Not Tonight

I actually have no idea what this picture is about. But, behind these crazy looking people is my grocery store. Go to love Google image.

Today, while walking out of the grocery store, I was asked by a man holding a clip board, "Would you like to stop world hunger?" To which, I replied, "Not tonight." As I got in my car, I started to think about what had just happened. First, what a loaded question! I mean seriously, what will happen next time I leave the grocery store? Will there be some man dressed in all white, holding a can saying, "Want to cure cancer?" Will I also tell him, "Not tonight?" Second of all, what does this guy expect with this question? I mean really, did anyone stop in their tracks and say, "Hell yeah. I got some corn flakes, chicken, milk and deodorant. Let's go my Food Crusader!!" Third of all, if I had helped this shady looking character* would the two of us really been able to feed millions of people? Would I have been back in time to see the worst American Idol finale of all time? And lastly, why did I say "Not tonight?" Do I plan on finding him tomorrow and saying, "Hey, it's Thursday - do you want to save the world NOW?"

Why can't I just go to the freaking grocery store without being asked serious questions like, "Do you want stop world hunger? Would you like to get children off the streets? Would you like to save the whales?!!" Listen people - NOT TONIGHT!

*I've chosen to make him "shady" in my memory so I don't feel guilty for not helping.

The Go To Move

Last night Jack Johnson gave a free concert at the Santa Monica pier to reward a bunch of people for picking up trash at the beach the day before. (Because what celebrates a major beach clean-up like holding a concert where hundreds of people can leave new trash? I wonder who will be coming next week to celebrate the massive clean-up of empty wine bottles, discarded pot pipes* and single Birkenstock sandals?)

Anyway, as you can imagine, it was quite a treat to sit on the beach, and while inhaling an array of sweet dope*, listening to Mr. Johnson do his thing. However, the highlight of the night, was during the song "Mud Football", a group of people began to get up and dance. Because they were white, and severely six kinds of Wednesday, (a term for being high according to the internets) I couldn't help but notice their "dancing." After a few twirls and arms up in the air, one man pulled his pants down (boxers remained on) and shook his entire body. Apparently, once the evil spirit was cast out, he regained consciousness and pulled his pants back up.

Now, here's my question: You are at a concert. You are feeling the song. You begin to feel the need to dance. Is really pulling your pants down and shaking your body like a possessed individual your "go to move?" The Running Man wouldn't suffice? How about the good ol' Electric Slide? Too outdated? Just curious.

And lastly, what individual finds Jack Johnson's music so electrifying that you have no choice but to pull your pants down and shake your body? Does grass* just make his music more overwhelming?

*I obviously don't do marijuana.

Frozen Like A Deer

I know this is a total winnie picture.

There are two types of people in the world. There are the people who run straight towards accidents to help bleeding and injured people. And there are the people who actually run in the opposite direction of any type of suffering. I could win a gold medal in the "running away event." I know, I know I sound heartless, but if I see a sight of blood, a dislocated limb or even the tiny fraction of bone I will buckle over into dry heaves. In addition, I'm not only bad at the sight of gross things, but actually physically feel any description given of surgeries, past injuries and undiagnosed diseases. In short, I hate, no I loathe, any pain that can be caused to the body. (That would be mine or anyone else's.)

So, the other day a line cook was slicing lettuce at the sink and managed to cut off his finger tip. To make matters worse, once the line cook saw the blood coming from his finger, he started to lose consciousness and banged his head against the wall. Now, when all this was going down I was just five feet away and forced to make a decision: Do I run to him, grab a towel for his finger and find a chair for him to sit on? Or do I stay in a frozen position, muttering to myself "happy place, happy place" over and over again and pray that his finger tip will magically re-attach itself? Yep, frozen I stayed. I'm sorry if I saw the floating finger tip I would have curled up and died on the spot.

On a follow-up thought, I really need to work out this "frozen stance" reaction. I swear one day my child is going to get injured, and while they lay on the ground crying, I'm going to be running in the opposite direction screaming, "Hey someone help! Someone's kid is hurt!!"

Sometimes Even Superman Can't Fly

If you do a little wikipedia search of the man to the left you'll find the following biography: He's released about six albums, written hits for artists like Weezer, Fall Out Boy, All-American Rejects and Avril Lavigne (my personal favorite and currently the picture I have in my locker.) He was also named the producer of the year by Rolling Stones, performed with Taylor Swift and Stevie Nicks at the recent Grammy Awards and has toured from Japan to the US. Why do I bring up these fun facts? Well, another part to his biography is that he loves La Grande Orange and has visited the restaurant about twenty times. A few weeks ago, he came in with a group of people I can only classify as hipsters. (And I know, this makes me sound totally uncool and old, but in my book a "hipster" is someone covered in tattoos, doesn't look like they've showered in awhile, skinny jeans, raybans and either vans or some kind of boots. Basically, the opposite of me.) Anyway, they were all sitting there and I decided to be a total moron and asked, "What do you guys do - sell insurance?" They started to laugh and replied, "No we are attorneys." I then said, "Ahh crap, that was my second guess."

After this little fun exchange, I then started to talk to the guy in the picture and said, "No really are you guys in a band or something?" AND HE SAID, "Um, yeah. My name is Butch walker and we have a little band." Just a little band? Why he didn't he tell me he used to live with Flea and has been in music videos with Pink and he usually plays to sold out crowds?? I went home and googled "Butch Walker" and had to slap myself. I felt like what Superman must of felt like when he received red sun radiation, which as we all know replaces the higher-yield yellow solar energy in his cells, which again we all know, robs him of the fuel he needs for his powers, or the state his parents lived in during their time on Krypton. Sorry, I got little out of control on wikipedia. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is I have been given a gift (much like Superman) - give me a celebrity dressed in drag, a mile away in a snow storm and I'll tell you what movie they were in and what their kids' names are. I don't miss celebrities, and yet, here was one in my restaurant day after day and I had no idea. I'm ashamed, what can I say?

Canadians Can Do Anything They Want

Today the following conversation took place.

Scene - Line cooks are hungover from going out the previous night.

Line Cook: Kate what do you do to get over a hangover?

Kate: I don't know. I've never been drunk.

Line Cook: You've never been drunk? How is that possible?

Kate: Well, actually it's quite possible because I have never drank.

Line Cook: Never drank? What are you Canadian or something?

In all my years of not drinking, I've been asked some strange questions as to why I have chosen to abstain from alcohol. There was the, "Do you not drink because you lost an uncle or something to alcoholism?" (Yes, and while you are bumping and grinding up next to me in this intimate bar, let me tell you about this sad story of my favorite uncle's battle with the bottle.) Or "Do you not drink because you aren't 21?" (Probably my favorite question. Yes, I don't drink because I made a pact in 5th grade social studies to abide by every law.)

Of course, some intelligent people have asked the religious question, but no one, yes, no one has ever asked me if being Canadian was the reason I don't drink. I think from now on I'm not only going to use that as my excuse for not drinking, but everything in general. For example, today I didn't shower. Why? Because I'm Canadian. Yesterday, I killed a man for fun. Whyyyy? Because....well, because I'm Canadian.

I'm Back

I know, I know it's quite ridiculous I haven't made the time to write in me blog. BUT I have some excuses. One, the trip to Haiti, to rebuild schools and water systems, took a lot longer than I had originally planned. Two, BP asked me to come up with a solution for the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and try as I might, I just can't find a way to convince everyone another black sea could be cool. (Too soon? And drastically environmentally insensitive?) And three, I couldn't stand by and watch the homeless of my neighborhood go another night without helping them fix the grammar and persuasiveness of their signs asking for money and food. (I'm a servant of the people - what can I say?)

Okay, two out of three are lies. Honestly, about three weeks ago, I found out that Mr. Phones (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and me were not going to be blessed this month with a sleeping, eating, pooping, crying machine (or baby) so I decided to ride my tears away* and train for a 80 mile bike race. I mean, what doesn't say a break from shots like sitting on a six inch seat for five hours? So, that's what I've been doing. Work, ride, eat, sleep, work, ride, eat, stretch, complain to Mr. Phones and sleep.

As I was cleaning the dust off my bike and preparing for my training, my trusty odometer fell off. This buddy has seen me crash on train tracks, traveled with me through four states and seen many a fingers being lifted to "kind" cars. As I went to turn off the odometer I looked through the different settings and found the total miles it had logged over five years of riding. To my surprise it read: 8,685 miles. That's like riding from Los Angeles to Philadelphia three times. I know, I'm amazing. Too bad I still don't know what kind of bike I ride. I know it's yellow and black...

* That was for dramatic effect. Honestly, we are good. Because talking about yourself as "we" screams "okay."