Pet Peeves

Y'know the little things that get ya down?
______________ Cell Block Tango, CHICAGO

My mother has so many pet peeves that she could fill a blog of her own with nothing else. A few:

sportswear worn outside of the gym, such as track suits,
sweatpants, football jerseys

two-piece bathing suits on girls younger than 14

long hair on women older than 50

weird, unpronounceable first names and the parents who give them

car commercials

It was bewildering keeping track of the endless list.

Today at the pool, a women gave me an earful about her pet peeve--people who swim wearing street clothes. She has a point, I guess. I never really thought about it before. What it made me think of is my own pet peeves. I have a few, but none so earth-shaking that I would corner a stranger to tell her about it. (Hence an optional-reading blog entry.)

two-liter pop bottles on the dinner table

the trend of WASP-y names of archaic occupations for boys--Hunter, Carter, Porter, Mason. I haven't yet met a Cobbler or Wheelwright, but maybe it's only a matter of
time.

However, is there a word for the nuisances above "pet peeves" on the Richter scale? I have tons of those, and Hart and Jeff keep inventing new ones and persisting in the old ones.

farting is not funny to me multiple times a day

someone in the room trying to carry on a conversation with me while I am on the phone with someone else. (To be fair to Hart and Jeff, there are scores of adults who do this, too.)

being woken up at strange hours of the night

being summoned to hear someone fart, belch or tell an unfunny joke for the 27th time.

I could live without the constant odd indoor noises made by humans, chirps, buzzing, humming, teeth-sucking, squealing, growling.

I would like other humans to turn and answer if they hear me speak their names.

Everyone over the age of ten should change clothes or dance naked in the privacy of their own bedroom or the bathroom.