(Time to face the mirror)
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Recently, I realized I’m not perfect. I know thousands of you will argue with that judgment, but I’m afraid it’s true.

The bitter truth hit me during a dull but revealing moment in-between not doing something I should have been doing, and doing something I knew I shouldn’t be doing. Don’t ask.

I don’t know if it’s possible to have pet peeves about yourself, but that’s what this discovery feels like. I do stuff that irritates me. A chink in your armor. A growing list of I can’t believe I said / did / thought / bought that moments.

Sometimes I just don’t impress myself.

Witness…

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I’ll pay sacks of money for my car’s stereo, but won’t spring for a tire gauge.

For much of my adult life, I’ve automatically distrusted business people who wear plaid.

I chafe at chores like vacuuming, but have no problem finding the time to watch The Lord of the Rings. Again.

I never remember who got what for Christmas last year. So I created a list. Now I can’t remember where I put the list.

I always forget to put my trash bin at the curb on Trash Day, and then end up sprinting it up the driveway when I hear the truck.

I sometimes forget to check facebook, and then spend the rest of the day depressed because I don’t know what everybody’s having for dinner.

I never forget to tip, mostly because sometime over the last several years, all the waitresses became bigger than me.

I’m collectively embarrassed by the things people post on facebook … and I Never. Miss. A. Day.

Despite years of evidence, I sometimes pretend that this late-night pizza won’t destroy my digestive organs.

It’s not possible for me to eat at a public buffet, because I can’t get past the phrase “sneeze guard.”

I want to help people, but not in person. I want to write a check. I want to pay somebody else to do the helping. I want to help from a plane.

I think there should be a law, setting a cap on how many medical masks Nancy Pelosi can own. But let’s not set any limits on their size. Yes, that’s a hard statement to make, but that’s a hard face to face.

My two favorite songs were performed by Ella Fitzgerald and Patsy Cline (not at the same time).

I am the owner of … and often, owned by … a monstrous Single Guy Rationalization Engine. For example, I own several guitars, just in case a roving troupe of ten-armed musicians shows up.

Typos drive me crazy. Once, a coworker typed “I did the account from scratch, and walla!”. I almost quit.

I refuse to recognize the word futbol until somebody correctly spells Colin Kaepernick.

I have eyebrow dandruff. I’m not sure what purpose it servers. When I get to Heaven, that’ll be my second question, right after, “Over there at the omelet bar. Is that Buddha?”

I once went six weeks without dating. For eleven years.

I rarely have the chance to consume a carton of milk before the expiration date. I end up dipping unusual foods in milk, flossing for no reason, or rounding up the neighborhood cats.

I can’t hear the sound of a didgeridoo without thinking of Al Gore giving a speech.

I used to work with a guy who had history’s most irritating laugh. When he’d get started, I’d have to leave the room. As someone who writes a humor column, do you realize how confused that made me?

I have moving boxes in closets that are still taped up from three and four moves ago. Nope. No idea.

I find myself saying “thank you” to Amazon’s Alexa. I blame my parents.

I leave my (manufactured) Christmas tree up all year. Some people find it strange, but that’s okay – it confuses the crap out of kids on Halloween.

I’ve been fired exactly once in my life. I was posting anecdotes on Facebook about a made-up character I’d named Turbeaux the Bipolar Dwarf, and my boss assumed I was talking about him and showed me to the door. He was correct, of course, but I learned the hard way that bipolar dwarves can be very thin-skinned.

I paid good, hard-earned cash for a high-definition Blu-ray copy of Star Wars, a movie that was made thirty-five years before high-definition Blu-ray was invented.

Occasionally, I’ll see a tasty-looking recipe and run out to buy three pounds of chicken, forgetting that there’s nobody to eat three pounds of chicken but me.

I’m convinced that Saturday Night Live stopped being funny at the same time that Al Gore (unintentionally) started being funny. Someone should look into this.

Sometimes, I’ll eat the same thing for days (especially after buying three pounds of chicken) … but then still can’t figure out why I’m still single.

Usually, I tell the truth. Not because I’m special, but because you don’t have to remember the truth. Lying is hard work.

I’m still surprised when politicians tell the truth, or I will be, if one ever does.

Sometimes, when playing Scrabble online with someone I’ve never met, I’ll take it personally when they play a word like UGLY or STUPID.

I can recall every word from songs that were popular fifty years ago, but I stand, confused, inside the doors at Home Depot because I can’t remember what I need from Home Depot.

I once bought two refillable candle lighters.

Think about that.