Sarah Says Things: My New Year’s Resolutions (Already Going Well, Thanks for Asking)

It’s January 2, which means we’ve officially reached that magical time of year when half the population is still insisting they’re “starting strong,” and the other half is quietly shoving their abandoned resolutions into the same drawer where expired coupons and unmatched socks go to die.

Guess which category I’m in.

Every year I make the same mistake: I step into January like a delusional Victorian child dreaming about a better life, convinced that this will be the year I transform myself through sheer force of will. New year, new me. New habits. New discipline. New level of emotional maturity. I’m basically a self-help book with legs.

And then January 2 hits.

Let’s review how my resolutions are going so far:

Resolution #1: Drink more water.
Great idea in theory, until I realized that “drinking more water” means actually remembering to drink it. I filled a beautiful new water bottle yesterday. It is currently full. Completely untouched. Sitting on the counter like a $38 piece of performance art titled “Hydration Is a Lie.”

Resolution #2: Eat better.
I started strong by eating a piece of fruit. It was dried fruit. From the remains of a charcuterie board. But still. Fruit.

Resolution #3: Be more patient.
I was patient for an entire nine minutes until someone asked me where the milk was, which—shockingly—was in the refrigerator, exactly where it always is, exactly where it will always be, until the end of time. My spiritual growth journey continues.

Resolution #4: Declutter the house.
Technically I am decluttering. I moved three holiday items from one counter to a different counter. That’s called “visual flow,” thank you very much.

Resolution #5: Spend less time on my phone.
I absolutely crushed this one. I set a limit on my screen time. And then I immediately ignored it because I am not going to let an app boss me around in my own house.

The truth is, New Year’s resolutions are basically adult Santa letters. Full of hopes. Full of dreams. Full of promises we absolutely cannot keep.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t try—I’m just saying maybe we could all calm down with the pressure to reinvent ourselves overnight when most of us are still pulling tinsel out of the carpet.

If you’re already off the rails two days into the year, congratulations. You’re a normal human adult doing your best in a world where half the population apparently wakes up at 4 a.m. to drink lemon water and journal, and the rest of us are reheating coffee for the third time and hoping the day goes easy on us.

Here’s my official stance for 2026:
If the resolution wasn’t working for you anyway—ditch it. Today. Right now. Release it into the universe like a little dove of freedom.

You can always “start fresh” on March 4. Or June 12. Or the second Tuesday in September. Time is fake. Calendars are suggestions. Self-improvement is not a group project.

So cheers to another year of us trying, failing, laughing about it, and then trying again in whatever chaotic, half-hearted, deeply human way we do best.

Happy January 2. The real new year starts tomorrow.

Sarah Says Things: Post-Holiday Debrief (From an Exhausted Parent)

Christmas is over, which means I’ve entered that feral, slightly delirious phase where I’m equal parts grateful, exhausted, and concerned that my family may never recover from the emotional trauma of assembling gingerbread houses. I love my children, but if anyone suggests a “fun family activity” that involves frosting, sprinkles, or “teamwork,” I’m calling a lawyer.

Let’s start with the aftermath. Have you ever walked into your living room the day after Christmas and thought, “Did the North Pole explode in here?” Because that’s the only explanation for the debris field I’m currently navigating. Wrapping paper in places I didn’t know wrapping paper could go. A pile of gift bags I’m morally obligated to save for the next eight years. A rogue Lego that’s definitely lying in wait to injure me sometime between now and Easter.

I’ve been living on a diet of Christmas cookies, leftover cheese boards, and whatever half-eaten items my kids abandoned after three bites. At this point, I’m convinced my body composition is 40% frosting and 60% warm cheese cubes and regret. Nobody warns you that the real December workout plan is walking from room to room cleaning up snacks.

Also, can someone explain why children lose all concept of reality between December 26th and January 2nd? Time becomes an abstract concept. Bedtimes? Negotiable. Parental boundaries? Optional. They move through the house with the erratic confidence of tiny people who know Santa has already delivered and therefore consequences are merely theoretical.

And then—THEN—you’re expected to transition back to normal life. Work. Schedules. Routines. The audacity. Who came up with this? Who decided the correct order of operations was “complete chaos” followed immediately by “please be productive and emotionally stable again”?

I, for one, am entering January with the same energy as a Target cart with one broken wheel.

But here’s the thing about being a parent: we survive. Heroically. Questionably. Often with caffeine. We show up to life—even when we’re surrounded by 400 pieces of toy packaging, even when winter break threatens to break us, even when we’re still scraping dried frosting off the dining table.

So if your house looks like mine—equal parts festive and apocalyptic—just know you are absolutely not alone. We did it. We made it. And in 11 short months, we get to do it all again.

Lucky us.

Sarah Says Things: The Wrapping Paper Nightmare

Every December I convince myself—again—that this is the year I’ll wrap gifts like a competent, Pinterest-adjacent adult. You know the vibe: crisp kraft paper, perfectly tied twine, a sprig of evergreen tucked in at a whimsical angle, maybe a tasteful tag done in my “natural handwriting,” which of course looks nothing like my real handwriting.

And every December, the wrapping process reminds me who I actually am: someone sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paper scraps, tape stuck to my socks, and a dull sense of betrayal that YouTube tutorials lie.

Let’s start with the scissors—the single most important tool, and the first thing to vanish the moment you need them. They were right there. You just had them. And now? Gone. Replaced by a backup pair that can’t cut warm butter, much less a straight line through thick paper.

Then there’s the wrapping paper itself. I always think I have “plenty,” but somehow every roll is either (a) down to its final 11 inches, (b) creased beyond repair, or (c) a pattern I must have liked in a moment of seasonal delusion. And why—WHY—is no standard gift ever the same width as the remaining paper?

Enter the glitter paper, which looks beautiful on the shelf and then immediately attempts to exfoliate your entire home. You try to cut it and the scissors respond with a firm “absolutely not.” You try to tape it and the tape says, “Yeah, no.” And afterward you find glitter in your hair, on your dog, and somehow inside your purse.

Twine and kraft paper are supposed to be the “simple” option. Rustic, minimal, charming. Except twine is basically the holiday version of headphone cords—it tangles instantly, forms a knot with no visible beginning or end, and mocks you while you try to look effortless. And kraft paper? Gorgeous. Until you discover it’s the least forgiving material on Earth. One wrong fold and now it looks like you wrapped a gift using a brown grocery bag in the dark.

Let’s also acknowledge the tag situation. Every house contains exactly 237 leftover tags from past years, and none of them match. Some are shaped like mittens. Some say “To: Grandma” even if Grandma has been gone for a decade. Others look like they belong on a very fancy gift you are not giving. And yet, you use them anyway.

And of course, there’s the inevitable tape crisis. Halfway through wrapping the most awkwardly shaped gift in the universe, the dispenser runs out. Now you’re rummaging through drawers like a raccoon, praying for a fresh roll that isn’t the cursed off-brand kind that tears diagonally for sport.

By the end, you’re sweaty, questioning life choices, and sitting next to a pile of wrapped presents that somehow look both overworked and underperforming. The corners poke out. The seams don’t line up. One of them has a suspicious bump you swore you smoothed. Another gift looks like it lost a fight with a toddler.

But you know what? It’s wrapped. It’s done. And it’s absolutely going under the tree like that.

Perfection is for magazines. I’m just trying to make sure the tape sticks.

Sarah Says Things: The 6–7 Enigma

At some point in the past year—no one can pinpoint exactly when—America’s youth collectively decided to communicate exclusively in inside jokes that adults are neither meant nor allowed to understand. Chief among them: the inexplicable, omnipresent phrase “6–7.”

If you don’t have teenagers, congratulations. You probably still speak English. The rest of us? We’re just out here trying to decode why two random numbers create an atmosphere reminiscent of a frat party.

What does it mean?
Absolutely nobody knows.
And that’s the point.

We have asked.
We have begged.
We have Googled things we will never un-Google.

And the kids? They just smirk. Because nothing delights a teenager more than a joke with no punchline, no explanation, and no connection to anything happening in the room.

It is, apparently, comedy.

Teens are treating “6–7” like it’s the new “fetch,” except this time it actually is happening. They say it at school. In group chats. While playing sports. At the dinner table. At church youth group. I’m convinced someone yelled it during the national anthem at a basketball game.

Ask them what it means, and you get the same response you’d get if you asked for the launch codes:

A shrug.
A grin.
A whispered “you’re too old.”

Perfect. Love that for us.

Meanwhile, parents everywhere are standing in kitchen doorways like confused Victorian ghosts, wondering if this is a secret code, a cult password, or the modern equivalent of Pig Latin. We’re out here deciphering hieroglyphics while the kids are congratulating each other for saying two numbers in ascending order.

And don’t even THINK about trying to use it back at them.

Say “6–7” to a teen, and they stare at you with the same expression you use the same expression you use when your mom texts “Is this TikTak?”

“Stop. You’re ruining it,” they say, which is hilarious because there is nothing to ruin. There is no joke. The joke is that there is no joke.

Teenagers have invented an inside joke about not having an inside joke.

In all honesty- I’m impressed. It’s the most diabolical form of comedy they’ve come up with since “Deez Nuts.”

So here we are, in the era of “6–7,” a phrase so meaningless, so context-free, so stupidly funny to them that it has fully replaced normal human conversation.

Maybe someday the kids will reveal its meaning.
Maybe it’s an elaborate social experiment.
Maybe it’s an accident.
Maybe they forgot why they say it, too.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Until then, we’ll continue wandering around our homes while teenagers shout “6–7!!!” at the refrigerator, at their siblings, at TikTok, at the dog, and occasionally at thin air—because apparently the real punchline is us trying to understand it.

But whatever. Fine. Let them have their mystery.

Because when they’re adults someday, their kids will shout, “88–13!” and they’ll have absolutely no idea why either.

Sarah Says Things: The Holiday Goodie Gauntlet

Every December, without fail, the world transforms into a parade of holiday goodies. Cookies, candies, cocoa bombs, fudge, pretzel clusters, mystery bars that may or may not contain peanut butter—it’s like everyone collectively decided, “What if we all baked at the same time and delivered it to each other in an unregulated exchange system with no clear rules or exit strategy?”

And look, I’m not anti-goodie. I’m just saying the holiday treat ecosystem could use a user manual.

First, there’s the Cookie Exchange Enthusiast, who believes in their heart that December is a competitive sport. This person shows up with a cookie so detailed and structurally complex that it requires a cooling rack, parchment paper, and emotional commitment. Meanwhile, the rest of us show up with whatever didn’t stick to the pan. But sure—tell me again how “it’s just for fun.”

Then comes the Neighbor Drop-Off Surprise, when your doorbell rings and someone you haven’t seen in eleven months hands you a paper plate wrapped in Saran Wrap so tight it could survive reentry from space. There’s always at least one treat on the plate you cannot identify with confidence. You eat it anyway. It’s tradition.

There’s the Office Treat Table, which begins as a sweet gesture and quickly devolves into a 12-hour grazing frenzy. You walk past it saying, “I don’t need anything,” and then somehow leave with a brownie crumb welded to your sweater and a handful of caramel corn you didn’t even mean to grab. You don’t know what’s on that table. You don’t ask.

Then, inevitably, someone gifts you a Tin of Cookies, which is adorable until you remember those tins are the Matryoshka dolls of holiday chaos. Three layers. Four types of cookies. Zero labels. Every time you open one, it feels like you’re participating in a culinary trust exercise.

And let’s not forget the Home Kitchen Bake-a-Thon, where holiday ambition goes to die. You start strong, thinking you’ll crank out a gorgeous “Pinterest-level display.” Two hours later, the kitchen looks like a flour-based crime scene and the dog has eaten something he definitely was not supposed to. Half your cookies are overbaked, the other half are underbaked, and you’re seriously considering passing off store-bought as your own because really— who’s going to know?

All month long, it’s goodies. Constant goodies. Goodies you didn’t ask for. Goodies you feel weirdly obligated to eat. Goodies that appear in your house with no explanation. Goodies that come with handwritten recipe cards because someone, somewhere, wants you to commit to making their signature treat instead of the one you’ve made since 2006.

And through it all, December marches on, stuffing us full of sugar and expectation, daring us to pretend we have any control over our self-restraint. Spoiler: we don’t.

So yes, the holiday goodie tradition is charming, thoughtful, and full of community spirit. But it’s also sticky, chaotic, overly competitive, and impossible to escape.

And that feels about right.

Sarah Says Things: The Annual December Shuffle

Every December, I convince myself I’m going to glide through the month like someone in a cozy holiday commercial—calm, organized, maybe even holding a mug of something warm. And every December, reality taps me on the shoulder and hands me a schedule that looks like it lost a wrestling match with the Christmas Walk.

It starts the second the first event reminder hits. One minute you're feeling good—tree up, a few gifts stashed away, nothing too wild—and then suddenly it’s Christmas Walk week, and your calendar looks like a scavenger hunt written by someone who actively dislikes you. The parade. The Jingle Run. School concerts. Choir performances. Cookie exchanges. Work parties. The “quick stop downtown” that is never actually quick. Oh, and the annual scramble to remember which events you promised you’d attend, support, or simply not forget existed.

Shopping in Geneseo during December is its own special sport. You run into someone you know in every aisle, which should be lovely—and it is—but it also means a “quick trip” now includes three conversations, one friendly argument about weather models, and at least one reminder that you still haven't mailed your Christmas cards. And then you walk out with five things you didn’t intend to buy and none of the things you came in for. Classic.

And the weather… well. It’s December in Illinois, which means it could be 55 degrees, or it could be Snowmageddon, or it could be both within six hours. Around here, the forecast is more of a suggestion than a plan. You check it, you shrug, you grab your coat anyway.

But for all the overbooking, the running around, the forgotten cookie trays, and the “wait, that’s tonight?” moments, there’s something about December here that hits different. The lights downtown. The windows. The kids running around with red noses but refusing to wear gloves. The way everyone crosses paths, on purpose or by accident, and somehow it feels like part of the season.

So no, December will never be calm. Not here. Not anywhere. But the December Shuffle—the real Geneseo version—has its own charm. A little chaotic, a little cozy, a little too full, but always worth it.

Sarah Says Things: The Great Geneseo Snowmagedde-geddon-palooza of 2025

(…or whatever wannabe-meteorologists are calling it by the time you finish reading this)

There’s a special moment every winter when the forecast stops being a forecast and turns into theater. You know it’s here when the meteorologist leans toward the camera with a solemn expression usually reserved for tax audits and whispers those fateful words: “Significant accumulation.”

From there, the local ritual begins.

Fareway sells out of bread like the entire town suddenly decided to open competing toast restaurants. The Dollar Fresh parking lot becomes a live-action stress test for humanity. And on Facebook, half of Geneseo is calmly sharing radar images while the other half is calling it “The Big One” and asking if anyone remembers 2011.

Someone will insist the storm always “falls apart anyway.” Someone else will say this is “nothing compared to the Blizzard of ’79,” whether or not they were actually alive then. And there’s always that one relentlessly cheerful local who chirps, “At least downtown will look pretty!” while the rest of us are calculating how many inches of snow it takes before we give up on shoveling and consider moving to Arizona.

To be fair to the forecasters, Midwest snowfall is an emotional creature. One minute it’s heading straight for Henry County; the next, it jogs north to bother Davenport or decides to dump everything on Atkinson for no reason whatsoever. Predicting it is less science and more roulette.

Still—jokes aside—we all share the same hope: that everyone in Geneseo gets through the storm safely. Whether this turns into a blizzard, a light dusting, or one of those famous “hyped for three days and melted by noon” specials, we’re better off prepping than panicking.

So yes, have a laugh, grab the hot chocolate, and prepare for another episode of As the Snowstorm Turns. But also check on your neighbors, avoid driving like you’re auditioning for Fast & Furious: Route 82 Drift, and make sure your phone’s charged.

Because no matter what actually falls from the sky, the only thing that matters is that Geneseo gets through the Great Snowmagedde-geddon-palooza of 2025 together—in one piece, warm, safe, and maybe just a little smug that we handled it better than those big cities.