Our Endangered Menu

Sometimes towards the end of my shift at the restaurant I say things I shouldn't. For example:

Stupid Guy: I see you have Swordfish Tacos on your menu. Aren't they on the endangered list?

Kate: Yeah. We serve them, Humpback Whale, Cheetah and the Cuban Black Hawk.

Stupid Guy: Um, I guess I'll have a turkey sandwich.

Kate: (Sheepishly) Um, sorry...for the sarcasm.

I'm Gonna Break the 11th Commandment

My Favorite Brewery. Best Salsa in the world. (that's for you Meg)

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I have been officially named the camp director for my church, and I thought we should check in and see how that new calling is going.

1. Out of the three girls, who are eligible to attend Girl's Camp (what camp is called), only one, who according to her Facebook page "Got grounded for smoking pot," will be attending. Yes, this is a church based camp, and my only participant is a card carrying pot lover. I have to admit, that when I found out about her pre-camp activities, I considered citing some obscure commandment Moses forgot to include in the original 10 about "Thou shalt not smoke pot and go to camp" in order to escape a four day excursion in the woods. But, I decided her chance of reformation was probably more important than my stubborn laziness.*

2. Last night we met to pass off our cooking and fire requirements for camp. Two things happened last night, that made me realize I'm probably not cut out for this position. One, I brought matches from my favorite brewery. It wasn't until the nice, and completely appalled 60+ year old leader asked me, "Um, are those from a bar?" did I realize I probably made a slight mistake. And secondly, while I sat with my pot lover, trying to start a fire with no matches (no, that hadn't been confiscated) I finally threw aside the flint and steel, and while no one was watching, I brought out my contraband matches, lit the stupid thing and exclaimed, "Okay, passed that off!"

3. About two weeks ago, all the leaders from the other churches met together for our first meeting. Within five minutes, other leaders were singing camp songs, ahhing and ohhing over craft ideas - CRAFT IDEAS!! - and agreeing wholeheartedly that tanikinis aren't not even going to be considered as alternatives to bikinis. I just sat there trying to find someone in the crowd, who I could look at, and in one glance communicate, "Are you finding this as absolutely ridiculous as I am?" Unfortunately, all I found was a girl, who was already wearing hiking boots and a woman, who wore a fanny pack, just below the bust and above the rump, during the entire meeting.

I think I might start smoking pot before this thing ends...

* That, and the people in charge wouldn't allow me to keep her at home.

4 Gallons of Juice

Yesterday, while I was waiting for the doctor, the nurse took me back to a small room to measure my weight and take my blood pressure. While I sat there, a woman in her fifties was ushered in and told to step on the scale. Before she stepped up, she asked, "Can I take off my shoes?" At first, I thought this sounded like a reasonable request. I mean, at home who really measures their weight with shoes on? Or clothes? Or without running a few miles before? You? No? Me either.

Anyway, after the nurse allowed her to take her shoes off, she then hesitated again, and said, "You should know that I just drank a rather large bottle of juice." This is when the nurse and I made eye contact and acknowledged we had a crazy on our hands. After the nurse mumbled, "We'll take the juice into account," the woman stepped onto the scale and a whopping 120 came up. Yep, 120. The woman then looked down and announced, "This morning I was 116.8. I'm telling you that juice was really big." The nurse then looked at me and then said, "Honey, let's go with 118. We'll knock off 2 lbs. for the juice."

Here were my thoughts during this situation. 1. I wish I had said something like, "Oh my gosh. 120? What did you drink four gallons of juice?!" (You know, just to play on her fears.) OR I wish I had mouthed "114.7,"* while pointing to myself. (Just to watch her crumble) 2. I wonder if she thought that her recorded weight was going to be printed in the doctor's monthly newsletter?

*Not actual weight.

I Gots Crazy Hormones

For the past six days, I've been injecting myself with a fertility drug, called Menopur. Okay, that's a lie. Let me start again. For the past six days, I've been screaming and slapping the table, while Dr. Seuss (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) injects me with Menopausal Urine, using a dull syringe that couldn't pop a balloon if it tried. (I figured I'm among friends, so I might as well be honest.) And how is this blast of hormones going? Well, I have to admit, I was holding it together pretty well - minus the Lifetime movie last night and the sudden binge of ice cream - but today I reached my breaking point. On Sunday, my doctor decided he wanted to up my dosage of the menopausal urine, but neglected to call in the prescription. Consequently, I called the doctor's office all day trying to get someone to call the pharmacy, but never got a live body on the phone. So, finally I decided to just go to the pharmacy, and either bargain for some magic potion or steal it with my sharp keys as a weapon. (It wasn't a well thought out plan - I'll admit that.)

Anyway, as I sat there, stewing over the idiots at the doctor's office, and listening to the pharmacist tell me how they just need a fax from my doctor, I finally cracked. I stood up, and in a rather high pitched voice, I said something like, "I've been trying to call all day. (cue almost tears) I swear, my doctor is an idiot." Now, in most cases, I would have stopped the madness and immediately apologized, but instead, and yes, I'm blaming the hormones, I stomped away and muttered to a poor old man, "I swear, I'm 31, I just want to get pregnant sometime in the near future!" I'll admit, in retrospect, it was a little funny to watch him perk up for a second. I think he thought I needed some help right at that moment. (Down boy.)

I'm happy to report that I did finally get my drugs, 40 minutes later, and that I did apologize to everyone in the pharmacy, but I know it's too late. Once you reveal yourself as crazy there's no going back. Come on people, it's the hormones!!

It's Britney...

Yesterday, while running in to pick up some Indian food for dinner tonight, I flew by a couple, who looked strangely familiar. As I waited for my food, it dawned on me who it was....BRITNEY FREAKIN' SPEARS. In a panic, I barked at the nice Indian woman to hurry up and get me my receipt. Once I drew a line for my signature, I flew out the door and ran to the car. Kevin Federline (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) was waiting, and as soon as I opened the door, I exclaimed, "Did you see Britney Spears? She just walked by here!" He, never questioning my gift, said he saw a ridiculous woman in a skimmmppy pink dress, with a bad case of cellulite (I might add), walk by, but didn't realize it was her. Instantly, I ordered him to turn the car around and head up the street. (This is why I love my husband.) Immediately, he pulled a U-turn, spotted her in a parking lot and turned in to get a better view. I'll have you know, had I rolled my window down, I could have tapped her on the shoulder and asked, "Honestly, what were you thinking with that MTV appearance right after your head shaving episode?"

Now, before I finish let me just say I wasn't excited to see Britney because I'm a huge fan. I was more excited because typically my sixth sense of seeing celebrities is wasted on C to D listers, but yesterday, I actually snagged a big fish.

Quite the Pet

I think if your pet can understand you when you "ask" it to stay outside it should really be able to go anywhere it wants. Just saying.

Satan's Minions

Today, at work, we were blessed with a splendid surprise of the Health Department. I understand they're doing a job, and I don't want to eat at a restaurant that allows rats to roam freely, but COME ON! Honestly, they are without a doubt, some of the meanest people I've ever seen. I would not be surprised if they left work and then beat up puppies, ran over babies and stole heart medications from elderly people. These people are mean.

Today, our anal retentive Health Department representative was especially mean. Why? Well, I'm guessing for two reasons. One, she lives in a world full of germs, diseases and potentially threatening foods. Which consequently, if you'll allow me to theorize, has most likely driven her to create phobias about things the normal person doesn't even know about, which obviously, has caused her to ostracize herself from society, which in turn has made her crazy, which means she isn't getting any, which means she's constantly sexually frustrated, but terrified of human touch because they might have placed their hand on a surface that once held a raw piece of chicken, which leads her to wake up in the morning and punish everyone in sight.

Theory two, would be a toss up between - her parents beat her as a child with a dirty spoon - OR - she has a ridiculous vendetta against us because a few weeks ago we were giving FREE, yes I said FREE, food away to a bunch of veterans at an event and we didn't have a SNEEZE GUARD over our muffins. I know, we are plain reckless. She wrote up a citation for our debauchery, we argued a little bit about it, and then the monster came out.

I suppose the only justice to this entire story is that even though we had to dump out our entire ice machine and buckets of salsa, that were made yesterday, is that this woman works for the Health Department, which means she most likely has no friends and her boss is Satan. In the grand scheme of things, I think we still come out on top.

Archaelogists Are Smarter Than Doctors

My favorite and sage line cook has struck again. (You'll remember she is the same one who explained I needed to stop "making love" like white people, and just do it for real like Mexicans - noises included - and then I would be able to have a baby.) Today, she asked me why I was working at a restaurant. I replied because Daddy Warbucks (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) still wants his boat and I'm just 143 shifts away from paying for it. For some reason, she didn't take that answer as real, and asked me again. I, then threw it back at her, and asked her why she wanted to know. And then the following conversation took place:

Line Cook: "Because Kate you seem too smart for this place. You seem like someone...like someone...what do you call those people who dig for bones?"

Kate: "An archaeologist?"

Line Cook: "Yeah, you seem like you would be that. You know someone smart."

Bob (my co-worker): "So you think she looks smart? You don't think she looks like a doctor, or a rocket scientist? Just an archaeologist?"

Line Cook: "Yeah. You know I can just see Kate out there in the dirt finding sh@t. Smart Sh#t."

So, apparently, if the waitress job doesn't work and I can't make a kid, I'm going digging. Digging for some smart Sh#t.

The Torture of Audiobooks

Lately, I've started to listen to audio books while I work out and ride my bike. Typically, I really enjoy listening to the story and it helps to pass the time. However, I'm also finding that audio books can be quite awkward. For example, the other day while I was riding my bike I was listening to the "Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." For those of you who haven't read this book, let's just say there are some very "interesting" scenes inside the book. Scenes that you wouldn't want to necessarily listen to with your parents or blaring in your ear. (Cue wink, wink, nudge, nudge) Anyway, unlike a real book, audio books don't allow the luxury of skimming or skipping certain scenes. Instead, they are more like bizarre Chinese tortures that force you to watch a train smashing into another train.

For example, the other day, while trying to keep up with traffic on Sunset Boulevard, a very non-PG love scene took place...in my ears. I tried to get the ear piece out of my ear, but unfortunately, every time I went to grab the wire another car would whiz by, and I was forced to choose life over pure thoughts. Eventually, I decided the only thing I could do was sing as loud as I could so that I couldn't hear the story. Again, this plan was foiled because, in order to hear my Ipod while I ride, I have to have it extremely loud. Consequently, I was now enduring a kinky sex scene with a tone deaf and slightly muffled rendition of "Joker"* by The Steve Miller Band. Finally, the scene ended and I rode home.

I would like to say that's where the awkwardness ended, but while I was walking my bike back into my apartment, my neighbor stopped to hold the door for me. While I shuffled through the door, another special scene began. For what seemed like 5 minutes, my Ipod blared out an incredibly awkward joining of two people who are not married and don't love each other very much. Immediately, I grabbed my back and tried to fish out my Ipod, but the awkwardness was already out there. As my neighbor looked at me with disgust, I tried to explain it's an AUDIO BOOK and not some hobby of mine.

So, to those of you listening to audio books: Beware of where you choose to listen. I recommend staying away from road trips with your mom (been there), in close proximity to judgmental neighbors (been there) and places where you can't escape the explicit sex scenes read by some guy with a British accent.


*1 of the 4 songs I know all the words to.

Just Talk in The Third Person Already!

Yes, this is the worst rendition of Rumpelstiltskin I could find.

So, I find myself in a bit of an awkward situation. There's a guy in my building, who likes to have deeply personal conversations with me whenever I run into him. We've talked about his divorce and how his kids have never been to his apartment. He's told me in awkward detail the amount of money he's spent on his Porsches, and how his hobby of racing is something he wishes he could share with someone. AND he's even asked me to join him for dinner and to go for a ride in his car. (I'll admit, the last request was hard to say no to. I mean, he told me he was a friend of my parents and even had candy.)

So, obviously, the conversations are awkward, and the fact that he doesn't really acknowledge the wedding ring on my finger as a barrier to his diarrhea of the mouth. But, what's really awkward is I have absolutely no idea what his name is. Not a clue. We call him "Metro" because of beautifully constructed hair, designer clothes and semi effeminate gestures, but I don't think he would appreciate the nickname. 3 1/2 years of conversations and all I can say is, "Well, guy, have a good night." I just pray one day he'll talk in the third person, and then I can say, "(Insert Metro's real name) stop cornering me and making me listen to incredibly awkward conversations!!"

Any suggestions on how to get Rumpelstiltskin to reveal his name?

Denny's Elistism

Picture this...Andre Agassi (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I decided last night to go play some tennis and get some dinner. When we arrived home, with groceries in hand, we realized the key to our house was sitting inside on the table. I can't describe how frustrating it is to know 2 inches of wood separates you from your home. For about 30 minutes we attempted to break into our own apartment. Andre scaled great heights and fought a debilitating fear of spiders only to find the sliding door to our balcony is completely burglar proof. Damn you Moss Company and your safety precautions. We called our manager about twenty times, and eventually, resorted to actually banging our shoulder into the door. I would like to report that unlike the movies, it is actually quite hard to bang a door down.

Finally, we gave our groceries to our neighbors, and headed off to dine with the other homeless people of Santa Monica. No, we didn't head down to the Salvation Army, but we did enjoy a delightful dinner at Denny's. Why Denny's? Why not. Did you know that for $4.00 you can eat as many pancakes as you want? What a fantastic place. $4.00. I went with the ol' standard of the Grand Slam. What's better than two pancakes doused in a cup of butter, which by the way, who eats that much butter, two eggs scrambled, which sort of looked like egg styrofoam and turkey bacon, which sort of tasted and looked like ham? I can't think of anything.

I really want to start frequenting Denny's, but I just don't think we are the clientele they are targeting. For example, while I scrapped the butter off my pancakes and tried to convince myself I was eating turkey, I watched a flat screen TV roll through a bunch of commercials. Here were the commercials: how to get out of debt, how to get credit, how to defend yourself against spousal abuse, some completely in Spanish and a few on drug abuse. At first, I was like, "These are interesting commercials," and then I looked around, and thought, "Oh, these are Denny's commercials not 'Kate and Andre commercials."*

Anyway, after our dabble with the Denny's crowd, we, I mean Andre, tried for an hour and a half to jimmy our lock with a hanger, and finally at 11:30 (3 1/2 hours LATER) our manager finally answered her forsaken phone and gave us the spare key. Here's what I learned from last night. I would rather sleep in my car than pay a locksmith $130 freakin' dollars to unlock my door. My manager sucks. Doors can not be broken into with a coat hanger and some pliers. And Denny's can be quite an exclusive place.

* I'm a snob?

Little Red

A month ago my sister and I participated in a 100 mile all girl race, called Little Red Riding Hood, in Logan, Utah. It was one of the coolest rides I've ever done. We averaged about 18 miles an hour, hung with some cool chicks, dealt with some crazy chicks and finished in about 5:30 hours. The only downside was we missed the last turn and ended up riding a few extra miles on the major "expressway" of Logan. If you get the chance, and you are a chick, grab a bike and take this ride. Honestly, you don't have to be a real biker. I swear, some riders looked like they had just grabbed an old bike out of the garage and decided to ride it for the day.

















Here's the entrance to the finish line my sister and I, unfortunately, missed. I love that my favorite person, Emad, made me take this picture - and risked her life to get it. Who knew chicks on beach cruisers and rusty mountain bikes could be so angry.

I'm An American And I Hate Fireworks

As we celebrated the birth of our nation this past weekend, I was reminded of one very un-American thing about myself - I sort of hate fireworks. I know, as you read this you are gasping in surprise and wondering, "How can someone, seemingly so normal, hate fireworks?" Well, I actually hate fireworks for a couple of reasons. One, what's the deal with all the hype? Why do we drive hours, sit on blankets for days and await in anticipation for a bunch of loud noises and lights to shoot off in the sky? I remember as a kid we go to this park in the afternoon and stake out a "great location for the fireworks" and then just wait. Sure, we had food and we were allowed to run in a ten foot radius from our blanket, but it wasn't until hours and three naps later, did the forsaken show start. I wonder what we could have done in those wasted hours. Cured cancer? Helped an old lady not feel so lonely? Feed the homeless?

Secondly, there's a very wide spectrum when it comes to fireworks. You have the pathetic neighborhood display, which, I'll admit, can be somewhat interesting because you never know if your neighbor is going to lose an arm as he attempts to light a firecracker with a beer in one hand and lighter in the other. (Honestly, the more I think about it, these displays fall more under borderline freak shows.) And on the other side, you have incredibly expensive displays, coordinated with music and awes from the crowd. These can be fun to watch for the first 30 seconds, but they are hard to find and, I think, after five minutes they start to drive me into flashbacks of Nam. What can I say flashes of different colors and blaring (You're A) Grand Ole Flag just don't impress me.

Lastly, as if I haven't totally robbed you of your 4th of July spirit, I hate fireworks because some people absolutely love them. (This is also the reason I sort of hate Walmarts, why I wouldn't watch American Idol, and why I won't wear skinny jeans.) Honestly, some people get way too excited about fireworks. They drive across forbidden borders to purchase them, they light them when their own cities forbid it, they arrive days before events so they can have the perfect seats, and when they are going off, they act like they have never seen them before. This all drives me crazy. If you fall under this category, I apologize. Just know, if you ever say, "Hey, let's drive an hour to this really cool firework show"...I'm probably not going to come.