Consider Me Peeved.

This week we are talking about Pet Peeves. Why? Because we said so. That's why. It's a fun semi-related paralell to the Who Am I, What Do I Stand For theme we have going on this month.

I was also planning to wait until I got home, but I am currently sitting in my office (Panera) and the moment struck. I simply couldn't resist. The man sitting across from me was a combination of my pet peeves IN THE FLESH. The true embodiment of all that is nails on a chalkboard to me, was literally within 5 feet of my being. Little did he know, I was not trying to receive better cell phone service, but instead stealthily trying to snap his photo and thus immortalize this jerk-off forevemore.

I choked, thought he knew what I was up to, and got blur. Sorry for the major anti-climax. But just to give you a visual: Take Ray Romano's brother in Everyone Loves Raymond, shrink him to a normal human height, add a mustard sport coat, a Brooklyn Accent, and a smoker's rasp. Are you in love yet?

The reason he inspired the pet peeve post was his above-normal public space cell phone volume. He came here, I suppose, to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi, and break the concentration of every semi-employed dilligent individual trying to concentrate in a 4 mile radius. Same reason I come here.

He was talking on his cell phone about what I can only assume was people that had defaulted on their mortgages, that he had sold them. Which highlights pet peeve numero dos, pushy sales people. I've been in sales, I get it, and therefore reserve the right to never put up with their wierd, manipulative, guilt-inducing tirades EVER. Not with car salesmen, advertising salesmen OR women, product peddlers, or those freaks at the mall that want to polish my fingernails or clip in a fake ponytail. I fell for that once and it won't happen again. (And yes, I bought $125 worth of synthetic hair, but that was back when I was bartending, and I actually made a decent living.)


Which brings me to Peeve Number 3: Entitlement. Just get over yourself. You're a nobody like the rest of us until you prove otherwise. So much ego stroking these days, let's just cut to the chase. Work harder, earn respect, don't just expect things to fall into your lap. Accrue karma, do for others, don't just sit by the phone and expect a call from Diane Sawyer to request an interview, tell you what a great job you are doing, and how amazing you are.

Still on the entitlement front, just switching gears: Large people in small clothes. Who are you to be wearing that? For the love of god, no one wants to see your fat ass packed into tight pants (and leggings...just avoid all together) or your naval-indent through your tiny Polo. I can hear it now: "Sure that's easy for you to say, you skinny bitch." And for the record, I am average weight, and I have a plethora of sexy plus-size friends that know how to dress in clothes that accentuate their body type, rather than make a mockery of it.

Moving on. This is almost too much fun, and I fear that I could write forever.

Repeating Noises. Anyone who knows me well enough, especially my loverboy, will tell you this. Anything that repeats for more than let's say 10 seconds, I have to make it stop. Blinker noises in your car. The sound a forklift in Home Depot makes when it is reversing. Alarm clocks from the upstairs apartment. A leaky faucet. I don't consider myself an anal person, but repeating noises are the mental equivalent of Chinese Water Torture for me. I can't.

I'm trying to wrap this up, so I'll just give you a quick listing of the rest, minus the witty banter. Belts in belt loops on girls. People that make plans and cancel at the last minute. When people meet you time and time again and don't remember your name (THIS IS HUGE). People that constantly have a new scheme. When people ask a question, then don't listen to the answer. When normal words are misspelled for no reason (Kwik instead of Quick)(Kash instead of Cash), the way Jerry Seinfeld looks like he is always laughing at his own jokes, and last but not least people that wear enough perfume to kill a horse. Because...wait for it, two of them just sat down next to me. You smell like a baby prostitute...and what is that beeping???