pet peeves | The (not so) Special Mother

A while back I wrote a post in which I was accused of being “the most hateful sick person in the history of the universe.”

Guess what? I have strep throat again, and while I was waiting in the car for my husband to get my prescription filled, I had a revelation. I really am the most hateful sick person in the history of the universe.

So I decided, what the hell? Just go with it. I’ve decided to embrace the hatefulness, if you will, and not only that, but spread it around. I’m sick of being sick, everything I see annoys me, and I’ve compiled a list of the top offenders. Maybe your own great annoyances are on the list. Maybe you think I’m just being mean. You’re right. I am. Shut up. That’s what hateful people do.

Is it really so hard to park a car in a parking spot? I mean, if that giant land yacht is so big that you can’t drive it effectively, get a freakin’ Scion or something! I don’t care if you are driving an Escalade! When you have to spend five whole minutes parking it, you still look like an idiot!
While I’m on the subject, who cares if you drive a vehicle that cost more than my first house? Guess what? You don’t just look like an idiot–you look like a pretentious idiot. Can you say “nonrenewable resources?”
I understand that you are probably not in as big a hurry to get out of the grocery store as me. Few people are. I also understand you don’t get out much, so visiting the grocery store is probably a wonderfully exciting journey that you wish to prolong as much as possible. But please, for the love of John Henry, stop blocking the whole aisle with your shopping cart! The aisle is wide enough for two carts to pass each other with no problems, but not when you are parked across the whole thing!
How many times have you been through the drive-through at McDonald’s? Fifty? Two hundred? A thousand? Do you really have to set there for two presidential terms trying to figure out what you want?
Here’s a potentially touchy subject, and one that is very regional: Attention coal miners–I love coal. I’d eat coal for breakfast if I wasn’t worried about breaking my teeth. I love electricity, which is generated by coal (which I love.) I think people who mine coal are awesome. I come from a long line of coal miners on both sides of the family. But I would make this one plea: for the love of all that is holy, wash your face after work! Every time I go into the grocery store or stop to get gas, I see one of these awesome guys walking around with coal dirt all over his face and hands. I get that your clothes are probably going to be dirty. You can’t exactly wash your clothes before you get home, but surely you can spare five minutes to wash your face and hands. I have to wonder if you leave the dirt on there just so people will know you work in the mines. Dirt makes us all sad. Soap makes us happy. Remember that.
Ditto on the scrubs. When did scrubs become the standard uniform for everyday life? I noticed this trend a few years ago. At first I thought, well, these folks just got off work and haven’t been home yet. Then I would see people at soccer games early in the morning, and I’d overhear them talking about what all they were doing that day, which did not include work, and they were wearing the scrubs. Um, okay…..
I know I’ve been on about this before, but I can’t even help myself. I don’t want to see your fat rolls. Now, I’m not one to hand out fashion advice, but by God, you’d better believe my flab is safely ensconced in several layers of protective material. I saw a large-ish girl when I was out the other day, and her shirt was so tight you could see her bellybutton. Really. Things were just swingin’ and swayin’ as she walked along, her head held high. And that scariest thing about this all-to-common scenario is that she actually looked in the mirror before she left that day and said to herself, “Damn girl! You’re looking fine today!”

I’m going to quit for now. I’m tired and my head hurts.

I hope you enjoyed the hatefulness. Come, share it with me. Embrace it. You know you want to!

In case you missed the memo, this is Bitchy Monday. Either that or my estrogen patch is starting to lose its effectiveness. Either way, here are some very random things that have wiggled their way under my skin in the past few weeks.

I’m really glad you have a positive body image, but low-rise jeans are over. Even a relatively small person, when squeezed into pants two sizes too small which are then buttoned up nice and tight around her hips, will have a pasty, squishy roll of flesh around the top. I’m not making this up–it’s just physics, folks. Hint: if the security people in Wal-Mart are stopping you and accusing you of smuggling a swim noodle out of the store under your shirt, you may want to jump up a size or two.
On a similar note–guys, whoever started the skinny jeans for guys thing was an idiot. Period.
Want nice things and money? Get a job or marry someone who has one. The world doesn’t owe you crap, buddy.
Maybe you are disabled, but why is it you can’t walk from your car to the door of the store, but once inside you can walk up and down every aisle?
Not having access for wheelchairs is not ok, especially in a building you are using my tax dollars to pay for. (On a survey filled out about our local non-handicap-accessible school, one of the respondents, when asked if they felt the school was accessible for people with disabilities, replied that no, the school wasn’t accessible, but “we don’t have any wheelchair students, so that’s ok.” I swear I am not making this up.)
The left hand lane is called the passing lane. That’s all I’m going to say.
You are not the only person on earth. Really. Look around you. You might be standing in the way or cutting someone off. I bet all of a sudden you’re thinking, “Where did all of these people come from!”
If you have poor service on your cell phone and are cutting in and out, shouting isn’t going to help.
If you spit in public, there is a special place in hell for you. Human beings are born with a swallow reflex. Try it out.
It’s okay to get older. We are all doing it. Accept it. Dressing like a teenager doesn’t make you look like a teenager–it just makes you look like an aging person trying to dress like one.
You will not spontaneously combust if you use manners. I promise.
Last but certainly not least, don’t drive faster than me because if you do, you’re an idiot. Also, if you are driving slower than me, you are a moron.