Coaching is Awkward

I always thought being a coach would be easy. You show up, grab a whistle, steal some motivating lines from Rudy and tell a bunch of girls what to do. However, after four years of coaching, I can testify that it's not easy and surprisingly entails a lot of awkward moments. I know "awkward" sounds like a strange word, but honestly, it's the only one that fits. For example, during our game today one of my players turned the ball over six consecutive times. It got so bad that I had to signal in to our captains that no one was to pass her the ball. This strategy was working until this particular player got a loose ball and decided to shoot about ten yards out. Now, for those of you who don't know a thing about lacrosse, shooting ten yards out is like shooting a basketball from half court. No one actually does it in a real game, and if they do, it usually entails winning a car at half time.

Anyway, you can imagine I was sort of ticked off at this shot (which mind you, was at a critical time in the game) and I exclaimed from the sideline, "I swear (insert name of player) you are the absolute bane of my existence!" From that, I decided to continue to vent my frustration and said, "I swear she couldn't catch a ball if it was made of glue and she was holding a laundry basket!" Finally, after watching her make another unfortunate mistake, I decided to pull her out. Now, as a coach, I typically like to be ultra-positive when kids come out. I try to use it as an opportunity to coach them and build them back up. However, this time I wasn't really in the coaching mood. Instead, I said something like, "You are killing us out there. I said clean up the turnovers, and what do you do, but turn the ball over. I can't have it. You are killing me!" Now this is where her lip starts to quiver and I feel like a jerk. So, I quickly recover and say, "Hey chin up. You are having a rough day and I just need you to re-group and then you are going back in."* As I went to walk away, she turned around and said to a group of people sitting directly behind us, "Don't worry I'm alright." I then stopped in my tracks and turned around to see her entire family (grandma and all) sitting there with very unhappy faces. I suppose they heard me say the thing about the glue and the bane of my existence. So awkward. I wish Hoosiers or Rudy would address moments like this.
*She actually never went back in.

Locker Room Etiquette

I don't know if anyone has ever discussed this issue with gym owners, but let me shed some light on female locker rooms: About 99.9% of females don't enjoy being naked around other females. (The other .1% are typically European or grossly confident Exhibitionists.) So, please, people, build some changing rooms. That way I wouldn't have to walk into the locker room to use the bathroom and see some old woman's butt staring back at me. I swear seeing a bare and saggy butt before working out is like eating a chili cheese dog before running a marathon. It just ain't pretty and after about 30 seconds of running I promise, no matter how strong you think you are, you are going to vomit.

And lastly, might I just add a little word to you .1%, who insist on breaking the female code and undressing out in the open: Please for everyone involved, go into a bathroom stall, put up warning tape, change in your car or don't go to the gym. I don't want to see it and, trust me, us 99.9% don't want to either.

4 Stages Of Rational Behavior

I like to think that in most cases I behave like a rational adult. For example, today after working 9 hours, and running a goalie practice up in Malibu, I went to start my car and found it to be dead. Now, unlike most people, I didn't overreact. There was no banging the steering wheel, no giving the finger to people driving functioning cars and no girl tears*. (Okay, there was maybe a few choice words, but come on, the car was dead.) Anyway, I would say that that was one of my better moments. Last night - not so much.

Picture this: A weekend of lacrosse. Flight delayed an hour. Flight full. Man to my right kept trying to talk to me. Girl on my left kept talking to herself about how her mom was crazy not to be supporting her recent elopement. 45 minutes to get my bag. 30 minutes to wait for my shuttle. Endured two trips around the airport while stopping at every shuttle stop. And finally after landing 1 1/2 hours in LAX I was able to leave the airport.

Now here's the question: How did I react?

Well, let's start with the poor Chinese people who got in the shuttle on our second trip around the airport. While our shuttle driver got out and tried to help a lady find her destination address, I exclaimed, pretty much in their faces, "Is this for REAL? I swear this is ridiculous!!" Their response, "You live LA?" To which I muttered in exasperation, "You got to be kidding me. Not only am I in the shuttle from hell, but I'm with Chinese people who are taking pictures of each other inside the shuttle! Kill me now." (Cue Chinese people moving closer together.)

Anyway, once I was finished terrorizing the Chinese, I moved on to more productive things like, yelling out like a turrets victim, "Come on!" every ten or fifteen seconds. When that didn't work, I moved on to a more rational protest of throwing my head back, and while letting out a huge breath, would bring my hands to my head and mutter incoherent words. Finally, when I realized my driver was not coming back any time soon I moved on to the last stage of my frustration - "ANGER and HATE For Everyone." Now, I can't explain this stage fully, but basically, my anger reaches such a level that it becomes a virtual vacuum and everything and everyone, who has ever bugged me, comes to the forefront of my mind. And all I can do is sit in a state of utter frustration and chronicle the people I hate.

Here's what I came up with last night:
1. Shuttle drivers
2. Pilots, who act like if they are super chipper we won't notice we are going to be an hour late.
3. People who don't use blinkers.
4. People with bad breath.
5. Refs.
6. People who drive below the speed limit.
7. Greenpeace workers.
8. Snakes.
9. Rappers, who are basic idiots, but who will make more money than I'll see in my lifetime.
10. Men who coach womens lacrosse.
11. Parking ticket attendants.
12. Ugly people who make out in public.
13. People who talk with their mouths full of food.
14. Keith Olbermann

Okay that's all I can remember from last night. I'm telling you it's like a blind rage. Fortunately, I was never driven to the last stage...murder...

*You know - mascara everywhere, whining into a cell phone at some daddy far away.

My Neighbors Suck

I present to you all a problem...
Recently, I have noticed a series of nicks on the passenger side door of my car. (See evidence to your right) Now, I realize these unfortunate blemishes can be the result of poor parking at the grocery store, or the angry peckings of midgets. However, I fear, since I ride my bike to the grocery store and I haven't offended a midget in a long time, these annoying dents and scratches are actually the result of my neighbor's disregard for my car. How do I know it's my neighbor? Well, first, their driver side door has nicks on it where it would match up to my passenger side door. Secondly, they drive a crappy car and therefore are obviously jealous of my awesome 2005 Honda Accord. (sorry to anyone who drives a PT cruiser.) AND, every time I encounter them in the elevator or outside my car they ignore me. Yeah, ignore!

So, I come to you all for a solution. How can I stop this blatant attack on my car? How can I send a proper neighborly message of: "If you touch my car again I'm going to stab you with a fork?"

And just to add to your suggestions I've come up with a couple of my own:
1. Stealing their bikes. Eye for an eye baby.

2. Starting a conversation with them in the elevator that goes like this, "Man, great weather we are having. Doesn't it just make you want to come clean about destroying someone's car?"

3. Finding an angry midget to peck away at their car.

4. Bash in their front bumper. Oh, wait...(See picture to your left)

Okay it's only four ideas. I need your help. This madness has got to stop.

Mental Map of My Mind

Yesterday, on a beautiful Saturday*, I went downtown to see a high school orchestra play at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Why did I do this? Well, one, I went to support an awesome girl from my church, who plays the viola. Two, to go inside the Disney Hall, which was very cool. And three, because I love, I mean, LOVE, high school orchestras. There's just something exciting about the possibility of a freshman accidentally ripping a screeching sound off a violin, or the awkward kid, who "plays" the cymbals, to crash those mammoth things at the wrong moment or too loud. Oh, just the chance of disaster makes me get all sorts of excited.

Anyway, as I sat there listening to the orchestra, who I might add, was actually quite incredible, I found my mind wondering. It wasn't until the kid next to me whispered to his mom, "This is really boring," did I snap out of my trance and do a "mental map" of my thoughts. You know what I mean by the "mental map": the tangent thoughts you have from one original thought. For example, here was my mental map:

First thought: Wow, the orchestra conductor should really not wear black. With that lighting you can really see all the folds of back fat she has. Next thought: Back fat. I wonder if I have back fat? That woman has back fat. (Finding random woman in crowd) Why is that woman bobbing her head to the music? She's not at a freaking rock concert. I haven't seen a real concert in a while. I need to go to one before I get pregnant and can't do cool things. Next thought: Me with kids. I wonder if in fifteen years I'll be sitting in one of these things. Man, I hope not. What if my kid ends up like that cello player? Is that kid high fiving his friend after their part? What a loser. Man, I'm mean. That girl has got massive feet. How does she even...AND SNAP...that was my "mental map."

Try your own mental map. It's super fun. High school orchestras...not super fun.

*A total crime.

Party With A Parrot

On my way home from work today I saw a sign painted on a suburban that said: 602-428-STAN.

Driving the suburban was a creepy man, I'm assuming Stan, with a parrot on his shoulder.

All I could think was two things: 1. What the hell? and 2. What the hell?

Why Beetlejuice?

I couldn't use a picture of the subject matter. I'm sorry. It was too gross.

One would think at the age of 30 your skin would grow up and stop acting like a pre-pubescent 13 year old. I don't get it. Once you conquer three decades I think the zits should cease. Just saying.

Anyway, for the past couple of days I've been nursing a crater of pain just above my lip. I've never been more conscious of speaking and eating than I have now with the absolute epicenter of poison on my face. Of course, like all good human beings, I've been unable to leave this gift from heaven alone. I've squeezed it, touched it and prodded it to go away, but nothing has worked. Instead, all I've created is a nasty red wound.

Yesterday, as you can imagine, I was feeling rather self-conscious of my skin and went to work hoping no one would notice. Things were going well until I was asked to deliver food to a certain table. Sitting at this table was none other than Michael Keaton/My friend. As I placed their plates onto the table he asked me how I was doing, and then told me to show my eyes to his friend. Now any other day I would have been flattered that Beetlejuice wanted to admire my eyes, but this was not one of those days. As he pointed out to his friend the cool blueness of my eyes, all I could think was, "PLEASE, FOCUS ON MY EYES. DON'T LOOK DOWN. DOWN LOOK AT THE PUSS WAITING TO COME OUT OF MY VOLCANO OF PAIN! PLEASE!" After a few awkward seconds of staring at a stranger, and trying to hide my zit with an inconspicuous tongue, I made a lame joke about wooing my husband with my blue eyes and ran away.

Yeah, yesterday was a good day.

Breaking Out of My Shell

For those of you, who religiously follow this blog (Mom, Baby A, EMad and someone in Nova Scotia) you know that I have written many times about being unable to confront conflict.* My mom has informed many times, with a unhelpful shrug, that it's part of my genetic make-up to fear confrontations and arguments. I, for fear of upsetting my mom, accepted this hereditary disorder, and since I can remember, have been apologizing for things I never did.

Then one day I met and married Dr. Phil (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband). Through the past three years, Dr. Phil has been pushing me to break out of my passive state and fight back. I'm not going to lie - there's been some dark moments. There was the time I was severely cut off on the 405 and I didn't even attempt to honk. And then, we were at dinner and the waitress forgot about my order and I ended up apologizing for bothering her. It makes me shudder to think of those times.

However, today I think I would have earned a bright star in Dr. Phil's file. While riding home, (IN THE FREAKING BIKE LANE), after work I was almost run over by a chick in a Porsche. Now, the old Kate would have mumbled something under her breath like, "Geezz lady," and then continued home. But, not this new and improved Kate. First, I gave her the universal, "What the crap is your problem?" by lifting my arms in the air. She then responded, with her own hands in the air...and then it was on.

As we got to the intersection, she rolled down her window and screamed at me for erratically riding my bike. Oh, the test was on and she just raised the stakes. I then responded with, "Lady! (big step up from 'Excuse Miss') Are you insane? (Yeah, I went to a straight mental health reference) I was in the freaking bike lane. Learn to drive." (Okay, at this point I'll admit I was starting to get a little worried that I had insulted her. I mean, maybe she never learned how to drive and maybe her family was too poor to own a car, and therefore, she never learned the proper rules of the road. I didn't know her full story.) Fortunately, as I was about to offer a free car wash, she responded with, "YOU are the crazy one and I don't even see a bike lane!" This is when I heard Dr. Phil's voice (kind of like Yoda in Star Wars ) and said, "Are you really going with that argument? (I'm buying time) Seriously? (still buying time) (Okay, time for the zing) Lady, if you follow my hand I'll show you where the good workers of Santa Monica painted in the freaking bike lane. Oh look, there's a little stick figure of a bike so everyone, including you, will know it's indeed a FREAKIN' BIKE LANE!!" And as she drove off, I screamed, "You are crazy. Learn to drive!"

I have to admit it felt good. And I even received a round of applause from a fellow biker behind me. Actually, he might have been clapping to break my deranged moment of rage. Anyway...

* Or I'm a classic elementary school playground winnie.

It's Alright Alrighttt

Yesterday, while I was waiting for the doctor, I started to examine the wall of pictures of successful pregnancies and babies. As I looked through and determined which kids had a fighting chance at not being ugly like their parents, I noticed a picture of my doctor and Matthew McConaughey with his recent son. I don't know how I feel about me and Matthew McConaughey having the same doctor. On one hand, I feel good that, with all the money McConaughey has, he chose my doctor to deliver his baby. Yet, on the other hand I remember reading this quote from McConaughey and feeling like someone should have been stopping this craziness (that "someone" turns out should have been my doctor):

"The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard. 'It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit,' he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta."

I wonder if placenta harvesting is covered by my insurance?