Perpetually Peeved


Mommy’s Law

There’s this thing that happens when you become a mother.  This magical, torturous transformation that turns your butt (or, what’s left of it), into something akin to the bat signal.  Somehow, the nanosecond my ass hits a seat, a phone starts ringing in my family’s brains.  Ring… ring… ring…  time to need something from Peeved.

The other night, after a long day at work, a long drive home, a long getting the kids to eat dinner process, an even longer checking the homework and getting them to bed process, I finally got a chance to sit down.  Deciding not to get too ambitious (you can’t really relax until they’ve been down for a good 30 minutes), I reached past my book and picked up a magazine.

This is not just any magazine.  This is the best magazine ever.  A dear friend renews my subscription every year for Christmas and it’s my favorite present.  It only comes once every two months (or, at least it feels that long between issues).  Bookmarks magazine is to book lovers what Cosmo is to trashy 20-year-olds.  I have picked up some killer reads based on their recommendations that I ordinarily would not have even looked twice at.  As you can tell, I was writhing with anticipation to get my hands on it. 

I tiptoed out of the bedroom, down the hall, quickly past the kitchen (where my husband was cooking up some yums) and quietly as I could, sat down on the couch.

[Ring, ring, ring…]

Mr. Peeved:  Hey, Peeved, come here for a second.

Peeved:  What?

Mr. Peeved:  I need to talk to you.

Peeved:  What do you want to talk about?

Mr. Peeved:  I can’t talk to you from the other room.

Peeved: [then why are you trying? Maybe if I pretend I don’t hear him.]

Mr. Peeved:  I know you can hear me.  I also know you just sat down.  Now, stop being lazy and get in here.

Peeved: [Dammit!]

 Other Mommy’s Laws?

  • They never volunteer to go to the bathroom until right after you say you have to go.  Then they are racing to get there first.
  • The baby always wakes up right as you’re about to put the first bite of food in your mouth.
  • If you order them a kid,s meal, they won’t eat it.  If you don’t order them a kid’s meal, they’ll eat all your food (usually while perched atop your head and rubbing BBQ sauce into your shirt).
  • They’ll never remember they need three bottles of dishwashing liquid, a can of coke and a squeegee for science class until 10:00pm the night before and after you’ve already had 3 beers.
  • The second the opening credits for your show are over, WWIII will break out in the next room and you’ll have to play Switzerland.
  • If you try to close the door to the office and play around on the internet, the child will stop whatever game she was happily playing and demand that you play with her.  If you stop and go play with her, she will inevitably tell you that you aren’t doing it right and proceed to play on her own without you.

Please, just bury me with my Bookmarks magazines and a Kindle.  Looks like that will be the only “me” time I see in my (hopefully, distant) future.



Lights, Action, Consequence
The Department of Torture has created a hybrid monster it likes to call the Big Granny.  This abomination rears its ugly heads when Biggie, the attitude-infused pre-teen/Secret Torture Agent joins forces with Granny, my mother and Chief Torture Agent, Division of Family Services.   

They are like the Zippleback of How to Train Your Dragon, except, less cute.

Peeved:  Biggie, I need you to put away those [completely inappropriate] clothes Granny just bought you and lay out your outfit for school tomorrow

Biggie:  Ugh.  God, Mom, I KNOW. [eye roll, drawer slam, foot stomp – she is only this coordinated when pouting] 

Peeved:  A simple, ‘yes, Mom’ will suffice.  The receipt for those clothes is still in the bag.  Talk to me like that again and I will have no problem returning them. 

Biggie: I am!  I’m doing it!  Gosh, Mom! [throws hands up in air, gives look of death, stomps foot again] 

Peeved: Biggie… 

Granny:  Oh, give her a break, she’s tired. 

Peeved: I’m sure she is.  I’m tired too, it’s no excuse for talking to me that way. 

Granny:  Oh, come on, she’s medicated. 

Peeved:  Mom, it’s Tylenol Sinus! [eye roll, foot stomp, look of death] 

See, much less cute.

If Lindsay Lohan didn’t have Dina doing such a bang-up job of coming up with excuses, I’d have to recommend my mother for the position.  I don’t know if you’ve seen the Matt Lauer interview with Dina Lohan, but she pretty much blames everyone else for Lindsay’s problems.  It’s the judge’s fault.  The judge was “coming down hard” on her.  This, of course, is true because the Judge is currently being recused.  What?  Lindsay is on her fourth stint in rehab and still, we can’t admit there may be a problem that has nothing to do with external forces?  The biggest mistake that judge made was not also ordering Dina to the Betty Ford Clinic for families of addicts. 

Call the engraver, we need to change "Mother" to "Enabler" - this makes me sad to be associated with Long Island.

Every Monday, I grab a beer, sit down and put on one of my favorite shows – Intervention on A&E.  (Yes, I realize how wrong that is.)  It’s so compelling to watch these people and their real-life struggle with addiction.  I love that the show actually keeps it real and portrays what happens when addicts face an intervention and go to rehab.  What happens is, about half or more relapse.  I used to try to guess which ones would make it and which ones would not.  However, that game got too easy to be any fun.  You can tell who was going to make it by their families.  If there was one – it only takes one – enabler in the group, they were done-zo.  I don’t understand this.  I literally yell at my TV.  It’s like watching a horror flick when the girl goes towards the weird sound instead of hiding in the closet and calling 911.   

Addict:  I don’t even have a problem.  I’m not even going.  

Good Family Member:  If you don’t go, then I will no longer let you stay at my house.  I will no longer let you borrow my car.  I will refuse to give you more money. 

Addict: That’s fine.  I’ll just ask Mommy. 

[Peeved:  Don’t do it Mom.  Stay strong.  Remember what Candi said, you will no longer let them kill themselves in front of you.  You are only helping her die.] 

Bad Mommy:  We love you, we just want you to get better. 

Addict:  Are you going to cut me off, too? 

Bad Mommy:  [crying, showing weakness] 

[Peeved:  No!  Bad Mommy! No!  Well, dammit, I give her about 10 days before she starts drinking the mouthwash.] 

I told you.

Parents need to stop giving kids excuses for why nothing is their fault.  Hollywood or not, there is no such thing as consequences anymore.  For my kids, I want life to be something they live, not just a series of things that happen to them.  The Dina Lohan’s of the world need to put on their big girl panties and start doing the difficult job of parenting.  No excuses. 



What we have here, is a failure to communicate

My 4-year-old, Smalls, and I ride home from work/school together every day. This half hour is usually spent singing, making up stories, or asking, “why” until my head is about to explode.  The other day, we were discussing our plans for the weekend. 

Smalls:  Mommy, I want to go to the movies tonight. 

Peeved:  You do? 

Smalls:  Yes, I want to see ‘Ispicable Me.  It looks so funny, it has these cute little yellow guys.  They are not like bugs and they are not like aliens and they go, “beep beep wonk” and one of them only has one eye, but the rest have two and they are yellow.  And little.  And cute. 

Peeved:  Okay, we’ll ask Daddy if he wants to go the movies tonight. 

Smalls:  Yeah, I want to see those cute little yellow guys in ‘Ispicable Me. 

Peeved:  What was the name of that movie again? 

Smalls:  ‘Ispicable Me. 

 

Peeved:  Okay, it sounds like a great movie. 

Smalls:  I also want to see Oserersappren Sim.  It looks really good, there is this little baby dragon and he snuggles up to the boy.  I want a dragon.  Mommy are dragons real?  Can I get one. 

Peeved:  No honey, dragons are just make-believe.  So you can’t get one. 

Smalls:  Well, I need a pet, can I PLEEEAAASSSEEE have a dog? 

Peeved:  You have cats. Ask Daddy about the dog.  What was the name of that movie again? 

Smalls: Oserersappren Sim.  Can’t we get rid of the cats? 

Peeved: No. They’re our pets. Oserersappren Sim? 

Smalls:  No.  Oserersappren Sim. 

Peeved:  That’s what I said, Oserersappren Sim. 

Smalls:  No, say it with me: Os-er-er-app-ren-sim. 

Peeved:  Os-er-er-app-ren-sim. 

Smalls:  No. OSSERERAPPREN SIM! 

Peeved:  You don’t have to yell, I got it: Osererappren sim. 

Smalls:  No, mommy.  You’re not saying it right. 

Peeved:  Well, I don’t understand you. I don’t understand what you are trying to say. 

Smalls:  Okay, I’ll say it louder: OSSERERAPPREN SIM! 

Peeved:  I still don’t know what you’re saying.  What happens in the movie? 

Smalls: I already told you, there’s a dragon and a boy.  Forget it mommy, you aren’t understanding me.  I said it slow and I said it loud and you still aren’t saying it right.  Daddy will know.  And he’ll get me a puppy. 

In other words Mommy, you suck.

 

When we finally arrive home, I find help in my 12-year-old, Biggie.  She apparently is still on the cusp of kid and teenager and can translate well enough. 

Peeved:  Smalls, tell Biggie the name of that movie about the dragon and the boy. 

Smalls (to Biggie): Oserersappren Sim. 

Biggie:  Oh, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.  But, I don’t think she should see that movie.  It looks scary for her. 

Peeved:  SORCERER’s APPRENTICE?  That’s what you were saying? 

Smalls:  YES!  I told you.  Oserersappren Sim! 

  

There is probably no more frustrating thing than having a conversation with someone that you don’t understand.  Except, maybe having a conversation with someone that doesn’t understand you.  This exchange made me realize just how many of my peeves are centered around communication.  Yes, ladies and gents, time for another list of “rules.”  

How to have a conversation with Peeved: 

1.  Contrary to popular belief, I do not have a mental deficiency.  There is  no need to follow any statement with, “Does that make sense?” 

2.  If I am standing in front of a sink with running water or am in another room in the house separated by a solid wall, I can’t hear you. 

3.  Don’t ask me, “what?” if you heard what I said. 

4.  If we are disagreeing on something, repeating your point over and over and over is not going to make me change my mind.  It will only cause regression to childhood argument tactics and I am the master of the “Yes you are, No I’m not” game. 

5.  When I ask you a question or call your name, it is only polite to acknowledge that you heard me even if you are thinking about the answer. 

6.  Every question does not need to be prefaced with “Mommy” — I will change my name to Penelope Humperdink.  Can’t pronounce that?  Hmm… that’s the point. 

7.  If you don’t know me, don’t shorten my name.  It’s not that long and it is pronounced phonetically. 

8.  Don’t use my name repeatedly in conversation.  That’s just creepy.  I don’t care what your infomercial memory booster networking tool told you to do. 

9.  Look me in the eye when you are talking to me.  Unless you have one of those floating eyes – then, let’s both look somewhere else because, that’s just awkward. 

10.  I don’t want to tell what shampoo scent you have when you’re talking to me.  Ever seen that Seinfeld episode?  I’ve got a pocket of space reserved for me, my husband, and my immediate family – you don’t want to cross it. 

11.  Don’t say “forget it.”  Nothing in the world ticks me off more than not knowing how something ends and/or getting resolution.  You don’t understand.  I can’t forget it.  It will bug the crap out of me until you just tell me. 

12.  Don’t say “I’ll tell you later.”  Nobody likes a tease. 

13.  Don’t answer the question before I’m done asking it.  If you could read minds, you would have your own show on the Psychic Friends Network and Dionne Warwick would be your BFF. 

14.  Please do not pretend like you heard what I said when you didn’t and laugh inappropriately.  It’s okay if you didn’t hear me.  I like to talk, I’ll say it again. 

15.  Don’t ask me the same question or bring up the same topic every time I see you.  You can’t keep asking me how the “baby” is until she’s 15.  Please, let’s just talk about the weather. 

Artist = David Buckingham. Pretty neat stuff: http://www.galleryoffunctionalart.com/buckingham.shtml

 



Don’t hold your breath

During the summer, they have special “camp” weeks at Smalls’ daycare.  This week is Superhero week.  Monday’s special guest was slated to be the firefighters.  Replete with a fire truck tour.  How exciting, right?  Wrong.

Peeved: How was school today, peanutbutter?

Smalls: It was fun.

Peeved: What did you do?  Did you climb on the fire truck?

Smalls: No.

Peeved: Why not?

St. Shirley (I mean, Teacher): Well, Perpetually, the firemen didn’t come today.

Peeved: What? Why not?

Teacher: I don’t know.  They really disappointed the kids, didn’t they Smalls?

Smalls: Mommy, what does “disappoint” mean?

You know, disappointment is like that time Mommy was having a rough day at work and kept daydreaming about the wonderfully delicious dark chocolate Milano cookies in the cabinet only to come home and find that someone ate the last of them.

Disappointment is like when I finally visited “home” and went to my favorite restaurant (the one that makes the best eggplant rolotini I’ve ever put in my mouth) only to find out it went out of business.

Or, like when I went to that new restaurant in town that everybody was raving about and discovered that it was just over-hyped and average.

Some people say disappointment is avoidable.  Just lower your expectations and no one and nothing can disappoint you.  I say screw that.  No one ever got anywhere without having high expectations.  Am I going to look into those big, blue, 4-year-old eyes and say, “Disappointment is what happens when people are selfish jerks and you should never trust anyone or expect anything out of life?”

No, I’m the type of person that held her breath everyday from April until October thinking, “Today will be the day that they throw me a surprise 30th birthday party.”  Was I disappointed when it never came?  Yes (and a tad bit blue).  But, three years later I still think… “Well, maybe for my 35th.”

Disappointment is going to happen.  Sometimes it’s avoidable, sometimes it’s not.  What peeves me is when it is.  When you say you are going to do something, be somewhere or bring something, then, for crying out loud, do it, show up, bring it.  How hard is that?

Peeved: Hmm, Smalls, good question… Disappointment is when you are looking forward to something and it doesn’t happen, or when you expect someone to do something and they don’t and it makes you upset.

Smalls: Like when I want to eat ice cream before dinner and you won’t let me?

Peeved: No, but nice try.




You say it’s your birthday

I know, I know. I promised a post on Friday or Saturday. The weekend ran away from me. I had originally planned to have Smalls’ birthday party at our house on Saturday. Then I realized that having that many people and one bathroom was not a good idea. I also realized that letting a gaggle of four-year-old’s jump around in a bounce house in July was probably not a good idea, either. I don’t think my homeowner’s insurance covers drowning in your own sweat. So, I canceled that party and scheduled one for next weekend at an air-conditioned bounce house place.

Turns out, that was the best thing that could happen. I didn’t cancel the jumpy, figuring we would just have a few friends over and it may be fun. At 9:30 on Saturday morning I get a call from the party rental place… “Ms. Peeved, you are supposed to have a castle bouncy delivered to your house today at 1:30, but we don’t have the castle available. We only have Spiderman. So, we can deliver that one or we can reschedule the castle for next weekend.” I postponed it for a later date and time (maybe a fall party), but what if I had actually had a party planned for that day? How are you going to call someone four hours before their delivery time and say how about Spiderman instead of Princesses? Guess what company I won’t be using in the future.

I guess it could work... They make a cute couple (all color coordinated and stuff).

All for the best, I guess. Because an event I have been waiting forever eight months for took place on Saturday. My friend had her baby!  Right on her due date, healthy and beautiful (oh, the hair!  and the dimples!). I was so excited that I had to sew another present and whip up a few, “The Crazy Lady That Works With My Mom Loves Me” onesies. Baby fever = quelled. My husband should be a happy man.

As luck would have it, both of these events coincide with the “birthday” post I promised you the other day. So, consider that a segue.

You all know a little bit about my crazy mother. Well, let me add just admit one more piece of evidence, in the case of why I am like I am. My mother and father were divorced when I was about 18 months old. It’s one of those things that you look at them now and wonder, “how the hell did that ever work?” But, I digress. My birth certificate says that I was born on the 8th of July. However, my mother insisted all my life that my birthday was actually the 7th. She swore up and down that she was watching Johnny Carson, that I was born right before midnight and that “by the time they got to your birth certificate” it was the 8th.

My father insisted that she was crazy and they gave her too many drugs. So, my mother always celebrated my birthday with me on the 7th, my father on the 8th. I wasn’t going to complain, I was getting two birthdays out of the deal. However, I did tell everyone the story of how my birthday was really the 7th, yada, yada.

Fast forward to a trip to Cancun, Mexico when I’m 19. Back then, you didn’t need a passport to go to Tijuana or anywhere in Mexico. You just needed a birth certificate. Not wanting to take my only original out of the country, I went down to Vital Records and got a copy. Well, this copy was different from the original in that it had the time stamp on it. 3:54 am. NO WHERE CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT. I immediately called my mother, thinking she would say there has been some terrible mistake, that the doctor’s goofed, that she stood by her story. What does she say?  “Well, I really wanted your birthday to be 7/7/77.” That’s it? That’s all you got? You LIED to me about my BIRTHDAY for 19 years and you can’t even try to make an excuse?

My sister's famous cupcake cake.

Needless to say, this has become the joke to all my friends and family. The joke got even funnier when Biggie was born on my “fake” birthday. It stopped being funny because no one remembers when my birthday is. They know the fake one, but can never remember if the real one is the day before or the day after. So, this year, like every other one in the 14 years since the revelation, I got calls on the 6th, calls on the 7th, texts saying, “am I close?” and NOTHING on my actual birthday. Except for Facebook posts, because Facebook knows my real birthday. Thanks Mom.

And, a kind of related, but not really, little add-on for you all – because I’m not processing transitions well this morning…

Yesterday, my mother took Smalls to Build-A-Bear for her birthday. We do this every year with the kids on their birthday as a tradition. And, as an excuse to only have to go once a year. Usually, Smalls just wants the bear and couldn’t be bothered with the overpriced little outfits they come with. Well, this year, someone must have clued her in that Granny was paying. She picked out a mint chocolate chip ice cream bear and needed the outfit that went with it.

Halfway home from the mall:

Smalls:  Hey, we forgot to get the bear shoes.

Granny: I’ll get your bear shoes and bring them to your party next weekend.

Smalls: Oh no!  We forgot underwear too.  This bear doesn’t even have underwear to cover her peeshie.

Granny: I’ll get the bear undies, too.  Undies and shoes.  Don’t worry.

Smalls: Good.  Because, what kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?

Peeved: Mom, don’t answer that.



Dear Honda

(coming to you from somewhere in the endless state of North Carolina whose state motto, I’m pretty certain, is “get me the hell out of this car – I can’t feel my legs and am about to beat down the next person who asks ‘how much longer?'” For those not aware, I am road-tripping it to NY with Hubby, Smalls, sister (aJENda), her kids: Eight and Ten, and a masochistic 17 year old that volunteered to babysit in exchange for a week of real pizza.)

Dear Honda,

I understand that the economy has lead to depressed sales lately and concerns over the environment and rising gas prices have especially affected SUV purchases. I know some car companies are offering employee pricing, no interest or even buy one get one free deals. However, I have an idea for a deal no one would be able to refuse. I propose the Honda PAQ.

The Honda PAQ would have the same accoutrements as the Honda Pilot, with a few bonus “extras” to seal the deal.

1- a privacy screen between the driver avd the rest of the vehicle. You may or may not have seen these in limos. The driver and front passenger do not have to hear or see anything they don’t want to.

2- an intercom system between the driver and the back that is set to not transmit any sounds above a certain frequency (read: whining) and any sounds above a certain decibal (read: shouting). It would also have a built in question response identifier: Are We there yet? No, but thank you for asking. How much longer? We will be arriving at our destination in 6 hours, 7 minutes, thank you for your question. Where are we? We are still in the car, thank you for your question.

3- outlets next to each seat in the back so that Leapsters, DS’ and the like stay perpetually charged.

4- shock absorbing seat backs.

5- massaging seats for driver and front passenger.

6- “side” dividers / partitions between the rear seats that eliminate any confusion over where the “line” is.

7- a drain, with hose and funnel.

8- a built in coffee cup warmer.

9- an alarm that sounds any time the front seat passenger falls asleep.

10- a fully stocked bar for the poor adult that has to ride in the rear of privacy screen (again, see limo).

This, like all things named last in the Mastercard commercials, would be priceless. I am sure it would increase sales triple-fold. No rapping minivan families or other marketing ploys. Just “Honda, how much would you pay for some Peace and Quiet?”

Sincerely,
Peeved



We interrupt this program

Today’s post will be a public service announcement.  I don’t have a celebrity tweet-tard to star in this post, but go with me here and imagine that little *ding* “the more you know”…  at the end, k?  Ready?

IF YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM (EVEN IF YOU JUST PEE) WASH YOUR FREAKING HANDS!

I was in a public bathroom last night and three, count them three, people left the restroom without washing their hands.  I wanted to put my child in a bubble and never let her touch anything ever again.

*****

PEEVED:  Don’t touch that!

SMALLS: Why, mommy?  I need to hold onto the rail so I don’t fall down the stairs.

PEEVED:  Hold my hand instead.

SMALLS: Why I can’t touch the rail Mama?

PEEVED: Because people poop and they don’t wash their hands and then they touch that rail.

SMALLS: Ew – so there is poop on it?  Yuck!  Why don’t people wash their hands?

PEEVED:  Because they are dirty, filthy ingrates.  You don’t want to be a filthy ingrate do you?

SMALLS: What’s a fiffy inrate?

PEEVED:  It means you don’t wash your hands after you go peepee and poopy.

SMALLS: No, I’m never going to be a fiffy inrate.

PEEVED:  Good.

SMALLS:  Do I get a reward for that? (READ: Zhu Zhu Pet)

 *****

HAND SANITIZER IS NOT TO BE USED AS A REPLACEMENT OF SOAP, WATER AND A GOOD SCRUB.

A woman I used to work with was notorious for not washing her hands after using the restroom.  She insisted that she used hand sanitizer instead.  Instead?  Would you let a surgeon operate on you if he simple let alcohol evaporate off the surface of his palms “instead” of scrubbing in?  I think not.

*****

[work gathering for birthday cake]

PEEVED: I’m going for the chocolate (loading it on my plate)

FILTHY INGRATE: I’m going for key lime.  Can I smell yours?

PEEVED: (WTF?????)

FILTHY INGRATE: (pulling my plate towards her nose) Mmm… smells good.

PEEVED:  Well I guess I’m not eating that!

FILTHY INGRATE: Why?

PEEVED: Because you just got your hair all over my cake.

FILTHY INGRATE:  Well, I just washed it this morning.

PEEVED:  That doesn’t mean I want to eat it.

*****

So today’s lesson kids – BUY YOURSELF A BUBBLE AND DON’T LET PEOPLE SNIFF YOUR CAKE.

Happy Friday.

Funny, I don't see them mention HAND SANITIZER anywhere...



Egads, even the Pepto is pink!

The other night, I was taking Smalls into Toys -R -Us to get another Department of Torture Electronic Mini-Operative Zhu Zhu Pet.  Yes, I know they drive me insane, but what drives me more insane is the whining Smalls was doing before I bribed her to stop with another Zhu Zhu Pet.  So, off to the toy store because somehow a child who can “forget” she needs to throw her dirty clothes in the hamper within two seconds of mommy telling her to, can remember an arbitrary promise/bribe that was made weeks ago.

After stopping to pick up some flip flops, a SpongeBob lollipop and a lightsaber, I decided to just ask an associate where the little electric rodents were located.

Me: Excuse me, Sir. Where are the Zhu Zhu Pets? (Because I’m running out of hands and I’m gonna be flat broke by the time I get past the checkout if you leave me to my own devices.)

ToyGuy: They are right over here.  Wait, do you want the girl ones or the boy ones?

Me: No, they’re just hamsters.  I mean, they’re not made for boys or girls.

ToyGuy: The regular ones and the babies are in the girl section, the ones in the boy section are like ninjas and stunt hamsters.

Really? The toy company obviously never met Smalls.  Because, let me tell you, she has a mean drop-kick!

GIRLS ONLY!

NINJA = BOY!

This whole gender segregation is totally out of hand.  If you look at a sales ad for Toys – R – Us, everything associated with “domesticity” is being modeled by girls.  Babies, Barbies, animals, kitchens…  You will never see a boy modeling a kitchen – a grill, maybe, but not a kitchen.  You will also never see a boy with a babydoll.  Just like you will never see a girl playing with a car or a dinosaur.  Even Legos, which should be unisex and universal have segregated the toys to market pink house and horse sets to girls and blue house and helicopter (?) sets to boys.

LEGO® Pink Brick Box (5585) - LEGO® bricks in beautiful colors! Build a house, a pony, or anything else you can imagine with this special box filled with LEGO bricks in colors you love and elements like fences, windows, doors and flowers!

Following the included instructions and using pieces in the starter kit, kids can build a house, helicopter, dog, and car.

This gender segregation continues even as we get older.  Mother’s Day rolls around and what are the ads for?  With the exception of jewelry, most of the wares they are pushing consist of things for the house.  Get Mom a photo apron or a set of coasters.  Buy her a new vacuum, a photo frame, a coffee mug or a cookbook.  And, what to get Dad this year for Father’s Day?  Hmm… grilling tools, a brew-your-own beer kit, fishing gear, golf clubs, power tools…   Actually, they do make power tools for Mom too…  and golf clubs…  and fishing gear…

popgadget.net

womensgolfgifts.org

fishergirl.com

Just search for “XYZ for women” – I’ll bet you a beer (YES, WOMEN DRINK BEER), it will come up pink.  It’s enough to make a girl nauseated.

Happy Father’s Day to all of you Dad’s out there.  Hope you get a hand painted masterpiece or a nice picture of you with your kids (the kind of stuff you should be getting on this occasion).  Although, I may just get this for my hubby… what do you think?

bigshop.com.au



It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye

This weekend was good.  It was good because it included a date night.  Any time my husband and I are lucky enough to get a date night, we book a room at the Embassy Suites.  They have free drinks from 5:30 – 7:30 every night, the most comfortable beds known to man, and a kick-butt breakfast buffet that is included in the (very reasonable) price of the room.  If I ever win the lotto, I’m not buying a bunch of houses around the country, I’ll just travel from Embassy Suites to Embassy Suites.  

This weekend’s date night was extra-fun because we celebrated a good friend’s 30th birthday with a private karaoke room.  Yes, they have those and yes, they are as fun as they sound.  You can imagine what my head felt like on Sunday when taking the glass elevator down to the bacon buffet.  Maybe it was all that throbbing, but I think what happened next would have annoyed me in any case.  As I’m walking through the atrium, there is a baby – not even a year old – with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other beating the crap out of the porcelain plate in front of him.  Okay, A) why the hell are you letting a baby fling around two potentially dangerous utensils?  All I could think was, “it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”  And, B) has it occurred to you that some people are trying to have a nice, calm breakfast and letting your kid tap out Back in Black in an atrium where – duh – sound carries is not the most considerate thing you could do?  

Fine.  Obviously this woman has not had the pleasure of a break (i.e. going anywhere without her child) and does not understand that when you don’t have your own kids with you, other people’s become increasingly annoying. 

So, I sit down and eat my breakfast (on the other side of the atrium) and begin to people watch.  I notice this couple with a child about Smalls’ age following them.  I notice them because they don’t look old enough to be grandparents, but they don’t look young enough to be parents of this 4-year-old.  As I’m concocting the story of their life in my head, I realize they are getting on the elevator and the 4-year-old has stopped at the coffee bar.  Oh no.  Hello?  People?  Are you not watching your child?  The child goes up on her tip toes and takes down a glass jar filled to the brim with coffee stirrers.  Glass jar, 4-year-old, no parental supervision.  Following me here?  

I didn't take a picture, so I snagged this one from: brooklynpix.wordpress.com

Okay, now here’s the part that peeves me.  The little rascal who has absconded with coffee stirrers then proceeds to lift the container to her mouth and LICK the top of all the stirrers.  Like it were a giant ice cream cone.  At which point, a woman (who was clear across the atrium) comes over and says, “Rascal!, what are you doing? You need to stay near Mommy!”  The mother takes the glass of stirrers out of Rascal’s hand and puts it back up on the coffee bar.  No one else seems to notice this but me.  

I will never use a coffee stirrer again.  Thank you very little. 

Maybe it was something in the air.  On the way home later that day I pulled up to a stop sign at a fairly busy four-way intersection.  On the southeast corner of this intersection some candidate for Mother of the Year decided she would set up this: 

Buy yours at Wal-Mart

 “Here kids – just don’t slide into traffic!”  Oh, and nevermind that this is the corner where the neighbors all walk their dogs.  That’s just mud from the water.



Thank you sir, may I have another?

Masochism [mas-uh-kiz-uhm]:

  1. gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one’s own actions or the actions of others, esp. the tendency to seek this form of gratification.
  2. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.
  3. Volunteering to take your 12-year-old Secret Torture Agent to the mall to spend her birthday money (and bringing your 4-year-old Jr. Secret Torture Agent with you).

Okay, so dictionary.com only lists #1 & #2.  But, obviously someone over there has never attempted #3.

Last night I ventured out to suburbia to let Biggie spend some of her birthday and graduation gift certificates.  I will let you guess how long it took for her to spend $325 in two stores.   A hint:  the girl knows what she wants. After the first stop on the torture tour, Justice, where we purchased everything from clothes to mood change nail polish to ZuZu pets** (for Smalls), we headed on over to Abercrombie (the kids version of Abercrombie & Fitch).  At Abercrombie, they sell underwear shorts.

Abercrombie underwear, I mean... shorts.

Now, I understand that at the ripe old age of 33 that I am an unhip curmudgeon by pre-teen standards, but WHAT THE HECK ARE THEY THINKING?  Parents are up in arms about Miley Cyrus (who is 18) gyrating on stage and singing about how she can’t be tamed, but it is okay to market this apparel to pre-teen girls?  The inseam on these shorts has to be less than an inch and they are super low-rise.  And, they come in a size 7. 7!

Me:  No way! Those are ludicris! Biggie, you have underwear bigger than those shorts.

Biggie: Ew! No! Maybe YOU have underwear bigger than those shorts. [eye roll, hand wave, head twist]

Me: We need to get you bigger underwear.

We left the mall, sans underwear shorts and were all starving.  Where to go in suburbia when you want a good meal?  Steak-n-Shake, of course.  They were all out of “regular” cups, so we received our milkshakes in “large” cups.  Now, there is a saying in our household when food is served in a ridiculous portion.  We say, “it was bigger than my head.”  As in, “The burger was so big.  It was bigger than my head.”

I would say about a head and a half.

I don’t even think Jaba the Hut has a bladder that big.  But, at least now I know how I can keep Biggie out of the underwear shorts.

Me:  Biggie, that milkshake is bigger than those shorts.

Biggie:  Yeah, it is. [fit of giggles]

Me: We need to get you bigger milkshakes more often.

**For those of you not in the know (lucky bastards), ZuZu Pets are electronic hamsters that make noises and roll around the house.  They are very realistic, as somehow the ONE I allowed Smalls to get turned into FOUR in the time it took me to pick out a t-shirt for Biggie.  I bet they also come with a squeaky wheel and an auto-setting for “nocturnal.”  Damn Department of Torture, they are inventive.




%d bloggers like this: