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. 

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. 

    

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? 

If you could, you should

 GUEST PEEVE!  ONCE AGAIN, MR. W GRACES US WITH ONE OF HIS MOST PROFOUND PET PEEVES.  ENJOY...

(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.

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!  
 

Breasts

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.


  

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.  So...today 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.

Two and a Half Men

Watch it.  Once.  I think you will agree.

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...