Wednesday, July 22, 2009


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.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

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.

Monday, July 20, 2009

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.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

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'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.

Monday, July 13, 2009

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."

Saturday, July 11, 2009

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'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.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

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).