I’m in a school cafeteria for Cub Scouts. The kids are pretending their chairs are rockets, and it’s loud. I close my eyes and realize it’s not the noise that’s hate-worthy (although it’s close), it’s the smell.
Kenya texts that she needs three more things, and I text back about school cafeteria smells, thinking I can use this for this week’s Finish the Sentence Friday Listicle. It’s 10 things I hate more than anything.
We’d texted the day before and I’d asked whether she’d written. I thought about telling our Facebook group “OOPS sorry this is a stupid prompt.”
Kenya said “You kinda have to be in a cranky mood,” which I shared with the Facebook group, and a few of them were all “I’m in. I’m cranky.”
I had my only hate thing – the cafeteria.
She always starts these prompts earlier than I do. I don’t hate that though. It is what it is. We all work differently.
These are the 10 things I hate more than anything, and here’s why.
See above) The smell in school cafeterias (and gyms). It’s a combination of garbage, cleaning supplies, and kid juice. Gross.
Years ago, I was relieved to get my period. These days, I have adenomyosis (yup that’s spelled correctly), and am trying some alternatives to surgery but suspect surgery will win in the long run.
It’s safe to say I hate my period. It’s become a sentence.
One-sided conversations. You know how you can have an entire 20-minute long conversation with somebody, and walk away thinking that they didn’t ask how you are?
Or, if they did, they didn’t listen to any of it because they were too busy telling you about how great or horrible life is for them?
It’s safe to say I hate that. I walk away feeling used and unworthy.
I spent my 12th summer with my Grandmother. She loved beets.
It was impossible for her to believe there are people in the world who don’t love them.
I said “I’m sorry, but I don’t like beets,” she made me try them all her ways.
I tried them with butter.
I tried them with sugar.
I tried them grilled.
I tried them pickled.
None of the ways they’re prepared took away the fact that the beet flavor never went away, and it’s the flavor of beets that I hate.
I like butter. I like sugar. I like grilled things. I like pickled things.
But when that thing is a beet? Puke. I hate beets.
In some ways, I’m really shy. It’s weird, because people who know me never believe this.
I advocate hard for my son, share my opinion without caring whether it’s popular or not. I speak out it when it’s cringe-worthy but important, and am always willing to discuss issues. Admit when I’m wrong.
But mostly, I’m shy, and a pleaser. Because of that, I hate fake people.
You know them. They’re at the playground. At your kids’ sporting events.
The ones that are all like “Hey girl! How ARE you?” and then don’t wait for you to answer.
Or, you answer, and they tell your business to another friend.
Judgmental people. ‘Nuff said there. Don’t judge anybody.
You never know what’s going on with another person’s story.
Except, crap. Judge people who hate other people without reason. Those people suck.
Why are we doing a list of things we hate? I’m not cranky. I’m feeling great.
Good news today. Sunshine.
Ugh, why did we think of this? I kinda hate making a list of things I hate right now, but I can’t use that. It’s too stupid.
“I need to get cranky. I’ll make dinner and think about it.”
Gets up to make dinner… and…
Makes fish and watches as it completely falls apart. Totally and completely.
What began as three nice filets became 400 little nugget things in the pan.
Robert and Tucker liked it but still, I hate when I try to make a nice dinner and it falls apart, literally or figuratively.
I hate how much clutter I keep. I have toys that Tucker hasn’t played with since he was three, and yet, I remember his glee in dumping things into a garbage truck on the breakfast bar.
I can almost see littler-him.
Hear his whooshing noises.
The clatter of toy cars and planes falling into the bed of the garbage truck.
A dump truck. They were our party-bags from his first birthday party.
This is our clutter. I tell myself that the memories will stay if I donate the trucks, but I wonder.
Just seeing them makes me smile.
I hate that so many unplayed toys with still do.
I think about the ending of Toy Story 3, and how I cried when Andy showed the little girl how to play with his favorites.
Not. There. Yet.
Hate it anyway.
And, 1. The number one thing I hate more than anything is the voice in my head.
I’m too old.
I’m too fat.
I’ll die too young.
I’m not enough.
The perfect pitch of my son’s voice cracks through. At last night’s book fair, he wanted to use his money to get a spy pen.
It’s one of those pens that writes clear, and you can only see the text when using a black light.
He brought me a blank piece of paper. Asked what I saw.
I studied it.
“Nothing? I asked.
And he lit it up with the black light.
I read “I love you.”
Those mean voices in my head shut the heck up. Not much better in life than a not-so-little-little boy writing his mom a secret note with a spy pen saying “I love you.”
This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post, with my amazing co-host, Kenya G. Johnson of Sporadically Yours.