It's the Little Things

Ever since writing about the splinter in my foot that I thought would go away on its own, and since writing about the mall kiosk kids who jump out at you like the "boo!" hiders in hide-and-seek, a certain song by Robert Earl Keene keeps running in my mind, a song Will likes to sing with his guitar.

It's called "the Little Things."  It has the beginnings of a good country love song, but the narrative takes an unexpected turn.

Here's a snippet:

It's the way you stroke my hair while I am sleepin'
It's the way you tell me things I don't know
It's the way you remember I came home late for dinner
Eleven months and fourteen days ago

It's the little things the little bitty things
Like the way that you remind me I've been growin soft
It's the little things the itty bitty things
It's the little things
That piss me off.

It is, indeed, the itty bitty things, idiosyncratic annoyances, that can drive me up the proverbial wall:

An irritable honk from the car behind you with a fist raised meant to teach you a driving lesson. (You know exactly the expletives the male driver is shouting  because you've been a passenger in cars driven by men who say those things to women drivers who don't accelerate to make the red lights.)

A hovering waiter who interrupts your conversation to ask you and your dinner mate "Is everything okay?" every five minutes.  And the question when they want to remove your plates: "Are you still working on that?"

Certain sounds: nail files and the crunching of raw apples--even if it's me doing it; babies screaming in stores and restaurants; the music you have to listen to while on hold for customer service.

What are your itty bitty things?