Today I’m being all Oprah and deliberately counting my blessings. The one that sticks out just at the moment is:
I am now able to preface things that are delicate or difficult to express using the rhetorical phrase, “How shall I put this?” without my first husband interrupting, “In English! HAHAHAHA!”
Yup, every time.
For almost a decade.
It’s not like I don’t have annoying habits of my own. In fact, I have so many that I store most and rotate them with the seasons. The government has asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping some in a secure storage facility outside of Los Alamos.
Weapons of mass annoyingness which I possess:
A tendency to cry, “Awesome sauce!” when pleased by things at work. Brad, our social-media guru at the book store, says that this may be construed as a drug reference by our younger patrons. I am secretly gratified, and like to think this either makes me the “cool, edgy bookseller” in our small, suburban town, or that I am scaring kids straight (Dude, see that chick in the cardigan? That could be you).
A wicked caffeine addiction which renders me unable to process such elementary thoughts as, “Do these socks match?” before two cups of coffee.
An utter disregard for people’s beer preferences. You don’t like Rolling Rock? Bring your own.
The thorough conviction that more is more, and that red sequins can be tasteful.
I talk to myself a lot of the time.
I have an intense loathing for all versions of the song, “Over the Rainbow.”
And, I am one of those women who will approach total strangers who happen to be walking a dog, squeal inanities like, “Ooh, the schnoogums!” and proceed to pat and talk to the animal for as long as a full minute before looking up at the person and shamefacedly saying, “Hi.”
It’s not like I’m perfect.
But I do try not to interrupt.