disclose 43 dirty little secrets about myself

that I throw up.

It’s usually over something stupid.

but I can’t stand my dog.

...but in certain circles, I have no problem farting out loud.

I dropped a dollar on the sidewalk, because there were little kids walking about a half-block behind me and I wanted them to have a good day, at least for a minute.

...or really bad, depending on where you were standing.

I took the girls to the pool at the club, and we had a delightful afternoon of swimming and splashing and frolicking in the sun. Tra la la la la la.

In the locker room, The Who decided that she needed a nap immediately, if not sooner. The meltdown was nigh. In an effort to leave the club in an expeditious manner, I chose not to change into my street clothes, but to tie my sarong around my waist and high-tail it outta the club in my suit.

On the way home, I noticed that my gas tank was frighteningly low, so I stopped at the gas station. In my sarong. As I began to pump my gas, the chump at the pump next to me said something to the effect of, “What’s a pretty girl like you doing going to the beach, when a guy like me’s gotta work?” Nice try, buddy.

I gave him a pitious “Yeah, yeah” half grin, half grimmace, and went about my pumping. Or I meant to.

But at that very precise moment the clouds parted, and God peeked through and said, “I HATE you, Kate! Nyah, nyah!”. And the wind blew. And it blew my sarong off of my body, and carried it away like a rather expensive kite. Garrrrrr.

So there I stood, wearing nothing but my little black bathing suit, at the gas pump, trying not to make eye contact with Chumps McGee.

Needless to say, I only put in a couple of gallons after that.

I want my sarong back.

I grew up in a home where making a mistake meant being screamed at.

To this day, I’m TERRIFIED of that response. I’m FINALLY starting to learn that everyone makes mistakes, and they’re still quality people.

For too many years, I kept everything that may have been considered “imperfect” about me a secret. I spend too much time preserving the illusion that I’m always fine, no matter what, just to keep from finding out what people would think of me if they knew I’m not always careful enough with my finances (gasp!), or sometimes I eat too much crap (gasp again!!!) or that I’m not a perfect housekeeper (OH MY GOD!!!!!).

It’s silly how painful little stupid stuff becomes because of my secrecy about it.

And it’s all because I’m afraid people won’t think I’m good enough as an imperfect human being. It’s ‘cause I don’t want the proverbial screaming lecture.

I’m so ready to be done with this. I just want to live my mistakes out in the open, where maybe they won’t be such a big deal.

wear underwear.

Backstory: My husband is allergic to cats. Very, very allergic.
I love them, but cannot have one.

The main plot: My mother has a very, very old dog, and she wanted to get a puppy to add some youth to his life. She did not, however, want to potty train another dog, or have to walk it, etc.

My mother does not particularly like cats. So when a litter of really really really really cute wittle kitties showed up at the local pet store, I had to spin it like this:

“Hey Mom, you could get a KITTEN for the dog, which would add that vitality that you’ve been looking to give him, plus you’d still be free to go on vacations and you wouldn’t have to walk him eight times a day!”

So I brought her into the pet store with my kids in tow…(“Get it, Mema…? PLEEEEASE?”

Mom thinks she’s a happy cat owner. What she doesn’t realize is that, for all practical purposes, she bought ME a cat…

Bwahahahahahahaha!

I am generally fairly laidback. It’s hard to convince me to get upset…UNLESS you’re my husband, and you forget to kiss me goodnight.

I’m still a little grumbly, ‘cause I didn’t get “tucked in” last night. Am I an uber-bitch?