Easier to not

Someone once asked me what it was like to be depressed. The question alone fascinated me, because, like, bitch, have you never been sad? But as I tried to explain, I found that it was a lot harder to articulate than just describing a scene in which I sit next to a rain-spattered window in the dark, crying while listening to the song “Everybody Hurts” on repeat (although actually, that is weirdly accurate).


You know what will make me feel better? The WORLD’S SADDEST SONG.

I mean, yes, there is some actual time spent feeling sad. About what, you ask? That’s an excellent question, because most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be sad about. Is it the futility of life? Is it the exponentially increasing speed with which time is passing, stealing from me my youth and vitality? Is it the fact that at this point in my life, there’s a very good chance that I will never actually get to hold a three-toed sloth? I don’t know, man. Point is, I’ll be fine, and then I’ll just be sad. 

Fortunately, the majority my time is not spent actively being sad, which is good, because my face swells up to Elephant Man levels if I cry for more than ten minutes. But depression has other tricks up its ugly crocheted bell sleeves, and the one it likes to pull on me the most is actually far more disruptive to my everyday life. Because every day– every single day– my depression informs me that it’s just Easier to Not.

“Today,” I tell myself, “I am finally going to sit down and write out the timeline for my novel. And then I am going to write my novel, and get it published, and roll around in the giant piles of money my novel makes me.”

“Hey, though,” my depression says. “You know what’s even better than doing this thing you used to enjoy? Not doing it.”

“What should I do instead?” I ask, confused.

Depression rubs its hands together with glee. “Like, literally nothing.”

And so, I do literally nothing. All day.

The word on the street is that exercise is apparently the best cure for depression, so every day I make a plan to finally get on that– I made a kick-ass playlist (with the extremely motivational title Operation FU Fat), I bought clothes that Experienced Exercise People might wear, and each night I lay out those clothes and I charge my headphones and I add to my kick-ass playlist and I set my alarm for 45 minutes earlier than I would normally get up, because tomorrow, I’m going to make it happen, and I will exercise away my sads.

But then the alarm goes off, and before I can even get out of bed, depression rolls over and plants an elbow in my back and says “Hey, I know you’re psyched about spending three quarters of an hour listening to ‘Celebration’ by Kool and the Gang while sweating profusely on an elliptical set to a resistance that even a senior citizen wouldn’t find challenging. But– and hear me out– wouldn’t it be easier to just not do that?”

So I go back to sleep.

Depression has informed me that it is easier to not cross stitch swear words onto pillows, that it is easier to not write in my journal, that it is easier to not call my friends or my parents. In fact, depression forced me to play about an hour of games on my phone before I could sneak out long enough to write this blog.

I did it, though. So there’s that.

Unfortunately, depression isn’t the kind of thing you can defeat by writing one blog post despite its protestations that it’s even easier to spend an hour reading the Wikipedia article on Sir David Attenborough. To be honest, I haven’t quite figured out yet exactly what can defeat depression– yogic breathing? Pizza? Napalm? But I’m working on it. Even though it would be easier to not.


Anyway, this is how everything turned out.

After obsessively checking for views re-reading old blog entries last week, I came to realize that a lot happened during my unplanned anxiety hiatus that I probably would have told you about if I hadn’t been so busy lying on my couch watching TV shows about people with botched plastic surgery. So before I jump right back in with well-spun tales of my exotic life (TODAY I FOUND A CUP FILLED WITH MILK SO SPOILED THAT IT HAD BASICALLY BECOME SENTIENT CHEESE), I thought I’d take a moment to catch you up on a few things.

  • After months of complaining about it, we finally did something about the lack of tumbleweeds of fur against our baseboards and got ourselves a dog. Her name is Penny and her hobbies include eating and subsequently pooping out socks, cat wrestling, and aggro-snuggling.

    Penny Coco

    Okay, so this is not exactly the best picture of her? But I feel it is an accurate representation of her daily life, and also a tender depiction of cross-species love.

  • In the time it took me to scrape myself back together, Addie finished kindergarten and first grade, and this year will be submitting her thesis on the rise of the novel in 18th century literature (I think that’s what you do in the second grade, right?). She is also still a Girl Scout, and has even camped out overnight, while I still have a panic attack every time I have to turn on the iron.

    Rosie, meanwhile, has not aged at all, nor hit any major milestones other than becoming super obsessed with the concept of growing boobies, so she’s got a lot going on right now, too.

    Rosie Bbs

    Rosie has been freeing the nipple since before freeing the nipple was cool.

  • Spoiler alert – I never lost any weight, and I forgot all the Spanish I learned, and my skin is worse than ever, but I did finally break down and start getting my hair professionally colored, so at least now I look like a complete mess with highlights.

    Stupid Arty Selfie

    This is supposed to be a super art-y selfie? But honestly I just sort of look like an elderly relative is talking to me about the importance of flood insurance. There is an alternate version with my mouth slightly ajar, like you see sexy ladies doing on Instagram, but on me it’s less flirty and more mentally unhinged.

  • Wow, okay, is this really all that has happened to me in the course of like 16 months? I really thought there would be more than this. I was counting on a whole big list of like awesome accomplishments and shit, but I cannot think of a single other thing. BASICALLY TWO BABIES COULD HAVE BEEN BORN IN THIS TIME AND ALL I DID WAS GET A DOG AND WATCH MY KID PROGRESS NATURALLY THROUGH GRADE LEVELS OH MY GOD ADULTHOOD IS A DEATH TRAP.
  • The other night I had a dream that I was riding the bus with President Obama, and he had full sleeve tattoos on both forearms, and one of the forearms just said OBAMA in really big ornate letters, and I was like, wow, one would not have guessed that he had these sleeve tattoos.
  • Oh! I went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter! That’s a thing that is definitely cool that you probably didn’t get to do! So there! I’m still relevant!

Okay, so it turns out that you basically missed nothing. Now that we’re all caught up, I can move on to all of my latest and greatest exploits.  For the rest of 2017, it’s nothing but life-changing middle-aged-lady magic! I’m gonna climb some stuff! Maybe symbolically…burn something, I don’t know. I’m gonna impress the shit out of you with all my amazing life events!

I’m gonna start with some sleeve tattoos. Or maybe a nap.

Is it me you’re looking for?


So, remember last year when I said I was going to write on this blog every dayand I was going to rediscover myself as a writer, and I think the end goal was for me to prove to myself that I still had it while also somehow accumulating millions of readers and getting a book deal and probably a movie of my moving tale of reconnecting with life through blogging starring Jon Hamm as Ben and me as me?

That obviously didn’t happen. Not even the Jon Hamm part. Like, especially not the Jon Hamm part.

And I don’t even have a good reason why. It would almost be better if I could come back with a triumphant post that was like, “You guys, I know I said I would be doing this every day, but I contracted a totally gnarly disease from a baby bear I held at the IX Indoor Amusement Park, and for a while I lost the ability to speak and use spoons, but I’m back and better than ever and dedicating my life to bear disease awareness!” Then I would ask you all to post brown ribbons on your Facebook feeds to bring more attention to the plight of the tens of people impacted each year by bear disease, and I don’t know, maybe run a 5k or something, but probably not, because I am slow and lazy.

The truth of the matter is, I wanted to take a break. Just a day or two. But then I let a week go by. And then suddenly I became crippled not only by the pressure of delivering an extra-hilarious post to explain my week-long absence, but also by my crushing failure as a human being in general for not being able to maintain something as simple as writing a 300-word blog post every day.

See, things spiral out of control pretty fast over here in the old Kim Oja brain.

So a week had gone by, which I let turn into a month, which because more than a year, and every single day I thought to myself, “I should restart my blog!” And then I laughed and laughed, and then treated myself to an evening of playing Sudoku on my phone and intermittently reminding myself what a garbage-y person I am.

And I really did mean to do it. I mean, I paid the $9 fee to save my URL address. That has to count for something, right? Although really, I think it was set up on autopay, so it just sort of happened, but I didn’t do anything to actively stop it from happening.

But for whatever reason, I just couldn’t do it. Maybe laziness. Maybe depression. (Side note: I feel like literally every female humor blogger is depressed? It might have actually been required in the TOS I signed when I put up this site.) But whatever it was kept me away for a good long time.

Until today.

And that’s not to say that this is some sort of amazing, sun-breaking-through-clouds redemption moment. I’m still probably not going to have the wherewithal to write every day. Nothing has really changed, except I have mustered up enough energy to a) write this and b) overcome the gigantic chasm of dread that stopped me in my tracks on a daily basis for over a year.

Wow, it sounds kind of badass when I say it like that. Yes, that is what I did. Chasm jumping. In a tank top. Looking awesome. Please take note, Jon Hamm.

Things or topics I found interesting 27 years ago, and my feelings on them today

IMG_54571. Dinosaurs. I mean, I guess they’re all right. Addie is obsessed with them. She does this thing where she’ll ask you your favorite dinosaur, and if you say, like, triceratops or something, she sneers at you for being so basic and informs you that her favorite dinosaur is compsognathus, because of course.

2. Rocks, or racks. did have a weird rock-obsession for awhile, now that I think of it. I used to find what I believed to be quartz scattered all over the blacktop at my elementary school, and would shove it in anyone’s face who would listen, although thinking back on it now, it was probably just broken concrete. There may have been a rock polisher involved? Now if it says racks, then I don’t know what to say to that, because while my own rack is pretty spectacular, I don’t really spend much time perusing any others.

3. Unsolved mysterys. This is totally still true. Back in the day, this meant tuning in every Wednesday at 8 p.m. to catch Robert Stack on the show by the same name. If this show were still on now, I would watch the fuck out of it, even if it was just one long, unbroken shot of Robert Stack’s corpse reenacting alien abductions. Now, I get my fix from Dateline and 48 Hours, but it was never quite the same.

4. Cavepeople. I do actually spend more time thinking about cave people than most people probably do? But it always involves, like, really stupid things, like did they wipe themselves after they went to the bathroom? Or were they basically animals? When did they invent songs? Were they any good? Were they catchy?

5. Egipt. This might have sprung from the fact that every single year at Easter, my family watches The Ten Commandments, during which we mock it mercilessly the entire time. That movie, and the song “King Tut” by Steve Martin, are basically the only things I knew about Egypt at the time, and that pretty much holds true today.

6. How chalk is made. I call bullshit on this, there is no way I was interested in how chalk is made.

7. How school started. This is very broad. It might tie in to my cave people obsession? Like, at what point did they decide, fuck this, this cave is cold and dark and has bugs in it, so let’s educate our kids so they can move up to clay huts? I was very, very into school as a child, so I don’t think I was asking this out of any sort of malice. I probably just wanted to know who to thank, because I was a giant, giant nerd.

8. How computers work. I applaud my past self for even recognizing, in 1988, that computers were a thing. I did have computer lab at that age, but all it really was was the PAWS typing test, over and over and over again. But I am amazing at typing, so I guess it was all worth it in the end. Also, I still assume that computers work because there are tiny men inside filing away everything I type and quickly sketching copies of the pictures I upload. Obviously.

9. How felt was invented. What? No, get yourself together, kid!

10. How dominos were invented. Oh my God, you’re embarrassing me.

11. Fish. True that, fish are legit.

12. How fist fighting started. I don’t really know what I meant by this, but I think it’s a totally adroit question that I would actually like to see answered. Who was the first cave person to just pop another guy in the mouth with his fist? Did the other guy see it coming, like, at all? I’m assuming that my interest in this then is the same as it is today, which is that I have always secretly wanted someone to fistfight over me. “Boys, boys,” I would say, as two men pummeled each other with their fists. “You’re both handsome! Now, who can tell me how felt is made?”

The End


The author at the age this list was written, very happy about something, probably fistfights.

The skin I’m in

As with most areas of my life, I have no idea what I’m doing with my skin. I mean, I understand why I have it– otherwise, all my internal organs and shit would just fall out, and that would be super gross– but I never exactly know what to do with it.

As a teen, I was under the impression that I was supposed to singe it into submission with Oxy and Clearasil, which I mixed with abandon. The girls on TV were all doing it, and I followed their lead, even though they were clearly completely spasmodic when it came to rinsing afterward:


But in the end, all I got out of it was cystic acne and a very wet bathroom counter.

When I was in grad school, I scored a job as a receptionist at a day spa that sold fancy skincare items, which I sampled liberally whenever I was left alone in the reception area for more than 15 seconds. (I also waxed my own lip and gave myself paraffin hand treatments on the regular.) A few times, out of guilt for the massive amount of samples I had pilfered through the years more than anything else, I would use my employee discount to purchase a full-sized bottle of something or other, assuming that anything that cost $30 would give me the skin of an angel riding a unicorn into a double rainbow.

The spa ladies claimed they could see a difference. But the spa ladies also failed to notice when I accidentally waxed off half an eyebrow, so I don’t think they were looking very closely.

Right now, I’m in a natural products phase. For about a year, I washed exclusively with black African soap (which, I’m not gonna lie, makes me feel like a terrible person every time I say it? Even though that’s literally the name of the soap, and it really is black?), and moisturized with a Burt’s Bees face oil, because I figured all of the oil-removing things I had used in the past hadn’t worked, so why not slap more oil on there and just see what happens? And honestly, it was a pretty great combo, except for the fact that it left me smelling like the incense section at a head shop, and after awhile that can really wear a girl down.

So just recently, I bought my first Lush facial cleanser, and I have to say, I’m kind of addicted. I don’t know if it’s the fact that it comes in a pot, or that it really just looks like someone chewed up a bunch of almonds and spit them into a container, and then sprinkled some lavender over it all for good measure, or that I have to actually break chunks of it off to use it– actually, pretty much all of those things make it sound disgusting. But trust me, it’s super not.

I doubt it’s really going to do anything for my skin one way or another– honestly, at this point I don’t really think there’s anything out there that’s going to distract from the fact that I somehow have both acne and wrinkles and basically spend most of my time looking like I slept the night on a grease-soaked corduroy pillowcase– but it just smells so good, and it feels so fancy, like I’m part of an exclusive club that knows that face washes that come in a tube are so passé.

Although once this pot is gone, I might just try chewing up some almonds myself and cutting out the middle man.

I’m not sorry

Growing up, I had a great uncle who was a millionaire. He lived out of state and we only saw him every few years, so this relationship generally translated to terrifying dinners at restaurants without children’s menus and occasional dog-sitting for his two full-sized poodles, Spike and Spikeson, while he and my grandmother went for a swim in the hotel pool.

I honestly have no idea where my parents were during these dog-sitting rendezvouses—I can’t really imagine my grandma and great uncle willingly being like, “For sure, we would love to have this awkward pre-teen hang around while we catch up after years apart!” Chances are, I forced myself upon them, because I found my Uncle Jim super glamorous, not so much because of his money, but because he had written and published a book. It was a book about business, and it was self-published, but dammit, he was an author, which was what I wanted to be when I grew up. Along with the lead singer of The Bangles. And also Jem.

It was during one of these outings to the hotel that I remember having a very short conversation with Uncle Jim. I can’t even really remember what it was about, but I do remember him saying “You can’t make everyone happy all the time.”

To which I responded, with great dignity, “No. But I can try.

And I did. Try, I mean. I actually completely failed at the making everyone happy part. But no one can say I didn’t try.

I don’t know why or how I turned into such a people pleaser. I do enjoy making other people happy, but I also love basking in the knowledge that, for the most part, I am universally well liked. (There is, I should point out, about 10% of the population that has a violent reaction of hatred toward me, which I can’t really explain. Is it my awesomeness? Or do they just have the ability to see through my bullshit?) I feel confident that if I died right now, my tombstone would read “I liked her, she was nice.”

But trying to make everybody happy means often neglecting your own happiness, it turns out—a lesson I learned the same night as the conversation at the hotel, when, in an effort to impress my uncle, I ate a cow’s pancreas and nearly had a mental breakdown over its awfulness. It was a scene that would play out again and again during the course of my life, though usually with less pancreas. Other people’s happiness became what made me happy.

So for now, I’m going to try an experiment—I’m going to try to find out what actually makes me happy. I suspect it might be copious amounts of television and pizza? It’s definitely not pancreas. But whatever it is, I want to find it, and I want to worry less about whether what I’m doing is making other people happy.

(–she said, while secretly worrying that everyone was going to be offended when they read this, and assume it was about them, because that’s what she would do. But then she remembered that creepy Madonna video where she was covered in latex and wearing cornrows for some reason? And she allowed it to be her new anthem. For now. Along with “Milkshake,” by Kelis.)

Stitch Fix Fever

Except for the fox shoes incident, I have never really considered myself a fashionable person. I mean, I have definitely upgraded from my college days, when I routinely wore second-hand bowling shirts and my mother actually wrote a letter to my college paper, in which I had a column, begging the editors to help me find a way to be more stylish.

In the end, it was not the kindly but ultimately also sartorially-challenged staff of the Ashland University Collegian (listen, it was the late ’90s, mistakes were made by all) but my desire not to die alone, probably under a heap of used local softball team shirts, that caused me to update my style. Finally capturing and ultimately maintaining a boyfriend kept me mindful of my clothing choices, as I didn’t figure Ben would want to be seen in public with me in a pair of overalls and a hand-lettered T-shirt reading I CONQUERED THE BEAST OF INJUSTICE (I still have that t-shirt, actually, it’s pretty awesome).

But lately I’ve been feeling kind of blah, both inside and out, and it feels as though a makeover is in order. A haircut is basically out of the question, because when you have naturally curly hair, the only two options available to you are Long Insane Hair, or Pube-y Felicity Hair. So I am turning to Stitch Fix to see if I can breathe some much-needed life into my sad wardrobe.

In order to really connect with your Stitch Fix stylist, they ask you to take a good hard look at the clothes you have now, and ask you to pin clothes you would be interested in trying to your Pinterest wall. Up until now, I have used Pinterest only to find cross-stitch alphabets in which to write pithy sayings (my Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems cross-stitch is amazing), so I basically had to start at the beginning. So far, this is what I’ve learned:

  1. I have a lot of gray clothes. Like, a lot. Because apparently my subconscious wants to dress me up as an elephant. That’s a shit move, subconscious.
  2. I also have far too many of the following items:
    1. Striped shirts (I am an elephant pirate, apparently)
    2. Polka-dotted shirts
  3. I am currently a big fan of shirts with tiny prints of animals on them. Birds, rabbits, horses, I have them all. And I don’t plan on stopping until I become the twee manic pixie dream girl I have always imagined myself to be, even though manic pixie dream girls rarely work in insurance
  4. When all compiled together on a Pinterest board, it becomes apparent that my aesthetic is 1940’s Librarian
  5. I am all about the new tunic-and-leggings trend, as from the knees down, I have the body of a supermodel

My first Fix is scheduled to arrive on Saturday, so I’ll follow up with a review. I just assembled my pin board today, in a fit of ennui brought on by my umpteenth day in jeans and a polka-dotted sweater, so it might be too late for my stylist to use it when choosing my first fix. If she has to go by my initial profile alone, all she knows is that it is imperative that my bra straps not show in any shirts she sends, because apparently I was very concerned about that the day I set up my profile.

So if you see me wearing a bunch of gray striped turtlenecks over the next few days, you’ll know what happened.

Out of stock

I am beginning to suspect that Giant Eagle is using my Advantage Card to track my purchases and systematically eliminate all the things I buy on a regular basis.

First, it was just little things, things that could be chalked up to coincidence. Maybe they just stopped making Sweet BBQ Sun Chips? I mean, I guess it makes sense that I might have been the only person buying chicken jerky? Even though it’s delicious and way better for you than regular jerky, but whatever, I digress, it does sound sort of gross when you think about it.

But more and more, I find that the items that I needed to survive everyday life were disappearing off shelves. Oscar Mayer turkey bacon– gone. Stonyfield Farms blueberry yogurt– never to be seen again. My grocery store now sells no less than sixty varieties of nut butter, including powdered, cocoa pretzel, and bacon (which is probably pretty good, TBH), but you will never again be able to purchase prepared chicken or shelled pistachio nuts. (And yes, I know I can just man up and shell my own pistachios and prepare my own chicken, but THIS IS AMERICA AND I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO.)

At first, I tried to adjust. Fine, no more Oscar Mayer turkey bacon? I will eat this equally acceptable Jennie-O turkey bacon. I suppose this coconut creamer is an adequate replacement for my Almond Joy creamer. (It’s not.) But then Giant Eagle fought back, and eliminated those things, too.

The worst is when they take away something that my children like, because it’s really not possible to explain to a five-year-old that she’s never again going to taste the delectable goodness of FarmRich pepperoni pizza bites (and God help you if you attempt to replace them with Tostino’s Pizza Rolls, because she will KNOW, and her wrath will be fierce). Occasionally, I’ll find my old food comrades in another store, and when I do, I return home with a cart full of it, hoarding it like the apocalypse is at hand. I will most likely die almost immediately at the hands of zombies, but by God, I will do so with a jar of Mid’s meat sauce clutched against my chest.

I wonder if I could use this to my advantage. If I buy nothing but mayonnaise for the next few months, will they take all the mayonnaise off the shelves? Can I buy out the stock of the olive bar and get that shut down, too? I don’t really know what I’d do with gallons of mayonnaise and olives– probably barf uncontrollably until they’re removed from the premises– but there must be some benefit to this misfortune. And an antipasto-free shopping experience just might be worth it.


Quite the Week

Without going into details, I have been having what can only be described as Quite the Week.

It’s weeks like this that make me lay in bed awake at night, thinking of weeks past that I thought had gone poorly, and just laugh and laugh and laugh at my former self that thought her worst week was the week that she felt left out at a putt-putt golf outing, or the week she accidentally befriended a homeless person and then accidentally helped him commit a crime. (That actually happened. That week was also very intense.)

But the problem now is that, as I believe I have mentioned before but am too lazy to go back into my archives and link to, I have completely and totally lost the ability to relax. Never exactly a laid-back person to begin with, having children and a stressful job has pretty much rid me of all vestiges of the ability to just chill the fuck out.

I mean, I know what I am supposed to do, in theory– lay down! Read a book! Take a bath! Drink too much beer and stalk old friends on Facebook! But when I try to do those things, a very loud and persistent alarm immediately begins sounding in my head: WARNING! WARNING! LAUNDRY IS GOING UNFOLDED AND I GUESS YOU FORGOT YOUR EMPLOYEE REVIEWS WERE DUE TODAY WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM WHY ARE YOU LYING DOWN ARE YOU DYING BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER LAY DOWN AGAIN UNTIL YOU DIE!

(I just now remembered when writing that review that my employee reviews really are due today. That’s distressing.)

I’m assuming I can’t be the only person who lost the ability to chillax upon entering adulthood. Otherwise, there would be no bitter, Type-A women to unthaw with ukulele music in romantic comedies. Is there anyone among you who found your way back to relaxation? Can you tell me the path? Do they sell wine on the path? Is wine the path?

The rolling garbage heap

I came to grips a long time ago with the fact that I’m not the kind of person who takes good care of her things. I don’t waterproof my boots or Scotchguard my furniture; the Dry Clean Only tag inside my shirts might as well just read “Wear Until Too Smelly Then Bury In Closet In Shame Forever.” For this reason, I never really spring for the expensive stuff—I had a Coach purse once that gave me extreme anxiety whenever I carried it, terrified that if I breathed on it the wrong way it would spontaneously disintegrate leaving behind a sad pile of sunglasses and Chick-Fil-A receipts that I would have to carry home in a Giant Eagle bag.

But no matter how frugal you are with your clothes and accessories, it’s basically impossible to cheap out on a car, so I have always tried to keep mine relatively tidy. I was never the type to spend hours detailing the inside with Q-Tips or anything, but I kept the dashboard clean, the carpets vacuumed. Sometimes I might have a dangly novelty air freshener in there to spruce the place up a bit. No one was ever super impressed by the inside of my car, but no one ever recoiled in horror.

Until I had kids.

Now, my car is basically a rolling garbage heap. There are gummies worked so deeply into the fibers of my floor mats that they have now officially logged more miles than the car’s previous owners. The floors are littered with French fries, Lego pieces, board books that literally no one ever wants to read until you dare to throw them away, at which point they are rescued from the donate pile and taken into the car to peruse once, and then you just escort them to and from your every destination for the rest of your life.  I tried adding a toy cubby between the car seats to hold it all, but that just served as a delightful dumping tool slash kooky hat.

To make matters worse, I made the rookie mistake of letting my children eat and drink in the car, leading to milk spills and the incorporeal funk that accompanies them after they inevitably spoil. In the summer months, my car routinely smells like the cow barn at the county fair, all earthy shit and rotten milk.

I try to fight back every few weeks, cleaning out all the old detritus and sadly wiping things down, but before I even manage to make it to the grocery store and back, a new unsharpened pencil, doll hat and copy of Ten Apples Up On Top materializes out of nowhere. Thankfully, the two car seats in the back mean I can basically never drive any other adults anywhere, but I live in fear of the impromptu work lunch where someone asks “can I just grab a ride with you?” NOT UNLESS YOU’RE WILLING TO SPEND TIME IN THE MOUTH OF HELL, LADY! Don’t mind the Goldfish crumbs.

When we finally get a new car, I’m thinking I’ll be smarter about it—no more food or drink, no more than one toy per rider. Or I may just ban the kids altogether and make them walk. I mean, we’re always getting on our kids to get more exercise, right? And besides, then maybe they’d finally stop wanting to bring that Rock Band drum set with them everywhere they went if they knew they had to carry it.