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.