
(02:13):
Your humble host tells the story behind her obsession with
shopping and how it reveals the true definition of being rich.
Speaker 2 (02:22):
I heard my mom's voice come through the phone. Do
you want to go to Marshalls with me? Teachers say
there is no such thing as a dumb question, But
asking me if I want to go to an off
price retail chain store is the exception to that rule.
My heart skips a beat at the sheer thought of
buying things I don't need for a fraction of the price.
Speaker 3 (02:44):
Uh.
Speaker 2 (02:44):
I absolutely want to go to Marshall's. I practically shouted
into the phone. I'm ready now, she said, can you
be here in half an hour time me? I challenged her.
My pulse raced, anticipating the savings bonanza that awaited me
in just thirty short minutes. I have a bit of
a love affair with off price retailers like Marshall, TJ Max,
and Home Goods. They draw me in like a thrifty
(03:06):
moth to a frugal flame. There's something about scoring faux
luxury items at rock bottom prices. It tickles every sense
in my body. I strut through those aisles like a
penny pinching peacock, mentally high fiving myself with every deal
I find. Once I'm back home, I proudly display the
firesale findes to my husband Patrick. Uh, guess how much
this costs? I squeal an excitement, holding up a designer
(03:29):
knockoff like it's the Holy Grail. He gives me the
beats me shrug. My husband has perfected that supportive yet
resigned reaction. Fourteen ninety nine. It was originally eighty nine dollars.
Can you believe that I proudly be reveling in the
glory of my thriftiness while my husband contemplates his life choices.
After over twenty years of marriage, he's come to terms
(03:51):
with the fact that his spouse is a certified chapaholic
beyond redemption. In my defense, I've become quite the savvy
shopper over the years. You see what I've learned over
many retail therapy sessions is that but it's not about
the price tag. It's about the thrill of the hunt.
Whether it's nine ninety nine or nine hundred ninety nine dollars,
the rush of buying is all the same. I don't
(04:13):
need high end labels to get my fix. The cheap
stuff works just as well. My husband calls it death
by a thousand cuts. I mean, do I prefer the
good stuff? Duh? But thank goodness for off price retailers
like Marshalls. So what if I have more throw pillows,
then I have throw pillow worthy surfaces. It's called interior decorating.
(04:33):
Look it up. You know what I love more than
scouring for deals? Scouring for deals with my mom. She
is my partner in discount crime, my fellow traveler in
the bargain basement abyss. Together we conquer the ransacked dials
of home goods and emerge triumphant, clutching our low priced loot,
(04:57):
ready to face the world with our wallets intact. But
that wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom and
I didn't really shop, at least not in the way
people mean when they say they've gone shopping. When we
did go out, it was strained. Every item we picked
up came with the weight of a budget about to break.
(05:18):
There just wasn't any room for luxuries. One of my
earliest shopping memories with my mom was when I was
about five. We were at Kmart and I got it
in my head that I needed a bra, a very
large bra. Maybe it was a premonition of what was
to come. My mom and aunt thought it was funny
at first, but when I didn't let it go and
through a tantrum, they quickly realized I meant business. Getting
(05:42):
what I want at all costs may have been another
early indicator of what was in store for my future,
because shopping became my vice, and not in a shallow way.
It was more about accomplishment, about aspiration, about the thrill
of possibilities. When I was little and got money for
my birthday, I always wanted to spend it at the
Hallmark store on a card, a Precious Moments figurine, or
(06:04):
a mug all for my mom. Gifting has always been
a part of my love language. I think it's because
I didn't get a lot growing up, and when I did,
I felt an immense sense of gratitude. So now I give,
and giving to my mom that feels like a full
circle moment of pride. It's more than just stuff. It's
a celebration of where we came from and how far
(06:25):
we've come. Now, before I go on, I must say
that my mom and I share a language only we understand.
That's our Racketeia. My mom often says it's derived from
the word racketeering, but in Gloria speak, if something is
a racketeria, then someone is committing extortion. You see, my
mom doesn't just speak English, she speaks Gloria, a homegrown
(06:46):
hybrid of spanglish, sass and what just feels right to her.
And I have to say it usually makes sense. I've
spent a lifetime learning it like a second language. A
few favorites from the Gloria Glossary munchers and munchers are
(07:09):
people who mooch off others. Don't be a muncher, she'll say,
side eyeing someone who's overstayed their welcome and eaten all
the snacks. Blunt is what she says when food has
no flavor. This rice is blunt, she'll mutter, disgusted by
the lack of seasoning. Then there's coal anger. That's callander
(07:29):
for the uninitiated, you know the thing you use to
strain pasta squash. It is another term that means forget it,
as in don't be mad, squash it. And of course,
her iconic take on the English language acquitted guilty. She
(07:50):
once said it during a heated debate about the O. J.
Simpson trial. He was acquitted guilty, she declared. To most
people that phrase makes zero sense, but to me, I
knew exactly what she meant. Oh Jay got away with murder.
And there are certain sounds that never quite land for her.
Any word starting with S gets an e h tacked
(08:13):
onto it, as in a squash, a Spanish or a start.
And when she says weird, it comes out as weird.
The d is somehow silent. People laugh at her gloriaisms,
and I do too, but with deep affection because even
when it doesn't make sense, I understand her. I always
have her. Words like her are unapologetically unique. It's not
(08:36):
just a way of speaking, it's a way of seeing
the world. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. I've
had a lifelong affection for Gloria speak, but for the
outside world it was a different story, and in one
vulnerable childhood moment, someone used it to shame me.
Speaker 1 (08:51):
Licorice, licorice, Where art thou licorice? If you listen to
Red Pilled America, you know that I love licorice. And
there is no licorice in America better than the delicious
or a licorice made by the licorice Guy. The licorice
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(09:14):
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Trust me, you will not regret it. It's time to
dump that store bought liquorice but so hard it'll break
(09:35):
your teeth and get yourself the soft, fresh stuff from
the Licorice Guy. What I also love about the Liquorice
Guy is that it's an American family owned business. It's
made right here in the beautiful US of A. We
are big proponents of buying American and supporting American workers.
Right now, Red Pilled America listeners get fifteen percent off
when they enter RPA fifteen at checkout. Visit Licoriceguy dot
(09:59):
com and enter RPA fifteen at checkout. That's erguide dot com.
A ship daily, treat yourself and those you love and
taste the difference.
Speaker 2 (10:10):
Welcome back to Red Pilled America. Once, when I was
in the fourth grade, my teacher gave a writing assignment.
Go home, pick a family recipe from your home recipe box,
and write it down. She was trying to teach us
about sentence structure and instructional writing or whatever cute.
Speaker 3 (10:26):
Right.
Speaker 2 (10:29):
Well, the problem was we didn't have a recipe box.
My mom didn't have time to jot down recipes, meticulously
recording the measurements and tablespoons and degrees fahrenheit. She was
a single mom on the balls of her ass just
trying to get food on the table. In our house,
the only recipe was what's in the fridge and how
far can we stretch it? When I got home, I
(10:52):
had nothing to jot down, so it quickly slipped my mind.
When the assignment due date rolled around, I of course
had completely forgotten about it. Don't forget to turn in
your recipe assignment, my teacher announced at the end of
the school day. Total panic ensued. I sat at my desk,
my mind racing for a solution, and then it hit me. Jello,
(11:16):
two ingredients, easy perfect. I had watched my mom make
it dozens of times, but I never actually read the box.
So I wrote the recipe the way I heard it
from my mom, which in my house was in a
thick gloria accent. My mom didn't say jello, she said yellow,
so that's what I called it. I turned in a
(11:38):
recipe titled yellow with the instructions boil the water, then
add the yellow, mix it, and then put it in
the fridge. Voila. It made perfect sense to me. The
next day, the teacher stood at the front of the
class handing back our papers, and she decided to make
an example out of someone. I still remember her voice,
full of smugness, announcing most of you turned in great
(12:01):
to recipes, but one person turned in something called yellow.
They couldn't even spell jello correctly. The class laughed, and
I just sat there, frozen, face hot, heart pounding. I
didn't raise my hand, didn't explain. I sank lower and
lower into my desk, wishing I could melt into the floor. Normally,
(12:23):
I'm not the type to feel small. I've always had
this internal sense that what people think of me is
really their problem. But in that moment, in the fourth grade,
in a school where I already felt like a visitor,
it was very, very different. I just swallowed the shame
and stared at my desk, holding back tears and resentment.
I didn't go home and tell my mom that's never
(12:44):
been my style. I knew she had enough on her plate,
and I wasn't about to make her feel bad about
not having a recipe box. That kind of shame didn't
belong to her it belonged to the teacher. But I've
learned some things since then. I speak and wear my
mother's language like a badge of honor, not just her words,
but her resilience, her human and her hustle. My mom
(13:07):
is quite the character, a brand she wears with pride,
much to the amusement and occasional bewilderment of those around her.
From a very early age, I recognized that my mom
was a little quirky, different from the other suburban moms
for sure. Yet never once did I doubt her credentials
as a good mom. Well not since the eye opening
experience I had at the tender age of six courtesy
(13:30):
of my friend Karini. Karini and her clan, who lived
across the street hailed from the Middle East. They brought
with them not just exotic cuisine, but also a unique
approach to discipline that made my upbringing look like a
walk in the park. Picture this a plate of aromatic
delicacies arriving at our doorstep, a gesture perhaps born from pity,
(13:54):
as we were the only mother daughter duo fending for ourselves.
I savored every bite, even if it came with the
side of sympathy. But the friendship came with bage. Whenever
Karini dared to speak out of turn, her mother unleashed
a swift Ninja like strike to her larnings. She would yell,
shush it, and accompany it with a blow to the
(14:14):
vocal cords. The first time I witnessed this, I was
frozen in shock. When Karini's mom was feeling really irritated,
rapid fire karate chops ensued, leaving Karini gasping for air
and me looking like a deer caught in headlights. In
that moment of chaos and confusion, I had an epiphany.
(14:36):
My mom, with all of her quirks, was an absolute
saint by comparison. Sure she may have had her moments,
but at least she never resorted to martial arts as
a means of discipline, and for that I will be
forever grateful. My mom and I are very close and
(15:01):
we speak daily on the phone, sometimes multiple times a day.
In many ways, our relationship is similar to that of
sisters because she popped me out at the ripe old
age of eighteen, practically a kid herself, so in essence,
we're a dynamic duo that grew up together for many
years it was just me and her navigating life on
our own. Sure, there were some additional players introduced when
(15:23):
my siblings barched onto the scene, but being light years
ahead and age, it still felt like it was just
me and Mom against the world. My writing joke is
that I'm basically my mom's standing husband, because we've tackled
life's twists and turns together like a seasoned pair of
old prose. When I turned fifty, I contemplated buying my
mom a gift for our golden anniversary. Life with my
(15:45):
mom has been akin to a roller coaster ride, a
mixture of fun and excitement peppered with a hint of terror.
Like many moms and daughters, we've had showdowns that could
rival any heavy weight boxing match Tyson versus Holy Field Police.
They don't hold a candle to our face offs, But
beneath the jack and jows, she's still my mom and
(16:05):
I'm her baby. And at the end of the day,
my mom is my greatest confidant, my closest friend, and
when we're together laughter fills the room. Now, I want
to talk about my mom's superpowers. First up her ability
to sniff out a rat like a bloodhound on a mission. Seriously,
if there's an awkward silence or a hint of deception,
(16:26):
she's on it. Like white on rice and her honesty.
It's so brutally raw it could give Sushi a run
for its money. There's no sugarcoating in her vocabulary, just
straight up, unfiltered truth bombs. The latter can be both
endearing and off putting. Case in point, our trip to
(16:47):
Marshall's late last year. What do you need to get
my mom athed? As she got into my car. I'm
not sure, I replied, we'll find something. She assured me.
We sashet into Marshalls like we owned the joint. My
mom and I ready to tackle the discount racks like
a pack of ravenous hyenas. It's a dance, a bargain ballet,
(17:07):
So I pirouetted towards a fifty pack of pink velvet hangers.
My mom shimmeed over to a fer Isle sweater for Pablo,
my pampered English bulldog, because even dogs need a winter wardrobe.
And let's not forget my magnum Opus rachel Zoe hoop earrings.
Who doesn't need hoops? The size of the rings of
Saturn After about an hour of shopping, we got in
(17:29):
line to pay. It was your standard check out, a
single file line that leads to an array of cashiers.
Once a cashier opened up, the next person at the
head of the line filled the spot. As we inched
towards the head of the line, my mom's mood took
a noticeable turn. I thought perhaps she was put off
because she, a yoga enthusiast, didn't find any yoga pants
(17:50):
in the clearance section. What's wrong, I asked, Look at
that guy, She hissed as she glared at one of
the cashiers, her face contorting like she just bitt in
a lemon. How sick can you be? She added. My
mother's reaction suggested that that guy had committed some sort
of public indecency. I took a deep breath and turned
(18:10):
to face the cashier in question, and there he was
public enemy number one. But as my eyes adjusted, I
saw nothing. He was just a regular guy, albeit one
who treated his hair like a salad and wasn't shy
about adding the dressing. What's the matter with him, I inquired,
He's a scratching like a monkey at the zoo. My
mother replied with the subtlety of a foghorn. Mom, keep
(18:34):
your voice down, I said, hoping not to create a
spectacle at the checkout line. But it was too late.
She was knee deep into a tirade against the griminess
of public scratching. The guy has an itch, let him scratch,
I whispered, trying to de escalate the situation. Oh no,
that's weird, she retorted, Who cares, I began to say
(18:58):
when I caught a glimpse of what had my mom's
panties and a bunch. Oh my goodness, gracious, it was bad,
a full blown, no holds barred exhibition of something that
should be reserved for the privacy of one's own bathroom.
(19:20):
The young man behind the cash register was going to
town on well, let's just say he was scratching like
he had a bad case of genital crabs. As I
witnessed this grotesque display, I began praying to Mother Mary
that we did not end up at his cash register.
But fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.
(19:40):
Next in line, cashier register number five, glared the overhead speaker.
Just like that, we found ourselves face to face with
none other than itchy Ritchie himself, and that's when Mom
decided to let him have it.
Speaker 1 (20:05):
This Labor Day holiday, we're giving you fifty percent off
of our annual Redpilled America dot com entry level membership.
If you've been hesitating becoming a backstage subscriber, now's the
time to join. Just go to Redpilled America dot com
and click the Labor Day offer near the top of
the page. Then enter discount code Labor Day fifty for
fifty percent off an annual entry level subscription. You'll get
(20:27):
add free access to our entire catalog of episodes. Join
the fanbam and support storytelling that aligns with your values.
This Labor Day, help us save America, one story at
a time.
Speaker 2 (20:45):
Welcome back to Red Pilled America. So as my mom
and I were waiting in line, she noticed the cashier
was feverishly scratching or the sun don't shine. I began
praying to Mother Mary that we did not end up
at as cash register, but fate, it seemed, had a
wicked sent of humor. Next in line cashier register number five,
(21:09):
and just like that, we found ourselves face to face
with none other than Itchy Ritchie himself. That's when my
mom went into action. What's wrong with you eaching and
it's scratching to balls? I want to speak to the manager.
Cue the awkward music. I did what any emotionally resilient
(21:29):
adult child of a public scene starter would do. I
tried to pretend scratch gate wasn't happening. Maybe if I
just stared at the gift card rack long enough, this
would all go away. But that tactic has never worked
with my mom. Once Gloria gets going clear the area,
I did a slow, discreet scan of the store. Was
anyone I knew here? Was there a hidden camera? Could
(21:52):
this moment be immortalized in a TikTok clip titled Unhinged
Latina lady goes off in a marshal's while disheveled daughter watches.
What would my red pilled America listeners think? I suddenly
realized I wasn't camera ready, so I slipped on my
sunglasses in a pathetic attempt to go incognito, praying no
one would recognize me. The line was long, the store
(22:13):
was packed, and every set of eyes was on us.
People were staring. In fact, the cashier at the next
register stopped ringing up her customer She was completely riveted,
her eyes wide, mouth agape. I offered her a tight
lift smile, which she did not return. She was locked
in on my mom boy, needing to know what was
going to happen next. Truth be told. My mom has
(22:36):
done this kind of thing before, but it usually involves waiters.
When I hear her say can I speak to the manager?
Which is often I know to brace myself. I considered
slipping away to the candle aisle and claiming no relation,
but I knew better. We ride together. We died together,
bargain hunters for life. Now, for those unfamiliar with Gloria's
(22:57):
signature move, allow me to explain the can I speak
to the manager moment. It's her piece de resistance. I've
seen her wield it with the accuracy of a master swordswoman.
These moments always begin the same way. She pauses, her
eyes narrow, and she says something like I don't understand
how this is okay with ju or June. Need to
(23:20):
understand this is not okay. Her indignation isn't performative. She
is genuinely perplexed, deeply confused, offended on behalf of the
public who does that Davidyanna, She'll ask me, shaking her head.
She'll always cap it off with some form of I
need to speak to the manager. I tried to intercept
(23:42):
squash it ma. It's her phrase that I've adopted as
a verbal fire extinguisher, but it never works, never, not once.
So there we were, Gloria in full form, demanding hygiene
reform from a poor twenty something just trying to clock out,
me wondering if I could disappear into a bin of
discounted throw pillows. And yet, for all the squirming, this
(24:03):
is the woman I adore. Her ability to turn everyday
errands into cautionary tales and viral moments is unparalleled. My
mom wasted no time in unleashing a verbal barrage upon
the itchy lad, questioning the morality of his scratching habits
with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.
Why'd you keep a scratching gew balls like that? Wasn't
(24:24):
that WoT you? She demanded, her accent lending an extra
layer of indignation to her words. Itchy Richie stood frozen,
as if my mother had just brandished a weapon, and
demanded the contents of the cash register. He looked as
bewildered as I felt. But even I wasn't prepared because
I just didn't have the words as scratching and jew
balls on my bingo card. That day, a tense standoff ensued.
(24:53):
Itchy Richie stared wide eyed at my mom, my mom
staring him down like a gunslinger in a Western, and
I was just trying to desperately disappear into the dirty floor. Finally,
my mom repeated her demand, I want to speak to
the manager. In an effort to mentally check out, I
started daydreaming about Pablo wearing his new fare Isle sweater.
(25:15):
I imagined to him parading around the living room like a
canine runway model. But I couldn't stay in fantasyland long
because my mom was in rare form, recounting childhood stories
of trying to teach my brother to keep his hands
to himself. Just as I began planning my escape route,
(25:36):
perhaps to the home to cor Isle, fate tossed us
one last curveball. A beleaguered looking manager finally arrived, clipboard
in hand and dread in her eyes. She was clearly
bracing herself for the Category five storm that is my
mother mid tirade. Hello, ma'am, I'm the store manager. Can
I help you? My mom wasted no time? Is this
(25:57):
what Marshall's wants? My mom demanded a managing himself to
death in the public. The poor woman nodded solemnly, her
corporate soul crumbling. Understand your concerns, ma'am. I'll speak to him.
Thank you, my mom replied. She then turned to the
cashier with the intensity of a courtroom judge, and left
him with her final verdict. No more a scratching for jewel.
(26:21):
The kid powed into submission, only mustering a meek nod.
He rang me up in silence. I considered making a
joke to lighten the mood, but decided against it. You see,
my mother was right and he needed to learn his lesson.
So I let the cashier marinate in his new found enlightenment,
a silent gift from me to him. After all, isn't
(26:43):
a little public shame the secret ingredient to personal growth?
And so, with our heads held high and my cheeks
burning with embarrassment, we bid adieu to Marshals, vowing never
to return for at least a week, because when it
comes to bargain hunting. There's no stopping the dynamic duo
that is me and my mom will brave the most
awkward encounters and endure the most cringe worthy moments, all
(27:06):
in the name of scoring the best deals in town.
I guess you could say that our desire for deals
is akin to an insatiable itch demanding to be scratched,
(27:37):
which leads us back to the question how should America
define wealth. Wealth isn't how many things you own. Although
I do love a stockpile of gold, real wealth is family, Mom,
and I love jaunting down to the off price retail
chain store. The thrill of bargain hunting is intoxicating, But
(27:58):
when I think about it, what I really look forward
to on our shopping escapades is the time I get
to spend with my mom. Moments like Scratchgate used to
leave me mortified, but now they've become the stories I
retell at dinner parties, the ones that get the biggest
laughs and the warmest reactions because everyone innately understands that
family is real wealth. With every outrageous scene, every Gloria
(28:22):
ism shouted at the checkout counter, I've learned the true
value of bargain hunting. I may enjoy finding that fourteen
ninety nine item that was originally eighty nine dollars, but
the time spent with my mom is priceless, because for
all of her quirks and contradictions, she is a force
of nature. She is the blueprint, the original, the woman
who taught me how to find the humor and heartache,
(28:44):
the poetry and poverty, and the power in being fully yourself,
even if that self occasionally demands to speak to the manager. Yes,
it's nice to have a fat bank account, but take
it from someone that has been both cash rich and poor.
Money does not make you rich. Comedian Own Benjamin said
it best when he said family is wealth.
Speaker 3 (29:05):
The goal of life is family, and it really is
just family. Family is just a tremendous truth in this
world that when you're seeing through the veil a little bit,
everything else that you think matters so much doesn't at all.
Speaker 1 (29:24):
Be sure to check out Adrianna's fashion Instagram. Adrianna Underscore
Jade Red Pilled America is an iHeartRadio original podcast. It's
owned and produced by Adrianna Cortez and me Patrick CARELCI
for Inform Ventures. You can listen to our entire back
catalog of episodes ad free by becoming a backstage subscriber.
To subscribe, just visit Redpilled America dot com and click
(29:45):
join in the top menu. Thanks for listening.
This is red Pilled America. This Labor Day holiday, we're
giving you fifty percent off of our annual redpilled America
dot com entry level membership. If you've been hesitating becoming
a backstage subscriber, now's the time to join. Just go
do redpilled America dot com and click the Labor Day
offer near the top of the page. Then enter discount
(00:23):
code Labor Day fifty for fifty percent off an annual
entry level subscription. You'll get add free access to our
entire catalog of episodes. Join the fanbam and support storytelling
that aligns with your values. This Labor Day, help us
save America one story at a time.
Speaker 2 (00:39):
Now onto the show.
Speaker 1 (00:43):
Wealth. It's what every American seems to desire. The driving
force behind the American dream appears to be the ability
to buy things. I need you.
Speaker 3 (00:54):
Guys to watch me talk about my watches. I'm really rich.
Speaker 1 (00:58):
If I want the new Massarati, I'MC twenty the Spider.
Speaker 2 (01:01):
I'm gonna text my boy, Yeah, fully back every option
and it's gonna come out the bank, and I gonna
know this.
Speaker 1 (01:06):
I'm you know, if I'm going for forty five days,
I like to take forty five watches with me. But
the dumbest question I've ever asked myself, I said, well,
you know, how much does the earth cost?
Speaker 2 (01:16):
Kim Kardashian just bought Elon Musk's robot.
Speaker 1 (01:20):
But does the ability to buy things make you rich?
How should Americans define wealth?
Speaker 2 (01:28):
I'm Patrick Carelchi and I'm Adriana Cortes and.
Speaker 1 (01:32):
This is Red Pilled America, a storytelling show.
Speaker 2 (01:36):
This is not another talk show covering the day's news.
We're all about telling stories.
Speaker 1 (01:41):
Stories. Hollywood doesn't want you to hear stories.
Speaker 2 (01:44):
The media mocks stories about everyday Americans at the globalist ignore.
Speaker 1 (01:50):
You can think of Red Pilled America as audio documentaries,
and we promise only one thing, the truth. Welcome to
Red America. How should Americans define wealth? Define the answer?
(02:13):
Your humble host tells the story behind her obsession with
shopping and how it reveals the true definition of being rich.
Speaker 2 (02:22):
I heard my mom's voice come through the phone. Do
you want to go to Marshalls with me? Teachers say
there is no such thing as a dumb question, But
asking me if I want to go to an off
price retail chain store is the exception to that rule.
My heart skips a beat at the sheer thought of
buying things I don't need for a fraction of the price.
Speaker 3 (02:44):
Uh.
Speaker 2 (02:44):
I absolutely want to go to Marshall's. I practically shouted
into the phone. I'm ready now, she said, can you
be here in half an hour time me? I challenged her.
My pulse raced, anticipating the savings bonanza that awaited me
in just thirty short minutes. I have a bit of
a love affair with off price retailers like Marshall, TJ Max,
and Home Goods. They draw me in like a thrifty
(03:06):
moth to a frugal flame. There's something about scoring faux
luxury items at rock bottom prices. It tickles every sense
in my body. I strut through those aisles like a
penny pinching peacock, mentally high fiving myself with every deal
I find. Once I'm back home, I proudly display the
firesale findes to my husband Patrick. Uh, guess how much
this costs? I squeal an excitement, holding up a designer
(03:29):
knockoff like it's the Holy Grail. He gives me the
beats me shrug. My husband has perfected that supportive yet
resigned reaction. Fourteen ninety nine. It was originally eighty nine dollars.
Can you believe that I proudly be reveling in the
glory of my thriftiness while my husband contemplates his life choices.
After over twenty years of marriage, he's come to terms
(03:51):
with the fact that his spouse is a certified chapaholic
beyond redemption. In my defense, I've become quite the savvy
shopper over the years. You see what I've learned over
many retail therapy sessions is that but it's not about
the price tag. It's about the thrill of the hunt.
Whether it's nine ninety nine or nine hundred ninety nine dollars,
the rush of buying is all the same. I don't
(04:13):
need high end labels to get my fix. The cheap
stuff works just as well. My husband calls it death
by a thousand cuts. I mean, do I prefer the
good stuff? Duh? But thank goodness for off price retailers
like Marshalls. So what if I have more throw pillows,
then I have throw pillow worthy surfaces. It's called interior decorating.
(04:33):
Look it up. You know what I love more than
scouring for deals? Scouring for deals with my mom. She
is my partner in discount crime, my fellow traveler in
the bargain basement abyss. Together we conquer the ransacked dials
of home goods and emerge triumphant, clutching our low priced loot,
(04:57):
ready to face the world with our wallets intact. But
that wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom and
I didn't really shop, at least not in the way
people mean when they say they've gone shopping. When we
did go out, it was strained. Every item we picked
up came with the weight of a budget about to break.
(05:18):
There just wasn't any room for luxuries. One of my
earliest shopping memories with my mom was when I was
about five. We were at Kmart and I got it
in my head that I needed a bra, a very
large bra. Maybe it was a premonition of what was
to come. My mom and aunt thought it was funny
at first, but when I didn't let it go and
through a tantrum, they quickly realized I meant business. Getting
(05:42):
what I want at all costs may have been another
early indicator of what was in store for my future,
because shopping became my vice, and not in a shallow way.
It was more about accomplishment, about aspiration, about the thrill
of possibilities. When I was little and got money for
my birthday, I always wanted to spend it at the
Hallmark store on a card, a Precious Moments figurine, or
(06:04):
a mug all for my mom. Gifting has always been
a part of my love language. I think it's because
I didn't get a lot growing up, and when I did,
I felt an immense sense of gratitude. So now I give,
and giving to my mom that feels like a full
circle moment of pride. It's more than just stuff. It's
a celebration of where we came from and how far
(06:25):
we've come. Now, before I go on, I must say
that my mom and I share a language only we understand.
That's our Racketeia. My mom often says it's derived from
the word racketeering, but in Gloria speak, if something is
a racketeria, then someone is committing extortion. You see, my
mom doesn't just speak English, she speaks Gloria, a homegrown
(06:46):
hybrid of spanglish, sass and what just feels right to her.
And I have to say it usually makes sense. I've
spent a lifetime learning it like a second language. A
few favorites from the Gloria Glossary munchers and munchers are
(07:09):
people who mooch off others. Don't be a muncher, she'll say,
side eyeing someone who's overstayed their welcome and eaten all
the snacks. Blunt is what she says when food has
no flavor. This rice is blunt, she'll mutter, disgusted by
the lack of seasoning. Then there's coal anger. That's callander
(07:29):
for the uninitiated, you know the thing you use to
strain pasta squash. It is another term that means forget it,
as in don't be mad, squash it. And of course,
her iconic take on the English language acquitted guilty. She
(07:50):
once said it during a heated debate about the O. J.
Simpson trial. He was acquitted guilty, she declared. To most
people that phrase makes zero sense, but to me, I
knew exactly what she meant. Oh Jay got away with murder.
And there are certain sounds that never quite land for her.
Any word starting with S gets an e h tacked
(08:13):
onto it, as in a squash, a Spanish or a start.
And when she says weird, it comes out as weird.
The d is somehow silent. People laugh at her gloriaisms,
and I do too, but with deep affection because even
when it doesn't make sense, I understand her. I always
have her. Words like her are unapologetically unique. It's not
(08:36):
just a way of speaking, it's a way of seeing
the world. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. I've
had a lifelong affection for Gloria speak, but for the
outside world it was a different story, and in one
vulnerable childhood moment, someone used it to shame me.
Speaker 1 (08:51):
Licorice, licorice, Where art thou licorice? If you listen to
Red Pilled America, you know that I love licorice. And
there is no licorice in America better than the delicious
or a licorice made by the licorice Guy. The licorice
Guy is simply the best. What sets their licorice apart
is its flavor and freshness. They have a great selection
(09:14):
of flavors to choose from, like red, blue, raspberry, black,
and green apple, just to name a few. The freshness
of the Licorice Guy is unlike anything you've ever tasted
in licorice before. Seriously, if you haven't tried licorice from
the Liquorice Guy yet, then you ain't living life right.
Trust me, you will not regret it. It's time to
dump that store bought liquorice but so hard it'll break
(09:35):
your teeth and get yourself the soft, fresh stuff from
the Licorice Guy. What I also love about the Liquorice
Guy is that it's an American family owned business. It's
made right here in the beautiful US of A. We
are big proponents of buying American and supporting American workers.
Right now, Red Pilled America listeners get fifteen percent off
when they enter RPA fifteen at checkout. Visit Licoriceguy dot
(09:59):
com and enter RPA fifteen at checkout. That's erguide dot com.
A ship daily, treat yourself and those you love and
taste the difference.
Speaker 2 (10:10):
Welcome back to Red Pilled America. Once, when I was
in the fourth grade, my teacher gave a writing assignment.
Go home, pick a family recipe from your home recipe box,
and write it down. She was trying to teach us
about sentence structure and instructional writing or whatever cute.
Speaker 3 (10:26):
Right.
Speaker 2 (10:29):
Well, the problem was we didn't have a recipe box.
My mom didn't have time to jot down recipes, meticulously
recording the measurements and tablespoons and degrees fahrenheit. She was
a single mom on the balls of her ass just
trying to get food on the table. In our house,
the only recipe was what's in the fridge and how
far can we stretch it? When I got home, I
(10:52):
had nothing to jot down, so it quickly slipped my mind.
When the assignment due date rolled around, I of course
had completely forgotten about it. Don't forget to turn in
your recipe assignment, my teacher announced at the end of
the school day. Total panic ensued. I sat at my desk,
my mind racing for a solution, and then it hit me. Jello,
(11:16):
two ingredients, easy perfect. I had watched my mom make
it dozens of times, but I never actually read the box.
So I wrote the recipe the way I heard it
from my mom, which in my house was in a
thick gloria accent. My mom didn't say jello, she said yellow,
so that's what I called it. I turned in a
(11:38):
recipe titled yellow with the instructions boil the water, then
add the yellow, mix it, and then put it in
the fridge. Voila. It made perfect sense to me. The
next day, the teacher stood at the front of the
class handing back our papers, and she decided to make
an example out of someone. I still remember her voice,
full of smugness, announcing most of you turned in great
(12:01):
to recipes, but one person turned in something called yellow.
They couldn't even spell jello correctly. The class laughed, and
I just sat there, frozen, face hot, heart pounding. I
didn't raise my hand, didn't explain. I sank lower and
lower into my desk, wishing I could melt into the floor. Normally,
(12:23):
I'm not the type to feel small. I've always had
this internal sense that what people think of me is
really their problem. But in that moment, in the fourth grade,
in a school where I already felt like a visitor,
it was very, very different. I just swallowed the shame
and stared at my desk, holding back tears and resentment.
I didn't go home and tell my mom that's never
(12:44):
been my style. I knew she had enough on her plate,
and I wasn't about to make her feel bad about
not having a recipe box. That kind of shame didn't
belong to her it belonged to the teacher. But I've
learned some things since then. I speak and wear my
mother's language like a badge of honor, not just her words,
but her resilience, her human and her hustle. My mom
(13:07):
is quite the character, a brand she wears with pride,
much to the amusement and occasional bewilderment of those around her.
From a very early age, I recognized that my mom
was a little quirky, different from the other suburban moms
for sure. Yet never once did I doubt her credentials
as a good mom. Well not since the eye opening
experience I had at the tender age of six courtesy
(13:30):
of my friend Karini. Karini and her clan, who lived
across the street hailed from the Middle East. They brought
with them not just exotic cuisine, but also a unique
approach to discipline that made my upbringing look like a
walk in the park. Picture this a plate of aromatic
delicacies arriving at our doorstep, a gesture perhaps born from pity,
(13:54):
as we were the only mother daughter duo fending for ourselves.
I savored every bite, even if it came with the
side of sympathy. But the friendship came with bage. Whenever
Karini dared to speak out of turn, her mother unleashed
a swift Ninja like strike to her larnings. She would yell,
shush it, and accompany it with a blow to the
(14:14):
vocal cords. The first time I witnessed this, I was
frozen in shock. When Karini's mom was feeling really irritated,
rapid fire karate chops ensued, leaving Karini gasping for air
and me looking like a deer caught in headlights. In
that moment of chaos and confusion, I had an epiphany.
(14:36):
My mom, with all of her quirks, was an absolute
saint by comparison. Sure she may have had her moments,
but at least she never resorted to martial arts as
a means of discipline, and for that I will be
forever grateful. My mom and I are very close and
(15:01):
we speak daily on the phone, sometimes multiple times a day.
In many ways, our relationship is similar to that of
sisters because she popped me out at the ripe old
age of eighteen, practically a kid herself, so in essence,
we're a dynamic duo that grew up together for many
years it was just me and her navigating life on
our own. Sure, there were some additional players introduced when
(15:23):
my siblings barched onto the scene, but being light years
ahead and age, it still felt like it was just
me and Mom against the world. My writing joke is
that I'm basically my mom's standing husband, because we've tackled
life's twists and turns together like a seasoned pair of
old prose. When I turned fifty, I contemplated buying my
mom a gift for our golden anniversary. Life with my
(15:45):
mom has been akin to a roller coaster ride, a
mixture of fun and excitement peppered with a hint of terror.
Like many moms and daughters, we've had showdowns that could
rival any heavy weight boxing match Tyson versus Holy Field Police.
They don't hold a candle to our face offs, But
beneath the jack and jows, she's still my mom and
(16:05):
I'm her baby. And at the end of the day,
my mom is my greatest confidant, my closest friend, and
when we're together laughter fills the room. Now, I want
to talk about my mom's superpowers. First up her ability
to sniff out a rat like a bloodhound on a mission. Seriously,
if there's an awkward silence or a hint of deception,
(16:26):
she's on it. Like white on rice and her honesty.
It's so brutally raw it could give Sushi a run
for its money. There's no sugarcoating in her vocabulary, just
straight up, unfiltered truth bombs. The latter can be both
endearing and off putting. Case in point, our trip to
(16:47):
Marshall's late last year. What do you need to get
my mom athed? As she got into my car. I'm
not sure, I replied, we'll find something. She assured me.
We sashet into Marshalls like we owned the joint. My
mom and I ready to tackle the discount racks like
a pack of ravenous hyenas. It's a dance, a bargain ballet,
(17:07):
So I pirouetted towards a fifty pack of pink velvet hangers.
My mom shimmeed over to a fer Isle sweater for Pablo,
my pampered English bulldog, because even dogs need a winter wardrobe.
And let's not forget my magnum Opus rachel Zoe hoop earrings.
Who doesn't need hoops? The size of the rings of
Saturn After about an hour of shopping, we got in
(17:29):
line to pay. It was your standard check out, a
single file line that leads to an array of cashiers.
Once a cashier opened up, the next person at the
head of the line filled the spot. As we inched
towards the head of the line, my mom's mood took
a noticeable turn. I thought perhaps she was put off
because she, a yoga enthusiast, didn't find any yoga pants
(17:50):
in the clearance section. What's wrong, I asked, Look at
that guy, She hissed as she glared at one of
the cashiers, her face contorting like she just bitt in
a lemon. How sick can you be? She added. My
mother's reaction suggested that that guy had committed some sort
of public indecency. I took a deep breath and turned
(18:10):
to face the cashier in question, and there he was
public enemy number one. But as my eyes adjusted, I
saw nothing. He was just a regular guy, albeit one
who treated his hair like a salad and wasn't shy
about adding the dressing. What's the matter with him, I inquired,
He's a scratching like a monkey at the zoo. My
mother replied with the subtlety of a foghorn. Mom, keep
(18:34):
your voice down, I said, hoping not to create a
spectacle at the checkout line. But it was too late.
She was knee deep into a tirade against the griminess
of public scratching. The guy has an itch, let him scratch,
I whispered, trying to de escalate the situation. Oh no,
that's weird, she retorted, Who cares, I began to say
(18:58):
when I caught a glimpse of what had my mom's
panties and a bunch. Oh my goodness, gracious, it was bad,
a full blown, no holds barred exhibition of something that
should be reserved for the privacy of one's own bathroom.
(19:20):
The young man behind the cash register was going to
town on well, let's just say he was scratching like
he had a bad case of genital crabs. As I
witnessed this grotesque display, I began praying to Mother Mary
that we did not end up at his cash register.
But fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.
(19:40):
Next in line, cashier register number five, glared the overhead speaker.
Just like that, we found ourselves face to face with
none other than itchy Ritchie himself, and that's when Mom
decided to let him have it.
Speaker 1 (20:05):
This Labor Day holiday, we're giving you fifty percent off
of our annual Redpilled America dot com entry level membership.
If you've been hesitating becoming a backstage subscriber, now's the
time to join. Just go to Redpilled America dot com
and click the Labor Day offer near the top of
the page. Then enter discount code Labor Day fifty for
fifty percent off an annual entry level subscription. You'll get
(20:27):
add free access to our entire catalog of episodes. Join
the fanbam and support storytelling that aligns with your values.
This Labor Day, help us save America, one story at
a time.
Speaker 2 (20:45):
Welcome back to Red Pilled America. So as my mom
and I were waiting in line, she noticed the cashier
was feverishly scratching or the sun don't shine. I began
praying to Mother Mary that we did not end up
at as cash register, but fate, it seemed, had a
wicked sent of humor. Next in line cashier register number five,
(21:09):
and just like that, we found ourselves face to face
with none other than Itchy Ritchie himself. That's when my
mom went into action. What's wrong with you eaching and
it's scratching to balls? I want to speak to the manager.
Cue the awkward music. I did what any emotionally resilient
(21:29):
adult child of a public scene starter would do. I
tried to pretend scratch gate wasn't happening. Maybe if I
just stared at the gift card rack long enough, this
would all go away. But that tactic has never worked
with my mom. Once Gloria gets going clear the area,
I did a slow, discreet scan of the store. Was
anyone I knew here? Was there a hidden camera? Could
(21:52):
this moment be immortalized in a TikTok clip titled Unhinged
Latina lady goes off in a marshal's while disheveled daughter watches.
What would my red pilled America listeners think? I suddenly
realized I wasn't camera ready, so I slipped on my
sunglasses in a pathetic attempt to go incognito, praying no
one would recognize me. The line was long, the store
(22:13):
was packed, and every set of eyes was on us.
People were staring. In fact, the cashier at the next
register stopped ringing up her customer She was completely riveted,
her eyes wide, mouth agape. I offered her a tight
lift smile, which she did not return. She was locked
in on my mom boy, needing to know what was
going to happen next. Truth be told. My mom has
(22:36):
done this kind of thing before, but it usually involves waiters.
When I hear her say can I speak to the manager?
Which is often I know to brace myself. I considered
slipping away to the candle aisle and claiming no relation,
but I knew better. We ride together. We died together,
bargain hunters for life. Now, for those unfamiliar with Gloria's
(22:57):
signature move, allow me to explain the can I speak
to the manager moment. It's her piece de resistance. I've
seen her wield it with the accuracy of a master swordswoman.
These moments always begin the same way. She pauses, her
eyes narrow, and she says something like I don't understand
how this is okay with ju or June. Need to
(23:20):
understand this is not okay. Her indignation isn't performative. She
is genuinely perplexed, deeply confused, offended on behalf of the
public who does that Davidyanna, She'll ask me, shaking her head.
She'll always cap it off with some form of I
need to speak to the manager. I tried to intercept
(23:42):
squash it ma. It's her phrase that I've adopted as
a verbal fire extinguisher, but it never works, never, not once.
So there we were, Gloria in full form, demanding hygiene
reform from a poor twenty something just trying to clock out,
me wondering if I could disappear into a bin of
discounted throw pillows. And yet, for all the squirming, this
(24:03):
is the woman I adore. Her ability to turn everyday
errands into cautionary tales and viral moments is unparalleled. My
mom wasted no time in unleashing a verbal barrage upon
the itchy lad, questioning the morality of his scratching habits
with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.
Why'd you keep a scratching gew balls like that? Wasn't
(24:24):
that WoT you? She demanded, her accent lending an extra
layer of indignation to her words. Itchy Richie stood frozen,
as if my mother had just brandished a weapon, and
demanded the contents of the cash register. He looked as
bewildered as I felt. But even I wasn't prepared because
I just didn't have the words as scratching and jew
balls on my bingo card. That day, a tense standoff ensued.
(24:53):
Itchy Richie stared wide eyed at my mom, my mom
staring him down like a gunslinger in a Western, and
I was just trying to desperately disappear into the dirty floor. Finally,
my mom repeated her demand, I want to speak to
the manager. In an effort to mentally check out, I
started daydreaming about Pablo wearing his new fare Isle sweater.
(25:15):
I imagined to him parading around the living room like a
canine runway model. But I couldn't stay in fantasyland long
because my mom was in rare form, recounting childhood stories
of trying to teach my brother to keep his hands
to himself. Just as I began planning my escape route,
(25:36):
perhaps to the home to cor Isle, fate tossed us
one last curveball. A beleaguered looking manager finally arrived, clipboard
in hand and dread in her eyes. She was clearly
bracing herself for the Category five storm that is my
mother mid tirade. Hello, ma'am, I'm the store manager. Can
I help you? My mom wasted no time? Is this
(25:57):
what Marshall's wants? My mom demanded a managing himself to
death in the public. The poor woman nodded solemnly, her
corporate soul crumbling. Understand your concerns, ma'am. I'll speak to him.
Thank you, my mom replied. She then turned to the
cashier with the intensity of a courtroom judge, and left
him with her final verdict. No more a scratching for jewel.
(26:21):
The kid powed into submission, only mustering a meek nod.
He rang me up in silence. I considered making a
joke to lighten the mood, but decided against it. You see,
my mother was right and he needed to learn his lesson.
So I let the cashier marinate in his new found enlightenment,
a silent gift from me to him. After all, isn't
(26:43):
a little public shame the secret ingredient to personal growth?
And so, with our heads held high and my cheeks
burning with embarrassment, we bid adieu to Marshals, vowing never
to return for at least a week, because when it
comes to bargain hunting. There's no stopping the dynamic duo
that is me and my mom will brave the most
awkward encounters and endure the most cringe worthy moments, all
(27:06):
in the name of scoring the best deals in town.
I guess you could say that our desire for deals
is akin to an insatiable itch demanding to be scratched,
(27:37):
which leads us back to the question how should America
define wealth. Wealth isn't how many things you own. Although
I do love a stockpile of gold, real wealth is family, Mom,
and I love jaunting down to the off price retail
chain store. The thrill of bargain hunting is intoxicating, But
(27:58):
when I think about it, what I really look forward
to on our shopping escapades is the time I get
to spend with my mom. Moments like Scratchgate used to
leave me mortified, but now they've become the stories I
retell at dinner parties, the ones that get the biggest
laughs and the warmest reactions because everyone innately understands that
family is real wealth. With every outrageous scene, every Gloria
(28:22):
ism shouted at the checkout counter, I've learned the true
value of bargain hunting. I may enjoy finding that fourteen
ninety nine item that was originally eighty nine dollars, but
the time spent with my mom is priceless, because for
all of her quirks and contradictions, she is a force
of nature. She is the blueprint, the original, the woman
who taught me how to find the humor and heartache,
(28:44):
the poetry and poverty, and the power in being fully yourself,
even if that self occasionally demands to speak to the manager. Yes,
it's nice to have a fat bank account, but take
it from someone that has been both cash rich and poor.
Money does not make you rich. Comedian Own Benjamin said
it best when he said family is wealth.
Speaker 3 (29:05):
The goal of life is family, and it really is
just family. Family is just a tremendous truth in this
world that when you're seeing through the veil a little bit,
everything else that you think matters so much doesn't at all.
Speaker 1 (29:24):
Be sure to check out Adrianna's fashion Instagram. Adrianna Underscore
Jade Red Pilled America is an iHeartRadio original podcast. It's
owned and produced by Adrianna Cortez and me Patrick CARELCI
for Inform Ventures. You can listen to our entire back
catalog of episodes ad free by becoming a backstage subscriber.
To subscribe, just visit Redpilled America dot com and click
(29:45):
join in the top menu. Thanks for listening.
Hosts And Creators
Adryana Cortez
Patrick Courrielche
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