On a rare burst of dopamine in the middle of winter depression, I felt like baking muffins.

And not just any muffins. Blueberry oat muffins with a little cinnamon crumb topping.

Drooling yet?

I cheerfully pulled out all my ingredients, set the oven to preheat at 2 billion degrees (fire makes me v happy), and set out to make a scrumptious treat for the children when they arrived home from school.

Almost right away I ran into a problem. The measuring cups were gone.

Normally this is not a big deal. In the past, if the measuring cups were dirty, I would shrug it off and found a different measuring utensil, like using a tablespoon to measure 4 cups of flour.

I guess washing the dirty cups was an option. But then I would have to wash the entire sink full of dishes. But to do that I would have to unload the dishwasher. And to do THAT I’d have to clear the counter space of all the ingredients for muffin making. By the time the mouse got its cookie, there would be one grumpy mom and no muffins.

Not to mention, I always wash dishes directly after cooking. No way I was going to inconvenience myself by going out of my routine. If I had to use Junior’s meaty paws to dish out baking soda, then so be it.

But Junior was off getting a pedicure, so I was back to locating the measuring cups. They were not in the sink. Nor the dishwasher.

Hmmm, I thought. Maybe the kids unloaded the dishwasher wrong last night?

I opened every cupboard within kid reach. No cups. I checked all of them again. Still no luck.

Maybe the kids used them in one of their games? I wondered.

This is a valid hypothesis. Just yesterday I found the salad spinner half buried in their mud garden. There may have been a dead bird inside. Playing with the measuring cups is definitely up their alley in mischief making.

Off I went to seek what had been lost. But oh, the places I had to go.

I checked the floors:

(As you can see, the salad spinner made it safely out of the dishwasher and back into a bedroom with a liquid suspiciously colored the hue of urine. No further questions.)

Then emptied out dresser drawers:

And fist-fought with the spiders hiding under the beds JUST TO BE THOROUGH:

No. Measuring. Cups.

The oven beeped. It was time for muffins. mufFINS THAT I DID NOT HAVE THANKS TO THIS INANE SIDEQUEST.

Exasperated, I texted my husband. I don’t know why. He has a job teaching living in a public school and isn’t allowed potty breaks, much less enough time to text me how pretty I am. And, even if he did have the time, Taylor is, to put it kindly, absolutely the worst there ever was at responding. Yes, he is a great conversationalist in person. Just not on what the young people call “texting”.

But to my surprise and relief (and mostly surprise), Taylor texted me back.

Wish he hadn’t though.

(The rest of the texts were just a series of Mormon swear words.)

Naturally, the measuring cups were in the ONLY kitchen drawer unchecked.

Look. I know. I said I searched each one. But obviously I didn’t mean this drawer. This drawer was deliberately excluded from headcount because it made too much sense.

See, my brain is of the correct opinion that the simplest road to achievement is reckless & stupid & should be avoided at ALL costs.

The measuring cups USED to be kept here. However, they were shuffled to another drawer in the dopamine-fueled kitchen overhaul two weeks back. Everyone knew it. Taylor knew it. The kids knew it. Heaven knew it.

Of all the places the measuring cups shouldn’t be IT WOULD BE THIS ONE.

Lemme tell ya. It is maddening when I learn that other people’s brains don’t cough & splutter along like mine does.

Defeat resting heavily on shoulders, and dopamine now depleted, I turned to a favorite source of motivation: rage.

I mixed up the batter and sprinkled extra cinnamon crumb topping just for spite and baked those damn muffins.

Unfortunately, the muffins were delectable. Apparently, rage baked blueberry oat muffins taste just as good as if they were cheerfully baked. No dopamine necessary. All happiness wasted.

I hate winter.