Wednesday, August 26, 2009

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...

Monday, August 24, 2009

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.

Monday, August 17, 2009

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.
video

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.

video

Thursday, August 13, 2009

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.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

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.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

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.

Monday, August 10, 2009

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.