Pet Peeves

While I’ve been curmudgeonly for most of my adult life, it has been a more recent phenomena—in the last ten years or so—that I’ve grown peevish. The slightest of things can send me into a petulant rant. For many of my waking hours I’m irritable and irascible, both ill- and short-tempered. While those around me might disagree, I find it all to be somewhat satisfying in a darkly humorous way.

For instance, Joe Buck’s incompetence as a sports announcer makes me laugh.

From the “Why Me?” category comes my frequent wondering if I am the only guy to need two remote-control things to operate one television? Afraid that I might realign the universe with an irresponsible action, I just look at the third remote on the coffee table and wonder what its role might be. It is a truly existential question.

I hate that Trump is still part of the daily news cycle. Every time I see his smirking mug on the television, I’m tempted to hurl the third remote at his image.

It was a major function of mine to tend to our grocery shopping. I like the task and can easily spend upwards of forty-five minutes wandering the aisles looking for inspiration, deals, etc. I also like bumping into friends and neighbors during these excursions, stopping to visit for a minute or two. My shopping forays were severely curtailed with the advent of COVID-19. That irritated me to no end. After eighteen months or so, I returned to the aisles that seemed no longer familiar. Had I lost my sense of direction? Was my mind playing cruel tricks on me? No, the store had simply performed a massive reset for which I might need a map.

Grocery store resets are cruel, the motive being to force consumers to spend more time looking for stuff that they once knew where they were. This seems unwise during a pandemic which, in Montana, is on the upswing.

It is for that same reason that vodka is always at the back of the liquor store. If one wants a bottle of Stoli, one must wander through the store’s entire inventory. Scotch, thankfully, is kept fairly near the front.

Food allergies are nothing to trifle with. The consumption of an unknown allergen can lead to anaphylaxis, which requires the use of a $550 EpiPen® (epinephrine injection, 0.3 mg) which is manufactured by the Viatris Company (a subsidiary of Mylan) whose CEO was Heather Manchin Bresch, daughter of Sen. Joe Manchin (D-WV). Bresch retired in 2020 with a $30.5 million golden parachute after overseeing the merger of Mylan and Upjohn.

Thank God my allergy to country music only makes me cringe and is remedied by changing the channel.

All of that notwithstanding, I recently read the ingredients on a jar of peanut butter to make sure it was safe to use in fooling the dogs when they need a pill. As a precautionary statement, a separate notation was that the product I was holding contained peanuts. Who knew?

I once saw a sign on the door of a store that announced that its “Pre-Xmas Sale” would end Dec. 24. Really?

Another sign I found amusing was on the door of a New York jewelry store I happened by. “Ears Pierced While You Wait,” it announced. Fifty years later, I still wonder if there might be another way.

When I use two of the remotes to watch some afternoon news program—or reruns of Chicago PD—I’m immediately greeted with Chris Berman (the ESPN announcer who yells whatever it is he has to say) and Ice-T (the guy who gave up rapping for playing a cop on Law & Order) trying to convince me to buy repair insurance policies for my beater automobiles. Try as they might, I’m just not ready to believe that they drive vehicles that aren’t under factory warranty.

Similarly, it’s painful to watch Joe Namath, J.J. Walker and George Foreman trying to be excited about a $1,700 windfall from Medicare. Other benefits including meals delivered to your home and free rides to medical appointments seem equally preposterous considering that none of the three, unlike much of their target audience, probably have to worry about paying their heating bills.

And speaking of truth in advertising, there aren’t enough images in the world of emus or guys who bear uncanny resemblances to a Afghan hounds to convince me that “you only pay for what you need” is a unique pricing policy.

I’ve bought enough insurance policies in my lifetime to know that, while the insurance industry is pretty much a bunco scheme, you do only pay for what you need after considerable attention is paid to any number of actuarial studies for determination. If you drive a twenty-year-old beater, like the ones driven by Chris Berman and Ice-T, you’re not expected to pay the premiums for the replacement value of a Rolls Royce.

And speaking of cars, how difficult is it to guide an automobile between two yellow lines in a parking lot?

I can’t remember the last time I went to a parking lot and didn’t see how some idiot had parked willy-nilly, taking up two spaces, or more, rather than the allotted one. Even without lines, like in early Spring when the snow and sand and plows have all but erased the paint, it’s pretty easy to park in such a way that provides access for others.

But if you’re worried about dents, dings, or scrapes, call Liberty Mutual and only pay for what you need. (Learning to park in a considerate way is much cheaper.)

I’d hazard a guess here that there are many drivers who don’t know what that stick on the left side of the steering column is for. Anecdotally, it seems that barely more than half want to let their fellow drivers know in advance of where they might be going at any given intersection.

I learned to drive on the Eisenhower Expressway in Chicago, and have spent a good number of years driving in New York City and Los Angeles. While I don’t profess to being particularly gifted at driving, I do use my turn signals, park between the yellow lines, and stay in the right lane unless passing.

In Montana, a place I dearly love, I’m convinced that a good percentage of drivers who grew up here learned to drive on dirt two-tracks and who parked as close to the barn as was possible. Cows don’t know what turn signals are for, but will move at the roaring rev of a glass-packed muffler. Those factors contribute to why I believe Montanans just aren’t suited to driving where there are other drivers.

This country was founded after tossing King George out on his royal keister during the Revolutionary War and yet many Americans seem totally enamored with the nefarious doings of the Royal family. Why?

If you’ve ever had the misfortune of eating at one of the too many Golden Corral restaurants—a sort of adult cafeteria to remind us why we preferred a sack lunch during middle school—you’d know that Ludwig van Beethoven would have never eaten there. And yet, they have the unmitigated gall to be using his “Ode to Joy,” a part of the last movement of his Ninth Symphony, as its advertising theme.

Haven’t we done enough? Have we no sense of decency…at long last? Have we left no sense of decency?

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Peas

I love peas and this is a particularly wonderful way to enjoy them with a piece of fish or butter-poached chicken. Frozen peas and pearl onions are perfectly acceptable. Enjoy!

3 Tbs. butter
1 Tbs. flour
1 cup water
4 Tbs. minced shallots
1 cup pearl onions, peeled
4 cups peas
salt
freshly ground pepper
2-3 Tbs. chopped fresh chives
2-3 Tbs. chopped fresh parsley
3 egg yolks
lettuce leaves to garnish

Melt the butter in a large pan, stir in the flour and cook over low heat to make a roux. Slowly add the water and stir until smooth. Add the shallots and pearl onions and cook, covered, over a low heat for 10 minutes. Add the peas, salt, pepper and herbs, cooking gently for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Drain the vegetables and add the egg yolks to the cooking liquor, one at a time, whisking briskly to ensure a smooth liaison. Stir the sauce into the peas and serve, garnished with the lettuce.