Perpetually Peeved


Biggie, Smalls & a Smart-Ass

BIGGIE

One only needs to look back a few posts to know how I feel about eyebrows.  So, the other day when I noticed something funky going on with Biggie’s eyebrows, I had to get to the bottom of things.

Peeved: Biggie – what the heck happened to your eyebrow?

Biggie: Nothing.  What are you talking about?

Peeved: That – right there.  That eyebrow did not always start almost at the middle of your pupil.  And, the other eyebrow doesn’t match.  What did you do to your eyebrow?

Biggie: Nothing, mom.  Geesh! [eyeroll, foot stomp]

Peeved: [grabbing Biggie by the chin for closer inspection]  OH MY GOD!  You shaved your eyebrows!?

Biggie: No.

Peeved: Well, somebody did.

Biggie: Well, I was in the shower and I was shaving my armpit and I got soap in my eye and when I went to wipe it off I accidentally shaved off part of my eyebrow.

Peeved: You ACCIDENTALLY shaved off part of your eyebrow?

Biggie: Yes!  I had soap in my eye!

Peeved: Well, you are not allowed to shave anymore.

Biggie: What?!  Gosh, mom!  You’re the worst! [eyeroll, foot stomp]

Peeved: Obviously, you can’t be trusted to keep razor blades from accidentally coming near your eyeball.  No more shaving unless you tell me the truth.

Biggie: I am telling the truth!  Don’t call me a liar!

Peeved: Well, what happened to the other eyebrow?

Biggie: Well, I had to try and even them out a little bit.  Am I going to be punished?

Peeved: No.  I think living with those crazy eyebrows will be punishment enough for shaving them.  However, you will be punished for lying.

Biggie: I’m not lying!!!  It was an accident!!

Funny, when I was younger my stepmother always used to say, “Do you think I was born yesterday?” and I would wait until she walked away and whisper, “No, the day before.”  She also said I’d get back everything I ever gave her.  Who’s laughing now?

Who knew shaving your armpits could lead to Lasik so easily?

 

SMALLS

There are many sacrifices we make as we become parents:  the ability to run around the house naked, curse loudly, sit down for an extended period of time, sleep in, and go to the bathroom alone are just a few.  It’s Saturday morning, Mr. Peeved has been sick for the last few days and I have the beginning of a nasty respiratory virus.  All I want to do is sleep in.  Alas, 8:20 brings this conversation to my ears:

Biggie: [in the bathroom]  Get out!

Smalls: I have to go!

Biggie: Well, I’m going.  You can’t go.  Get out!

Smalls: Biggie! I have to go!

Biggie: Smalls!  I’m going to the bathroom.  I need privacy.  Get out!

Smalls: I don’t have to get out.

Biggie: Yes, you do.  You can’t just come in the bathroom when someone is using it.  I need privacy!  Get out!

Smalls: I am giving you privacy.

Biggie: No, you’re not.  You’re still in here.  Get out of the bathroom!

Smalls: Biggie, privacy is when you don’t look at someone when they’re going to the bathroom.

Yes, Smalls, when you have a 4-year-old in the house, that’s exactly what privacy is.

 

A Smart-Ass

My father always tells me I’m a smart-ass.  I always tell him I’d rather be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.  My nephew, he doesn’t fall far from the Aunt Emma tree.  At the age of three, this kid could tell you the difference between a bucket and a pail.  By the time he was four, he knew what sarcasm was and had perfected his deadpan delivery.  Here’s a text I received from my sister on Friday:



Cleaning house

It’s not that I don’t like cleaning.  It’s that I loathe it.  I have texture issues that prevent me from wanting to touch anything that has been sitting in the sink longer than 30 seconds.  I’m deathly allergic to dust.  I have a not-so-mild case of ADD mixed with OCD.  So, I will start cleaning the living room and three hours later, my DVDs will be arranged categorically and alphabetically and the rest of the house will still look like a bomb went off.

oooh.... colors... organization...

Every night when I see the first star in the sky, I close my eyes tight and whisper, “star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight…  I wish for… a cleaning lady.” 

Well, Princess Tiana, I’m not.

I’m left winded and disappointed every time.

With no fairy godmothers showing up to my parties, my adventures in housekeeping leave me pleading to my husband to let someone else come over and do the work.  My husband is the type that works more than full-time and still wanted to build the backyard playset for the children from scratch.  You can guess what his response was.

Phooey.

Then, there is the issue of budget.  Nowadays, everyone is on a budget.  Cutting back, getting out of debt, preparing for the future…  In order to justify the expense of a cleaning lady, I would need to to some serious cutting back in other areas.  Hmm…  TV/Cable?  No way.  Glee just had it’s premiere tonight.  And, Survivor: Nicaragua is pretty rockin’ so far.  Cell phone?  Dream on.  That iphone is my woobie.  I literally sleep with it in my hand.  Don’t even mention the word that starts with “sh” and ends with “oes.”  So, what would I give up in order to get a cleaning lady?

Oh yeah, you can hear it now... "Don't stop believing..."

1.  THE DVD COLLECTION:  Let’s start there.  Because, really, how many times can my husband make me watch Gladiator and Braveheart? Unless it’s Grease or Dirty Dancing, it’s not worth watching over and over.  And, those two are on TBS at least twice a month.  So, we’re good.

2.  MY FIRST BORN CHILD:  What?  You spend just thirty minutes in a mall with her and then we’ll talk.  Besides, she’s the one making most of the messes.

3.  MY PINKY TOES:  What are they good for anyway?  It’s not like the big toes that we need for balance.  Sure, they wouldn’t fetch as much as a kidney, but a family like mine will drive you to drink.  I’m going to need all the internal organs I can get later in life.

4.  TEETH:  I have 20 baby teeth and two adult molars I could hock.  Baby teeth fetch a pretty penny these days.  Come to think of it, Smalls will be losing hers soon anyway… we could make that 40. And, I have to assume that molars are worth something.  Why else would the dentist give them to you after he yanks them out of your mouth?

Here's an idea... maybe a nice strand of baby teeth could fetch a buck or two.

5.  SOCKS.  I have at least 10 socks.  They could be re-knitted into a sweater or something.  So what if none of them match?  I’m sure I’ll find the mates as soon as I get rid of them.

6.  FOOD.  Tons of it.  All stuffed in my kitchen cabinets.  I have no use for it.  I can replace it all with Ramen Noodles and Birdseye Steamers because, really, that’s all I know how to cook.

No?  Okay!  Fine!  I’ll sell the kidney.  If I need one when I’m old, well, that’s what kids are for, right?



Forces of Nature

Contrary to popular belief, I do not actually enjoy shopping.  Every once in a while, I can appreciate some retail therapy, but there has to be a “perfect storm” of conditions in order for this to happen.  

photo from weather.about.com

  1.  I have to be alone.  Absolutely alone.  With nowhere to be at any specific time.  And, very poor cell phone reception.
  2. I cannot be shopping for anything in particular.  I am known for creating items that do not exist and then getting peeved when I can’t find them in the stores.
  3. I have to be shopping for myself.
  4. Budget?  What budget?
  5. It has to be on a “skinny” day.  You know, those magical days when the scale says you lost 2 pounds in your sleep.
  6. My hair has to look good.
  7. I have to get an amazing deal on at least one item.
  8. 7  out of 10 items I try on have to fit.
  9. I must have a frothy, chocolatey, caffeinated beverage.  And, even some biscotti to dip in it.
  10. I have to purchase at least one pair of shoes.

Rarely, very rarely, does this “perfect storm” occur.  The closest I get is DSW shoe warehouse on my lunch hour and that’s only because I’m a DSW rewards member (hello coupons!), my feet don’t Benedict Arnold me like my waistline does, and there’s a fudge shoppe right next door.  

shoeblog.com

 This weekend, I needed to get fall clothes for Smalls.  Not that it is getting any cooler down here in the South (97 degrees last night at 6pm), but there were some good sales going on and I had some free time.  My sister had a 30% off coupon at Kohl’s and convinced me to meet up with her to go shopping for the kids.  Hmm…  Me, my two kids, her, her daughter…  maybe I should just skip it… but, it’s 30% off… and, I could always spend the money I saved on some shoes…  okay, what the heck! 

Now, up until this point, I have always refered to my sister as AJenda on this blog.  However, for this post, I feel the need to reveal her true identity.  The real nickname behind the nickname.  In my family, I am referred to as “Emma Dilemma,” “Dilemma,” or “that bitch.”  My sister has always been referred to as “Hurricane Jen.”  She comes on strong, with little or no warning.  When you think it’s over, she’s really only half-way done.  When she actually is done, you’re standing around looking at the disaster area.  She’s also a lot of fun when you’re drinking and the damage is happening to someone else.  Stores do not stand a chance against the Hurricane.  When she is shopping, she is trying on everything in the store.  I have been in dressing rooms with her where they literally are shutting the lights off and locking us in and she’s breaking out the keychain flashlight and trying to see how the last two pairs of jeans look.  

Why can't all hurricanes be like this? PS - I'm so tracking down the stemless glass. Love it.

Me, I’m more of a tsunami shopper.  I’m in and I’m out.  Quick, like that.  I take what I want and I drag it back out with me.  No lolly-gagging, no agonizing over decisions.  I want it, I buy it.  I don’t want it, I don’t put it in the cart.  You can see how it’s probably not a good idea for my sister and I to go shopping together.  I’m usually hanging up the clothes after she has tried them on and whining, “can we go now?” 

I figured this time though, we were shopping for the kids, it couldn’t be that bad.  And, it wouldn’t have been.  

***** 

Hurricane: [via text message to Peeved]:  Headed to Kohl’s right now.  Where are you?  Brace yourself, hurricane Granny is hot on our trail. 

Peeved: [blissfully unaware of text message]  Smalls, do you like this shirt? 

Smalls:  No, too stripey. 

Peeved:  How about this shirt? 

Smalls:  No, too spotty. 

Peeved:  Well, you need to pick some shirts. 

Smalls:  Well, I don’t like any of these. 

Peeved:  How about this one? 

Smalls:  Nope. 

Peeved:  This one? 

Smalls:  Nope.  Look, mommy!  Hamster pajamas! 

Peeved:  You don’t need pajamas. 

Smalls:  Hamster pajamas!! 

Peeved:  I’ll only get you the hamster pajamas if you start picking some shirts you like. 

Smalls:  Okay. 

Hurricane: [via text message to Peeved]:  We’re here… can’t find you… did you seek shelter from the storm? 

Peeved:  [putting hamster pajamas in cart, still blissfully unaware of text messages] Okay, how about this shirt? 

Smalls:  Yep.  [You guessed it, Smalls is a Lightening Storm shopper.] 

Except, noisier.

Peeved:  This one? 

Smalls:  Too flowery. 

Peeved:  Oh, how cute!  Look at his one. 

Smalls:  Nope. 

Peeved:  Smalls, we made a deal.  No hamster pajamas if you don’t pick some shirts. 

Smalls:  I did pick a shirt.  That one. 

Peeved:  Well, you need more than one shirt. 

Smalls:  So, get the same shirt in different colors, then.  Aunt Hurricane!! 

Peeved:  Oh, thank goodness.  Can you please suggest shirts to her?  I can’t get her to say yes to anything I pick. 

Hurricane:  Sure, hey – did you get my… 

Smalls:  Granny!!! 

Peeved:  Wha? 

Hurricane: … texts?  I tried to warn you. 

***** 

What’s the mother of all storms, people?  You guessed it.  Tornado Granny.  Tornado Granny is like a hurricane in that she comes on quick without any warning, except the destruction isn’t left spread all over the place, it’s been completely lifted away and relocated.  Granny hits the clearance racks like tornados target trailer parks.  Everything starts in the cart, but inevitably is put back before she gets to the checkout lane.  It’s like a weird form of tactile window shopping.  Also like a tornado, Granny disappears just as fast as she appears. 

***** 

[literally 3 hours into the shopping trip] 

Peeved:  You got everything? 

Hurricane:  Yep, I’m good to go. 

Peeved:  Sweet, let’s get out of here. 

Hurricane:  Yeah, the game starts soon and I’m starving. 

Peeved:  I feel like I swallowed a ShamWow! and my feet are about to fall off. 

Hurricane:  I hear ya.  Where’s mom? 

Peeved:  I don’t know.  I thought you knew? 

Hurricane:  Oh shit, we lost her.  Call her. 

Biggie:  She probably bailed again. 

Mini-Hurricane:  Yeah, she’s been known to do that! 

Peeved:  [calling Tornado on her cell phone] Ma, where are you? 

Tornado:  You know that completely hidden fitting room that you never would have looked for me in?  I’m hiding out in there.  Don’t tell your sister, she’ll make me put back all my clearance clothes

Peeved:  Found her.  Come on, guys. 

***** 

As predicted, Hurricane tried to talk Tornado out of her white-trash finery, carrying in clothes by the armful.  Guess who was left putting them all back on the hangers and saying, “Can we go now?!”  The children were taking turns pretending they were sad puppies up for adoption, hiding inside the rack of track pants, and having their mom paged over the PA system. 

Two very long hours later, we did finally get out of there.  Not before Biggie had an avalanche inspired melt-down because I wouldn’t by her 3-inch hot pink patent leather and zebra striped heels, though.  Gosh, I’m the worst mom ever.  Didn’t you know? 

I finally crawled into the storm shelter of my couch, called the Red Cross for a beer IV and tried to avoid any further disasters.  The only Perfect Storm I would be getting would be ordered through Netflix and starring George Clooney.  Mmm…. George Clooney.  That’d make everything better. 



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.





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