Monday, February 28, 2011

People treating me like I'm stupid

I think the title of this peeve says it all.  In fact, I'm not sure if I can go much deeper than that, but I will put in my greatest effort to try to describe in detail what I mean.
Let me start by saying - I am no genius.  But, I would like to immediately counter that with - I am no idiot, either.  My grandma used to say, "You can call me ugly.  You can call me stupid.  But, just don't call me late to dinner."  I concur, but I would like to alter this bit of wisdom to say, "Don't call me stupid."  Or, at least don't treat me like I'm stupid.
You know you're being treated like a jerk when someone begins to speak in a condescending tone (this can be done just as easily in an e-mail or other form of communication.)  Alerts that it is happening:  meticulous, slow talking to the point of the ridiculous, tilting of the head in one direction, putting a question mark at the end of every sentence.
I used to work with a girl who always smelled a little like cheese, had a suspiciously invisible "fiance", and claimed to never pass gas unless she was seated on a toilet (something about particulates - but trust me, she didn't look that particular).  Anyway, because she was on the job before my arrival, she liked to drop knowledge that you may have picked up in the womb and quickly follow it up with a question of concern about whether you could have possibly understood.  Oh, I understood.  And I wonder if she ever understood that I wanted to crush her like a boiled egg.   

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Unsuitable Alcoholic Beverages

Have you ever been to a fast-food-ish restaurant chain like Chipotle or Noodles, saw the display cooler of alcoholic beverages behind the counter, and wondered to yourself, "Who in the heck gets a glass of Merlot to accompany their five dollar bowl of noodles, ordered at the counter and eaten in a McDonald's-esque atmosphere?"  (Unfortunately, this question was actually answered for me once by my husband, who boldly ordered a beer at Noodles...but that's a story for another time.)
The peeve here is that the beverage is misplaced, it is an alien in a world that should be inhabited by sodas and ice teas.  The parallel peeve of the unsuitable alcoholic beverage is the drink that has landed in a restaurant of the wrong continent.  No one should be allowed to order a strawberry daiquiri at an Italian pizza joint.  Keep it to the swim-up bar at the pool, people.  Or margaritas at a rustic ski lodge.  No!  Pina Coladas and hamburgers; Mulled wine and cucumber tea sandwiches; Sake and croissants...You get the idea.
You can take the drink out of the bar, but you can't (or you shouldn't) put it in a fast food joint or in a world where it has no visa and no passport.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

The Uncoolness of Marriage

When did it become a symbol of ultimate coolness to not get married?  I'm not talking about staying single and not getting married, I'm talking about having a "significant other" and not marrying them.  This arrangement is all fine and dandy with me - however you want to set up your household is no one else's bees wax in my opinion.
But, and this is a big but, why do people like Goldie Hawn get a standing ovation on Oprah for not marrying their "life partner"?  Why is this so commendable?  I don't get it.  It's like getting a standing ovation for renting a house instead of buying one...either way, you've got a place a live, have similar responsibilities, renting just must work better for you.
So why does non-marriage encourage responses like "good for you" and "that's awesome."  What is awesome about it?  Does the awesomeness come from the idea that you are more in love because you never let "the man" determine your relationship status? (I'm not sure if the man is God, the marriage licence office employee, society in general, a church, Justice of the Peace, or who - this is treading into waters that are a little too murky for me)  Or does the awesomeness come from the idea that you love each other less - you're free to fly the coop whenever, etc?  I'm not sure.  I am literally bewildered by what makes not getting married to your "partner", "lover", or "friend" cool.   
P.S. I bet that if Goldie decided to finally tie the knot with Kurt Russell and announced it on Oprah this week, she would get a standing ovation for that. 

Friday, February 25, 2011

Cartoon Tattoos

I am a closet fan of the tattoo.  My general appearance would not likely indicate this.  I don't have any tattoos and, as I'm not getting in younger or getting skin that is adhering any closer to my body, I likely never will.  However, I can really appreciate a good tattoo.  Not like the rose inside a heart kind of tattoo, but like an exquisite sleeve of natural what-nots or the all-out glory of Chris Anderson's neck (please see photo below). 
Having established that, however, I would like to get down to the peeve of it all.  It's not the tattoo; it is a certain type or genre of tattoo...the cartoon tattoo.  To me, if you are going to permanently imprint something on your body, it should be something eternally meaningful to you in a deep "this is as much a part of me as my belly button" type of way.  Or, at the very least, it should be a "look at this magnificent piece of artwork, I deemed it worthy to be on my forearm."  Or, I'll even go for "this is so funny, I just had to do it." 
I just don't see a cartoon character ever living up to any of these requirements. The Tasmanian Devil should really never find himself whirling across your abdomen. (I do get the idea - you're such an awesome, crazy dare devil yourself that you just had to lacquer this tornado of a guy onto your body), but really.  Yosemite Sam?  (Oh, of course, you're a real gun-slinger).  Awesome.  The tramp-stamp Betty Boop tattoo?  This is a real zinger that brings together two of my pet peeves - cartoon tats and trying to be "sexy" in such a frightening way.
I say keep the cartoon characters of off your pecs, lower back, your flexed guns, and anywhere else that you might want to slap one on. 


Thursday, February 24, 2011

My husband's pet peeves

Seriously.  I labor and sweat over my daily peeve entry and my husband drops out a couple of measly peeves and not one, but both of his pet peeve entries are monopolizing the top two positions of my most popular posts!?  What an atrocity.  How embarrassing.  I feel like the girl at the school dance that never gets asked to dance, but whose best friend (aka my husband) is getting their keds danced right off of them.
Any volunteers for guest posting?  I can nearly guarantee you a spot in the top five posts of all time...and I like to read other people's pet peeves.  What do you say? 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

If you could, you should

(Side note - Mr. W would like to dedicate this peeve to his mother-in-law and Seth Chapin.)

How often does someone say to you, “I could care less”?  For me it’s pretty often.  I see it in interviews, in newspapers, magazines, and hear it from coworkers, friends, and acquaintances on a regular basis.  Perhaps I’m just nitpicking, but the same question always pops into my head. If you could care less why don’t you? 
Also, why do you think I care that you could care less?  By all means, care less!  We live in America; we are free to care as little as we want! 
How much less could you care?  A lot less?  Just a little less?  If you could care less, could you also care more?  Are you simply on the fence?  Not sure whether to care more or care less, but you know that you can, and you want others to know as well?  I guess that would make sense….Sort of.
Why do you want me to know that you could care less?  Is it to show me your strength? “I could care less, but I’m not going to because that would mean that I’m giving in to caring less.”  I promise not to judge you for caring less.  I WANT YOU TO CARE LESS IF YOU COULD CARE LESS! 
On the other hand, if you couldn’t care less I would immediately understand.  You care so little about something that you couldn’t care any less than you already do (See Chart).  Got it.  That’s perfectly clear.  Thanks for sharing. 
I could care less about this peeve, but I don’t want to because I find it particularly annoying. 
On the other hand, I couldn’t care less if you are one of the offenders, and you think my peeve is stupid and pointless.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The sneaky public gas

Just tonight I was affronted by this pet peeve.  As I treaded innocently away on a treadmill someone in my immediate vicinity slipped in the old "oh, no one will no it was me" bomb that could have cleared out a shopping mall.  Of course you're stuck - rancid gases are filling your noise and you can look viciously this way and that, but there is no escape and truly no retaliation.  Ultimately you can't say for certain who opened up the old gas lines, but you would like to give them a piece of your mind.
Health clubs are notorious for this type of crop dusting.  As are airplanes (the one place where you really have no escape and no clear answer on who cut the brie).  This type air biscuit is nearly unforgivable.  A stranger asking you to pull their finger is more pardonable - at least it is an honest transaction.
Somehow this sinister and silent gas is always of the foulest and most putrid character.  And it often seems to come from the most innocent looking offenders.  Tonight the women next to me, and most likely the loaded gun, was in a sleek Nike get-up with toned abs and a full face of make-up.  The toned abs make it even worse - you know she had the capabilities to hold it if she wanted to.  For God's sake, stop the treadmill if you have to.  Someone with a pacemaker could have been put down by that rotten egg.  Clench a muscle - I beg you!  

Monday, February 21, 2011


That's right, I am saying that one of my pet peeves is breasts.  Boobs.  Ta-tas.  Hooters.  Whatever.  Specifically, it is people's obsession with the boob that is peevable.  Why are they such a big deal?  Why do women actually pay to have them become bigger(at times ridiculously so, in a beetlejuice/nightmare before christmas type of way)?  Why are they the determiner of who gets on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue or who gets into a party?
These are glandular organs, people.  They provide food for small humans.  They are essentially a functioning fat roll with a divide down the middle. 
It bugs me that there is such a mystique and intrigue surrounding boobs.  They make clothes harder to wear and cause back problems for many women.  Ironically, men have them too, just in a slightly miniaturized form.  Yet many a man is willing to actually buy a woman a set of melons.  Can you imagine?  Offering another person an enhancement on a body part (because obviously yours is not good enough) and then the accepting of said offer!  I say, take those jugs and stuff 'um, buddy.


Sunday, February 20, 2011

BO as Coolness

Body Odor is something that most of us take measures to prevent, eliminate, avoid, etc.  Modern science has assisted with this process through the invention of such products as anti-perspirant, deodorant, and good old soap. 
There are those, however, that seem to relish and glory in the scent of their BO.  It is no accident when that guy jamming in the drum circle (please note - separate pet peeve) smells like a ripe, cumin-filled burrito.  It is his badge of coolness.  Somehow, somewhere the notion was developed that BO is part of the cool-guy, "no worries" (see January 24th), sweet jams, micro-brewed persona.
Why is this misconception been allowed to continue?  And why, for the Lord's own sake, do women continue to consort with men that smell like this?  Are you really buying into the idea that his body odor makes him cooler?  Contraire, mon fraire. 
Cool guy - clean it up.  No one wants to smell spice that old.  And chick that insists on hooking up with this guy - Wake up and smell the rancid onions.  There are other fish in the sea (that don't smell like a sardine.)

Fake Plants

I'm going to have to double down on pet peeves today, because somehow I managed to miss yesterday's peeve.  I had every intention of sharing a peeve, but somehow I came to be in control of the remote last night and watched a continuous, flowing stream of old movies...Gigi (starring Leslie Caron) which led into Murphy's Romance (which I watched nearly in its entirety) which eased into the finale of Kindergarten Cop (always a classic) only to watch the victorious conclusion of the Lord of the Rings.  Needless to say, it was after midnight and I was out of steam. we will have two pet peeves.

The first is fake plants.  I do not understand their popularity; why there are thousands of artificial ivies dangling from above the cabinets of suburban kitchens, why interior designers feel the need to stuff dust-catching fake palms in living room corners, and why (worst of all) grandmothers all over feel a need to fill their window boxes with daffodils that eternally bloom into November.
Plants are alive.  You just can't fake living things.  It's like stuffing your dog after he has passed through the pearly dog-gates.  Does it really feel like he is still with you when you look over at his stiff, little eternal pose?  No.  And the plants are not with you either.  Fake plants are the horticultural equivalent of living in a human wax museum.  Imagine waking up to the wax likeness of Madonna sitting at your kitchen table.  As much as you might like to share coffee with the material girl, there shouldn't be an artificial living thing in your home.
Worse yet is the outdoor fake plant.  When the blue-green of a cloth or plastic leaf is allowed to contrast against the natural color of plants growing out of doors, things have really gone too far.  This is like giving the bird to Mother Nature.  Better to go naked in those front planters than to add a lively grouping of faux blooms.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Thursday, February 17, 2011

The Pinch

This pet peeve is going retro.  A flashback to a childhood peeve that recently, unexpectedly, reared its ugly head again.  I'm talking about the pinch.  The nitty, gritty, use all of your finger strength and maybe even a bit of your nail kind of pinch.  Do you remember being subjected to any of these in the innocence of your youth?  The pinch can give the wedgie, the flick, and the famous "Indian" burn a run for their money.
And trust me, I would know.  I had a close childhood friendship with a young lady that actually had a pinch named after her.  And she was not afraid to use it.  The most amazing thing about this pinch was that such small digits could actually exert that much force onto another human body with so little effort.  The results, which often included the drawing of blood, should have left the likes of Andre the Giant needing to take a seat.  But no, she was just onto the next thing as if nothing had happened.  Anyone else who ever experienced this pinch will recognize it as the famous (in some circles) Kaija Pinch.
But I digress.  I do have a reason for dredging up all of this ancient peevory.  This week, as I sat with a group of six and seven year old students, while one claimed my attention, another one reached over and pinched me.  Yes, the old thumb and forefinger squeeze right on  my very adult hand.  And then the realization that I despise the pinch came rushing back to me.  And I made it known.  The inappropriateness of the pinch, under any circumstance, was discussed (amongst other things) and the tears flowed.  Not mine, mind you, but they were right on the cusp. 

Side Note - shout out to Kaija, whose friendship I continued to cherish through all of the Kaija pinches...  

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

The Snotty High-End Retail Worker

Do you know the person of this peeve?  I don't do much high brow shopping, but I have encountered this employee on more than one occasion when I have strayed beyond the borders of my usual, Gapesque-level haunts.  Picture this:  you walk into a store, pleasantly browsing, and notice that you were never greeted by a salesperson.  Well, maybe they were engaged elsewhere.  But, no, there is said salesperson and she has her nose up, a bit of a crusty aimed in your direction... 

To this, I would like to say - Seriously, lady, you make what, like $9.50 an hour?  Even I make more than that.  In fact, compared to you, I am a high roller.  So, how about some service?

Just to up this pet peeve, I'd like to put forward my favorite type of snotty retailer.  It's the person working at the outlet mall.  What?!  You are seriously pulling a Blair Warner (a la Facts of Life) due to the fact that you work at the Ralph Lauren outlet?!  Please go on with your bad, discount self.  This person doesn't really need a speech, as they are already receiving their punishment by having to work with the tumbleweeds off of a desolate stretch of highway, having only old pretzels off the warmer of the minimally trafficked Der Pretzel Haus to eat, and having to deal with every coupon clutching deal hog that comes through the door toting a screaming child behind who has been forced to go to the outlet mall.  And yet, I have no sympathy for you, snotty retail worker. 

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Women that don't like other women

Never trust a woman without female friends.  This is a motto that I just might make into a bumper sticker.  (kidding of course, as bumper stickers was Saturday's peeve)  But, seriously, there is something wrong with the girl that doesn't have girlfriends.  It's like a worm that doesn't like dirt or a monkey that doesn't like bananas - it's just not natural. 
One of the classic lines from this type of woman is, "I just get along better with guys", or "all my friends are guys."  Really?  Really?  Men are all fine and good, but come on.  You really want them to be your only home fries?  It's just not right. 
This girl will often have a girlfriend or two, but please note that she rarely keeps one longer than a few months.  She is prone to getting in fights with her female friends and friend hopping from girl to girl.  Please save the drama for your mama.
Perhaps I am not adequately expressing this pet peeve - I realize that.  However, in my defense, the woman who doesn't like women is such a mystery to me that it is like me trying to detail the steps of a brain surgery.     

Monday, February 14, 2011


In an ode to Valentine's Day, I would like to write about a single word that can peeve me out on any day.  The word is "sexy."  It just gives me the heeby-jeeby's. 
The main reason that this word registers as a pet peeve is over usage.  By definition, sexy means "Arousing or tending to arouse sexual desire or interest."  So, we can surmise, it has to do with sex.  Knowing this - how, I ask you, can it be applied as a description of paint (see this month's cover of House Beautiful), food (see goat cheesed stuffed figs in Food and Wine), cars (Cadillac uses this one), or a Valentine's Day bouquet (as a floral shop employee, I can promise you that people actually ask for this). 
Is there anyone that gets ready for lovin' by checking out paint samples?  getting a whiff of someones goat cheese breath after a stuffed fig?  putting the old Cadillac Cimarron into gear?  
And can someone please define for me what a "sexy" flower arrangement is (as opposed to the unsexy ones I'm used to whipping out?)  "Sexy" has been permanently tainted by over usage for me.  I find it the verbal equivalent of granny panties. 

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Adam Lambert being nominated for a Grammy

For the reals - is this happening?  Adam Lambert nominated for Grammy?  Am the only person on planet earth that has discovered that he sounds literall,y nearly identical to Richard Marx?  Was Richard Marx ever nominated for a Grammy?  Maybe he was (Don't Mean Nothin', any one?).  I guess history does repeat itself.
I beg of you, please listen to the attached links and tell me if you feel my peeve or not...

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Bumper Stickers

Why do people feel that they need to paste their deepest beliefs, political thoughts, and children's accomplishments on their Toyota?  It's a lot like inviting someone to meet your parents on the first date.  Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Let's slow this thing down a little.  I haven't even seen your face and I already know the name and address of your child's school and that you are a believer in evolution, but have a problem with organized religion.  Shouldn't we at least have drinks first? 
If we get in a fender bender and I agree with your political views, am I going to be disappointed when you turn out to be a real jerk when we have to exchange insurance information?  Am I wrong when I assume that you're a hillbilly when an over sized Calvin is urinating on a Chevy logo on your back window? 
I'd like to have the opportunity to get to know you after I meet you, sir.  And then we can talk about co-existing, Darwin, holding bake sales for bombs, guns, women's rights, peace, and what ever other ice breakers you'd like to cover.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Eye-Level Waiter

I appreciate a good waiter, consider myself an appropriately generous tipper, and have known many a waitstaff member in my day.  That being said, there is a certain waiter type that is capable of making me loose my appetite, no matter what the restaurant is serving.  This is eye-level guy.  He can't just stand at your table to interact with you.  He's not going for that type of business interaction.  No, this is personal.  Very personal.  So he is compelled to get on eye level with you at any cost.  Even if that cost is his own dignity or breaking clear through the barrier of your comfort zone.
He might squat.  He does actually sit at the table on occasion (just one of the guys).  Or, perhaps he will grab a nearby chair, swing it around, and sit in the straddle position while he gets to know you and your order.  God forbid.
He might not even remember that he's at work.  That's how comfortable he is.  Just hanging.  He may tell you a bit about himself or how the night prior went for him.  His very persona is what is on special tonight and he knows that you want the endless buffet. 
Heads up to the waiters of the world - I might be there for pleasure, but it's not with you.  Go ahead and look down on me from the standing position.  I'd like to keep this relationship purely professional. 

Thursday, February 10, 2011

The Brat

This pet peeve is actually less about the brat than it is about the parent of said brat.  I mean the parent that pretends like their bratty child just doesn't exist.  You know this person.  They're in the aisle of Target, at the next table in a restaurant, in the movie theatre (there is definitely a separate pet peeve on that one), they are nearly everywhere you go.
Picture this: The child is doing something completely beyond the realm of public acceptance.  This includes a full range of possibilities, from small scale screaming to a full fledged grand mall temper tantrum.  And the parent, yes - the one person truly responsible for the child, is doing an Oscar worthy performance of pretending that the child is not even there. 
For instance, once I was at an Italian restaurant with some fellow diners (who shall remain unidentified) when a small child at our table, who had spent the evening under the wandering eye of a parent doing a stellar job of ignoring his presence, skewered a meatball in a moment of anger.  He raised the meatball - not to his mouth, mind you, but to fling it across the restaurant where it landed squarely on the back of a woman wearing a white blazer.  I am not making this up.  And what happened?  Nothing!  The wandering eye glorified in looking intently between a bread stick and the crown molding.
The child is not going to disappear, no matter how much you ignore them.. Probably better to man up and admit to their presence - however bratty.  It could be good for both of you (not to mention everyone else at Target).   

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

I Wear My Sunglasses At Night…..


I don’t have anything against wearing sunglasses.  There are many benefits, including the overall health of your eyes, being able to see when the sun is shining right on you, especially while sun tanning on some awesome beach, or just looking good! 

However, when none of the above applies and you are still wearing the sunglasses, you have entered the peeve zone, and you are now in danger of getting a ticket.  The ticket you get is something you don’t see, but everyone around you does.  It’s a big “DORK” sign hanging around your neck.  To avoid being that person there are just a few basic rules to abide by:

1.       No sunglasses inside unless you’re Jack Nicholson.  He has earned the right, you have not.



2.       No sunglasses at night, unless you had a top 40 hit with the same title.


3.       Last, but not least, if it is raining you need to take them off, unless you are Claudia Schiffer.
                                                  She can pull it off.

                                                 You can’t.

While this is a pet peeve, it is also kind of a public service announcement.  Trust me when I say, no one thinks you look cool when you break any one of these three simple rules for the wearing of sunglasses.  If you’re inside, if it is nighttime, or if it is raining, take ‘em off.  Otherwise wear the heck out of them.  Although, I can’t guarantee that that invisible sign around your neck won’t still be there.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Angelina Jolie

I know that I shouldn't have a person as a pet-peeve.  It goes against the very definition of a pet peeve.  It isn't right.  I understand that, but isn't everyone entitled to that one celebrity that really bugs them?  I say yes.  And for me, that celebrity is Angelina Jolie.  
I know that she's a philanthropist.  Mother to the world.  Laura Croft, Tombraider.  World record holder in lip weight.  I get it, but she just bugs me.
And in this one instance I reserve the right to not even detail why she bugs me.  But I will say this - Anyone else would never have been praised attending the Golden Globes in that hideous 70's yardage of emerald green topped off with that split-ended Crystal Gayle gone wrong hair.  Perfect wrapping for a pet peeve. 

Monday, February 7, 2011


This is very personal pet peeve.  And I apologize in advance to all of you who love and savor the bath.  This includes my husband, who is truly the captain, the duke, no - the Emperor of the Bath.  He loves a good bath and you can't keep him away from the tub during winter.  I, on the other hand, can not stand a hot bath (or a cold one for that matter, I'm sure.)  I love water and will swim in just about anything (pool, lake, pond, ocean, etc.)  But you really can't swim in a bath tub, so I guess that is besides the point.
The point is this - baths are gross.  You supposedly report to the bathroom to get clean, and yet, in a bath you sit in a cooling puddle of whatever filth has just run off of your body.  Nothing is running down the drain.  You are marinating in it.  Additionally, there is no amount of bubbles that can cover up the buffet of sights before you.  This is worse than any mirror.  You simply have to sit (most often an unflattering body position for those outside of Kate Moss) and stare at yourself from the neck down.  Any fat roll, any odd shaped freckle, any ingrown toenail - it is all somehow magnified by the confines of the bathtub.  And, still, people love it.  I don't get it.  Give me a shower any day - the grime slips down the drain and there is a complete absence of any one-on-one moments with my imperfections.   

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Football Jerseys (a nod to the Super Bowl)

What a winning look - a real touchdown.  The jersey.  It goes with everything.  I mean, players might wear it with cleats and a helmet, but it works equally well with wranglers or sweats. 
You just have to love the sports jersey.  You're at the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon and, woah, there's Payton Manning in the chips isle.  Holy crud, the game starts in fifteen minutes - it looks like Peyton is going to miss the opening kick!  I guess he must be on the injured list.  Well, yeah, that makes sense.  He does look like he's put a little weight on... Oh, wait, that's not Peyton Manning - it's just a  couch potato from your neighborhood!  How crazy. 
This possibility of mistaken identity is one reason against wearing the jersey.  What about a personalized jersey, you say?  No.  That doesn't really solve the problem.  Because you still have some jerk at the grocery store in a jersey, people.  It's made of synthetic mesh - this is likely for breathability on the field, but it just adds to its impracticality on the streets.  Unless, of course, you're going for that sassy no-shirt-underneath look.  Watch out, ladies. 
Jerseys also seem to be almost always found in the range of XL to XXXL.  Practical for the rippling muscles of an NFL player and equally practical for the rolly pollies of a couch potato.  So maybe there is an argument for the jersey, but I just don't think that I can be convinced.
I can't get down with this portion of the NFL uniform being worn by a guy whose only work at a "super bowl" will be on a bowl of seven layer dip.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

"It is what it is."

I nearly missed the blog of the day.  I have only one hour to spare.  And the worst part of it is that I just caught myself getting sucked into 'Jersey Shore' while flipping stations as my husband sleeps on the couch.  Truly horrifying.  One bright light shines through this experience, however.  I was reminded of a one liner that is such a pet peeve - "It is what it is."  This line was handed by one of the slabs of beef on 'Jersey Shore' to his girlfriend as they broke up.  To which she replied, really adding something to the moment, "Yeah, it is what it is." 
What the what?  What does that mean?  It drives me crazy when people say this because it is, in fact, like saying nothing at all - but worse, because people are listening to your voice and watching your lips flap as if you were actually saying something.  It would still be what it is even if you refrain from labeling it as what it is.  So, if you have nothing to say outside of "it is what it is", better to say nothing at all, Ronnie Magro. 

Friday, February 4, 2011

Couples Shopping for Underwear

I think that the title of this peeve pretty much says it all, but if you need a visual to help explain what I am referring to, picture this:  You're in a store such as Victoria's Secret (think underwear, bras, sleepwear, etc) when you over hear a couple talking about a lace-covered teddy or some similar concoction.  Words like as sexy, "do you like it?", and such are coming from the couple.  You're trying to find a properly supportive piece of functional underwear and would rather not be in the midst of their boudoir planning.  But their giggling and suggestive shopping continues.  Ga-ross.
Often times the man is actually viewing items as the woman tries them on, so you are not even safe in the dressing room, where he is hovering on the outskirts.  Double gross.
Please buy your own undergarments or have that man buy your undergarments.  Just don't go out and buy them together.  And if you do, understand that everyone in the store is gagging on a rather large spoon.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Mall Bangs

Mall bangs are the large set of fluffed and hair-sprayed bangs that project against natural tendency from the front of the head, often forced there with the use of a curling iron, hairdryer, styling ointments, or any glue-like substance that can be put to use.  Many of us sported this, or a similar look, at some point during the 1980s.  As we enter the second decade of the 2000s, the pet peeve surrounding mall bangs is simply their audacity to continue to spring from the heads of countless women across the nation.  Perhaps this is less of a pet peeve, and more of a mystery.
My beef is with the hairdressers that insist on sculpting heads in this manner and boldly referring to themselves as "stylists."  Stylists of what?  Maybe if they were on the set of 'The Wedding Singer' or preparing the wig of Candace Cameron, a la Full House, for a wax museum likeness. 
Perhaps the hairdressers have no choice.  Is it the clients themselves that are forcing the scissored hand at the salon, demanding a permanent wave and full set of mall bangs to match?  The mystery remains.  There is no Hollywood starlet setting this trend into action, certainly no fashion magazine or designer runway showing bangs the size of a swollen softball.  Where is the idea that the mall bang is still a vital look coming from?  Not even the pages of LL Bean or the storefront of Deb would dare.
I am not going to implore people to stop teasing and spraying up their mall bangs or even to step into this new century, but, rather, I ask for someone to give me an answer to this mystery.  How, like an outbreak of Gremlins, are the mall bangs still reproducing?

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Children = Fulfillment in Life

I don't have children, but this is not a pet peeve of mine.  I love children, go out of my way to see my beloved nephews and nieces, and spend everyday with 100 first graders that are awesome, but this is not a pet peeve of mine either. 
The pet peeve comes in when I am asked if I have children, reminded that I should have children, and, above all, am given that look that says "Oh, I feel so sorry for you, you will never know fulfillment in life if you don't have any children." 
One of the greatest things about spending your days with children is coming home to house without children.  One of the greatest joys of hanging out with your nephews is that you can always just have fun.  You don't have to clean up after them, be the target of their anger and disappointment (which children always shoot at their parents at some point), and you will never have to loan them your car.
I feel like I am "fulfilled," "complete," my cup runneth over, etc, etc.  I know that once you have a husband, a house, and a pet that you are supposed to have children, but...
I would like to bring in a little outside evidence on this peeve.  I am quoting from an article titled 'The Myth of Joyful Parenting: The Ultimate Cognitive Dissonance?' by author Wray Herbert.

Study after study has shown that parents, compared to adults without kids, experience lower emotional well-being -- fewer positive feelings and more negative ones -- and have unhappier marriages and suffer more from depression. Yet many of these same parents continue to insist that their children are an essential source of happiness -- indeed that a life without children is a life unfulfilled.
...Psychological scientists at the University of Waterloo...suspect that the belief in parental happiness is a psychological defense -- a fiction we imagine to make all the hard stuff acceptable. In other words, we parents have collectively created the myth of parental joy because otherwise we would have a hard time justifying the huge investment that kids require.

Quoting someone smarter than me just seems to beef up my pet peeve.  I say Go For It on having kids.  Somebody's gotta do it.  But I also say don't pretend to me that it is all unicorns and rainbows, because I know the truth.  I choose not to have children.  I would also like to live free from the condesending insuation that I am, because of this, operating at a lower level of existance.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Pajamas on the Streets

There seems to be a phenomenon that is becoming more and more socially acceptable - bedroom attire as out-of-the-house fashion.  I am referring to those gallivanting about while sporting PJs as if it were not only appropriate, but down right good looking. 
When did it become okay to fly from Denver to DC in a well worn plaid flannel pajama pant and a pair of over sized fuzzy slippers?  TSA might start getting better ratings if it were doing full body scans to detect nightwear in the terminal - and promptly escorting those perpetrators off of the premises.  And who gave the okay for the pilly pair of sweatpants with a large word splayed across the rear end to head out to the mall?  Ladies, no one wants to know that that area is "PINK", trust me - that is one secret that we would all like for Victoria to keep.
Also, this oh-so-casual look is fooling no one into thinking that you just rolled out of bed and hit the streets.  The full face of make-up, including cakey mascara, indicates that you have given time and consideration to your public pajama party.  Which actually makes it even worse.
I am an advocate of comfort, but please do the world the courtesy of checking to make sure your shoes have traction on the bottom and an absence of two inch pink fuzz-fur and that your pants were not purchased in the intimates department before you step out of your front door.