5 Pet Peeves

So, it's been a while since I've complained about stuff for no reason. I like to say that complaining is the one thing I do well, which of course isn't true, but that's not the point, guys.

The point is, complaining every once in a while about the mundane, meaningless little things about life bring me a certain joy I can't quite find very many other places.

1. How are you?
I've complained about this question before. But lately my frustration has been coming from work. At work, in an effort to be nice and welcoming, we ask how people are. But most people ignore us, and respond instead with a drink order. It's because no one wants to answer a question they think isn't genuine.

2. Typos
I realize that intense attention to spelling and grammar is not a priority for everyone. But it gets really exhausting to read repeated confusion of their, they're, and there, misuses of apostrophes, and a lack of proofreading. (Side note to bloggers reading this: if you know yourself to be guilty of these things and want a proofreader, you know who to call.) 

3. People who can't use a 4-way stop
I'm tired being the only person who knows whose turn it is. Here's how to use a 4-way stop. You yield to the person on your right. If you get there at the same time, the person to your right goes. If you're the person on the right, GO. Then the person on your right goes, then they're right, and so on. You are not supposed to go at the same time as the person across from you.  This brings me to number 4:

4. My own road rage.
Yep. I get annoyed with myself. I live in a tourist town, and most of the time the other drivers are non-natives who have no idea where they're going or what they're doing. A lot of the time I find myself shouting at the other drivers when they stop for no reason, or take my turn at a stop sign.


5. "Uh" and "Um"
I know I complain about this one all the time, guys, but it's seriously my BIGGEST pet peeve ever. I just can't stand it when every other word a person says is "uh" and "um." These sorts of sentence fillers sound gross and the irritate me to no end. Please just don't talk until you figure out your words.

Anger

I wonder what people think when they first see me. I wonder if they see the stereotype of redheads, the temper so often attached to the hair color.

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, it's all I see.

I'm one of those people who should probably not be allowed to interact with other people sometimes. Occasionally I feel I deserve to have someone lock me in a room for a while until I cool down.

All my life, it's been this way. I've never been a peaceful person. Frequently it seems like I'm holding such anger under the surface, and it's a constant struggle to keep it from escaping. I wonder sometimes if this is all that I am, a lifetime of managing anger, hostility, judgement.

There has to be something wrong with me. God wouldn't have created a person to be so angry, would he? God couldn't have made me this way.

I know all of the practical responses to this. See a counselor. See a therapist. Someone who can help you sort through your issues. 

But here's the thing: I'm not sure I'm brave enough to find out the root cause of all this anger.

How many people can see through this happy face I'm forced to wear everyday? How many people can see that my skin is crawling, that I'm really screaming inside? How many people am I actually fooling?

Obsessed

Top 5 Guilty Pleasures
For my purposes here, I'm defining "guilty pleasure" as any obsession you wouldn't readily admit openly. And here I am, outing myself to the entire internet for your entertainment purposes.


1. Anything Kardashian-related
This one I REALLY am ashamed of. I've found myself watching Kardashian reality shows for...longer than I care to admit. It's just one of those things where you say "Only five minutes." Because you're curious why they're so popular. And then a couple hours later, you find out why. Because you just couldn't look away. 


2. The Twilight Saga
I'm also ashamed to have to admit this one. I've seen bits and pieces of each of the movies, but it's the books that really sucked me in. Again, curiosity killed the cat. I had to see what all of the fuss was about. But then the compulsion set in. I had to find out the end of the series. There was no choice about it. It didn't matter that Bella was a horrible main character, and Edward was a sorry excuse for a leading man, and then there's the part where the series is about the importance of having a boyfriend. (DON'T get me started.) It was like Stephenie Meyer embedded some sort of addictive drug in the pages of her books. I just couldn't stop.


3. The Vampire Diaries
Since we're talking about vampires, let's add this one to the list, shall we? This obsession is fairly recent, just the past couple of days, recent, and I'm already hooked. I just can't stop. It's all teen-angst, meets small-town drama, meets hot vampires. I shouldn't want to keep watching, but I do.

4. Firefly
STOP, you browncoats. Keep reading. Just trust me. I did define guilty pleasure as something you wouldn't readily admit to everyone. Have you ever tried to explain Firefly someone who isn't nerdy? What did you say? Did you say "It's like a western, in space, with no aliens."? Because if you're me, that's what you said. And that's also when the non-nerdy, I mean, non-awesome person totally checked out. Some things are just better kept to yourself.

5. Doctor Who
Now hear me out, Whovians, before you stop reading. This is like Firefly. If you're me, then not many people you encounter are nerdy enough to appreciate the awesomeness that is Doctor Who. And by nerdy, I mean cool. Yep. Cool. I mean, have you ever tried to explain Doctor Who? "It's this alien who travels in a spaceship through time and space and he meets people and aliens and does...stuff." Riiiight. Have fun alone with your 10 cats someday, Leah.

Confession time! Name some of your biggest guilty pleasures, even if they're actually completely awesome.

I ain't been droppin' no eaves.

I was laying in bed last night, (Or should I say, early this morning.) and I realized that it was Sunday and I hadn't posted. I worked ALL FREAKING DAY. So please excuse me if this post is lame and doesn't make sense. I'm in my post-sleep haze, which is always dangerous for writing. You never know what might come out when your filter is down.


Reasons Why I Hate Eavesdropping on Strangers

I realize this list is random, but I did this yesterday, and it was a HUGE mistake. These are the reasons why.

1. Once you find one thing stupid, you'll find everything stupid. This is the biggest one. One idiotic thing turns into another and another and another until even hearing their voices is making your skin crawl.

2. There are some things you can't un-hear. Listening to other people's conversations is dangerous business, and sometimes you might hear things you really regret hearing.

3. You can't interrupt strangers' conversations. It's poor form. Even if they're talking about something awesome to which you have something excellent to say, you can't jump into their conversation. That's like admitting you were listening in.

These are the reasons I've come up with in my post-sleep haze. What have I missed?

Pretending

I'm tired of pretending. It's all I do.

I get paid to be nice and friendly and smiley, and to try as hard as I can to be extroverted, instead of the introvert that I am.

I'm tired of "I'm good," or at the very least, "I'm fine," being the expected response to "How are you?"

Why do I comply with the societal expectations? Because I know that not many people actually care. Asking how someone is, in itself, is a societal expectation.

You pretend to care about my life and well-being, and in return, I pretend that it's fine. Even if it's very not fine.

Don't worry, this isn't going to be another one of those posts where I bitch and complain about all of the reasons I'm dissatisfied with my life.

Maybe I just work too much. Maybe it's the fact that my jobs require me to occasionally pretend in order to do good work. Maybe I don't get out enough. Maybe I'm too isolated here. Maybe it's a combination of all of them.

I guess the moral of this story is that if you see me, please don't ask me how I am.

I don't want to have to lie to you.

Dear Mom,

This is one of those moments when I try to put into words the things that are going on my heart, and I fail desperately. Some things are just felt and not explained, but I'll do my best.

When I think about what my life would be like if you weren't in it, I start to panic a little. You know how I get. Rabid imagination and anxiety isn't exactly the greatest combination of personality traits to have. But I'm getting distracted. Because the point is, you're the greatest mom ever, because of a bajillion reasons. Life without you would be terrible.

• Because of your awesome hairstyle that is 100% cooler than mine. No lie.

• Because of your superior interior decorating. Seriously, you've got skills.

• How you always let me cuddle with you, even though I'm not little anymore.

• The way you can always talk me down from the ledge. (Figurative ledge guys, don't worry.)

• The way you're always there to talk me down from the ledge. 

• The way I can call you at 10 o'clock at night and you'll sit and listen to me cry on the phone, just because I need my mommy.

• How you've been the voice of reason for me so many times.

• How you told me it was okay that I didn't have a plan for my life, that most people don't.

• How you managed to turn me into a well-adjusted, not-very-screwed-up adult, despite being a . . . high maintenance child.

I could keep listing things. I could probably fill a book with all of the reasons why I love you. And I'm sure you would read the whole thing, too.

But what all of this adds up to, is that you're the best mom anyone could ever ask for.

The words "I love you" just seem lame. Because I don't just love you. I don't have a word for it. But I'll say it anyway.

I love you, Mom.

I'm Fine.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to work all day.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to sell people coffee and ladies' underwear with a smile on my face, as if nothing's wrong, as if the pain my heart isn't trying to kill me.

But it is wrong. Everything feels wrong.

Tomorrow all I really want to do is stay in bed and sleep. But I can't. I can't just not show up to my jobs because my Papa's been gone for a whole entire year and I'm sad and I want to cry and scream and yell at God and everyone else because I miss him and because it hurts.

Because it hurts.

If only it worked like that.

If only we could call in to work or school and say, "I can't come in today. My heart hurts too badly." And they would reply, "Oh, I completely understand. Take the day off, come back when your heart hurts less."

Because they would understand that when your heart has this much pain inside it can be debilitating, crippling, and they would also understand that sometimes it's not a matter of the pain going away, just hurting less.

But the world doesn't work like that.

When the pain we're holding in threatens to undo us, the world doesn't often care much. "Work anyway," it says. "Pretend everything is fine," it says.

So I suppose that's what I'll have to do. Pretend it's fine.

Pretend I'm fine.

Open Wounds

This week marks one whole year since my grandfather went home to heaven. I wrote this post right after it happened.

One year, twelve whole months.

And it still hurts just like it was yesterday.

I can't make my heart understand that heaven is the goal, heaven is home, that Papa is finally there with his Savior.

I'll confess that I'm still a little angry with God for taking him away from me.

I've never lost someone this close to me, so please. Tell me.

When does it get easier?

A year later, and it isn't any easier than it used to be. I keep wondering when that sudden, crippling pain will cease to grab hold of my heart, that pain which only lets up once I have sat down and had a good cry.

 I want be able to rejoice in the knowledge that I'll see him again. I want to be at peace, and not be selfish.

But all I do is miss him, and all I want is to have him back.

It's been a year, and this wound on my heart hasn't healed at all.