Here is my monthly Albuquerque Tribime column, New Wrinkles on Aging, published April 15:
Sneaky Labels, Slow Drivers - They Burn My Bacon
by Arthur Alpert
You do not have to be old to have peeves, but we ancient ones have had time to compile long lists. And time to feel more deeply about each vexation.
That is how my dictionary defines "peeve" - a vexation or grievance. So I will omit serious idiocies, those that boil the blood, and, of course, the "go postal" variety.
Ready? What kind of blankety-blanks leave their supermarket carts just where I want to pull in and park.
Inside the store, I find juice bottles so labeled as to move lots of sugary water off the shelves. I have a word for the marketing executives who affix those deceptive tags. The word is "Slimeball."
Too harsh? One brand of "juice cocktail" reads "100%." Ah, but look closely and it says, "100% vitamin," not 100% juice. Bet those labelers go to church Sundays, too.
I asked friends for favorite peeves. The eminently dignified Miriam Stucker cannot stand drivers who poke along at "two miles an hour" on major roadways. Because, she says, they provoke road rage in her.
Yeah. Me, too. And you know what? Those drivers often are – I cannot tell a lie – seniors.
My friend the Hispanic dentist (he likes anonymity) fears our fellow citizens who drive and talk on cell phones simultaneously. "They can’t be paying full attention," he says.
We had better get off the road. New Mexico driving could fill several columns.
Advertisers and newspapers bug me when they give only the store address. Say 456002 Menaul NE. Moriarty? Further east, in Hackensack, New Jersey? Where is it written that God will punish you for giving me a cross-street.
Speaking of the deity, I wish folks would quit telling me they’re Christian, Muslim , Orthodox Jewish, Mormon or born again, as if that tells me something about their behavior.
Ooops! That may be a blood-boiler. As another friend told me, "I don’t have peeves anymore. I have rages." Let us return to smaller stupidities.
Ever squeezed a plastic bottle from which the mustard flowed easily? Me, neither.
Then there is the 20-something store clerk of the female persuasion who calls me "Arthur." We have just met, don’t know each other, I am wearing my white hair and this Debbie person calls me "Arthur!"
Speaking of ignorance, please quit promising me "free gifts" that are "very unique."
Ah, language. I love huge corporations that call their mammoth divisions "our corporate family." Gag. Worse yet, some pretend to be human. How dare CBS tell me it "cares!"
I resent unpaid labor, too. Lately, I get to swipe my credit card myself (oh, joy), punch buttons and then sign my name on a receipt too skimpy to write on. Free.
Hey, all I ask is minimum wage.
Incidentally, the next clerk who looks at my credit card and asks for ID may get a knuckle sandwich. For my protection? How many thieves will use my card to get away with $3.85? And if there’s any cheating going on here, it’s the discount store (supermarket? gas station?) fibbing to Wall Street about its earnings and the IRS about its profits.
OK. I have vented. It is time now to think positively.
Or should I? If there’s anything I hate, it’s Pollyannas.
Let Alpert know what peeves you via ArthurAlpert@swcp.com.
His column appears the third Thursday of the month.