For all of my insistence that people are people deep down, there are definitely ways humans can be categorized.  Meat eaters, vegetarians, and vegans.  People who need decent sleep to function and those who do just fine on five hours a night.  Couch potatoes, recreational sports participants, moderate gym enthusiasts, and hard core dedicated athletes.

We move between phases, often more than once, throughout our lives and it’s all cool.  Be who you are and all that jazz.

But there’s one category that’s singularly different: preferred living environments.  There are people who are indisputable loners.  They don’t just enjoy their alone time; they require it.  The thought of sharing their living space with another human being is, shall we say, oppressive. Then you’ve got people people.  Sure, they might need alone time, but overall they enjoy living with others.  Company for meals, companions for watching tv, people who care about their day and provide emotional support.  Living alone is more akin to a prison sentence for those folks.

But even people people have their moments.  Times when they’re abruptly reminded that they do indeed share their living space with other human beings, and sharing space comes with surprises.  Surprises that don’t typically resemble Hallmark moments.

Moments like these.

That time on a Saturday morning when you startle awake to your hubby loudly exclaiming, “It’s 10:20! What are you still doing in bed?!” and you’re mumbling that you hadn’t set an alarm because you were going to sleep as long as your body wanted to.  [blink, blink]  Which is apparently right now because obviously you won’t be getting back to sleep after Fight or Flight has kicked in.

When you daydream about putting the kids to bed and enjoying a beer with the last snack pack of Doritos from the lake trip only to find at 9:00pm a large yet entirely empty box that held (at one time) 40 individual snack bags.  No Doritos.  No Fritos.  No potato chips.  Nothing.  Ouch.

When you open the kitchen drawer to grab a Sharpie only to find the bag is missing.  (Hey!  Who took the Sharpies?  “Oh, I was using them to draw.”  And….?)  Or pull open the desk drawer where the three hole punch is conspicuously absent.  (Hey!  Where’s the three hole punch?  “Oh, I was using that for my artwork.”  AND….?)  Or open the pantry to grab a power bar only to see that every shelf is a jumble of uneaten items carelessly tossed back from children’s lunches.  For the love of all things holy, people, PUT STUFF BACK.

When you go to get a spoon only to find that particular silverware section empty (although there’s an abundance of knives), then turn to find a dishwasher crammed with dirty dishes because no one ran it.  Apparently an unwritten rule states that only the oldest female in the home can make the decision to add dishwasher detergent and hit start.

That time you were sure you hid the evidence of your late night snack so you wouldn’t have to face small people outraged over you getting The Good Stuff.  Except you didn’t count on the trash shifting slightly in the can or your daughter’s eagle eye vision that spots the very corner of a taco wrapper and confronts you for EATING THAT WITHOUT ME.  Even though she was sleeping at the time of said consumption. Apparently I am supposed to wake her if we run to the Bell.

When it’s perfect napping weather – perfect! – but every two-legged creature under the roof conspires against you.  One is feeling super productive and plans to tackle all overdue household projects by 5:00pm.  Another splits her time between watching inanely girly Netflix shows (hello, Mako Mermaids) at an annoying volume and slamming the garage door as she heads to her friend’s house.  The third is either plugged quietly into his iPad (phew) or playing loudly outside, often near a window, calling out alarming phrases like “Hey, check THIS out!” or “It’s just a little blood.”  Napping is futile.


Overall I’m a people person.  I figure I must be or living in this sort of madness would have lit the fuse long ago.  Even so, people person or not…finding out that the last few bites of ice cream hidden in the back of the freezer are gone?  Not cool, man.  Not cool.