Lots of folks in Blogville have a 100 Things list, in which they detail 100 miscellaneous facts about themselves, usually along the lines of "I read my horoscope every day," and "Turtles scare me." Because I'm not a very interesting person, I knew simply stating harmless facts about myself would bore the pants off of you. And trust me, no one wants to see you pants-less. Therefore I give you my list of 100 Things Wrong With Me. I broke it up into parts, so that one of the Things Wrong With Me wouldn't be, "I create ridiculously long lists and post them whole, knowing full well that no one wants to sit in front of their computer for 78 hours straight reading them." Here's #61-70.
61. I'm killing my plants. It's sad, really, to see them sitting in their various locations throughout my house, dry and parched. Their leaves are crispy and brittle, the soil hard and sad. Really, these are more like corpses of plants than actual plants. I wish I had a green thumb, but apparently I have a black thumb. You'd think I would do myself and these skeletal plants a favor and just throw them out, but I'm stubborn, so I continue this sick little dance. I remember to water them only often enough to barely bring them back from the dry brink of death, where they hover for awhile til the grim reaper begins his approach once again. Then I give them a little water, and they cling tenuously to life for another day. Exhibits A-C:
62. I won't go to the bathroom in front of my husband. We have those silly little swinging saloon doors in our master bathroom, making the toilet semi-private from the rest of the bathroom. "Semi" is not enough privacy for me. Only in the last year or so have I agreed to occasionally let him be in the bathroom while I pee behind the goofy little saloon doors, which is a big step for me. But no way would I pee in front of him with no doors to partially obscure me. Oh, and we're only talking pee here. I would never, ever do anything more ambitious than that in front of him, nor give him the slightest hint that such an activity was even on the horizon. In fact, when we stay at hotels, I don't use the hotel room bathroom if I have to do anything more than pee. I make up an excuse to go to the front desk or the ice machine, and then I scurry off to the bathroom that's usually located near the front desk. He'll be shocked to read this, because I'm sure he has no idea I put this much thought and effort into this silliness. But what can I say in my own defense, except that I have no interest in my husband discovering that I'm human.
63. I hate Chihuahuas. I know I'm supposed to love them as I do all other animals, but God help me, I detest them. I think they're awful, wretched little yapping assholes who seem to hate everyone but their owners. After an ear-splitting 30 minute session of psychotically barking at you without pause, they then have the nerve--the NERVE! to beg from you the second they see you with food in your hand. Feed them if you want, but the very second you're finished with the food, the little attention whores will resume psychotically barking at you. Oh, and for some odd reason, 97% of Chihuahua owners let these horrendous beasts get away with their atrocious behavior, to include barking, biting, jumping on people, snapping at people, scaring children, taking over the furniture, begging for food and just acting like assholes in general. The owners never seem interested in training them or reprimanding them or raising them to be good pets tolerated and loved by all. So the bad behavior goes entirely unchecked, making it impossible to carry on a simple conversation while visiting the home of one of these idiot mongrels. Chihuahuas are as angry as they are stupid, and I usually want to stomp them with my shoe. (I do happen to know at least one Chuhuahua owner who is a responsible owner. I mean, her dog is still a total dick, but at least she recognizes that and keeps him away from company.)
64. I picked a boring name for my blog. My husband tried to talk me into getting a blog for maybe a year before I finally did it, but I was reluctant because I really didn't think I'd have anything to say that would interest anyone, and I wasn't entirely clear what the hell a blog was supposed to be for anyway. But he wanted me to start one and he offered to set it up for me, so I finally told him to go ahead. He asked me what I wanted to call it. I had no idea. I thought about it for a few minutes and finally said he could just call it Karlababble. Of course, now that I read other blogs and have figured out what to do with my own, I see what an incredibly boring title that is, and I can think of about a billion much cooler ones. But I'm stuck with this snoozer. How any of you managed to find me is beyond me; generally when I see a list of links, I click on an interesting-sounding one, which Karlababble most certainly is not. Seriously, I can't tell you how much it bums me out that my blog has a boring name. I wish I could go back in time and change it.
65. When my husband takes off his wedding band, I like to hide it. He doesn't take it off often, but two situations he's guaranteed to remove it are when he mows the lawn and when he feeds the baby (so the ring doesn't thump Jake on the spine when Brian's burping him). He always puts it in the same spot--a little glass ring holder I have on my bathroom vanity. When I see it there, I hide it. The first couple of times, Brian panicked, fearing he'd lost it, but my gleeful snickering soon revealed otherwise. Common hiding places are along the tops of hanging picture frames, inside the cap of a can of deodorant or hair spray, inside the cotton ball dispenser, etc. This is my way of punishing him for not following instructions, since the ring is clearly inscribed with the phrase "Put it back on." How can this marriage survive if he won't obey?
66. I've had C Is For Cookie stuck in my head for 2 weeks now. And no, I haven't seen Sesame Street lately, and haven't heard the song in years. But the lyrics have been tormenting me, so I've been tormenting the people around me by singing them out loud. Over and over. Cheerfully.
67. I hate being tickled; really, seriously hate it. Which is hard for an observer to discern, because I'm incredibly ticklish, so I'm laughing my ass off even as I'm getting truly angry and begging for the tickler to stop. Clearly, it looks like I'm playfully protesting but still enjoying the tickling--but not so. It took my husband a while to understand this when we first got together. He would tickle me at length as I protested, and when I finally got him to stop, and when my giggle fit had finally subsided, I'd look at him solemnly and tell him "Seriously, don't do that again. I hate it." But he didn't think I was serious, and it would happen again later. Finally I found a way to get back at him. I'd bide my time, and later we'd be going somewhere, with him driving and me in the passenger seat. At a busy intersection, I'd slouch down in my seat and look idly out the passenger window as I reached over and laid on the horn. He'd wig out as other drivers turned to stare at him with that "What's your problem?" look. I'd giggle like mad, and he'd say "Seriously! Don't do that, it's not funny!" I'd reply that I was just getting him back for tickling me earlier. So the tickling promptly stopped. As it had to, before some angry trucker beat the living hell out of him with a tire iron.
68. The sound of my dog licking her paws totally repulses me. That slurp-slurping sound makes me want to ram a coat hanger into my eardrum to deafen myself. I don't want to reprimand her, because I don't want to make her think it's bad to clean herself; I like a clean dog. But at the same time, I do want her to cut it out so I don't vomit. So my solution is to toss something near her but not at her, so that it lands about 6 inches from her and distracts her. This totally works. I'll throw a pen or a Kleenex box or whatever's handy, it will bounce a few inches away from her and distract her, and she'll stop that disgusting licking and just lay her head down and relax. I've been so successful with this tactic that I'm going to try it with Brian next. When he starts telling me about some new techno-gadget out on the market, or begins describing the software he's working on at his job, I'll just toss a pencil about a foot away from him and distract him. Then maybe he'll forget what he was telling me.
69. I refuse to make goofy faces at babies and children other than my own. You know how every goddamn time you fly somewhere in a plane, there's a 5-year-old in the seat in front of you who remains turned completely around in his seat the entire flight, staring you full in the face like you're a zoo animal? I hate that kid, regardless of whether he's quietly staring or actually causing a noisy scene as he stares. I know, I know, he's just a kid. But he's a kid I hate. I had an ex who would always indulge that kid, and spend the flight making funny faces at the kid to make him giggle, which, of course, always prolonged the staring. Isn't that sweet, that he loved kids so much, and had such a playful nature? Puke.
70. I hate to iron clothes. Every once in a great while, when I'm feeling particularly magnanimous, I iron a couple of Brian's work shirts and he jumps for joy like I just coughed up a gold brick. I know he's praising me so highly in the hopes that I'll repeat the gesture in the future. Poor thing. He must lay in bed at night and fantasize about those women who cook every night for their husbands and iron their work shirts every day. And at that very moment, as he's fantasizing about those kind of wives, I'm probably somewhere else in the house hiding his wedding ring or throwing things at the dog.