Pet Peeves

Don't Pass Me the Ball

I’m not a fan of organized sports, because – in my narrow range of experience – they don’t reward honesty.

Speaking as a former untalented yet not hopeless child athlete, I submit that team sports are unfair (feign surprise if you must).

For example, I played center field for five seasons of little league baseball, not because I lacked talent to play an infield position nor because I displayed particular aptitude for fielding long drives. Instead, I ended up sun-dazed in the suburbs of the actual baseball game because a series of lazy coaches assigned positions this way: “What position did you play last year, son?”

I played center field the first year I signed up for a baseball team. And even though I knew how the coaches assigned positions, I could not force myself during subsequent years to say “shortstop” or “catcher” or the names of other positions I personally preferred to play when these coaches casually inquired about my last season's occupation.

And so I spent most of my childhood a mile behind second base, my view of the sky obscured by a musty glove as I listened to the fading din of a coach screaming about his interest in the location of a ball that would never concern me.

I thought all of that would change the last year I played. During that year – the first season we would pitch without a machine – the coach introduced the team to a barrage of diagnostic drills. I should point out here that I was not a Pee-Wee Cy Young, but I didn't embarass myself. I was also a consistent hitter. But, as luck would have it, that year’s coach happened to be looking when a line drive nearly took my head off.

“Now, boys, I know you gonna be skiddish of the ball time to time,” he said, expectorating into the dirt. “But this is big boy baseball, and you gotta be fielding with your bare hand. That baseball ain’t gonna hurt you."

At risk of making too much of this coach's manners – especially considering that I had been known to make a few sand castles in the dugout and thought "brung" was a legitimate word until I was 19 – he really did have a way with words.

“Worst can happen is your gonna lose a tooth,” he added, a jet of swill popping through his jaundiced chompers.

Guess who ended up in the outfield? And guess who never played baseball again?

When I think about the several years I invested in baseball, all I can remember is the satisfaction of consuming post-game concessions, especially a gooey Star Crunch Cosmic Snack and a sweaty can of Moutain Dew.

I’m going to blame my lackluster performance in tennis on the pressure of our overzealous coach, who sometimes interjected with cheers like “make him bleed” or “don’t be the first person to ever lose a game to this kid!”

For the record, that was a close game.

In other tennis news, I didn’t realize I needed a partner for the Valentine’s Day Doubles Tournament. Actually, let’s not talk about tennis anymore.

The highlight of my young athletic career would have to be my stint as a student of Shotokan Karate, which, according to the prestigious Wikipedia, promotes “the notions of humility, respect, compassion, patience, and both an inward and outward calmness.”

Which sounds great until a grown man in a canvas house dress is advancing on you with a flurry of front kicks, grunting “Keyai!” the whole time. Also, just so you know, karate tournament judges do deduct points from your belt test if you become nauseous and vomit politely outside between warm-up and your Kata performance.

Another fun fact about karate: your second-grade class will find it very entertaining if you perform this choreographed series of karate moves apropos of nothing in the middle of a math test.

Now, before you point out that my pattern of athletic failures seems to revolve around my inability to admit that I may not have been exceedingly gifted or interested in the above activities, let me do some inoculation advertising by simply saying: I am aware of this fact.

I also don't want to disparage the efforts of dedicated coaches or the values of any particular sport.

But similar instances of coaching that are unfair – maybe even lazy, bizzarely aggressive, impractical or just downright confusing (karate) – absolutely qualify as pet peeves and make me even now dread the thought of stepping out of my parents' 1989 Aerostar van to attend practice. And, still, I say I could be playing shortstop today if it weren’t for my inability to lie about my athletic career in the outfield.

~ Will

I consistently hate inconsistent drivers

It's not difficult to drive a car. I know this because so many morons are on the road.

I don't care when people pass me. I don't even care if people are going slower than the speed limit in front of me. I can pass them with no problem.

But the people that can't decide whether to go five miles above or five miles below the speed limit have to be the biggest idiots out there.

Pick a speed, people! It's not personal if I pass you. It just means I'm more willing to get a ticket than you are. And if you feel the need to pass me, I'd better not catch up to you.

~Chandra

Stalker's Paradise

Now that Facebook is open to the public, anyone who has access to a computer can have access to your photos and your every thought -- if you allow it by making things public on your Facebook page.

I'm not going to lie...I browse Facebook from time to time, and by that I mean, every free moment I have. I have posted photos of me and friends, however, I am appalled at the amount of information some provide on their Internet pages.

Some of my friends update their moods with sad faces or happy faces to let everyone know how they are feeling at any given moment. They also update their status (the 'what are you doing right now' option at the top of a profile page) with random comments about where they are, what they are up to, how they feel, who they love/hate, etc.

Facebook was created in 2004, right when I got into college and EVERYONE on my dorm floor had a page...I wasn't cool until I signed up for facebook.

I remember my two closest friends coming into my room and helping me set up my personalized stalker's paradise...complete with interests, hobbies, marital status, favorite movies, etc.

A new feature was then added sometime last year, allowing users to see updates on their friends without having to actually go to their profiles -- it shows up right when you log in to the site! It will alert you when friends of yours have broken up, changed their address and any other action they've taken.

Don't even get me started on all the applications that are being added to the site, including rating friends by how much you like them, voting friends most desirable for marriage, taking various quizzes, joining people's entourages, giving friends gifts, etc, etc, and the list goes on.

If he weren't so cute, I'd be ashamed to admit that I have a virtual pet penguin named Pierre.

~Addie                  

Seatbelts Save

As a former seat belt naysayer, I can understand why some people don't like wearing them.

Children, however, are a different story.

I was on my way home the other day when I look behind me and see two adults in the front seat without safety belts. I get it. I know they're wrong, but I used to be them.

Then I saw the child, no older than five years old, bouncing up and down in the back seat. The adults weren't scolding him. They were laughing and they were handing him things as he leaned forward into the front seat area to get them.

What a bunch of idiots.

If you don't want to wear a seat belt and you really want to wrap your head around your dashboard, that's your business, but that child is depending on parents who know how to use the brain in their currently intact skull.

Fighting words? Maybe, but basically if you don't properly restrain your child in a safety seat or with a seat belt, or at least do the best you can to meet compliance, you're a BAD parent.

There are even a number of areas around Ohio that will check your child's safety seat for you and help you install it properly. 

There's no gray area here, folks. Regardless of whether your love for your children includes saving your own life so you can be there for them, you should make sure you do everything in your power to keep your children healthy and alive in the event you do something stupid on the road or someone else does.

I was driving down Ohio 199 the other day and slammed on my brakes just as some moron ran a stop sign at a high rate of speed. I was lucky. If I'd been hit, I may still have been lucky because I was wearing a seat belt.

If that group behind me had been hit? We'd have three more obituaries in the paper.

If I can't convince you to save yourself, please please please, at least save your children.

~Chandra

You say tomato, I say...

To those it may concern besides myself:

This post is in reference to the "Bargain Shoppers Go Postal" story in the April 29 edition.

Do you know anyone with a mistress' degree in journalism or education? In like fashion, there are no postmistresses; there are only postmasters.

I will grant you that Webster's College Dictionary does indeed have a listing for postmistress, but I would be greatly surprised if the AP Stylebook does so as well (that is, if AP stylebooks still exist).

Here are the one-line definitions from that dictionary: postmaster -- an official in charge of a post office; postmistress -- a woman in charge of a post office. My definition for a postmistress would be "woman after the 'other woman'."

Now I'm not calling for manhole covers to be renamed personhole covers, but I would think you would find the dictionary's distinction between postal leaders to be as bothersome as I do. Otherwise, maybe the two of you should be considered a reportress and editress, respectively. Ha.


I'm going to kiss my postmaster wife goodbye and go deliver some mail.

Patrick Magers

Jury Duty

I recently had a full blown tantrum at work about the uselessness of juries that could rival my 19-month-old son's outburst regarding vegetables.

If you've been on a jury before, I'm sure you felt important and maybe you were to that case, but most jurors probably don't care or want to be there to do their civic duty.

Parking is a nightmare (I'd be going to downtown Toledo) and the pay is lousy. The restrictions are also difficult to overcome. Depending on the case, you can't have a strong opinion about anything and if you do, you're ousted from the jury. I suppose that's a good thing, but how does it work exactly if it's supposed to be a jury of your peers?

The inner city drug dealer goes on trial and I doubt most of his jurors grew up in a neighborhood where drugs were rampant and somehow presented as a way to survive the daily challenges. His "peers" are probably the people who grew up in the suburbs and only saw the problems on the news while they were sitting around the table eating a home cooked meal.

And what about the doctor who finds himself in the hot seat? Considering being a professional, or so the paperwork for jury duty says, is a reason to get out of jury duty, I'm thinking he's not going to get a group of peers, either.

So I don't like the idea of juries. I don't like it and I never will and my rant at work was much more long winded and annoying than this one.

But Karma has a way of kicking you when you're down. I recently received my jury summons in the mail. *sigh*

I'm thinking of telling them if I have to report exactly what I think of the jury system. If I'm lucky, they'll send me home before I get too far. Then again, with my luck, they'll probably make a note to pull my name more often just to annoy me as much as I annoyed them.

I wonder if I can get my boss to confirm and not laugh through the excuse that, "You are so important to the operation of a business that your absence will cause that business to fail."

Probably not.

If I do make it on a jury, the trial had better be worth some laughs or it had better be a case entertaining enough for me to forgive them for the teasing I'm going to get from my co-workers.

~Chandra

Rot box - DAY 2

WOW!

Much better!

Now we all have a place to put our lunches.

This weekend we are defrosting the freezer.

Stay tuned...

Welcome to the rot box

We have a little black box at work.

Noooo, it isn’t a flight data recorder.

Some call it the refrigerator.

I call it the rot box.

It is the place leftovers (from last night, last week, last month, last year????) go to die.

It’s not like I care what kind of garbage is stashed away in there (geeeeez I’d be afraid to look inside those bags) and I know I am as guilty as the next guy when it comes to leaving my well-intended “lunch” sit in the black box a little too long.

But take a look at this fridge.

Pretty small, isn’t it?

Hard to believe it’s shared by more than two dozen people, huh?

If you haven’t looked inside the rot box lately where you work, take a look.

If you find your long-lost lunch, please eat it.

If you can't eat it, please remove it.

~Linda

Stop the MySpace madness

I admit that I am not an internet wizard.  I don’t blog or even fully understand the concept.  I prefer personal contact with people as opposed to virtual relationships.  Even though my significant other and I met through Match.com (we only ‘talked’ online a couple of times before we met in person), I have a REAL problem with MySpace.

I know a family who is in constant turmoil and crisis due to the postings on individual’s MySpace pages.  It has become the way for families to trash one another, choose temporary favorites, and in general create pain, division and heartache.  These people literally check what is being said about whom on a daily basis.  And what they post is vicious.  Truly vicious.  Secrets are shared and accusations made, keeping this family constantly at odds with each other.  And of course the harshest punishment for some perceived indignation is to be blocked. It’s the modern day version of locking an offending person in the attic, never to be heard from again.

Family is hard enough without all of this constant churning.  Forgiveness is hard enough without someone always stirring the pot of insecurity and hatred thanks to an online social tool.

And let’s not EVEN get me started on the perverts who can ‘steal’ a photo or bio from a MySpace page for their personal gratification…

- Kim

Good drivers wanted!

You know what I hate? I hate when I pass people going 10 miles below the speed limit only to look over and see that they're totally unaware of my presence.

Are they unaware because they're so intent on the road in front of them, their children are screaming so loudly they're about to pull over or because their car is somehow on fire? No.

While all of those are acceptable reasons to not be noticed, usually they're on their cell phone, eating, looking for something in a bag on the seat next to them, trying to tune their radio or reading.

I have done all of the above, except reading, so I can't complain too much. My pet peeve isn't with the fact they do these things. It's with the fact they have no common sense when it comes to doing it.

If you can't feel things out with your hands with only occasional glances to help you out, then you shouldn't do it and if you can't be on the phone without slowing to a crawl then get off the phone or off the road. Those are your only options that will allow you to stay anwhere near my good graces.

Reading, however, isn't something that should be done on the road. Checking a map or directions? Sure, I can see that. Again, it should be done in quick bursts.

A person shouldn't wait until they get all the way into Tiffin and into downtown before checking to see what street they need to turn off on. Figure it out before you have to pay attention to those pesky street lights. If your memory is that bad, then maybe you should re-think the whole driving thing anyway.

Then there are the real Einsteins of the driving world. They somehow manage to put on makeup, write or even type while driving. I'm not sure how it's done. I'm guessing it's not often successful.

So if you're out on the road, keep your eyes where they need to be and only deal with distractions if they're absolutely necessary and if you aren't near anything or anyone that could cause an accident.

No sandwich, story or lipstick is worth your life and it certainly isn't worth mine.

~Chandra