SimpliPatti

Once upon a time, before oat milk, before BPA-plastic warnings, before adults ruined everything by reading ingredient labels — there existed a sacred ritual passed down among children of a certain era: Step 1: Pour milk. Step 2: Insert straw. Step 3: Blow with the intensity of a thousand tornados until a frothy foam mountain rose, overflowed, and annoyed the nearest adults. It wasn’t about hydration. It was about domination --  and craft. Could you get it to the edge without spilling? Could you create a volcano of dairy delight? Could you do it so many times that your mom would yell, “ For the love of all that is good STOP BLOWING BUBBLES IN YOUR MILK ”? If yes, you were doing it right.  At least INHO. Let’s Talk About the Cup Not just any cup. I’m talking about the thick plastic beast with the built-in straw that was always chewed on slightly. It weighed a full half-pound, empty. It came in primary colors. It made your drink taste vaguely like dish soap if not pr...

There was a time in this great land when children would scratch a small circle on a sheet of paper and be rewarded with the sweet scent of synthetic strawberries or unsettlingly accurate pizza. That time, dear reader, was the 1980s.  After that… they vanished. No press release. No funeral. Just… gone! One day we were proudly sniffing grape-scented stars for turning in our homework. The next, we were left with glitter stickers that did nothing but reflect shame. Let’s Examine the Evidence: They were everywhere! Teachers handed them out like controlled substances. Book fairs sold entire sticker books dedicated to them. I personally sniffed a watermelon-scented sticker so many times I’m fairly certain I rewired certain parts of my brain. Then they disappeared... Slowly, quietly, like an ex who still owes you money. One year they were in every pencil box; the next year? Just… stickers. Regular, boring, emotionless stickers. Like hugs from your aunt’s new boyfriend with ...

So, I live in a super-small space with three cats, one mismatched coffee table set, and a growing suspicion that I am no longer in charge here.  Like any adult whose Pinterest boards are probably better organized than my actual life, I decided to "declutter." I imagined a sleek, tranquil space with clean lines, neutral tones, and no shame. I now sit atop a pile of half-sorted Goodwill bags, sipping coffee from a novelty mug that says “I Paused My Show for This.” Let’s discuss: Step 1: Mentally Prepare to Let Go of the Clutter — and Your Dignity Decluttering, in theory, is supposed to bring peace. In practice? It's a passive-aggressive negotiation with your past self. “Do I need six half-burned candles?” “What if I suddenly become the kind of person who hosts dinner parties and needs twelve fine water glasses?” “This broken garlic press has been with me since college. That means something, right?” At one point, I asked my cat BoBean if she thought I should ...

Four years ago, he was living under a bush behind a Waffle House, dodging raccoons and licking discarded hot dog wrappers for sustenance. Today? He lounges on a patio chair like a retired tech billionaire, staring into the distance like he’s about to drop a TED Talk titled “How I Outsmarted the System — and My Humans”. Meet Maurice. Former alley cat. Current real estate tycoon of cardboard boxes, investor in emotional manipulation, and lifestyle influencer to other neighborhood pets who still simply eat kibble like peasants. He now enjoys: Two passive incomes (aka two humans who feed him on different schedules and don’t talk to each other), His own house — well, actually, their house — but he lets them stay, and rent-free! And a personal chef who thinks she’s just “opening cans,” but let’s be real — that’s meal prep! Maurice didn’t claw his way to the top (he was declawed at the shelter, thank you very much). He purred his way there. He found a woman with a soft heart and poor b...