Perpetually Peeved

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.