Perpetually Peeved

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.

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

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, 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.

Chain of peeve

I won’t open any email that has more than 1 FWD in the title.  Why do these people keep forwarding these jokes and inspirationals that became stale the same year New Kids on the Block became NKOTB? I’m sick to death of it.  It also drives me insane when people post those chainmail crap things in their Facebook posts.  Oh, you’re so clever, the “Red Giant Underwear” in your status is really your favorite color, your favorite sports team and something you’re not wearing right now.  Good grief.  In the spirit of spreading the peeve today, I’m going to share something with you.

Apparently, someone reads this blog.  Why?  I don’t know – maybe there really are masochists out there.  Anyways, the sassy-pants over at The Whatever Factor has honored me with an award.  She doesn’t know me well enough to know that this has already gone to my head and I have told all my friends to check out my “award winning blog.”  I digress.  So, this award requires me to tell you seven “fun facts” about me and my big head and then award 15 other bloggers the same honor.  Hate me yet?  Don’t worry, I know you don’t really want to know 7 “fun” facts, so I’m making my own rules – I will be listing 7 random peeves.

So, here (in no particular order) are seven things that make involuntary expletives come flying out of my big-ass head:

  1. Stepping in something wet when I’m wearing socks
  2. Dropping things and having to bend down and pick them up
  3. Seeing people dab their pizza with a napkin
  4. When they forget my spork at Taco Bell (have you ever tried to eat a Mexican Pizza with a metal fork? – gross)
  5. People who take EIGHT FREAKING YEARS to make a turn
  6. The sound of Gilbert Godfried’s voice
  7. When the Department of Torture has someone mismatch my socks and put them in my drawer (usually right next to a shirt that has been folded whilst still  inside out).

Okay, if you hated this post, head on over to some really entertaining blogs:

For those listed, feel free to pass this along, or ignore it.  Doesn’t make a shit’s bit of difference to me.  HAND! (that was for you Hambo)

Keep your uterus to yourself, please

At lunch with my friend yesterday, she recounted this story to me:

(Friend is 7 months pregnant and grocery shopping with her husband.  She is minding her own business in the cereal aisle when a random stranger approaches her and the following exchange takes place.)

Random Stranger (who I picture in my head based on Friend’s description to look like someone you may find on You need to have that baby with no drugs.

Friend: Oh, okay.

Random Stranger: I’m serious, girl.  I had the best orgasm of my life when I gave birth natural.

Friend:  Excuse me? 

Random Stranger [leans in a bit closer, lowers voice slightly]Yes, BEST orgasm of my life.  Don’t get the drugs.  I don’t want your husband to hear me, you know them men like to think that they give you the best orgasm ever.  You don’t want to let him know about it, but don’t get the drugs.  Best. Orgasm. Ever.

Friend: Oh, Okay.  Thanks.

Holy fracking TMI!  There is absolutely no need for this.  Unless I’m a doctor, there is no reason on the face of the planet that I need to know about A) your sex life; B) your internal organs; and C) your bodily secretions.  SAY NO TO OVERSHARING.  Oh – and I don’t know what Kool-Aid this woman has been drinking, but SAY YES TO THE DRUGS!

One of the reasons I love  is that public oversharing can actually be entertaining.  You avoid the whole face-to-face awkward and can just skip to the laugh about it with your friends part.  Most awkward overshare, though?  A co-worker who you don’t really know very well posting about her uterine surgery.  Really?  I don’t need to know that and I don’t want to picture your uterus every time I see you in the break room – I’m trying to eat my lunch for shit’s sake.

Some funny overshares courtesy of Failbook:

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