The Gospel for When January Feels Mean

The Gospel for When January Feels Mean

Every year between Christmas and New Year’s, I start to feel panicky. I can hear January lacing up her Nikes, and I know she’s coming for me. GO AWAY! WE WERE ALL HAVING SO MUCH FUN UNTIL YOU SHOWED UP. I’m afraid of her because I think she’s mean and will knock these Christmas cookies out of my hands and make me eat fistfuls of lettuce instead. I turned off the lights, and I’m pretending no one is home, but MAN she is persistent. It must be the endorphins. JANUARY, GET YOUR GIANT LIST OF GOALS OUT OF MY FACE BECAUSE IT’S BLOCKING MY VIEW OF THE HALLMARK CHANNEL.

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Restaurant Bingo for Parents

Restaurant Bingo for Parents

Going out to eat is one of my favorite things in the world. However, I have two toddlers, and this makes things tricky. Truthfully, I think we’ve trained them pretty well: we repeat our simple “restaurant rule” in the car (“bottom in seat!”), I have a bag of plastic animals in my bag that they’re only allowed to play with at a restaurant, and we keep trying and practicing, which is key. They do about as good of a job as two toddlers can do, but also? They are, undeniably, tiny sinners.

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Insightful Sports Commentary from a True Sportster

Insightful Sports Commentary from a True Sportster

In my twenties I did reckless things like collect cardigans and blog from a ridiculous persona named Princess TruffleFluff. Princess TruffleFluff was insane, and I had to get rid of her when I turned 30. Now I am a crotchety old woman who shakes a bony finger at rowdy youths, but I still enjoy reflecting on some of my Princess shenanigans. Please enjoy this insightful sports commentary I wrote in 2014 during the World Cup.

Because Princess owns about 17 pairs of Nike shorts, played at least 5 years of recreational basketball at her church, and once won a golf trophy, she is well-versed in anything “sporty.” Since the World Cup is going on, Princess thought many of her constituents could use a refresher on two very confusing sports, futbol and football.

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Dear Diary

Dear Diary

I recently flipped through the diary I kept sporadically from age 8 until I entered sixth grade. It’s the devastating tale of a pure-of-heart elementary school student who hated hand chimes (this is the depressing stepping stone to the glorious handbells of Christmas carol fame) and kept meticulous record of when she brushed her teeth, and how she grew into a nightmarish sixth grader who smiled on the outside but spewed sass in her diary and had dreams of her diary being as famous as Anne Frank’s while also confessing her deep and irrational fear of Anne Frank.

I spent the majority of the entries addressing the diary as one would a parole officer: sharing dutifully every single thing I did and apologizing if I listed them out of order or forgot to write one day, which of course I did, constantly. Every single entry contains an apology of some sort to this inanimate but oppressive diary, and this is totally, exactly how I am: enslaving myself to expectations no one else ever set, feeling terrible about it, and then eventually shaking my fist at the sky in resentment when I realize I can’t meet them. OH, HELP.

The scariest part about reading an old diary is not who you were, but who you STILL ARE. Have mercy. Here is what my diary taught me is (probably) eternally true about me:

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Nonsensical Thoughts: Halloween Edition

Nonsensical Thoughts: Halloween Edition

I love Halloween. I always have. Candy, costumes, celebrating for no clear reason — these are, without debate, the best things ever. I tend to take costumes pretty seriously. If I get an idea in my head, you will need to sedate me and surgically remove the idea from my brain in order to get me to change course. My personality is a little off-kilter like this: I spend a good deal of time yielding to other’s opinions, very go-with-the-flow and “whatever you think!”, and then, out of nowhere, I’ll dig in my heels on something inconsequential, and you’ll never change my mind, not in a million years or for a million dollars. Ask my husband how he feels about this. (SPOILER: HE LOVES IT.) (Editor’s note: No he doesn’t.)

I remember having a crystal clear vision for my Halloween costume in fourth grade. I wanted to be an artist: have a tiny mustache, a painter’s palette, a beret. Oh, it would be very inspired! Very meaningful! Very French! Here’s how it turned out:

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