The Buzz Kill on My Holiday Spirit

I know, I know I've been absolutely miserable at this whole blog thing. I was officially taken off bed rest three weeks ago and I haven't stopped since. However, the good news is is that while I've been running around with my head cut off I've been able to experience some interesting things.

For example...

I always enjoy the holiday season and the spirit of charity and goodwill that it breeds. The other night, while merrily riding my bike through the streets of Santa Monica, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of Christmas. I don't know if it was the haphazard display of lights along apartment buildings or the Christmas music always blaring outside my door, but I was feeling quite jolly. I took this feeling into my local grocery store and proceeded to smile even when some moron thought fifty items constituted a place in the "Express Lane" or when another woman wanted me to hold her place so she could run back to the butcher and get another pork chop. No, nothing could kill my Christmas spirit.

And then, I walked outside. You all have seen these people before. They ring a simple bell and as you past, they ask, "Could you spare some change for the holiday season?" As I began to explain that I didn't have any cash, BUT that I would have given all that I had if I could, the boy holding the bell said, "Yeah whatever, who cares about the people who have nothing. Go enjoy your warm house." Immediately, I was taken aback and started to say, "No, really I never carry cash." To which he replied, "No seriously, I get it - it's all about you this season." I didn't know what to say. So, I said all I could in a very passive-aggressive, sort of running away mumble, "Oh, that's awesome. Now I really want to give." To which, the boy with the bell said, "I heard that. Merry Freaking Christmas."

Wow, apparently the holiday season is not only about celebrating the spirit of giving, but harassing and demoralizing those individuals who refuse to give.

Mark Twain Was A Racist

Tonight the following conversation took place with a good friend of mine, who will remain nameless...

(Conversation Topic: Recommendations of Classics)

Friend: Have you read Tom Sawyer as an adult?

Kate: No. I was never a fan when I was kid.

Friend: Really? I think you should read it again. You know Mark Twain was a total racist - so you would probably like the book.

Yeah, I'm not sure what that means either. I don't know if this is one of those "Ah Ha" moments, that Oprah always talks about, where I need to re-evaluate my behavior or just a really funny comment. I'm choosing to go with the latter.

Mind you, this was also the same conversation that produced this comment - from a Lit major no less...

Friend: You should also re-read Catcher in the Rye...it's got a swear word in it.

Day 3 of Bed Rest

What to write about? Hmmm...Do you want to hear about all the shows I've been watching? How about how many times I have checked Facebook and am forced to see another Halloween picture of some high school friends' child? Or the results I've found from googling "over stimulated ovaries?" No? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

Well, it goes without said, that today has been incredibly productive. I managed to make a "To Do List" at about 9:30 in the morning and I am proud to announce I finished three of the ten things I wrote down. Sure, I didn't learn how to knit, but let's be honest, the fact that I had "Download and watch V" as number 2 on my list doesn't really constitute a serious "endeavor to get something done."

Outside of watching V, I did do some downloading of music, and while doing this fantastically cheap exercise (got to love the Russians) I had a very sad realization: I've become old. As I listened through the Top Ten downloads all I could think was, "This isn't music." And "Do kids these days find this music lasting?" Oh man, put me in the right lane with my mini van, my blinker on and point me to soccer practice.

Then to make matters worst, without even realizing it, I with unabashed excitement stumbled upon INXS and proceeded to download a lot of songs. I mean a lot of songs. Then with as much care as I could muster, and in no way disturbing my ovaries, began to sing and bob my head to songs like "Mystify" and "Kick." Don't know what those are? Well they were written in 1987!! I guess this is it. The moment when I decide I'm going to wear the same jeans for the next ten years, say things like, "Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt," drink more water and go to bed at 10:30.

Please someone come to my house and make me wear skinny jeans and sing Lady Gaga.

Day 2 of Bed Rest

You know you are leading a rather strange life when you go the hospital again within the month and the nurses and doctors all recognize you. Yes, folks, on Monday I got to enjoy another fun filled day at the hospital. Unfortunately, this time it wasn't about making a spectacle at work, or passing out and unconsciously yelling at paramedics. No, this time it was just about good ol' knee crumbling pain. Okay, as you can probably tell I have a hard time dealing with real issues in a non-sarcastic way - so let me cut to the chase. I did some drugs, in order to get pregnant (not to relive some college days), saw some success, my body ran with it, overreacted and led to some serious pain. Now I'm on bed rest for the next two weeks and well...after sitting in bed for two days I've come to some conclusions. 1. I need to dust more in my bedroom. 2. I really should take more naps during the day. 3. Getting pregnant is not as easy as my fifth grade health teacher taught. Actually, I would like to find that lady and kick her in the ovaries. (It's my eye for an eye philosophy) and 4. Dr. McDreamy (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) should really quit this whole lawyer gig and think about becoming a murse. He's fantastic.

So, don't worry you five readers I have - I'll be up and running in no time. And then it's off to Hillendale Elementary to find that hateful woman...

If I'm a U2 Fan Am I Old?

A couple of weeks ago Wayne Newton (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I had the privilege of seeing U2 in concert. Simply put - it was amazing. First, Black Eyed Peas opened up the show, and I have to admit, that Fergie can seriously sing and their music does cause a very involuntary head bob. Second of all, the stage for this concert was unreal. I just did a little Wikipedia search and learned that the stage consists of a million screens, each 164 feet tall leg carries it's own sound system and it requires 120 trucks to transport each of the 3 sets constructed to support the tour AND the cost of each structure is between £15 million and £20 million. (I heart Wikipedia and I believe everything I read on it.) Thirdly, I couldn't believe the range of songs they played. I heard songs from my past that I never thought I would hear live.

And lastly, and probably the greatest part of the show, were the fans that showed up to see U2. I guess I fall under this category since I was there, but I couldn't believe who I was surrounded by. It was like the 1980s rounded up a stadium of people, aged them 20 years and gave them U2 tickets. Everywhere I looked were bald guys and "mama jean" wearing women dressed in ragged old Joshua Tree t-shirts, smoking pot and dancing like complete lunatics. Have these people been doing anything since Bono went from an Irish punk kid to a political activist?

Anyway, if you get the chance see this tour. You will not be disappointed by the acts all around.

I'm You

Today at work I was asked about a thousand times what I was for Halloween...and then scolded about a thousand times for not dressing up AND for not going out. I'm sorry, I thought at 30 my Halloween responsibilities were temporarily on hold until my own children throw a sheet over their heads and head out for their own personal sugar overdose. Apparently, not.

Okay, I will admit I do love Halloween. I mean who doesn't love all the good times. For example, while I was growing up I got to experience some amazing Mom-made costumes:

1. "Tourist" (This consisted of me putting a Hawaiian shirt on and camera around my neck)
2. "Plumber" (Yep, I got to carry around a plunger)
3. "A Camper" (This one was actually sort of practical. All night I carried around a canteen and a metal pack. I was hydrated and I had room for my candy)

When I got to college Halloween became my favorite day of the year. (Mostly because I could act drunk all night and wear my retainers - it was sort of a dream come true.) No seriously, things were going really well with costumes until my senior year. As a class, we decided to be rappers or gangsters. (Honestly, after growing up in Chadds Ford I'm not sure what's the difference, but I have seen Yo MTV Raps so I was down with the hood.) Anyway, that night I dressed in baggy pants, a basketball jersey and put a cap on backwards. I then got some fake tattoos on my arms and carried a toy gun in my waist (just in case someone wanted to mess with me) and headed out. As I was dancing with my friends an African American walked up to me, not in a costume but suspiciously looking like me, and asked, "What are you supposed to be?" After, looking around for the exits, I sheepishly said, "Well fine sir, I suppose I'm supposed to be...you." Yes, to answer your next question, it was incredibly awkward.

The Aftermath

As you might all remember I had a little "episode" at work that involved me passing out and being carried out in a stretcher by some paramedics. Since then, I'm happy to report I've been feeling great and fully using that fainting spell to my advantage. For example, if I don't feel like working I'll say something like, "Man, I'm feeling a little light headed. I think I need some pancakes." (and then pancakes will magically appear). Or if I find myself on break too long I'll say, "Sorry I was just contemplating how much I enjoy being conscious." I figure I've got a couple more weeks to milk it and then, well...I might be doing a little falling down in the bathroom...if you know what I mean.

I have to say as awesome as it has been faking sickness to get free food and extra time on my break, I've also had to endure some awkward moments. For example, co-workers and customers, who happened to be there the day of the event, constantly ask me if I'm drinking enough water. (I suppose I'll have to start wearing a Camelback to get everyone to shut up.) Secondly, co-workers and customers love telling me their story of the day. Like it wasn't bad enough passing out in a public restaurant, but I also have to endure a bad rendition of the movie Vantage Point (look this movie up and then this joke will be funny) every time someone wants to tell me how pale I looked that day.

And lastly, I have to deal with the stupid paramedics, who came to my rescue, tell me once a week how low my heart rate was, how angry I was with their constant questions AND how they are still convinced I was suffering from an almost heroin overdose. Yes, I did say heroin. After all their accusing looks, I finally had to tell them I've got my heroin down to a "manageable level" so they could high five each other and scream to the heavens, "WE KNEW IT!"

So, what am I doing now? 1. Drinking lots of water. 2. Leaving used syringes around the restaurant whenever the paramedics come. 3. And telling customers it wasn't about hydration, but about heroin...

...Things are going well.

I'm Not a Racist

I work with an interesting co-worker. We'll call her Tonya. Tonya happens to be an African American, and for some reason, always finds a way to remind me of this fact. Now before you go calling the NCAAP on me, I should mention that her daily reminders are not the result of me making repeated racist statements towards her or her race. Instead, it's just that she makes bizarre statements that make me awkwardly go, "Oh yeah. You're black and I'm white. Cool. That's awesome." For example, I asked her why she always drinks chocolate milk when she gets to work. She answered, "Of course, I drink chocolate milk. Look at my skin." To which, makes me stiffly nod my head and say, "Oh yeah, I love regular milk...because I'm white." Another example: I asked her which cookie out of our pastry case she likes the most. She answered: "I like the chocolate brownie." And before I could ask why, she said, "You know, because I'm black." Again, I had to fight not scrunching my eyes together and saying, "Yeah, that makes sense. I like the cheese coffee cake...because I'm white."

I don't know what I'm supposed to do in these situations. Is she waiting for me to actually say something racist so she can say, "Ah ha. I told you I was black. I can't believe you said that!!!?" Should I say thanks for her believing in me and knowing that I don't see color or race? Do I start answering her questions the same nonsensical way? Like, when she asks me, "What did you do yesterday?" I answer, "I played ice hockey, ate crackers and danced really bad...because I'm white." I just don't know.

I guess the only thing I do know is that I will continue to ask her questions like, "Black or pinto beans with your tacos? Young Michael Jackson or old Michael Jackson? Coffee with cream or without? Jet magazine or Newsweek? Obama or Bush? Bengal tigers or panthers? Day or night? Black Sea or Mediterranean Sea? Salt or Pepper? I can only dream what her answers will be...

The Episode

I wouldn't call myself a typical attention getter, but sometimes I just need the spotlight to be on me for once...So, on Thursday that's what I decided to do. Oh, and I should mention I didn't go the "standard" route of doing a little dance or singing a song. No, I decided in the middle of a busy work day, and at a public restaurant, I would pass out. I know, great idea! It was perfect. One minute I was loading boxes of drinks into the fridge and the next second I was seeing double and mumbling incoherent things.

Okay, since only my twisted sense of humor is finding this funny, I had a little episode on Thursday that involved me being sort of passed out for a few hours. The diagnosis was dehydration, but I'm shooting for over work because that's apparently what I told the paramedic when he asked me what was wrong with me. (I don't remember doing this, but apparently I pointed to my manager and said, "She works me too hard." Got to love that I still have a sense of humor even when I'm two sheets to the wind.) Don't worry you faithful readers (who must be faithful because I write about once a month) I'm doing great now. I'm hydrated, conscious and ready to be overworked this week.

Enjoy the video of me waking up after being passed out for a few hours. (Don't I have a loving husband who is always there to catch my highs and lows...)

Whatever Columbus

As I've discussed before I attend church with rather interesting people. For example, there's the woman who loves to make comments during Sunday school while wearing a napkin bib and eating mouthfuls of lunch. There's the blind lady who can play any hymn by memory. And there's the deaf old lady, who laughs out loud - of course not knowing she's doing it - in the middle of the sacrament. (She's sort of my favorite)

Now you would think I've become accustomed to the craziness in my church, but actually, I'm still surprised each Sunday by the new level of "colorfulness" my church can produce. For example, yesterday was what we call Fast Sunday. Once a month we as a church fast for the day, and participate in an open meeting where anyone can get up and say whatever they like. Typically, people get up to discuss faith promoting experiences and bear their testimonies of the church. However, in my church, we never know what is going to happen.

Yesterday, a woman got up and started to discuss the importance of the holiday season. At first, Dr. Feelgood (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I thought she was talking about Columbus Day - because that was the closest holiday we could come up with. (Well, that and "Athletic Day" which apparently is being celebrated in Tokyo right now, but probably not on her radar.) Anyway, she sat down and we all nodded our heads in agreement that tomorrow (today) we would go out kill a Native American, throw them off their land and declare it for Spain. (Isn't that what you do to celebrate Columbus Day?)

After the meeting, we all shuffled into Sunday School and at the end of the lesson the Columbus Day Proponent raised her hand and announced she wanted to say something. The teacher, knowing this could be anything, tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted it would only take a minute. After hesitating for a couple of awkward seconds, the teacher gave her the podium, and with a bang of her hand, she announced, "Listen it's Christmas today and you aren't fooling me. You need to feed the homeless." Christmas? Homeless? I literally laughed out loud. I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't keep it in. I mean first, how cool would it be to always think it's Christmas Day? I mean, that's the coolest day of the year. And secondly, who cares about Columbus Day? She's right. Forget the Explorer/Genocide Poster Child* and bring on the gifts...and feed the homeless.

*Sorry I'm still a little disillusioned from my college Genocide Class

Something That Will Never Happen Again

Last weekend Usain Bolt (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) decided he would run 26.2 miles. After a tough week of training, which consisted of working and sitting diligently at a desk, Usain hopped in the car and said, like a true Olympian, "Let's just get this thing over."















On Saturday morning, he woke up, ate an English Muffin, that would later come back to haunt him, pulled on his jeans (we forgot it was going to be cold) and climbed onto a cold school bus that took his fellow runners up the canyon. At 6:45, the gun went off, indicating the race had started, and everyone started to cross the start line. Ten minutes later, after Usain decided to pull his jeans off, give his last pieces of clothing away, and without stretching, because let's be honest whoever said that was a good idea, took off and started weaving through the "slower people." According to Usain, the first five miles were absolutely torturous. His delightful pairing of an english muffin and a gatorade started to swirl his stomach, his Ipod didn't work and a small cramp started in his calf. But, like the great Cake song, "He's Going the Distance" states,

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up,
And long ago somebody left with the cup.
But he's striving and driving and hugging the turns,
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.

Cause he's going the distance.
He's going for speed.*

And Usain truly was going the distance.

Eventually, I was able to catch up with Usain at mile 18. He looked good, outside of the fact that he threw his Ipod and running belt at me, and shuffled on with a grunt. (Seriously, he looked like he was on mile 4. Later, he described that point as the "wall," but I couldn't tell.) From mile 18, I followed Usain into town. Lining the streets were marching bands, signs and cheering fans. Unfortunately, because of Usain's overwhelming speed, and me running through a crowd with a camera, video camera and bike, I missed him crossing the actual finish line, but I'm sure we all can imagine how cool that must have been.

When I finally found Usain he looked me in the eye, and with an exhausted face, simply said, "I'm never doing that again." I don't know if those were words of confusion, dehydration or of misguided agony, but I hope, like many of you, that I'll see the great Usain run one more time...

Laundry Day

So, maybe this blog has become too revealing, but I sort of love putting Jeremiah's (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) clothes on and making him laugh.

Here was my one of my favorites while folding laundry.



Happy Thursday!

Take Me Out To the Ballgame, or Buy Me Online for 19.99

You know what happens when Babe Ruth (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I attend a baseball game? Well, first we settle into our seats. Then we intently cheer through the first five innings. Then we start looking around. And then, finally, we decide that the guy behind us has a mail order bride and we must take a picture of it...discreetly.

Seriously, this guy was about thirty years older than this sweet girl.

Actually, the best part of this picture is that while we were taking it the people next to us asked if we wanted them to take our picture because we were holding Babe Ruth's camera at such a weird angle. I then, after Babe told me to, told them that we were actually ten years old, and we were taking the picture of the mail order bride behind us. To which, they turned around and started laughing. Good times at Angels' Stadium!

I'm So LA

Here's a creepy picture of me "before." Notice the unhappy countenance. Darn those capillaries and their confidence sucking presence.

I'm now officially "LA." On Saturday, I was talked into heading down to the original General Hospital, or the hospital at USC, to be lasered by my brother-in-law. Why would I allow my brother-in-law to laser me? Well, we have a strange relationship...

Okay seriously, outside of being a sadist, my brother-in-law also moonlights as a dermatology resident. And for free, or for me, he was able to laser some broken capillaries on my face. It was pretty cool, outside of the fact, that the head resident looked at my face and said, "Now will we be getting your chin too?" And I had to respond with, "Um, no that is a zit." Oh, and the fact that I had to just clench my eyes shut while they lasered a capillary about 2cm from my face. But, hey it was free.*



Now when people talk about "getting some work done," I can join in and say that I too have dabbled with a few procedures, and then shake my dry martini around and talk about the merits of building a wall around the 10 to keep the rift raft out. (Sorry that's LA talk)


Here's a shot of my bruising...oh and my awesome seats at the Angel's Game. Look at the confidence beginning to rise. Thanks Lasers!!

* Jeff you know I appreciate the laser and I apologize for my ungrateful rant.

A Real Mentor

For the past couple of months I have been serving as the second counselor in the Young Womens Organization. (For those of you not of my faith, this is an organization geared towards helping and teaching teenage girls from the ages 12 to 18.) At first, I thought this was the perfect calling for me and I would be a great mentor to these girls. Unfortunately, I'm beginning to realize 1. I wasn't a very good young woman and 2. I still think like that 15 year old young woman. For example, last Sunday the first counselor gave a lesson on self-discipline and making good choices. The lesson was going well until she read out of the manual a scenario and then asked us how we would have reacted in that situation.

Scenario:
Julie and her friends decided to attend a party at their friend's house. When they got to the party Julie realized the party was being unchaperoned and boys and girls were pairing off to go make out and heavy pet.* Julie wanted to leave but was stopped by a boy she had liked for a long time....What should Julie do?

Kate's Answer:
Go outside. Making out in some dark basement is weird and uncomfortable. Have him walk you home. That way you leave the "bad" party and you might score a kiss.

First Counselor's Answer:
Julie should call her parents to come pick her up.

Kate's Thoughts:
I hope Julie likes spending Prom Night at home with those same parents who picked her up.

As you can see, I'm not the right person for this job.

*As long as I live I will always snicker at this phrase. Sometimes I'll roughly slam my hand down along LT's arm (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and say, "Hey are you in the mood for some heavy petting?"

TGIF

The other day Jaleel White came into the restaurant. I know, Jaleel White. I couldn't believe it myself - of all the celebrities. Oh, you don't know who Jaleel White is? Um, are you also going to tell me that you didn't count off the days until TGIF started and you got to watch not only Perfect Strangers, Full House, Step by Step annndd Family Matters?? Are you going to tell me you didn't laugh every time Uncle Jesse complained about his bunny rabbit bedroom or how Balki Bartokomous would say the craziest things?

Okay, for those of who didn't grow up in the blessed 1990s Jaleel White played one of the most annoying characters, named Steve Urkel, on a "hilarious"* show called Family Matters. Honestly, even at 12 years old, I couldn't figure out why people thought he was funny.

Anyway, when he walked into the restaurant you could tell he was trying to act all important and "celebrity like." For example, he kept pulling out this wad of money and telling his friend about his new Range Rover, (Which I think is an even trade for being known as Steve Urkel for the rest of your life.) Finally, when he turned the corner to get his table I pulled out a hundred dollar bill from my register and said to my friend, "100 bucks if you drop a plate of food by his table and say, Did I do thatt??" I truly would have paid good restaurant money, and come up with an air tight explanation for the lack of 100 dollars in my register, to have see that.

*And when I say hilarious I mean not funny at all.

Television For Women

Last Sunday afternoon I got caught in what can only be described as a terrible misstep. No, I didn't light a cigarette during Sunday school. Nor did I speak out about my favorable views on heavy petting while teaching the Young Women. Instead, my gross error happened while flipping channels after church. (Again, don't get ahead of me - I didn't start watching porn.) No instead, I found myself becoming strangely intrigued by a movie called "Decent Proposal" on the Lifetime channel. I don't know what sucked me in: the absolutely horrible acting or the mind numbing dialogue, but before I knew it was screaming things like, "Jimbo (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband), can you believe her rich husband tried to kill her painter boyfriend?!!"

Honestly, what is up with this channel? First, who are writing these movies? Do they enjoy watching women suffer? Are they all closet rapists and past abused women that are incapable of telling normal stories? Secondly, how come this channel, that poses itself as "a channel for women" only tell stories of infidelity, rape, kidnap, divorce and misfortune? Am I missing something as a woman? Should I be out kidnapping my neighbor's kid and running from the law? Would that make me more of a woman? Thirdly, who, and seriously, I want to know the answer to this question, are trying out for these parts? Does Lifetime only look for struggling actors who have actually never acted before, but learned in order to look sad you have to actually face the camera and make a frown? I swear I saw better acting in my Drama Camp. (Shout out to my fifth grade cast of Pandora's Box). And lastly, why do women support this channel? I had a roommate who every day after work would watch one of these ridiculous movies. Women, we have to join together and stop this madness. We'll take Project Runway, but we want the rest of your movies gone, such as "Hush: A woman moves with her husband to his old hometown, only to discover the his old girlfriend has a deadly obsession with him" and "Cradle of Lies: A woman and her husband get pregnant with a girl. The husband isn't happy because he needs a son in order to inherit his fortune." What the hell?

Lifetime: Television to degrade the sanctity and sanity of women.

Nacho Head

The other day a woman walked in and asked, "Are your eggs organic?" Because in my mind, whenever I hear "organic" I instantly picture a space age lab, with lots of men in shiny suits, growing animals and vegetables out of recycled paper and aluminum cans (which is sort of the opposite of organic) I hesitated for two seconds before answering a less than confident, "Yeah." She, being incredibly irritable from not eating good ol' American processed food, asked, "Are you sure?" To which I replied, "Yeah absolutely," while again picturing a group of scientists watching in glee as their artificial chicken lays an egg. Again, my annoying customer, sensing my distracted answer asked if I would go and ask a chef. Always wanting to serve a customer, I walked over to Miguel, a rather lovable Mexican, who was grating some cheese and told him to nod his head. The customer could see us both, but could not hear what I was saying. Therefore, I just wanted Miguel, who by the way, doesn't really speak English, to just nod his head. (That way the crazy loon would think I asked and she could go choke on some magical eggs.) His response I think cleared everything up for everyone involved...When I said, with my hand on his shoulder, "Nod your head," he said, "Who you callin' Nacho Head?"

I'll take that as a yes...

Too Much Of a Good Thing

I've always believed in the adage, "You can never have too much of a good thing." For example, I could honestly have a full body massage every night before I went to bed. I could watch 8 seasons of 24 consecutively over 8 days. And, I could watch Top 10 plays from ESPN while eating Cheerios every morning until the day I die.

However, the other night I realized some good things are better in moderation. Take for example a celestial place called Yogurtland. I don't know if this heaven on earth is found anywhere but California, but let me explain the beauty of this place. First, you are given a small tub and directed to choose any amount of yogurt from 10 flavors. After, you try 8 out of 10 flavors, and finally, fill your tub with "Nonfat" magic, you move on to the bar of toppings. Now, we are not talking about some syrups, marshmallows and a few nuts. No, we are talking every kind of candy, fruit, cake, cookies, paint thinner, spices from Fiji and anything else you can imagine would go on Yogurt. And, here's the kicker...you can put on as much as you want. You can mix and match. You can go fruit for one second and then dazzle the crowd with snickers and chunks of cheesecake because in the end you just weigh the sucker and pay by the ounce.

Now, last Friday I experienced this place for the first time. And by my third visit, on Sunday, I was going virtually crazy with the toppings. I remember as I slurped up in one spoon full some Vanilla Wafer Yogurt, Captain Crunch, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries and Japenese Mochee I thought, "I could literally eat and bath in this everyday."

...Then Thursday night came and as I looked down at my tub of toppings my whole world came crashing down. I had hit my wall and I was about to throw up.

So, I guess the bad news is I won't be becoming a regular at Yogurtland. However, the good news is I won't be making any more kids cry while I yell at them to hurry up with the Fruiti Pebbles so I can finish my masterpiece of yogurt.

Cause and Effect

Question: Why do you go to a Dodgers' game wearing the opposing team's jersey and clutching a foam tomahawk?

Answer: Because you are an idiot...now kill yourself.


Question: How do you properly celebrate a walk off homerun to beat, not only the Braves, but the loser who is clutching a foam tomahawk?

Answer: The following video.

Shoot Me Down

Even though I'm 30, and grew up in a very homogeneous farm town outside of Delaware (yeah, Delaware) I like to think of myself as street smart. For example, I know what weed looks like, I've keyed a car, I've seen two men fight with their bare knuckles, I've lived in a foreign country, I've been to Raging Waters in New Jersey (and somehow avoided attracting TB) and I've seen a man die - okay, that's a lie. But, what I'm trying to say is in my small 30 years I've seen a lot. And then, I went to the Dodgers game last week and felt like all my life experiences had meant nothing.

The story:

After traveling in traffic for an hour and a half my friends and I arrived at Dodgers stadium. As we entered the stadium security started to direct our car to right field, which was in the opposite direction of our seats. Not wanting to walk three miles we decided to break from the herd and try and park in the VIP section. However, as soon as we pulled away from the masses we were stopped by a security official, who told us to get back in line. Hoping for a miracle, my friend asked if we could park in the open spots in the VIP section. Apparently, this was the magic question... In response, the security guy said, while looking around like we were about to buy some drugs, "Ahh, dog shoot me down." Shoot me down? All of the sudden I felt like a complete white girl from the east coast who had never been around minorities and inner city stuff. (Oh wait)

Anyway, as he continued to look around my friend said, "Shoot me down? I'm sorry, what?" And again, he replied, but now a little bit more frustrated with our obvious stupidity, "Shoot me down." And again, we responded with confused faces. Finally, he let out a sigh and said, "You want to park there, amigo, give me some cash." Oh yes, how could I be so stupid? See I usually say "Shoot it down."

Once we understood the proposition, we scrambled to find some cash and came up with a whopping $4.00, which apparently covers the "shoot me down" cost. However, when we went to hand him the cash we made another obvious blunder. (Which again, was sort of my fault that I didn't remember the correct procedure.) Apparently, when you "shoot someone down" you don't hand them the cash like you hand it to a cashier, but how you would if you were buying C4 to bomb a building (down at your waist and let him reach into your car for it.)

So, I guess I still have a long way to go. However, and not to toot my own horn, but I am still a force to be wreckin' with when it comes to a street brawl with broken beer bottles and switch blades.

Idiots

The fourth Jonas Brother (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) doesn't like when I talk about him, but I sort of love how he treats and acts around strangers.

For example:

We are at Sports Authority looking at running shoes. I say to him, "Will you go find me a salesperson?" He then, rounds the corner and finds a salesperson. I then walk towards him and the salesperson and say, "Oh great, could I see this running shoe in a 7 and an half?" Then before the salesperson can say something the fourth Jonas Brother says, "Ma'am, excuse me. This salesperson was going to help me. You'll have to wait your turn." Now this is where I'm supposed to fight back and say something like, "Listen jerk I need some help, why don't you go find someone else to help you." However, I can never do this to the innocent salesperson. Unlike the fourth Jonas Brother, one look at the confused and shocked face of the unsuspecting stranger and I instantly crumble. Immediately, I'll inform the stranger that my husband is only kidding and attempt to move on from the fact that the Fourth Jonas Brother's target just looked like a complete idiot.

Now I part of me wants to tell my husband to stop making innocent people look like morons, but then again it can be kind of funny. For example, and this was one of his best...

The fourth Jonas Brother and I went to the gym one night. Because our gym is the size of our apartment, and everyone decides to work out together in Santa Monica (it's a strange community thing) there was only one machine available which my hubby let me have. After 30 minutes, Jonas Bro came over to my stair master and said, "Miss, are you going to be on that machine much longer? I mean how long can you walk up those stairs that go no where?" I, not really thinking anyone was listening nor realizing Jonas Bro knew he had an audience, replied, "Shut up. I'll get off when I'm ready." To which Jonas Bro responded, "Seriously, I'm going to murder you if you don't get off right now!" While I was thinking of a witty comment back, the girl next to me started to quickly grab her water bottle, book and towel and then said, "Sir, please, you can have mine."

In retrospect, I really wish we had carried this one a little longer. I wonder what the girl would have done if Jonas Bro had grabbed my ankle and physically pulled me off the stair master?

Attention all salespeople, waiters, people at gym, strangers on the street...you have been warned.

Ridiculous Declarations

During each fall season my team had a mandatory lifting session at nine in the morning each Saturday. Of course, this session was not all about lifting, but really a lame attempt by my coach to curb the raging alcoholics that made up my team. Looking back I really think counseling or semi-detox centers would have been more effective than forcing semi-drunk and hung over girls to bench press and perform dead lifts. It's truly a wonder none of my teammates crashed a barbell into their chests or tore the muscles in their legs.

Anyway, one morning my freshmen year my entire class was late to lifting due to being still drunk from the night before. Consequently, after our weight room session, my coach decided to take our entire team on a run around campus, and then after chasing my coach, she informed my class that we would be running a stadium for being late. I'll never forget the overcast sky, my coach yelling at us for being total morons and my friends laughing the entire time because that's what you do when you are still drunk and you are stumbling up stadium stairs. Finally, we completed the stadium and were free to go. In silence, we drove to our freshmen cafeteria and loaded up on everything we could get our hands on. During breakfast my friends began to sober up and realized what had just happened over the past two hours. Quietly, all them made the same declaration: That they were no longer going to drink.

Of course, after a nap and some more food, all of my teammates found themselves as drunk as they were the night before. I tell this story because this is how I feel when I go to the dentist. For 30 to 45 minutes I'm beaten up, yelled at, pushed to my breaking point and then sent home. And as I ride my bike home, I too, make ridiculous declarations that I have no intention of keeping, but in the moment, it's all I can do to regain some control. For example, I promised myself that I was going to floss and brush every ten minutes. I swore I would swish mouthwash after every bite of food and even made a mental note about attending to some hygienist classes. Will I do these things? Will I be weak like my teammates? Most likely. Because right now my mouth is making new tartar and there ain't nothing I can do about it.

Laurel, My Two Friends

About a week ago I was driving from Salt Lake City to LA. Because I had no where to go, and weekend minutes, I decided to make some calls. After running through the usual suspects I decided to call two of my childhood friends, who's numbers I had received and never called since "reconnecting" with them on the beloved Facebook. The first friend went straight to voicemail and I left the typical message of, "Hey, it's me Kate. Long time no talk...blah, blah." For the next friend, I decided to leave a little longer message. (Again, weekend minutes, you got to stick it to the cell phone companies somehow.) This time I said, "Hey Laurel, it's Kate. It's so strange to hear your voice on your voicemail. I can't believe it has been so long since I talked to you. We really got to catch up and see how life has been treating us. And blah, blah."

Now here's the funny part...

About two days later I got a call back from my friend Laurel. However, it didn't sound like her and the number was from Tennessee. Yet, she was very excited to get a call from me. She too, said we needed to catch up, and get together. Get together I thought? How were we going to get together while she lives in Pennsylvania and I live in LA? After listening to the message a couple more times, I realized I had called a girl named Laurel from my cooking class I took about five months ago instead of my childhood friend. Now here's my question, "Why did this girl not think my message was a little strange?" I mean we spoke for about ten minutes every Tuesday night for six weeks, and I only took her number because people were doing that after our final class with the false belief (and hope) that we all would continue to meet in an over sized kitchen and make food together. What good times did she think I was talking about? The time we made hummus from scratch and I said, "Wow this is actually better than the stuff you can buy at the store."? Or did she think we needed to catch up on all the laughs we shared while I asked her each week, "Now, again tell me what your name is."

I know it sounds cruel, after leaving such a heart warming message, to just disappear, but I don't know what to do. If I call her back what do I say? "Um, yeah, that message wasn't actually for you. I mean seriously, I really could care less how you are doing since we made pasta together."

I guess the moral of the story is 1. put last names on all the random contacts you have in your phone. 2. Erase numbers you put in your phone to be nice 3. If you receive a message about catching up with someone you barely know DON'T CALL THEM BACK.

Huh?

Today while waiting for the clock to hit five so I could cash out and ride home I started thinking about things I don't understand. Before I list them, here's what spurred my thought process: A guy walked in today covered in tattoos. Along his neck read in very large writing, "Nina." I, always being sort of an idiot, asked, "So, I guess Nina is someone special?" And he answered, "No, just an ex-girlfriend." (Kate inner thoughts) An ex-girlfriend?! Please tell me you at least thought it was serious before you carved her name into your skin. Or you have really short term memory and this was the only way to remember her name. Geezzz. I love Ricardo (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) but you don't see me getting his portrait on my back.

So, that is what got me thinking of things I just don't understand. Here's a few others:

1. The organization "Jews for Jesus." Either I'm missing something, or they are missing something.
2. People who tell me how awful the food is at the restaurant I work at, and then come back the following day.
3. Why women have to have a dress rehearsal each month for making a baby even though they have no plans on making a baby until they are 30.
4. How come when you ask people to spell their name they always act like you have heard of the last name Berkizuieek a thousand times so it's okay to spell it at mock speed. Come on people I'm not asking about the last name SMITH.
5. How come European men all wear capri pants, fanny packs and sandals during the summer when they are touring America? Is it an issued uniform in order to visit the states?
6. Why people still like Cher?
7. How come every Republican is getting caught in a sex scandal?
8. Skinny Jeans on guys
9. The Santa Monica Pier and why everyone and their mother has decided to visit it this summer.

Yep, nine...that's all I got. If you have any answers or explanations please leave a comment.

This is For You Candence

As you can probably tell from my last two entries * Ben Lynus (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and me were a little "frustrated" with our Saturday. Therefore, at night we decided to go to the gun range. I apologize that the video is a little long - but it gets funny at about 1:35. Well, at least I think it gets funny at 1:35.



* Assumption you have actually read my last two entries. And yes, I know what happens when I assume.

Emergency Move

On Saturday, after Bill Fontaine (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) ran 11 miles and I biked 25 miles we were lounging on the couch when we received a call from a nice man at our church who said we were needed for an "Emergency Move." After a few minutes of cursing ourselves for answering the phone, we dragged our tired bodies off the couch and down the road to help.

Now, if you'll indulge me, there are a few things I would like to discuss in regards to this event. First, I would like to ask the question: When you hear "emergency" what do you first think of? Do you think flashing lights and someone on the brink of death? Do you think of someone entering a home with, let's say a gun, and you calling 911 to protect against being shot? Do you think of a pregnant woman on a highway about to give birth? OR Do you think about moving apartments on Saturday afternoon so you can see the ocean better and have more sunlight? Apparently, to our new good friend Candence the last option is what she deems as an "emergency." I wonder how she would classify a major chemical attack of hydrogen cyanide on the city of Los Angeles? Probably "something to look into."

Second of all, if you are going to alert everyone to an emergency move, or ask anyone to participate in a move for that matter, shouldn't you at least have a few things boxed up, organized, participate in the move yourself, have food available, brush off the excessive cat hair all over your stuff and maybe minimize a little of your crap ahead of time? Just a couple of thoughts.

And lastly, if you call for an emergency move, and someone, say myself, asks you, "So, has the landlord told you you only have 24 hours to move apartments or you can't move at all?" Please lie and say, "Yes, the landlord also threatened to kill one of my cats if I didn't get everything out in the next two hours." Then I would have felt better about participating in one of the lamest moves of all time.

And scene.

Chicks, Man

* This picture is a crude reenactment of the following story. Elisa is playing the "chick."

I thought after living with a boy for the past 2 1/2 years my encounters with crazy chicks were over...and then I went for an innocent ride yesterday and was reminded that no matter how far you run, who you decide to live with or where you go...crazy chicks will find you.

Picture this...it's a beautiful Saturday morning and I'm dragging my lazy bones up a rather steep canyon. As I'm taking a mental inventory on my aching knees, a chick flies by me on a red bike. Now, I would like to say that I've finally reached the point where I don't have to be competitive in everything I do and am content at participating at a passive level...but, unfortunately, that is not the case. Instead, at 30, I still find myself a raging "has been" who refuses to lose at anything. Therefore, when this chick passed me my first reaction was to bump up my cadence and put her back behind me. For the next five miles I listened to her pant and moan as she attempted to stay on my back wheel. Now, I know I could have just slowed down and let the Tour de Craziness pass me, but I have to admit I was having a little fun. With about a mile to go, I reached down for some water, and as I took a sip, the chick popped out of her saddle and passed me again. Now it was on. Once I put my water back I settled back into my cadence and prepared to pass the Lance wannabe. However, this time she moved over so I couldn't pass her. I tried again and again she popped out of her saddle and cut me off. Now, I was getting angry. As we approached the last curves until the killer kick at the end, I surged forward and put her finally behind me. As I waited at the top, I thought she would say something like, "Hey, great riding." or "Hey that was fun." Instead, I got the cold shoulder and a look a death. Really? On a Saturday morning you are being this crazy? What are you like on a Monday morning?

Chicks, Man.

* And I know what you are thinking...And the answer is yes. I still would have written this entry had I lost the race. Only she would have been crazier and on the last hill I would have included a minor exaggeration about a billy club and some broken glass.

A Great Day

This afternoon I went to the doctor's office to get a shot. As I was leaning over, mooning a wonderfully nice and innocent nurse, I found myself wondering what is the proper way to respond in this situation. Do I ask, "So, can you tell I work out?" or do I politely inquire, "Man, did you stick a needle in my keester or just perform a perfect round house kick into my buttocks?" I just couldn't decide. And how come at 30, we have to go through these painful experiences pretending to be completely stoic and brave? I mean it's not normal to have someone shoot you in the butt, pat it with a little gauze, put a little teddy bear band aid on it and tell you to have a great day. A great day? What part of me tearing up indicates to you that I'm having a great day? I was having a great day right up to the point where you chuckled and said, "This might hurt a bit." I swear I was two seconds away from throwing an ultra sound machine across the room and yelling, "Now, that is making my day a whole lot better!"

But alas, all I did was whimper a little bit, make a stupid joke about how much fun it must be inflicting pain on kind people and limped out the door. Man, it would have felt good to see that machine hurl through the air...or sing "Moooonnn Rivvverr."

Momma Gettin' Old

The other day after working out on the elliptical I decided to do a little stretching. While minding my own business a girl walked in and started to stretch next to me. After a few minutes of me attempting to stretch a butt muscle that has been pulled since February, I heard her say, "You have got to be kidding me." I thought she was talking to me about my unshaven legs (don't you love when the hair begins to get soft) and said, "Excuse me?" She then whipped around, and in the heaviest Boston accent, proceeded to tell me how much her body is falling apart. I just sat there dumbfounded as she told me about how her knee gets swollen after a few miles of running, how her back gets cramped (which I didn't even know was possible) and how her groin muscles don't seem to be connected anymore. (I know, I wanted to ask also, "connected to what?") I then, and I'm not sure why, asked her what was the cause of all these injuries. She looked young, she was in great shape and I just saw her on the treadmill plowing away. She then said, that in college she played field hockey and since then she's been an exercise freak. I asked her how she did it with all the pain and she then told me what I already knew: Once a jock always a jock. For the next fifteen minutes we traded stories of how much our bodies hurt, but how we insist on hiking, biking and working out. Eventually, she ran off the lift and I sat there on the floor thinking about where my body is going to be in ten years. Will my back be cramping and my groin muscles become unattached? Will my butt ever stop hurting? Will my knees ever feel normal? Man, I hate getting old. Just take me to a beautiful field, preferably in Chadds Ford, Pa, and shoot me when they inform me they will be replacing my hips and knees.

I know random entry...it's 6:30 on a Saturday night and I'm trying to recover from a ten hour shift at the restaurant and a 40 mile ride today.

A Real Gift

Lately, I've been opening the restaurant with a girl named Zipper. Zipper is an interesting bird. She openly professes (with pride) that she is a redneck, orders my co-workers around like she is our boss, screams at us if we don't wash our hands after sneaking a nibble of some pastry and generally scares the crap out of me. In an effort to lessen her wrath I have been trying to befriend her. The other day, while I was taking orders from her, I mentioned how I had planned a special weekend to celebrate my husband's birthday. She then informed me that the following week she would be celebrating her 5th year anniversary with her boyfriend and she TOO had planned a special night. Innocently, I asked, "Oh, will you two be going to dinner together?" And she replied, "No, I'm taking him to a strip joint."

There are few times in my life when I have found myself speechless...There was the time my finger became dislocated and all I could do was stare at it and mouth inaudible sounds. There was the time my teacher caught me cheating in 9th grade trigonometry, and in front of the whole class, asked why I had done it and all I could do was give my best Helen Keller impression. Then there was the time when a bald guy, wearing a woven belt and corduroy shorts asked me if I felt the chemistry between us and I just looked at him completely dumbfounded. And now, I can add this experience.

Finally, I was able to snap out of my coma state and a flood of questions came gushing out like, "What are YOU going to do there? Do you talk to the girls? Are you going to use your tip money to tip them? Can you request songs when you go there? Really a strip joint - were all the Popeye Restaurants full that night? Are you insane? Is this a tradition? Are you going to yell at me?" Unfortunately, she answered all my questions and now I'm plagued with all sorts of images.

A strip joint? Man, I'm a bad wife. All I got my husband was a pair of golf shoes, a dinner out and a massage (No Happy Ending).

My Retainers or My Marriage

I know it sounds pathetic, but at 30 years old, I still need to wear my retainers at night. If I don't my teeth slowly creep back into their natural state which is sort of a cross between a redneck in Alabama and a peasant during the Dark Ages in England. However, as aesthetically important as it for me to wear my retainers (yes, the original ones I was given at 16 years old) I have come to realize they are beginning to hurt my marriage.


For example, when I put my retainers in I instantly develop a fantastic lisp and speech impediment, and the amount of spit I typically produce in my mouth increases by 100 times. Consequently, I usually try to slip my retainers in right before I'm about to go to sleep so I don't have to speak to anyone. However, my husband, who I think has super human powers in regards to my retainers, always knows when I have them in, and without fail, finds some way to make me feel like a complete idiot. For example, if I say good night, and that word "night" sounds a little extra "airy" I will actually feel a smile spread over his face and then he'll innocently ask, "Before you go to bed would you tell me a story?" I can not fully describe the rage that surges through me when he makes this diabolical request. And then, as if I'm not embarrassed enough, he'll then roll over and try to kiss me. Now, I'm not what you would call "shy" in the kissing department, but when metal bars and 14 year old plastic is covering my teeth I'm not really in the romantic mood. Eventually, I am forced to retaliate by tickling him, he begs me to stop, I yell at him for making fun of me and we both go to sleep with zero trust in one another. So, you can see my retainers might not to be worth the martial problems.

* Above are some of my favorite moments with my retainers. What can I say Halloween wasn't complete without my retainers. #1 picture: Halloween 1999 #2 picture: Halloween 2000.

I Can Handle the Truth

This morning while I ate my breakfast I was reading through my "friends'" statuses on Facebook. I have to admit I hate when people write things like, "John Smith is off to Italy." Or "Rachel Goodwin is baking cookies." Or "Tim Anderson is excited about his $10,000 raise he received for being the top salesman at (insert stupid company.)" I really wish people would be more honest. Like:

"Emily Carter is feeling completely constipated."
"David Wright is hiding homosexual tendencies by going out with a girl from work."
"Jane Mann is wondering if she is pregnant and who the father is."
"Jessica Roberts just ate the entire batch of cookies she made because she feels insecure and alone."

Now those statuses would be interesting.

Me, As a Mom

A few weeks ago I placed a beautiful pot of flowers on my porch. I then proceeded to meticulously water the thing for a few days and then...I sort of forgot about it. I hope this isn't a sad indication of the type of mother I will be. I can just see it at my first parent/teacher conference:

Teacher: "Now Billy is a good student."
Me: "Great."
Teacher: "He's nice to everyone."
Me: "Great."
Teacher: "My only concern is that he's been bumming rides to and from school."
Me: "Yeah...I haven't seen him much, but he likes first grade, right?"

Sh#t Happens

Since my fascination with the word "Sh#t" in first grade I have always tried to keep a clean mouth. I have taught myself to yell, "Dang it," and "Son of a B" when I'm mad. I say things like, "How the heck are you?" and "That guy sure is an A-Hole." However, there are times my makeshift swear words just don't cut it. For example, I woke up at 4:20 in the morning (which I sort of still consider Monday since the sun is not even close to being up), rode my bike in the dark to work, stood on my feet for 9 and a half hours, got called "Love" three times by three separate men (who didn't even leave a tip), rode my bike home, convinced myself to wash my car, drove in traffic for 30 minutes to reach the Costco 2 miles down the road from the car wash and when I pulled into a coveted empty spot I realized I had left my wallet at the house. To ensure I didn't lose my wallet somewhere between the house and the car wash I called Mr. Hick (name has been slightly altered to protect the privacy of my husband) and asked him if my wallet was in the apartment. When he said, "Yep, wallet. Check." I screamed, "Shiittttt." (Sorry no censorship this time.) Come on, let's be honest, a "Freak!" Or "Gosh, Dang it" just wasn't going to cut it. So what's the point of this story? Well, 1. I'm exhausted and for some reason this experience struck me as funny. 2. I think I was on to something in first grade. I loved the word "sh@t" before, and I still do.

A New Friendship

Today I had a strange experience at work. No, it didn't involve the co-owner, who looks like the ugly twin to Nicholas Cage, rubbing my shoulders and winking at me - though the more I think about it, I really hate when he does that. Question: When the owner is sexually harassing who do you inform the dish washer or just steal more food to make up the difference? Answer: Option B. until you grow tired of the food and then scream "rape" next time he touches you. Question 2: What kind of grown man winks at people? Answer: Clowns, Popeye, Pedophiles and Adam Lambert.

Okay, I'm not sure where the one sided Q&A session came from. My apologies. No, the strange thing that happened today was I think a girl was trying to date me a friend. I mean, she wasn't flirting with me, but as I talked to her and we expressed the same interests she said, "We should totally become friends. What are your digits?" My digits? How did we go from talking about working out to becoming best of friends and giving each other our phone numbers? I was completely confused. I then said something equally as awkward like, "Oh, my husband and I sure do a lot of things together." (I'm not sure what this was supposed to mean other than, 1. I don't swing that way, if that is what you are looking for, because I have the world's worst gay-dar and 2. I typically like to find my friends in more conventional ways like working with them for awhile, at church, introduced to and in play groups my mom used to put together etc.)

Unfortunately, my cryptic answer did nothing to deter her, and while she waited for her coffee, and called me "honey" about three times, I relented and gave her my home phone number. (The home line doesn't have an answering machine. It's the sure number for creepy chicks trying to be your friend and the relief society.) I don't know what I'm going to do when she comes back into the restaurant. Am I going to have to be her friend? She does work for ESPN...Kate....no.

Shut up Ned Flanders

In my building lives an old man, who, no matter the time of day or the day of the week, is ALWAYS freaking happy. Now, I'm not talking the polite smile and nod when you see him at the mailboxes, or a kind holding of the elevator. Instead, I'm talking about shouting at you down the hallway to have a great day or high-fiving you that you finished a day of work. I don't know where this guy came from or what type of drugs he is using, but man, he's the happiest person I've ever seen.

Now, I know this sounds terrible, but if given the chance I try everything I can to avoid this man. It's not that I envy his bliss or wish that everyone walked around in a quiet stupor. It's just that sometimes I can't handle the "How's Pepperdine?!! or "Go Waves!" or "Hidey Ho. Make it a great day!" I don't know what it is but sometimes I just want to give him the finger or tell him, "You know old man, what would make my day great?...Is you shutting that hole of yours."

I know, it doesn't make any sense, but I just can't take it anymore. Today, we entered the garage at the same time and you would have thought a murderer was chasing after me by the way I was pounding on the elevator button. Unfortunately, the elevator got caught on the floor above me, and as I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, I heard the door open and then the fateful words, "Alright we get to ride together. Go Waves!!" For a second, I thought about how sharp my keys are and then quickly regained control. I can't say he'll be so lucky next time.

Man-Card

Chris Hansen (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) made an astute observation while watching me watch the Bachelorette tonight: you really do have to turn in your "man-card" before you go on this show.

Big John

I love my job...today I got to meet Eric Bruskotter. No idea who that is? Well, he only starred in one of the greatest movies of all time in the 80s - Can't Buy Me Love. I attached a little clip. He's the meat head in the pink shirt.



Side note: For those of you, who have seen the movie, will remember that his character was known for unbelievable farts. He said for years people always asked him to fart so they could experience the smell. I thought that was funny.

Penny Lover

While counting out the ridiculous amount of pennies, people leave us in our tip jar, I was reminded of a special moment I experienced in college. Okay, I probably shouldn't use the word "special" because it doesn't involve clothing the naked or feeding the hungry. But, it does involve a near death experience...

One night my freshman year in college, my coach had our entire team over for a barbecue. On the way home, the entire freshman class, which consisted of 8 people, were jammed into a Ford Explorer and a Isuzu Trooper. At the first stop sign, I grabbed a handful of powdered doughnuts and threw them at the Explorer. (I would like to say I was being an immature freshman, but if given the chance, I would do the same thing tomorrow.) In retaliation, the Explorer unleashed a handful of cut up fruit and a water bottle. And so it began. At each stop sign, we would get out of the car and throw food at each other. Eventually, we ran out of food, so we decided something a little more lethal...pennies. My roommate always had a cup full of them and I could never figure out why she had such a stash...until now. I'll never forget the sound of those pennies pinging off the hood of the Explorer.

Now, this is where the fun took a bad turn...after the last stop sign the Explorer got in front of us, and while driving through a narrow bridge, decided to turn the wheel all of the sudden and cut off the exit. Again, 12 years ago, and I can still remember putting my foot on the dashboard, and while screaming, "Brakkeee!!!" seeing the horrified faces of my friends in the approaching Explorer. I'm happy to report that my roommate didn't hit the Explorer, but I did wet my pants.

So, see pennies are good for nothing. One, they really can't buy anything. Two, they cause potential accidents. Three, they cause grown women to wet themselves. AND Four, they aren't substitutes for tips. Come on you cheap bastards - drop at least a quarter in.

Six Months

This morning a homeless lady came into the restaurant and informed me that she had been in prison for six months and now she needed to use the bathroom.

Question: What kind of prison was she in that didn't allow her to pee for six months? And more importantly, what crime did she commit that warranted such a punishment? Man, I used to think waiting through an entire movie was torture.

Anyway, those were just side thoughts...the real thing I wanted to write about was what happened after we tried to kick her out of the bathroom. (I say "we" when I should really say "my manager." "I" wasn't really a part of the equation. Instead, I stood back about fifteen feet and halfheartedly nodded every time my manager said, "Let's go." What can I say, I'm a total weenie. My mom knows...and she still loves me.)

Again, anyway...after "we" (refer to the above paragraph) got her out of the bathroom she then proceeded to sit on the floor and tell all of us, who could hear, that she was going to kill us. (So, maybe that was the crime.) Eventually, my little manager (the guy is probably 5"6) grabbed her things and tried to lead her to the door. Again, more threats. Now, instead of killing us, she was going to pee right there on the floor. (Come to think of it, the woman had waited six months. I guess a little bathroom time would have been nice.) Finally, the cops came and removed her from the restaurant. For the next couple of hours I just watched her pace the street. I wonder if she ever got to go?