I’ve been walking about 12-20 miles a week, April to November, for over 2 years now. During those hours of ambling, my brain works to come up with topics that need to be dealt with and couldn’t possibly be handled while I’m hoofing it down West Seventh Street. Naturally.
So, now that I have some time on my hands, I’d like to put them down on this blog and make them your problem. I hope they are as annoying to you as they are to me.
Let’s start with secret pooping. Yes, that treat that greets you when you come downstairs, keys in hand, ready to head out the door. The one the Sheltie left on the rug because there is a serious chance the back yard has monsters before noon. If there are monsters, you can’t possibly expect her to go out and deposit waste in the yard. Consequently, secret poops on the rug. She’s lucky to have seen another year. Good thing we love her. It’s also a good thing she doesn’t do this very often.
People who try to kill you in the crosswalk. I know it’s hard to believe, but people get way too close all the time. I’m rather hard to miss, especially when I have a 100 liter backpack on, which is covered with reflectorized tape. But the morons who aim their cars (drive is too nice a term) through a pie-plate sized hole they scraped in the windshield, or around their cellular phone as they scream at someone on the other end, or – best of all – do their email/Facebook/LinkedIn on the laptop open next to them, seem to miss me in their peripheral vision as they hang a violent left to beat the oncoming traffic. I actually followed one of these bozos to his destination a few weeks ago, as it was downtown and I could watch where he went. I shall forever prize the look on his face as I got within shouting distance of his car. I suspect he may change his ways. Or get a restraining order.
Helicopter parents. Every Santa season I’m reminded that there are a lot of people who probably shouldn’t be raising children. Most of them are second generation helicopter parents. When the child whimpers a little as they approach Santa, the mom snatches up her soon-to-be-useless adult with the words, “I’m not going to traumatize little Ergon for a picture.” Mom, here’s a word of sage advice that I recently passed on: Your child will not die if Santa holds them for 10 seconds while the photographer takes the screaming photo. This is a golden opportunity to show that some risks have rewards: your child experiences a minor trauma and goes back into the safety of mom’s arms. Life is often not fair. What a great opportunity to learn that you don’t die when things are not perfect. I think it’s like working with certain metals: a little heat following some minor blows will do wonders for your strength.
Office Lunch thieves. While there are lower forms of vermin, I’m hard-pressed to name them at the moment. We have one at my day job right now. An eclectic diet this weasel has created, running the range from steamed vegetables to chicken-fried steak. I keep my lunch in a cooler at my desk. But a friend has given serious thought bringing in a delicious laxative pudding that might just cure this person. I hope she puts sprinkles in it for beauty purposes.
The Christmas Shoes. I don’t really have to explain this, do I?
Okay, one final rant – the two worst Christmas songs I know might as well go on this list.
Back to the mundane. No. Never mind. I need a drink or something after that last one. Maybe one more…
Health Club Pigs. Yes, these are the entitled few who have decided that it’s perfectly fine to throw their towels on the floor for the maid (there is no maid, morons), pour water on the dry sauna (because the steam room is over four feet away, almost six), and the nitwits who pour cold water on the steam room valve cover to make “extra” steam (Let me ‘splain heat stress on metals…). Undoubtedly, these are the same miscreants who leave the scale set for their weight and never zero it out. Also, the odds are, these are the same bozos who leave the locker locked when they leave so that “their” locker will be available tomorrow when they come to work out.
I’d snap a picture of them, but for some reason I seem to be the only one observing the no-using-smartphones-in-the-locker-room rule. Not that I’m a gem, but there’s bound to be a market for pictures of naked fat guys with tattoos somewhere.
Door blockers. In Minnesota people stand in doorways. Either side, in the middle, but right in the danged door. And then they chat. The only version of this menace that’s worse is the kind on public transportation. Most loathsome is the sort, usually found in pairs, that get on the bus, and the stand in the constricted space immediately behind the driver where the front wheels prevent seating. They don’t want to go back and find a seat, so they just stand there – making the entry and exit of every passenger a major pain in the butt. They have a third tribal member, the back door blocker. That idiot scorns open seats, wears a stupid facial expression, and looks at their phone while standing in the small area designed for leaving the bus. To get past them you must dance with them. Or elbow them in the face. (Hey, accidents happen.)
I feel better. It’s always good, any time of year, to give stress rather than receive. And considering it’s April 10th, and it’s snowing like crazy outside, today is a beautiful day to share.
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