Chronically Irritated

Walmart. The land of low prices, high blood pressure, and spiritual tests I did not sign up for. I swear, it’s like this place has a secret ritual: Before you can even make it past the entrance, you must first fight the wonky-wheeled buggy beast. Every. Single. Time. You’d think I was auditioning for Nailed It: Shopping Cart Edition. The front-right wheel always has dreams of spinning off into traffic while the other is doing its own interpretive dance. And that’s just the welcome mat. Then there's the self-checkout situation. Look, I didn’t clock in. If I wanted to be a cashier, I’d have applied. But here I am, scanning, bagging, moving like I’ve got a shift to finish, while Karen in front of me is arguing with the scale because it refuses to recognize her cantaloupe. And God forbid the line for the actual cashier is shorter than self-checkout—that’s the only time I’ll reconsider my stance, but only under extreme duress or if I’m feeling nostalgic about human interaction. Now let’...

Housewife means sleeping in until 8 a.m! Let’s just get one thing straight: I’m tired. I’m over it. And if one more person says “you just need a little self-care,” I’m going to throw a shoe at them. I’m a mom of three, wife to a man whose spirit animal is “I’ll do it later,” and caretaker to a zoo of pets including a tortoise who eats better than I do. I live in a house powered entirely by chaos, noise, and passive-aggressive sighs. My day starts somewhere between 6 and 8 a.m. (and yes, 8 a.m. is sleeping in—don’t test me). I’m up cooking breakfast, packing a lunch, feeding pets, walking the dog, and then maybe—maybe—I get to sit down for thirty seconds before someone wakes up in a bad mood and starts a pre-dawn war over cereal. I like people... conceptually. I can be social. I can be friendly. But don’t mistake that for endless patience. I can match your energy, sure. But if your energy is rude, I’ll match that too—with interest and a receipt. And can we talk about the “you’re kind of...

You ever look around your house and suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to destroy everything in sight — but instead you grab a trash bag and some cleaner and become the unsung hero no one asked for? Yeah. Welcome to rage cleaning. First of all: Why. Are. There. Empty. Containers. EVERYWHERE ? Fridge? Empty carton of milk. Pantry? Empty cereal box, just chilling like it pays rent. Counter? Random snack wrappers living their best life. Was it too heavy to throw away? Did it grow roots? Why is it still HERE? Toss it in the bloody wheelie bin, people! (Yes, wheelie bin. Because British English understood the assignment .) At this point, the transformation happens. I’m basically a superhero: ●Trash bag for a cape. ●Spray cleaner for a weapon. ●Wild, angry hair as part of the uniform. I cleaned that house! You're welcome! I sprint through the house like I’m fighting crime, rescuing innocent floors and walls from the little villains who live here (also known as my kids and my dog Gypsy, ...

  Starting a blog sounds simple, right? You just write some stuff, slap on a few pictures, post it, and suddenly you're famous. Easy. Except… no. It’s actually a confusing, code-filled rabbit hole of nonsense that makes you question every decision you’ve ever made, especially the one where you thought, “Hey, blogging sounds fun.” Here’s the raw, unfiltered truth about what it’s like to start a blog as a stay-at-home mom with opinions, sarcasm, a full house, and absolutely zero coding experience. So why did I do this to myself? Because I’m sarcastic, fast-witted, and apparently people laugh at what I say—as long as I don’t offend them first. As a stay-at-home mom with a brain full of commentary, I figured why not turn my personality into a blog? I knew it wouldn’t be a walk in the park… but I also didn’t expect to trip face-first into a wall of HTML and SEO. The first tech tantrum: Google Analytics & the Code Abyss Linking Google Analytics? Embedding HTML? Yeah, I know what thos...

 You ever see a little boy first thing in the morning? Eyes barely open, hair pointing in twelve directions, and somehow already mid-sentence about Batman or ninjas or why chicken nuggets are the best food? Yeah, welcome to the boy mom life. From the moment my son’s eyes crack open, it’s go-time. He’s ready to run, talk, bounce, ask, and repeat—all before I’ve even ate breakfast.  Being a boy mom comes with a signature scent: a mysterious blend of candy, faint sour notes, outdoor sweat, and something you can’t quite name but somehow recognize across the room . We don’t question it. We just call it “son.” Don't get me started on mealtime! It better be exactly what he likes—or it’s war. He’s a picky eater with very strong opinions, especially about ketchup (which apparently goes on everything) and cheese pizza (a staple for all growing boys). But if he’s into it? That plate will be spotless in under three minutes. Blink and it’s gone. Clean Plate = Full Tummy! Even if it was jus...

 Let’s just get into it. Because I know I’m not the only one who hears these two phrases and immediately questions every life decision that led to this moment. You ever get told to “calm down” when you weren’t even mad? Yeah? SAME. Apparently using a serious tone or speaking like an actual adult equals "danger, danger—she’s about to flip a table!" No, Brenda. I’m not mad. I’m just not sugar-coating it for your comfort today. It’s wild. I'm over here calm as a monk, and someone says, “Calm down,” and suddenly I’m not anymore. You know how hard it is to keep your cool when you're already calm and someone tells you not to be not calm? That’s like someone handing you a fire extinguisher when you’re just lighting a candle. Why? No one—and I mean no one—has ever “calmed down” after hearing that phrase. It’s never worked. It’s not helpful. It’s just the fast-pass lane to me becoming exactly what you think I was being. Say anything else! Say, “Hey, you okay?” or “You’re sound...

 My Dog Is Basically a Toddler… with Muscles and No Chill Let me introduce you to my child. She’s almost 1 year old, loud, dramatic, doesn’t understand boundaries, destroys everything she touches, begs during dinner, and throws fits when she doesn’t get her way. Her name is Gypsy, and she’s my pitbull. Except she’s not a dog—she’s a toddler in a pitbull’s body with the emotional range of a soap opera character and the self-control of a gremlin after dark. She Has a Bed. She Just Hates It. Like any child, Gypsy needs a comfy place to sleep. So I buy her a cute little bed. Plush. Soft. High reviews. Expensive. She rips it apart in 10 minutes. Then cries about not having a bed. So, like a tired parent with more guilt than sense—I buy another one. Repeat cycle. She’s gone through more beds than a college freshman moving apartments. Dinner Time = Talent Show You know how toddlers act out for attention while you're trying to eat in peace? Yeah. That. Every time I sit down with food, she ...

Because apparently being 5’7” and not shaped like a Pixar mom is a public concern. Let’s just get this out of the way: Yes, I’m tall. Yes, I’m skinny. No, I don’t need you to narrate it like a bad sports commentator every time I walk into a room. "Do you even eat?" No, I photosynthesize. I stand in the sun and absorb nutrients through sarcasm and spite. Of course I eat. I eat a lot. Just because I don’t pack on weight doesn’t mean I’m starving in the name of fashion. Some bodies are just like that—skinny by nature, not by struggle. "You must work out." If by “work out” you mean chasing kids, rage cleaning, and aggressively avoiding responsibilities… then yes. I’m a damn athlete. The Tall Girl Conundrum Being 5'7" is like standing at the exact height where people think you're tall, but you don’t qualify for runway modeling, WNBA recruitment, or “giraffe” status. I’m in the no-man’s land of height. Just tall enough to bump my head, not tall enough to mone...

 Let’s talk language. As an American, I’ve come to accept that our version of English feels like it was put together by a committee that ran out of coffee and gave up halfway through. Meanwhile, across the pond, the Brits are out here naming things with actual style and flair—like Shakespeare and a thesaurus had a lovechild. Case in point: Americans say “trash can.” The Brits? “Wheelie bin.” We’re tossing banana peels into a trash can like cavemen, and they’re wheeling theirs out like it’s a royal carriage for refuse. We say “diaper,” they say “nappy.” That sounds adorable, like something a baby duck might wear. Meanwhile “diaper” sounds like a medical emergency wrapped in duct tape. And don’t even get me started on how they say “taking the mick” instead of “joking.” We say “joking” like it’s a warning label. They say “taking the mick” and it sounds like an art form passed down through generations. Even their insults are better. “Muppet”? Iconic. “Numpty”? Gold. We’ve got “idiot,” ...

 You ever notice how companies will slap “ NO CREDIT NEEDED ” on their ads like it’s some kind of gift from the financial gods? Like wow, thanks for not judging my entire existence based on a three-digit number that fluctuates if I sneeze near a billing cycle. But then—surprise! You miss a payment, cancel early, or heaven forbid… return the thing you couldn't afford in the first place, and suddenly they’ve got the credit bureau on speed dial like you're the villain in a financial crime documentary. Excuse me, but if my credit wasn’t needed to get the couch, the tires, or the overpriced iPad for my kid’s class Zoom calls—then why is it suddenly essential when things go sideways? What part of “no credit needed” translates to “we’re still gonna tattletale if you’re late?” Make it make sense. Just say it’s a trap and go. If I made you laugh, cringe, or question your entire existence—consider tossing a tip my way.

  Ah yes, vacation. That magical time when we convince ourselves that spending thousands of dollars, packing half our house, and dragging it to another zip code will somehow equal "relaxation."   Spoiler: it doesn't! • The Packing Panic The idea of vacation? Lovely. The reality? An anxiety-riddled scavenger hunt for matching socks and chargers that don’t exist. Trying to pack clothes for everyone, hoping you don’t forget anyone’s underwear, allergy meds, or sanity? Instant panic attack. • Cold Weather Getaways Should Be Illegal You want me to leave my warm home, pay to be cold, and call it a getaway? Absolutely not! If I have to wear more than one layer to survive your vacation plan, I’m staying home. • Sightseeing Is Boring. Yeah, I Said It If I wanted to quietly admire a wax figure of someone I don’t know, I’d scroll Instagram. Give me go-karts, zip lines, animal encounters—something that doesn’t feel like a slow school field trip led by a retired librarian. • Group Vac...

 You know who I’m tired of hearing from?     People who aren’t picky eaters. Yeah, you. The “I’ll eat anything” crowd. The “you have to try it once” weirdos. The people who casually drop phrases like, “It’s actually not bad if you don’t think about the fact that it’s a goat eyeball.” Why do I get judged for not wanting to eat something that smells like a cursed science project, but they get praised for licking cow tongue like it’s gourmet? I’m sorry, but if your plate looks like it came from a Fear Factor challenge, don’t look down on me for ordering chicken tenders and fries. I’m not five — I just have standards. Being a picky eater isn’t a phase. It’s part of my soul. It’s how I was born, raised, and how I plan to die — hopefully without ever accidentally biting into someone’s boiled liver. You can have your sushi with the raw egg and mystery tentacles. I’ll be over here happily dipping my safe, recognizable food into ketchup like a sane person. So no, I don’t want...

 Hi. I’m not here to inspire you, change your life, or sell you a course on how to manifest inner peace using moon water. I’m just here to say things out loud that most people only whisper in their minds. This blog is for the ones who are chronically irritated — not in a rage monster kind of way, but in a “why is everything kind of stupid lately?” kind of way. I’m sarcastic, honest, occasionally kind, and often confused by society in general. Expect a mix of things I love, things I hate, and things I pretend not to care about but maybe secretly do. Today, we’re starting with a few mild irritations, just to set the mood: ●People who respond to serious texts with “lol” Oh good, I was hoping my emotional crisis would be treated like a stand-up set. ●Bluetooth devices that never connect when you need them But sure, randomly sync to my neighbor’s speaker at 3 a.m. again. That’s cool. ●When someone says “you look tired” Thanks, Janet. So do you. But I’m polite enough to lie about it. ●Ap...