Happy Birthday, Dad!

Happy Birthday, Dad! I hope mom brought you breakfast in bed. I know how much you love toast (it's a good thing, too, since that's her specialty).

Of all the things I'd like to share with you, the Internet, about my old man, I think the most relevant to Bits and Wiz is that my father is Peeve-Proof. Nothing rattles him. If he were a superhero, he'd be Patience Man. My favorite illustration of his seemingly bullet-proof calm is this photo:

Picture it: Thanksgiving 2008. While cleaning up the kitchen after our feast, I decided it would be a great idea to put leftover dressing down the garbage disposal. CLOG. While lesser men would've cursed, rolled their eyes, thrown tools around and made me feel like an idiot, my dad carefully removed the cleaning supplies from under the counter, grabbed my (pink!) tool bag, and set about fixing the clog. He didn't even mind when I, the cause of the problem, took a picture of him while he toiled away.

If I were him, Pet Peeve Monday would've gone something like this: "Why in the world would you think that a residential grade garbage disposal could handle something as dense as DRESSING? It's not a wood chipper. It's a garbage disposal. Get a clue."

I'd also be remiss if I let this occasion pass without sharing my favorite photo of my dad. It was taken on the 4th of July this year, as he and Jasper watched the fireworks I illegally transferred across state lines. I think it's just priceless:

So Happy Birthday, Dad. Thank you for being such an amazing (and patient) Dad and Grandpa. I love you very much!

Wherein this "city slicker" gagged

My family and I, all 25 of us, spent Christmas in a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains. The view was breathtaking, the weather was just chilly enough to feel like Christmas, and the cabin was great. However, in my humble opinion, the cabin's decor left a bit to be desired.

I present, for your consideration, this jewel which hung IN THE KITCHEN:

Oh, heavens. Please excuse me and my "hard to satisfy gourmet palate." Oh. Heavens.

Possible side effects may include...

This morning I was watching Good Morning America (Diane Sawyer, if you're reading this...I miss you) when a commercial for Chantix came on. You know, Chantix - the stop smoking drug that is not a nicotine patch. As all prescription drug commercials are obligated to do, the folks at Chantix started describing possible side effects. As they rambled on and on and on, I giggled to myself as I thought about how similar the side effects of Chantix are to the side effects of spending time with family at the holidays.

See for yourself:

Some people have had changes in behavior, hostility, agitation, depressed mood, suicidal thoughts or actions while VISITING FAMILY AT THE HOLIDAYS. Some people had these symptoms when they began VISITING, and others developed them after several weeks of VISITING. If you, your family, or caregiver notice agitation, hostility, depression, or changes in behavior, thinking, or mood that are not typical for you, or you develop suicidal thoughts or actions, anxiety, panic, aggression, anger, mania, abnormal sensations, hallucinations, paranoia, or confusion, stop VISITING FAMILY and call your doctor right away. Also tell your doctor about any history of depression or other mental health problems before VISITING FAMILY, as these symptoms may worsen while VISITING FAMILY.

I think I'm really on to something here. Obviously, I'm not speaking from personal experience. Obviously.

Pet Peeve Monday

Look. There are 130 seats in this movie theater, 117 of which are blissfully vacant. WHY MUST YOU CHOOSE THE SEAT DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME? I know I have the uncanny ability to find the center-most seat in the place, giving me an unparallelled viewing experience, but BACK UP OFF ME.

I get annoyed just thinking about it.

A Suggestion

If you really want to get a lot of really strange, inquisitive looks on the Saturday morning before Christmas, go to Sam's and do this:

Trust me. It works like a charm.

Pet Peeve Monday

This one's gonna be unpopular, so I'm just gonna come out and say it. Like ripping off a band aid.

The Chipmunks. Please, oh please, little rodents. Stop the singing.

And for all you Chipmunks fans out there (you know who you are), come close and I'll tell you a little secret. Shhhhhhh...come close.

THEY AREN'T REALLY SINGING.

They are indeed the Milli Vanilli of animated characters.

Favorite

My halls are officially decked for Christmas and I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to my favorite Christmas ornament. Everyone, meet Whitney the Angel:

I wonder if picking Whitney as my favorite ornament is a bit like laughing at my own joke...you know, kind of rude? Like elbows on the table or driving on the sidewalk? You see, Whitney is a creation of my very own from elementary school. I love her. I remember thinking how clever I was to give an angel black hair. I mean, everyone knows that all angels are blonde, right? But me and my renegade Crayola...we set out to topple stereotypes. Every year when I unpack the ornaments, I giggle a little to myself when I see Whitney the Angel and her pitiful, crooked head. Much like my own halo, her shine has dulled over the years, but she's still hanging in there. Bless her heart.

And mine...

The Amazing Race

It's 7:36pm on Monday night and I just returned home from my last (!) work-related (read: painful) holiday party of the year. As I headed to my room, I passed the thermostat in the hallway and flicked the heat on.

Then, I proceeded to successfully change into my pajamas before the heat even came on. If this isn't already an Olympic sport, I'm starting a petition.

Pet Peeve Monday

Theoretically, I work in an office of highly educated people. So the fact that some of my colleagues can't figure out how to refill the community Brita pitcher is beyond me.

Here's the pitcher as I found it just moments ago:

And look! Here's how easy it is to REFILL SO THE PERSON WHO COMES AFTER YOU CAN ALSO HAVE DELICIOUS, COLD, FILTERED WATER TO DRINK, YOU LAZY, SELF-CENTERED WASTE OF SPACE:

And while we're on the subject, who leaves their dirty plate in the sink for someone else to clean? Ew.

Reason #29 I Don't Mind Being Single

Click for refreshers on #27 and #28.

Reason #29: COOKIES. If I weren't single, I'd feel obligated to share the cookies from my Sunday School class's holiday cookie exchange.

But since I am (single), I don't (feel obligated). What I do feel obligated to do is EAT THEM.

Of course I'll end up sharing. Of course I will. Of course. Right. Of course? Right?

2009 Holiday Letter

Dear Friends, Family, and random people I’ve never met,

In keeping with the true spirit of the holidays, I have decided that I’m way too lazy to mail Christmas cards and will instead post this virtual holiday letter to further submerge myself in the gratuitous self-indulgence that is the Bits and Wiz standard. How’s THAT for an opening statement?

If I had children or highly talented, over achieving pets, this is the part where I’d wax poetic about how I love nothing more than waking up at 3 am to intervene so they don’t pee on the carpet. Since I am an army of one, let me instead say that I’m sure someday I’ll reread the previous sentence and bat myself about the ears for being so pompous. Today is not that day.

The house continues to come along nicely. We’re celebrating our 17-month anniversary in December, officially making this my longest serious relationship ever. I credit the lack of outrageous student loan debt and relatively low maintenance for our success. It’s due for a new roof, so that will be my first foray into major home improvement and will undoubtedly end with a flat tire after driving over a roofing nail. I can’t wait.

I’ve met most all my neighbors, a feat my own parents haven’t managed after 12 years in their house. While I was initially very proud of this accomplishment, I began to question my own zeal after the lady next door started calling me “Nancy” which is my seldom advertised first name. I can only deduce that she went through my mail to figure out who the heck I am; a fact that has left me feeling starkly naked and violated. Now, I keep my eyes on the ground and literally run from the carport to the kitchen door. Turns out I am my mother’s daughter after all.

A highlight of the year had to be the birth of Baxter, my second nephew, who is so cute it’s painful. I’m convinced that when he starts talking, he’ll have a British accent and say things like “bugger off.” I can’t wait. Baxter joins the ranks of my other short friends, including Jasper, Thomas, Mac, William, Amelia, Charlotte, Caroline, Brooke (coming soon!), and baby Betchman who will make his or her debut in February. If you’re keeping count, I’ve almost got enough for a 10-person basketball team with one full rotation of subs, which will come in really handy late in the second half when the other team is totally winded. All those tots and I didn’t have to push once!

In closing, we here at Bits and Wiz hope you have a very Merry Christmas, filled with the kind of family dysfunction that makes you feel a bit wistful in mid-June when you realize there are still a full 6 months before you’re set to endure it all over again.

Peace on Earth (and all those other warm and fuzzy salutations),
Bits and Wiz

Pet Peeve Monday

Welcome to Pet Peeve-ville, population 1.

When you're standing in line at the store (grocery store, drug store, clothing store, shoe store, home improvement store...it matters not), instead of intently watching as the cashier rings up every single solitary item of your order, could you please be proactive and GET YOUR WALLET OUT OF YOUR PURSE AND PREPARE TO PAY? I know the beep...beep...beep...beep...of the bar code scanning can be soothing and hypnotic, making it hard to prepare yourself for the next phase of the transaction. You know, the part where you fumble around in your giant purse to find your giant wallet, remove your debit card, scan it, scan it again because you scanned it the wrong way the first time, enter your pin number, decline cash back, confirm the total? You can do almost all of that while the beep...beep...beep serenades you.

The alternative, of course, is to stand there mesmerized in a foggy stooper until your total is announced and then begin the fumbling sequence while the 17 people in line behind you shoot daggers at the back of your head. Those people? I'm one of them.

And the beep goes on.

Red Elephant in the room.

Disclaimer: I may be wading into politically explosive and culturally insensitive territory with this post. Both are unintentional. Now that I have your undivided attention, I shall proceed.

Of all the hysteria that's ensued after these two yahoos crashed-or-didn't-crash the State Dinner at the White House:

I think there's a huge red elephant in the room that's been left unexamined. WHY IS SHE WEARING THAT? When the First Lady is SHUTTING DOWN THE SHOW in this:

...WHY ARE YOU WEARING THIS????:

To her credit, I have not done one ounce of research about her ethnic background. Perhaps this is an ode to her culture or something, in which case I guess it's sort of more acceptable. I refuse to google her very extensively because that's exactly what she wants me to do, so I'm just going to make sweeping generalizations and say OMG WHAT ARE YOU WEARING????

At the end of the day, Baxter says it best:

BREAKING NEWS

I'd like to call your attention to the new (kinda tacky) countdown clock located in the left column and prepare yourself for John Mayer-mania here at Bits and Wiz. I have the best friends in the world (hi Amy and Kathy!). They pulled some strings and arranged for John to come to Charleston and play a concert for me in February as I kiss my 20's goodbye.

John thinks he's coming to strum his guitar and sing a few notes. Won't he be surprised to learn he's coming here to FALL IN LOVE WITH ME!

Shove over, Jennifer Aniston.

Concerned

Does storing a notebook full of Algebra II notes from high school in your parents' attic for 10 years constitute "unauthorized use of a milk case"? If so, color me concerned:

Pet Peeve Monday

When you say "I could care less," you aren't really saying what you think you're saying, and you're also peeving me at the same time.

Saying "I could care less" implies that you do, in fact, care a little. If you COULD care less, that means you DO care a little, which is not what you're intending to say. What you really mean, if I may be so bold as to put words in your mouth, is that you COULDN'T care less. If you couldn't care any less than you do, you don't care at all, which is what you think you are saying when, in your fit of rage, you spout out "I COULD CARE LESS!"

Say what you mean and mean what you say and we all lived happily ever after.

That is all.

Top 5

On this the eve of Thanksgiving, I present for your consideration the list of people I'm thankful I won't be dining with tomorrow:

1). Nicholas Cage

2). Nancy Grace

3). Larry Bird

4). Nickelback (band, not person. But still...)

5). Peg Bundy

Let's face it. If any of these people showed up for dinner, there'd be way too much turkey at the table.

Close Call

I feel like I'm about to describe an episode of Seinfield to you, so if you've seen this one before, please don't change the channel just yet.

Do you feel the pressure to run around your house before guests arrive and pull out the little knick-knacks they've given you over the years? The candle from high school graduation, the magnet from their trip to Panama City Beach...you hastily dig them out of the hall closet, dust them off, and place them around the house so it appears you enjoy said item daily? I think if we all dig deep and get real with ourselves (I'm channeling Dr. Phil here), we'd admit that we've done this a time or two.

I'd like to present, for your consideration, the mantel in my parent's living room:

I arrived home on Sunday evening for the first time since July for an extended Thanksgiving celebration. I haven't spent this many days at home in a very, very long time. I noticed the mantel early on - nice shrine, mom and dad. The thing that struck me (besides the cuteness of my nephews) was the multitude of pictures of Jasper, Baxter, Darrell and Joni. 6 of 'em. And there, that one picture dead center in the black frame. Who's that? Ohhhhhh...that's me! In TWELFTH GRADE. AS PROM QUEEN.

In my mind (though I know it's not true), I picture my mom running to the hall closet as they hear a car pull into the driveway. She's panic stricken as she realized that...wait a second...there was that girl that one time who used to hang around here a bunch. HER PICTURE! Quick. You go stall her in the driveway and I'll rustle up an outdated, embarrassing picture and place it front and center. Here! This is perfect! Whew!

We'll delve later into my reign as Prom Queen. For now, I've come to two conclusions: First, at least when they look at me, they see me as the queen I am. Terribly appropriate, no? Second, I think now we all know who's getting a certain 8" x 10" for Christmas.

Pet Peeve Monday

I love watching sports. Football, basketball (dear NBA: call me when you start playing defense and I'll tune in), baseball during the playoffs, don't even get me started on the Olympics. I'll watch virtually any sporting event, whether or not I have an allegiance to the teams competing. I just like competition.

Could we please just have a moment of silence to celebrate the beginning of college basketball season? ................. Thank you.

Last week, I was watching the Duke Blue Devils ROUT Charlotte (101 - 59 thankyouverymuch) and I got PEEVED.

Why do sports commentators feel the need to fill any silence with some stupid, random, inconsequential, obscure sports statistic? I remember being bothered by this even as a small child during playoff baseball. Does that fact that the Atlanta Braves haven't won a post-season game on a Monday night when the temperature is below 43* and they're wearing their blue jerseys really have any relevance whatsoever on the current game being played?

Or the Duke Blue Devils (i heart them): who REALLY cares that they are in the midst of a 70-game home winning streak against non-conference opponents. THAT MEANS NOTHING. That could also mean that they are currently in the midst of a 14-game losing streak because they've only played conference opponents.

And I'd like to meet the poor sports information interns who slave away behind the scenes, working their fingers to the bone, to find these random patterns. I'd like to give them a pat on the back and a punch in the face.

So there. Happy Monday. I leave you with this stat. I found it on the Internet, so it must be true:

The Chicago Bulls are 6-52 since 1998 when they are away from the United Center because the circus is in town.

That is all.

Because nothing says "Christmas!"...

...like a burning cross in the front yard:

It's All About Timing

Confession: When I was in college, I carefully crafted my class schedule so I was free every day at 11:00 am because The Price Is Right was on. What did I learn in college? Priorities. Intro to Art History or Plinko. You decide.

I majored in Sport Management with a minor in the Cliffhanger Game.

I feel history repeating itself as I've become more and more hesitant to accept meeting requests between the hours of 9am - noon. Why? Because that's when I stream The Dan Patrick Show live on my computer. Have you ever listened to the genius that is The Dan Patrick Show? It's sports talk radio and OH, MY GOSH. It is laugh out loud funny. Twice this morning, I've laughed out loud. Once during Dan's interview of Norm (!) from Cheers and again when they were describing how some big, fat college football player's face barely fit into his helmet. Bless his heart. They said his cheeks oozed out of his helmet like melted cheese. I don't care who you are or how you feel about college football. That's funny.

Check it out if you need a laugh: www.danpatrick.com and hold all my calls until 12:01.

Panic Attack on Aisle 3

The holidays are notoriously a stressful time of year. The shopping and cooking and baking and decorating and entertaining and music and traditions and dealing with crazy family dynamics (not that I know anything about that...) - it's enough to turn a grown woman into a blubbering idiot (not that I know anything about THAT, either).

Mostly, I enjoy the holiday season. But of all the stressors listed above, there's one that reigns supreme. Gift wrap. Yes, gift wrap. My obsession with gift wrap, which lays dormant most of the year, rockets to the surface during the holidays. I can't enter any major discount retailer without having to forcibly remove myself from the grips of holiday gift wrap. I verbally abuse myself. My left hand restrains my right hand. I evoke my best mom voice and say 'no, you may not choose a roll. Because you have PLENTY of rolls at home, that's why.'

Currently, I own about 17 rolls of wrapping paper. If they grew arms and legs and decided to mutiny, I'd be in big trouble. Just imagine the paper cuts.

This is my favorite roll:

I bought it last year during the post-holiday sale at Hallmark. It makes my heart beat faster. Who doesn't love a winter cardinal?

I also bought this roll at the same post-holiday sale. I rationalized the purchase of this roll by telling myself that it can be used even for non-holiday occasions.

And someday, I will have a wrapping paper room in my house.

For now, all my wrapping supplies are crammed in the hall closet.

Thus far, I've managed to escape the stigma of "crazy cat lady" because, well, I hate cats. But just WAIT til word of my wrapping paper gets out to the neighborhood kids. Please excuse me while I mentally prepare for the pointing and laughing.

Pet Peeve Monday

I make lists. It's a compulsive behavior that has afflicted me since childhood. My earliest list-making memories are the packing lists I used to make when preparing to go to summer camp. In 5th grade. I remember looking in a dictionary because I wasn't sure if it was "underwear" or "underware". Give me a break. It was only a few months after the spelling bee.

My list making continues in earnest today. I'm looking around my desk right now and can see 5 different lists of things. And while lists keep me sane, give me a sense of accomplishment, and help me stay on track, the VOLUME of lists really peeves me.

Last night, I was searching for a recently composed shopping list that included paper towels and eye liner. I ransacked my purse and found:

None of these lists are the paper towel/eye liner list. Many of them are completely obsolete. Why can't I throw lists away? It's so annoying.

I never did find the list I needed, so today I am peeved, my kitchen counters are crumby, and the lack of eye liner has me looking tired/sick/dead. AHHHHH! Another list...

Make it stop.

Dear Cousin Ben,

Not only do I LOVE dressing like you in public (especially at Wal-Mart),

but I also LOVE that you voluntarily act as the Quality Control Manager of this here blog. When I make it big, you will be the Gail to my Oprah.

Love, Cousin Liz

(Yes, I'm wearing a notebook around my neck. Yes, I'm single. Coincidence?)

Reason #28 I Don't Mind Being Single

For a refresher course on Reason #27, click here.

Reason #28: Let's call it Tattered, Torn and Over-worn Syndrome.

a

Picture it. November 1997. Almost 12 years ago to the day, I was a senior in high school. Basketball was my life. I was admittedly unbalanced. The most rebellious thing I did was ride around with my friends to find empty church parking lots with available basketball goals. I am still unable to express the adrenaline rush that came from shooting hoops on an unauthorized court.

a

Well. I've gotten a bit off track, now haven't I? Reason #28 I Don't Mind Being Single is that I get to walk around my house wearing my 2007 Sonny's Smokin' Shootout tournament t-shirt. What could be better than a Thanksgiving basketball tournament? A Thanksgiving basketball tournament SPONSORED BY A BBQ RESTAURANT.

a

Unlike Joan Rivers, my t-shirt has not aged well.

It's faded.

It's tattered.

It looks like Jaws attacked the armpits.

But hear me when I say it is the softest, snuggliest, most bestest t-shirt ever. There are times when I come home after a long, hard day at work and actually reward myself by putting on sweatpants and my Sonny's t-shirt. It's my guilty pleasure.

a

One of many.

A glimpse into my future?

So, I don't watch Family Guy. I hear it's kinda crude, which probably means I should go ahead and join the fan club. While television commericals generally annoy me (except those promoting the Family Circle Cup, of course), this one makes me laugh out loud.

I figure it's also fate's way of saying, 'laugh while you can, sucker.'

Outburst.

This is Thom.


Given to me by my mother, he is my only Thanksgiving decoration. And I love him.

That is all.

Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick, in the parlor.

The proper telling of this story requires that I divulge a deep, dark secret. You know, a fact about myself that 'I don't talk about at cocktail parties' (name that movie). So, here goes.

I don't often watch crime drama shows. You know, like CSI: Miami, CSI: New York, CSI: Timbuktu (soon to be released). Or those pesky 48-Hour Unsolved Mystery shows that profile a crime and leave you hanging since the jury hasn't yet returned with the verdict. Did the step-mother's brother's cousin's babysitter actually kill the mailman's daughter in order to get her hands on the hairdresser's diamond ring? We may never know.

But that's not the deep, dark secret. As much as I try to avoid those shows, sometimes I get sucked in despite myself. I try to avoid them because I can't help but put myself in the shoes of the deceased. And then my mind inevitably wanders to this question. Here's the secret. Ready? I start to think about the chain of events that would lead someone to find my body. I know! Morbid! Horrid! Unthinkable! If I accidental choked on a cupcake, what would tip people off? My mind rolls over the scenarios and plays "what if."

But, thanks to this blog, I may never have to ponder the subject again. Last night, I got a call from my dad (hi, dad!). He was calling to check-in and make sure I was ok. He was concerned, you see, because I'd missed Pet Peeve Monday. And I never miss Pet Peeve Monday. In fact, some weeks I even LIVE for Pet Peeve Monday. His concern touched me and put my fears of rotting away, undiscovered, to rest.

What a relief.

The Definition of Insanity

A wise woman (or man) once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. I present for your review Exhibit A - this cup of pink gumballs sitting on my desk at work:

Before we proceed, allow me to address for one second the fact that I have the two cutest nephews on the face of God's Green Earth. My apologies to those of you who also feel you have cute nephews. I'm sure your nephews are wonderful, but behold the cuteness of my nephews, peeking at you from the upper right-hand corner of the gumball picture. My nephews' cuteness could kick the butt of your nephews' cuteness.

Now, we can proceed with the gumballs. These gumballs taunt me from their cup. They call my name, make futile my resistance, and promise delicious goodness. And they ARE delicious. They make life worth living for the first (maybe) 2 minutes of chew. They are sweet, chewy, gum flavored and soft. Everything a good gumball should be. But like most good things, the sweetness comes to a brutal, bitter, devastating end at the 2:01 mark. Repulsive, disgusting, and revolting is their taste after 2 minutes.

So what do I do? I turn up my nose and discard the gum with great disdain. Yuck. Ewww. Shiver. But slowly, quietly, mysteriously, the call of the gumball begins again. And the vicious cycle is renewed.

One positive, though, is that I've begun to require anyone wishing to meet with me to eat a gumball. This policy serves two purposes: 1). it depletes the population of gumballs left to taunt me. 2). the accompanying rule states that you have my complete and undivided attention until your gumball loses taste. The meeting ends when you throw out your gum.

Splendidly insane, no?

Pet Peeve Monday

Apparently, Ashley's baby shower this weekend (hi Ashley!) was an eventful occurrence. Not only did I "boooooo" in public, I was also reminded of a pet peeve, which I will share with you now.

It's cake, people. You know that, while asking for "a really small piece. You know, just a little sliver" might the feminine, polite, delicate thing to do...you KNOW you really want a huge slab. I was helping serve the (ice cream!) cake, and shower guest after shower guest insisted on "oh, just a very small piece, please. I couldn't possibly eat all that." Ummmm, yes you can. And you should. You should eat that entire piece of cake and then come back for more. You should stop trying to be so demure and just admit to yourself and to me that deep down inside, not only do you want a large piece of cake, you really want to eat it sans utensils.

At the shower, I offered a piece of cake to a 10-YEAR-OLD girl, who said "yes please, but I'd just like a small piece." Dude. You're 10-YEARS-OLD and I'm holding a plate of ICE CREAM CAKE in front of your face and you're seriously going to ask me for a smaller piece? She said "I'd just like a small piece, please" and under my breath so just she could hear me I said, "no, you don't. Here. Eat this." She kind of giggled, took the plate, and you know what? She finished the whole piece.

Hello, my name is Elizabeth. I save the world one piece of cake at a time and yes, I'd love a helping of cake the size of my face.

Boo.

Happy Halloween! Or as I like to call it, Happy Day of Dangerous Anonymity!

While most of the "boos" uttered today have been delivered in the spirit of scaring the ever-loving crap out of someone, I uttered a different sort of boo this afternoon. One that I deeply regret.

In the interest of cutting straight to the chase, I'll just...well...cut straight to the chase. I uttered a loud, audible "boooooo" at a BABY SHOWER. In front of people. People heard me "boooooo." Aunts and nieces and the mom of the mother-to-be heard me heckle. I heckled during a game. A baby shower game.

Hello, my name is Elizabeth, and I'm a Baby Shower Heckler.

I am unable to act like an adult when a game is involved. I get so competitive that my filter turns off and I heckle. While sometimes this trait is acceptable (while playing sports, while watching sports, while driving) there are many times when it is socially unacceptable to heckle. That's when jerks like me shine. The kicker is that, as a hostess of the shower, I was technically not even eligible to win the game. But alas, my filter failed and I boooooo'ed.

Thankfully the shower guests were either too polite or too hard of hearing to react to my taunting and we all lived happily ever after.

Boo on me.

Attitude Adjustment

I have a confession. For (at least) the past 18 or so days, I have been a terrible, miserable, black cloud of a person to be around (never end a sentence in a preposition, but I'm not sure how to avoid that one). Grammatical rules aside, trust me when I say I have been the Queen of Woe Is Me. Complaining, moaning, wronged, mistreated, oppressed, persecuted, outraged, toxic. I even threatened to scratch someone's face with my fingernails. And I don't even really HAVE fingernails.

I'm not sure what happened, but it's been so easy for me to find the unfairness in almost every situation. I've been a ball of nerves and it got to the point that I actually started getting on my own nerves, which is quite an accomplishment.

So tonight, I took matters into my own hands. I decided I needed a good, old fashioned attitude adjustment. In the form of a 1-hour massage. And boy, did it work. I needed someone to force me to be still and SHUT UP for :10 seconds. That's about how long it took for me to realize what a total jerk I've been being. (Been being? This post is a literary masterpiece). I wish I could relive the past few weeks, I wish I could personally apologize to every single person I've come in contact with, I wish it wasn't so hard for me to be pleasant sometimes.

I'm writing this post in hopes that my Eeyore facade will melt away and in the hopes that my general crankiness, unlike the swine flu, has not infested the world. Speaking of Eeyore, in honor of my attitude adjustment, I leave you with the following exchange:

"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily.
"So it is."
"And freezing."
"Is it?"
"Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."

That's MRS. Boboli to you.

Last week during the golf tournament, the clubhouse smelled like goat cheese. I just re-read that sentence and it sounds totally revolting, but it actually awakened in me a strong, unquenchable craving for goat cheese.

Ergo, I am pleased to present to you the reasons I wish to marry this goat cheese topped pizza:

1). I LOVE IT.

2). If I married it, my last name would be "Boboli". I figure that would get pronounced correctly about as many times as "Skogman".

3). Pizza's answer to my asking "Hi honey, how was your day?" would always be the same: "Delicious!"

4). Our union would not create any extra laundry. No socks.

5). I. LOVE. IT.

So there you have it. The invitations are in the mail. Our reception will feature red checkered tablecloths. We keep it classy.

Extremes

The final task before the golf event was official O-V-E-R was to drive 75 BMW's to Greenville today, back to the manufacturing plant they call home. I'm sure they had a wonderful vacation in Charleston last week and are probably bragging to all their other BMW friends about how great it was.

I was looking forward to one thing and one thing only when I learned about this task. The luxury car radio. Boy, did I jam. My ears are still ringing like I've been sitting front row at a concert. I didn't speed (much) on the way there, but I'm pretty sure I violated the noise ordinances in several of the sleepy towns we passed along the way.

As I familiarized myself with the features of my luxury vehicle, I quickly figured out how to turn the bass up so far the windows rattled. But I could not figure out...how to...lock the doors. I found the power windows, front and rear windshield wipers, hazard lights, radio, cruise control...but I could not figure out how to lock the doors from the inside. The entire time, I could hear my mother's voice saying how unsafe it is to drive with the doors unlocked. I spent most of the ride to Greenville with one foot at a rock concert and the other foot as a concerned adult, pacing back and forth while wringing her hands with concern over the unlocked doors. I was torn between two extremes.

Between the hours of 8 - 11:30am, I was a luxury car driver. I was the person I yell at on the interstate for driving their hot-shot vehicle too fast. Then, from noon - 4:30pm, I was the proud driver of a 15-passenger van filled with 11 of my co-workers. Let me just summarize the experience by saying that the Enterprise 15-passenger is NOT a BMW in any way. Again, torn between two extremes.

Delinquent vs. Responsible; Luxury vs. ...NOT...

I need a nap.

Pet Peeve Monday

Maybe it's because I'm southern. Or maybe it's because I have an innate sense of COMMON COURTESY that when out in public, before I let go of a door, I pause to see if anyone is behind me so I don't DROP THE DOOR IN THEIR FACE.

Who are you that you can't be bothered to double check? I guess it all comes out in the wash, considering that your mother probably didn't love you.

She works hard for the money.

A dog in a car with the windows rolled up causes animal control to arrive on the scene. They proceed to break into the car, rescue the canine and set up a sting operation to catch the owner.

A golf course employee witnesses child abuse on the 2nd green (that really isn't funny at all. I'm just painting the complete picture here.), causing Child Protective Services to arrive on the scene, arresting the father and delivering the three children to their mother.

8 LCD televisions playing college football, 4 refrigerators, 1 ATM and a bunch of sound equipment for the concert tonight all pull too much power, causing a power outage in the entire clubhouse. Generators are brought in pronto to get the GAME BACK ON! This is the South after all. People are serious about their pig skin.

During said power outage, a volunteer insists that the elevator will still work, gets in, gets stuck, pulls the fire alarm, causing a fire truck to come barrelling down the country club driveway in the middle of the Golf Channel broadcast. Oops.

In summary, the beer is warm, the football is OFF, two people are in jail and one poor know-it-all volunteer got what was coming to him. And oh yeah. There's golf going on, too.

Hear me when I say NONE of this was included in ANY event management text book I ever read.

Tee'd Off

Today marked Day 2 of working at my first professional golf event. So far it's a lot like tennis only with more rogue golf carts (you really MUST look both ways before crossing. Battery powered golf carts are silent until they hit you) and a bunch of men walking around wearing white belts. Don't even get me started.

Some other observations:
- It's becoming more and more apparent that no one arranged for meals for the staff. Volunteers? Yes. Players? Yes. VIP's? Yes. Caddies? Yes. Parking attendants, sponsors, cleat cleaners? Yes. Staff? Here...all 20 of you can share this one Chic-fil-a sandwich. My pleasure.
- There's a rumor going around that our staff uniform polos are made from corn. I'm hoping the so-far-chilly October temps rise a bit. Popcorn for dinner? Pass the salt!
- I blame the limited foodstuffs for the fact that I ate 4 Little Debbie oatmeal creme pies yesterday. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
- You can watch the event on the Golf Channel this Thursday - Sunday. Keep an eye out for me. I'll be the one under the bleachers foraging for dinner.

Pet Peeve Monday

Congratulations! You're a 33-year-old man! And you remind me of a 7th grade cheerleader! What's with the overuse of the exclamation point?!?! In my opinion, one should be extremely consertative with the exclamation point! Otherwise, you might as well pick up the pom-poms and do a split! When you overuse the exclamation point, you sound a bit like Jerry Seinfield!

That is all!

Uncharacteristically Deep...

So there's this up-and-coming tennis star named Melanie Oudin. Maybe you caught her at the US Open in September. Basically, she shredded the bracket and made it to the quarterfinals. She's a 17-year-old from Atlanta, cute as pie, and has been thrust into the spotlight. She'll be at the Family Circle Cup in April and, unlike her appearance here last year, will probably need police escorts to walk anywhere. Kinda like me.

The reason I'm writing about Melanie today is that we requested an electronic signature from her to include in our national ad campaign. And get this. Her agent just called to say that he's sorry for the delay, they're sending the file right over. You see, she's just gotten off a trans-Atlantic flight and spent the entire time practicing her autograph. She wanted it to be just right before she sent it to us.

_____________

When I got my first business cards, I mailed one to my mom and one to my dad. I was so proud. Now, business cards are kind of annoying. There are probably 10 of 'em in the floorboard of my back seat.

I still have the expense report from my first business trip. It was to New York on October 17, 2005. According to the receipts, I spent $2.92 on candy and a beverage at the Hudson News stand at the Charleston airport at 4:56am (I bet money they were peanut M&M's). Now, I'd probably be peeved to have to catch a flight that early. I still remember what I wore on that there-and-back-in-one-day trip.

All this begs the question: When does the novelty wear off? When will Melanie tire of signing autographs and jumping through hoops for (brilliant and devestatingly creative) Marketing Managers at every tournament on the globe? For her sake (and mine!), I hope never.

Wouldn't it be something if we could all manage to approach life with the wide-eyed wonder of a 17-year old tennis phenom or a 25-year-old going to the Big City for the first time?

Pet Peeve Monday

Hello. My name is Elizabeth. And I drink too much Diet Coke. I average 44 - 60 oz. per day. It isn't uncommon for me to drink exclusively Diet Coke for days at a time. My insides are rotting away, my cells are begging for water, and my sodium level qualifies me for the Guiness Book of World Records. Someday, a medical study will be released which will conclude that those who consume monstrous amounts of Aspartame will turn into those mutants that Will Smith battled in I Am Legend. For the record, I'll be the mutant in the snappy red flats.

But alas, even a Diet Coke can peeve me. Tell me, what's the difference between these two cans?

If you noticed the condensation on the 2nd can...the frosty goodness...the sure sign that it's nice and COLD instead of flat, room temperature and GROSS, then I sure wish you would've been at my house last night as I took a gigantic swig out of the first can, thinking it was the 2nd can. Ew. And PEEVE.

I Love Steve Avery (still)

Last night, my friend Maggie (hi, Maggie!) came over and we grilled steaks. Yum. We also watched Glee on FOX and caught some MLB post-season action. If you haven't seen Glee, do yourself a favor. It's laugh out loud funny. But this post isn't about steaks or funny TV shows. It's about baseball and broken brass lamps.

Picture it: It's the Fall of 1990(ish). A 10-year-old Braves fan is home alone, watching the pre-game show as her Atlanta Braves warm-up for another (eventually fruitless) post-season run. (As I'm thinking about this, could it be true that my parents would've left me home alone at 10? Not sure...just go with it.) Beloved announcers Pete Van Wieren, Skip Caray and Don Sutton are analyzing the game from every angle. Cameras pan to Ron Gant, playing catch in the outfield with David Justice. Steve Avery (hubba, hubba) is warming up in the bullpen. The 10-year-old fan is well above the legal limit of pent up excitement and energy. You can cut the tension with a knife.

As the pregame show ends and a commercial break begins, the young fan runs to her bedroom to retrieve her commemorative, full sized Louisville Slugger bat. The one with the Braves logo. Because watching a Braves game without a bat is like eating pancakes without syrup. You just shouldn't do it.

She returns to the Family Room just as the commercial break ends. The screen fades to black. Cue Olympic-caliber, tear-jerking, chill-inducing, dramatic-music-playing broadcast opening. You know the kind. Adrenaline courses through the young fan's veins. An image of David Justice fills the (18") screen. Unable to contain her excitement any longer, the young fan, in an effort to emulate her favorite Big League power slugger, swings the bat with all her might. Her visions of walk-off Grand Slam glory are abruptly interrupted by a loud, crude-sounding CRUNCH. The brass floor lamp. The one that once stood so proudly beside the sofa. Crap. As her face grew hot with the realization of what she'd just done, she turned to find the once smug lamp looking more like Scottie Pippen's nose:

Flat. In classic "fight or flight" response, she ran from the room with no real destination in mind. There was no way to hide what had transpired. She'd have to admit to pretending to be David Justice. Physical similarities aside, the thought of a 10-year-old girl aspiring to be a baseball star seemed a tinge ridiculous, even to her.

The judge and jury (aka: Mom) assembled, testimony was given, and judgement and sentencing were delivered swiftly. The 10-year-old fan would pay a sum of $60 to cover damages, pain, and suffering. The accused gasped at the ruling. $60!?!?! An inconceivable amount. Though never verbalizing her shock, the 10-year-old can distinctly remember being completely aghast that someone would pay $60 for a lamp. A lamp!

Let this be a lesson to you. As you watch the action this post season, save yourself some trouble and invest in a foam bat.

Save some for later...

Dear Tabitha,
I hope your birthday is so great that some of it ends up all down the front of your shirt. Not that you'd know about that or anything...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Love you to pieces!

Working In A Corporate Setting 101

Dude. Before you sit there and claim that the reason you haven't responded to my e-mails or returned my phone calls is because your phone and Internet lines have been down for the better part of 2 days, you should probably be advised that I've been corresponding with your colleague who sits right down the hall from you with absolutely no problem on a regular basis since last Friday.

I'm just sayin'...

Pet Peeve Monday

I hang out with teenagers now on a regular basis and this peeve is dedicated to them. I don't think any of them read my blog, but if you're out there and you're one of my teenage friends and you're reading this - GO DO YOUR HOMEWORK.

Why is it that the immediate explanation a teenager gives when they've lost something is to automatically insist that someone stole it? I mean INSIST - emphatically, positively, demonstratively INSIST that said lost article was STOLEN. Not lost, misplaced, forgotten, carelessly cast aside...but STOLEN.

What's that? You'd like a recent example?

Picture it: last weekend, in a hotel room in Charlotte, one of my teenage friends couldn't find her flip-flops. Everyone had packed all their bags, we were ready to leave, and said teenage friend just could not find her flip-flops. She came running to my door and said (with panic in her eyes) "Elizabeth! Someone STOLE my FLIP-FLOPS!"

To which I replied "You mean to tell me that you seriously think someone broke into your room in the middle of the night, snuck past the 4 other girls in your room and of all the things they could've taken, they chose your brown Nike flip-flops? That's weird." (I'm very sympathetic and nurturing, no?)

And she continued to INSIST that they'd been stolen - or at least someone was playing a trick on her. You see, she'd looked EVERYWHERE. Except on the floor by the night stand, where I felt them first with my foot, then with my hands.

"Here you go. Here are your stolen flip-flops."

Perhaps I've missed my calling. I should totally be a detective.

Armpits

Facebook, how I love thee. I resisted you for years, scoffed at your followers, rolled my eyes at your power and ability to connect me with even the most obscure of high school friends and now, I love thee.

Why my change of heart? Moments like this. I was looking at my sister-in-law's wall today (hi, Joni!), and stumbled upon this gem of a photo:

Taken in the summer of 1999, this photo features Naomi (hi, Naomi!), Ellis (on Naomi's lap) and Joni. It was taken at Camp Glisson, the camp where we all worked and as camp photos often do, it evoked a rush of emotion. What great summers we spent as camp counselors. Easily some of the most favorite memories of my life happened at camp. I looked at Naomi, Ellis, and Joni and started studying their surroundings. Looks like it might have been a rainy day (note the red poncho over Naomi's right shoulder). The campers were probably restless, the ground was soggy and the bugs were biting. Thankfully, a rainy day at Glisson is better than a sunny day anywhere else.

About the fifth thing I noticed in the picture was the strange bearded guy with the guilty grin in the background. Yeah, that'd be my brother. The sixth thing I noticed was the white teddy bear carelessly discarded beside that "bed." Why did I notice? BECAUSE THAT'S MY BEAR. And that's MY BED that he's lounging on with his armpits.

Yes, I slept on that bed. For about four weeks. Anyone who knows me knows that "roughing it" has never been my style. But it was camp, and I got assigned the job of counselor at Summit Camp during one 4-week session. I was completely out of my comfort zone the entire time (see the wooden fence in the background? That was the shower. The COLD WATER ONLY shower). But when all was said and done, I was proud of myself for sticking it out and actually having fun with it.

Back to the armpits. Dude, get your armpits off my bed. I'm fearful that this is the same summer your tube of Right Guard spent the entire summer on the passenger seat of my purple Saturn. But hey, what are big brothers for if not to rub their sweaty, hairy, bare armpits on your pillow?

p.s.: You know what they say about revenge, right Darrell? I know where you live, sucker.

Don't Forget the Lyrics

Confession: I have bad taste in music. Well, maybe not BAD, but certainly mainstream. I'd love to be funky and cool enough to discover little known artists and be able to wax poetic about the lyrical genius and timeless stylings of some obscure band from Portland, but that ain't gonna happen. I'm a Top 40 girl.

Case in point, the song "To Make You Feel My Love". I've spent my entire life thinking that song was a Garth Brooks original. You know, from the Hope Floats soundtrack? Imagine my shock when I learned last week that it's a BOB DYLAN song. Pardon? And then, upon further investigation (Wikipedia), it seems that more than 25 other artists have also covered the song. Double pardon?

But my cluelessness doesn't stop there. I had the lyrics wrong, too. I wasn't way off...like I knew the song wasn't about chocolate cupcakes. The actual lyrics are:

I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue
I'd go crawling down the avenue
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love

and all this time I thought Garth was crooning:
I'd go hungry, I'd go blind for you
I'd go crawling down the aisle for you
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love

Please excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the floor.

All this begs the question: would you rather be black and blue or blind?

The Captain Is In...

For two days last week, the Internet and phone lines were down in our office. An unsuspecting construction worker down the street cut the lines. Oops. Business came to a grinding halt and we all walked around like confused mental patients who had missed a dose of meds. After the first hour, the masses became restless. No e-mail! No phones! No Facebook...er, I mean...Internet!

With nothing to occupy our time, people began to clean out their offices (*gasp!*). Oh, the cleaning, organizing, purging, and rearranging that ensued. And what comes with organizing? People give you the crap they don't want anymore! I went out for lunch and came back to find this book on my desk:

I rolled my eyes and grumbled and set the book aside. But eventually, after my own office clean-up was complete, I was left with no other option than to crack it open and take a look. After all, maybe I'd find a great promotion idea from 1994 that we could use during Retro Night at the tournament. I was not prepared for the hilarity I'd find. Gems like this one:

Gee, really? My company can sponsor all the seats directly behind the support beams? Awesome. I especially love the note in the margin: "vomitory seats". Ummmm, ew.

I moved on to the section about how to increase ticket revenue and was pummeled with such earth-shattering suggestions as:

And:
Brilliant insights like:
I began to suspect that this book was authored by none other than Captain Obvious himself. Sell more tickets? By creating a database? And sending faxes? Genius.

And the cherry-on-top...the ideas for when all else fails. I present:

Or:
Annnnnnnd scene. Aren't you glad the Internet is working again?

Pet Peeve Monday

This is Pet Peeve Monday #14. There have been 16 Monday's since the tradition started, but I took 2 Mondays off - one because I was saving the world, the other because I was being self-absorbed at the beach on vacation. What can I say? I'm a woman of duplicities.

Monday #14 begs the question: when will the peeve well run dry? I'm happy (or frightened) to report that I'm just getting started. I'm still saving my biggest peeve of all for some dreary winter day (meaning the high temp in Charleston dips to a chilly 65*) and I'm inspired almost daily with more material. Case in point:

I really hate it when couples sit on the same side of the booth at a restaurant, leaving the other side of the booth empty. Allow me to introduce you to the concept of personal space. I'm sure it's some romantic gesture. They probably feed one another and hold hands under the table. Newsflash: YOU'RE AT MOE'S EATING A BURRITO, NOT AT SOME 5 STAR RESTAURANT IN ITALY. The only exception to this peeve occurs when a sporting event is on TV and same-side-sitting affords both parties optimal viewing.

How's THAT for romance?

Aprons? In public?

This afternoon I went to Michael's - you know - the craft store. Lately, it's become my home away from home. I'm not even really a very crafty person, but I love that store. The people watching rivals the airport. It smells like potpourri. My inner Martha Stewart is summoned.

ANYWAY, during my visit today I found myself outside my crafty comfort zone and needed assistance from a friendly Michael's sales associate. I approached a woman clad in the trademark Michael's apron and said "excuse me, I have a question." The lady looked at me with total disdain and said "uh...I don't work here." And then she sort of rolled her eyes and walked away.

Well PARDON ME, but who wears a black apron in public on purpose? And why shoud I be the one whose face turned red? Why should I be embarassed? I'm not the one in the apron.

It's for this very reason that I don't go to Target if I'm wearing khaki pants and a red shirt. I only wish everyone was as considerate.

Checklist

Flea Bath...check.
Spiffy new collar...check.
Treats, treats, treats...check.
Owner wrapped around paw...check.
Headroom in this new sweet ride...uhhhh...

Aisle 3

Perhaps my next trip to the grocery store should:
A). happen soon.
B). NOT include walking down aisle 3 (pickles, condiments, salad dressing). I think I'm all set.

Pet Peeve Monday

I apologize for the tardy peeve today, folks. I hope you muddled through your Monday without it. Now, sit back, relax and enjoy:

Birds. Birds that chirp. Birds that chirp outside. Birds that chirp outside my bedroom window. IN THE MORNING. The best day of my childhood was the day my parents had the tall pine tree in our backyard cut down. They said it was to reduce their homeowners insurance premium, but I like to think of it as sweet revenge for ALL THE CHIRPING. I distinctly remember being a young girl, laying in bed in my pink bedroom on Merry Lane, thinking to myself 'I wonder if they'd stop chirping if I opened the window and fired a gun.' Not to kill any of them mind you, but maybe the noise would get their attention.

The morning birds seem especially boisterous this time of year. Perhaps they're getting in their last play dates and coffee chats before they head south for the winter. Or perhaps they're all involved in a master plot to drive me crazy and peeve me right out a decent slumber. I guess we'll never know.

I'll be here all week...

It's Friday night. I'm going to dinner with friends. Then, I figure I'll head on over to my audition for Legally Blonde, The Musical. You know, since I'm already in costume and all...

ALSO, you know you're getting old when you're in the midst of switching from big purse to small clutch and one of the "essentials" you grab at the last minute is your healthcare insurance card. You know...just in case. Eek.

Proceed with Caution

I’m addicted. To spell check. I didn’t realize how dependant I was until I joined Facebook about a month ago. Facebook may have caused a social revolution. It may have reunited me with my first high school crush (now married with 2 kids) and even Elle, the spelling bee spoiler, but it can’t tell you if you’re about to tell the world that “I’m doing laundry, seperating darks from whites rather enthaustically!”

But my relationship with spell check hasn’t always been sunshine and flowers. Even spell check betrayed me. Picture it: April 2005. It’s the busiest time of year at work with our biggest event just 2 days away. People are bustling around the office getting ready for the 90,000 people that will descend upon us, robbing us of our social lives and sanity for 9 days. At the time, I was the Box Office Manager, charged with the daunting task of ensuring that the aforementioned horde of people had the right tickets for the right days for the right seats at the right price. In the midst of the chaos, I receive the following e-mail (I’m paraphrasing):

Dear Elizabeth,
I ordered tickets 2 weeks ago for the tournament and I haven’t received them in the mail yet. Could you check on my order and let me know when I can expect my tickets?

Thanks!Susie Sunshine

So, in the midst of the madness, I check Ms. Sunshine’s order and find that her tickets hadn’t been mailed. Our error. This is how I responded:

Hi Ms. Sunshine,
I’ve checked your account and it seems that your tickets failed to print last week. Since they were never mailed, our best bet is to leave the tickets for you in Will Call, which is located just outside the main stadium gate. When you arrive on site, you can pick them up there by showing a photo ID. Please let me know if you have questions. Sorry for the incontinence!

Elizabeth

Did you catch that? Sorry for the incontinence? INCONVENIENCE! Thanks spell check. Thanks a lot. I MEANT INCONVENIENCE! I noticed the slip just as I hit send. It all happened in slow motion. I reached for the screen. Noooooooooooo…but alas, I was too late. After the wave of panic subsided, I laughed until I almost died. Later that day, Ms. Sunshine responded:

Hi Elizabeth,
Thanks for all your help! Looking forward to the event.

Susie

Maybe Susie didn’t catch the error. Maybe she was totally confused. Maybe she was embarrassed for me. Maybe she forwarded the e-mail along to everyone she’d ever met. I’ll never know. But I do know that I’ve never looked at spell check the same way again. Let this be a lesson to you.

Pet Peeve Monday

Any of you who have the pleasure of spending any amout of time with me on a regular basis will roll your eyes at this one because it is as much a part of who I am as the fact that I love March Madness. It just IS who I am. A "no duh" statement, if you will. Today's pet peeve:

STOP WEARING WHITE AFTER LABOR DAY. Stop it. Just...STOP IT. Don't get me wrong: summer is my favorite time of year. I love the weather and the clothes and the general mood of the world in summer, but there comes a time when it's just not summer anymore. And that time happens to be LABOR DAY. Conventional fashion wisdom has recently begun to spread the vicious rumor that it is ok to wear white year-round. I say this "wisdom" is a symptom of the further erosion of the decency of the American people. If you'll think back and remember with me, fashion wisdom once endorced the Hypercolor t-shirt, Jammz, neon shoe laces, and sky-high bangs. Now that we have a bit of perspective on each of these fashion movements, we cringe. I believe the same will happen someday people look back at their family Christmas card picture and see themselves wearing white pants.

So, for the love of humanity, put away the white pants, shorts, belts, purses, SHOES, accessories, and skirts. Give them a rest. Thank them for their faithful service throughout these past few months and temporarily relegate them to the closet in the guest room.

I mourn for my white pants - the only pair of pants I own that are actually a little too long - but I dutifully put them away last night. I ask you to do the same.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Let's just assume that a person decided to make pancakes for dinner. And he or she stopped on the way home from work for eggs and milk, certain that there was pancake mix, vegetable oil, syrup and butter at home. And she...or he...was feeling really great about the menu - such a nice change of pace - and practically pulled a rotator cuff muscle (do they make those?) patting herself on the back (or himself) at the sight of the lovely, fluffy, golden brown cakes as they came out of the skillet.

Imagine this master chef choosing the three best flapjacks and arranging them neatly on her...or his...plate. Then, imagine my...err...the chef's...utter dismay at the realization that there was not, in fact, any syrup in the house. Not in the fridge. Nor in the pantry. Not after moving each of the (7) items in the fridge around or standing on a chair to view the dark recesses of the pantry.

Finally, I'd like to propose the following for your consideration: Peanut butter is not a suitable substitute for syrup.

Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything...

Vacation, Extended.

I returned home last night from perhaps one of the best vacations I've ever had. It was the perfect mixture of sun, sand, ocean, pool, food, sleep, books, food, sun...you get the picture. I finally crashed into bed last night around 12:30, thinking to myself "I'm still on vacation until 9:00 am. I'm still on vacation. I'm still on vacation." And all that positive thinking must've done the trick, because my vacation got extended! Until 10:15 am this morning!

As with most things that seem too good to be true, there was a catch. The catch came in the form of me, breezing out the door at 8:45 with my purse, locking the door and knowing INSTANTLY as the lock clicked behind me that I'd forgotten my keys inside. I froze in mid-step. Crap. I jiggled the handle. I checked the windows. I checked the front door. Nope, nope, nope. I even checked under the door mat - not sure why - hoping a key would mysteriously appear. Nope.

What to do? Break a window? Seemed extreme, daring and barbaric. I took a bobbie pin from my hair and tried to pick the lock. Clearly, I'm no Nancy Drew. I tried the old credit card trick, something I'd seen my dad do once (the other time I locked myself out). So finally I called a locksmith and waited. For an hour. Until 9:45. How to pass the time? It was a cool, sunny day. Birds were chirping and a train whistled in the distance. Water the flowers? Talk about extreme and barbaric... So I sat and waited and talked to Sarah on the phone.

Finally, David the German locksmith "technician" arrived. I'm happy to report that it took him a bit of effort to get the door open. He tried several tool thingys and some sort of beeping air pouch thing and at one point even extracted a crow bar from his bag. Anyway, at long last the door flung open. Jackpot.

As he packed up his tools and took my money, David said, in this thick German accent, "Quite a day for you, no? And on 9/9/09 no less. And, you called at 9:00."

Later, I'll be playing the lottery, hoping to win enough to extend this little vacation. Permanently.

HAPPY __th BIRTHDAY!

Happy Birthday, Mom! I couldn't let the day pass without giving you a public shout-out. I hope Dad serves you your favorite meal on the special plate and you get that puppy you've always wanted. Wait. That was me.

I've thought long and hard about what I want to say in this special birthday post. I've hemmed and hawed over the words I could use to adequately sum up for the Internet how thankful I am for you. And every idea has fallen well short.

Instead, I'd like to leave the Internet with this, my favorite picture of you and me. Taken by some brave soul in the spring of 1980 who risked life and limb (literally) to capture a mother/daughter moment.

I think I like this picture because, as everyone who's spent 17 seconds around us knows, I was not a pleasant little baby. I cried and fussed and was inconsolable for much of my first 2 years of life. I like to think it's because I was far too intelligent and wise for all that baby talk. ANYWAY, I love this picture because, to me, it embodies companionship. Even during difficult days, when you tried to give me away to the neighbors (yes, I forgive you), when I threw tantrums as a teenager (about going to the mall with friends), when I failed math twice in college (sister of a math teacher, no less), you were my constant companion and still are. Through good times and bad.

So Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!

I've earned an A+, at LEAST.

If I were in 3rd grade, forced to present "How I Spent My Summer Vacation", this is the report I would submit:

This video, coupled with eating cookie dough and powdered doughnuts...THIS is how I've spent the past 1 1/2 days, and how I plan to spend the next few days until forced to return to "life."

THIS is my happy place.

Mmmmmmmm....

Anyone up for a little "Pasteurized Crab Meat" to kick off Labor Day Weekend?

Question: Is use of the word "pasteurized" in this scenario intended as an enticement or a disclaimer?