Sunday, February 21, 2010

If Only

As I mentioned in my last entry, my team had a rather "difficult" weekend playing lacrosse up in Santa Barbara. What I failed to mention was that, while my team was getting worked on the field, I was getting worked off the field. What do I mean? Well, before our second game started on Saturday, I realized someone had stolen my stick. Yeah, not only did we drive two hours to get killed by creepy men, but I also had to endure petty theft. It was in a nutshell the perfect weekend.

Anyway, because I had a game to coach and because there was about a thousand people at this tournament I had no chance to search for my beloved stick. Therefore, the following day I looked over the schedule and found out who had played on our field after our first crushing defeat. I had narrowed it down to two suspects (well, two teams with many conniving suspects) and set out to find my stick. I first went to the University of Texas's sideline, which of course, was absolutely covered in that burnt orange color and longhorns were strewn everywhere. (I swear, is their food at the cafeteria all dyed in burnt orange?)

Anyway, after not finding my stick there, I headed over to my second suspect's sideline: The University of Oregon. As inconspicuously as possible, I leisurely walked along their sideline. As I reached the end of their bags I saw my stick lying on top of a pile of other sticks. (Probably other ones these kleptomaniacs had stolen) After looking both ways, I quickly grabbed my stick and started to walk away.

Now here's where I fail in this story...I WALKED AWAY. QUIETLY. I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING!! Why am I such a weenie? I might as well of said, "Excuse me, Oregon. Sorry to bother you during your game. Um, I think you stole my stick yesterday. Yeah, it's right here. Um, I'm going, I'm sorry for not holding on to it tighter, I'm going to take it back. Yeah, no. Good luck this weekend. Yeah, thanks." I swear, there are only a few moments in life I wish I could take back. (ex: cutting my hair really short my junior year in college and then sporting a mullet for the rest of the year while it grew out) I wish I would have said something like:

Kate: "Hey Oregon, is this your stick?"
Some Stupid Duck: "Yeah, it's mine."
Kate: (While charging her with a knife - it's my scenario) "Oh, so you are the (insert derogatory name) that stole my stick!!"
Some Stupid Duck: "Here's my wallet. Take everything inside of it."
Kate: (While throwing the wallet to the ground and grabbing her jersey) "Getta out here. You ain't worth it."

THEN I walk away...

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Men and Lacrosse

This Picture is me telling the subject of my entry to hit the road...

Last weekend my team traveled up to Santa Barbara for a lacrosse tournament and managed to walk away 0-4. 0-4. I honestly can't say if we'll win a game this year. It's not that my team is particularly bad. I just believe, with all my heart, that all the teams we played this past weekend were actually doping, and some actually had men on their teams. No, I don't have any substantial evidence to back up these claims, but I'm sticking with that story, and yes, it helps me sleep at night.

Anyway, after our first loss on Saturday, I gave my girls the "we still have three more games" pep talk, and ran away to play in a post-collegiate game. (I just needed to hit someone with a stick and not be arrested for it.) As I walked back from my game I had to encounter numerous coaches, who I've had the pleasure* of interacting with over the course of fours years at Pepperdine. All of them consist of 30-35 year old men, who may or may not of actually played lacrosse at some point in their lives, decked out from head to toe in their school paraphernalia, holding a lacrosse stick (like that will instantly give them credibility), and who find it NOT at all weird that they hang out with a bunch of college girls AND never receive a paycheck for it. I absolutely loathe these men. I loathe them because 1. they think we are equals. We are not equals. I played lacrosse and now coach it. They watched a video on Youtube and now think they are experts. If I hear one more of them tell me something about Duke or a real Division I team I'm going to murder someone. Just because you subscribe to Lacrosse Magazine doesn't mean you ever wore a skirt and played our sport. 2. Their life is lacrosse. They recruit. They go to practice and they go to games. This would be great if they actually got paid for it, or if they could actually offer scholarships, or if this WASN'T CLUB LACROSSE! 3. And this is probably the worst part. Their teams win. I hate it. It makes me feel like maybe I should start watching more Youtube clips and going unemployed.

I swear, this season is going to either kill me or leave me with the biggest chip on my shoulder.

* When I say pleasure, I mean, more in the sense of pouring vinegar in my eyes.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Honesty Is Not Worth It

Last Friday, while driving home from practice, I decided to call my mom. Like a total idiot, I neglected to put my phone on speaker or to use my blue tooth device. Consequently, I was pulled over and asked the idiotic question of, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" I don't understand the logic behind this question. If I'm speeding, I know I'm speeding. If I'm snorting cocaine and changing lanes erratically, I know I'm snorting cocaine and changing lanes erratically. It's not that difficult. I wonder if they just ask the question in order to immediately make you feel like a little child, who got caught painting their room with magic markers. So, belittling...

Anyway, in response to his stupid question I replied, "Was it because I was on my cell phone? Because I was just looking at it because my phone is out of battery." (Cue showing cop cell phone out of battery. Wait five seconds. Cue phone beeping out of battery.) What can I say, my phone was honestly almost out of battery? I'm what you call "quick." Or a "liar."

Anyway, I could tell he was about to buy my story and then, after a little hesitation, asked for my paperwork. Sheepishly, I handed over my registration and proof of insurance, and then with as much polite flirtation as I could muster, batted my eyes and said, "So, I sort of forgot my license at home." He then marched back to his car, and I began to hear Erik Estrada (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) say over and over, "Why didn't you have your license or blue tooth on you?" I swear, there's nothing worse than the mockery of your spouse. Anyway, after a few minutes, (which by the way, what are they doing that entire time? Thinking of other stupid questions to ask like, "Do you know why what you did was so bad?") Anyway, again, he came back and informed me he couldn't find me in the system. Couldn't find me? Ha! I then repeated my birth date and watched him sulk back to his car. For a few seconds I wondered if I was about to get out of a ticket, and then I saw a van rental receipt I had from the weekend before. Written out on the contract was my license number. At this point, I was torn: Do I pretend I didn't see the contract and hope that the cop doesn't find me, or do I give my number and pray my honesty will get me out of the ticket? I've always been a little bit of a "gambler"* so I waved the cop down and gave him my license number. Minutes ticked off and he returned once more. He then said, "Because you were so honest, and not really on your cell phone, I'm giving you a warning." Immediately, I screamed a loud thank you and continued on my way.

As I called my mom back, this time on speaker, I began to reflect on what had just happened. I, immediately, realized I felt rather torn about the situation. Because on one hand, I felt bad for lying to the officer about being on my cell phone, and yet, I was sort of proud of myself for being honest. It was a strange feeling, and yet, if I had to do it all over again, I would, without a doubt, play the "out of battery" card any day of the week. Because let's be honest, honesty is not worth a ridiculous ticket or a spouse's disapproval.

* Actually, not at all.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Sore Loser

I mentioned before (see "I'm Old Now Get Off My Lawn") that I was going to milk my recent trip to Arizona into two entries. Well, here's the second one...

The other thing I realized, outside of becoming not nearly as cool as I think I am, is that I'm a terrible loser. I know this statement sounds rather obvious, being that I've played sports since I could walk and I'm now a coach, but let me explain. First of all, as I begin to accept the fact that my team is going to lose, I start to get even more sarcastic than I already am. For example, as a player, if my opponent is clearly going to win and then calls a time out, or stops the clock for an injury, I will start muttering, "Greeeattt. I wanted this game to continue. No, please take your time. This will allow the parents to properly loosen their wrists and hands before they applaud like a bunch of morons at the end of the game."

And as a coach, if I'm on the losing side, I first start with the players. (I don't really discriminate between which team.) I'll say something like, quietly of course, "How can someone that uncoordinated be winning this game? I swear, does Heaven even exist?" Or "I swear when we get back to Pepperdine I'm going to get (insert name of player) checked out for Ideational dyspraxia." *

After the sarcasm, anger and aggression take over. I can't even begin to apologize or recount all the cheap shots I threw at girls for no reason other than I was losing. Unfortunately, as a coach, I'm not really able to hit anyone. (Innocent water bottles lying on the ground don't really count.) Therefore, all I can do is give the evil eye, disgusted looks and sometimes fingers to spectators behind me. It doesn't feel as good as watching a happy winner become a dirty loser on the ground, but it blows off a little steam.

And lastly, once the sarcasm and aggression have subsided I make the final push and attack the opposing coach. (No, not physically attack. Come on that's insane.) But, I will, in my rousing pep talk at the end of the game, make several comments about the opposing coach in order for my girls and myself to know, that even though we might have lost the game, in life we were still ahead.

Don't judge. I hate losing.

*According to Wikipedia: Difficulty with planning a sequence of coordinated movements

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Stop Talking

Today my ever awkward co-worker asked me how much I weigh. (Let me say, that nothing warranted this question. Absolutely nothing.) Anyway, for fear of getting in an even more awkward conversation, I told her how much I weigh. She then replied, "Damn girl, you weigh as much as my left butt cheek." I know I should have been flattered, but I was just grossed out...Oh the images in my head! Oh the images! (That would be my best Heart of Darkness impression.)

I swear, there is no end to the awkwardness this one girl can produce.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

I'm Old Now Get off My Lawn

Poison - Bret Michaels - Something to Believe in - MyVideo

Please play the video before reading. I think like a good wine it will enhance the experience...

Last weekend I had the wonderful opportunity of driving a 15 person van down to Arizona. No, I didn't lose a bet. Instead, last weekend marked the beginning of my final season as the head coach of the women's lacrosse team at Pepperdine University. And how did it go? Well, let's put it this way, I left LA at five in the afternoon, on Friday, (while it was raining). Proceeded to sit in traffic for three hours. Arrived in downtown Gilbert, AZ at 2 in the morning. Watched my team lose in the last minute on Saturday. Drove to Tucson on Sunday. Arrived at the field in Tucson and found out the game was canceled due to rain. Drove back to Malibu to drop off the kids. Stopped by my apartment in Santa Monica for an hour to watch a little Super Bowl. Then drove to LAX to return the van and finally went home at 10 pm. So, yeah it was awesome.

I will say I realized some interesting things while driving a boat down to Arizona. The first, and which will be my entry for today, (yeah, I'm milking this trip into two entries) is that I'm old. I know, I know, 30 isn't old, but when you get in a car with a bunch of kids who were born in the 1990s you are old. I remember the 90s. Vividly.

Anyway, here's a few examples that reminded me I'm no longer as cool or as a young as I once was:

1. We were talking about memories of growing up and I said, "Man, the day the Challenger blew up was one of the craziest days." My kids' reply, "What was the Challenger?"

2. Feeling rather bold, I put my Ipod on shuffle. To my delight, "Something To Believe In" came up randomly. After a few seconds, someone asked, "Who is this?" I said, "This was my sixth grade boyfriend and I's song. It's Poison." My kids' reply, "Poison? You guys didn't have a good relationship?"

3. I have never professed to be a good texter. And apparently, my texting skills were deemed slightly better than someone's grandma, who suffers from arthritis. I'm sorry I can't remember which forsaken number corresponds with "T" and why "good" always comes up when I want "home."

4. And lastly, unlike all the young and vibrant college students, when I exited the van, I first had to gingerly step down because my back was asleep, then stretch my tight hamstring and finally slowly limp because my knee was locked.

Oh, getting old sucks. Come on Bret Michaels...give me something to believe in...

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Thank Goodness

I know it was incredibly cruel of me to post about my basketball date with a quasi-movie star and then NOT report immediately on how it all went. Well, here's the thing...miracles do happen. When I arrived at the stake center I received a text message from Missy informing me that she had over slept and would be unable to attend. Now, I know what you are thinking - you think at this point I threw my phone down and cursed all those years of reading Tiger Beat and Perez Hilton to only be stood up by the celebrities I love so much. When in actuality, I was completely relieved because warming up on the court, while I received my text message, was one of the most motley crew of women I have ever seen.

Picture this if you will...(Now introducing the starting line-up for the LA Stake Women's Pick Up Basketball game)

1. An immigrant from Ukraine, who drops the F bomb every time she misses a shot and also screams in my face, "You want more?!!" in a bad post-communist accent, every time she makes a shot. (Which by the way, makes me want to send her to a work camp in Siberia every time she opens her mouth.)

2. A barely English speaking 5"0 woman, who dribbled every three steps and shot most of her shots two handed from her waist. I wanted to tell her to stop doing that, but all I could remember from Spanish class was Callela boca, Cerveza and Tengo que usar el baƱo. I guess the first one would have worked.

3. A woman, no a mom, who hasn't worked out since Clinton was in office, and who kept calling time outs so she could run over to the stage and tell her boys to stop fighting. I sort of suspect she was actually using the timeouts to suck on crystal lite and re-adjust her mom sweatpants from Target.

4. A girl who definitely never got picked at recess, gym class, sorority rushes, prom, or to sit in the emergency aisle on the plane. She's got a sweet spirit but if she shows up again I'm asking her to leave. You think I'm kidding. I would take the crazy Ukraine any day of the week.

5. And lastly, yep, just six of us...the token single girl who I think shows up to awkwardly flirt with the guys after our "game." She's not a bad basketball player, but I just don't think she's fully committed.

So, you can see that, though it would have been cool to hang out with a celebrity, this was NOT the venue for it. Can you imagine how traumatized she would have been? These are my people and I'm still recovering.

*Side note: the picture is entitled "Grateful African American" on google. And who says I don't celebrate Black History Month?