10 Things I Think I’m Supposed to Care About (But I Don’t)

Maybe I’m weird. Redact maybe.

People seem to care—like passionately —about things that don’t really matter to me. Like at all.

I’ll feign enthusiasm with a wimpy “like,” or a pointless comment like, “That’s crazy! Let’s get together soon! Xo.”

Why can’t I hop aboard the Excitement Express?

Maybe I’m just an introvert.

Maybe I’m more socially awkward than I thought.

Or maybe I’m just an asshole.

Below is a list of things that I think I’m supposed to care about, but I don’t.

  1. Anything dealing with moon phenomenon.

Yeah, no. How many times in my life have I heard, “Tonight’s moon is going to be [blah]. The next time will be in 200 years!”? I understand how this can build up hype and make it feel like a must-see event, but I never even remember to go outside and look. And when I’m reminded that I forgot, I never even really care. Zero FOMO. But people really do care about this moon stuff! And I’m baffled. They throw parties (I mean, I guess I’d go to that), upload moon countdown widgets on their phones and they all post those endless photos on their social media with the little yellow moon dot at the top that proves that they remembered, they witnessed, they documented, they shared. They care.

  1. Vacation Pictures

People vacation for the memories of special time with loved ones and being immersed in beautiful/exotic places. Through their photographs they can relive their travels. But guess what? I wasn’t there. So, I’m pretty much just looking at terrible photography. That sunset/building/flower/hilarious bartender/crab/sculpture/painting/sign doesn’t mean anything to me. And, let me guess? Will there be a (somewhat) lengthy story to accompany each shot? Great!  Grab a bottle. Let’s get started, this will be a while.

  1. State of the Union Addresses

I’ve voted in every election since my 18th birthday, but I’m not very into politics. I remember watching the results of the 2008 election on my honeymoon (want to see pictures?) when Obama won his first term and I felt excited. Change We Can Believe In! I don’t know what I was so eager to change. My life has been pretty status quo since birth, but what the hell? He seemed very friendly. But, with presidents comes those pesty State of the Union Addresses. Oh for God’s sake! The ups. The downs. The handshakes. The effing applause. Shoot me. But they make these damn addresses hard to ignore since they are one every single channel. Then I’m left with moon phenomenon-like guilt. Like, I should care and watch this because I’ve entered adulthood and what he’s saying should matter. But nah. I’ll just flip on Netflix instead and read the highlights tomorrow. Once a Cliff’s Notes girl, always a Cliff’s Notes girl.

 4. Stories about Babies

Babies. Babies. Babies. They are everywhere. I even had two myself. Everyone loves talking about babies—and they do make for some interesting stories. But, maybe I’m an asshole, but I don’t really enjoy stories about other people’s babies. I think only spouses, grandparents and the occasional overly invested aunt/uncle really gives a shit. First steps? All babies take them. Teething? All babies get them. Diaper blowout? We’ve all been stained. I don’t care what your baby’s first word was, but I do want to know how you really feel about motherhood. Do you like being a stay at home mom? Or do you work? What’s that like? When was the last time you yelled so loud your throat hurt? Do you ever dream of getting a hotel room all by yourself for a night or two and do absolutely nothing? I’m sorry I’m not interested in your baby’s milestones, but if you want to compare motherhood battle wound stories. . . let me pull up a chair.

  1. Road Rage Stories

Bad drivers. We’ve all been victims of their stupidity. When you’re driving and someone almost kills you, or makes you late (equally as frustrating), it makes your blood boil. You drive past slowly, twisting your neck in their direction, delivering your best death stare. With just your eyes you say, “You moron, learn to drive!” (They never look as you envisioned, but that’s beside the point). Your heart is still racing. You are eager to vent your story to the first person you see. Yeah see, the thing is that these stories do not make good storytelling. First of all, when I’m told a road rage story, I can never accurately envision the road/intersection/parking lot where it occurred, but I usually go along with it anyway. The intensity of these stories alone gives me anxiety, so I pretty much stop listening altogether. Good stories get retold. Road rage stories are never retold because nobody cares. Accident stories? Tell me more. . .

  1. The Super Bowl

I know that I’m in the minority on this silly event, but really? Sunday nights are for putting the kids to bed early and watching Homeland. Not getting drunk with a bunch of rowdy people, consuming 3,000 extra calories, betting money on random numbers in tiny boxes that confuse you, watching commercials that you can’t really even hear and rooting for a team you’ve never even heard of. My husband tells me it’s part of American culture and not to be such a loser. Whatever. Football in general has always looked silly to me. It’s a bunch of gigantic men lining up, moving around a little bit, someone throws the ball and everyone gets in a big pile. Rinse and repeat. Football is dumb to me all year, but the Super Bowl is super dumb. I’ll be in the kitchen polishing off the wings. With champagne, because I’m classy like that. Call me when the halftime show comes on.

  1. Award Ceremonies (Big and Small)

My mom had to beg me to go to my high school graduation. And my college one too. I didn’t understand why so many relatives come out just to hear a bunch of speeches and my name called. They already know my name. Isn’t the achievement equally as impressive without the hoopla? Fast forward to actually being a mother. So far, I’ve had to attend three graduations: pre-school twice and kindergarten once. Yes, it was adorable. Yes, I might have gotten choked up at how big they’ve gotten. Yes, I might have thought about getting pregnant again immediately after in an ass-backward way to slow down time. But some families went to fancy restaurants after the preschool graduation. Fancy! Why? Some kids were dressed in new three-piece suits. Mine were lucky to be bathed, wearing the best of what was clean.  Don’t get me started on Hollywood award ceremonies. I used to feel obligated to watch each one, to be up on my pop culture. Now I’m 39 and I can’t even stay awake during a movie. I don’t recognize anyone in Hollywood anymore besides like Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt and, of course, Morgan Freeman’s voice.

  1. Concerts

I enjoy going to concerts. But, I hate thinking about the process, the crowds and the effing exiting. Once I’m in my seat and the beers are flowing and that first chord hits and you know exactly what song it is. . .you know the feeling. I hate other people’s concert stories/Instagram stories/Facebook posts. Here’s why: I know why people post these videos. They are IN IT. They are inspired. They are entertained. They genuinely want everyone to experience what they are seeing and hearing. It comes from a good place. (They do receive many likes and comments, so I’m thinking this is an instance where I’m just an asshole.)  But, I once had a friend tell me the entire set list of a band that I had never heard of. There’s no nice way to say, “I don’t care about what you are telling me,” so I endured it.  Moral of the story: like vacation pictures, concerts are for you. Enjoy them privately.

  1. Social Media

I am a Xennial (that newly named generation born between 1978-1983). I had a word processor in my college dorm room and knew the Dewey Decimal System all too well. I got my first cell phone at age 24 and was a little late on the Facebook craze. People seem to really care, like really, really care, about their social media channels: Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Tumblr, Twitter, Google+, etc. I can’t keep up. I can’t be bothered. I just can’t. It’s way too many apps to install and passwords to remember. As a freelance writer, I really should care about this more. Maybe then people might actually stumble upon my work. I don’t know if my social media defiance stems from laziness, assholiness, apathy or fear. But whatever. If you’re reading this and you like it, post it on your shit and maybe one day I’ll catch up with the times.

  1. Trendy Restaurants (and food in general)

Wow. This one people seem to take very seriously; and I’m honestly a little jealous of these people. But alas, I still can’t get myself care enough. Trendy restaurants are popping up everywhere with weird menus, weirder ingredients and a whole lot of hashtags on their Instagram posts. Before taking a bite, everyone snaps a quick picture of their plate #whaleburger #liverslaw #candiedanchovies #glutenfree #duh #yum #foodporn. But like, is that really what you want for dinner? Waiter, can we please have a bread basket? I’m envious of these adventurous palates, but I am perfectly content in a reliable chain restaurant. Who doesn’t love fried appetizers, giant blue cocktails with hilarious names and a jovial rendition of “Happy Birthday” being sung in the background. Oh, wait. My husband, that’s who. He doesn’t want any part of my chain restaurant obsession. If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be at happy hour at Chili’s, or sword battling with breadsticks (they’re endless!) at Olive Garden with my kids. Husband, go enjoy your snake pâté with rhubarb ganoush in a citrus reduction. I’ll meet you at home.

I’m not a bad person, I swear. I love my family and friends. I just don’t care about much. I recently took a 120 question personality test and my #1 personality trait is forgiveness. See? That’s how little I care about things. Screw me over, I don’t care. We good, yo. (I don’t really speak like that, but it’s Friday night and I’m drinking tequila and that brings out my hood). I’m pretty sure I could have made this a Top 100 list, but then I’d be a bonafide a-hole. I know I’m not alone. What are things that you are supposed to care about but really don’t? Maybe this article? You can admit it. I’ll forgive you.


Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, check out FIVE REASONS I’M NAILING ADULTING









Just Keep Scrolling: Social Media & Motherhood

This post was featured here on Scary Mommy on February 20, 2018.


Shut up. Just shut up. I am this close to unfriending you. And you. And you and you and you.

Social media has a way of making people—namely mothers—feel inadequate. Feel like failures. Not creative enough. Not involved enough. Not fun enough. Not motherly enough. Just not. . .well . . .enough.

And it pisses me off because motherhood is HARD. We all do our best. We all just do it differently.

I was completely overwhelmed my first three years of motherhood. I read every single article shared by other mothers on my social media feeds. Reading these articles—these supposed cold-hard truths—didn’t make me feel more knowledgeable or confident. They made me feel like shit.

These articles, statuses (what’s on your mind?), crafts, recipes—hell even crafty recipes–made me feel like crap. Because I had never thought to consider these things—and worse, reading these posts won’t make me change. Reading these articles will educate me that red food dye might cause cancer. But, reading the article will also guarantee to make me feel guilty every time I twist around in my car to hand my son the red lollipop at the bank drive-thru.

Oh, and then there’s the obligatory happy family pictures at adorable places. You’ve seen it. Look at us! We are so happy and coincidentally wearing coordinating outfits at the beach. Look at us! We are so happy and laughing hysterically at this trendy restaurant where our children are behaving perfectly. Look at us! We are so happy and just in love with life at this park. Look at us! We ski. We vacation. We snuggle. We hike. We smile all f*cking day long.

Stop it now. Because no, no you don’t.

When I was a new mom, my husband made me quit using my favorite website that had endless baby information and forums for moms with babies the exact same age. I was obsessed. These stranger moms were my go-to gurus (even though they were brand new like me) on any topic. I don’t know why, but I trusted that they knew more than me on everything.

“Stop going on that website, Emme!” my husband would beg.

“But I love it! I always learn so much,” I’d argue.

“You always think that our perfectly healthy baby has a terminal illness,” he’d point out.

He was right. Who were these women anyway? Why was I so brainwashed that their opinions were fact? Why do they have so many opinions anyway?

I never posted answers, or opinions. I only asked questions. Was this website a social experiment between the dominant and the submissive? Where was my own intuition? I must have it. . .

I deleted my account and began to parent using my own tools: my gut, my heart and my fucking brain. If I had a concern, I’d call my mom or a friend. I wouldn’t reach out to a million strangers who were eager to bark advice and make me feel incompetent.

I soon realized that I needed to do something about the passive-aggressive Facebook advice that draped my newsfeed daily. I knew the posts weren’t intended to offend, but they did, in their sneaky back-alley ways. I knew it was mostly my own insecurities making me feel inadequate. These posts weren’t from strangers; they were from friends, or Facebook friends (there is a difference) probably just looking to inform. Head’s up: GMOs. Head’s up: Dry drowning. Head’s up: Sugar. Head’s up: Human trafficking.

I’m the first to admit that I love social media. I love the quick moments of escape it allows. I love seeing weddings and new babies. I love a funny anecdote, and I’m sucker for an inappropriate meme.

I tend to ignore the political rants. I brush by the sport fanatics. The network marketers don’t bother me, and I can’t resist donating to a GoFundMe page, regardless the cause.

So, I knew what I needed to do; I needed to engage only in posts that brought me pleasure. I became certified in scrolling. Just keep scrolling. Just keep scrolling.

Within time not only did I find that I was spending less time trapped in the vortex of Facebook, but I was becoming a better mother. I stopped comparing my messy, loose parenting style to this perception of perfection portrayed on my screen by others. I started to just be a mom. I became less anxious, less unsure of every move I made. If I screwed up. . .eh, who cares? And more, who’s going to even know? My kids, my business. Nobody else’s.

Social media and the internet has made motherhood maddening. We are too informed with loads of data that is often contradicting and/or frightening. I envy the pre-technology moms who pretty much gave birth, hoped for the best and then sent their kids to college.

No matter what image we portray on Facebook, we are all basically the same. We are all exhausted. We all yell sometimes. We all second guess. We’ve all had days when they’ve had way too much screen time. We’ve all woken up with hangovers and thought, “FML, how am I going to do it today?” We’ve all sometimes let them eat too much crap, or caved into their nagging just to shut them up.

And it’s all okay. Whatever kind of Facebook mom you want to be, go for it. We’re in it together. So, let’s truck through the next 10+ years then meet up for a drink when we’re empty nesters. We can reminisce about how much we miss their younger years. We can wake up with wicked hangovers and go back to sleep. Hell, let’s even take some selfies and put them on Facebook. But, make sure I look good. 😉


If you enjoyed this, check out In Defense of the Mom Blog. Thank you for reading.

Ten Realizations of a 30-Something

This piece was featured here on Sammiches and Psych Meds on 2/8/18.

I just turned 39. Hold on, I need a minute. . . Deep breath. Compose yourself.

Okay, I’m back. I don’t remember turning 29 with any feelings of dread for my next birthday. Twenty-nine was a non-issue, just another candle to blow out and reason to drink too much.

At twenty-nine, the decade I had been dreaming about my whole life was right at my fingertips. The decade of the husband. The decade of the white picket fence. The decade of finally meeting the little people who would one day call me “Mommy.”

I busted into my 30’s a new last name and a fervor in my spirit, eagerly awaiting the decade ahead. Bring it on.

But instead, I was punched in the face by a fist of life’s wake-up calls.

Here are ten examples of the realities faced in the life of 30-somethings.

1.You realize that you have fancy new titles, but no clue how to do your job. You’ve lived your whole life as a daughter, a sister, a girlfriend and cousin. Those roles came naturally, with little navigation required, just part of the fabric of your being. Now BAM you’re a wife. Now BAM you’re an in-law. Now BAM you’re a mother. No matter how great your new family is, it is still more personalities to learn, birthdays to remember and holidays to split. And some days you miss life in your 20’s, living alone watching Sex in the City in your underwear with a bottle of wine and a cat. Meow.

2. You realize that there’s nothing “big” to look forward to for a while. Nothing in life quite rivals the anticipation for a wedding or the birth of a baby.  You are not just excited for yourself, but everyone around you seems to genuinely share the same sentiments, even strangers. It’s the love, I suppose. It’s the hope that love really can last forever. I’m still not sure why people are so excited about the baby part. If they only knew. . .

3. You realize that you’re losing touch with old friends, and your new ones are weird. Sure, social media and texting makes staying up to date on your old friends’ lives so much easier, it also makes picking up the phone that much easier to put off. Texting a quick meme is the new way of saying, “I’m thinking of you.” You get more face to face time with your new friends—and they are terrific—but there is no better high than reminiscing with an old friend about how idiotic you were in your youth; and confessing about your recent occasional bouts of extreme stupidity, 30’s style.

4. You realize that your wardrobe does not reflect your age, and you’re not sure if you give a damn. My closet is still filled with American Eagle and Abercrombie & Fitch. I haven’t been on a job interview (or anything remotely professional) in over a decade, but if I did, I’d be totally screwed. I wore my senior prom dress to a wedding recently because it still fit and I just don’t give a crap about buying clothes. I managed to live through my 30’s still feeling more like a girl than a woman. But, there is nothing about turning forty that sounds girl, and that is depressing to me. Forty sounds all woman. And this woman will be rolling into her forties with a graphic tee, ripped jeans and high-top Converse. Maybe I’ll grow up when I’m fifty.

5. You realize that motherhood is NOT what you fucking thought it would be. It is not clean. It is not easy. It is not even really that fun. You look like hell. You feel like shit. You want to cry. You want a break. You lose your temper. You lose your hobbies. You never sleep. You eat too much. Your boobs hurt. Your head pounds. . . But your heart is full. It is easy to lose sight of it, but there are pockets. There are pockets of pure love that exist if you wipe away the muck.

6. You realize that youth is fleeting as the fingers of aging are starting to poke.I will never get any work done. I want to age naturally. Said every perky, perfect 20-something, including myself. While I haven’t yet taken the plunge into the world of “work,” I can’t say that I haven’t considered it. I color my greys and diligently apply my eye cream daily. However, I have a giant, deep wrinkle on only one side of my forehead that appeared after my second kid, which leads me to believe that I’ve spent much of the past six years with an eyebrow raised and a WTF expression on my face.

7. You realize that life as a stay-at-home-mom can lead to issues with self-identity and self-worth. What am I going to do when the kids are both in school? What have I missed? Will I need to go back to school? Do I remember how to use a computer? Do I even remember how to speak to adults? Can I just write Top Ten lists the rest of my life in my yoga pants? What if my kids need me? How do the working moms do it? If they can do it, so can I! Wait, what? Can I? I’m scared.

8. You realize that you’ll never have that all-consuming, loin-aching, right here, right now, horniness again. Ever. Ahhh, the beginning of a relationship. Everything is so new and exciting. He’s like a drug, an addiction. I was lucky. This phase with my husband lasted over ten years. While married sex has its amazing moments, let’s be real. . . it’s mainly half-asleep, leg stubble, bad breath, who just farted, just hurry up before the show comes back on, sorry you just swallowed breastmilk kind of passion.

9. You realize that you are sending condolence cards and attending wakes for your friends’ parents. The grandparents are almost all gone. Growing up, it was sad, but normal, to hear that a friend lost a grandparent. You didn’t expect—or even think it was possible—that our parents would ever get older. Wouldn’t they always be playing bridge around the kitchen table drinking Schlitz beer and smoking Merits? As the years pass, more and more friends have lost a parent. Two of my friends have lost both. My own husband has lost his mother. Death so close to home just makes you more aware of your own mortality. If I were God, I’d say Schlitz and Merits for all eternity. Cheers.

10. You realize that you are fortunate to have had 30+ years. You accept its challenges, be grateful and keep living. There was a mom named Bridget in my kids’ preschool who died of cancer. She was only 37. I didn’t know her; I had never spoken to her. Yet her death shook me to the core. A sweeping sadness permeated the school. Every mother and teacher carried a heaviness in their heart and it was hard not to get choked up when you saw Bridget’s children and husband. She died three years ago, yet the tears are falling as I type this. I’m going to stop bitching about turning 40 in honor of her.

I suppose I am pretty lucky. Not everyone gets 39 years here. Not everyone gets to laugh with old and new friends, wear age-inappropriate clothing, deal with the muck of motherhood, decide whether or not to get Botox, have lazy sex with their husband and watch their parents get old. I am one of the lucky ones.

So, c’mon 40. . .bring it on. Oh, and bring some Schlitz. 😉


If you liked this, perhaps you’d like FIVE REASONS I’M NAILING ADULTING

Thank you for reading.

The Weight of Adult Secrets

“I’m having an affair with Jason,” Rebecca abruptly confessed as I was walking out the door of our town’s post office. She said it quickly and quietly. She looked guilty.

Rebecca is married with three kids. Jason is married with four kids. I am nobody in this situation; but now she’s made me involved. I have no idea why.

Rebecca and I are somewhere between acquaintance and friend status. I really don’t know her well. We live in the same small town. We see each other on occasion at school functions and kids’ sports. We rarely text and I don’t know her birthday. We’ve had too much wine together at various house parties, but that’s the extent of our friendship. I certainly wouldn’t feel compelled to divulge any deep dark secrets to her.

Yet, here she’s handed me this massive load.

It’s funny the difference between the weight of adolescent secrets vs. adult secrets.

Looking back, I was a terrible secret keeper as a teenager. No matter how many promises, pinky swears, and cross my heart and hope to die vows I took, no secret was safe with me.

And I’m pretty sure my secrets weren’t safe with those who promised to hold on to them tight.

Adolescence was hard. It was hormonal and painful. It was emotional and lustful. Girls were nightmares and sometimes we didn’t even treat our own friends with kindness.

Adulthood is hard. It has the façade of seeming stable and status quo, but it’s a fucking mess. Adults are also nightmares filled with hidden desires, bottled up resentment and a nostalgic yearning to be a carefree adolescent again.

The spilling of an adolescent secret feels like the end of the world.

The spilling of an adult secret can actually be the end of the world.

In that moment—in a small-town post office—I was handed incredible power. I held the fate of two families, two oblivious spouses and seven innocent children, whose worlds could easily be turned upside-down with just one simple whisper from me.

“How long has it been going on?” I asked.

She looked down at her feet and replied, “A few months.” She glanced up at me, almost wincing, expecting to see judgment on my face.

Who am I to judge? I know absolutely nothing about the factors leading up to this. Maybe Rebecca’s husband cheated on her? Maybe he’s abusive? Maybe she just fell out of love? Maybe her husband knows and doesn’t care?

“Promise you won’t say anything,” she added, as if it weren’t obvious. Not many people confess their affairs with hopes of being caught.

“I won’t,” I promised.

Even though I don’t necessarily condone infidelity, I did feel sympathy for her. She looked conflicted. She looked confused. She looked sad. Yes, her actions don’t show the greatest of character, but I sensed there was more than meets the eye.

I sensed that she confided in me—not because she wanted to talk about Jason—but because she wanted to tell me about what lured her into his bed.

Maybe in time I’ll learn the whole truth. But probably not. It’s not my truth to know.

Since that day in the post office, I have occasionally felt tempted to expose this gossip to other friends in the town. Friends with whom I am closer to. . .  friends who I trust.

But I know I can’t do that, as tempting as it is. I know that I can’t trust anybody.

The weight of an adult secret has insurmountable consequences if uncovered. I was handed the power to ruin lives and start a small-town scandal.

I’ve learned that keeping a secret can feel just as satisfying as spreading salacious gossip. Guarding this secret is protecting those spouses and children from humiliation and heartache. For me? I’d rather use my power for protection than destruction.







Listen, I don’t have it all together. Not even close. But the thing is. . . people think I do, like really think I do. And, I’m not sure why this is. I am a total disaster. The hottest of messes. Ask my husband.

Here are some reasons why I suspect people are fooled:

1. My house is neat. I didn’t say my house was clean. I said neat. Neat meaning that 75% of the typical four sides in your view are clutter-free. My kitchen counter tops are tidy and wiped clean. However, my desk in the corner of the kitchen? LMAO. Bomb. More like air strike. But, my feeling is, if the majority is clutter-free, the apocalypse in the corner just looks like an ambitious organization project, not a procrastination graveyard.

2. I bring wrapped presents to kid birthday parties. The gift table at a kid’s birthday party circa 2017 is filled with envelopes (gift cards) and colorful bags with wisps of tissue paper sticking out, which was probably assembled in Mom’s trunk three seconds before the party. But kids, especially little ones, want presents to open. They don’t give a fuck what the hell is inside. You can wrap up a doll of Gwyneth Paltrow’s head for all they care. Arriving with a bright package encased in matching ribbon with a bow totally says, “I’ve got my shit together.” Including gift receipt? You’re adult AF.

3. There is always champagne in my fridge to celebrate. Anything.  A few hundred years ago, on the 3rd of July during a firework celebration, my husband proposed to me. We were living in a townhouse community on a river and all our neighbors were outside. We didn’t really know anyone well, but word got around that we had just gotten engaged. A woman, Mary, ran into her unit and came out with a bottle of champagne and a giant smile. She popped the cork and said, “I always keep a bottle chilling in the fridge. You never know when you’ll need to celebrate!” That night, a stranger named Mary, was the first to cheers to the future of a young couple who she hardly knew. She made me feel so special. I’ll always remember her as classy and generous, with a bit of a wild side. Just because she had champagne. I want to be just like her.

4. My husband and I have a weekly date night. People find this extraordinarily impressive, and I’m not sure why. Find a sitter. Tell her to come every week. Presto. But nonetheless, people think we have the magical secret to keeping the spice alive in a marriage. Umm? No. My kids just have a mommy who needs to get the hell away from them once a week so she can drink too much, complain about motherhood and then irrationally beg her husband for another baby.

5. When I host a gathering, I host the shit out of it. When I host either a family holiday, kids’ birthday party or my annual summer girls’ night, I leave no stone unturned. Welcoming others into your home—especially when it’s planned—is a no-brainer way to fool them into thinking that you have your shit together 365 days a year. Put out a big spread. Something a little fancy, like shrimp cocktail or anything with goat cheese. Or brie. Fancy people love brie. Something a little healthy, like a veggie platter and a bowl of nuts. Healthy people love nuts. But NOT peanuts. Something that was time consuming to prepare, like 7 layer dip or anything hot that requires a toothpick. Something for the kids, like cocktail hotdogs, or anything that’ll spoil their appetite for dinner. And something a little ghetto, like Doritos dumped in an ugly bowl. Or better yet, potato chips and dip. I guarantee the potato chips would be eaten before the veggies. Because everyone’s a little ghetto, yo.

There you have it. The holy grail of how to fake your way through adulting. Just throw your crap in a corner, wrap a present, buy champagne, go on a date and have a party. Maybe adulthood isn’t so hard?