Perpetually Peeved

Get Yer Fat Pants On!

T minus 6 hours ’til bliss.  The only thing that peeves me about this wonderful holiday is that I can’t eat pumpkin pie for breakfast.

Brunch, on the other hand…

Buy yours today at

For more things I WON’T be shopping for on Black Friday, stop by the FB page today.  Bring your own atrocity, and don’t forget the wine.  Gobble! Gobble!

Adventures in Netherworld…

Just outside the city where I live, there is a complex of massive warehouses that get converted into haunted wonderlands each Halloween.  Zombies, goblins and strange ladies covered with doll heads roam the grounds.  Spooky music blasts from the speakers above and the screaming from inside drowns out the noise of the adjacent interstate.  People pay money to stand in line for over an hour and slowly walk through blackened tunnels that house myriad creatures waiting to jump out and force their hearts into overdrive.  Tonight, I will be one of those people.

This is one of the actual guys there... (photo courtesy of

The first and last time Mr. Peeved and I went to this haunted house, I thought I was going to die.  It went something like this:

Mr. Peeved: Are you going to be okay?

Peeved: Yes.  No.  Ack!  Does that lady have doll heads on her?

Mr. Peeved: It’s all fake, you know that, right?

Peeved: Why is she coming over here?  Make her not come over here!

Mr. Peeved: You can’t even handle waiting in line and you want to go in there?

Peeved: Aaah… aaah… she’s coming closer.

Mr. Peeved: They can see who’s scared and they’ll pick on you.  Pretend it doesn’t bother you.

Peeved: Okay.  No.  That’s not working.  Hold me.

Mr. Peeved: [eyeroll] You are ridiculous.  Get over here.


Peeved: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (I scream better than Janet Leigh on her best day)

Mr. Peeved: I. Can’t. Breathe.

Peeved: Sorry, but it was a clow…..AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Mr. Peeved: If you’re just going to close your eyes and bury your head in my back, why did we pay to get in here?

Peeved: Because it’s fun, it’s totally sca…  AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!  Oh my God, OH MY GOD, I’m going to die!

Mr. Peeved: You are not going to die.  It’s fake, remember.

Peeved: No, I’m going to have a heart attack and die.

Mr. Peeved: Well, that would make for a great date.

Peeved: Okay, maybe I’m exaggera… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!


Mr. Peeved: Can you stop stepping on the back of my heels?


Mr. Peeved: Okay, it’s almost over.  I have to tell you something.  Are you listening?


Mr. Peeved: Okay, when we walk out the back door, you’re going to think it’s over.  It’s not.  There’s going to be a guy that runs after you with a chainsaw.  There is no blade in the chainsaw.  Don’t freak out.  It’s fake.  Okay?


Mr. Peeved: Okay?

Peeved: Okay.

Mr. Peeved: It’s fake.  Now, come on, let’s go.




Don’t worry. If I die from fright, Mr. Peeved has already picked out my tombstone:

Here lies a guy named STAN… got too close to the ceiling fan.

Here lies an atheist named MOE… all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Here lies a guy named DRAKE… choked to death on a soggy cornflake.

Here lies a girl named SUE… she was killed by the guy that is standing behind you.

Here lies a girl named EMILY… she never shut up.

Revenge of the Mom

As mentioned here on numerous occasion, Biggie is a torturer extraordinaire.  Elevated from Jr. Secret Torture Agent to full-on, eye-rolling, foot-stomping, back-talking Secret Torture Agent once she officially turned 12, this girl is a handful.  Which is why, when the school newsletter came out with an article asking for parent volunteers for the fall dance, I sent that “I’ll do it” email faster than you can say, “honey, get my shotgun.”  Pass up the opportunity to keep an eye out (or as she likes to say, “spy”) on my middle-schooler?  No way. 

Seeing as I am in marketing, I sew, I throw parties, I make unique invitations, I take photos, I thought for sure I would get assigned a very cool task. 

I receive a response to my email and with much anticipation, double-click to see what wonderful job I am going to be assigned and it’s…. 

wait for it… 

wait for it… 

photo courtesy of


Peeved:  Honey, you know how you told me to sign up for something for that dance at Biggie’s school? 

Mr. Peeved:  Yeah, I think it would be a good opportunity… 

Peeved:  I know, I know, to spy on her, but… 

Mr. Peeved:  … to NETWORK with the other parents, Peeved.  And, to, you know, keep an eye out for boys dancing too close. 

Peeved:  Blah, blah, I got an email back – guess what I get to do for the dance? 

Mr. Peeved:  Decorations? 

Peeved:  No, the freaking concession stand. 

Mr. Peeved:  [insert 2.5 minutes of belly laughs here] How did you manage to get assigned the ONE THING you can’t do? 


Never one to let a wonderful opportunity pass me by, I decide to make the most of this.  You know, when life hands you lemons, make limoncello. 

Hey, if it's good enough for Danny Devito, it's good enough for me!

Overheard in the car on the way home from school yesterday: 

Peeved:  So, Biggie, you know that dance at your school this fall? 

Biggie:  Yeah…? 

Peeved:  Guess who’s going to be there. 

Biggie:  Mom.  You are NOT going.  Mom!  No! 

Peeved:  Yep!  And, guess what the best part is? 

Biggie:  This is not even funny.  You will ruin my life.  This is NOT a good joke.  Mom.  Mom! 

Peeved:  Oh, yeah, baby – concession stand! 

Biggie:  Wha?  How?  Huh?  Mom.  Mom!  MOM!  NO!!!! 

Peeved:  What’s the matter?  I’m just going to stand around and say, “HAWT DAWGS, GET YER HAWT DAWGS!” 

[Please imagine I sound like the lovechild of Delta Burke and Robert DeNiro after it has been dropped on it’s head a few times.] 

Biggie:  AAAAAHHHHH!!!! NO!!! SHUT UP!!!  MOTHER!!!!  NO!!!! 

Smalls:  Yeah, I’m gonna go too.  Mommy, can we dance there? 

Peeved:  Oh shawr dahlin’!  We’re gonna give away the hawt dawgs and dance to GaGa… “ga, ga, awl awl la la, ga ga, bad roooommmaaanncee…” 

[Insert dancing of the Elaine variety.] 

photo from

Biggie:  No.  Mom.  You can’t do this.  You will ruin my reputation. 

Peeved:  Aw shucks honey, I just wanna go enjoy myself.  Maybe sell some hawt dawgs and see that cutie guy you like – what’s his name again?  Connor?  “CON-NER – is that you dahlin?  Biggie just raves about how cute you are and ain’t she right… don’t you wanna come go ga ga for Ga Ga with me? ” Ga ga – awlalala… 

Biggie:  Mom.  No!  I don’t even like him anym… you have to be kidding.  You’re kidding right?  [hyperventilating]  Oh my… no!  No! No! No!  You. Will. Ruin. My. Reputation. 


You know what I learned from my 12-year-old?  Tenacity.  I kept it going for another hour or so – horrendous accent and all.  Back at the house: 

Peeved:  “Hawt Dawgs!”  Oohh Lordy, child!  Know what I’m gonna wear?  Your mama is gonna look so purdy!  I have just the thing. 

Smalls:  Oh, yeah, I’m gonna look pretty too, mommy.  Can we wear dresses? 

Peeved:  Bet your britches we can, sugar! 

Biggie:  No. You have to stop.  Don’t talk like that anymore.  I need to call Friend.  Why is Friend not answering?  You are going to RUIN MY REPUTATION!  You understand that, right? 

Peeved:  ga ga ow la wawl… 

Smalls:  cha cha bad romance…  come on mom, let’s ruin her reputation!  [insert mini-Elaine dance here] 

Peeved:  Oh yeah Smalls, get down! 


Peeved:  Ta da!  Sweetkins, doesn’t mommy look purdy? 

Biggie:  AHHHH!!! NO!!! WHAT ARE YOU WEARING????  [door slam – in the bathroom for rest of evening] 

Peeved:  What’s the matter sugarbottom? 

Biggie:  I’m holding a funeral for my reputation. 

Smalls:  Yeah, ma!  We ruined her reputation!  Seriously. 

I had changed into this dress and put my hair up Peg Bundy style: 

What?  It screams Ga Ga to me.  


Yes, revenge is sweet.  Now, pass me my limoncello!

Evil Genius
September 3, 2010, 9:52 am
Filed under: Anti-Peeves, General Peevery | Tags: , , , , , ,

Some evil genius put this outside of Smalls’ daycare this morning:

Mr. Peeved would kill me.

But, isn’t that black & white one just the cutest thing ever?


Yet, genius.

Thank heaven it wasn’t puppies!

Shh… Nobody Move!

Don’t make a peep.  I somehow finagled it so Biggie is out with a friend, Smalls is watching a movie and “camping out” in my room and I have a bottle of wine and Mr. Peeved’s fast, new laptop all to myself. [Insert evil laugh here.]  My BIG plans for the night? 



and this: 

  • The Idiot Speaketh
  • The Friggin Loon 
  • Thoughts Appear 
  • Trailer Park Refugee
  • You are What you Eat and Reheat
  • Fix it or Deal
  • Straight from Helle
  • Sargastic Irrevalence
  • Go, Pop, Go!
  • Conflicted Mean Girl
  • My Piehole Overfloweth
  • Shouts from the Abyss
  • The Life of Jamie
  • The Whatever Factor
  • Vodka and Ground Beef
  • Blurt
  • PB & Chutney
  • Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages
  • Misadventures of Average Girl
  • Girl Normal
  • and, last but not least, my good friend and commenter extraordinaire D’Ag at I Know I Made You Smile
  • Yes, folks it’s a regular old party.  If I failed to mention your blog, the evite must have gotten stuck in your Spam box.  Don’t worry, I’ve got you in my Blog Surfer.  Like any good party, the comments should get good after the second glass (especially since I’ve decided to forego dinner in order to get a better buzz, quicker).  Oh, and bring your friends – if I’m not reading someone I should be, let me know.  Things should get interesting! 

    Kind of like this... Don't know who this guy is, but apparently after a drink (or 7) we grew very close. So close, that I had to get a photo memento. Alrighty, then.


    Don’t worry, if anyone needs an aspirin tomorrow, I’ve got plenty. 

    This is the inside of my purse the other day... See that ziploc baggie?


    I swear officer, they're low-dose aspirin.


    Really, I just envisioned getting pulled over and going in for my license.  Don’t ask how these got in there.  It’s a long story involving a hellish day and a helpful friend.  

    Last night we went to curriculum night at Biggie’s school.  Mr. Peeved wanted to see Biggie’s locker to see how it was decorated.  I flashed him the pills, “Oh my God, wouldn’t it be funny if we pretended to bust her…[giggle]?…No?…Bad mommy?…Gosh, you used to be fun!”

    The World According to Smalls

    At the age of four, Smalls has to be the smartest person I know.  One of my favorite things in life are the conversations we have on our daily commute.  While my pocketbook is excited that she starts kindergarten next year, part of me is really sad that we won’t have our quality time anymore.   So, for now, I’m going to enjoy it while I can.  Here are five things I’ve learned from my four-year-old.


    Smalls: I love Connor.

    Peeved: Who is Connor?

    Smalls: The boy in my class.  In the brown shirt.

    Peeved: Oh, well, why do you love him?

    Smalls: Because, he is nice to me and he plays with me all the time.

    Peeved: Don’t you love the rest of your friends?

    Smalls: Yes, but I love Connor the most.  He makes mud pies with me and plays Scooby-Doo with me.

    Peeved: That’s why you love him the most?

    Smalls: Yep.  Mommy, do you want to know how much I love Connor?

    Peeved: Sure, honey, how much?

    Smalls: Look.

    I love Connor THIS much.

    Peeved: Wow, Smalls, that sure is a lot.

    Smalls: I know.

    Peeved: Well, does Connor love you back?

    Smalls:  Yep.

    Peeved: How do you know?

    Smalls: I already told you.  He plays with me.  He sits next to me.  He gets messy with me.  And, he gives me hugs before I leave every day.

    Peeved: Sounds a lot like love to me, peanut.


    Smalls: Mommy.

    Peeved: Yes, Smalls.

    Smalls: Mommy.

    Peeved: Yes, Smalls.

    Smalls: Mommy!

    Peeved: I hear you!  What?

    Smalls: Can you get my froggy?

    Peeved: What?

    Smalls: Can you get my little cute red froggy?  It fell on the floor.  There.  Behind your seat.

    Peeved: Well, I can’t right now, I’m helping your sister with her bag.

    Smalls: Well, you got two hands!

    I'm just sayin'...


    Mr. Peeved: Smalls, who’s the prettiest girl in the whole wide world?

    Smalls: Mommy.

    Mr. Peeved: Mommy is?  Not you?

    Smalls: Me, too.

    Peeved: Smalls, who’s the handsomest boy in the whole wide world?

    Smalls: Uncle Mike.

    Peeved: Don’t you mean Daddy?

    Smalls: No, Uncle Mike.

    Personally, I think her Dad had a point.

    4 — NEVER GIVE UP.

    Smalls: Mommy, can I have a dog?

    Peeved: No.

    Smalls: Why not? ‘Cause your allergic?

    Peeved: Um, yes, I’m allergic.

    Smalls: But, you could just stay in your room all day long.  You could watch TV and read books and Daddy and I can bring you food.

    Peeved: Tempting, but, no.  We have cats, those are your pets.


    Smalls: Mommy, what would happen if the cats died?

    Peeved: Well, Smalls, they would go to cat heaven.

    Smalls: And, then we could get a dog?

    Peeved: No, then we wouldn’t have any pets and we would be sad.

    Smalls: I wouldn’t be sad.  I don’t even like those cats.


    Smalls: Oh, mommy, look at that doggie.

    Peeved: It’s so cute, Smalls.

    Smalls: Yep, I want one just like it.

    Peeved: Black and white?

    Smalls: Yes, but small and fluffy like Aunt Banana’s dog.  You know Aunt Banana is not allergic to dogs.  I could live at her house.

    5 — YOU SHOULD ALWAYS SING LIKE NO ONE ELSE IS LISTENING. (And, you may want to lay off the RockBand!)
    *Click on the photo – it should take you to a Flickr video.  It’s too late in the day and I don’t have patience with WP to try and figure out why it’s not embedding properly.*

    Haiku! Gesundheit.

    This spam comment has been sitting in my filter for a couple of days now.  I don’t have the heart to delete it.  It’s just absolutely begging for someone to do something creative with it. 

    I am not that person.

    Unlike a myriad other people who want to write drivel and pass it off as poetry,  (gag), I will not fool myself into thinking that the ability to count syllables makes me a poet.  However, I will enjoy laughing at you fools trying to make haikus out of the following words:

    Because, I’ve had a bad week and need a laugh.  You’ll humor me, no?  Those that do will be rewarded with an extra helping of snark this afternoon.

    {A reminder about the American version of haiku format – three lines, 5 syllables first line, 7 syllables second line, 5 syllables third line.  And, don’t go trying to show off and do it the right (Japanese) way.  You’ll just confuse us lowly-brained folk.}

    Here’s my submission for the Nobel Prize in Literature:

    leadership, far cry

    assess system carefully

    appoint lady now

    Me 2.1

    Apologies, I am my mother’s daughter.  When I said I had a post coming late Friday night, what I really meant was almost midnight on Sunday.  I’ve spent the weekend touring kiddie jump places and drinking vodka.  Don’t judge. 

    Last Wednesday, I had a wonderful dinner with a fellow blogger and photographer (she would probably protest me calling her that, but her pictures speak for themselves) – Katie from You Are What You Eat… or, Reheat.  She was taking pictures of Biggie and Smalls because, of course, while they jump up and down and simultaneously cross their eyes every time I’m behind the camera, when it’s a stranger they are all blinking eyelashes and smiles.  

    Katie (to Biggie): You are so pretty, you take great pictures, you could be a model. 

    Biggie:  Actually, I’m going to be a marine biologist. 

    Peeved’s Friend (yes, I have at least 1): Well, you could model to pay for school to be a marine biologist. 

    Peeved:  Yeah, mommy modeled a little when I was in high school.  You could do that. 

    Biggie:  You?  Modeled?  [giggle fit] 

    Peeved:  Yes.  And, I wouldn’t laugh if I was you.  You look just like me when I was your age.  I wasn’t always old, you know. 

    Biggie:  Yeah, I look just like you.  But, prettier. 

    Well, at least we don’t have to worry about self-esteem issues.  Biggie is my mini-me in more ways than just looks, she also inherited my smart-ass attitude and ability to tell the honest truth.  To prove to her that she does, in fact, look like me when I was her age, I pulled out some old photos.  She chose the photo of me that she thought looked most like her and recreated the look for a photo shoot.  

    Me 1.0


    Me 2.1 (Now, new and improved)


    The next day, we were sitting down for dinner. I had just picked up Biggie from school and she was telling me about her day.  

    Peeved: How was school today? 

    Biggie:  Good.  Another boy asked me out. (This is the 4th in the past week.) 

    Peeved:  Oh, did you make him fill out the survey your stepdad requires? 

    Biggie: Nah, he wasn’t worth it.  Guess what? 

    Peeved: What? 

    Biggie:  I wrote the best poem ever.  You want to hear it? 

    Peeved:  Sure… (getting on the game face…) 

    Biggie:  Okay, the assignment was to tell where you are from. 

    Peeved:  All right, bring on the ode to Long Island pizza. 

    Biggie:  No, mom, this is really good.  It’s the best poem, like, in the world. 

    I am from chlorinated pools, from law firms and from the restaurant business. 

    I am from the little, one story house. Small, comforting and the one that I sleep in. 

    I am from the venus fly trap outside, by the tree.  Vicious, yet gentle in its own way. 

    I am from smudging my name on my cake and loud laughing. From [dad’s name] and Emily.  I’m from the spoiled brats and mean little cousins. 

    I am from will you trust me. 

    I am from sleeping late and then eating and falling asleep again. 

    I am from many cousins and family members.  From flan and cheese eggs. 

    Biggie:  So, what’d you think? 

    Peeved:  I think that was the best poem, in the whole wide world. Like, ever. 

    Yep, like me, only prettier, more confident, less modest.  Me at 12 years old. 

    Eat that, Martha

    In the past, I have found myself watching Martha Stewart and thinking, “yeah, freaking right.”  Who makes napkin rings out of stuff you blow out of your gutters?  And, why is everything half done when she starts and *poof* magically finished when she comes back after the commercial?  I’ll tell you why because she’s a sham.  Now, I may be completely inept when it comes to athletics, cooking and anything else that requires eye-hand coordination, but I like to consider myself crafty.  I can sew like a mother…  well, let’s just leave it at that.  But, for some reason, I’ve never been able to do Martha-ish type crafts.  I’m the type of person that buys a sewing pattern and winds up doing it my own way because they “aren’t doing it right.” Yet, a simple Martha thing, like decorating a cake, eludes me.    

    One year, I made Biggie a Spongebob cake. I thought, “how hard could this be?”  Borrowed my sister’s Wilton cake decorating set (yes, she is a Martha wannabe – and better at it than I am), bought the Spongebob mold and set to work.  Except, in this case, work was a euphemism.  That crap was HARD.  After sweating, cursing and stomping my foot for 5 hours I finally had a Spongebob cake.  It was beautiful.  Biggie took one look and said, “Um, his pants are the wrong color.”  The wha???  I’d smash this cake in your face if I’d had already taken a picture.  Not wanting the frosting to melt, I stuck it in the freezer.  Then, that morning, not wanting the cake to be frozen, I stuck it in the fridge.  When I pulled it out to serve it, the black surrounding his eyeballs had leaked and it looked like Spongebob stole Mr. Krabs’ company credit card and spent the weekend in Vegas with Patrick.     


    Sorry, this is turning into a short story long.  Anyway, last year I spent a lot of money for a custom-made cake at Smalls’ party.  I took one look and thought, “I could have done that — and better.”  So, this year, I did her cake myself.  Which could have gone one of two ways:  bad or very, very bad.  You’ll have to read to find out which, but I’ll give you a clue:  this is an anti-peeve.     

    And, this week it is a pictorial/tutorial hybrid.  Posted especially for those who have ever wanted to know how to make an alligator cupcake cake well enough to tell Martha to shove it!    

    Step 1:  Rip off someone else’s idea.  Mine came from Hello! Cupcake via the interwebz.    

    Yes, I'm OCD -- you got a problem with that?

     Step 2: Go to the store and contemplate buying the pre-made cupcakes, scraping off the frosting and topping them with the green frosting in a can.  Decide this wouldn’t be right and you’ll just have to convince your wonderful husband to make the cupcakes (Remember the last time honey?  When I accidentally left the stove on all night?) and frosting (I’m going to buy the canned stuff.  What do you mean ‘only the best for your girl?’) for you.    

    Step 3: Purchase all your “ingredients.” Try to ignore the fact that by the time you are done buying all the crap to make the cake yourself, that you could have just gotten one from the Publix supermarket.    

    Yeah, that's about $25 right there.

     Step 4:  Put Dora Season 2 on Netflix, make the kid a cheese sandwich and tell her she must have a Dora party for all her ZhuZhu pets to practice for her own Dora party tomorrow.    


    Step 5: Use schematic to calculate that you need some type of board to put the cake on that measures at minimum 22″x12″.  Curse under your breath until you remember that booster seat box you have been bugging your husband to put down in the basement is still sitting next to the back door.  Grab a bread knife and cut off a side.  Measure it and sigh a big sigh of relief.  Plenty big.  Curse under your breath because you know your husband will say, “see,” as if he knew you would need to perform surgery on the box and left it there on purpose.    

    Step 6: Line the cardboard with aluminum foil.  Or, not.  Sometimes, being crafty means more than just mimicking Martha.  Sometimes (like, when you are out of aluminum foil), it means you need to improvise.    

     Step 7:  Set up your cupcakes on the board in the shape of an alligator.  Be sure to use the varying cupcake heights to your artistic advantage and resist the urge to get in the car, drive to the supermarket and just buy the perfectly sized cupcakes you wanted to buy in the first place.   


    Step 8: Make the white frosting green.  Discover the secret to Madonna’s ridiculously toned biceps.  I bet Lourdes and Rocco have a homemade cake for dinner every night.   


    Step 9: Look longingly at the bottle of wine. Decide if you can’t frost a cake sober, you’re not giving yourself a fair shot if you open it. Even if it is only a half a glass.  


    Step 10: Start to frost the cake.  Realize you can’t frost air and fill the “holes” with marshmallows.  


    Step 11:  Realize that “someone” is also snapping pics for a tutorial.  Take a break to get some love and presumptive compliments on how your alligator cake is “beautiful.”  


    Step 12: Finish frosting and apply candy adornments.  



    Step 13:  Pat yourself on back.  Walk over to bottle of wine to open.  See you have a new text on your phone.  Read text from husband, “Hey – did u measure the fridge? Don’t want it to wobble trying to get it in.”  Reply, “Um, of course not.  Doing that now.”  

    Shit! Why must he be right all the time? And, MAN, time to go food shopping.

    Step 14: Thank the stars above that your husband is in the restaurant business.  Clear out the trunk.  Start the AC.  Load the kid into the car.  Load the cake into the car. Drive like an octogenarian the 1.5 miles to hubby’s workplace.  Hand over the cake and pray that it doesn’t end up next to the trout in the walk-in, because while you want it to look like it came from a swamp, you don’t want it to taste like it came from a swamp.  

    Step 15:  Officially accept Mother of the Year Award. Resume patting yourself on back.  Post blog entry about how Martha can suck it!  

    Yes, that says "Mother of the Year." Yes, my huge eyes are freakishly blue, I have no hair, my face looks like my Irish grandfather's, my left arm is longer than my right and I'm doing a split, but it's a step up from two months ago when my arms were coming out of my head.

    Betcha couldn't do that in jail, now could you Marty?

    The hostility log & I love “Anger”

    Two things have made me happy this week (well, two things I am willing to share).  So, this post will be a two-part anti-peeve.  You will get your fill of angst in my super-duper birthday edition either later today or tomorrow.  Such a tease, I know.

    Up first, we have the highlight of corporate training.  Earlier this week, I blogged about the Sexual Harassment training.  Well, yesterday, we had Conflict Resolution training.  Yes!  My favorite.  I love when the top sheet of the handout says, “Anger Management.”  We started with a little personality test.  Love those…  really.  Why don’t you just read me my horoscope?  Anyway, I’m a jazz musician.  That means I’m creative and like to “think outside the box.”  (Sorry, that sound was me gagging.)  It also means I evade conflict.  Another type of personality, the classical musician, avoids conflict.  What’s the difference, you ask?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Because I hit up  Evading conflict means that you avoid it through cleverness or trickery.  Now, that actually makes sense.  Kind of the point of this blog.  Avoid the actual conflict, but still get my bitch out in a creative way.  Lucky readers.

    Okay, poor hapless souls that are stuck in this training, I would like you to turn to page 6 of your packet.  There you will see a very powerful tool from a great site called  Oh, yes.  There it is.  The highlight of my week:

    This is like a worksheet for blog entries.  Okay, so the third column is completely unnecessary.  (Of course it’s justified.)  But, other than that, this could be a template for my daily posts.  I’m considering a name change to “Perpetually Hostile.”  In which case, I would have to use Bearman’s cartoon as my Gravatar. 

    Which, leads me to the second thing that made me happy this week.  Bearman is creating cartoons for each of the seven deadly sins.  They are genius, really.  Check them all out at  Here’s my favorite:

    The resemblence is scary! 🙂

    Anyone else think some t-shirts are in order?  Which would you wear?
    Happy weekend!

    %d bloggers like this: