Perpetually Peeved


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. 



Bite me, please

No, really.  If there are any legit vamps out there, please come to my house and bite me.  Sure, I would have to live forever with daily peeves, and I would be a little pale, but I already deal with both those things on a regular basis.  Besides, it would all be worth it if I never had to worry about appearing in a single picture ever again.

I’m not saying I don’t like any pictures that are taken of me, I just despise 99.5% of them.  Because, 99.5% of them look like someone re-sized without locking the aspect ratio (i.e. I look like I’ve gained 20 pounds).  I apparently also have blowfish in my genes because everytime the shutter of a camera closes, the skin beneath my chin inflates to twice it’s normal size.  I swear, I do not look like the Fat Bastard from Austin Powers when I check myself out in the mirror, but lo and behold, when the pictures come back the resemblemce is scary.

Photo courtesy of liveauctioneers.com

There are so many stupid laws out in universe, I think we should add another.  Because, while it isn’t a matter of national security, I have an ego to protect.  No one should be allowed to post pictures of me without my permission.  They certainly should not be allowed to tag them and post them to Facebook for the world to see.  Especially not without context.  Take, for example, the lovely picture of me below where it would appear I am picking my nose. My sister posted this on Facebook.

I won’t even try to explain the context because it was one of those things that was only funny if you were there.  It may or may not have something to do with the Sierra Nevada in the foreground.  Regardless, my family, friends and high school stalkers don’t need to see it.  Thankyouverymuch.

The law would extend to group photos as well.  I don’t care if it’s the best picture ever taken of you.  If I have my eyes closed or crossed, my arms look like flounders or I look like I just smelled a fart, you are restricted from ever letting anyone see the photo.  Certainly, you should not frame it and put it in your living room or make it your avatar just because you look cute.  Cut yourself out.  Having a framed photo of yourself is bad, but not nearly as bad as having a framed photo of you looking cute while your friend looks like a pre-surgery Kathy Griffin on a bender.

Oh, wait, that's Carrot Top. Is that joke old yet? I think not. (Photo from http://meatcandy.wordpress.com/2009/06/, which I am glad I stumbled across).

Speaking of benders, the fines will double if you post and tag a picture of me out drinking.  You never know if I had a “doctor’s appointment” conveniently scheduled for the next morning.  Also, chances are if I’m drinking, I’m also wearing some form of embarrassing attire.

What do you mean vampires can’t eat?  I’m out.  I’ll just go start an online petition for that privacy law.  If you don’t like it, bite me.



Anti-peeve: A pictorial

This Friday’s anti-peeve will be a pictorial.  Seeing as I posted a list of seven things that peeve me, here is a picture list of seven things that make me happy.

Conversations with a 4-year-old. Mommy, you don't know everything. I DON'T? No, you don't know how to cook. I COOK FOR YOU! No, in our house, Daddy does all the cooking. Sometime he lets you help him. HE DOES? Yeah, sometimes he lets you put the plates on the table.

This camera. A Canon PowerShot SX120. I only have to take 200 shots to get a good one instead of the old 500.

The fact that this and massive amounts of margaritas are the only plans I have for Sunday.

The fact that someone opened a school for cross-eyed Morlock kids. I was really worried about them.

I managed to raise a smart-ass instead of a dumb-ass. Yes, congratulations Ass of 2010, indeed.

Kids who choke dogs and smile about it. (This could also be interepreted as - give me what I want and no one gets hurt.)

And, I know this will make eight, but it’s a three-day weekend here in the U.S. and I’d be remiss not to mention food:

My husband. Especially because he invented these lovelies... crostini with boursin, pesto and sun-dried tomato. It's like eating Little Italy (without all the sweaty fat guidos). Amore!




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