My Bad

Apple pancakes: 2 eggs, 1.5 cups milk, 2 cups flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder, a pinch of salt, ¼ cup of sugar, 3 grated Granny Smith apples, 1 Tablespoon cinnamon, a pinch of nutmeg, and about half a teaspoon of vanilla. Mix all ingredients and fry on low to medium heat. I found that I had to pat these down quite a bit or the center wouldn't cook properly.

I thought I’d pick up today where I left off yesterday, when I talked about nobody being perfect. I think most of us are terribly aware of our own imperfections. I know I am. I blush a little just thinking how out in the open all my personality “quirks” are.

Without doubt, my biggest fault is being impatient. This was sort of fine until my son was born, and I discovered that there are others out there who can and will put a brake on how fast and efficient I believe things should run. And that these “others” are babies in diapers. Good Lord! Fast forward seven years and it’s safe to say I still have my “moments”, where I feel I’m about to explode because things cannot happen the way I want/need them to happen now.

I don’t suffer fools very easily. This of course is tied to my general lack of patience. I dump my discontent on my husband when he comes home. I sit and stew over something and then – boom! – as I hear his keys in the door, I unload before he’s even had the time to remove his jacket.

“Imagine! So-and-so doesn’t know where Europe is located!”

“You won’t believe the woman at the bank, she took foreverrr!”

“Wait until I tell you what X let her kid get away with. The audacity!”

I have tried many times to put a lid on this. It’s very ugly.

Another baddie of mine is that I wear my heart on my sleeve. This is probably residual from my acting days, where I was told to not be embarrassed of my emotions. A friend of mine, whom I hadn’t met in many, many years, revealed to me that her son (who looks exactly like her) is in fact adopted from Russia. She shared her adoption story with me and I nearly broke down in tears over my sandwich. I’m very emotional. I often cry in church. Actually, I can work myself into tears just walking down the street.

I have severe time management issues. In Sweden, people are very punctual, and I used to be, too, but here in the States I’ve let myself go completely and I am now a veritable time slob. I fiddle around until the very last minute, at which I bolt through the door.

I can spend an inordinate amount of time reading or thinking. I am a thinky kind of person. This may sound good on paper, but in reality it translates to a sink full of dishes and a mountain of laundry. This may be filed under “Irresponsible” and “Negligent”. I may be agile mentally but when it comes to common chores, I’m horrible.

But my absolute worst fault is that I might secretly like my character flaws. This isn’t easy to admit, and the thought is so novel and kind of shocking that I am not sure I will (dare to) agree with it in the long run. But isn’t that why we don’t change more? We make excuses for our faults; we even cover them up as good personality traits. As if impatience were a sign of being smart or showing your emotions openly made you a more empathetic person.

This leads me to dispel of some faults I know I am not in possession of. Just to make myself feel a tiny bit better. I’m not vain; I am not a high-maintenance kind of woman. When I was younger I slept, penniless, in the most despicable rooms in the lousiest of hostels. I could do the same today. It doesn’t bother me. I’d rather die of food poisoning than complain in a restaurant. I have very little interest in money. I am not capricious nor am I envious.

Hopefully somehow, the good makes up for the bad.