It seems like every blogger out there has a 100 Things list, in which they detail 100 miscellaneous facts about themselves, usually along the lines of "I believe the eyes are the windows to the soul," and "I once broke my arm in two places." These are the kinds of facts that are probably interesting only to the blogger's mother and therapist. Therefore, I give you my list of 100 Things Wrong With Me. I'm posting the list in installments, on the assumption that the majority of my readers either have Attention Deficit Disorder or are chronically drunk. Here's 81-90.

81. When I brush my teeth, I get toothpaste everywhere. In my hair, on my feet, on the floor, even on my back sometimes. The problem is I try to multitask, and put things away or clean things up while I'm brushing. So the end result is that, yeah, I do manage to put away my comb, some makeup and two barrettes, but now my bathroom is coated floor to ceiling in foamy white slobber.

82. I hate winter. I would be happy if I never saw another snowflake again--which is weird because I'm originally from Alaska. We moved out of the state when I was 8 years old, which I'm really glad about because people who live in Alaska statistically have a 1 in 5 chance of dying by freezing into a solid block of ice while reaching into their mailboxes to check their mail. And to add insult to injury, those same people are often then eaten by polar bears during the next thaw. In fact, a recent ad campaign supports my claim: 83. I was a cheerleader in high school. If you knew me, you'd recognize the irony of this, since I'm hardly peppy and enthusiastic, nor particularly athletic. I didn't even look good in the skirt, because I had sad little stick legs and arms back then. And I don't even really like sports. I'm also not all that coordinated, or good at dancing. I think in most school these things are on the list of requirements for potential cheerleaders, but at my tiny-ass school I think the only requirement is that you be a warm-blooded mammal. Luckily for me, I was able to barely qualify on that score.

84. I love going to parties where there's a white elephant gift exchange--you know, the kind where you bring a gift without knowing who will receive it. People take turns at either picking a wrapped gift, or "stealing" one from someone who has already unwrapped one. There's nothing more fun than buying a random gift for a random person. Usually when you buy a gift for someone, you try hard to get them something they'll like--not so much because you want them to be happy or any of that do-gooder BS, but mostly because you know they'll mock you behind your back if you give them something they consider strange or undesirable. My mom once received a two-foot tall, pink and white carousel horse figurine as a gift, although nothing in her house or personality would lead you to believe she was a collector of huge, frightening carousel animals. This is the kind of gift that nets the giver a warm, "Thank you!" to his face, but many snide comments behind his back.

But the white elephant gift exchange is a thing of beauty. You can buy any bizarre, insane, useless thing that strikes your fancy without fear of repercussion. Gifts I have brought to such parties in the past include: A Spam snowglobe, a bag of shark chum, and a travel urinal. I consider this a Thing Wrong With Me because of the perverse glee I get from watching someone unwrap a package that they're surely hoping will be something decent, only to discover it's something no one would ever want, like a bag of chum.

85. Brian and I have an ongoing squabble over whether to leave the blinds in the house open or closed. He wants them open all the time, while I at least want them closed at night. I am perpetually convinced that someone could be looking in at any moment. This bothers me for at least three reasons: 1) The potential peeper might be aghast at the condition of my toy-littered house, 2) He might be scouting potential rape and/or murder victims, and decide I look puny enough to overpower, or 3) He might see me slobbing around the house in my Olive Garden boxer shorts and ratty striped tank top. I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid of being violated or being spotted in clothes that look like they should be in a Goodwill box, but Brian does not understand my paranoia. He considers this a Thing Wrong With Me. Maybe the reason he can't identify with me on this is that not only does he statistically stand less chance of being raped by an intruder, but he also doesn't have to worry about being seen in slob clothes because he doesn't have any. When he gets home from work, he simply leaves his work clothes on, including shoes and socks, until bedtime. Sometimes I'll look over at him, laying on the couch watching a movie in his tucked-in, button-down shirt, slacks, shoes and socks, and I'll think, "Holy cow that's weird." I assume he occasionally steals a glance at me laying on the other couch in my Metallica sweatpants from 1987 and my Eric Clapton t-shirt from 1990 and thinks, "Holy cow, that's weird."

86. I have no problem getting up and changing seats in a movie theater to avoid the screeching a-holes in the seats next to us. My polite husband thinks getting up mid-movie to switch seats is akin to causing a scene, and would rather sit there and basically miss the entire movie rather than quietly moving a few aisles away. Come to think of it, this sounds more like a Thing Wrong With My Husband than with me. Strike this one from the record.

87. I have a ridiculous number of shoes. I realize most girls have this same problem, but my shoes aren't even a collection of varying types of interesting and different styles. Most of them are black, and even the black ones don't vary all that much from one pair to the next. And in spite of a shoe collection that probably outnumbers that of Imelda Marcos, there are two pairs among them that I wear 98% of the time, while the rest just sit in my closet looking fabulous.

88. Sometimes I steal money out of my friends' purses to buy heroin. Okay, that one isn't true. Believe it or not, I'm starting to run out of Things Wrong With Me. Maybe I should let my husband write the rest of the list for me. (In which case, I might need to expand the list to 1000.)

89. I eat this on a regular basis:

And yes, it looks just like that every time. It's a veggie burger, and I purposely burn it beyond all recognition. I don't put it on a bun or anything like that, either. I eat it just like you see it in the picture. I don't even use a plate or a fork, I just hold that piece of char in my hand and munch on it like a hobo. Except I'm pretty sure no self-respecting hobo would eat that. All I can say in my defense is that I like char.

90. I have a collection of cigarette lighters, some of which are old and hard to find. I bought most of them in little antique shops, but some one eBay. The strange thing about this is that I don't smoke, and never have. I mean don't get me wrong, I can definitely see the appeal of smoking. What kind of person wouldn't want to put a burning object in his mouth and suck on it? Especially if it made his breath stink, made his clothes smell like they were scavenged from a house fire, turned his teeth yellow, and killed him slowly over time? Plus, it's a fun way to spend money, which everyone has lots of. But perhaps even stranger than someone who spends good money to stink, turn yellow and die is someone who collects cigarette lighters and doesn't smoke. It's just plain odd. Although I will say that a real smoker could never collect lighters, because other smokers would just steal them. Have you ever noticed that 90% of a smoker's energy is spent trying to steal the lighters of other smokers? Go to any bar on a Saturday night and you'll see a big crowd of sneaky lighter thieves; all of them stinking and turning yellow as they nervously eye each other's lighters, waiting for just the right moment to make a grab.

Labels: 100 Things Wrong With Me, I need therapy