Sarah Says Things: Grocery Shopping Hunger Decisions — A Horror Story

There are few mistakes in life more expensive than grocery shopping while hungry.

People talk about major financial risks.

The stock market.

Cryptocurrency.

Interest rates.

Meanwhile I'm standing in the snack aisle making decisions that could destabilize a household budget.

A grocery list is a beautiful thing.

A grocery list represents logic.

Discipline.

Planning.

A grocery list is who you aspire to be.

A hungry person is who you actually are.

You enter the store needing milk, eggs, and bread.

Twenty minutes later you're wheeling around enough food to host the Super Bowl.

Suddenly everything seems essential.

Mozzarella sticks?

Necessary.

Frozen cheesecake?

Probably.

Family-sized bag of chips?

What if there's an emergency?

What kind of emergency requires seventeen servings of cheddar popcorn?

I don't know.

But I'd rather be prepared.

The bakery department becomes particularly dangerous.

Nobody has ever walked past fresh bread while hungry and made good decisions.

The smell alone should require a warning label.

You're halfway through the store convincing yourself that a six-pack of giant cookies is somehow a responsible investment.

"Well, they're on sale."

No they aren't.

They're still cookies.

The sale didn't transform them into produce.

Then you reach the rotisserie chicken.

The rotisserie chicken section is where dignity goes to die.

Suddenly you're standing there staring at a chicken like you've been stranded at sea.

You can practically hear it calling your name.

The hungry brain is an incredible thing.

A normal brain says:

"We have food at home."

A hungry grocery-store brain says:

"We may never eat again."

That's how people end up buying things they've never purchased before and will never purchase again.

Nobody plans to buy jalapeño mango pretzel bites.

That's a hunger decision.

Somewhere between aisle seven and low blood sugar, your standards completely collapse.

And can we discuss free samples?

Under normal circumstances, one bite of microwaved pizza on a toothpick would not alter the course of your day.

When you're hungry?

It's a religious experience.

You start following the sample person around the store like a woodland creature.

"Oh wow, another mini quiche?"

Don't mind if I do.

The real horror arrives at checkout.

Because eventually you see the total.

And suddenly you're no longer hungry.

You're reflective.

Thoughtful.

Concerned.

The receipt is approximately four feet long and contains several items you don't even remember selecting.

When did I buy caramel popcorn?

Why do I own three kinds of crackers?

Who approved this?

The answer, unfortunately, is me.

Hungry me.

The least qualified version of me.

And the final insult comes three days later.

Because all the foods that seemed absolutely critical in the store are still sitting untouched in the pantry.

The grapes are dying.

The lettuce is questionable.

The healthy meal ingredients remain optimistic.

But somehow the cookies have disappeared.

It's a mystery.

A complete mystery.

One we'll never solve.

My Kids Think 1999 Was A Historical Documentary

I've recently discovered that my children view the year 1999 the same way I viewed the Civil War.

They see it not as a time period. But as a historical event.

The other day I mentioned something from high school.

One of my kids deadpan looked at me and asked: "Wait... was that in the 1900s?"

The. 1900s.

As though I personally witnessed the invention of electricity.

As though I was present when the Wright brothers first achieved flight.

For the record, yes.

It was technically the 1900s. I get that. But that doesn't mean you have to say it out loud.

The disrespect is unnecessary.

My children talk about the late 1990s like they're discussing ancient Mesopotamia.

"What did people do without smartphones?"

We lived. That's what we did. We lived.

You called someone's house and hoped they were home.

You got directions before leaving.

You disappeared for six hours and nobody launched a search party.

It was a magical time.

They genuinely cannot comprehend life before phones became appendages and wi-fi was necessary for survival.

I've tried explaining MapQuest. They think I'm making it up.

"No, seriously. We printed directions."

"On paper?"

Yes, on paper. Mind-blowing, huh?

And if you missed a turn, the directions didn't magically update.

You simply accepted your fate and started over. Sometimes in another county.

I told my kids we used disposable cameras and they were horrified.

"Horrified" is actually too weak a word.

It was the same expression you'd make if I told you people used to communicate through smoke signals.

"You couldn't see the picture right away?"

No.

You took 24 photos and then waited.

Sometimes for days.

And then you discovered that 18 of them were blurry and someone's thumb was covering the lens.

That's what made it exciting.

My kids have never experienced true uncertainty.

They can identify any song in seconds.

They can answer any question immediately.

Meanwhile, my generation spent entire decades wondering what the lyrics were.

We just picked something that sounded close and committed to it.

The most offensive thing is when they call things from my childhood "vintage."

Vintage?

Excuse me?

Vintage is a wine.

Vintage is furniture.

Vintage is not the CD collection I still own.

At some point I mentioned renting movies from Blockbuster.

My kids reacted the way anthropologists react when discovering ancient tools.

"You had to leave your house?"

Yes. For everything. All the time.

We left the house constantly. We interacted with the public unsupervised. It was chaos.

And somehow we survived. Barely.

The older I get, the more I realize every generation does this.

I thought my parents grew up during pioneer times. Now my children think I was raised during the Industrial Revolution.

Soon they'll be telling their kids:

"Grandma Sarah used to print directions and buy music on plastic circles."

And those kids will stare at me the same way my kids do now. Like I've survived a fascinating but largely undocumented period of human history.

At this point, I'm one conversation away from telling them I churned butter and traveled by covered wagon.

I don't think they'd question it.

If You’ve Ever Said “They Should Teach This in School”… They Probably Do

Every adult over the age of 32 eventually says the exact same sentence: “They should teach this in school.”

Usually it’s uttered while confused about taxes, interest rates, mortgages, insurance, or how health deductibles work.

And every time someone says it, a teacher somewhere starts twitching.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: They probably DID teach it.

You were just mentally gone.

We all were.

People love pretending high school was eight straight hours of perfect attentiveness and intellectual curiosity.

I can say from personal experience- It was not.

We were perfecting our names in bubble letters, passing notes you had to read by reflecting them into the nearest mirror, making googly eyes at your crush, trying not to throw up before your class speech, and memorizing the quadratic formula just long enough to survive the quiz.

Meanwhile some exhausted social studies teacher absolutely DID explain taxes, civics, budgeting, and compound interest while half the class was secretly spelling out BOOBIES on a calculator.

And now those same students are online at age 42 screaming: “WHY DID NO ONE TEACH US THIS?”

They did, Kevin. You were busy carving “Metallica” into a desk.

The funniest part is people say this about things schools literally REQUIRE.

Civics. Government. Economics. Consumer math. Career prep.

Yep- required content.

You just don’t remember it because your adolescent brain categorized everything except social survival as optional information.

That’s normal. Teenagers are biologically incapable of caring about property tax structures.

If a teacher tried explaining escrow accounts to 16-year-olds, half the room would ask if Escrow was a Marvel villain.

But the phrase has become America’s favorite way to avoid admitting adulthood is complicated.

Because we don’t actually want lifelong learning. We want one magical sophomore worksheet that permanently explains all the must-know adulting terms:

• taxes

• insurance

• retirement

• mortgages

• investing

• healthcare

• credit scores

• appliance warranties

• why your internet bill keeps changing for no reason

Also, let’s be real: If schools added a required “Real Life Adulting” course tomorrow, students would complain nonstop and forget everything by age 23 anyway.

You know how I know?

Because schools HAVE been adding those classes. And adults still say: “They should really teach this in school.”

The Billion-Dollar Delusion We All Fall For

There is a very specific phenomenon in adulthood that I find endlessly entertaining:

Nobody cares about the lottery... until the jackpot becomes offensively large.

When the prize is something reasonable, like a humble $12 million, nobody even notices.

We drive past the sign and subconsciously think: "Eh. Not enough."

Twelve million dollars. A life-changing amount of money. The kind of money that would solve literally every problem I currently have and several I haven't developed yet.

And somehow we're unimpressed.

But the minute that jackpot crosses into a number our brains physically cannot comprehend? Now we're interested.

Now we're pulling into Casey's like it's our civic duty.

A billion dollars? Well now we'd be irresponsible NOT to buy a ticket.

At that point you're basically losing money if you don't.

At least that's the argument your brain makes.

And your brain, in this moment, is an idiot.

The odds of winning the lottery are so bad they're almost inspirational.

You are significantly more likely to be struck by lightning.

Twice.

While being attacked by a shark.

In Illinois.

But logic has already left the building.

Hope has entered.

Because when the jackpot gets high enough, every adult becomes a part-time dreamer.

We stand in line behind six other people who had the exact same thought, all pretending this is normal adult behavior and not a temporary nationwide outbreak of financial hallucinations.

Then the fantasy begins.

Not about the winning. Oh no, the spending.

Nobody spends imaginary money faster than someone holding a lottery ticket.

The ticket cost $2.

The planning process immediately involves $1.2 billion.

Within ten minutes you've paid off your mortgage, your parents' mortgage, your friends' mortgages, and somehow financed a community center.

You've already donated to three charities and established a scholarship fund.

You've purchased a lake house although no one has ever described you as “outdoorsy”.

You've bought a ranch despite knowing absolutely nothing about ranching.

You've somehow acquired horses.

Lottery fantasies always involve horses.

By the time you get home you've spent the jackpot four different ways and become emotionally attached to a life that doesn't exist.

The true magic of the lottery isn't the money. It's the temporary delusion.

For two dollars, you get 24 to 48 hours of imagining that your biggest problem is choosing between Tuscany and Montana.

And everyone develops the exact same financial plan.

Step 1:

"I wouldn't tell anyone."

Sure. You absolutely wouldn't tell anyone.

Except your spouse.

Your best friend.

Your parents.

Your accountant.

Your attorney.

The neighbor who noticed the new truck.

The waitress who recognized you.

The random stranger you met at Menards.

Other than that, total secrecy.

Step 2:

"I'd be really responsible with it."

This one is my favorite.

Because everyone says it while actively shopping online for things they don't need.

You'd invest.

You'd diversify.

You'd create trusts.

And somewhere around Day Three you'd also own a golf cart that can go 60 miles per hour.

Step 3:

"I wouldn't change."

This statement is always made by someone who has already picked out their private island.

You'd change.

I would change.

We'd all change.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough to make eye contact with first-class airline tickets.

Step 4:

"I'd help people."

This is actually true.

Most people would.

Right after they purchased a house with a pantry larger than their current living room.

And amid all these delusions, reality returns on drawing night.

The moment of truth.

You check the numbers.

The first one misses.

The second one misses.

The third one misses.

At this point you're not even following along anymore.

You're just speed-scrolling toward disappointment.

Then life resumes.

You go back to work. You buy groceries. You complain about gas prices. The fantasy evaporates.

Until six months later when the jackpot starts climbing.

The signs get bigger. The news stories return.

And suddenly we're all standing in line again.

Smiling. Dreaming. Doing math that would embarrass an economist.

Because lottery fever isn't really about money. It's about possibility.

It's about spending two dollars to temporarily believe that every problem in your life has an easy answer.

Let’s be real— That's probably the cheapest therapy session most of us will ever buy.

Daylight Saving Time Is America's Longest Running Group Project

I have reached a point in life where I genuinely don't care what time it is.

I just want everyone to agree on one.

Every spring and every fall, we all pretend we're surprised.

"Oh, don't forget to change your clocks!"

As if we haven't been doing this twice a year since before color television.

Then, for approximately 72 hours, the entire country becomes exhausted, confused, and irrationally emotional.

People are late for church.
Kids wake up at 5 a.m.
Dogs demand breakfast an hour early and refuse to accept that Congress has jurisdiction over dinner.

My microwave still thinks it's March.

And yet, somehow, this has become one of the most passionately debated issues in America.

Forget politics.
Forget sports.
Forget pineapple on pizza.

Mention daylight saving time and suddenly everyone becomes a sleep scientist, an energy expert, and an amateur astronomer.

"I want more daylight after work."

"No, I want sunlight in the morning."

"But think about the children waiting for the bus."

"But think about evening golf."

"But think about farmers."

Poor farmers.

They get dragged into this argument every single year despite repeatedly telling everyone they didn't ask for this.

They're just trying to get the crops in while the rest of us are arguing over whether 7:15 should really be 6:15.

Then I learned something I somehow never knew.

We already tried this.

Back in the 1970s, the United States decided permanent daylight saving time sounded like a fantastic idea.

The country was dealing with an energy crisis. Leaders believed keeping daylight saving time year-round would conserve fuel and make better use of daylight.

People initially loved the idea.

Who wouldn't?

An extra hour of evening sunshine sounds magical.

Until January showed up.

Suddenly people were driving to work in complete darkness.

Kids were heading to school before sunrise.

Parents were nervous.

Teachers hated it.

Public opinion changed so quickly that the experiment lasted less than a year before Congress reversed course.

Apparently Americans discovered there's a huge difference between imagining extra daylight in July and actually living through a pitch-black January morning.

Honestly...

That feels very on-brand for us.

We're incredible at falling in love with ideas.

Living with those ideas?

Different story.

Of course, now Congress is talking about trying it again.

Which means we're all right back where we started.

Half the country wants permanent daylight saving time.

The other half wants permanent standard time.

The remaining five people are still trying to figure out how to reset their digital clocks.

Here's what really makes me laugh.

Every six months, social media fills with dramatic declarations.

"This is ruining my life."

"We have to end this."

"I can't function."

Then...

Three days later...

We're all back to arguing about grocery prices, potholes, and why someone parked diagonally across two spaces at Walmart.

I guess it's comforting.

Daylight saving time may change the clock.

But it never changes us.

We'll still be tired.

We'll still complain.

We'll still forget to change one random clock somewhere in the house until Easter.

And we'll still spend every spring convincing ourselves that this year feels harder than last year.

So here's my proposal.

I genuinely don't care whether we keep daylight saving time, keep standard time, or invent an entirely new system where noon is whenever everyone collectively feels ready.

I just want to stop changing the clocks.

Mostly because I'm tired of discovering, three weeks later, that the clock in my car has been quietly judging me the entire time.

Why Are We All So Weird About Leftovers?

There is no greater personality shift than what happens between Day 1 leftovers and Day 5 leftovers.

Day 1?
We are thriving. We are reheating with intention. Plating it, even. Maybe adding a little garnish like we’re auditioning for Top Chef: Financial Responsibility Edition.

“This is honestly better the next day.” We say this with confidence. With pride. With the full delusion of someone who believes they’ve cracked the code on adulthood.

Day 3?
Now we’re asking questions. Not big questions. Just… quiet, suspicious ones.

“How long has this been in here?”
“Was this from Tuesday… or Monday?”
“Why does it look… wetter?”

We open the container, stare at it like it might explain itself, then close it again. Not because we’ve decided anything—but because we’ve emotionally escalated and need to regroup.

Day 5?
Absolutely not. This is no longer food. This is an artifact.

We don’t even open it. We observe it. From a distance. Like it might release spores if disturbed. At this point, it has a backstory. Possibly a motive.

And here’s the thing—we all have our own completely unscientific, deeply emotional leftover rules.

Some people are “three days, hard stop.” Some people are “smell test, we ride.” Some people will eat week-old pasta like they’re in a survival documentary, and honestly, I’d like to know what they’ve seen in life that made them this fearless.

Because leftovers aren’t about food safety. If it were, we’d all be following the same guidelines. We’d be labeling things. Dating containers. Acting like responsible, well-adjusted adults.

We are not doing that.

We are vibing. We are guessing. We are playing a high-stakes game of “probably fine.”

And the smell test? Completely unreliable.

You ever smell something and go, “That’s… fine?” What does that mean? Fine according to who? Your nose? Your pride? The fact that you refuse to waste $14 worth of chicken?

We’ve all stood there, holding a container, negotiating with ourselves like:

“It doesn’t smell bad.”
“It also doesn’t smell good.”
“But it doesn’t smell bad.”

That is not a standard. That is a gamble. And yet—we proceed. Sometimes.

Because sometimes, the real issue isn’t whether the food is still edible. It’s that we’re suddenly… emotionally disconnected from it.

Day 1: “I chose this.”
Day 5: “I no longer identify with this meal.”

It’s the same pasta. Same chicken. Same stir fry. But something shifts. The relationship is over. The trust is gone. The spark? Absolutely dead and buried.

And instead of eating perfectly good food, we’ll stand in front of a fully stocked fridge and say, “There’s nothing to eat,” while ignoring three containers of food we personally made.

Leftovers are Schrödinger’s dinner. They are both perfectly fine and absolutely unacceptable at the same time, and the only way to find out is to risk your entire evening and possibly your digestive system.

So we don’t.

We close the fridge. We order something new. And we promise ourselves we’ll “eat that tomorrow.”

We will not. Because tomorrow… it’s Day 6.

And Day 6 isn’t dinner. Day 6 is closure.

Pinterest Lied.

Pinterest has convinced an entire generation of women they can build luxury home décor using twine, reclaimed wood, hot glue, and unchecked optimism.

It doesn’t work. Nobody has EVER saved money making crafts.

You start with the purest intentions. "I'm just going to make a simple centerpiece."

Three hours later you're standing in Hobby Lobby holding seventeen items you didn't know existed fifteen minutes ago.

Decorative moss. Wood beads. A tiny metal bird. Two kinds of ribbon because apparently ribbon has categories now.

You spend $74 at Hobby Lobby, $41 at Target, another $23 because you forgot “matte sealant,” and six hours psychologically deteriorating… all to create a sign that says: “Gather.”

You could’ve bought one for $19.99. But no. Pinterest whispered: “You’re creative.”

Now your entire Saturday is gone and your dining room looks like a distressed farmhouse was involved in a small explosion.

The craziest part is how aggressively unrealistic the tutorials are.

Every Pinterest creator starts with: "Here's a super easy DIY anyone can do!"

No it isn't.

That woman who says it “so easy” has a dedicated craft room larger than my first apartment. She owns industrial cutting machines, professional photography lighting, 14 different glue guns, and possibly a husband named Chad who excels at woodworking.

Meanwhile you’re spray-painting mason jars on a card table in your garage next to a lawn mower.

And who are these people with endless supplies already lying around?

Every tutorial starts with: “Using scrap wood I had sitting around…”

Where? Where are people finding all this scrap wood? All I have is a broken paint stir stick and a warped piece of paneling from the 1980s. But somehow Pinterest people have enough leftover lumber to construct a guest cottage.

Then there’s the timeline deception— “Complete this project in 20 minutes!”

Ma’am, it’ll take me twenty minutes just to find the scissors. Another fifteen to locate the hot glue gun. Ten to remember where I put the extension cord. And another thirty to watch three more tutorials because suddenly I’m comparing wreath philosophies.

And every project creates emotional collateral damage.

There’s glitter in the carpet, paint on the dog, ribbon everywhere, and one wooden letter permanently glued upside down.

The worst part is that Pinterest doesn't stop at crafts. Oh, no. Pinterest wants to optimize your entire existence.

Suddenly you're making homemade laundry detergent. Building raised garden beds. Creating a command center. Organizing snacks into matching containers. Labeling things that absolutely do not need labels.

But deep down, none these projects are about saving money. They’re about hope.

Hope that this wreath will fix your mood, this organization hack will change your life, or this labeled pantry means you finally have your life together.

It won’t. It didn’t. And no freaking way.

But sometimes the delusion is therapeutic.

By The Time I Understand A Trend, It's Already Over

I would like to formally discuss the lifespan of modern trends.

Because from what I can tell, trends now last approximately fourteen minutes. Maybe less.

A trend begins. Teenagers become obsessed. The internet catches fire. Three million people make videos about it. Brands immediately try to capitalize on it.

And by the time I figure out what's happening, everyone under 25 has moved on. I don't even get a chance anymore.

Remember when trends lasted years?

The Macarena had a whole presidency. People spent a decade wearing Livestrong bracelets. Beanie Babies practically ran the economy.

Now trends have the life expectancy of a fruit fly.

Every week I encounter a phrase I've never heard before.

Someone says:

"It's giving..."

Giving what? Nobody knows.

The explanation somehow contains even more unfamiliar words.

But the moment I understand it, teenagers abandon it. I don't know how they know. But they know.

Somewhere there's a secret meeting.

"Sarah figured it out."

"Shut it down."

"Time for a new one."

Even businesses can't keep up anymore. By the time marketing departments approve a social media post, the trend is already being discussed in the past tense. Some poor corporate intern spends two weeks creating content around a viral phrase only to discover the internet has collectively decided it's cringe.

And really, the term "cringe" itself is probably already outdated.

The speed is terrifying. One day everyone's dancing. The next day everyone's lip-syncing. Then everyone's pointing at floating text. Then everyone's making reaction videos to reaction videos reacting to other reaction videos.

At some point the content became self-aware and started reproducing.

The worst part is trying to learn trends from younger people. You ask one simple question.

"What does that mean?"

And they look at you like you've asked them to explain electricity.

"It's just a thing."

Thank you. Very helpful. I've learned nothing.

Then there are the trends I accidentally discover months later.

I'll stumble across one and think:

"That's actually pretty funny."

Only to learn the trend peaked sometime between a Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning six months ago.

Apparently I was expected to be online during that specific 18-hour window.

Sorry. I was paying bills.

The younger generation doesn't understand how exhausting this is.

We grew up in an era where information arrived. Now information attacks.

You open your phone to check the weather and suddenly you're expected to understand seventeen new phrases, three celebrity feuds, a dance challenge, a skincare controversy, and why everyone is mad at a penguin.

Nobody even explains the penguin.

You're just expected to know.

At this point I've stopped trying to keep up. If a trend survives longer than a gallon of milk, I'll learn it. Otherwise I'll wait.

Because history suggests that by the time I understand what's happening, society will already be obsessed with something else.

That's fine. I'm beginning to suspect that confusion may actually be the most age-appropriate response to modern culture.

Sarah Says Things: The Official Rules of Midwest Potlucks

Midwest potlucks may appear casual. Alas, they are not.

They are governed by a complex set of unwritten rules enforced through church basements, community centers, and the collective judgment of women named Barb.

For those unfamiliar with the system, here are the official rules.

Rule #1: "Just Bring Yourself" Is a Lie

Nobody has ever meant this.

Ever.

When a Midwesterner says, "Just bring yourself," what they really mean is:

"Bring yourself and some form of carbohydrate."

Showing up empty-handed is how you end up the topic of a parking lot conversation.

Rule #2: The Number of Desserts Must Exceed the Number of Main Dishes

This is non-negotiable.

If 20 people are attending, there should be at least 14 pans of bars, three pies, brownies, cookies, and something involving Cool Whip.

Nobody knows why this is. It's just the law.

Rule #3: At Least One Dish Must Be Called a Salad Despite Having No Business Being Called a Salad

Potato salad? Fine.

Pasta salad? Acceptable.

A mixture of whipped topping, marshmallows, crushed pretzels, fruit cocktail, and vague family traditions?

Apparently also a salad.

The Midwest has stretched the definition of “salad” beyond all recognition.

Rule #4: Never Trust the Person Who Says Their Dish Isn't Good

The worse someone claims their food is, the better it usually tastes.

"Oh, it's not my best work."

"The recipe didn't turn out quite right."

"I almost didn't bring it."

Translation:

Prepare to have a religious experience with these cheesy potatoes.

Rule #5: There Is Always One Person Who Brings Store-Bought Cookies and Feels Guilty About It

"I didn't have time to make anything."

Relax, Jennifer. Nobody cares.

In fact, your Oreos are probably safer than whatever unidentified gelatin-based experiment is sitting three feet away.

Rule #6: Nobody Is Allowed To Take The Last Piece

The final brownie may remain untouched for hours.

Everyone wants it. Nobody will claim it.

Taking the last piece without first offering it to six other people is considered a hostile act.

Rule #7: Somebody Will Bring A Dish That Requires A Detailed Explanation

"What is it?"

"Well, it's kind of a casserole."

No one has any idea what that means.

The explanation will include at least six ingredients you've never considered combining and one sentence that begins with:

"My grandmother used to make this..."

At some point you stop listening and just put a spoonful on your plate out of respect.

Rule #8: The Recipe Is Secret

You can ask. But you will not receive it.

You'll get instructions like:

"A little bit of this."

"A splash of that."

"Bake until it looks right."

Doris is taking that recipe to the grave.

Rule #9: the best cook in the room is never announced

No trophy is awarded and no vote is taken.

Yet everyone knows exactly who it is.

The proof is simple: When her dish hits the table, people suddenly develop a sense of urgency.

Nobody rushes the vegetable tray. Nobody sprints toward the dinner rolls.

But when THAT casserole arrives? It's every Midwesterner for themselves.

Rule #10: The Container You Bring Home Will Not Be The Container You Brought

This is simply how the ecosystem works.

You arrive with a Pyrex dish.

You leave with a faded plastic container, a lid that fits nothing, and somebody else's serving spoon.

Rule #11: Leftovers Are Mandatory

It does not matter if enough food remains to feed a minor nation.

Someone will still say:

"We almost didn't have enough."

This statement must be made while standing next to twelve pounds of uneaten potato salad.

Rule #12: Nobody Knows Who Owns Anything

The crockpots. The serving spoons. The pie server. The extension cords.

Ownership ceased years ago. These items now belong to the community.

Rule #13: If You Leave Hungry, It's Your Own Fault

A Midwest potluck is the only place where people simultaneously tell you:

"Don't overeat."

and

"You hardly ate anything."

Rule #14: Someone Will Try To Send You Home With Food

It doesn't matter if you don't want any or your refrigerator is full. You are leaving with a foil-covered plate.

Accept it. Resistance is futile.

If society ever collapses, potluck ladies will rebuild it.

Within 48 hours there will be a sign-up sheet.

Within 72 hours there will be coffee.

Within a week there will be three casseroles, seven desserts, and enough food for forty-seven more people than were invited.

As is tradition.

Sarah Says Things: Thanks, Dads — We Actually Do Notice

Let’s take a moment — a real, honest moment — to appreciate fathers. Not in the greeting-card way or the “world’s greatest grill master” way. Not in the stereotypical sitcom dad way where he’s incompetent until the final scene.

No. Let’s thank dads the way they actually deserve: with a little gratitude, a little sarcasm, and a healthy respect for their unique contribution to society. 

First, thank you to the dads who believe every problem can be solved by staring at it long enough.

The faucet leaks. The lawnmower won't start. The internet is down. A shelf is crooked.

Dad approaches. He doesn't necessarily know what's wrong. But he intends to find out. Usually by squinting at it. Sometimes by tapping it. Occasionally by saying: "Well, that's not supposed to do that." There’s a diagnosis if there ever was one.

Thank you to the dads who refuse to pay someone else to do something they are convinced they can do themselves.

Will the project take four times longer? Absolutely.

Will three additional trips to the hardware store somehow become necessary? Without question.

Will there be leftover screws at the end? Always.

But the principle matters. He did it himself.

Thank you to the dads whose entire communication style is pretending not to care about things they care deeply about.

"Do whatever you want."

Translation: I have very strong opinions and would like you to arrive at them independently.

Thank you to the dads who attend every concert, game, meet, recital, ceremony, and school event. Especially the ones where they have absolutely no idea what's happening.

The dads who sit through three hours of activities just to watch their kid perform for 47 seconds. The dads who clap at the wrong time. The dads who cheer too loudly. The dads who record vertically and somehow miss the actual moment.

Your presence is appreciated.

Thank you to the dads who communicate primarily through sarcasm.

The dads who answer every question with a joke. The dads who can turn a routine trip to the grocery store into a stand-up comedy routine no one requested. The dads whose favorite hobby is embarrassing their children in public. It’s a public service, really.

Thank you to the dads who cook exactly three meals: breakfast, things on the grill, and whatever chaotic survival recipe emerges when Mom leaves town.

Every meal prepared with complete confidence.

Thank you to the dads who become wildly knowledgeable about random subjects.

At some point every father develops an unexpected specialty. Civil War history. Air compressors. The proper way to stain a deck. Trailers. Weather patterns. Bird feeders.

Nobody knows why. But suddenly they're the leading authority in a field nobody asked about.

Most of all, thank you to the dads who show up.

Not perfectly. Not flawlessly. Just consistently.

The dads who work hard. The dads who make time. The dads who teach, encourage, support, protect, and occasionally drive across town because someone forgot something important. Again.

The dads who worry quietly. The dads who love deeply. The dads who would do almost anything for their families while insisting it was no big deal.

And thank you to the men who chose the role.

Stepdads. Grandfathers. Uncles. Mentors. Coaches. Family friends.

The people who stepped in, showed up, and stayed.

Because being a father has never really been about biology.

It's about presence. It's about investment. It's about deciding that someone else's success matters as much as your own.

So here's to the dads. The fixers. The grill masters. The thermostat guardians. The joke tellers. The problem solvers. The quiet providers.

The men who somehow communicate both affection and criticism with the exact same grunt.

The men whose fingerprints are all over our lives, even when they never ask for credit.

And whether we say it often enough or not, we're better because you showed up.

The Most Dangerous Place in Geneseo Is the Four-Way Stop Where Everyone Is Too Polite

Nothing reveals the psychological instability of the Midwest faster than a four-way stop. Especially in small towns.

Because technically, four-way stops operate on rules. But emotionally? They operate on vibes.

And Midwesterners would rather cause a minor traffic incident than risk appearing rude.

You pull up first. You know you pulled up first. Everyone else knows you pulled up first.

But then somebody does “the wave.” And now society collapses.

Suddenly four fully licensed adults are trapped in an increasingly aggressive politeness standoff.

“No YOU go.”
“No YOU.”
“No seriously.”
“No I insist.”

At some point somebody panic-drives through out of social discomfort while another person changes their mind halfway into the intersection and now we’re all one casserole away from a pileup.

The worst offenders are the people who try to invent NEW traffic laws.

People waving through left turns.
People yielding when they legally shouldn’t.
People stopping traffic to “be nice.”

You are not being nice. You are being unpredictable.

And unpredictability is terrifying.

I would genuinely rather drive in Chicago traffic than participate in the psychological warfare of a Midwest four-way stop where everyone’s trying to prove they were raised correctly.

And let’s talk about the fake smile people do afterward.

That tight-lipped: “Ha ha almost died there!” grimace-wave.

Meanwhile everyone immediately drives away furious.

Because underneath Midwest politeness is a shocking amount of suppressed rage.

Also there is ALWAYS one pickup truck behind everybody losing his absolute mind because nobody will just COMMIT TO A DECISION.

That gentleman’s blood pressure is 240/180 because Sharon in the Buick keeps surrendering her constitutional right-of-way.

And somehow every single small town intersection contains:

• one over-waver

• one confused teenager

• one overly cautious retiree

• one guy treating it like NASCAR

• and one person who absolutely was looking at their phone until the very last second

In reality, the four-way stop may be the purest representation of Midwest culture: well-intentioned, deeply inefficient, quietly hostile, and one unnecessary hand gesture away from disaster.

Why Does Every Midwest Dad Refuse to Turn on the Air Conditioning Until It Becomes a Human Rights Issue?

There is no stronger commitment in America than a Midwest father refusing to turn on the air conditioning before “it’s REALLY hot.”

Every dad acts like turning on central air personally finances the collapse of the national power grid. Meanwhile the family is indoors hallucinating.

“You kids are spoiled.”
— man currently sitting motionless in boxer shorts directly in front of a fan like a Civil War patient.

And the rules are NEVER based on actual temperature.

It could be 87° F with 94% humidity. The dog could be visibly panting and butter literally liquefying on the counter.

Doesn’t. Mean. A thing.

Because Dad has decided: “There’s a breeze.”

There is NOT a breeze. There’s atmospheric soup moving through a window screen.

And every Midwest dad has the same survival techniques:

• He opens windows strategically

• Obsesses over ceiling fans

• Declaring nighttime temperatures “cool enough”

• Then turns the AC on for exactly 11 minutes before shutting it back off “to give it a break”

Sir. The AC unit is stronger than your knees.

The craziest part is how deeply emotional this becomes.

It’s never about comfort. It’s about PRINCIPLE. These men survived the 1970s without central air and now believe suffering builds character. Meanwhile every woman in the house is one hot flash away from filing for divorce.

And then eventually… the breaking point arrives.

Usually after somebody says: “It’s cooler outside.”

Dad silently walks to the thermostat like a defeated wartime general. Nobody speaks. Nobody celebrates.

Then suddenly: click

The vents activate. The household rejoices. Pets regain consciousness.

And for one glorious moment, Midwest families experience peace.

Until Dad starts yelling about the electric bill 14 minutes later.

The Emotional Support Hoodie Phenomenon

Every adult owns one hoodie they are emotionally incapable of throwing away.

It’s not the nicest hoodie. Or the newest hoodie. It’s just THE hoodie.

Usually it’s slightly stained, aggressively faded, mysteriously stretched out, and carrying the structural integrity of wet cardboard.

But psychologically? That baby is priceless.

It has survived breakups, illnesses, cold football games, grocery store runs, road trips, emotional spirals, random midnight drives, and at least one era of your life where you genuinely believed a nap might fix everything.

At some point, it stops being clothing and becomes emotional infrastructure.

You don’t even consciously choose it anymore. The second you get home, that hoodie appears on your person like a medically prescribed treatment plan.

Because THE HOODIE isn’t about fashion.

It’s about familiarity.

It smells faintly like your laundry detergent, old memories, winter air, and psychological safety. The sleeves fit exactly right. The hood sits correctly. The pockets are shaped to your hands. Every rip, stretched cuff, and faded logo feels weirdly reassuring.

New hoodies never stand a chance.

You can spend $140 on premium athleisure. Buy an entire stack of trendy sweatshirts. Own fifteen perfectly acceptable jackets.

Doesn’t matter. Your nervous system has already bonded with one ratty emotional support fabric tube from 2011.

And they always have the weirdest origin stories.

A college bookstore purchase.
An ex’s forgotten sweatshirt.
Company apparel from a job you quit six years ago.
A clearance rack panic-buy during an unexpectedly cold vacation.

Nobody ever ordains THE HOODIE. It chooses you.

And the panic when it goes missing? 100% unmatched.

Entire households suddenly mobilize like a search-and-rescue operation. People lift couch cushions. Check cars. Call spouses. And retrace timelines like detectives investigating a disappearance.

“When’s the last time you saw it?”
“Did you leave it at the game?”
“Check the dryer again.”

Because losing THE HOODIE feels less like losing clothing and more like temporarily losing emotional regulation. Scientists probably should study this.

I think as exhausted adults we just start attaching comfort to small, repeatable things because life itself is so mentally loud all the time.

Some people meditate.
Some journal.
Some wake up at 5 a.m. and do breathwork.

Others wear a 14-year-old hoodie while standing barefoot in their kitchen stress-eating shredded cheese directly from the bag.

And, I gotta say, that’s a completely valid survival strategy too.

Why Is Every Local Controversy Secretly About Feeling Unheard?

Every local controversy pretends to be about something practical.

Parking.
Taxes.
Bike paths.
Farmers Markets.
Sidewalks.
School policies.
Whether a parade route moved three feet to the left in 1997.

But if you sit through enough public meetings or scroll Facebook long enough, you realize almost none of these fights are actually about the issue itself.

They’re about people wanting acknowledgment— like dehydrated plants reaching for sunlight.

Because most people can survive a decision they dislike.

What they cannot survive is feeling ignored while somebody says: “Thank you for your comment,” before immediately moving to Agenda Item 7B and discussing mulch at the welcome sign.

Small towns make this way worse because accessibility changes expectations.

In larger cities, people assume government is distant and vaguely robotic.

In small towns? People see officials at church and football games, in line at Casey’s, aggressively inspecting cantaloupes at Fareway.

So when residents feel dismissed, it stops feeling political very quickly. Now it feels personal.

Public meetings have quietly transformed from decision-making bodies into emotional support groups with Robert’s Rules of Order.

People don’t just show up wanting outcomes.

They want acknowledgment, transparency, validation, eye contact.. really just some microscopic indication somebody considered their opinion before the PowerPoint was finalized six months ago.

That’s why tiny issues suddenly detonate into 147-comment Facebook wars.

It’s almost never JUST about the issue.

It’s accumulated frustration.

Feeling excluded.
Feeling managed.
Feeling like “public input” means: “We already decided, but please enjoy this ceremonial microphone.”

Now to be fair: some people absolutely ARE unreasonable.

There are citizens who interpret every inconvenience as the collapse of Western civilization.

A new stop sign goes up and suddenly somebody’s posting three paragraphs about constitutional freedom.

But leadership also dramatically underestimates how much tension disappears when people simply feel informed and respected.

Most residents are actually pretty reasonable when treated like adults.

The problem is that many institutions communicate like hostage negotiators reading from legal disclaimers.

And once people decide nobody’s listening?

Congratulations.

Now Facebook becomes Congress.
Everyone becomes a constitutional scholar.
And Karen from down the street is preparing a 19-slide Canva presentation about drainage infrastructure.

People don’t actually lose their minds over parking. Or taxes. Or the Farmers Market. Or school policy.

They lose their minds when they feel like the decision was made before they ever opened their mouth.

That’s the real accelerant in small-town controversy.

Because once people believe the public discussion is mostly ceremonial, every meeting starts feeling less like government and more like community theater with a consent agenda.

And suddenly the issue itself barely matters anymore.

Now it’s about respect. Access. Transparency. Whether ordinary people still have a seat at the table — or just a three-minute timer at the microphone.

Why Are Men So Emotionally Attached to Their Lawn?

There is no stronger emotional bond than a middle-aged man and his lawn.

Not his marriage. Not his cholesterol medication. Not his dog, nor his children.

The lawn.

A man will stand at the edge of his driveway with his hands on his hips staring at grass like he personally fought for it in Vietnam.

And the craziest part is how wildly disproportionate the emotions are.

Back into his garage and hear, “These things happen.” Or scratch his truck and he’ll say, “Insurance exists.”

But step on his freshly seeded patch of Kentucky bluegrass? Suddenly we’re at DEFCON-1.

Lawn guys operate on a level of delusion and optimism normally reserved for crypto investors and people opening restaurants. Every spring they emerge from hibernation absolutely convinced THIS is the year the lawn becomes legendary.

They buy fertilizer, grass seed, lawn food, weed killer, bug killer, and fungus treatment.. not to mention hoses with more attachments than a hospital bed.

All this so they can create a slightly greener rectangle than Greg across the street.

And don’t even get me started on mowing patterns. Some men mow diagonal lines into their yard like they’re preparing Wrigley Field for nationally televised baseball.

Sir, you live next to a Casey’s.

Then there’s the weather obsession. These men suddenly become amateur agronomists.

“We really need a slow soaking rain.”

Todd, you sell auto parts.

And somehow every lawn conversation becomes deeply competitive while pretending not to be competitive.

“Oh, I don’t care that much,” says the man who owns three spreaders and checks soil temperature online.

Meanwhile, the wives are just trying to keep everyone alive and the garden ladies are out here quietly growing actual food while Lawn King 2026 is screaming because a dandelion appeared near the mailbox.

You know what, I think lawns are just Midwest men’s version of nesting. Other people process emotions. Midwestern men edge sidewalks.

And I kind of respect it. Because in a world that feels increasingly chaotic, expensive, political, digital, and exhausting… there’s apparently something therapeutic about standing in New Balances at 7:12 p.m. whispering: “Damn. Grass is really coming in.”

Sarah Says Things: The Midwest Goodbye Is a Full-Length Feature Film

There are many cultural traditions that define the Midwest.

Corn. Weather discussions that qualify as unpaid meteorology internships. The word “ope,” which functions as apology, greeting, and full personality.

But none compare to the most sacred, time-consuming, and wildly inefficient ritual of them all: The Midwest Goodbye.

For those unfamiliar, the Midwest Goodbye is not a goodbye. It is a slow, emotionally complex, multi-act performance that somehow requires standing, sitting, relocating, layering clothing, and multiple updates about road conditions no one asked for.

It begins, as all Midwestern sagas do, with one word: “Well…”

“Well” does not mean “I am leaving.” “Well” means “I am emotionally preparing to consider leaving at some point, but physically, I will remain here for at least 45 more minutes.” Everyone understands this.

No one moves. Because we are nothing if not committed to unnecessary process.

Next: the knee slap. The universal signal that departure has been discussed—but will not occur. This unlocks a brand-new round of conversation topics that were apparently forbidden while seated:

• The extended forecast
• A cousin who moved to Arizona (still controversial)
• Road conditions, regardless of actual conditions
• A restaurant that closed in 1998 but refuses to die

We have now made zero progress. We have, however, added 20 minutes.

Then: The Door. This is where the illusion peaks. People stand. Jackets go on. Keys appear. Someone says, “Okay we should probably let you go.” This changes absolutely nothing.

Instead, we begin a fully formed second visit. Standing. At the door. Because sitting would imply efficiency.

Topics now escalate:

• Local politics (casual, obviously)
• The school district
• A medical history no one requested
• A recipe no one will make

Eventually, someone attempts authority: “Alright, we really should go.” This has the same impact as a suggestion box no one checks. In fact, it usually triggers another story—longer, less relevant, and somehow unavoidable.

And then… the final boss: The Driveway. Car doors open. Engines start. You think this is it. It is not.

People are now leaning into vehicles, continuing conversations through open windows about topics that could absolutely wait—like someone’s schedule next Thursday. You will stand there. In the cold. In the heat. In aggressively average Midwest weather.

Talking.

Because leaving quickly would be socially alarming.

Eventually—possibly under different lighting conditions—the departure occurs. Waves are exchanged. “Drive safe” is delivered like a binding contract. The car pulls away at approximately 3 mph, because speed would be disrespectful. The door closes.

“Well that was nice.”

Of course it was. You spent more time leaving than visiting. And yet—no one questions it. No one says, “What if we just left?”

Because we all understand the rules. You do not exit a Midwestern home. You perform your exit.

And if you didn’t discuss the weather at the door, the driveway, and once while holding your keys but making no forward progress—did you even leave?

Sarah Says Things: The Facebook Comment Section Is a Sociological Experiment

I have come to believe the Facebook comment section is one of the most fascinating social experiments ever conducted. Not intentionally, of course. But it is.

Because nowhere else can you watch the full range of human behavior unfold under a completely normal post about something extremely harmless. For example, imagine someone posts:

“Reminder: The City Council meeting is tonight at 7 p.m.”

A simple piece of information. Neutral. Helpful. Mildly boring. And yet within minutes the comment section will contain the following:

1. One person asking what time the meeting is.

2. Someone else announcing they “heard something different” but refusing to elaborate.

3. A third person vaguely suggesting corruption.

4. Another person asking why the city doesn’t “fix the roads first,” even though the post had absolutely nothing to do with roads.

5. And then there’s always one individual who confidently declares the entire situation illegal despite having clearly learned everything they know about municipal law from a YouTube video.

The best part is how quickly people become experts. A post can be about snow removal and within five minutes the comment section contains professional-level analysis from people who have never operated anything more complicated than a microwave.

Suddenly everyone is an infrastructure specialist. “You know what they should do…” This phrase alone has solved approximately zero problems but continues to appear with impressive frequency.

Another fascinating species in the comment section ecosystem is the person who is deeply suspicious of basic information. For example: “The parade starts at 10 a.m.”

Immediately someone replies: “Is that what THEY want us to think?”

Who is they? What is the conspiracy surrounding the parade? Are we suggesting the marching band is involved in a cover-up?

These questions are never answered. But the suspicion remains.

Then there’s the classic internet detective who begins every sentence with: “Well I don’t know all the facts, but…” And then proceeds to deliver a twelve-paragraph analysis based entirely on speculation, vibes, and something their cousin’s neighbor once mentioned at a graduation party.

But my personal favorite is the person who treats every comment section like a courtroom. They arrive with full confidence, a strong opinion, and absolutely no intention of changing their mind. Evidence is irrelevant. Context is unnecessary. The objective is not understanding. The objective is victory.

Meanwhile the original post was just trying to tell people the farmers market moved to Saturday. And somehow we’re now debating property taxes, the school curriculum, and whether the weather forecast is politically motivated.

This is why running a community news page is such a unique experience. You start the day thinking you’re sharing useful information. You end the day watching two people argue about something neither of them actually read.

Which brings us to the most consistent law of the Facebook comment section: The people who are the angriest about a post are often the ones who read the least of it. It’s a remarkable system. Someone will comment with complete outrage, only to later admit they only read the headline. Occasionally not even that. Sometimes just the vibe of the headline.

And yet the confidence level remains extraordinary. If confidence alone were a renewable energy source, Facebook comment sections could power the entire Midwest.

But despite all of this, I actually love it. Because hidden among the chaos are the people who genuinely care about the community. The ones who ask thoughtful questions. The ones who thank volunteers. The ones who show up to events and support local things simply because they want the town to succeed. Those people are the reason the whole experiment works. Everyone else is just… additional entertainment.

And honestly, if you’ve ever watched a Facebook comment section unfold in real time, you know exactly what I mean. It’s not just social media. It’s anthropology.

Sarah Says Things: Public Restroom Etiquette Is a Lost Art

There was a time—allegedly—when public restrooms operated under a quiet, unspoken social contract.

No one spoke or made eye contact. They handled their business with the urgency and discretion of people who understood the assignment.

That time is over.

Civilization is hanging by a thread, and that thread is located somewhere between the third stall at Target and whatever is happening near the sinks.

Let’s start with the phone talkers.

Who are you? Why are you like this? Why are you conducting a full, emotionally layered conversation in a public restroom like this is your office and not a space where every sound is aggressively amplified?

No one on the other end of that call needs to hear the echo.. the flush.. the context clues. And yet—you persist. Loudly. Confidently. As if this is normal behavior.

It is not.

Then we have the stall door slammers. There is a very specific level of aggression required to close a stall door the way some of you do, and it is never accidental. It’s personal.

You walk in and immediately BANG like you’re announcing your arrival to the entire zip code. We jump and wonder what kind of emotional event just led to that level of force.

This is not a Western saloon. You do not need to make an entrance.

And then… the hoverers. You know exactly who you are. The people who refuse to sit and instead attempt a mid-air squat like this is an Olympic event you are wildly unqualified for.

Now listen—I understand the intent. I do. We’ve all walked into a stall and immediately lost faith in humanity.

But hovering is not the solution. Hovering is how we got here.

You think you’re avoiding the problem. You ARE the problem.

Because hovering leads to… let’s call it creative outcomes. And now the seat is worse. For everyone.

So the next person walks in, sees the situation, and says, “Absolutely not,” and they hover.

And just like that —we’ve created a full-cycle disaster where no one sits, no one aims, and no one wins. All we have left are sticky floors.

And can we talk about the people who choose the stall directly next to you when there are six open ones?

This is not a bonding experience. This is not solidarity. This is a space where distance is not only preferred—it is expected.

Give people space. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

Same goes for the small talkers.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—has ever needed to be said between two strangers in a public restroom.

Not:
“Busy today?”
“Love your shoes.”
“Crazy weather.”

No. We are not doing this here.

This is a silent, transactional environment. We enter. We pretend no one exists. We leave. That’s the deal.

And yet… the rules are gone.

We’ve got people FaceTiming. We’ve got door slammers performing live. We’ve got hoverers creating a biohazard feedback loop. We’ve got casual conversations happening next to hand dryers like this is a networking event.

It’s too much.

All I’m asking for is a return to basics: minimal noise, maximum efficiency, and zero interaction.

We don’t need perfection. We just need… standards.

Because right now the only thing standing between us and complete societal collapse is a lock on a stall door that may or may not work—and honestly, that feels optimistic.

Sarah Says Things: Certified by Grandma & YouTube University

There’s a very specific type of confidence in the air lately.

It’s not earned. It’s not trained. It’s not even accidentally experienced.

It’s… YouTube confidence.

You know the kind. Someone watches three videos—two on 1.25x speed, one while half-scrolling their phone—and suddenly they’ve unlocked a calling. They make something just good enough for their grandma, their spouse, their coworker, or their emotionally obligated best friend to say, “oh my gosh, that’s amazing.”

And just like that—boom. They’re booked. They’re branded. They’re explaining things to people who have been doing this since flip phones were a personality.

And listen—I love a good DIY moment. I do. Try things. Learn things. Make ugly things. Make slightly less ugly things.

But there’s a difference between: “I’m learning this” and “I am now an expert, please pay me.”

Somewhere along the way, we skipped the middle part. You know… the entire phase where you’re objectively not good yet. The part where your work is… how do I put this… deeply humbling. The part where you don’t immediately slap a logo on it announce yourself to the public like you just dropped a masterclass.

Not everything needs to be monetized immediately, and not every hobby needs a logo, just as not every compliment is a business plan.

And respectfully—your biggest cheerleaders are not your customers. They’re your emotional support system. They love you. They would hype a burnt casserole. They would absolutely commission your macaroni art if it meant boosting your confidence.

But they are not the ones pulling out a credit card when stakes, standards, and actual money are involved.

Meanwhile, actual professionals are out here investing years—years—into their craft. Paying for tools. Paying for training. Paying for mistakes. Learning what works, what doesn’t, and what will absolutely come back to haunt them if they cut corners.

And they’re competing with someone who watched a 12-minute tutorial and said, “Yeah, I’ve seen enough.”

It’s not gatekeeping to say experience matters—sorry if that ruins the “I watched two tutorials” narrative. It’s not negativity to say skill takes time—shocking, I know. And it’s definitely not jealousy to notice the difference—sometimes it’s just… functional vision.

And here’s the part nobody wants to say out loud: confidence without competence is just audacity with a Wi-Fi connection.

By all means—learn, try, build, create. Post your progress. Be proud of it. But maybe… just maybe… linger in the “figuring it out” phase for longer than a weekend before announcing your grand opening to the public like you’ve been summoned by destiny.

Because CONFIDENCE is loud.

But COMPETENCE is what people are actually paying for.

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About Sarah Says Things
Sarah Says Things is a weekly column from Sarah DeMaranville that leans into real life with sharp humor, honest observations, and just enough edge to say what everyone else is thinking—but not saying out loud. From Midwest quirks to modern nonsense, it’s equal parts relatable, irreverent, and unapologetically blunt.

Sarah Says Things: My Daughter Is Running a Very Successful Cash-Based Economy

My daughter has a fascinating relationship with money.

She loves having it.

Spending it, however, appears to be completely unacceptable.

Over the years she has built an impressive financial portfolio consisting of Valentine’s Day money, birthday money, Tooth Fairy contributions, and what I can only describe as opportunistic spare change acquisitions from the car.

If there is a loose quarter in the cup holder, it will not remain loose for long.

This child could locate money hidden in a couch cushion from 2007.

Her system is thorough.

Valentines from grandparents? Saved. Birthday cash from relatives? Saved. Tooth Fairy payment? Deposited immediately.

At this point she has what I assume is a small but respectable savings account stored somewhere in her room.

But here is the interesting part. None of that money is ever used. Ever.

The funds are treated less like spending money and more like a museum exhibit. Look, but do not touch.

Meanwhile she very much enjoys shopping. She loves walking through stores and identifying things she would like.

“Mom, look at this.”

“Mom, I love this.”

“Mom, can we get this?”

And I say, very reasonably, “You have money.”

Which is apparently the most offensive statement anyone has ever made.

Because while she enjoys having money, the concept of actually spending it is where things break down.

Take Caffeine & Carbs.

She absolutely loves her iced macadamia nut latte.

She wants the drink.

She will happily accompany me there.

But if the conversation shifts even slightly toward using her own money, the enthusiasm disappears immediately.

“Oh… never mind.”

Not never mind on the drink. Just never mind on the paying.

This same financial philosophy extends to Hobby Lobby or Target.

She can walk through Hobby Lobby for an impressive amount of time pointing out items she desperately wants.

Craft supplies.

Decorations.

Random small things that apparently have enormous emotional significance.

But the moment I suggest she could purchase one of them with the money she has carefully accumulated, she looks at me like I’ve suggested something truly outrageous. Use her money? For things? Absolutely not.

That money has a purpose. The purpose appears to be continuing to exist.

It’s actually a remarkable financial strategy. Collect revenue from multiple sources while ensuring no expenses ever occur.

Honestly, it’s not unlike certain corporations. And I have to admire the discipline. This child has more restraint than most adults.

Adults see money and immediately start mentally allocating it to groceries, bills, or something mildly responsible.

My daughter sees money and thinks, “Excellent. The collection grows.”

The only spending she fully supports is mine. My money is apparently the community fund. Her money is the national reserve. Protected. Untouched. Carefully guarded.

And honestly, the longer I observe this system, the more I realize she might be onto something. Because if you never spend your own money, you technically always have money. Which is a pretty solid financial position for someone who still needs a ride everywhere.

So while she continues to build her impressive treasury of Tooth Fairy earnings and recovered vehicle currency, I will apparently remain the primary investor in iced beverages and craft supplies.

But if this child ever decides to enter the banking industry, I feel confident she will do very well.

She already understands the most important rule. Acquire assets. Protect assets. And absolutely never spend your own money if someone else’s is available.