Eight Annoying Things About Me
I’ve been tagged by New Mama to divulge eight things about me. There were no rules stated, so I’m gonna put a twist on it and reveal some annoying and/or quirky things about myself. These are things I’m pretty sure are probably annoying to my friends and family (at least they are to me). Thankfully, they still love me. J
1. I talk to myself. A lot. Especially in the car. But I take this neurotic behavior one step further and actually interview myself. Yes! As if I’m someone that has something to say, that folks wanna hear from. I talk to myself in the mirror, and could be recently heard repeating “My name is Leigh. I have two kids, two daughters” just to hear what it sounds like and then mustering a surprised/confused look. Because, seriously, it still shocks me.
2. My ears are not pierced. I guess this is more of a quirk than annoying, although my pal Sara finds it’s annoying because she designs incredible jewelry and thinks it’s ludicrous that I can’t hang her creations from my ears. And honestly, it’s caused a few embarrassing moments, like when good-hearted peeps have given earrings to me as gifts and I NEVER know how to respond. Years ago, my MIL’s boyfriend-at-the-time gifted me with some beautiful earrings for Christmas. They were dainty, silver feathers hanging from a blue turquoise bead. Caught in the moment, I didn’t know what to do so I blushed, smiled, and casually covered my ears with my hair so he wouldn’t notice. Thank goodness he didn’t ask me to try them on!
3. I keep my vehicles in a constant tornado-like state. Totally no-bueno. And the problem has grown increasingly awful since bringing children into the world, and thus into my automobiles. I think I could become a female McGuyver with the contents of my mini-van and would most likely be able to survive a host of terrible natural (or unnatural) disasters just by hangin’ out in my van. It drives my husband bonkers.
4. I don’t wear my clothes more than once before washing them. My Mama always comments about how I could save myself so much time, effort, and money by just wearing some of my clothes more than once. But I don’t; I can’t stand the thought of being “dirty”. And as a breastmilk-leaking mama, there’s no way in hell I’m rewearing any of my stinky, mucky, stained clothes.
5. I step into my bras. That’s right folks; I don’t clasp them on me while on my body like most normal women do. I clasp them first, then step into them as if I’m pulling on pants. I wiggle them up over my curvy hips (sometimes quite a tight squeeze, especially when pregnant) and then pull them up over my shoulders. How on earth I came up with this technique is beyond me. I think it’s probably pretty annoying.
6. I’ve written an entire post about this, but it’s probably one of the most annoying aspects about me: my half-ass ways. Even more annoying is the fact that I’m not a 100% half-asser, but more of a 75% of the time half-asser. Shouldn’t I just make up my mind? For example, 75% of the time I don’t replace the TP roll properly, or screw the caps on the juice/milk/toothpaste/mascara fully, of fold my husbands t-shirts right-side-out, or throw the wrapping to my nursing pads in the trash, or replace the twist tie on the bread bag. But then there’s this 25% of the time where I will decide that dammit, I’m gonna complete the task in a whole-ass manner. Why?
7. In my writing I am the queen of fragments, use a ton of exclamation points, and am interminably sappy and verbose (can’t you see how tough it is for me to not elaborate on this more?)!!!
8. My lackluster, embarrassing Math skills. While I could memorize an entire 10-minute oration on a 3-hour bus ride to a Speech meet, I never memorized my times tables. And I still count on my fingers. I cannot even make change quickly. My Mama used to try to give me pop-quizzes on my times tables, saying in the car “Okay, what is 8 times 4?”. Frustrated, I’d groan, roll my eyes, and say “Mom! I’m not gonna do it!”. However, I do have one, annoying compulsion with numbers: every single night before bed, I count (on my fingers) the number of hours of sleep I forsee I’ll get. My husband will often notice the quiet tapping of my fingers on my pillow and say with a sigh “Are you counting the hours again?”. The most annoying part of it is that if I were smart (and not a half-asser) I’d have memorized the possibilities or at least made some kind of chart of them to refer to; particularly seeing as though there is only a few choices since I go to bed and get up around the same time every night and morn.