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Say, Say, Say

The prompt today is “in what ways do you communicate online,” and the short answer is, with restraint. Questionable restraint. But restraint nonetheless. Mostly I type, delete, retype, sigh, and then reward myself with a snack for surviving another digital interaction.

It all kind of depends on the time of day, my mood, and whether I want to stay friends with the person I’m talking to – or simply watch the world burn quietly from my couch.

Social media, in particular, is a minefield. I say and type “WTF?” far too many times a day, and “are you freaking serious?” more times than feels spiritually healthy. I’m not trying to be confrontational. I’m just responding to the chaos that is… gestures broadly… everything. Believe me, I don’t want to be doing this either. I would love peace. I would love calm. But here we are.

And if I’m feeling especially optimistic – or foolish – I’ll try to use facts to make a point. Which is deeply misguided, I know. Like bringing a pamphlet to a fistfight. But sometimes, I just can’t help myself. The truth is right there, willfully ignored, like Aunt Martha’s clacking dentures at Christmas dinner. Loud. Impossible to miss. Occasionally on the table. And yet Uncle Joe, who “knows for a fact” that loose dentures don’t make noise, will stare directly at them sitting in the mashed potatoes and insist it’s fake news.

Sometimes, my communication is entirely silent. I reply to things in my head. This is both efficient and responsible. No need for the Secret Service or my mother to show up at my doorstep.

Emails are a different beast. Here, I try to play nice. Professionally nice. But I tend to be very short and abrupt. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I know this about myself. I just forget that emails are supposed to sound like small talk at a dinner party before you get to the point. You can’t just open with, “Do you have those stats yet?” Apparently, you need the “Hello! How are you? Hope your week is going well!” first. As if any of us are ever doing well. Look, it’s a skill. I lack it. I admit this freely while continuing to not fix it.

Online dating, though… that’s a whole other circus. But not a fun one. More like a weird, acid-induced dreamscape circus. Again, not a fun one. Mostly I just laugh, occasionally shake my head, and silently mourn the loss of basic social norms. Sometimes I reach out, but usually it’s just to say, Wow. That sentence really made it all the way from your brain to the internet. That works for you, does it? Or to type, “Thanks… I think. But, um, no.” Regardless, it always ends the same way. I give up and close the app like I’ve touched something sticky and don’t know where the nearest sink is.

Really, my online communication style is less “connecting” and more “observational.” I’m watching. I’m reacting. I’m taking notes for my eventual case study, We Shouldn’t Have Been Allowed Internet Access. Because, look, humans are remarkably committed to being very wrong in very loud ways. I respect the dedication. It makes me tired. It makes me sigh deeply into my coffee. It makes me reach for my heart medicine. But you certainly can’t fault the enthusiasm people bring to confidently defending absolute nonsense.

I mean, you can. But it won’t help. Trust me.

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The Snack Question

What snack would I eat right now?

First of all, rude question. I just sat down. I was mentally prepared to do absolutely nothing for at least 12 minutes, and now you’ve activated the snack part of my brain, which is completely feral and cannot be reasoned with.

Also, picking a snack is like picking a favorite child. Impossible. Illegal in some states. And deeply dependent on what mood I’m in and whether I’ve recently been wronged. Because “snack” is not just one thing. Snack is a category of emotional support. Snack is a personality. Snack is a smile wearing crumbs.

Right now, I want something salty. But also sweet. But also crunchy. But not too crunchy, because I don’t want to lose any fillings. And it needs to be easy, because if I have to get out a plate, I’m already over it.

So maybe chips. But not just any chips. The right chips.

You know how some chips are just vehicles for salt and others feel like they’re actively trying to bring joy to your life? I want the second kind. The kind you eat straight out of the bag while watching a marathon of TikTok videos like a grease-loving bog goblin with WiFi.

But then my brain says, “Okay, but what if we balanced this with something sweet so we feel like a responsible adult who understands nutrition?”

Enter chocolate.

But again, what kind of chocolate? Because this matters. This is not a casual decision. This is a commitment. Do I want fancy chocolate that makes me feel sophisticated for 11 seconds? Or do I want the trash chocolate of my youth that tastes like joy and questionable ingredients?

Because sometimes I want a dark chocolate square that whispers, you are refined. And sometimes I want a candy bar that screams, remember that road trip with the creepy gas station… and thinking you were about to be in a true crime story? But hey, they had an excellent candy aisle.

Then there’s popcorn. Popcorn is pretending to be healthy while fully knowing it’s lying. It’s like, “It’s mostly air!” Yes, but you’ve drenched it in butter, Susan. Calm down. Popcorn is a snack you eat when you want to snack for a long time. It’s a commitment snack. A “I’m going to be here a while” snack. A “don’t talk to me, I’m busy chewing” snack.

And don’t even get me started on snacks that require assembly. Like apples and peanut butter. That’s not a snack. That’s a project. If I wanted to work, I’d open my email.

Also, apples are risky. Sometimes they’re crisp and refreshing. Sometimes they taste like disappointment and lies. You don’t know until it’s too late, and now you’re chewing sadly, trying not to waste food while questioning every decision that led you here.

Cheese, though. Cheese is dependable. Cheese never asks questions. Cheese understands me. Cheese says, “You’ve had a day. Sit down.” Cheese does not say, “Have you considered portion sizes?”

But then I think, what if I want something nostalgic? Something that takes me back to childhood when my biggest problem was whether my snack would be taken by another kid with faster hands.

Goldfish crackers. Animal crackers. Ritz Bits. Nilla Wafers. Fruit Snacks. Something small, but oh-so-tasty.

And then there are the “accidental snacks.” The ones you didn’t plan but now can’t stop eating. A handful of cereal straight from the box. A spoonful of peanut butter that turns into five spoonfuls of peanut butter topped with marshmallow fluff. That one olive you eat out of the fridge that somehow becomes the entire container while the door is still open.

So what snack would I eat right now?

Cheesecake. Definitely cheesecake. Right out of the box. Who needs a plate? Who needs dignity? Who even needs to remember the fork drawer exists? Right now, my snack is life, and life tastes like sugar, cream, and midnight rebellion.

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Well, That Didn’t Go as Planned: a Memoir

Today’s prompt – “What could you do differently?” – is one of those questions that sounds helpful, like the asker is trying to make you think outside of the box. But also… it feels a little accusatory. Because I don’t know what level we’re talking about here.

Do you mean, like… organizationally? Should I be color-coding my to-do list? Is this about how I sort my Excel tabs? Because I can fix that. That feels doable. I can alphabetize. I can label. I can absolutely make a spreadsheet about the spreadsheet.

I cannot, however, go back and not date a walking red flag. That ship has sailed. And it was on fire when it left.

This is the kind of question that needs a little follow-up. You can’t just throw that out there and walk away. That’s like asking, “What went wrong?” Buddy. Narrow it down.

I hear that and my brain goes, “Well… I could’ve stayed home. That would’ve covered most of this.”

Also, are we talking Tuesday or my twenties? Because those require very different apology emails.

You ever notice how nobody asks that question when things go well? Nobody’s like, “Wow, that worked out great. What could you do differently next time?” No. We only review the tape when everything’s already on fire.

And half the time the real answer is just, “I could’ve known the future.” That would’ve helped. I didn’t realize that was an option.

Sometimes I think people want you to say something productive like, “I could communicate better,” or “set boundaries,” or “trust myself.” But what I want to say is, “I could’ve been born with better instincts.” Or at least some sort of basic screening process.

Or how about a warning system? Just a little alert that goes off: “Hey, um, quick heads-up, this choice is about to become a story you tell later with a tired look on your face.”

So yeah, what could I do differently? Probably a lot of things. Close a few Excel tabs. Organize my files. Say no sometimes.

But at the time, I genuinely thought I was doing fine. Turns out, I was just unsupervised.

Which explains a lot, because if you leave me alone long enough, I will start making decisions with the confidence of someone who should not be in charge of anything.

Unless alcohol enters the equation and… well. Let’s just say that’s when the best of the worst decisions happen.

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Just Keep Driving

If I had a billboard on the freeway, it wouldn’t be some nonsense about chasing your dreams or “be the change.” I’d keep it simple. Dead simple. Something everyone could read at 65 miles per hour and still feel mildly guilty about.

Mine would say:

“You’re fine. Keep driving. There would be no traffic jam if you would JUST KEEP DRIVING.”

It’s not inspirational. It’s not profound. It’s just… facts. You go zoom zoom so we can all go zoom zoom.

Think about it. The world would be a better place if everyone just kept going. Don’t overthink. Don’t slam on your brakes for no reason. Don’t get in everyone else’s lane because you forgot where you were going. Everyone has somewhere to be. Everyone’s in a rush. Everyone’s a little stressed. And we’d all just like to survive the day without honking, yelling, or crying in the car.

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Happy New Year… Again.

Okay, so, happy new year, I guess? That feels aggressive to say right out of the gate, but here we are. Because honestly, didn’t we just do a year? We just finished one, right? I remember it clearly. There were feelings. There was exhaustion. There was at least one… maybe two… possibly 346 moments where I stared into space and thought, what the actual hell.

And now you’re telling me there’s… another one? Already? Listen, I’m not saying no outright. I’m just asking some questions. Like, is there a break between years that I missed? Is there a punch card situation? Are there snacks? Because I’m not going unless there’s snacks. I mean have you seen *gestures vaguely at everything on fire*? We. Need. Snacks.

Every year, people get very excited. They’re like, “New year! Fresh start! New energy!” And I love that for them. Truly. I assume they slept well sometime in December. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the doorway of the new year thinking, “Alright, but who’s gonna be there?” Because I don’t want to walk in all optimistic and immediately hear, “I’m not saying it’s aliens, but –” from across the room.

The pressure doesn’t help. I don’t really do resolutions. I tried them once. But they didn’t stick. I was like, “This is the year I become a person who drinks more water,” and my body was like, “Counterpoint: coffee.” Who was I to argue?

Don’t get me wrong, I want good things. I want calm. I want laughter. I want fewer emails that begin with “Just circling back.” I want to feel like I’m doing okay without having to prove it with a color-coded planner.

But mostly, I want the new year to come in quietly. I want it to progress quietly. And end peacefully. I don’t need fireworks. I don’t need a big reveal. I just want it to be joyfully underwhelming. Blissfully uneventful.

So yes, happy new year. We’ll do our best. We’ll show up. We’ll muddle through. We’ll laugh at things that probably shouldn’t be funny, but what are you gonna do? And if the new year expects enthusiasm, it’s going to be sadly disappointed. Because we just finished one doozy of a year, and I don’t have high expectations for the sequel.

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Deep End of the Pool

Daily writing prompt
If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?

I don’t do sports anymore. Not since I got divorced. Which I realize sounds dramatic but hear me out. When you’re married, you inherit teams. Colors. Mascots. Opinions shouted at televisions. After the divorce, I was released back into the wild with no allegiances and no cares to give. So I’ve never thought about what my own team would be named or the colors they would wear.

If I had to choose, though, my team would absolutely be the Mongooses. Mascot: mongoose. Colors: radioactive green and aggressive magenta. Maybe a little black thrown in for menace. Don’t laugh. Have you ever seen Rikki-Tikki-Tavi? Mongooses are tiny murder machines. They look cute and then casually take down their enemy like it’s nothing . They are in it to win it. Zero hesitation. All teeth.

I may not know everything about sports (see? I admit it freely), but I do know how to annoy men about sports. It’s a skill I honed early.

When I was a middle-schooler and teen, I played football pools with my dad, uncle, and brother. My system was simple and flawless. I picked teams based on whether their mascot could beat the other mascot in real life. Not stats. Not records. Just hypothetical violence. Sort of like the actual game.

Packers vs Bears? Bears. Obviously. A bear does not care about your job in meat processing. In fact, it might even piss the bear off more. So, yeah.

Vikings vs Broncos? Listen. A horse could kick the absolute tar out of a Viking if it felt disrespected. And horses are always a little disrespected.

Chiefs vs Bills? Chiefs. Because fuck Buffalo Bill Cody. He murdered Indigenous peoples and I refuse to let that slide in a football pool.

Saints vs Raiders? You want to say saints. Holy. Protected. Glowing. I mean, right?  But saints have rules. Raiders do not. Raiders fight dirty, show up drunk, and steal your weapons while you’re praying for guidance.

49ers vs Rams? This looks equal. Both mammals. Both stubborn. But rams headbutt for fun and do CrossFit just for survival. 49ers are tired from prospecting and dysentery. Rams for the win.

It’s an unconventional system, sure, but it made sense to my chaotic brain. And more importantly, it made the games fun… and profitable. Because guess who kept winning?

Yep. Me.

Naturally, I continued this system into adulthood with my ex-husband, who very confidently assumed he was going to show me a thing or two. You know. With his knowledge. His stats. His very serious man spreadsheets.

We played for a while. I kept winning. And eventually, he decided he “just didn’t want to play anymore.”

Fast forward to now. My daughter plays Jersey Mike’s pick-’em games where you get points for every team you choose that wins. Her method? She picks based on which team name she likes more and which one appeals to her aesthetically. Colors. Mascot energy.

She’s been winning almost every game every single week. The one week she didn’t sweep the board? She lost one game. One. And it was because she abandoned her instincts at the last minute and went with the “most popular choice.”

Look where that got her.

So when men tell me sports betting is complicated – running numbers, calculating odds, spreadsheets, algorithms – I just nod politely while my inner mongoose sharpens its tiny teeth.

My system is more fun. It makes sense. And statistically speaking? It wins way more than it loses.

Honestly, I should be a bookie.

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In the Spirit of the Season

Happy holidays to those who celebrate, tolerate, or are just here for the food. May your family gatherings be mostly peaceful, your opinions remain mostly inside your head, and Uncle Joe’s conspiracy theory never find its way to the dinner table. If someone says that thing, the one that makes you stare at your plate and reconsider how you look in orange, may any potential dinner-table fisticuffs be resolved peacefully… before someone throws the turkey. May there be snacks. Many snacks. A ridiculous amount of snacks. And may the bathroom always be available so you can hide at least once, just to breathe.

Wishing you warmth, laughter, low expectations, and leftovers you actually want to eat.

Artwork by the talented illustrator, Margaret W. Tarrant. For more info on her life and work, click the image.

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Happiness is as Happiness Does

I’ve found that happiness usually shows up like a surprise guest at 10:47 p.m., carrying leftover pizza in one hand and a cereal box in the other. So, yeah, happiness tastes like mushrooms and olives with a slightly stale Frosted Flakes chaser. Which feels about right, honestly.

It also sneaks in when my cat saunters through the kitchen right as I take my first bite, and stares at me like I’m a stranger who just broke into his house. That look says: “I tolerate you. For now.” And for some reason, I find that extremely validating. When all is said and done, we both know he needs me. I mean, he can’t work the can opener. I learned long ago to get the hand-cranked one… you know, thumbs. But it’s nice to pretend our relationship is deeper than my ability to open a can of tuna. And he’s just so stinking cute.

Sometimes happiness hits in completely ordinary ways. Like finding socks that actually match. Or putting on pajamas straight out of the dryer, climbing into a bed with clean sheets, and settling under a fluffy blanket with a movie, a cup of tea, and a snack. Possibly two snacks. Definitely three snacks. It’s nothing. And yet somehow, it’s everything.

There are other small, sneaky versions too. Like cancelled plans – and not cancelled last minute so you still had to get dressed but properly cancelled. With notice. So you can enjoy the act of doing nothing. Or realizing the grocery store is devoid of people and you don’t have to fight anyone for the marshmallow donuts. Or catching a green light when you’re running late and it gives you that extra five minutes you need to be on time. Or laughing at something dumb you said three hours ago… while brushing your teeth, alone, like a person who is absolutely doing fine and does not need anyone to check on her.

These moments don’t sparkle. They don’t announce themselves. They just sit down next to you and hang out for a bit. And you either laugh and bask in the joy while they’re there, or you miss them completely because you were expecting balloons.

I think that’s the trick. Not to sound too much like Cindy Lou Who (although I am just as cute), but happiness isn’t a finish line, or a personality trait, or something you unlock once you’ve figured out your life and learned to love kale. It’s brief. It’s imperfect. It’s goofy. It’s mundane. It shows up uninvited, and leaves without saying goodbye. And if you’re busy waiting for the big moments – with the fanfare and the confetti – you might not notice it at all until it’s already on the way out, cereal box under its arm, halfway down the driveway.

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* Also, I just want you to know that I see you rolling your eyes at me over the Cindy Lou Who comparison. Rude.

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In a Nutshell

The writing prompt today is, what are your favorite items at the grocery store, and I know you think I’m going to say something aspirational. Like, “oh, probably fresh produce,” or “whatever’s seasonal.” No. The answer is the snack aisle. I don’t even need to think about this one. It’s the snack aisle. The whole thing. The entirety of the snack aisle.

The snack aisle is where I feel seen. It’s where commitment goes to die and impulse purchases are encouraged. I walk in thinking, I just need a few things, and suddenly I’m holding three types of chips, a canister of salted deluxe nuts, and something I’ve never tried but looks emotionally supportive. And Oreos.

The produce section feels judgey. Everything’s like, you should already know how to prepare me. And if you don’t, get the hell out of here with your nonsense and embarrassing lack of culinary skills. The snack aisle? No prep. No pressure. Just ready-to-eat deliciousness.

I don’t even rush it. I linger. I read labels like they’re short stories. I compare snacks the way people compare wine. This one seems fun, but will it betray me later?

I mean, most of my meals are just snacks in a trench coat pretending to be dinner anyway. A handful of crackers and cheese, some hummus, maybe a cookie for balance. That’s adulthood. That’s growth.

So yes. Favorite grocery items? Snacks. All of them. Even the ones I regret. Especially those.

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It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Every time I scroll social media, someone is “grinding at 4 AM,” “crushing their goals,” or “living at 1000%.” It’s exhausting. First of all, I can’t even live at 85% unless caffeine is involved and no one has spoken to me yet. I might get up to 89% by noon.

And now it’s the holidays, so the pressure has seasonal flair. Suddenly everyone is thriving festively. As if joy is a deliverable with a deadline and you’ve gotta meet that year-end goal.

They’re not just hustling. They’re hustling in coordinated neutrals, with handcrafted ornaments made from reclaimed wood and childhood trauma. They’re wrapping gifts in handmade paper they apparently pulped themselves using vibes and a mortar and pestle they definitely got from Williams Sonoma. They’ve DIY’d a garland out of dried oranges, cinnamon sticks, and a moral superiority I do not possess.

Every influencer has “a cozy holiday morning routine” where they wake up glowing, light a soy candle they poured by hand, and gently sip something warm while snow falls outside like a goddamn Hallmark movie.

What they don’t show you is that only one half of the room looks like that.

The other half is a pile of Amazon boxes, unfolded laundry, and a single sad shoe. It’s basically a sound stage. They move the ring light six inches to the left and suddenly it’s wholesome magic. Turn it off and it’s just a normal adult panic den with children screaming somewhere in the distance. “Mooommmm! Katie’s eating the tinsel again! Moooommm!”

And those perfectly wrapped gifts? Target. They’re from Target. As for the handmade wrapping paper? Um, not so much. More like Aspen and Arlo’s vintage collection.

But when you see curated perfection enough, it messes with your head.

You start thinking you’re not doing enough. Not decorating enough. Not joying hard enough. Like if you’re not hand-stitching stockings while simmering something cinnamon-y on the stove and smiling softly into the middle distance, you’re failing December.

Meanwhile, I’m over here drinking mulled cider out of a cracked cup, watching my cat climb the Christmas tree like he’s trying to escape our suburban paradise via the ceiling, and honestly?

It’s peaceful as hell. Imperfection is straight-up bliss. No aesthetic. No matching pajamas. No handmade wrapping paper made from recycled expectations. Just mild chaos and hope.

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you… whether it’s hustle culture or holiday perfection, living at 1000% is unsustainable. It’s exhausting. It’s also boring. It’s just sprinting through your life while narrating it for strangers.

It’s also make-believe.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, is doing burpees at sunrise, running a business, journaling, meditating, hand-making ornaments, baking bread, AND not crying quietly in their car at some point.

I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t occasionally lie face-down on the couch and question every decision they’ve ever made.

So if you’re functioning at like… 42% this holiday season?

Welcome.

Have some cider. Let the tree lean. Use a gift bag. Stop trying to keep up with people who are faking their entire lifestyle.

You’re doing just fine.

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