Perpetually Peeved


You’re kidding me, right?

I don’t usually pay much mind to the Golden Globe nominations, but earlier today someone posted a prediction poll. Out of curiosity, I checked it out. Of all the movies nominated, I had seen three. Inception, Despicable Me, and… Burlesque. Yes, Burlesque. Here’s something to vote on: what is worse? A) the fact that I saw Burlesque in the theater, or B) the fact that the Golden Globes nominated it without even the excuse of an adamant sister and the bribe of a few beers?

Grease? Yes. Chicago? Yes. Moulin Rouge? Hell yes. Burlesque? Bob Fosse just sashayed in his grave.

Tonight, having been ousted from my room by a Care Bear Movie infatuated four-year-old and booted off the computer by a boy infatuated twelve-year-old, I decided to indulge in a little guilty pleasure: House Hunters International. Don’t judge. At least I don’t yell at the TV like my mom does when the idiots pick the wrong house. Besides, it could be worse… last night it was Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Oy vey! Anywho… I’m minding my own business and out of nowhere – BAM! – exactly how low we as Americans have stooped slaps me in the face. Vanilla Ice has his own show. No, wait. Vanilla Ice has his own home improvement show. Bob Villa just turned over in his grave.

What? He’s not dead yet? Did you hear that? (dun dun dun dun na na na…) That’s him putting the finishing touches on his custom coffin and getting the table saw ready.

Lord help us all.

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Rainy Days and Tuesdays Always Get Me Peeved

It’s raining here.  It has been all day.

It’s Tuesday, too.  It has been all day.  Tuesdays are like the 20th birthday of the workweek.  Not quite humpday – so what’s the point?

Rain means that everyone drives like a douchebag hopped up on coffee and diet pills.  Guess what?  Everyone is going to be late.  Now stop honking, stop trying to cut me off and, for the love of puppies, stop riding your brakes.

We don’t need to revisit my umbrella issues, do we?  Umbrellas are to me what picture books are to Stevie Wonder.  Absolutely useless.  Smalls’ daycare doesn’t have covered parking.  What’s worse than driving home in rainy rush hour traffic?  Driving home in rainy rush hour traffic with wet pants slapping around on your ankles, a full bladder and a lightening strike that sends all the traffic lights in a 5 mile radius out of commission.  Oh, and a four-year-old singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer at the top of her lungs.  Over, and over, and over again.

Remember that great scene with Kathy Bates’ character in Fried Green Tomatoes?  You know the one where she just guns it into the snotty girl’s car?  Hmm, if only.

This is me today. (photo from some random site that just happened to have a pic of grumpy bear - http://www.datavis.com)



Well, You Don’t See THAT Every Day…

Our first Halloween together, Mr. Peeved and I dressed up as Elvis and a showgirl. 

Yes, I made both costumes and I vowed never to iron a tiny metal dot onto polyester again.

The costumes were a hit and Elvis lives on to this day in the form of an employee who has “borrowed” it and keeps finding occasions in which he needs to wear it in to work.  I digress.  Later that same year, it came time for Mr. Peeved’s place of employment’s annual employee appreciation party.  Each year, these parties have a theme and everyone goes all out.  Apparently, that particular year, our Halloween costumes inspired a Casino Night theme.  Everyone kept telling us we had to wear our costumes again.  And, we did.

*****

(driving in the car in comfortable silence… until…)

Peeved:  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA….

Mr. Peeved:  No way.

Peeved:  You don’t even know what I’m laughing about.

Mr. Peeved:  Of course I do.  No way.

Peeved:  Okay.  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  Please?

Mr. Peeved:  No.  Forget it.

Peeved:  Okay, but it would have been damn funny.

*****

(later that week, shopping in the maternity section of Target for an XL black tank top)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Mother of a Toddler: Honey, stay over here by mommy, sweetie.

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

*****

(putting mascara and lipstick on Mr. Peeved at the hotel room)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

(putting a long blonde wig on Mr. Peeved at the hotel room)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

(putting bobby pins with disco beads and feathers glued on them onto Mr. Peeved mandals at the hotel room)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

(putting feather butt boa skirt on Mr. Peeved at the hotel room)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

(walking out into the hotel corridor dressed as Elvis and holding Mr. Peeved’s hand)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

Male half of little old Jewish couple walking towards us: (turning to wife) Well, you don’t see that every day!

Little old Jewish wife: Hmmpf.

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

(walking through the lobby of the hotel with Mr. Peeved sashaying around his feather frocked butt)

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

One of the two big meatheads at the check-in counter:  (while simultaneously smacking his counterpart on the shoulder to get his attention)  Ah, Shiiiii…..

Peeved: BWAHAHAHAHA!!

Mr. Peeved:  Hi, Sugar!

Seriously, this guy will wear the costume anywhere.

The point of this story, you ask?  Well, today I encountered more than a few things that were borderline bizarre.  However, like the old Jewish couple and the meatheads, I didn’t have a camera handy to snap a shot.  So, in no particular order, here are the weirdo things I saw on my way home today:

  • A bischon frise wearing sunglasses.  Not shades that a vet would give you if you had eye issues, but full-on, designer-looking sunglasses.  His owner had a matching pair.
  • A Christmas tree lot.
  • A man brushing his teeth while driving his car.
  • A sign at the adult “toy” store advertising a “BLOW-OUT” sale on videos.
  • A man playing air drums… while riding a bike… without headphones in.


Sit. Stay.

Yesterday, I was at the deli counter at Whole Paycheck Foods.  I was patiently waiting to get my 1/4 pound of roast beef, talking to Smalls.  When the deli man came over, I looked up and there was a man standing in front of me (where’d he come from?).  Deli man says, “Can I help you?” And, D.B. Line Cutter points at me and then points at the deli man as if to say, “hurry up and order.”  So, I politely say, “Oh, yes, I was waiting, thank you.” You can guess at what I not-so-politely said in my head.

I proceed to order my cold cuts and then before the deli man can turn away to slice my beef, DB says, “While you’re getting that, could you please get me a pound of Genoa salami too.”   UM, NO.  Not your turn, bud.  What kind of emergency situation could there be that you have to cut in line and piggyback on my order to get a pound of Italian deli meat?

I’ll tell you what kind… none.  Because when we went to check out a half an hour later,  guess who was in the same line as us?  DB.  Except, he decided he couldn’t wait for a cashier and he was going to self check-out.  He puts all his items through the scanner, runs his card and then freaks out.

Miss, miss, this thing is just stuck.  I ran the card and it just gave me this screen and it’s just stuck.  Just great!” Ranting, at the top of his lungs.  The card took 30 seconds to process. 30 seconds.

Coffee Table Cooking - it's the bomb!

[An aside here:  This is why we were at Whole Foods.  My genius husband thought to buy a small electric griddle so he could cook with Smalls.  This is my coffee table… on Saturday night, we had sliders with mushroom, onion, Gruyere and aioli.  On Sunday morning, we had pancakes and sausage.  On Sunday night, we had 6 different kinds of sausages from Whole Foods, cooked fresh in the griddle, sliced up and paired with cheese — all while watching Season 1 of “24” on Netflix.  My husband, man GENIUS.]

I don’t have a lot of patience.  I’ll be the first to admit that.  And, I suck at picking lines.  Don’t ever let me pick the line if we go shopping together.  Inevitably, I will have someone in front of me that needs 50 separate transactions, can’t find the exact change (but needs to count it 10 times to be sure), and will eventually try writing a check when they haven’t been pre-approved.  If I’m in a hurry, I don’t get in line behind someone with a cart full of stuff.  It’s common sense.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at the supermarket doing a “big shopping.”  I left the STAs at home and was enjoying my shopping at a nice, leisurely pace.  I had everything in the cart organized – frozen foods with frozen foods, canned goods with canned goods – you get the picture.  I was placing my items on the belt in a specific order.  The order I wanted them to be bagged in to ensure when I got home, I could put the groceries away before the ankle-biters started in.

I’m about half-way through unloading my very full cart when the lady (actually, let’s call a spade a spade – the bitch) behind me grabs a divider, puts it right up against my cereal boxes and starts loading up her groceries.

Her hands were not full.

My cart was not nearly empty.

The store was not on fire.

What. The. ?  Where the heck am I supposed to put the other half of my cart?  Do you really think you’re going to get there any faster if I have to try and cram my stuff into the rapidly decreasing foot of space I have to put it in?

Now, I don’t have a lot of patience.  I admit that.  But, even a dog can be taught to wait 30 seconds for a treat.  Can’t we all be civilized here?  Next person that cuts me in line is going to get, “Sit. Stay.  Good Bitch.”

I realized I probably just insulted dogs the world over. Sorry pooches. http://www.dogtreatkitchen.com



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.



Bumper Stumpers Revisited

Remember that cheesy game show Bumper Stumpers?  Well, I freaking sucked at it.  Majorly.  So besides the fact that vanity plates are a telltale sign of douchery, I also hate them because they make me feel stupid.  I don’t get it.  Isn’t the point of a vanity plate to say something about yourself?  I mean, after all, it’s not like you’re driving behind yourself reading it.  It’s like getting a tattoo on your back – it’s not for your own enjoyment. 

Ever since I started carrying my camera in my car console, I’ve seen a million of these.  I’ve figured out maybe 2 (and those weren’t very hard).  Here are some of the one’s I’ve seen – can you help alleviate my peeve and let me know what YOU think these mean? 

This is one I figured out. But, admittedly, not before trying to remember whether loride was an element on the periodic table. (PS - this guy gets a double douche for non-vintage vette and vanity plate)

I'm still vacillating between Totally Tedious Douche and an advert for a new strain of venereal disease.

Really, you had to get a vanity plate for this? Surely, I'm missing a double entendre here...

You are a 12-month-old and someone just asked you if you need anything from the store? This one REALLY boggles me. I'm losing sleep over it.

Dick-Wad, Re-Waddable???

Sorry, the vanity plate name you have selected is already in use. We suggest: SEK1.

Either you really can't spell, or you just came up with a brilliant alternative to FUCKIT.

Oh - Oh - I get it! You're like Michelle Obama with a stutter.

Okay, I know it's not a vanity plate, but WTF? Has Shrek become a spokesperson for AT&T, moved to Georgia and purchased a used truck? I'm afraid to Google it.

Okay, readers (all 2 of you), break out your Secret Society Decoder pins.  I expect your insights here!



Rollin’ in my 5.0

One night my brother-in-law and I stumbled upon the comic genius of Jim Jeffries.  If you have never had the pleasure of enjoying this foul-mouthed Aussie comedian, please google (or bing! or whatever) him and watch some of his videos (NSFW!).  His favorite word is the “c” word — you know the one you can only get away with saying if you have an Australian accent?  Well, he calls everyone the c-word and he does a bit where he says, “you know you’re a c-word if…” ala that redneck comedian guy who I don’t think is smarter than a fifth grader. 

I’m still basking in the glory of the three-day weekend, so I thought we would borrow a page from Mr. Jeffries book and have fun with peeves today.  Douches are my favorite peeve, because while they totally get on my nerves, I also find them thoroughly entertaining in that search-the-internet-for-the-crime-scene-photos-because-you-have-a-bad-case-of-morbid-curiosity way.  Let’s play an interactive game of You Know You’re a Douche If.  I’ll start.  Feel free to add your own in the comments section.  

— You still use the word “dude” on a regular basis. 

— You wear Ed Hardy. 

— You take up two spaces when you park. 

— You know how to fist pump. 

— You are over the age of 12 and you own clothing/accessories/car seat covers with any of the Disney characters and/or Hello Kitty. 

—  You wear a shirt that shows your belly (this applies to both sexes). 

—  You have a victory dance. 

—  You know all the words to Ice, Ice, Baby. 

—  It takes you more than 15 minutes to do your hair. 

—  You can’t pass a mirror without looking in it. 

—  You have a vanity plate on your car. 

Yes, 1k fold douche. Congrats.

 

—  You wear Uggs (double douche if you wear them with a mini-skirt). 

—  You can’t laugh at yourself. 

—  You drive a Hummer. 

—  You special order every time you’re at a restaurant. 

—  You wear socks with sandals. 

—  Your tan is the color of an Oompa Loompa. 

—  You have a tribal/barbed wire/some other language you don’t speak tattoo . 

—  Your dog has a wardrobe, a nanny and a regular playgroup. 

—  You wear skinny jeans (double douche if you look good in them). 

—  You call people older than you “kid.” 

—  You pop your collar. 

—  Your friends are all 10 years younger than you. 

—  You’ve done a shot of Jager in the last year. 

—  You drive a Camaro. 

— You have a nickname that ends in “icious” or begins with “The.” 

—  You look/act/think like this guy: 

photo courtesy of poponthepop.com

 

Okay,  my list is probably endless.  I’ll have to add more later, or I’ll never get to work.  What’s on  your list?




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