by Jill Greenwood
I’m pretty sure that Julie Andrews never contemplated singing a song about the shit that annoyed her. Can’t you just picture it? Maria with all the Von Trapps nestled around her whilst she sings, “Heat in July and poison ivy on jeans, cat puke you step in and grown men who preen.” They would have called Mother Superior and begged for a new nanny. Of course she sang only of the beautiful things of life . . . kittens, warm apple strudel, bright copper kettles. Granted, there was some bad weather, but even that was a raindrop not a fucking deluge like I was caught in on Saturday night.
- I’m 99% sure that I’m not alone when I say that I’m generally a positive person, but every once and a while, I get irritated over the little things. Like this:those little stick figured decals people put on their cars. I despise them. Irrational? Oh, god yes. But I nearly come unglued when I see them, especially if they are the uber-stylized ones like the mom shops, the dad digs NASCAR, the oldest daughter’s a ballerina, the middle child (could be a boy or a girl) really gets down to karate, but the baby is a future swimmer. And don’t forget the two dogs and three cats. Mickey ears on your stick figures? Be glad I didn’t key your car. And god forbid you have a person and then five cats after it. Yes, I’ve seen this (and I know who you are . . . you’re on notice).
- people who tell me that they don’t have time for knitting. Or reading. Or walking. Or any other thing that requires you to set aside the time. Because basically what you are saying to me is, “Oh, my time is too important to sit down and do that. You must not have anything requires you to work this hard.” Turns out, I do . . . I’m just putting me first this year. If you think you don’t have time to knit (or do something that you enjoy), you probably do. It’s called watching television or looking at Facebook or chatting on the phone. You’ve got the time.
- dogs and cats running free. Of course I see that tag on your pet’s collar. But I don’t see you any place close. Last week, Olive spent an enjoyable three hours running from room to room chattering at the cat outside our windows. Sure it kept her occupied, but then I had to sidestep the damn thing all day. Couple that with the busy street that runs in front of our house, and you have a recipe for disaster. It’s coming soon – that sickening sound and the aftermath – and all it will take is someone to keep their pets in the house.
- political ads. You mean there’s an election coming up in a few months? Really? I hadn’t noticed. I just thought that every channel was airing the same thing over and over and over again. I yearn for the days when every Tom, Dick, and Harry didn’t have a Super PAC and couldn’t air ads 24/7. Notice that I’m not naming a party because they both have oversaturated the airways. I can’t even listen to Pandora or Spotify without hearing how douchey both sides are. If you can’t say anything nice, then shut the fuck up.
- the replacement refs. Roger Goodell, end this shitty strike now. Pay the men their money. Pony up for the retirement package. End. It. Now.
- parents who believe exactly what their kids tell them. Little clue for you . . . sometimes your kids lie or they tell you what they want you to know. I know, I know – shocking, right? I had a father complain that he’s tired of his son not coming home with any work. “But he’s had work twice this week,” we said. “But that’s not what he told me,” replied the father. What? A 12-year-old boy says he doesn’t have any homework? Color me surprised. And it’s not just school work. Kids don’t want to get in trouble, and they certainly don’t want to disappoint their parents. So the whole truth might not work its way out. A little caution before you call out the National Guard searching for Billie’s brand new cell phone. Chances are she cracked the screen and doesn’t know how to tell you.
- food pictures on Instagram. I’m over the food, people. Occasionally, I’ll give in and snap one. But I can’t take one more photo of food. Possibly because I want to eat it. More likely because I just don’t get it (and my mother dutifully took a photo of every meal she had in Germany even though the vast majority of it looked like a doctoral dissertation of penis types . . . because they eat a lot of sausages in Germany).
There’s probably more, but I don’t want to sound like a bitter, crabby bitch. Anything that gets under your skin? Just a little bit?