Ahh, the small things in life: the smell of fresh brewed coffee, dewdrops on a blade of grass, Ross Perot. Oftentimes, we are told to stand back and appreciate the small things in life. After all, it’s about perspective, and where we stand affects our outlook of practically anything, like peering over the seafood counter at a grocery store, only to see an employee sifting through moist tilapia filets crammed into a large, overflowing Tupperware container with a cracked lid. Well, one would hope that was an employee. As it is with perspective, there are some small things that just can’t be appreciated. Like a grain of errant pepper in the eye, some are downright irritating. Here are some of the small things in life your Mountain Times staff does not appreciate:

Frank Ruggiero: The Fatal Drop of Marinara

I’m not a greedy fellow. I share my coffee with coworkers in need. Every month, I give $100 to vagrant beggars, who, in turn, provide me with cable service. And when I take candy from babies, I always make sure they never notice. So, it practically goes without saying that I don’t mind sharing my lunch with others, provided they’re not hyenas or Dick Cheney. Or my shirt.

Admittedly, I should’ve known better than to dine at Bozo’s Bistro & Pie Factory.

There was a month or so when I could not eat a single meal without sharing part of it with my shirt, sometimes my trousers. And every precautionary measure I took seemed to backfire. Leaning ridiculously far over the table would result in one of my sleeves brushing over some sort of sauce or condiment. Eating slower only resulted in a gradual mess. Wearing a bib made me feel like some bearded manchild.

Even food items that would not seem messy proved to be quite the match for my wardrobe; especially clothing that had just been washed. For instance, when eating a sandwich, a stray piece of shredded lettuce would latch on to my shirt and leave what I can only describe as a lettuce stain in its leafy wake. As the month wore on, I began to choose the day’s outfit based on what I might be eating. Eat-Soup-With-Your-Hands Day was always the hardest, but my plan seemed to work. Things would spill on my shirt but were barely noticeable. That fatal drop of marinara became a secret memento from a meal past.

As I grew to accept this sloppy fate, the incidents became fewer and further between. The spill spell had run its course. But that’s not to say I don’t keep a small supply of stain remover handy. After all, one must appreciate the small things in life.

Caroline Monday: Cat Hair, Cat Hair Everywhere

When it comes to cat hair, Caroline would rather keep the cat IN the bag.

There is no doubt about it, I am well on my way to becoming a crazy cat lady. Generally, I’m OK with that; I love having my two cats, and I come from a long line of animal lovers. However, there is one major drawback to being a cat lady: cat hair. It is small but mighty, and it is taking over my life.

I have a love/hate relationship with cat hair. It is the thing that makes my pets so cute and cuddly. I love cat hair when it is still on the cat. When they shed it, however, it’s a different story.

There is really no time when I do not have cat hair all over my clothes and furniture. It has migrated to places where the cats never go, like my car and office. I bring a little piece of my pets with me wherever I go. And, there is no vacuum attachment or lint roller strong enough to clean it all up.

Despite the trouble cat hair causes me, I’m not going to give up keeping my pets or start adopting hairless cats. I’ll just have to start thinking of the hair covering my clothes as a kind of badge, letting the world know that I am, indeed, a cat lady. I know I’m not the only one out there; I can see the hair on other people’s clothes, too.

Jeff Eason: Foggy Drivers and Classic Rock

In case you haven’t noticed, we live at a relatively high elevation. As a result, this area is prone to fog.

The Boss sez, “Quit wearing out Born to Run and give my new album a spin.”

Sometimes it is a light fog…and at other times it feels like we’re caught in an episode of Dark Shadows. The majority of drivers in the High Country use the common sense their mamas gave them and turn on their headlights when it is foggy. I really don’t know what to say about the other drivers, whose cars seem to materialize out of nowhere when it is foggy. Let me explain this to them, using headlights in the fog is not so you can see better. It’s so we can see you better. I know gas is expensive right now, but I absolutely guarantee you that using your headlights will not decrease your gas mileage, no matter what your brother-in-law thinks.

And while I’m on the little-things-that-annoy-me soapbox (feels kind of good up here), what’s with these classic rock radio stations? (I’m looking at you, The Ride.) They make their bread and butter on songs by artists like Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen and Steely Dan. But they won’t touch a new album by these same artists. I realize that the new stuff isn’t “classic” yet, but they could at least acknowledge that these musicians aren’t in the graveyard. Set aside an hour or two a week for new music by classic artists, and I bet your listeners would make a point to tune in. You can start with the new Springsteen song, “Livin’ in the Future.”

Melanie Davis: Noisy Neighbors

It has happened to all of us – you are sound asleep, cozy in bed, when suddenly the walls are vibrating and you awaken thinking an earthquake has struck the mountains.

Research with mice shows video games can be addictive.

Noisy neighbors who show a complete lack of consideration are my pet peeve. Apartment dwelling can equal a loss of sleep and damage to the eardrums. Why are apartment buildings not constructed with six to eight inches of sound-proof insulation? That would make for happy, neighborly relations.

I try to be courteous with my noise level, often turning the volume down during action films and watching the placement of my stereo equipment to prevent setting it against a shared wall. Why is this a difficult concept?

I have several times, however, had to turn up my radio while I am reading just to hear it above my neighbor’s video game. At one point, I could decipher when they went to the next level, from both shouting and the bells and whistles of the game. I suppose my distaste also comes from the fact that I don’t play video games.

The furniture in my apartment has been rearranged to be as far from one wall as possible. Forget Feng Shui, hearing my own music as it was meant to be heard is more important. The bass thumping through the walls turns my classic rock into an unauthorized remix with the added bonus of vibrating baseboard heaters. It is unfortunate that I have never been a fan of remixes.

I placed an audio-recorder in the middle of the bedroom, in the hopes of proving to myself that it wasn’t really that loud. What I didn’t expect was for the small device to actually record an audible drum beat.

I haven’t deleted the recording. I like to play it while scouring the real estate section of the classifieds, looking for a house in the middle of an open field.