Normal Things I Hate Doing

I’ve never been good at the dailiness of life. The activities that everyone, everywhere, does everyday. Like sleeping. Or the slightly smaller demographic of people who enjoy eating lunch.


1. Putting gas in my car: Yes, I’m grateful to have a car but not so grateful that I don’t hope magic gas fairies come between the almost-on-empty-light turning on and my car sputtering to a stop. (Heh, magic gas fairies.)

2. Bathing in any form involving water: I’ve already gone over this but since pretty much everyone bathes, it had to be reiterated on the list. My guess is I was a cat in a former life. A stinky cat.

3. Dishes: Sure, no one LIKES doing dishes, but I find that there are dishes in my sink to be shocking and offensive. Doing dishes everyday seems a little excessive.

4. Wearing a bra: I know. I know. I should just move to a bra-less country and stop complaining about all my wealth and power and boobs.

5. Going to bed: Also covered in minute detail in this blog, but seriously, why can’t I even sleep every OTHER night? I have things to do that I need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for. Probably. I’m not really sure since I have no experience with it.

6. Going to the bathroom: I don’t mind once I’m there but having to get up from typing this very sentence is annoying and must be put off as long as… dammit, I’ll be right back…

7. Eating lunch: I like breakfast and dinner and breakfast for dinner, but I never know what to eat for lunch and whatever I chose isn’t very good. So I’ve decided to declare lunch the most boring and difficult meal of the day. I may be grateful that I can eat 3 meals a day, but I will never have anyone “over for lunch” unless they’re bringing food and it resembles dinner.

8. Washing my face: I’m still vaguely convinced face wash is a conspiracy to get me to purchase and use and purchase and use an unnecessary product. My zits disagree.

9. Walking up or down stairs: Even if it’s the same number of steps as walking from one room to another, the act of stairs is wrong. They are my kryptonite: Cant’s get it {pantpant} too far too tired {gaspgasp} I’m dying. Of stairs.

10. Small talk: I don’t want to ask how you are doing because I already know you are going to say: Fine. Unless we are really good friends, then you’re going to say: Awesome because you’re here and I don’t have to put up with anymore of this small talk crap. And we can move along to armageddon prep.

I could go on and on, but I’ve survived for the last 33.5 years so these things can’t be that important.

Photo credit: Mostly to Walt.

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Drama Is My Superpower

I decided to do paper invites for my daughter’s birthday party because finding people’s mailing address was easier than accosting them for emails. Plus, 1 person always claims the evite went into spam, and I WILL THWART HER EXCUSES FOR NOT RSVP-ING.

The invites took me 13 hours to make because the beautiful graphic ones I painstakingly designed without the help of Photoshop were either the wrong size or the wrong shape for EVERY PLACE THAT PRINTS THINGS.

I finally found a cute pre-made princess design with purple (N’s favorite color) and ordered invitations. I picked them up the next day only to realize the RSVP phone number was WRONG even though Scott and I both proofed the invitation twice each. I’m not sure which would be more annoying: the person who got multiple calls for his nonexistent princess party or that my friend of the spam-emails could claim she RSVP’d when I know she did NOT.

And then I ran into an address problem. Our school directory insisted that N’s friend lived 3-4 hours away in another state and commuted 5 days a week to go to our school. The family seems pretty NOT CRAZY so I decided to hand-deliver their invite at school and offhandedly ask about Maryland just in case.

My plan was foolproof except I didn’t know what type of car the mom drove, and I didn’t want to give her the invite in the lobby because the party was so small and people have FEELINGS. I kept hoping we would pull into the parking lot to pick up our kids at the same time. And then, one day, I see a car that is driven by a possible suspect.

I jump out of my car with joy, but the driver stays in. I can’t stand in the middle of the parking lot waiting to see if this possible-party-list-person is the actual-party-list-person when I’m really supposed to be going into school with all the other parents and getting my kids so I begin to walk very slowly towards the school door and also her car door. As I walk past the car, I crane my neck like I’m feigning whiplash, but I can’t get the right angle to see inside the car.  And I can’t just knock on the window because 1) I will scare the crap out of the driver and 2) what if it’s not the right mom and I have to explain why I’m taking the party invite OUT OF SOME MOM’S HAND.

I decide to go into the lobby and just watch out the door like James Bond. I realize that from the lobby I have a better line of sight into the car and I become more and more convinced that it’s the right mom. I get so psyched up that I dash out the door to keep her from coming inside without the invite. Except the minute I open the door all my confidence fades and I hurry back inside sure I was about to invite the kid who pulls my daughter’s pigtail out (it was just once but STILL).

Meanwhile, I look so suspicious sprinting in and out of the school that the head of the school runs over to me: What’s happening in the parking lot? Is everything okay? Does someone need help?


I don’t even know how to explain my creepy slow-walk-run-in-run-out-run-in-all-while-hiding-an-envelope behavior so I think: Maybe I should just invite her?

WHAT? My brain is trying to ruin my daughter’s party and then I see the car door open and the right mom steps out. I push past the head of the school and throw open the glass doors while shoving a white sweaty envelope in this unsuspecting mom’s hands and telling her: YOU’RE INVITED BUT DON’T TELL ANYONE.

I’m amazed she came to the party, too.

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