Perpetually Peeved

You say today is Saturday?

Fell into bed last night at about 11:00 after a long day trying to wrap up stuff at work on limited brain cells, buying last-minute items, and packing (kind of – there’s still work to be done).  I use my iPhone as my alarm clock.  It has never failed me.  Until today.  Some part of my brain hears the news announcer say 8:23.  What the crap?  Check phone.  Phone dead.  Commence freak out. 

Borrowed from (don't know where they stole it from).

Peeved:  Oh my…  No way!… 

Mr. Peeved:  What, what’s wrong. 

Peeved:  It’s 8:23. 

Mr. Peeved:  Oh (turns over and goes back to sleep – he’s used to my antics) 

Peeved:  Shit!  I was supposed to leave the house 23 minutes ago!  Smalls, get up, we gotta go! 

I absolutely HATE being late.  I HATE feeling rushed.  I have a bubble of anxiety and panic rising from my stomach and shit!shit!shit! running through my head. 

That IS kind of what my hair looks like when I don't let the conditioner sit for the full 2 minutes.

 Drag my ass into the shower.  Warp speed wash, rinse, repeat.

 Throw on whatever is in the nearest dry cleaning bag. 

Slap on some makeup. 

Throw on some shoes. 

Wake up hubby to ask if he tried on the stuff I bought him for our vacation last night.  Ignore the Are You Freaking Kidding Me glare. 

Wake up Smalls.  Well, actually it’s more like carry her limp body to the potty and try to dress her while she flops around like a ragdoll. 

Glasses…  hate looking for glasses when I can’t see!  Aha!  Nightstand. 

Crap!  Need the camera cord to download some pictures for work.  Where is the GD camera cord??? 

Got it.  Now, need those invitations to bring to Smalls’ school for her birthday party.  Check. 

Okay, let’s boogie.  What do you mean you want a ponytail?  You never let me do your hair and this morning you want a ponytail? 


20/20 vision. Camera cord. Invitations. Keys. Coiffed child.  Where’s that phone?  Oh, yeah, on the charger. 

Unplug.  What?  WHAT??  6:49???  Oh for the love of Pete!  

C’mon Smalls, we’ve got time to grab coffee and a muffin. 



Shel Silverstein

  ‘I cannot go to school today, ‘
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
‘I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more-that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke-
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is…Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play! ‘

For the price of a cup of coffee

Wednesday is my favorite day of the week.  Why?  Because it is “Wake Up Wednesday” at Smalls’ daycare.  Which means, there is freshly brewed coffee, (with real creamer!) set out for the parents – FOR FREE.  Isn’t that a nice, lovely gesture?  They even have the insulated cups with the hot bands and the lids.  And, stirrers, which may or may not have been taste-tested and kid-approved.

Now, I can get coffee at my workplace and usually do, but, there is something about having nice, hot coffee in my belly before I hit the elevator and head on up to the office.  I could stop at one of those coffee shops I pass on my commute, but that would mean finding a parking spot, getting out of the car with Smalls, waiting in line listening to Smalls tell me how she “needs” a muffin that is bigger than my head, and making my own coffee.

Yes, you heard right.  Making my own coffee.  See, that is what the world (okay, I’m being melodramatic – the US) has come to.  You pay upwards of $2.00 a cup for plain old coffee and then you get the “privilege” of making it, too.  Now, if you’re lucky, you’re at a Starbucks where they will actually pour the coffee in the cup for you and leave you to do all the fixins.  If you want coffee that’s not as bitter as Elin Nordegren and head over to a San Francisco Coffee, you are on your own. That is, unless you are part of the bourgeoisie that spends upwards of $4.00 a cup for some frappetastic concoction.  No, at San Francisco Coffee, drip-drinkers are like gum on the bottom of the latte-drinkers’ shoes.  They get handed a cup, whipped and sent off to pour their own cup.

If I lived in suburbia, I could go through a drive-thru coffee shop.  Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds – all make your coffee for you if you get it at the drive-thru.  It’s not really a hard concept.  Delis across New York do this all day long (at half the price, I dare add).  Regular = 2 creams, 1 sugar.  Light & Sweet = 3 creams, 2 sugars.  Dark, No Sugar = 1 cream, no sugar.  This is not rocket science, but apparently it is too hard to master when you have recipes the like of non-fat, triple whip, venti, caramel macchiatos running around in your head.

There was a genius coffee shop on my commute route that set up a coffee stand (not unlike lemonade stands of yesteryear) in an abandoned parking lot.  $2.00 a cup.  Cash.   Well, who the heck carries cash anymore?  I can tell you the day after I remembered to stash $10 in my car console and was driving into work…  they were gone.  Never to appear again.  Seriously?

Remember those commercials where an obese Sally Struthers would hold a starving child and cry, telling us that for the price of a cup of coffee we could feed a village for a week?  Well, for the price of a cup of coffee I can buy myself one of these:

It's instant - no timer necessary. (

Because if the “Have it Your Way” mentality is going to mean “Make it Your Damn Self” then I might as well do just that.

How to get blood from a stone

Going to the grocery store with children should be officially deployed by the Department of Justice as a form of torture.  Having your fingernails yanked out is nothing compared with the hour of pure hell involved in picking up a few items for the week in the company of kids.  If I really wanted to torture information out of someone, I would ship her off to the local Kroger with my 4-year-old (Smalls) and my 12-year-old (Biggie).

Phase I – The Parking Lot:  Smalls insists on sitting in the in the “car” cart.  Biggie insists on trying to fit into the “car” cart with Smalls.  Smalls freaks the heck out that her sister is trying to sit on her and screams at the top of her lungs.  Then Biggie says, “Fine!”, gives a colossal eye roll and insists upon pushing the “car” cart.

Phase II – The Entrance:  Biggie, who weighs no more than a small cat soaking wet, attempts to push the cart, making it just inside the doorway where the back of Torturee’s legs act as a guard rail for said “car” cart.  Biggie insists that the cart is broken and unmanueverable.  (Which, is only a half-lie because while it is unmanueverable, it is not broken – some Secret Torture Agent actually designed it that way.)

Phase III – The Preparation:  Torturee decides that to make it any further she needs a Starbucks.  Biggie has watched “Food, Inc.” and decided she is going to be a vegetarian.  Biggie takes off to go get vegetables and instructs Torturee to “text me if you need me.”  Ah, one down one to go.  Torturee, coffee in hand, manuevers cart over to cream & sugar station.  There is no room for cream in her coffee. 

Phase IV – Produce:  Torturee attempts to navigate through the produce section.  Biggie, the vegetarian, realizes she does not really like any vegetables and will start her new diet next week when she has a game plan ready.  Biggie decides to randomly stand directly in the path of the giant “car” cart.  (She is an undercover Jr. Secret Torture Agent and this is part of her requirements to making full-on STA status.) Smalls has collected 6 bottles of Naturally Fresh salad dressing and a Kiwi in the “car” portion of the “car” cart.

Phase V –  Aisles 1-5:  Biggie decides that the supermarket has the best acoustics to practice her step routine in.  She intermittently trails behind Torturee  thrashing like a bird with a broken wing and singing “Shorty is like a melody in my head…” and speeding ahead to debate the necessity of sugar-infested delicacies such as Lucky Charms and Pop-Tarts.  Smalls discovers the “car” cart has a working horn and has decided to grab an economy-size can of Hormel chili, just in case her friends decide to come over for a playdate next weekend.

Phase VI – Aisles 6-10:  Grooving along to a wonderful melody of “… got me singing like…” STOMP, HONK “…every day, like my iPod stuck on replay…” STOMP, HONK, HONK, STOMP, Torturee takes a sip of her latte only to have the lid leak all over her, her purse and the coupon accordion in the front of the cart.  Smalls has added a 24-pack of Irish Spring to the “car” cart because, well, chili is messy.

Phase VII – Meat & Dairy:  Biggie, the vegetarian, decides to recount the various forms of slaughter she witnessed in the movie while poking a pot roast and saying, “ew, Blood, Blood, Blood.”  Smalls can’t bear the silence, so starts in with a song of her own… “Hey soul sister, hey there mister, mister…”  Torturee corrects Smalls: “it’s ‘ain’t that mister, mister.'”  Smalls promptly tells Torturee that she’s an idiot and never to correct her again because she is always right (paraphrasing here).  Smalls then resumes her chorus, which is the only portion of the song she knows, pausing only to scream “CHOCOLATE PUDDING!” at the top of her lungs.

Phase VIII – Checkout:  Torturee, having ditched half the list in attempt to get the hell out of the supermarket, approaches the checkout.  There are only two cashiers and the place is packed.  Biggie goes on a candy-finding mission, Smalls resumes horn honking to the tune of Soul Sister.  The lady in front of Torturee decides she has three different transactions, one of which requires food stamps and another of which requires a check. 

Torturee unloads from the “car” 6 bottles of Naturally Fresh dressing, a kiwi, a tub of Hormel chili, a family pack of Irish Spring and a bottle of Pinot Noir.  Hey, she’s going to need that!  Biggie jumps on top of “car” and when Torturee yells at her to get down, decides to stand directly in front of the cart, where Torturee needs to push it.  HONK, HONK, HONK.  Torturee cries, “the next person who honks that freaking horn is going to get beat!!”  Biggie and Smalls look at each other – “wasn’t us”…  Lady pushing child in “car” cart in next aisle over gives Torturee a dirty look.

Torturee, “I’ll tell you anything, I promise.  Just give me a wine opener!”

Biggie, “Now that I’m a full-on STA, can I shave my legs?”

Welcome to Starsucks – I mean, Starbucks

I realize that Starbucks is a mecca for douchebags.  That is probably why I find myself inexplicably drawn there on a regular basis.  That, and the fact that they not-so-secretly put in 2x the caffeine of any normal coffee beverage.  Ah, if only I could open a business where I could make the customers physically dependent and actually addicted to my product…  I’ll have to think on that some more later.

I know what you’re thinking –  you know where this peeve is headed… $5 coffees, yada, yada.  No, you’re wrong.  It doesn’t matter these days where you go, a regular old cup of Joe is going to be completely overpriced at $.25 an ounce.  Me pissed off at the corporate-ness of it all?  No, wrong again.  Remember, I’m a PC-free personality.  If you have it and I want it, I don’t really care who had to die/work in a sweatshop/leave their family in another country to make it.

What really pisses me off about Starbucks is the fact that they can’t make a GD coffee lid that does not leak steaming hot coffee all over the place.  I mean, come on people, we have sent astronauts to the moon, have built supsension bridges longer than 5,000 feet and can fit a computer in the palm of our hands.  Surely, there is an engineer out there somewhere that can devise a lid that you don’t have to place at exactly the right angle to prevent your latte from dripping in your lap.  It’s not freaking rocket science!

Another thing — and, I warn you this is pettier than the last — how hard is it to leave me room for cream?  Why, why, why, do I have to constantly dump a half inch of my coffee into the trash?  Surely you don’t want to clean that up.  Even worse is when you ASK me if I want room for cream and still manage to fill it all the way up to the brim.  What the hell did you ask me for then?  This here will throw me into a fit of absolute rage.

If you’re going to make me pay exorbanant amounts of money and force me to order my cup size in some bullshit, brainwashed, corporate-speak, then the least you can do is make my damn coffee right (it’s not like I’m even asking you to put the cream in – heaven forbid).  Maybe, as an added bonus, you could make sure it doesn’t drip down the back of my hand and onto my clothes.  Starbucks, my ass, more like Starsucks.  If I wasn’t so addicted, I would tell you stick a non-fat, no-whip, mocha, venti, chai latte up your… what? Mermaid tail?  Oh, Christ.

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