THE THINGS WE LOVE TO HATE

Pet Peeves are the things we love to hate. They give us something to gripe about, a good venue to air our discontent. Usually, pet peeves are the things that we encounter all too often, perhaps on a daily basis, often enough to get our attention, and cause us to pause whatever we are doing and scowl.
I've had a few pet peeves of my own of late. The rooster across the street is gone, so I'll skip over him and get to the ever-present one: Early morning honking. Car-pooling is good, everyone knows this. We give it two thumbs up. However, why disrupt the morning peace when picking up a co-worker with a two-three second blare, when a few polite taps on the horn would do the trick? What kind of person does this morning after morning, precisely at 5:30?

LESS IS MORE A TRUE STORY

Richard was tall, dark and handsome. He was a friend of the family's, a frequent dinner guest at our table.

Once I became a liscenced hairdresser, he booked an appointment for a haircut. When I asked how he wanted his hair cut that first time, he said he was putting himself entirely in my hands, being that now I was a professional.

This type of opportunity is a rare happening in the hair cutting business, where the client usually arrives with a clear vision of what the end resuilts should look like. Yeilding happily to the green light, I began cutting, and in no time Richard's former mane was cropped down to an inch of its existence.

I handed him the mirror, and he inspected his haircut from every angle, running his free hand across his short hair. He looked like a new man. I personally thought he'd never looked so handsome, and was very pleased with my haircut.

A few months later, Richard booked another appointment for a haircut. Seated and draped, he asked in a most casual way, "Are you part Indian?"

Secretly flattered, I stole a glance at my pale reflection in the mirror. "You think I look like an Indian?" I asked incredulously.

"No, but you scalped me last time. You think you could leave it a little longer?" he said. I laughed good-naturedly, but inside I was hurt and embarrassed.

Though I may not look like one, I'll admit that sometimes I wish I was an Indian, because I've had the sudden urge to scalp a client or two. I always think of Richard when this mood comes over me, and manage to get a handle on myself before any harm is inflicted.

THE LUCKIEST FOOL

Time got away from me, as it often does when I'm in the yard, weeding, weeding, weeding. I stopped to examine the small patch I'd managed to clear, and then glanced at the rest of the yard and realized the futility of my efforts. I'd never be done weeding.

I went inside to cool down and replenish lost fluids, but a quick glance at the clock reminded me I'd better hurry if I was to get the credit card payment to the post office before the last pick -up of the day. I forgot about my immediate thirst, slipped into a decent pair of shoes, and drove off in a rush to beat the five o'clock deadline.

I was practically at the post office when a man behind me began flashing his lights and gesturing for me to pull over. My immediate thought was that I'd left a door open, or that I was driving on a low tire. Regardless of what the problem was, my exit was fast approaching, so I put my turn signal on and drove up the steep ramp into the post office parking lot.

Still flashing his lights and vying for my attention, the man followed me up the ramp and pulled up alongside my car. He gestured for me to roll my window down.

"There's a telephone on the back of your car, lady," he said.

"You've gotta be kidding!" I responded, but no sooner were the words out of my mouth that I remembered I'd placed it there myself, while I was out weeding the yard.

In my rush to avoid a late fee, I'd plain forgotten our expensive cordless, left it to its own fate as I backed down our steep driveway, wove in and out of traffic, bounced over speed-bumps, turned sharp curves and drove up steep inclines, not to mention a few abrupt stops at inconvenient signs. A more loyal phone I've never owned. Surely it would have cost me more than a late fee to replace it.

On my way back home, I glanced at the phone, now safely nestled in the passenger seat, intact after its adventurous ride to the post office, and I felt like the luckiest fool in the world.

ONLY BORING PEOPLE GET BORED

I'm not sure anyone reads my little bitty nuggets of wisdom, but by popular request (that is, from my one avid commentator), have been summoned to write something, anything.
I've heard that only boring people get bored. I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit like that these days, what with Frances clear across the world having a big adventure and all. My life is rather tame in comparison, and even the vegetables I bring home from our double plot at the Community Gardens aren't as fresh or tasty as the news coming from Dubai.
Even though there is a certain degree of predictability in my life these days, I refuse to call it boring, or admit that I've become a bore. Boredom is a state of mind, and as long as I can travel vicariously to distant lands and see the world through someone else's eyes, there is not a dull moment to be had.