Perpetually Peeved

Thank you sir, may I have another?

Masochism [mas-uh-kiz-uhm]:

  1. gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one’s own actions or the actions of others, esp. the tendency to seek this form of gratification.
  2. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.
  3. Volunteering to take your 12-year-old Secret Torture Agent to the mall to spend her birthday money (and bringing your 4-year-old Jr. Secret Torture Agent with you).

Okay, so only lists #1 & #2.  But, obviously someone over there has never attempted #3.

Last night I ventured out to suburbia to let Biggie spend some of her birthday and graduation gift certificates.  I will let you guess how long it took for her to spend $325 in two stores.   A hint:  the girl knows what she wants. After the first stop on the torture tour, Justice, where we purchased everything from clothes to mood change nail polish to ZuZu pets** (for Smalls), we headed on over to Abercrombie (the kids version of Abercrombie & Fitch).  At Abercrombie, they sell underwear shorts.

Abercrombie underwear, I mean... shorts.

Now, I understand that at the ripe old age of 33 that I am an unhip curmudgeon by pre-teen standards, but WHAT THE HECK ARE THEY THINKING?  Parents are up in arms about Miley Cyrus (who is 18) gyrating on stage and singing about how she can’t be tamed, but it is okay to market this apparel to pre-teen girls?  The inseam on these shorts has to be less than an inch and they are super low-rise.  And, they come in a size 7. 7!

Me:  No way! Those are ludicris! Biggie, you have underwear bigger than those shorts.

Biggie: Ew! No! Maybe YOU have underwear bigger than those shorts. [eye roll, hand wave, head twist]

Me: We need to get you bigger underwear.

We left the mall, sans underwear shorts and were all starving.  Where to go in suburbia when you want a good meal?  Steak-n-Shake, of course.  They were all out of “regular” cups, so we received our milkshakes in “large” cups.  Now, there is a saying in our household when food is served in a ridiculous portion.  We say, “it was bigger than my head.”  As in, “The burger was so big.  It was bigger than my head.”

I would say about a head and a half.

I don’t even think Jaba the Hut has a bladder that big.  But, at least now I know how I can keep Biggie out of the underwear shorts.

Me:  Biggie, that milkshake is bigger than those shorts.

Biggie:  Yeah, it is. [fit of giggles]

Me: We need to get you bigger milkshakes more often.

**For those of you not in the know (lucky bastards), ZuZu Pets are electronic hamsters that make noises and roll around the house.  They are very realistic, as somehow the ONE I allowed Smalls to get turned into FOUR in the time it took me to pick out a t-shirt for Biggie.  I bet they also come with a squeaky wheel and an auto-setting for “nocturnal.”  Damn Department of Torture, they are inventive.

Do you feel it now?

Why do people insist on trying to sell me stuff I don’t need, don’t want and didn’t ask for?  The Department of Torture has mobilized agents across the country:  telemarketers, alarm salesmen, business consultants, Mediterranean procurers of the fountain of youth ala the Dead Sea, those pesky perfume ladies that make me sneeze just thinking about them, and the people who want me to stick my face in a germ-infested massage table hole so that they can rub me in public.  I. DON’T. WANT. IT.  Why are those four words so hard to understand? 

Me: Take me off your calling list. 

Them: I’m not trying to sell you anything. 

Me: Then why are you calling me?  Are you lonely? 

Them:  No, I just want to tell you about… 


Them:  F you! 

Me: Excuse me?  What did you just say to me? 

Them: [dial tone] 

WTF?  That’s like someone bumping into you and then giving you a dirty look for not saying sorry.  F yourself, buddy. 

This past winter my husband I took a (very romantic) trip to Vegas (Without the kids!  Who the hell brings their children to Vegas?  Another peeve, another post.).  Anywho, while we were in Vegas we realized we never actually needed to see the real sky.  There were wormholes (okay, they were corridors, but I did seem to lose a few hours each time) from one casino to the next.  Very convenient considering that most had those handy-dandy flat escalator thingamabobs too, so you didn’t even have to walk.  Bonus.  Unfortunately, these wormholes seemed to be a breeding ground for bottom-dwelling salesmen.  They were selling everything from kids toys to pieces of fabric that magically turned into a dress, a skirt, a shirt, a bathing suit, you name it. 

My favorite product was the electric massager. If you have ever been to the chiropractor, you most likely have been hooked up to a machine that has little electrodes that they attach to your back.  The electrodes conduct a current into your muscles and it feels like you are getting a massage.  It is the freakiest feeling and I certainly would not be messing around with electric current and my muscles without the supervision of a doctor.  Apparently, they do things differently out West.

Here it is -- Ten's Therapy Massager with Electrodes (

How many times have you dreamed of grabbing the bottle out of the hand of the perfume lady and spraying her in the face whilst screaming, “How do you like it?”  Oh..  that’s just me?  Woopsie.  Where was I?  Yes, okay.  So, we are in Vegas for five days and these people are relentlessly berating us every time we have to go from one place to the next.  On the last night there, we were betting on the horses all day, which is the best way to get the most amount of drinks for the least amount of money.  

On the way back to the hotel, my alcohol-induced ADD strikes and since I have not managed to get a credit card with a breathalyzer on it, I go shopping.  I see this great store with baby onesies that say things like, “Party in my crib, 2 a.m.,” “I drink until I pass out,” and “Mother-sucker.”  Well, it sure beats pig art or a wrinkle-proof hat.  My husband decides to wait for me outside. 

Here is the scene when I finally come out of the store:  there is a salesman standing in front of his kiosk with his shirt unbuttoned to his waist.  There are six opened boxes on the kiosk.  There are twelve electrodes attached all over his hairy chest.  My husband is pressing the buttons of the electronic massagers and saying, “What about now?  Do you feel it now?”  I want to feel embarrassed or appalled, but the only thing going through my mind is, “God, I love this man.” 

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