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Speaking of coffee. Let’s talk about cold brew. Isn’t this just… cold coffee? Why the marketing spin? I’ve had day-old forgotten coffee on my desk before — it was also cold. No one called it artisanal. Don’t come for me with your oat milk foam cloud and insist I “just haven’t had the right cold brew.” The right cold brew for me is called iced tea.

White chocolate. What even is this? I mean, I know it has cocoa butter and a legal team somewhere lobbying for it to be considered “chocolate adjacent,” but let’s be honest — it’s chocolate in witness protection. It’s the ghost of actual chocolate. It’s the thing you bite into thinking it’s real chocolate, and then immediately feel betrayed. No thank you.

Surprises. No. Just no. I love planning surprises for other people — surprise parties, surprise visits, surprise gift cards to Target (you’re welcome) — but if you’re planning to surprise me, I need a 48-hour notice so I can emotionally prepare. And if your surprise includes people hiding behind my kitchen island and yelling at me, it’s likely I’ll just scream and then immediately start apologizing to my cat and dog.

Game of Thrones. Never watched it. Don’t plan to. I realize this disqualifies me from roughly 45% of modern cultural references, and I’m okay with that. I actively avoided it just to balance out how everyone else wouldn’t shut up about it. I zagged. Some people call that being stubborn. I call it self-care.

High heels. Why are these still a thing? I’m not anti-fashion, but I am anti-injury. I’ll wear them if absolutely necessary — like if a wedding dress is involved or I need to reach the top shelf in a grocery store — but otherwise, I’m not interested in strapping stilts to my feet. It’s not fashion if it ends in crutches.

Spam calls. They’ve gotten so bold. “Hi, this is Susan from the Department of Your Extended Warranty Is Expiring, Probably in the Next Hour.” I don’t know a Susan. And if my warranty is actually expiring, let it go. Let me go. Set me free.

Exercise. I do it. I hate it. People always say, “You’ll feel amazing after.” Really? Because I usually feel like I’ve been run over by a small, determined rhinoceros. Yes, I wake up early and voluntarily join workouts that leave me sore and questioning every life choice since high school. But do I enjoy it? Absolutely not. You know what I enjoy? Sitting. With snacks.

And while we’re talking about self-improvement fantasies, I would love — just once — to keep a space clean. My car, for instance. It was detailed two weeks ago. Two days later, I loaded supplies from a remodel, and now the back seat is coated in drywall dust and full of rogue dirt clods from a real estate sign that apparently decided to fall apart mid-removal. I don’t even want to know what’s in the glove compartment. Possibly an entire granola bar ecosystem.

There’s nothing I dislike more than when my kids leave after a visit. I miss them more than I can explain. The house goes quiet in a way that feels like something’s missing. But then I get back into my routine, I start planning the next visit, and maybe — just maybe — I feel okay again. Until I find white chocolate in the pantry and remember I still don’t like that.

And that’s fine. I don’t have to. I’m officially off-duty from pretending otherwise.

But here’s the thing: while this may seem like a long list of complaints, the list of things I do like is far longer. It’s just not as fun to rant about being delighted by my family, friends, and all the people who quietly make this chaotic world better.