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).   

I Wear My Sunglasses At Night…..

TODAY'S POST IS PROVIDED BY A GUEST WITH A PET PEEVE.  THIS WORK IS CONTRIBUTED BY MR. W.

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.

                                                        Winner.

 Loser.

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

                                         Yes.

                                        No.

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.

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. 

Baths

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.   

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.

"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. 

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.

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?

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.

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.