I hate large pieces of lettuce. Like in a salad, especially one in a restaurant. I hate hate hate huge chunks that I can’t fit into my mouth without slathering my cheeks and chin with dressing. I also don’t like trying to cut the lettuce with my fork. What a joke. Whenever I get one of those bagged salad mixes, I tear up the lettuces until they are bite sized. And the ones that are a big lump, I break those up too.

I hate picking things up from the floor. I hate bending over. It hurts, and I always have to rearrange my clothing afterward. And sometimes there’s no point to it, anyway, since the clean floor is a magnet for random items to fling themselves off their tidy resting place. I straightened Kiki’s room this morning. It has had the same collection of about 10 toys, a couple articles of clothing, and a hundred or so baby wipes (her current favorite plaything, called “dah-buh”), and a few books on the floor for a week or so. Seriously, they all remained there for days, without getting shifted, moved, or played with. The instant Kiki came into her newly tidy room, she went for the toys and emptied them back onto the floor. She grabbed just a few books, read a couple of pages of each, and dumped them. Etc. Etc. Etc. She is currently down for a nap, but I expect that upon waking, she will head for the dresser to empty the drawers.

I hate talking politics. Unless it’s with someone who agrees with me and doesn’t think I’m insane or retarded. I hate some of the things going on right now, but I’m sure as heck not going to elaborate on them.

I hate wearing clothes. I’m not going to elaborate on that one, either.

I hate being dirty. I nearly have an aneurysm every time I’m cleaning up a child after dinner, and those grimy hands reach out before I have a chance to attack them with a washcloth, and they smear me with the mixed contents of our meal. Including sauces and drinks, since I have at least two chemists included among my progeny. Both of said chemists are expert in the art of “spreading.”

I hate it when my feet are cold. Which is always. If the air conditioning is on, and is set to anything lower than 78, my feet are frozen. If the indoor temperature is 85, then my feet are fine. In the winter, when the indoor temperature is 60, I use my bean-filled socks several times a day. I microwave them for a couple of minutes, then stick my feet in a cocoon of blanket with the hot packs, and remain until they are warm. This is more convenient than using a tub of hot water, trust me.

I hate water parks. I like water slides, and I like swimming, but water parks make me weary.

I hate cable TV.

I hate road trips. I hate being in a car for long periods of time, especially when there are crazy chickens in the back seat.

I hate how every single time I have ever attempted to type the word “especially,” it has come out “expecially.” I have no explanation for that. I don’t pronounce it that way, heaven forbid. But maybe as a penance for ever judging someone who did pronounce it that way, I am doomed to repeat my typo for eternity, sitting in between the first and second levels of purgatory. Hopefully I won’t go any deeper than that, eh? Or maybe I really will have to suffer the eternities in the river Styx, since judging people for their pronunciation pretty much counts as cruel and vindictive. Oh crap.

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