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?

stream of (un)consciousness

A random smattering of unrelated thoughts (aka: the voices in my head have come out to play):

- Last week, my mom (hi, mom!) totally freaked me out and had me convinced that one of you, my beloved blog readers, was probably standing outside the window of the only room of my house that didn't have window treatments, staring at me as I surf the net and blog. Thanks, mom! Please note: mom's suspicions are not rooted in any sort of fact, scary encounter or other logic. Thus, I've been rocking in a corner ever since, pausing only to run out and buy (rather fabulous) curtains. Also, I've installed a panic room and hired a 24-hour security guard who bears a striking resemblance to Dog the Bounty Hunter. He answers to "Sebastian."

- This afternoon with very little notice, I had to clean out the back seat of my car to accommodate some passengers. I'm happy to report that my dirty little secret is still...dirty. This time, in addition to PILES of trash, I removed a mailbox, 2 huge candles and 2 mismatched pairs of dress shoes. When I say "removed," I mean they're currently in the trunk.

- It has recently come to my attention that my grandparents, Earl and Betty, are now readers of my blog. Hi, Earl and Betty! I hope I'm as technologically savvy as the two of you someday. And if you're the ones outside my window spying on me, could you at least do some yard work while you're out there?

The Truth Hurts

So this is the reason you people keep having kids:

And all this time I thought it was so you could make firetruck siren noises in public without being ridiculed.