If you missed the first 5 tedious parts to this series, a short recap:
Half the folks in Blogtown have a 100 Things list, in which they detail 100 miscellaneous facts about themselves, usually along the lines of "I believe in angels," and "9 is my lucky number." But I know my readers; you people aren't interested in getting to know the real me, you're interested in getting to mock the real me. Feel free to mock me for the 100 Things Wrong With Me. I'm posting this list in installments, in an effort to keep the tidal wave of mockery from becoming a tsunami. Here's #51-60.
51. I get cranky when I'm hungry. At a certain point, it's in your best interest to get some food in me before I start busting caps.
52. I like to take scalding-hot showers. The only problem with this is that I'm then hot for about an hour afterward, a fact which is exacerbated by the time spent blow-drying my hair with super hot air. Although I spend most of my average day struggling to stay warm, this post-shower experience is my one time of the day to complain about being hot. It's hard for a girl to fix her hair and put on makeup while sweating like a construction worker, so I crank the air conditioner up to meat locker conditions. My poor husband, who, like most of the world, is chilly after a shower, shivers and turns blue while all this is going on. When he adjusts the temperature in an effort to ward off hypothermia, I notice the moment the cold air stops blasting out of the vent, and I sneak behind his back and make it cold again.
53. I don't know if I could make it 24 hours without making a small-penis joke about someone. I've tried, but I started to break out in hives after the first couple of hours.
54. I am one of those boring types who orders the same thing every time I go to a particular restaurant--as in, I have "my usual" I always order at Mi Cocina, and I have "my usual" I always order at Outback, etc. I rarely have the urge to deviate from my customary order. People whine about this, acting like I'm missing out on life or something if I don't eat something different every goddamn minute of the day, but I look at it this way: True, I may order the same thing every time I go to Outback, but I don't go to Outback that often, so it's still been a long time since I had that particular item, right? When I do deviate from custom, I am often sorry. I usually don't like what I end up getting, and my husband is forced to trade with me. Which, fortunately, is no big deal to him, because he'll eat fried camel hump if you put it in front of him.
55. I don't hesitate to call my husband at work to ask him the most retarded questions that could definitely wait until he gets home from work, or that I could figure out for myself with a little effort. The most frequent questions are along the lines of "The wireless internet is down. How do I fix it?" and "What's the fastest route to (insert area of town here)?" As irritating as this must surely be, he always takes my calls and is always patient and acts like it's totally acceptable for me to interrupt his busy work day for incredibly trivial things. I'm not sure if this is because he is a living testament to patience, or if it's because he's afraid if I'm not immediately tended to, I'll have some kind of psychotic meltdown and run naked and screaming through the city park, or possibly set our house on fire and skip town with the baby to join the circus.
56. I'm, shall we say, less than friendly on the phone at work. For instance, if I answer the phone and say "Can I help you," and the caller pauses for a split second before speaking, I hang up on them, swiftly and joyfully. I often see other people answer the phone and then repeat "Hello? Hello? Helloooooo?" as they patiently court the silence on the other end. With me, not only do you not get a second "hello," but you better speak fast, mister.
57. I cry at movies--and by that I mean practically ALL movies. I could probably find a spot in Anchorman to cry. I am embarrassed by this goofy behavior, and I go to great pains not to let whoever I'm with know that I'm crying. You know the tricks--I act like I'm scratching my eye as I'm wiping a tear away, then a second later when the next tear comes, I act like I'm messing with my hair. I'm not sure which is goofier--the fact that I cry or the fact that I work so hard at not being caught at it. Okay, I figured it out; it's the crying.
58. When it comes to problem-solving, I'm not one of those proud pioneer types who thinks, "I'm going to figure this out on my own and be a better person for it." My policy is "Why struggle figuring this out when I can call someone who already knows the answer?" This thought is almost always swiftly followed by a phone call to my husband at work.
59. I have no idea what a meme is. And I could look it up, yeah, but I'm not going to.
60. I have a Caesar salad list. I don't think this should be considered a Thing Wrong With Me, but every single person who hears about it disagrees, so I'll put it on the list. My terrible memory and my love of a good Caesar salad are constantly at odds. For many years, I would repeatedly relive the same scenario, in which I would sit at the table in any given restaurant debating whether to order the Caesar or the house salad. Was the Caesar too fishy at this restaurant? I'd had it in the past, but couldn't remember. I'd go ahead and order it, only to realize that indeed, it tasted like someone had thrown a live trout in a blender and poured it over the lettuce. Oh, the crushing disappointment of getting a bad Caesar when you could have instead ordered a perfectly decent house salad. So now I keep a running list in my purse of which restaurants have a good Caesar salad. It looks something like this:
Outback: HELL NO
...and so on. Is this a crime? Can anyone explain to me why, each time I whip out my incredibly efficient and handy list, my dining companions begin to point at me and hoot with laughter? Am I too picky about salads? Is the act of list-making too anal-retentive? Or are my friends just gigantic assholes? One thing I do know: You'll all be frantically trying to call your old buddy Karla next time you're sitting in a restaurant trying to decide which salad to order, because you know I alone have been diligent enough to take copious notes on the issue. Will you be calling my asshole friends? No, you'll be calling me. And I will have the answer.