August 2007

Pet Peeves

Author: P Venus

I never thought I was the type of person who had “pet peeves,” so to speak. Admittedly, I do tend to rant and rave about stupid people, but who could blame me for that? But then I had a week—a really bad week—the kind of week when it seems like a bird called karma, kept crapping on my head.

It all started on Sunday when my husband and I went to the grocery store to pick up some things for dinner. We grabbed everything on our list and got in line at the self-check aisle in record time. It was then that we realized we were in trouble. Only one machine was working, and a man who was having a “senior moment” now occupied it. He looked as if it was speaking to him in another language. I am not one to be discriminatory when it comes to age, but this is just one thing that makes me crazy. If you can’t operate a remote control without hesitation, you should stay away from these machines. Let a nice human being check you out.

A couple of days later, we decided to treat ourselves to a movie, which is one of our favorite things to do together. We got our tickets and our snacks early so that we could grab a seat in one of the back rows. I’m the type of person who strongly believes in personal space when it comes to movies. So naturally, with my week already starting out with such a bang, I should not have been surprised when a couple with a very young baby came in and found available seats right behind us. When they give a movie an “R” rating, not only should the little rugrats (who are clearly under 18 and chatting on their cell phones) be excluded from the movie, but also crying babies. Parents, please, I beg you. When you fork over the $40 for a night out at the movies, shell out the extra $40 for a babysitter so I can actually enjoy the movie.

To calm me down after that experience, my husband took me to one of the local bars for a nightcap. Here was the last straw to break my nerves. I was literally surrounded by pet peeves. There were more cell phones than people, who were sipping their martinis while having self-important conversations loud enough to be heard outside of the bar. Then I noticed an overwhelming number of women in the bar, well past their prime, and yet trying to hold on to their youth with a death grip. Ladies, there is just a time when you should put away the mini-skirts and the spiked heels, cover up all those sagging places, and leave the twenty-five-year-old boys alone.

As I sit in this quiet little corner of the bookstore, collecting my thoughts and putting together a growing list of even more things that get under my skin, I am passed by a woman who is followed by a cloud of perfume that reminds me of the cloud of dirt that follows Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoon. This is too easy. Choking, I add Pet Peeve number sixty-nine to my list. All right, so a have a few pet peeves. It’s just a few, though. Nobody’s perfect.

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