Category Archives: funny

My Thanksgiving Google List

How big of a turkey do I need?

Idiot proof recipes for Thanksgiving turkey

What is a brine?

Is a brine necessary?

Things I can brine a turkey in besides a bucket

Is Alton Brown single?

Pictures of Alton Brown

Alton Brown’s wife

Did Guy Fieri die?

People you’d be surprised are still alive

When are grocery stores the least crowded?

How late is Trader Joe’s open?

Why are there so many people in the world?

How expensive is it to have Thanksgiving catered?

Should I buy a backup turkey?

Videos of how to remove turkey guts

Do gutless turkeys exist?

Thanksgiving cocktails

Thanksgiving cocktails you can make with simple ingredients

Thanksgiving cocktails with three or less ingredients

Wine with the highest alcohol content

That funny Thanksgiving song, not the Adam Sandler one

That funny Thanksgiving song about jail

Thanksgiving playlist ideas

Thanksgiving sweaters for dogs

Thanksgiving sweaters for women

Thanksgiving sweater sets for families

How to make sweet potatoes not suck

Why do people put marshmallows on sweet potatoes?

Recipes for normal potatoes

What is the point of parsley?

Why aren’t there more Thanksgiving movies?

Forgot to thaw turkey

Are turkeys microwave safe?

Can you blow dry a turkey?

Recipe for cheesy vegetable dish, possibly included cauliflower?

How to trick children into eating Thanksgiving dinner

Good responses to ‘I don’t want to eat this’

How to make vegetables taste like not vegetables

Thanksgiving sides you can deep fry

Recipe for deep fried stuffing balls

Recipe for deep fried stuffing balls not on a food blog site featuring long stories

How can you tell when a turkey is done?

First aid for minor burns

My discount meat thermometer melted?

Difference between oven safe thermometers and not oven safe

Can I still eat a turkey if a thermometer melted on it?

Pizza places open on Thanksgiving

 

Welcome aboard, plebs

Good morning, passengers! Welcome to Every Airline Flight 525. We will begin boarding in just a few minutes but please stand by for a few pre-flight announcements.

It looks like we are scheduled for an on time take-off, although that will likely change once everyone is onboard and trapped. It does seem we are overbooked today so we ask that our customers be prepared to unceremoniously be bumped to a much later flight even though you have a connecting flight in Washington D.C. We apologize for this inconvenience but have the utmost confidence that no one will be of much help getting you where you need to go. 

Onboard we will have a variety of complimentary beverages and snacks available during the flight. So please enjoy those two swallows of Diet Coke and three tiny pretzels. Of course this only applies to those of you who bought our basic economy seats. First class and economy plus customers will be given something much, much better which, fortunately for the peasants sitting in the back, you will get to glimpse as you awkwardly pass by them during boarding. 

We also have a variety of alcoholic beverages available for purchase if spending $13 on a tiny bottle of vodka that isn’t even big enough to give you a buzz is your idea of a good value. 

For those of you who have a middle seat, please be prepared for the other two people in your row to be seated first and then be super annoyed when they see you that you didn’t have the decency to die on the way to the airport, thus giving them more elbow room and a place to put their gigantic parkas. Middle-seaters should also be advised that you will have to pee about ten minutes after take off but will feel too anxious to ask the aisle person to move again and will spend the rest of the flight in pure misery. There will be plenty of bathrooms once we reach our destination but all of them will have a long line filled only with old people and women with multiple small children in tow. 

Speaking of boarding, we here at Every Airline have a very strict boarding pecking order because classism is our creed and motto. We are now inviting those passengers who require any special assistance and anyone traveling with small children to begin boarding. Yes, even ahead of the rich people. But only because we’re pretty sure it’s required by law or something. For those of you boarding first, please do not make eye contact with the pompous lady who has been hovering near the gate for over an hour and is angry that just because you have a toddler you get to go ahead of her. She is clearly one of our Premier Select Members Plus and as such feels superior to you in every way. Please also note that she is married to the angry man who was indignant when the poor airline worker told him his carry-on, which was clearly a full-sized suitcase, had to go below in the cargo hold. 

We will now begin boarding our Gold Circle Elite customers, which are somehow different from our Premier Select Members Plus customers. For those of you in Boarding Group 5, please stop standing around like you will get on this flight anytime soon. Sit down and pretend to read that overpriced John Grisham book you just bought at the airport souvenir store. 

We are now inviting any veterans or current active military members to board even though the pompous lady is now audibly huffing and looking around with her best “don’t you know who I am?” face.  

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been informed that all the overhead bins are already full since no one checks baggage anymore because we charge a ridiculous fee for it. Although feel free to hold up the entire line trying to stuff your gigantic overloaded carry-on up there anyway. 

Since we are a bit afraid that the pompous lady is going to have a heart attack, we now invite our Premier Select Blah Blah Blah customers to board. As well as Boarding Groups 1-4 because the only thing our Select Elite Whatever membership gets you is the illusion of prestige.  

Finally we invite Boarding Group 5 to board but most of you already did, sneaking in with the rest of the passengers. 

We here at Every Airline know you have your choice of airlines and are happy that you choose to spend $377.34 to be treated as a criminal and a second-class citizen by us. Please enjoy your flight. Which I have just been informed has been delayed. 

We should get together sometime

I bought a plane ticket to Clarksburg, West Virginia today. Full disclosure, prior to today, I did not know Clarksburg, West Virginia existed. I know nothing about the town, other than that on Friday it will unfortunately have me as its loudly dressed tourist. And I have no plans once I get there save for one. 

Meeting up with one of my oldest friends from childhood. 

How this all came about was almost mystical in origin. My friend, who lives in Ohio, told me, who lives in Boston, that we should get together sometime soon. But then, unlike every other time we’ve said this exact same thing over the past decade, we actually picked dates. And a location. And arranged childcare. And booked a cabin. And she told work she was leaving early next week. And I bought a plane ticket. 

If this all sounds obvious and not the least bit magical to you, hey, congratulations on being a fully functional and socialized adult! 

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For the rest of us, you understand that what we did was some kind of friendship wizardry. 

See, people like me are always saying things like how we want to get together. Soon! But then, the second the words leave our mouths, even while those words are still hovering in the air over our heads, we are already mentally making excuses about how we can’t make it. Which is totally ok because the other person is likely doing the exact same thing. 

“We should get together sometime soon!”

“Yes! Absolutely! Although I probably can’t make it.”

“You mean to the thing we haven’t even planned yet? Yeah. Me neither. I’m going to come down with a cold.”

“Oh, no worries. I’m thinking I’m going to be working late and then, just as a backup, my dog is going to eat a small amount of chocolate and I really should stay home and monitor him.”

“Sounds totally plausible. I look forward to having this exact same conversation in eight months.”

“Aw…same.” 

I don’t know why I do this. Even for an extrovert such as myself, plans always seem like a good idea at the time (at the time usually meaning after consuming large quantities of alcohol) but when it comes time to actually do said plans, I start to dread it. Like, wait, I have to leave my HOUSE? Away from my cozy cocoon of blankets and carbohydrates? And interact with people? Why would someone ask me to do this? I thought these people were my friends. Why are they making me socialize with them? 

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Of course, when I do drag myself out, I always have a fantastic time. I remember why I’m friends with these wonderful people. I remember I am a social animal. And I vow to start socializing more. A vow I then promptly forget, turning back into my Gollum personality usually within 24 hours. 

“Peoplsies are dumb.” 

*caresses TV remote and recently delivered burrito* 

“My preciousssss…”

And it’s so easy to think of reasons not to go see your friends…

I’m so tired. 

I’m so busy.

It’s been a rough week. 

There’s a 10 percent chance of rain.

The new episode of “Castle Rock” is out.

I spilled ketchup on my shirt, clearly I’m in no shape to go out. 

I sneezed four hours ago. I don’t want to get anyone sick.  

I’m pretty sure my friends don’t even like me even though they have consistently proven otherwise. 

We’ll just get together next week. Or month. Before 2025 for sure. 

But this time, after both of us talking about how we feel like we are drowning in a toxic whirlpool of motherhood and responsibility and anxiety, it hit me. Friendship is a lifeboat against all those things. So why do I waste so much energy coming up with ways to avoid it? Why do I work so hard to convince myself I should stay home and clean instead? (Especially since, let’s be honest, I’m not actually going to clean). 

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So I bought a plane ticket to Clarksburg, West Virginia. And I will be getting together with my friend very soon. Not because we should. But because we need to. 

Reasons I’m the meanest mom in the world (this week)

Upon immediately opening my eyes at 5 a.m. (because I sensed a creepy child-like presence breathing heavily right beside my head), I told my eldest child that no, he couldn’t play a game on my phone. 

I wouldn’t let my youngest break my glasses even though she really, really wanted to. 

I insisted on making coffee first before playing Dinosaurs vs. Vampires. 

I offered both of them various forms of unhealthy food at breakfast, but they were all the wrong kinds of unhealthy food. (Nothing was even the slightly bit frosted or anything). 

I correctly answered “yes, it’s Tuesday” when my son asked me what day of the week it was and did he have to go to school.

I told them no, they can’t go trick-or-treating right now because Halloween is still two-and-a-half weeks away and besides it’s 7:30 in the morning. 

I asked him where his other shoe was. 

I asked her to please stop putting me in a chokehold. 

I gave both of them a 20-minute, a 10-minute and a 5-minute warning that we were leaving and they better be ready. And then had the audacity to tell them (completely out of the blue) that it was time to leave.

I didn’t let my daughter ride the neighbor’s dog like a horse. 

I didn’t know where the acorn she brought home from the park six weeks ago was.  

I threw away the broken red crayon stub.

I took the books back to the library. 

I wouldn’t tape her cracker back together.  

I wouldn’t let him stab his sister with a butter knife even though he was pretending to be a pirate and really, really wanted to be historically accurate. 

I refused to buy a fancy purple car (with sparkles) to replace our stinky, gross car. 

I wouldn’t let my daughter wear only a swimsuit and mittens to the store. 

I informed them, again, that the public pool was closed for the season.

I turned off the TV after three hours straight of “Power Rangers.” 

I ordered pizza for dinner but it was the wrong pizza. The kind with sauce and cheese. 

I wouldn’t drive them to Memaw’s house, which is only 13 hours away. 

I wouldn’t let my daughter drink my wine. Not even a sip. Because Mommy needs ALL OF IT. 

I didn’t stop the sun from setting. 

I don’t personally know Santa Claus well enough to invite him over for dinner. 

I bought the wrong kind of cookies (even though no one can tell me what the right kind of cookies are). 

I wouldn’t let my daughter lick my eyeball. Even though she claimed to be a doctor and it was part of the check-up. 

I only sang four night-night songs. 

I only read one night-night book.

I refused to sleep in their bed. 

I refused to let them sleep in my bed. 

I refused to let them sleep on the couch.

Or on the porch.

Or on our neighbor Melissa’s porch. 

Or on our other neighbor Andre’s porch. 

Upon being woken up at midnight, I told my son, again, that no he can’t play a game on my phone even if he’s absolutely positive it will help him get back to sleep.

 

When you just need a quick recipe…

Well, hello there! Welcome to my food blog! I see you’re looking up a quick recipe to make for dinner tonight. You’ve definitely come to the right place. This truly is one of my favorites to make and it’s so easy and simple you’ll be shocked when it also tastes like it came from a fancy five-star restaurant! And, trust me, your whole family will love it! Yes! Truly! Did I already use truly earlier? Doesn’t matter, because it’s true. Even though your kids haven’t eaten anything other than plain pasta and french fries for the last eight months, they are sure to ask for seconds (or maybe even thirds!) of this simple, easy recipe that is truly SO tasty and uses all fresh ingredients including a couple you’ve literally never even heard of.

As you can see from the much too large photo and bio over there on the side of this website, I am a busy mom JUST LIKE YOU. A busy mom with perfect hair casually holding a glass of white wine and wearing a sweater you can definitely not afford. So, trust me, I get it. Dinner time is always hectic in our house too. So, I know how valuable your time is. So, let’s get right to it, shall we?

I first started cooking when I was seven-years-old. And one of my favorite things to make in my grandmother’s kitchen was this very recipe. Truly! Oh wait, sorry, here comes the first of the pop ads. Followed immediately by the second one. Just hit the tiny little box with the x in it but be careful not to accidentally click on the ad itself…

Hey! Welcome back! Truly, I know how annoying those ads can be but a girl has to make an income somehow, you know? Otherwise I couldn’t afford a nanny to watch little Naiviann, Mckarty and Lakynn so I have the time to write a 12,000 word introduction for every single recipe on this site. 

Now, as I was saying, this recipe is a real crowd-pleaser and uses ingredients that are probably already in your pantry. Just some chicken and organic heirloom tomatoes and spigarello and a ripe kabocha and fresh thyme grown in the manure of a free range alpaca named Larry. Of course, you can always substitute the fresh goat crema for evaporated milk. I mean, I’m not a monster. I once was upper middle class before I became wealthy so I get the struggle. 

Oh, hang on, here comes the pop up video that you can’t find the X-out button to. It’s only 3 minutes and 52 seconds long so just watch it as your rage slowly starts to build. 

Alright, onto the recipe because the kids are getting hungry while you’ve wasted 45 minutes frantically scrolling in an increasingly desperate attempt to find the recipe on this recipe blog site. But, trust me, the wait will be worth it. No joke, over 12 people have sent me messages telling me this was the BEST recipe they had ever tried. Which is why I’m so excited for you to try it! Feel free to sign up for my newsletter for more amazing recipes just like this one that you haven’t even seen yet. Here are also some links you never asked for of my other family-friendly recipes like an herb-encrusted salmon with a white wine sauce and my garlic-infused roasted parmesan asparagus casserole. 

Now you want to make sure that when you are sauteing the vegetables in this recipe that you use sunflower oil and not vegetable oil. I know this tip should be included with the actual recipe but when it comes to cooking, at least in my experience, it’s always better to list the tips and tricks to the recipe way before you get to the actual recipe so that you have to scroll back up when you are in the middle of actually making it. 

Oh look, another ad! For something you didn’t even Google. You just thought about it briefly last week. Creepy, huh? Oh, and bummer. Now your screen is frozen. Don’t worry. I’ll wait. I clearly have all the time in the world even though I am, as I mentioned, a very busy mom. JUST LIKE YOU. Truly!

Hey! It finally unfroze. Welcome back again! Alright, now that your battery is below five percent, here is the recipe. And you better get started. The total time is 3 hours and 45 minutes. 

 

We’re all just glorified end tables

I’m not sure when it happened exactly but at some point in my parenting career, I went from being Mom to Glorified End Table. Cause that’s pretty much all I do now. Just hold my children’s crap for them. Backpacks. Sippy cups. This cool leaf they found on the ground. 

All in all, it’s not a bad gig. Much better than when they used me as their Glorified Couch. Or when they were babies and I was merely a Portable Buffet Table. But there are some downsides. Such as how long I have to hold these items. Which is apparently forever. 

Did I ever think I’d wake up one day as furniture? No. Truthfully I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. But it’s hard to type when you’re holding three very important pine cones and a hoodie and a blueberry muffin with two bites taken out of it. A muffin they INSIST they will finish. Eventually. Probably before they go to college. 

So I’m doing my best to settle into this new role of mine. My dreams can wait. Especially since this used candy wrapper isn’t going to hold itself, now is it?

Plus, I mean, if I’m not going to do it, who will? The kids? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would THEY hold their OWN crap? 

I did try it once though. Making them hold their own belongings. Back when I was still Mom. And then we immediately turned around after getting home to go right back to the park and grab the mountain of stuff they left there. Oh, sorry. Correction: The mountain of stuff they left lying there in a mud puddle. 

It was soon after that that I metamorphosized into the end table. (Eat your heart out, Gregor Samsa). 

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Oh, I can’t tell you the sheer number of things I’ve had to hold for them. Half drank water bottles. Hats. Sunglasses. Baggies of Cheerios. Wet socks. What turned out to be a dead cricket. A water gun that they definitely stole from someone. Rocks. So many rocks. An entire menagerie of stuffed animals. Half eaten lollipops. Every single dandelion that grew in our neighborhood. 

Then there were the three dozen acorns they acquired when we went camping in New Hampshire. Each one as precious and unique as a diamond. And yes, they knew if I tried to nonchalantly drop a few to make it easier to carry. 

There were the shells from that time we went to the beach. Enough to decorate the bathroom of every single beach house on the east coast. 

And, my personal favorite, the giant bags of cotton candy they JUST. HAD. TO. HAVE. but (surprise!) didn’t eat so I carried them around a street fair in 90 degree temperatures for four hours. 

Of course, just like any reliable piece of furniture, there’s been some wear and tear. The rings alone. Mostly under my eyes. Plenty of dents and scratches. But it could be worse, I suppose. Daddy, for instance, woke up one day as Mobile Playground. 

Luckily, I have many parent friends who also double as Glorified End Tables and who are happy to help out and hold my stuff so I can hold my children’s stuff. Of course, then another parent/end table has to then hold THEIR stuff, which is mostly their children’s stuff, so they can hold my stuff so I can hold my children’s stuff and so on and so on in one giant Russian Roulette game of crap-holding. 

But that’s why they say it takes a village to raise a child. Although perhaps a more apt phrase at this point would be that it takes a furniture store. 

And so, in conclusion, that’s why parents are allowed to drink alcohol. Now, can someone get me a straw? My hands are full. 

 

One fish, two fish, dumb confused fish

I am often out of my element. Just a perpetual fish out of water, even when technically still in the water. So when my friend Melissa asked me to help out at our kids’ school fundraiser, I couldn’t think of a place where I’d fit in less. 

For one, I am less a parent than I am just three bewildered 12-year-olds standing on each others’ shoulders in a trench coat. 

Two, I am new to the school parent game. My oldest just started kindergarten. I’m still shocked I managed to fill out the 167 pages of paperwork it took to enroll him. 

And three, school parents who have it together enough to help at a school fundraiser are on a whole other level. A somewhat intimidating level. A level that usually involves packing a snack for their kid that isn’t leftover french fries. 

So when she asked me, it was essentially like asking a fish to climb a tree with a bicycle. Or worse, asking a fish to put on pants without ketchup stains and to not curse for two hours straight. Absolutely not, I immediately thought.

She then casually yet cruelly mentioned that there would be beer at the event. 

So I said yes.   

You know, come to think of it, maybe fish out of water is the wrong terminology. Have you ever heard of imposter syndrome? Where a person constantly feels like they’re faking it? It’s like I have that. Or like I’m a confused fish with that. Five-and-half years in, and I’m still faking being a parent. Every single time I drop off and pick up my kid, I’m convinced I’ll be found out.

Any Other Parent: “Hello. How are you?”

Me: “Good. Great. Mostly because I have kids. I’m totally a parent. The hospital just handed them over to me. I didn’t have to take a test or anything.”

Any Other Parent: “OK then. Nice meeting you.”

*awkward edging away by all parties involved* 

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But there’s strength in numbers (and in craft beer alcohol content), so I bravely put on my last unstained pair of pants and walked directly behind and slightly crouched behind Melissa into that bake sale like a boss. 

Unfortunately that slinking courage lasted for all of two minutes before they put a money box in front of me.

“So, everything on the table is a dollar, except for the bracelets, which are five dollars,” the beautiful school mom without undereye bags and tangled hair affably told me. 

“Awesome. Perfect. Could you repeat that?” I replied because I am always too busy thinking about what an idiot I am to actually listen to people. 

“Absolutely. All the baked goods are a dollar. All the raffle tickets are a dollar. And the bracelets are five dollars.” 

“Yup. Got it. Thank you.”

I then turned to Melissa. 

“Did you catch any of that?”

Melissa, however, was busy being rudely competent by already tending to our first customers and figuring out the mobile credit card swiper on an iPad. 

I was about to feel super sorry for myself and steal a brownie to sad-eat in the bathroom when another impeccably put-together mom appeared and started asking me about my kids. I made a few awkward jokes at first (“my oldest is five and my back-up auxiliary kid is three”) but she seemed genuinely interested. So I kept talking. And as I kept talking, something magical happened. I relaxed. And as I relaxed, I started asking her questions about her kids. Soon we were having a full blown conversation about our kids. And then other people joined in.

And BOOM. Suddenly I was humaning with the best of them.

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about. Not because I abruptly became a fully functioning adult. But because I was surrounded by them. People who were good at making conversation. People who were warm and approachable. People who were really good at ignoring the yawns of the new school mom who suffers from insomnia and include her despite her overall vibe of “they think I’m a people, just like them!” 

But most importantly, people who love to talk about their children as much as I do. Because the one thing I never have to fake is how much I love my kids. 

And how much I want to murder them when they ask for spaghetti for dinner and then throw a tantrum at dinner because they just remembered that they hate spaghetti. 

 

 

A Nightmare in Elm Trees

It was a cloudless blue day in late summer. The kind of blue that made the heart ache with possibility. The kind of day made for adventures. 

And it was in that spirit of happy potentiality that the little family began packing up their car for a weekend away in the woods. Backpacks full of toys, a small suitcase filled with hoodies and bug spray, a cooler loaded with beer and marshmallows. The father grunting as he loaded the trunk, the children squealing and chasing each other, the mother watching fondly but also desperately trying to remember what she forgot because it was definitely something. 

How could they possibly know under that perfect sky that they were walking into a horror story? (Other than the fact it’s the premise for an entire genre of horror stories?).

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The drive passed quickly and uneventfully. The cabin was small and cozy. They only had one neighbor in this isolated part of the New Hampshire woods. A lone man wearing flannel staying at the other cabin across a copse of trees. The mother joked that he looked like Ted Bundy. The father laughed. Because it’s all fun and games until someone gets murdered. 

For now, it was peaceful. Quiet. Which is probably why the mother was able to hear it. Barely perceptible, but definitely there. She had just sat down and opened her book when a low moan rose up out of the woods. She looked around but when she didn’t see anything, decided to ignore it, managing to read three whole sentences before hearing it again. Only it was a little louder this time. 

“…oooooooommmmmm….”

“Hello?” she practically whispered. “Is…is someone there?”

The woods answered back with the light rustling of leaves in the wind. After a few more moments, she turned her attention back to her book. Finding time to read was a luxury and she refused to waste it. But just when she had finally relaxed, releasing the tension in her shoulders that had been there since the birth of her oldest, there was that sound again. Louder. Much louder. An unearthly wail. 

“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!” 

No. No, it can’t be, she thought. But it was. Suddenly, like a pop-up book from hell, her two children appeared on either side of her, loudly complaining that they were already bored. 

They had only arrived 20 minutes ago. 

The mother screamed. 

Meanwhile, the father was in the cabin unpacking. Although beautiful late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows, the man couldn’t shake the black, foreboding feeling that something wasn’t right. He checked and double-checked all the bags. Everything seemed in order. When suddenly…

“Honey!” he screamed in terror. “We forgot the graham crackers!” 

There are some who say the inhuman wails of the children upon learning this news could be heard as far away as Vermont. 

After that, it was as though the children were possessed. “S’MORES!” they screeched while clawing, grabbing, tearing at their parents with small but freakishly strong hands. “S’MORES!”

Somehow the father managed to escape, fleeing in dread to the car. Twenty minutes later, he was running blindly through the streets of the only nearby town.

“Help! Someone help! I need graham crackers!” His words echoed off the empty buildings. “PLEASE! I left my wife alone with the kids! I don’t know how long she can hold out!”

By the time he returned, a box of horrifyingly overpriced crackers in hand, he found the children dancing around the fire, having gone completely feral in his absence, dirt smudged on their faces like so much war paint. The mother lay in the fetal position to one side, quietly whispering over and over again “he’ll be back soon, he’ll be back soon, he’ll be back soon…” 

Quickly, the father got to work, roasting marshmallows but trying in his panic not to burn them. May the good Lord have mercy on his soul if he burned them. With shaking hands, he assembled the dark snacks that had turned his children into unrecognizable fiends. But just as quickly as he made them, the children tore into them like a pack of wolves, quickly disemboweling the father’s careful work, discarding the crackers and marshmallows over their shoulders and only eating the chocolate. 

“MORE.” they bellowed. 

The parents quietly wept. 

A few hours later, determined to salvage this family trip, the parents announced in perky but trembling voices, “let’s go for a walk in the woods!” To their surprise, the children agreed, chocolate still ominously smeared across their faces. And for a few glorious minutes, it appeared all might be ok. The children happily scampered ahead, collecting acorns and pine cones. They even let out a few genuine laughs of delight. 

But then the couple made the fatal mistake of enjoying themselves, triggering in the offspring all their most evil and depraved impulses. Because while the children typically loved nature, could spend hours staring at a dead leaf while in the city, they could not stand that very same nature when their parents paid $100 for a cabin completely surrounded by it. 

“This is dumb. Can we go home?”

“My feet hurt. Will you carry me?”

“I SAW A BUG!”

“Can we get an Uber?”

“I hate trees.”

“Did you bring any s’mores? I WANT A S’MORE!”

The parents didn’t die that day. But there are some who say they can still see the ghosts of their expectations haunting the woods to this very day.

On the plus side, the family never did get murdered by their neighbor Ted Bundy. Likely because the children scared him away. Even serial killers have their limits. 

Lisa Frank & the other loves of my life

I don’t have much proof. I’ll admit that right off the bat. But just hear me out. I’m starting to suspect that my son is not my child. 

I mean, sure, he acts just like me (NO WE’RE NOT DRAMATIC, HOW DARE YOU!) But he was born via C-section. I couldn’t see anything past that weird blue screen they put up, not even them pulling a human body out of my human body. Who knows what happened down there? And, yeah, ok, my husband claims to have witnessed it but he could be part of this whole conspiracy. So, really, who’s the crazy one here? 

Because the biggest piece of evidence is that my son (“allegedly”) starts kindergarten in a week. And he is not excited. At all. According to him, after one year of preschool, he’s all set education-wise.

“But Momma! I went to school last year, remember? I learned everything already.” 

And I know. I know what you’re thinking. Maybe he’s just scared. But that doesn’t seem to be the case either. Yesterday I sat him down and started going off on this whole heartfelt spiel about how I was terrified on my first day of kindergarten and, funny story, was actually sent to the corner on my first day of school (I was framed basically and that’s all I’ll say about it and Amy knows what she did). But he stopped me, while I was mid-monologue and teary-eyed, with a wave of his hand. 

“I’m not scared. I just don’t want to go.”

The boy isn’t even excited about getting new school supplies. SCHOOL SUPPLIES, guys. 

“Do you want to get a new backpack for this year?” I nonchalantly asked him last week.

“Nah. I’ll just use my old Paw Patrol one.”

“Well, we can buy you other things.”

“Nah.”

“But have you ever smelled a fresh notebook? Or lovingly held a new box of crayons? All sharp and unused and full of potential? Want me to buy you a Trapper Keeper?”

“What’s that?”

“The single coolest invention of all time.”

“Nah.”

WHO IS THIS CHILD? I’m not going to lie. A good 30 percent of the reason I had kids was so I’d have a legitimate reason to wander up and down the school supply aisles, creepily smelling notebook paper. But now the girl who was once too school for cool has a son who is too cool for school. It’s like a super messed up Dr. Seuss story. 

I loved school. I was that kid raising their hand going “ohohoh, pick me!” I was that kid who joined everything. T-ball, volleyball, basketball, track, one ill-advised year as a cheerleader, school plays, band, Spanish club, yearbook staff. And yes, I was probably that kid you hated and rolled your eyes at. 

Not that school was always great. It had the typical amount of suck. There was some hardcore psychological warfare going on in third grade among my clique of friends. And then again in fifth grade. And half of sixth. I spent grades four through nine in one long awkward phase. (Tenth grade I was also pretty awkward but had at least learned how to pluck my eyebrows so there were officially two). Once a boy asked me out as a joke. Twice I tripped in the cafeteria, spilling my food and dignity everywhere. And I can’t count the number of times I got busted for falling asleep in class (one, because I was asleep and two, because it was almost always in math class). 

Yet the good still outweighed the bad. And I earned a life-long love of learning. Of challenging myself. Which is what I was hoping for my own children. They don’t need to get straight A’s. Or get involved in sports. Or fake their way through Spanish well enough to become vice president of Spanish club (el gato esta en la microonda!). But I do want them to use this time to try it all, experience it all, learn it all. To discover who they are and what they can do. 

Alas, my son is not me. Nor is his younger sister. Which is something I’m trying to keep in mind as we step blindly into this new phase of their lives. I can’t make them love school. I can’t make them see with 20 years of hindsight what lies before them. 

What I can do, though, is be their cheerleader (albeit an admittedly bad and inflexible one, just like when I was in school). And I can be there for them when things get hard, and then they get easier, and then everything changes and it all gets hard again. And I can listen to them when they have a bad day, a bad teacher, a big bully. 

And most importantly, I can impart my hard-won wisdom onto them that these years are only a small window of time where they can carry around a Trapper Keeper without looking like a crazy person. 

 

Tired.

I’m tired. 

But don’t worry. This isn’t going to be one of those pieces where the author spends 800 words telling you just how much MORE tired they are than you. (Although I only got two hours of sleep last night. Not that it matters. Because, again, this isn’t THAT piece). 

See, I know you’re tired too. We’re all tired. The whole world is tired. None of us are getting enough sleep and all of us are under more and more pressure to do more during our waking hours. 

Which is why, I suspect, we as a society have turned tiredness into a competition. We all feel guilty that we aren’t doing more so we try to win the only contest we can: Who is more tired?

Person 1: “I’m so tired.”

Person 2: “Me too. I only got five hours of sleep last night.”

Person 1: “I only got four.”

Person 2: “Did I say last night? I meant for the whole week.”

Person 1: “I meant for the whole month.”

Person 2: “I basically haven’t slept since I was a child.”

Person 1: “Must be nice. I haven’t slept since I was literally in utero.”

Person 2: “Really? I couldn’t even sleep in there, what with that constant beating of mother’s heart.”

I don’t know how we got to this point. Maybe it was the Internet, connecting us all to the world 24/7. Maybe it was the rise of social media, connecting us all to each other 24/7. Or perhaps it’s just hard to get a solid eight hours when the world feels like a dumpster fire. But whatever the reason, it appears there is some fierce competition for the title of “Most Tired.” Because you can get into this competition with pretty much anyone. Take moms, for instance. 

Pregnant woman: I’m so tired. 

New mom: HAHAHAHA…just wait until they are born. 

Mom of toddler: Aw, that’s cute. Mine is mobile and can open doors and has opinions. 

Mom of teenager: Well, I haven’t slept since mine got his driver’s license. 

Mom of multiple teenagers: I’M TECHNICALLY DEAD. 

There’s also the generational tiredness rivalry. 

Old person: I’m so tired. My angina and trick knee kept me up all night.

Middle-aged person: I was up worrying about taking care of my aging parents and my growing kids. 

30-something: My career is killing me. 

20-something: I work three jobs and have no money and no future and the Arctic is literally on fire. 

College student: I had to pull an all-nighter for exams and then work all day at my unpaid internship.

Teenager: I had to pull an all-nighter for Fortnite. 

Everyone: Oh, shut up, Kyle.

Teenager (sulkily): I won, not that anyone cares.  

There’s also usually a romantic partner daily exhaustion war. My husband and I are experts at this. 

Husband: I had to finish 57 projects today and re-do the entire website and fight the crowds for the train home. 

Me: I had to drag two little kids all over town while dealing with 23 tantrums and 15 meltdowns and I have insomnia and I need to finish my blog about how much more tired I am than you and everyone else in the world.

(Again, NOT that this is all about how much more tired I am than you, dear reader. Even if it’s true, it’s not the point). 

And then there is all the situational tiredness. The bad job tired. You ever had a bad job? It’s exhausting. There’s the bad relationship tired, where your brain basically turns to mush rehearsing all the things you should say to your crappy partner but never do because you’re just too tired. Or the financial problems tired, where you trade sleep for calculating which limbs you can sell to make ends meet this month. 

And that’s all just the level of tiredness you feel when everything is going fairly well in your life. It’s a whole new level of fatigue when you are, say, battling a chronic disease. Or a mental illness. Or raising a child with special needs. Or dealing with racism and sexism and bigotry every day. Or struggling in poverty. Or…yeah, you get it. 

We’re tired. 

So who wins the award for most tired? I mean, clearly it’s me. Although the rest of you put up quite the battle. Which is why I’m going to pull a Cady Heron from “Mean Girls” and break apart the crown and give us all a piece of the title. 

And as for any solutions? How do we stop being so tired? Truthfully I have no idea.

But I’m sure I’ll be up all night thinking about it.