Just Relaxed Blog

Tag: funny stories

  • The Unexpected Joys of Being a Terrible Singer

    The Unexpected Joys of Being a Terrible Singer





    The Unexpected Joys of Being a Terrible Singer

    My Shower-Singing Nemesis

    The other day, I was belting out a power ballad in the shower, you know, the usual morning ritual. Suddenly, my cat, usually my biggest fan (or maybe just deaf in one ear), darted out of the bathroom as if I’d unleashed a banshee wail. That’s when it hit me: I’m a terrible singer. Like, really, truly, wonderfully awful. And you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

    terrible singer: It’s incredibly liberating. While the Mariah Careys of the world might feel the pressure to hit every note perfectly, I exist in a glorious realm of vocal freedom. High notes? I laugh in their general direction. Pitch? Who needs it! I’m like a jazz musician of the vocal cords, improvising my way through every song.

    Think about it, my tone-deaf brethren. We have a superpower! We can butcher karaoke classics without an ounce of shame. We can serenade our pets with off-key lullabies and they’ll love us unconditionally (or maybe they’re just humoring us). The point is, we embrace the joy of singing without the burden of expectations.

    The Gift of Laughter

    Let’s be honest, there’s a certain comedic value to being a terrible singer. I’ve become the designated entertainment at family gatherings, my off-key renditions of “Bohemian Rhapsody” leaving everyone in stitches. My friends send me “bad singing” memes, and I wear them as badges of honor.

    There’s a special kind of magic in making people laugh, and if my vocal stylings (or lack thereof) can bring a little joy into the world, then I consider it a win. Plus, laughter is good for the soul, right? So really, I’m doing everyone a favor.

  • The Day My Inner Voice Started Speaking in a British Accent

    The Day My Inner Voice Started Speaking in a British Accent



    We all have that inner voice, right? That little narrator in our heads who comments on our life choices, reminds us to pick up milk, and occasionally launches into a dramatic monologue about a squirrel it saw that one time. Mine usually sounds a lot like me, just slightly more sarcastic. But then, one Tuesday morning, everything changed.

    The Crumpet Incident: When My Brain Went British

    Picture this: I’m standing in my pajamas, bleary-eyed and attempting to make coffee, when my brain decides to pipe up. “I say, wouldn’t a spot of tea be rather lovely this morning?” Now, I’m a coffee person, through and through. I blame it on my American heritage and an unhealthy reliance on caffeine. But this voice… this voice was different. It was smoother than melted caramel, crisp as a freshly starched shirt collar. It was, dare I say, a bit… British?

    I nearly dropped my coffee mug (okay, travel mug – let’s be real). “Did… did my brain just offer me tea? In a British accent?” I muttered to myself, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about my mismatched socks.

  • The Great Escape: My Hilarious Attempt to Avoid Family Game Night

    The Great Escape: My Hilarious Attempt to Avoid Family Game Night



    We all have those family traditions that, while endearing, can sometimes feel like an obligation. For me, it’s our monthly game night. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family dearly, but there’s something about forced joviality and the inevitable Monopoly-induced meltdown that makes me want to disappear into the witness protection program. So, this month, I decided to stage a grand escape.

    The Dodgy Dentist Appointment: My Master Plan

    My master plan hinged on a single, fabricated element: a last-minute dentist appointment. I even practiced my “Oh no, my tooth is killing me!” grimace in the mirror.

    family, bless their trusting souls, bought it hook, line, and sinker. I could practically hear the internal sighs of relief that they wouldn’t have to endure another round of my cutthroat Scrabble strategy.

    Operation: Freedom…Foiled by a Family Text!

    With a theatrical wince and promises to “be back soon,” I made my grand exit. My destination? Sweet, glorious freedom in the form of a quiet coffee shop and a good book.

    family, crammed into the waiting room of…you guessed it, my dentist’s office. Apparently, what started as a “We miss you!” text quickly morphed into “Let’s surprise them!” And because the universe enjoys a good laugh at my expense, they chose that exact moment to pay a visit.

    Busted by My Family…and Sentenced to Board Games

    My cappuccino suddenly seemed less appealing. I considered, for a brief, insane moment, hiding under the table. But alas, even I’m not that skilled at disappearing acts. So, with the grace of a gazelle caught in headlights, I walked over to my family, my carefully constructed lie crumbling around me like a poorly built card tower.

    The worst part? They weren’t even mad. They thought it was hilarious! They laughed, they took pictures of my defeated face, and then, the cherry on top, they insisted we all go back to my place for game night. Because, as my dear mother put it, “We were already on our way!”

    What’s Your Best Excuse? Share Your Story!

    So, dear readers, I leave you with this: What’s the most elaborate excuse you’ve used to get out of something? Share your hilarious stories in the comments below!

    (Just don’t tell my family. They’re already planning the next surprise visit.)


  • The Day My Inner Voice Started Speaking in a British Accent

    The Day My Inner Voice Started Speaking in a British Accent

    The Day My Inner Voice Became British: A Hilarious Transformation

    From Midwest Monotone to Proper Pronunciation

    Let’s be honest, my inner voice was never anything to write home about. It was a practical, Midwestern monotone – think Garrison Keillor reading a grocery list. It got the job done but lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Then, one Tuesday morning, everything changed. I woke up, stumbled to the coffee maker, and thought, “Right then, time to get this show on the road.”

    inner voice had gone from “ope, let me just squeeze past ya” to a posh, vaguely aristocratic accent that could charm a crumpet off the Queen.

    Living with My New British Inner Voice: A Comedy of Errors

    At first, it was utterly delightful. Mundane tasks like folding laundry became infinitely more entertaining with my internal Hugh Grant providing commentary. Grocery shopping? A chance to internally debate the merits of various cheeses with the eloquence of Stephen Fry. I even started saying “cheerio” instead of “goodbye,” much to the amusement of my friends and family.

    There were, however, some adjustments to be made. For instance, my new inner voice had zero tolerance for my usual procrastination tactics. “Darling, are you really going to scroll through social media again? One simply must prioritize,” it would chide, dripping with disdain for my lack of productivity.

  • The Unspoken Rules of Elevator Etiquette (and Why I Break Them All)

    The Unspoken Rules of Elevator Etiquette (and Why I Break Them All)



    My Personal Elevator Everest

    Let’s be honest, elevators are weird. They’re these metal boxes that transport us through the bowels of buildings, crammed with strangers we avoid eye contact with at all costs. And yet, there’s this invisible rulebook we’re all apparently handed at birth dictating how to navigate this 30-second journey without causing a social faux pas.

    Take, for instance, my latest elevator adventure. Picture this: I’m running late for a meeting (shocker, I know), coffee sloshing precariously in hand. I make it just as the doors are closing, flinging myself in with a breathless, “Hold the door!” Everyone stares. My triumphant grin falters. The weight of their judgment (or maybe it was just the awkward silence) felt heavier than my overflowing inbox.

    elevator etiquette violation. And you know what? I’m okay with that.

    The Silent Treatment: An Elevator Etiquette Faux Pas?

    Rule number one of Elevator Club: Thou shalt not speak. Apparently, engaging in conversation within the confines of an elevator is a social sin worthy of banishment to the basement (which, ironically, is where the elevator would probably take you anyway).

    Listen, I get it. We’re all tired, rushing to important meetings, or just trying to mentally prepare for whatever fresh hell awaits on the next floor. But can we at least acknowledge each other’s existence with a polite nod or a “Good morning”? Anything but the deafening silence that currently reigns supreme.

    Elevator Button Etiquette: To Press or Not to Press?

    Ah, the age-old question: Do you press the button for someone else, even if it means stretching your arm across their personal space bubble? Or do you just stand there awkwardly while they struggle to reach?

    Here’s my take: if you see someone struggling, offer to help! It’s a simple act of kindness that won’t result in you spontaneously combusting (probably). And if someone offers to press the button for you, accept their chivalry with grace. Unless they’re pressing all the buttons. Then run.

  • The Day My Inner Voice Became a Real Person (and Why I Kind of Hate It)

    The Day My Inner Voice Became a Real Person (and Why I Kind of Hate It)


    We all have that little voice inside our heads, right? The one that narrates our lives, offers (often unwanted) opinions, and occasionally bursts into song at the most inopportune moments. Well, mine decided to become a real person. And no, it’s not nearly as cool as it sounds.

    “You’re Wearing *That*?” – The Day My Inner Critic Came to Life

    It all started innocently enough. I was staring into my closet, crippled by the age-old question: “What do I wear?” Suddenly, a voice boomed from the corner, “Seriously? The floral dress again? You look like a walking garden gnome.”

    I whirled around, expecting to see a judgmental fashionista, but there was… nothing. Just a pile of neglected gym clothes silently judging me from the floor. That’s when it hit me: my inner voice had somehow manifested in the real world. And it sounded suspiciously like my snarky Aunt Mildred.

  • The Time I Tried to Be a Morning Person (and Failed Spectacularly)

    The Time I Tried to Be a Morning Person (and Failed Spectacularly)




    The Time I Tried to Be a Morning Person (and Failed Spectacularly)


    We’ve all seen them. Those mythical creatures who bound out of bed at the crack of dawn, chirping about sunshine and the promise of a fresh pot of coffee. They actually choose to exercise before the workday begins. These, my friends, are the morning people. And for a brief, shining moment, I thought I could be one of them.

    Operation: Rise and Shine (More Like Rise and Whine)

    My foray into the world of early rising began, ironically enough, in the dead of night. Scrolling through Pinterest at 2:00 AM, I stumbled upon countless infographics touting the benefits of waking up early: increased productivity, reduced stress levels, the ability to actually make a decent breakfast. I was sold.

    morning routine. This involved things like “meditation” (read: panicking about how little sleep I was getting) and “journaling” (scribbling incoherent sentences in the dark).

    The Yogurt Explosion: A Sign From the Universe?

    The first few days were rough. My brain felt like it was perpetually stuck in a fog bank, and I relied heavily on industrial-strength coffee to function. But then, something miraculous happened. One morning, I woke up before my alarm went off. I felt…dare I say…rested?

    Maybe, just maybe, I was becoming one of them.

    Fueled by this newfound sense of morning personhood, I decided to make a healthy breakfast. I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and…well, let’s just say I forgot that unopened yogurt containers have a tendency to explode when shaken vigorously.

  • Why My Phone Charger Is My Arch Nemesis (And Other Tales of Domestic Frustration)

    Why My Phone Charger Is My Arch Nemesis (And Other Tales of Domestic Frustration)



    The Case of the Vanishing Charger

    Picture this: It’s 2:00 AM. I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. No, it’s not a sinister figure lurking in the shadows, nor the sudden realization that I forgot to pay my electricity bill (though that nightmare comes often enough). It’s the low battery notification on my phone pulsing ominously in the darkness. Frantically, I pat around my nightstand, desperation mounting. Where is it? WHERE IS IT?!

    My phone charger. That slippery, elusive fiend. Always playing hide-and-seek when I need it most. Finally, after what feels like an eternity (and probably looks like a deranged interpretive dance in the dark), my fingers brush against the familiar plastic. Relief floods through me, quickly followed by a familiar surge of frustration.

    Why, oh why, is this such a recurring saga in my life? Is it me? Is it cursed? Is there a secret society of phone chargers plotting against us all? The answer, my friends, is still out there. But one thing’s for sure – I’m not alone in this domestic struggle.

    The Mystery of the Missing Socks

    Speaking of mysteries worthy of Sherlock Holmes, let’s talk about the curious case of the disappearing socks. We’ve all been there. You toss a perfectly matched pair into the laundry abyss, only to pull out a lone ranger, doomed to wander the land of unmatched socks forevermore.

  • Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Judging My Life Choices

    Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Judging My Life Choices



    We’ve all been there, right? Staring out the window at 3 a.m., questioning every decision that led us to this very moment. But lately, I’ve started to suspect I’m not alone in these introspective spirals. No, it’s not a roommate (thankfully, I outgrew those in my early twenties), but something much quieter, much greener, and infinitely more passive-aggressive: my houseplant, Herbert.

    When Your Houseplant Gives You the Side-Eye: Herbert‘s Silent Judgement

    It all started subtly. I’d be on a dating app, swiping left on a series of increasingly questionable profiles (let’s just say, “aspiring poet” doesn’t hold the same allure it did in college), and I’d catch Herbert’s leaves drooping lower than usual. At first, I chalked it up to needing water or perhaps a bit more sunlight. But then came the night of the disastrous Zoom date.

    Picture this: I’m mid-sentence, attempting to charm this poor woman with my sparkling wit (or so I thought), when my internet connection decided to take a nosedive. And not just a regular dip in service—a full-blown digital blackout. I’m talking frozen screens, robotic voices, the whole shebang. By the time I managed to reconnect, my date looked like she wanted to crawl through the screen and personally strangle my router.

    A healthy, thriving houseplant in a pot.
  • The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (and Why I Break Them All)

    The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (and Why I Break Them All)

    Let’s be honest, we’ve all been there. It’s 7:00 PM on a Tuesday, you’re starving, and the only thing standing between you and a semi-nutritious dinner is a trip to the grocery store. We’ve all experienced the unique brand of chaos that unfolds within those fluorescent-lit aisles. But amidst the overflowing carts and frantic shoppers, there exists a secret code of conduct, a set of unwritten rules that dictate the grocery-getting experience. And me? Well, I’m here to confess – I’m a serial rule breaker.

    The Case of the Rogue Sample-Taker

    Ah, the free samples. Those little beacons of culinary delight strategically stationed to lure you in. But here’s the unspoken rule: take one, maybe two, and move along. I, however, operate under the firm belief that the limit on free cheese cubes is a figment of society’s imagination. Have I shamelessly hovered around the mini-quiche station, accepting one too many toothpicks full of deliciousness? Maybe. Do I regret it? Not one bit.

    Express Lane Exposé: 15 Items or Less? Please.

    The express lane: a haven for those seeking a speedy checkout. But it comes with a caveat, a commandment etched in the grocery store tablets: “15 Items or Less.” Now, I consider myself an optimist, a glass-half-full kind of gal. So, when I’m juggling 17 items (okay, maybe 20), I choose to believe that those “items” are open to interpretation. A bag of limes? One item. A container of blueberries? Also, one item. Never mind that they’re nestled amongst 18 other “single” items. Who am I to dismantle this perfectly logical system?

    The Art of Strategic Cart Abandonment

    We’ve all seen it – the abandoned cart, stranded in the middle of the aisle like a shipwreck in a sea of cereal boxes. An obstruction of epic proportions. And while I wouldn’t dream of leaving my own cart haphazardly blocking the path to the Oreos, I’ve been known to engage in a little…strategic maneuvering. Let’s just say that sometimes, when faced with a particularly stubborn cart blockade, I channel my inner race car driver and execute a skillfully evasive maneuver (or two). Is it wrong? Possibly. Is it efficient? Absolutely.

    The Verdict: Guilty as Charged (and I Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way)

    So there you have it, my confession. I break the unspoken rules of grocery store etiquette, and you know what? I’m okay with it. Because sometimes, you just gotta embrace the chaos and grab that extra mini-quiche. After all, life’s too short to follow all the rules, especially in the wild and wacky world of grocery shopping. Now, tell me, dear reader, what unspoken grocery store rules do you secretly break?