I feel privileged and very thankful to be alive in this particular part of the world, at this particular time in history. But even the best day has its irritations, what I unoriginally refer to as First World Problems. Silly, niggling pet peeves which the French (who can describe a hangnail in existential terms) call bête noire. In fact, discussing my bugaboos in this blog, and other forms of public venting, is pretty darn irritating itself. Nevertheless, I will indulge myself in a brief list of things that really tick me off.

The stuff people leave behind: snot-filled Kleenex in shopping carts, used personal hygiene items (Q-tips being the least offensive) in restrooms, hair anywhere. GROSS!

Outdoor fixtures—lamps, flagpoles, wind chimes, barbecues—that rust. I mean, really.

People who speed through parking lots.

The alarms in cars, appliances, and machines that beep and chirp and buzz and honk to remind me I’ve forgotten/neglected to do something when all I’ve forgotten/neglected to do is indulge my murderous impulse to blast said annoying objects into smithereens.

Resealable plastic bags that don’t.

Going to a restaurant and barely settling my butt into a chair and the server asks whatcanIgetyoutodrinkandwhatappetizerdoyouwant? And then pesters me if I’m finished and whisks my dishes away with food still on them as if he/she is fleeing a burning building. And/or restaurant workers who vacuum the floor while diners are still eating and the place doesn’t close for another three hours. Grrr!

Movies or TV shows in which the characters are shoveling, hammering, shifting boulders, or engaging in any other activity that can tear their hands to shreds and THEY’RE NOT WEARING GLOVES! The twits who mock my email server because it’s hotmail and not gmail.

Email addresses that are decidedly NOT user-friendly—for example: xlfgg10mpd@whatever.com—so I invariably mistype and invariably receive a delivery failure notification.

When someone types a text or Facebook message, I’m waiting for the wavy dotdotdot to stop so I can read the message, and that someone STOPS TYPING! And disappears altogether! Arrgh!

Filling out an online form and scrolling through the dates to get to my year of birth and it’s WAY down the line, and having seen all those years, am plunged into melancholy, wondering if I’ve lived them fully, and then consoling myself with another French saying that Edith Piaf expressed as a personal anthem: je ne regrette rien.

Except peut-être this blog.

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