Sometimes I’m not a Bee. Sometimes I’m a pita.

Because my navel-gazing blog exists, you already know that I think pretty highly of myself.  I find great humor in silly little inconsequential stories.  I think lists of things I like are entertaining reading material.  I’m under some delusion that someone might find my very personal goals and dreams of interest.  It’s no surprise, then, that I happen to think my husband, HP, is a pretty lucky guy; I mean, he gets to live with me.

Once in a while, though, the constant analytical metanarrative in my head offers commentary on something I am planning to do, currently doing, or have already done, and I remember that I am, in fact, quite the pain in the arse (hence the sweet pet name “pita,” given by that lucky guy who gets to live with me).  So for the record, I give you the top ten ways I am a pita on a regular basis:

  1. I always forget to replace the toilet paper.  I was raised better than this.  I know it’s inconsiderate.  Still, somehow, I use the last sheet and then get preoccupied in fiddling with zippers and such and completely forget to get a new roll.
  2. I leave my long hair in a disgusting pile covering the drain cover after every shower.  It is gross–gag-inducing clumps of water+shampoo+conditioner-slime-soaked hair.  I should not leave this dirty work for anyone else.  I know this.  Still, somehow. . . you know.
  3. I collect travel mugs filled with days-old coffee and bring them to the kitchen only after they’ve begun to produce a stench (and some interesting green organisms that are far more than simple mold).
  4. I cannot keep secrets–particularly when intoxicated.  I very regularly share information I’m not supposed to either because I’ve let something slip or because a magical beverage has led me to believe that everyone on the planet is a trustworthy dear friend.
  5. I’m a cryer.  If I’m touched by a beautiful moment in a 30-second commercial, I will very likely be brought to tears.  If it’s a television show about people doing nice things for others, I will become a blubbering, sobbing mess.
  6. I have constantly changing, completely uncontrollable, and never predictable eating preferences.  Today, I may hate ham.  Tomorrow, I may crave it.
  7. I am a planner.  I am an organizer.  I’m a list maker (duh!).  If there is an army of unruly ducks in a pond nearby, and you want those suckers lined up in neat rows, I’m the girl for the job.  If you just want to go with the flow and see how things work out, I’m probably the most annoying creature on the planet (even when I’m trying hard, hard, hard to restrain myself).
  8. I have a childlike appreciation for surprises paired with a scholar’s research and critical thinking skills.  This means people like to surprise me because of the reaction they get, but it also means surprises are hard to pull off because if I have any idea whatsoever that something might just be coming, I will think, interrogate, and research in order to figure out what.  Even if it means I ruin the surprise for myself (which I hate), I cannot control the excitement-driven inquiry.
  9. I’m completely uncomfortable with anyone important being unhappy with me (and exceedingly so when it comes to my partner), so I cannot possibly wait for cool-down time.  I will immediately apologize, promise not to behave in such an offensive manner again, and expect to be immediately forgiven and back to business-as-usual. . . immediately.  That is unless we’re talking about something I really believe in, in which case. . .
  10. I am stubborn.  I mean heels-dug-so-deep-I’m-up-to-my-neck-in-mud stubborn.  I come by it honestly enough.  I’m fairly certain the combination of my stubborn parents’ genetic material resulted in some kind of super gene on the stubborn DNA chain.  It doesn’t help that nearly all of my accomplishments in life are a direct result of that stubborn tendency, so it’s been reinforced repeatedly.  Still, there are most definitely times when I should learn to shut it off (both the stubborness and my mouth) and choose my battles more carefully.

So there you have it:  proof positive that I am a turd.  Y’know. . . just in case you thought life over here was all sunflowers and daisies.

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