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.