Things I Do That I'm Not Particularly Proud of But Not Ashamed Enough to Quit

It has recently come to my attention (through a very realistic dream) that a huge portion of the general population thinks I am a vey put together woman who has all her ducks in a row.  In fact, the consensus (in my subconscious) seems to be that I am a woman who has this whole life thing figured out and is living it completely soundly and intelligently.  The truth is, I have a *few* quirks that I use as coping mechanisms to get me from sun up to sundown.  If only to clear things up with myself and attempt to live life more realistically in my dreams, I feel it's necessary to let a few things about myself out.   

I Talk to Myself:  

I do it all day long.  I find myself both a witty conversationalist and a very attentive listener. To spice it up and keep myself interested, I use accents. Oftentimes, I'm British, but I will stray to the Emerald Isle or even Down Under.  The whole thing is really quite innocent until I start arguing with myself.  I never know whose side to take since I'm always right but clearly I'm not because I'm arguing with myself and getting dangerously close to a full blown personality split.  Then it's just a hop, skip, and a random streaking spree through the neighborhood to the Looney Bin.

I Hate Pants

I don't hate pants in a "replace them with skirts" kind of way.  I hate them in a "I don't like to wear anything below my waist" kind of way.  Yes, I do wear something to keep a barrier between my birthday suit and the furniture, so don't go picturing me in totally inappropriate ways.  I find them to be constricting and hot and uncomfortable and just plain awful.  Plus, they add to my never ending pile of laundry, which shouldn't be a deterrent since the laundry never ends, but it is.  The absolute worst kind of pants is jeans.  I consider them a dressing up kind of pant since my normal choice is sweat.  I absolutely loathe dressing up and since jeans are fancy in my world, I hate them most of all.  My darling friend shared this picture with me, and it couldn't describe me better if it tried:

I Rearrange Stores
I like to put things in my cart during fleeting fits of fancy only to get to the other side of the store and come to my senses.  The problem is, with at least one child always in tow and an overwhelming case of exhaustion--possibly laziness--I will remove the once desired object from my cart and place it on any obliging shelf near me.  I know that I should feel totally guilty and terrible, but the fact is, I don't.  The wonderful people who work at these stores can do it for me.  I live a life of basically constant servitude, and it's truly relieving to have someone servitude for me once in a while.  I will say this as a bit of a rationalization:  I do NOT leave refrigerated/frozen items outside of a refrigerated/frozen area.  I may put the ice cream back in with the broccoli, but it will stay frozen.  The broccoli will also stay where it is.  I don't like frozen broccoli.  

I Hide Food
I find it very hypocritical of me to constantly spout the virtues and necessity of sharing to my offspring when I, myself, hate sharing.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I enjoy sharing with people outside of my family.  My family, especially my children, get first dibs at just about everything.  I may go into a store with the intention of buying a package of socks for myself, but I come out with new things for the kids instead.  When it comes down to it, their needs are much more important than mine, and it is with that mindset that I justify hiding food from them.  Yes, I am a selfish, selfish woman, but my selfishness only extends to Oreos, sour cream and onion Pringles, and Snickers. When they grow up, they will be free to squirrel away treats for themselves.  In the meantime, I'll keep pushing the frozen broccoli.  

I Idolize my Cat
It should come as no surprise how I feel about my cat.  I simply cannot get enough of her.  I talk to her like she's a human.  I cuddle her like she's a baby.  I compliment her incessantly, fully believing that her purrs are an indication of her mutual adoration of me.  Alice the Wondercat has seen me through the toughest of times, and without her, my whole world will crumble just a little bit.  This is, perhaps, not healthy, but when I look at her fuzzy little face so full of cuteness, I really don't see the benefit of trying to overcome my unhealthy obsession.  So help the person who tries to tell me she's "just a cat" and regale me with stories about how much they hate felines.  I assure them, the hatred is mutual, which only proves the superiority of the species.  Meow.  

There you have it.  I'm a complete nut case, trapped in a world of covert pants-less snacking where my company is my snarky British alter-ego and my kitty.  This is how I get from sunrise to sunset each and every day.  That and love, family, friends, blah, blah, blah.  Where did I hide my Oreos?