I’m a mild-mannered kind of guy. In fact, I take great pride in my aplomb, my reserve. Not a lot things get to me and cause me to blow my usual cool. But then again, there are a few little things that simply get my goat, they cause me to grit my teeth and clench my fist and make an audible growling sound.
And I hardly complain, but when I do, everyone seems to think I’m just acting like an old grouch or something. But everyone has their limits. But anyway, these are a few little things that come readily to mind that simply grind my gears:
I hate sharing my dessert! I hate when my wife and I go to a restaurant, and the server comes by with the dessert cart and asks both me and my wife if we would like dessert. If I am not overly full, I do enjoy a nice dessert and a cup of coffee after a good meal, so I usually pick me a little something. But my wife invariably says, “No, I’ll just share my husband’s dessert.”
So, then she proceeds to eat about half, if not most, of my dessert. I hate this. Get your own dessert and quit eating mine. And don’t think I haven’t told her. But she says that for whatever unknown reason, she likes sharing dessert with me, so through clenched teeth, I acquiesce. But can someone please explain this phenomenon to me?
Now, I don’t claim to be some paradigm of grace and manners, and I don’t have the whole table manners thing down pact myself, but I do try to keep the noises minimal while I am eating.
I hate when I am in a public place reading or doing something on my laptop and some stranger just walks up and wants to have a conversation with me about what I am doing! So, here’s the scenario. I’m in my favorite little coffee house drinking me a nice, hot cup of java, listening to the soft jazz being pumped in, reveling in the whole ambience of the place while enjoying a good book or magazine article or just catching up on what’s going on around there here inna-nets. An ideal moment, right?
But then comes some stranger out of nowhere inquiring as to just what I am reading or doing. I respond by smiling and giving them an answer in such a way that should indicate that I appreciate their interest, but I really don’t want to be disturbed. But they insist on carrying on a conversation anyway. It’s just like a fly or mosquito buzzing about your head and shoulders.
If you are out and about and you see someone somewhere just chilling, enjoying a little me time, just leave them alone. If their life is anything like mine, me time comes at a premium, so don’t mess it up with your need for attention.
I hate when my son’s underwear gets mixed in with mine! Sometimes during the whole laundry process, my son’s underwear gets mixed in with mine. Usually I catch the mistake. I get up in the morning, get all showered and baby powdered down, and slip into a fresh pair of skivvies and think, something just ain’t right here.
But other times I might be in a hurry and miss the most important clues, and about halfway through the morning, I get this binding feeling. Suddenly, it feels like a boa constrictor has intertwined itself about my groin, cutting off all circulation and blood flow to the brain.
It happened one day this week, and I ended up just going into the bathroom, taking off those tiny drawers and pitching them in the trash. I had to go commando for the rest of the day, but it felt a whole lot better than having my nether regions choked out.
I hate when people bring their bad behind kids who they know haven’t been taught to behave into public places! Please don’t get me wrong; Max loves the kids, but the other day I am walking into Walmart—and I know I shouldn’t have had my behind in Walmart—when this bad behind kid jumps out of nowhere, screams “AY-YAY”, and with all his might, hurls this ball of clay at me, catching me neatly in the eye.
And I immediately see stars, literally stars! Then water from my eye is running down my face, and I’m reeling around like Frankenstein bumping into stuff as my hands involuntarily reach in vain for this little monster’s throat.
And the mother is all like, “Little Charlie, you know better.” No, Little Charlie does not know any better because you know you haven’t taught him any better. Hell, even in my state of temporary blindness, I could hear Little Charlie off in another part of the store terrorizing yet another unsuspecting stranger while his mother shouted in vain, “Little Charlie, Charlie, come here now. You better behave. Stop that, Charlie. Don’t do that, Charlie. You are going to be in big trouble, Charlie.” You mean Little Charlie is not in big trouble now after practically detaching my cornea?
But my wife had my back. She stepped right in and let that woman know just what she thought about Little Charlie’s bad behind and her child-rearing strategies or lack thereof. I was so pleased with my wife that when we went out to dinner later, I shared my dessert with her without protest.
And just what get’s your goat?
