Sarah Says Things: Do We Ever Grow Out of Middle-School Meanness?

There is no creature on Earth more quietly ruthless than a middle-school girl.

Sharks? Predictable.

Wolves? Organized.

Middle-school girls? They can end you socially with nothing but a whisper, a glance, and a well-timed hair flip. They’re basically tiny political operatives with butterfly clips.

People talk about “mean boys,” but boys are easy. They punch each other, call it a day, and become best friends by lunch. Middle-school girls will emotionally dismantle someone using nothing but strategic seating and subtle shifts in tone.

And here’s the part no one wants to admit: We didn’t magically outgrow it.

Sure, we aged. We got jobs. We pay taxes. We own throw pillows.

But the instinct? That middle-school survival twitch? Still there.

It’s just… evolved.

Adult women aren’t slamming locker doors and color-coding friend groups anymore. No, no.

We’ve moved on to more sophisticated forms of combat:

• “accidental” exclusion

• vague compliments

• subtle tone changes

• strategic group chats

• the kind of smile that says “I respect you” and the eyes that say “No I don’t”

We’ve traded hallway politics for PTO politics. We’ve replaced cafeteria hierarchies with neighborhood text threads. We’ve swapped “Are you sitting with us?” for “Oh! You must not have seen the message. It’s fine.”

The weapons changed. The energy? Same DNA.

And let’s be honest: women can feel threatened by… well… absolutely anything.

Someone’s confidence.
Someone’s haircut.
Someone’s success.
Someone’s silence.
Someone breathing too loudly at a meeting.

We say we’re mature — and we are, mostly — but there’s always that shadow of our 14-year-old selves lurking in the background, filing things away, noticing small shifts, scanning for tiny social earthquakes.

Maybe the real issue is that we were raised in a world that taught girls to be:

1. polite

2. likable

3. put-together

4. agreeable

5. competitive

6. and non-competitive at the same time

It’s exhausting. It breeds strange behavior. It creates entire subcultures of unspoken tension where everyone is smiling like a politician on debate night.

But here’s the good news: We can outgrow it — if we want to. And some women absolutely do. They hit adulthood and go, “This is ridiculous,” and choose friends who feel easy, honest, and un-performative. Those friendships are gold.

Others take a little longer. Some never get there.

But the truth is, adulthood gives us something middle school never did: choice.

You don’t have to sit at anyone’s table. You don’t have to impress anyone. You don’t have to swallow mean-girl crumbs to feel included. You get to pick your people — the grown-up ones, the healthy ones, the ones who don’t weaponize tone and group chats.

Do women ever fully grow out of the instinct? Maybe not.

But we absolutely can grow past the behavior.

And honestly? Life gets a lot sweeter when the only drama in your circle is who’s bringing dessert.

Sarah Says Things: Not Every Child Needs Your Vocabulary Lesson

There is a very specific type of adult — you’ve met them, I’ve met them, society has endured them — who will drop a full, unfiltered string of profanity directly in front of someone else’s child without even blinking.

Not a slip. Not an “oops.” Not a muttered one-off. No, no. A full sentence. A paragraph. A TED Talk.

They swear like the child is a houseplant.

Meanwhile the parent is standing there doing emotional calculus at light speed:

• Do I say something?

• Do I let it go?

• Do I pretend my kid didn’t hear that even though their eyebrows shot up like cartoon springs?

• Do I glare?

These adults always look so relaxed, too. Like they’ve been waiting all day to unleash a high-level profanity buffet and finally found a stage.

And look — I’m not anti-swearing. I love a well-placed expletive. A precisely delivered curse word can carry the emotional weight of a thousand therapy sessions.

But there is an art to public swearing. A silhouette. A code.

You don’t unleash the full alphabet of chaos when someone’s kid is standing next to a snack rack holding a juice pouch.

There’s always that moment when the swearer realizes what they’ve done… and instead of apologizing, they double down with the confidence of a retired pirate.

“Oh, he’s fine,” they say, waving a hand toward the child who is now absorbing new vocabulary like a sponge with an internet connection.

Or worse: “They’re gonna hear it eventually.”

Yes. Eventually. Preferably not at 10:37 a.m. in the cereal aisle.

And the kid? They ALWAYS react. Eyes wide. Tiny smirk. Storing the word away like treasure. You can see it forming a little speech bubble above their head: “I will deploy this later.”

Meanwhile, the parent is mentally drafting a future email to a teacher:
“We don’t know where he heard that word.” (We do. We absolutely do.)

Look — swear how you want in your own home. Add glitter to it for all I care. Invent new ones. Write them in cursive. I don’t give a $&@#.

But when there are small humans around who repeat everything like malfunctioning parrots?

Just… edit yourself.
A little.
Please.
For the love of every teacher, babysitter, and grandparent who will eventually deal with the consequences.

Because the only thing more powerful than a curse word…
is a child learning it for the first time.

And they will use it. At full volume. In public. At the worst possible moment.

Sarah Says Things: My Phone Has Too Many Feelings

At some point in technological evolution, our phones quietly stopped being tools and became… emotional support animals with boundary issues. Mine, for example, has developed a personality so bold, so involved, and so uninvited that I’m convinced it’s training to become my life coach.

Every day it greets me with a barrage of opinions I did not ask for.
“Here’s a photo from six years ago!”
“Your screen time was up 27% this week.”
“You haven’t stood up in a while.”
“Let’s reflect on your goals!”

I did not open a mentorship program. I bought a phone.

Half the notifications feel like criticism. The other half feel like passive-aggressive encouragement. All of them feel like overreach.

There’s the health app, acting like we’re in a relationship and it’s concerned about my choices. “You only hit 48% of your movement goal today.” Correct. And I will be doing the remaining 52% horizontally on the couch, thanks.

Then there’s the battery warning, which manages to sound personally offended every time it dips below 20%.
“LOW BATTERY.”
Okay? Calm down.
You’re not dying.
You’re just dramatic.

Even the photos app has opinions. It pops up with “Memories” I did not request — often at emotionally inconvenient times.
“Here’s a nostalgic slideshow of moments you forgot!”
Thank you?
I guess?
Let me just go cry in a parking lot real quick.

And don’t even get me started on the reminders.
The reminders are essentially my phone clearing its throat at me.
“Did you forget this?”
Yes.
I forget many things.
Why must you announce it like breaking news?

Meanwhile, every app wants to “check in,” like we’re all in therapy together.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Do you want to set an intention?”
“Ready to be more productive?”
No.
No.
And absolutely not.

The worst part is when my phone tries to motivate me.
“You can do it!” it chirps, as if it hasn’t watched me abandon 43 to-do lists and a meditation streak that lasted 11 minutes.

Somewhere along the line, technology shifted from “helpful” to “emotionally needy.”
It buzzes.
It nudges.
It vibrates like a toddler tugging at your pant leg.
“Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!”

I swear my phone is seconds away from giving me a pep talk.
“You’re doing great, sweetie.”
“Have you hydrated?”
“Let’s circle back to your goals.”
If it starts sending me inspirational quotes at sunrise, I’m out.

Here’s what I want from my phone:
Silence.
Utility.
A little respect.
Maybe a flashlight when I drop something under the couch.

What I do not need is a pocket-sized therapist slash accountability partner with delusions of grandeur.

Until Apple releases a “Stop Coaching Me” setting, I’ll be here — turning off notifications, ignoring helpful nudges, and reminding my phone that I am a grown adult who does not need to be emotionally managed by a rectangle.

Not today, Siri. Not today.

Sarah Says Things: Groundhog Day is a Personal Attack

Every February we’re reminded that America has placed its meteorological hopes in the paws of a small, confused woodland creature who did not ask for this job and is almost certainly unqualified for it.

Groundhog Day arrives. The cameras roll.  The handlers in top hats appear, as if this isn’t bizarre enough already. And then the groundhog emerges, glances around for half a second, and proceeds to ruin the collective mood of roughly 80% of the country.

This year, our furry forecaster delivered his usual verdict: more winter. I took it personally.

The audacity of a groundhog — a groundhog — telling me, a functioning adult with tax obligations and a mortgage, that I must emotionally prepare for six more weeks of seasonal misery feels, at best, insulting. At worst, targeted.

And let’s be real: there is no version of February in which we’re suddenly getting “early spring.” Those of us who live in the Midwest know better. Spring is not coming early. Spring is not coming on time. Spring will show up whenever it wants, wearing flip-flops and acting like it didn’t ghost us for months.

The whole tradition makes even less sense the older I get. Why are we consulting a rodent? Why do we pretend he understands shadows, seasons, or consequences? Why is he perched on a platform being treated like a small, furry CEO? This is not a weather system. This is community theater.

The best part is that the groundhog has no accountability. He predicts six more weeks of winter, then simply waddles off to take a nap, leaving the rest of us to shovel driveways and emotionally stabilize ourselves with hot beverages.

Meanwhile the meteorologists — the ones with degrees — are out here doing daily forecasts like, “We don’t know why you keep listening to the rodent. We’re literally right here.”

So no, I won’t be taking further winter guidance from Punxsutawney Phil or his associates. If a woodland mammal wants to give me advice, it had better be about finding snacks or avoiding predators, because clearly weather is not his lane.

In the meantime, I’ll be ignoring his proclamation and mentally transitioning to spring anyway. Does that mean anything will warm up sooner? Of course not.

But denial is so much more comfortable than wind chill.

Sarah Says Things: Cold Weather Has Turned Me Into a House Goblin

Every winter I hit a point where I stop being a person and start being something closer to a winter creature — highly functional indoors, deeply skeptical of the outdoors, and entirely uninterested in pretending otherwise.

Around mid-month, it happens.My will to leave the house? Gone. My tolerance for wind? Negative. My desire to participate in society? Currently on leave and not responding to emails.

I have fully transformed into a cold-weather being whose natural habitat is “indoors, wrapped in something soft.” And frankly, I’m thriving.

It always starts subtly.One day you choose slippers instead of shoes. The next day you grab a blanket just for a minute. And by Day 14 you’re working, reading, and contemplating the meaning of life under the same fleece cocoon like a medieval peasant with Wi-Fi access.

Leaving the house becomes a full expedition. Check the temperature.
Check the wind. Check whether this particular errand is truly essential or if it can be accomplished later… or by someone else… or never.
If the temperature is lower than my age, I’m not going. It’s a simple, sensible policy.

Meanwhile, people keep inviting me to go places — lunches, coffees, gatherings — and I respond the same way every time: as if they’ve politely asked me to join an Arctic expedition.

“Out? As in… outside? In January? Absolutely not.”

My wardrobe has also adapted to the season. At this point everything I wear is either stretchy, fuzzy, or something I’ve owned long enough to have developed a deep emotional attachment to. Functional, practical, cozy — not a fashion emergency, just seasonal survival.

The cold does strange things to a person. It shrinks your world down to warm corners of the house and makes the outdoors feel less like fresh air and more like a rude personal attack. Even the walk to the mailbox feels dramatic. I brace myself like I’m stepping onto the set of a nature documentary: “The suburban woman ventures briefly into the wild, battling harsh winds and mild irritation.”

Eventually, spring will appear. I’ll emerge blinking, cautious, and unsure of the current trends in pants. I’ll rejoin society, maybe. We’ll see.

Until then, if you need me, you know exactly where I’ll be:
Under a blanket. With snacks. Ignoring anything that requires shoes.

Sarah Says Things: January Is 87 Days Long

At this point in the month, I no longer believe January is a time period. It’s a geographic region. A frozen emotional hellscape we’re all wandering through like pioneers with slightly better coats.

We’re on Day 20-something, which means we’re roughly a quarter through the month’s 87-day runtime. I’ve lost all sense of when anything is supposed to happen. The holidays feel like they occurred three presidential administrations ago. The kids returned to school sometime in the Cretaceous period. I think I made a New Year’s resolution? Couldn’t tell you what it was. Might have been “survive.” Might have been “buy more broccoli.” Both seem unrealistic at this stage.

January has this strange quality where each individual week somehow contains 14 days, and every Monday arrives with the confidence of someone who refuses to acknowledge they were just here.

The days are long. The month is longer. And the sun appears briefly each afternoon just to taunt us before disappearing again like a shy Victorian ghost.

People keep saying things like, “Hang in there, spring is coming!” which is adorable, because spring is not coming. Not in any meaningful or emotionally accessible way. Spring is a rumor. Spring is a myth parents tell their children so they don’t lose hope during recess.

Meanwhile, the motivational crowd is still out there posting their color-coded planners and 5 a.m. workouts as if time functions normally for them. Their January appears to be moving at a reasonable pace, while the rest of us are trapped in dog years.

And now—since we’re being honest—here’s where we are today: the weather has settled into its monotony. One day it’s cold, the next it’s colder, and occasionally we’re granted a day that is “not quite as punishing,” where the wind merely disrespects you instead of assaulting you.

This is the stretch of January where the novelty of a new year has worn off, the routines have settled, and reality has tapped us politely on the shoulder to say, “Better get comfortable. We still have at least five more weeks of this.”

But don’t worry.
We’ll make it.
Eventually.
Probably.
Ish.

Sarah Says Things: Why Are Receipts This Long?

At some point in recent retail history, receipts stopped being receipts and became… documentation. Scrolls. Historical records. Artifacts meant to be preserved in museums so future generations can study the purchasing habits of people who just wanted toothpaste.

I’m not sure when it happened, but every store has collectively decided that buying one item requires a receipt the length of a toddler.

You go in for gum. You come out with a novella.

Every time a cashier hands me a receipt, it feels like they’re presenting a diploma. A folded, ceremonious parchment documenting my journey through the impulse-buy gauntlet. I’m half-expecting them to shake my hand and say, “Congratulations on your purchase. You’ll find the epilogue on page six.”

And the content? UNHINGED.

It’s:

• your items

• your savings

• your loyalty points

• your potential loyalty points

• five coupons you didn’t ask for

• a survey for a chance to win $500 if you answer 92 multiple choice questions

• a QR code

• a reminder to follow them on Instagram

• AND some sort of “Thank you for supporting our community values” mission statement you absolutely did not read

All for a $6 body wash.

Also, why are receipts printed on paper so thermally sensitive they start to fade before I reach the parking lot? The ink disappears faster than my patience. You could time-lapse a Walgreens receipt and watch it vanish like a ghost. In three hours it’s just a blank, suspiciously long strip of paper that may or may not have any legal significance.

And let’s talk about the coupons.

I love that stores believe I will return within eight days to use a coupon for 40¢ off mayonnaise, batteries, or cat litter. The optimism is cute. Misguided, but cute.

The worst part— I KEEP the receipts.

Why? Because at some point, we were conditioned to believe that throwing away a receipt is an act of tax evasion. We hoard them in wallets, purses, glove compartments, and junk drawers.

“Just in case someone asks about that $1.79 banana purchase.” Spoiler alert- No one is asking. But I am prepared.

And then there’s the self-checkout receipt, which prints automatically whether you want it or not. You bag your items, turn to walk away, and the machine shrieks, “TAKE YOUR RECEIPT.” The tone is hostile. That machine has unresolved issues.

Honestly, I’m not anti-receipt. I’m anti “receipt that could double as a festive holiday banner.”

I’m just asking — politely, minus the rage — why, in the year we live in, we’re still printing receipts long enough to lasso a medium-sized farm animal.

At this point, I don’t need a receipt. I need a backpack, a reading light, and a quiet place to process what I’ve just committed to.

---

Sarah Says Things is a space for noticing the small, strange, occasionally unhinged moments of everyday life—and saying the quiet parts out loud. Written by Sarah DeMaranville, the column isn’t about having answers so much as asking the questions we’re all already thinking, usually while standing in a long line somewhere. The goal is simple: to offer a familiar nod, a shared laugh, and the reminder that if something feels absurd to you, you’re probably not alone.

Sarah Says Things: The Return of Regular Meals (Regrettably)

There’s a specific cruelty to early January that nobody warns you about. Not the cold. Not the return to routine. Not the existential dread of a fresh calendar.

No — I’m talking about the abrupt, jarring transition back to regular meals.

Remember December? That gloriously unstructured, socially acceptable grazing season where “lunch” could be anything from a cheese cube to a cookie someone handed you while you were minding your own business. When charcuterie boards multiplied like rabbits and every social setting involved at least three varieties of carbs.

It was beautiful. It was festive. It was efficient. Truly our most evolved state as a society.

Then January arrives, clipboard in hand, ready to audit your life choices.

Suddenly we’re expected to chop vegetables again. To plan dinners. To cook things that don’t arrive pre-arranged on themed platters. Meanwhile, the refrigerator has the nerve to look back at me with shelves full of “responsible” ingredients I apparently bought during some burst of optimism I don’t recall having.

My kids are still adjusting. They’re not feral — just confused in a polite, civilized way. They look at a plate of normal food like, “Oh, right… this. We used to do this.” They’ll adapt. Eventually.

The real whiplash is the mental transition. December is powered by spontaneity and baked goods. January demands structure, order, and the emotional stamina to answer the nightly question, “What’s for dinner?” with something other than “I don’t know — what year is it?”

I’m perfectly capable of cooking. I just resent the sudden expectation that I must. The holiday rulebook is barely cold, and already we’re pretending we didn’t spend a month surviving on festive small plates like fully functioning adults living their best lives.

Truthfully, part of me thrives on the reset — clean counters, fresh routines, the noble return of real meals.
But the other part is mourning the end of that brief, sparkling season where food was fun and whimsical and required zero planning on my part.

And if I daydream about Christmas cookies while assembling a respectable January dinner… well, I consider that reasonable.

We all have our coping mechanisms.