It All Began With A Kiss

Today is March 15th. In a month I will turn 30. While thinking about this minor milestone I began to reflect on all the experiences that got me to this year. Therefore, I've decided over the next thirty days I will write about one experience that either deeply affected me or changed my life. I would like to claim this was an original idea, but that would be a lie. A girl I grew up with started a blog, that is leading up to her 30th birthday, where she highlights one individual, who affected her, each day...and yes, I made the list. Anyway, I know it's not 365 entries, but I think 30 will do.

The following are in no particular order:

In middle school each month our school would hold a dance. This was an event not to be missed. For three hours, our innocent gym would be turned into a prepubescent heaven. While swaying in a circle to a Poison or Bon Jovi ballad, sixth, seventh and eighth graders would make out like little bunnies.

When I was in sixth grade I was “dating” a hot thang named Dave Miltenberger. I know…the last name screams hot. I had pecked him a couple of times at some “boy girl” parties, but had never gone in for the real deal. At a middle school dance in March, Dave and I decided to take the next step in our relationship. I will never forget how incredibly magical this moment was.

I think we were slow dancing to “Something to Believe In” by Poison when Dave’s older brother came dancing up next to us with his girlfriend. Before we could say hi, he started to kiss his girlfriend. Dave took one look at them, then at me and raised one eyebrow. How could I resist the last name AND now such a smooth proposal? I think I just shrugged my shoulders, and before I knew it, Dave went in for the kill. I wish I could say fireworks exploded and chills ran down my spine. Instead, I was more conscious of how disgusting this experience was becoming and that I wanted to get away as soon as possible. After, what seemed like ten minutes, Dave pulled away and before I could say, “Gee, thanks,” my sister and friends pulled me into the girls’ locker room for a de-briefing of the experience.

I include this as a “life-changing” experience because of how different I felt after that moment. No, it wasn’t the awakening of my carnal side, but more an event I can point to where I felt a little older. I remember getting into the car with my mom and actually feeling a little more equal with her because I had kissed a boy. Little did I know that that kiss would probably be my worst, and Dave was only going to be a sixth grade fling.

Happy Sabbath

May those of you who did this lovely deed die of a painful death.

The Torture Chamber

My mom always calls the gym the torture chamber, and after today, I think she might be on to something. I've been going to gyms since college and I've never seen such disgusting people as I have at my local gym. Sure, the good ol' YMCA in Kennett Square, PA had it's fair share of gross people. (Although, I went to high school with most of them so that could attribute to my perception of them.) And then there was the gym in Salt Lake, which actually was a gay night club. (Though I have to admit watching grown men hit on each other was sort of entertaining while I was trapped on a treadmill.)

No, the real winner for the most disgusting gym would have to go to the Santa Monica 24 hour Fitness. Why do you ask? Well, for example, today while I was lifting a man wearing (and I'm not kidding) a striped SWEATER and jeans was lifting next to me. When he got up the entire bench was soaked in his sweat, which mind you had to seep through a wool SWEATER and JEANS! That's insane sweat. I just looked at the bench and then looked at him and then looked at the bench and then looked at him. (I want to give you a real play by play.) I thought my best "passive-aggressive evil eye" would be good enough, but he just shrugged his shoulders and moved to the machines upstairs. I felt like I was going to gag. Then as if I couldn't be disturbed more I looked over to the elliptical machine and saw a guy lip syncing to his Ipod while he gyrated his body back and forth. I, being one who was never good at not staring, just watched him in disbelief.

So, Mom I apologize for doubting you. You were right...it is a torture chamber.

My Funk

Every once in awhile I get in what I like to call my "What in the Heck am I Doing With My Life" Funk. It basically happens any time my life slows down and I find myself hoping that John (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) has run out of underwear so I can feel somewhat productive by doing laundry.

Today, unfortunately, I am in that funk, and I'm still about three days away from doing the laundry. (Nothing was going right today). It also didn't help that today during a job interview on the phone the owner of the company thought I was too qualified and smart for the job, and wanted to know why I was applying. I wanted to blurt out, "Who the hell knows? Can I have the crappy job or not?" (Don't worry I think I actually said something less abrasive like, "Gee, thanks.")

No, but seriously, I know I should have been flattered, but instead, his comment hit a nerve. The nerve of "What Am I Doing With My Life?" I know I'm over qualified for the glorified babysitting gig at the beach, but I also don't know what else to do. Do I want to go to school and pretend the Masters I receive will turn into a lifelong career? Do I want to get a nine to five job and deal with idiots that talk about synergizing and memos? (That's my office stereotype.) Or do I want to volunteer at the local soup kitchen and become Mother Teresa to all the homeless people in Santa Monica? The answer would be "no" to all the above. So, now we've come full circle to my funk. I feel like I'm literally sitting at a bus stop with no bus in sight.

Sorry, I know I usually try to be funny. It's the funk and it will pass. If anyone has any suggestions for a job let me know. I'm apparently quite qualified and smart.

Me and The Hulk

I have never been a big bragger...well, unless I'm re-telling the story of how I hit a hole in one. (And for those of you who didn't initially believe my amazing feat, I will say again, it was an official Par 3. And, I continue to stick by my story that there was, not only, fire breathing dragons and mean trolls, who tried to stop my ball, but a deafening wind against my face. And yes, through all this, and after three lessons, I still hit the forsaken hole in one. So, stick that in your Master's Green Jacket and move along.)

Anyway, I guess I didn't realize I had all this pent up anger from everyone's comments about my hole in one not counting when it's done on a miniature golf course, or when playing skee ball at Chuckie Cheese. Where's the love people?

No, the real reason I sat down to write this blog entry was to address my super hero ability. Now before you get all excited, I'm not going to reveal that I can fly or see through walls. I'm also not going to deny it. No, the only ability I'm prepared to reveal at this time is my gift to spot celebrities.

Since moving to Santa Monica I have spotted celebrities jogging, walking down the street, eating dinner and even coming out of the "lady's doctor" (as my one friend used to call the gynecologist). Now, the amazing part is not spotting and placing random celebrities. Instead, and I'm not kidding, right before I see a celebrity I get this feeling that I'm about to spot one. It's like a sixth sense I'm not even aware of in my brain.

For example, the other day I was riding my bike to the gym and the feeling came over me. (Now, I know how the Hulk felt when his skin used to turn green.) I scanned around the streets and saw nothing. Then when I entered the gym I noticed that Meredith Baxter-Birney, mother from Family Ties, was running on the treadmill. See the feeling never lies. Then later that day I was walking into the bank when, again I had that feeling, and who walks out? Reed Diamond from Dollhouse and Journeyman. (I didn't say the feeling always directs me to A-List celebrities.)

So, I'm not saying I have blades coming out of my hands, or am I able to control the weather...I also not denying it...but, I do think I'm special in that special sort of way. If only I could find a way to fight crime with my ability...

Kate, No

I'm almost a month away from my 30th birthday, and I'm realizing I'm just not as "mature" as I thought I would be at this point. Why do I say this? Well, last night I was observing myself, and I realized I sort of walk like a guy, AND I've noticed I still act like a little kid in a lot of situations.

For example:

Last night I was invited to a dinner given by some older ladies in my church to introduce me to some other people. Throughout the entire night I felt like I needed to put duck tape over my mouth to stop all the sarcastic and "Kate" comments from coming out. I mean, how could I not make a joke about the wall (from ceiling to floor) that was covered in dolls? Or the other wall decorated in, oh wait, more dolls. I did mutter sort of to myself, "Do you guys feel like you are being watched?" Hopefully, all the hearing aides were turned down low.

Then as if the dolls weren't hard enough to withstand, after dinner we got to create a crafty St. Patrick's Day bootinere out of different shades of green paper and wire. Crafts? This was torture not to say something sarcastic. Finally, after being told my bows didn't look straight I said, "Really? I did this exact craft last night and it looked great. Even my Valentine's Day bootinere came out awesome."

Maybe it's not that I'm so immature, but more that I need a severe verbal screen. Or maybe just duck tape.

The Darker Side of Kate

Lately, every time I get on Facebook one of my "close friends" has tagged me to write, (or drink the massive Facebook kool-aide) and write 25 random things about myself. I have to admit, even after 10 or so people have encouraged me to participate, or divulge some embarrassing details about myself, I have stayed strong and not revealed anything. However, even though I haven't participated in this random exercise, I have to say I'm a huge fan. I feel like I'm the person who suggested jumping into ice cold water, and then when I screamed "go," I actually stood still and got to watch my friend scream out in despair as she came up out of the arctic water. (I know, it's a little sinister, but who hasn't been that person? Who hasn't laughed out loud as your friend looked like the idiot? Come on, you know you've been there.) That's how this Random 25 Things is to me. These people tag you thinking you'll jump into the cold water, or share in their not so interesting idiosyncrasy vomit. And then, what really happens is I accept their tag, scream "go," and then chuckle, as I eat my cereal, at what these people decide to reveal and the no response I give in return. It's one of my favorite things.

Of course, I will probably break down and write the forsaken 25 Random Things about myself. I mean, I love lists. It's almost not fair for me trying to be so stoic in the face of something I love so much. So, to all of you, who I'm friends with on Facebook, go ahead write those lists, reveal your darkest secrets, and maybe I'll play too.

* As a side note: I read an article in the New York Times that said over 5 million people have participated in the 25 Random Things. Figure it takes about 20 minutes to write these lists. Multiply that by 5 million and that's a lot of wasted time at work. Oh, Facebook.

Beginner's Luck?

I read some interesting statistics this morning while eating my breakfast. Here's what I learned:

Average age of a Hole In One golfer: 44.5800 years
Average handicap of Hole In One golfer: 13.6835
Number of years playing golf: 16.9598 years
Percent of Aces by: Male 83% Female 17%

And here's what happened on Saturday:

Age of Hole In One Golfer: 29
Handicap of Hole In One: Way too high to count
Number of years playing golf: 3 months
Gender: Female

Yep, you got it. I had my first hole in one. Three bounces and into the hole. I told John (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) that I only want to hit holes in one from now on...their cooler and involve no putting.

*The picture above is a poor substitute for my amazing feat.

Playing With the Boys

Each Thursday night John (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) talks me into playing pick-up basketball at our church with a bunch of guys. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy playing basketball, but being the only girl on the court can be a little scary. For example, it's a little terrifying when a 6"4, 200 plus man, puts his head down and drives to the basket. I know, Mr. White (my black high school basketball coach) would demand (well, more say in a post 1960 weed black out sort of way) "Now come on, get in that paint and stop the ball." I always made it a habit to follow the wise counsel of my basketball coach, but then again, I also would like to bare children one day.

The other scary part about playing with boys, is that they not only smell when they run around, but get incredibly sweaty. Last night I was guarding one guy who basically had sweat through his entire shirt. Each time I touched him, I subconsciously wiped my hand on my shirt and tried to stop the gag reflex. When I got home I felt like I had been swimming in a pool of sweaty bodies. (How's that image treatin' ya?)

Anyway, on the flip side I must admit that is fun to play, and occasionally, (after about 25 shots) make a couple. Let's just hope I don't die from being knocked into the wall or contracting some rare sweat related disease.

My First AA Meeting

Two nights ago I had my first cooking class. We learned how to cut things properly, grill, and bake. However, as interesting as these new skills were, I have to say the more intriguing part was the opening introductions. One by one we all put our heads down in shame and spoke of our culinary disabilities. I honestly thought someone was going to get up and say they haven't had a drink in ten days and it's killing them. Seriously, it became not just a cooking class, but group therapy for people to admit that they once burned a steak, or used four times the garlic the recipe called for and almost killed their husband.

The other part that amazed me was the majority of the class were older women. They all spoke of how their husbands hate their cooking and their children all eat out. I can't imagine growing up in a home where a home cook meal is more of a death threat than a moment of bliss. (Yes, my parents' meals are moments of bliss and unicorns.)

Anyway, once we got the "confessions" out of the way, the class was actually a lot of fun. Okay, fun because I loved watching the older women destroy the easy recipes they gave us to cook. Honestly, one woman thought a "pinch of salt" meant you grab a handful and dump it into the pot. What are we playing at the beach with sand and making an imaginary meal? (Alright, I apologize for the sarcasm. And no, I didn't admit that I once killed Dan with ground pepper.)

I guess I have to end this entry now. My sponsor just called and said she is feeling like whipping something up. I got to get her off the ledge.

Mental Note

Lately, I've been making some mental notes to myself. I thought I would share them to show you my state of mind at this time:

1. Stop using mixing bowls as cereal bowls. You inevitably eat too much cereal and it's hard to slurp the milk at the end.

2. Drink more water. Your body cannot sustain strictly on the liquid it receives from sucking on jolly ranchers and the milk from your cereal.

3. Brush your teeth before John (name has been changed to protect the identity of my husband) comes home. You'll feel more like an adult, and you won’t be scared to open the door when the UPS man comes.

4. Stop worrying about who Jason will choose on The Bachelor. One, you don't know him. Two, his happiness won't affect yours in any way. Three, whoever he picks won't work out any way.

5. Don't start a Text Twist game as a break. This will become the afternoon obsession.

6. Read the Newsweeks that are piling up. Your boycott of anything Obama is only causing clutter.

7. Stop trying to run. Your hamstring and butt is completely pulled from two weekends ago. Remember you are almost 30.

8. Stop staring at people at the gym. There are mirrors everywhere and people see your expressions of horror while they grunt and moan as they lift.

9. Don't moan or grunt while lifting.

10. Stop listening to "American Boy" by Estelle and Kanye West. One, Kanye West is an idiot. Two, you will only end up singing in a high pitch voice, "Ameri-ccan Boy" all day.

I know, I too noticed there was no note to serve more or recycle. I am who I am.

*11. Don't stick your head into dinosaur's heads because that is just playing with fire.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Why do bands do it? Why do they put out crappy music after a long career of great music? For example, why did Guns N' Roses follow up Use Your Illusions I and II with The Spaghetti Incident? Why didn't Axel consult with Slash about ending their careers in 1993? I think a healthy conversation would have been good for everyone.

Where does this disgust come from? Well, the other day I downloaded the new U2 album, No Line On the Horizon, and I'm...well, disappointed. Didn't the album Pop teach these guys anything? Don't they remember the critical acclaim Joshua Tree, Achtung Baby, and All That You Can Leave Behind received? Why doesn't anyone consult with me? I think my brother, a die hard U2 fan, summed it up correctly when he said, "It just seems like they are trying too hard."

Therefore...

Dear Bono: Please make an Irish goodbye (Wikipedia this...very interesting) and go make another album.

Thanks. Kate

It Wasn't Me

Last night I realized another reason why I love my husband.  At about midnight, John (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) turned to me and asked what my best fart noise was.  Without hesitation I placed my hands over my mouth and let one rip.  For the next five minutes we created "sneak attack" farts, "just found a bathroom" farts and "that just felt good" farts.  I can only imagine what our neighbors think of us.

I must also admit that I have a hidden talent when it comes to fake fart noises. During road trips in college I used to love to wait until our bus got quiet and then I would break out a series of toots.  Of course, I would follow each with, "Holy Crap, who was that?" Or my personal favorite, "Sorry guys, it's gonna be a long trip."  I know I should have been more mature, but there was something so funny to me about watching my teammates' heads whip around in disgust.  Unfortunately, much to the dismay of my coach, most of my teammates caught whiff (pun intended) of my fun and joined in.  Again, nothing is funnier than traveling down 95 towards North Carolina and listening to a bunch of 20 year olds make fart noises.  

The Game of Coaching

I thought being a coach would be easy. I thought all I had to do was give the team some pointers, come up with some plays, set a schedule and show up for the games. Turns out coaching isn't that easy. This past weekend my team had a tournament up in Santa Barbara. During the first game I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Our attack was out of sync, our defense was non-existent and we were being completely out hustled. And all I could do was pace the sidelines and yell. No one told me that coaching is actually an ancient Chinese method of torture. Seriously, sometimes I feel like I would be more useful sitting in the stands holding a foam #1 finger.

Thankfully, our team turned it around and managed to win our next three games. However, in the last game I realized again I'm just not cut out to be a coach. At half time we were up 9-1, so I decided to pull some of my starters and play some people who hadn't seen any action over the weekend. I figured with a running clock and that kind of lead we would be fine. Unfortunately, the opposing team started to come back and I was faced with a moral dilemma. Do I pull these poor kids, who just aren't as talented as my other players, or do I let them finish the game and barely win? Eventually, I decided to keep them in, even though my team thought I was crazy. We ended up winning 9-7, but I think I learned a few things this weekend:

One: I need to find a way to suit up at half time and play for my team. Or take anger management classes.
Two: I need to get tougher and not care that my bench players have paid to play, have come to all the practices, kept away from drugs and alcohol and cry themselves to sleep each day they don't see the field. It's about winning. Plain and simple.

Yeah, I'm not really confident either I'll be able to carry out any of these realizations.

Really?? Seriously??

And this why I stick to celebrity gossip....

This morning I decided to read a little Drudge Report (yes, I'm a conservative) and here are some of the stories being reported today.

1. "Rapelay virtual rape game banned by Amazon"
A PC game that allows players to gang rape virtual women – and then force them to have an abortion – has been banned from Amazon.

Kate's Thoughts: Speechless.

2. "Mexican mayor aims to add spark to flagging sex lives"
Mayor Marcelo Ebrard of Mexico City is handing out free Viagra to poor men over 60 to make life more livable in the over-crowded city. This weekend, for Valentine's Day, the government is sponsoring a mass kiss-in, in an attempt to break the world record and raise awareness about domestic violence.

Kate's Thoughts: What about the freak accidents of women in their 50s and 60s having children? Won't that only increase the overpopulation? And, then a second thought: gross.

3. "Baby-faced boy Alfie Patten is father at 13"
Baby-faced Alfie, who is 13 but looks more like eight, became a father four days ago when his girlfriend Chantelle Steadman gave birth to 7lb 3oz Maisie Roxanne. He told how he and Chantelle, 15, decided against an abortion after discovering she was pregnant.

Kate's Thoughts: Seriously? Really? Seriously??



I think I'll stick to the controversy over K-Fed's weight and Chris Brown impending assault charge.

I Confess...

I've always considered myself a non-addictive person.  For example, when I drank in high school I only did it for a year.  I kid.  It was only six months and then I was introduced to pot.  Sorry, it's a Thursday morning and my attempts at sarcasm are falling flat.  And Mom I never did those things.

So, anyway, I never did drugs, I never had the urge to eat an entire sheet cake, I never found myself on "questionable" websites, and I never ran 30 miles in a day because of the endorphins that were so overwhelming.  Truly on the outside I appear to be a very non-addictive person.  

However, for the past few weeks I've realized I do indeed have some severe addictions.  I think the first step to recovery is admitting  you have a problem.  So, if you will indulge me, here are some of the things I'm fighting, but losing the battle to:

1. Cereal.  Could there be anything more wonderful than cereal?  Honestly, I'm completely obsessed with it.  Typically, in one morning I eat two huge bowls and then have to actually say out loud, "Kate, you have had enough" while I (with a shaky hand) wash out my bowl.  

2. Reality TV.  I'll watch anything.  If you put a super nanny, a gay clown, an inspiring chef, a blind piano player and a talking dog together, and told them to build a tree fort in 20 minutes for a family, who lost their home in Katrina, I would not only watch it, but blog about it.

3. Gossip Websites.  Every morning I try to tell myself to read the news, learn something new and be an adult.  Unfortunately, after five minutes of reading about the stimulus plan battle, I can't fight the urge any longer to find out if, indeed, Chris Brown really hit Rihanna.  I swear I wouldn't know if Russia was blown up unless Brad Pitt was shooting a movie there during the time of the blast.

So, I know in the grand scheme of things these addictions don't seem that bad.  I mean, I know I didn't write things like, Twilight, cocaine or Miley Cyrus, but these are real struggles people.

 

I Want My Two Dollars

So, today I had a slight brush with death. Don't worry Mom I'm fine, but I still feel deeply rattled. Basically, I was being a moron and started to cross the road when I thought I had the right of way. Instead, it was the other traffic that had the right of way, and while blindly pedaling along, I looked up to see a white Camry slamming on its brakes. Once it came to a complete stop, about a foot away from my bike, the driver, who really had every right to kill me, blared its horn and gave me the universal, "Are you a total moron?" look. All I could do was sheepishly put my head down and slowly pedal across. About a block later I think I started to breathe again.

Thinking about this experience I realize I've been lucky. I never was trapped in a burning building, caught in a nuclear meltdown or held up at a convenience store. No, when it comes to death I've been pretty clear of its grasps. I think the only other time I thought I was going to die was when I refused to pay a taxi driver in Mongolia twenty cents. (Drum roll - yep, you are going to get the story)

One day we were walking through a typical "ghetto" of Mongolia when a car pulled off the dirt road and started towards us. We didn't think much of it, I mean when you see camels tied to a telephone pole and old women squatting down in public to urinate, you really think you've seen it all. Anyway, the driver of the car got out, and while pointing at us, starting yelling "Two Hundred turigs" or basically "20 cents." I couldn't really understand what he was saying, but I knew we didn't owe him any money. I figured he was just trying to intimidate us and steal our money. Therefore, I refused to pay and told him to leave. In response to our refusals, he picked up a large rock and cocked his arm back to throw it at us. I instantly shielded my head and watched the rock fly by me. Let me emphasize that this guy was about three feet from me, and had this rock made contact, I would be brain dead. Finally, we were able to get away from him and ran to an apartment complex.

Now the not so funny part. So, every driver in Mongolia is a taxi driver. All you have to do is flag a car down, tell them where you want to go and then pay them on the kilometer. I really think it's an ingenious idea. Think about walking to the store and all of the sudden you don't want to walk anymore. Flag a car down and there you go. Anyway, cars in Mongolia were always on empty and it was not unusual for drivers to actually turn off the car while going downhill to conserve gas. One day we got into a man's car, and before we had traveled 200 yards, his car shut down. We were in a hurry to make an appointment, so while he was getting gas down the road, we hopped out and flagged another car down. The man who demanded his 20 cents...was the man who's car we left. So, I had seen him before and I did owe him some money. Point for Kate.

Death...not so fun.

* The above picture is from one of John Cusask's greatest movies. And no, it's not the one where he holds up a stereo.

Rainy Day

Today has just been one of those days when nothing, I mean NOTHING, seems to be going right.  For example, while trying to finish a project for, probably one of the most boring people I've ever met, I've had to cancel and send back an order of jerseys that were the wrong color, find a field somewhere in southern California for our lacrosse games this weekend (Rain = No Playing at Pepperdine), figure out a tournament I'm hosting that has no teams and field calls from every girl on my team.  Basically, I'm at a cross-road right now.  Do I continue attempting to work and take a mental stare break every 15 minutes?  Do I sneak into my den and watch Top Chef without my TV partner?  Should I read so I feel a little intelligent?  Should I eat some yogurt?  Should I facebook?  See so many decisions.

I think I'm finally becoming a full blown southern California girl.  Rain makes me bummed out.  If anyone is interested in playing a great tournament with no teams, please contact me.  

A Love Hate Relationship

I mentioned a while back that I decided to take up golf. Now, almost two months later, I'm beginning to think I made a horrible mistake. Simply put, golf does strange things to me. First, I develop a great rage inside of me when I'm at the driving range, and desperately uncoordinated people, are able to, not only hit the ball straight, but farther than me. Last Saturday I almost followed an old Korean woman to her car to beat her over the head with my sand wedge. This is not normal.

Secondly, I talk to myself and not in a real "positive" way. Usually, when I work out, I think things like, "Man, you are doing great." Or "Gee, Kate you sure are pushing yourself." And sometimes when I ride my bike up a ridiculous incline I'll say, "Come on get up there." With golf, I think more things AND say things out loud like, "What are you a complete moron?" or "Geez, why don't you just take me behind the building and shoot me? I think that would be less painful." Again, not normal.

And lastly, I find myself doubting my whole athletic ability. Again, this usually starts with watching the crippled man pull himself out of his wheelchair to nail his ball 150 yards farther than mine. And then more doubt creeps in when my teacher calls me Kathy and snickers every time I slice the ball. Honestly, it takes me the entire ride home to remember I've had great moments in sports and this is not a real reflection of my overall coordination.

So, will I keep doing it? Stayed tuned. And if you hear of any random acts of violence at the Rancho Park Golf Course...it wasn't me.

Nah, Lbaaa, Lovvvee

The other night the husband and I celebrated our friend's birthday by participating in some good ol' karaoke fun.  I have to admit, initially, I was a little apprehensive about this adventure.  Don't get me wrong I enjoy singing off key in a confined room with relative strangers..I even thrive off it.  No, I was fearful I would reveal more "Kate Learning Disabilities."  (I actually don't know why I call them "learning disabilities" because I didn't learn how to be disabled in these parts of my life...So, I guess I'll just call them "disabilities."  But, then I don't want to make light of people with real disabilities (always got to think of my readers) so let's call them Kate-isms.)   Anyway, what was the Kate-ism I was referring to?

I never hear lyrics in songs.  I could listen to my favorite band everyday, and then if I was asked to sing the lyrics of one of their songs - I couldn't do it. It would come out like this: "A Little Ditty About Jack and Diane, two Amer nah, nah heartLAND."* (I'm usually pretty good with the first three words and then awesome with the last syllable.  Anything outside of that is pretty bad.) 

So, you can imagine my fear with karaoke.  Yes, the words are there, and theoretically, this should remedy my "performance problem."  However, the screen actually screws me up.  I become completely distracted watching these magical words appear, and realizing some of my favorite songs aren't about whales in the summer or midgets dancing.  It's like I'm understanding a foreign language for the first time.  It's overwhelming, and to be honest, quite deflating that a homemade video of motor-cross during AC/DC's "Shook Me All Night Long" could reveal so much.  

Anyway, the night actually was a lot of fun, and I don't think anyone really noticed the incoherent sounds I was making.  I think they were more mesmerized by my "mime dancing."  Emily Madsen will know what this means....I sort of like to act out my songs.  I know, difficult to do when you think they are about whales in the summer, but I make it work.

* John Mellencamp is not one of my favorite singers.  Just an example folks.

Oh, The Irony

As promised here's the story of one of the funniest experiences of my life.

When I got back from Mongolia I scored an awesome job with The United Way.  "Awesome" because, while at the United Way, I read all the Harry Potter books, surfed the internet and occasionally worked.  My prestigious work title was Executive Manager.  Basically, I had to manage individual fund-raising accounts for over 50 different businesses.  This meant I had to meet with each business, give a presentation on The United Way and collect the checks.  For three months I traveled around Salt Lake informing companies about the rising number of homeless people and the lack of shelters for battered women.  Speech after speech, I encouraged people to donate and help these destitute people.  

One day while coming back from a presentation I was driving the United Way car.  This car was donated by one of the companies on the board, and was completely decked out in United Way decal.  I'm talking United Way symbol across the hood of the car, people's faces along the doors and the mission statement on the back window.  Completely decked out.

Anyway, as I was approaching an intersection I saw a homeless man, who was carrying a large garbage bag over his shoulder, jay walking across the road I was about to cross.  Trying to be helpful, I honked at him and pointed to my green light.  As I passed him, he hawked the biggest pool of phlegm through my window and onto me.  Now, as gross as this story is, I can't help but laugh at the absurd irony of the experience.  Here I am out trying to help this guy get dinner and some shelter, and what does he do?  He spits on me.

Who Needs a Therapist I Have My Schnoodle

A couple of days ago I sent my resume to a job posting on craigslist.com.  Because of past experience I'm a little nervous to see what this job will really entail.  (Should I be worried when it said you need to have a background in refereeing wet t-shirt contests?)  

Anyway, the reason for my distrust is because of the worst job I ever had for three days.  I had just finished a job with the United Way of Salt Lake - which totally reminds me of the funniest experience of my life.  (See next entry for that story)  ANNNYWAAYY...I decided to go online and try to find another job.  I came across this "marketing" position and thought, "Hey, I was once a missionary and have an outstanding sense of humor - this would be perfect!"  So, like a total moron I sent my resume and within an hour I had a call from some gum chomping girl telling me to come in for an interview.  I should have known then that this was going to be an utter disaster, but I was only six months off the mission and still had that angelic belief in everyone and everything, so I went to the interview.  After fifteen minutes I was hired. Again, that should have been a clue for me to walk.

The next day I went to Ogden with a girl named Lauren who smoked the entire way and told me the objectives of the "company."  (Looking back I don't think any salesmen in the world had ever received such an extensive training.)  After inhaling an hour of second hand smoke, and trying to follow the AT&T deals we would be selling to the eager residents of Ogden, we arrived at our first business.  Sheepishly, I followed Lauren into some Feed and Grain store and watched her try to convince the owner to switch to AT&T with her chest.  Unfortunately, he declined, and the day followed much the same.  I think we visited almost every business in Ogden and only two suckers made the switch.  After a couple of hours, Lauren made me make the pitch, and I have to admit, I have never hated myself more.  If you ever want to feel demoralized, drive up to Ogden, go to a pet store on Main Street and ask them about their phone service.  A lady with a t-shirt that says, "Who Needs a Therapist I Have My Schnoodle" will tell you what a disgraceful person YOU are and how you need to leave.  

After being berated by the dog loving lunatic, we again lit up and headed back to the "offices."  What happened next is still a little hard for me talk about because, after five years, I'm still utterly embarrassed I was in the same room with these people.  All the "trainees" and their "trainers" got in a circle.  Then everyone had to go around and say how many sells they made.  The one with the most sells, not only got to wear a viking helmet, but also got to bang the African bell.  Once the bell was rung, someone would turn on music and everyone would dance.  Looking back I wish I had just sprinted for the door, but instead, like a total masochist I went back the next day.  Don't ask why.  I think it was my "You Can Do It" attitude.  Oh, to be 23 again.

The next day was much the same, only I went to North Salt Lake with my "trainer," and this time, a furniture store owner yelled at me.  (Again, I don't know why I didn't just run my car off the road or stick a fork in my eye.)

Finally, I finished by "training" and the third day I was sent off by myself.  By ten in the morning, I was completely defeated and sick of apologizing for being a saleswoman.  By eleven, I had eaten my lunch and read a magazine at the local gas station.  And by twelve, I was on the phone with my brother crying.  He told me to get in my car and go home.  He said this "company" was absolutely pathetic and I could do better.  I finally had to agree.  

So, I'm a little nervous.  Hopefully, two things will happen.  1. the internet won't let me down this time.  AND 2. I'll realize the job is a joke at the interview and not while I'm crying in some empty parking lot.

Take That E

The other day I was watching the mind numbing channel of E and came across their award winning segment on "The Biggest Scandals of 2008."  Before I could quickly turn off the TV and read the dictionary I was sucked in.  I mean, I don't think any of us saw Lindsay Lohan going gay.  Shocking.  Anyway, this show got me thinking about the past year and the scandals I haven't fully divulged on this blog.  No, I kid...and you will never hear those stories...it made me think of my own list for 2008.  So, I know this is a little late, but what can I say I was inspired by the network that not only gives you The Girls Next Door, but also a look into Snoop Dogg's home.  

The following will probably bore you to death, but I love lists so stay with me.

Best Books of 2008

1. Rhett Butler's People by Donald McCaig  (Best sequel to Gone With The Wind I've ever read) 
   
2. Down At The End of Lonely Street: The Life and Death of Elvis Presley by Peter Brown
   
3. Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger 
   

Best Days of 2008

1. All-Star Loaded Questions on New Year's Eve
2. Eating the greatest pizza in St. Mark's Square in Venice, Italy
3. My Birthday with Danny
4. Talking to my sister on the phone for almost three hours one day.

Best Quote of 2008

"I know you love your animals, but don't make me pet them."

Coolest Places I Saw in 2008

1. Four Seasons private beach in Costa Rica
2. Private Gardens of the Pope behind The Vatican
3. The Narrows at Zion National Park with Barb
4. Riding through Snow Canyon in St. George, Utah after 45 miles of a head wind.

Most Surprising Moments of 2008

1. I took up golf.
2. As coordinated as I think I am, I really can't surf all that well.
3. Lindsay Lohan is now gay.

Best Songs of 2008

1. "You are the Best Thing" - Ray LaMontagne
2. "Put it On Me" - Ben Harper
3. "Right as Rain" - Adele
4. "The Underdog" - Spoon

Best TV Shows of 2008

1. Friday Night Lights
2. Mad Men
3. Gossip Girl
4. 30 Rock

Guilty Pleasures of 2008

1. Blog stalking people in my old ward.
2. Lipstick Jungle
3. Twilight

Alright we've all endured enough.  Happy New Year?

Apple, Bronx and Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Walk Into A Bar

As I told my mother, and I will now tell you, I'm not in a panic to have children.  Sure I'll be 30 in three months and I do hear some faint clock in the back of my head, but I'm not to the point of muttering, "baby, baby" while sitting in the corner.  Because no one puts baby in the corner. Yes, I did set myself up for that.  

Anyway, I might not be trying on maternity clothes, but lately I'm getting severely annoyed at all the morons who seem to be having children.  To name a few: Ashlee Simpson.  Bronx.  That's all I'm going to say.  Oh, and good luck with a father who looked like he escaped from hobbit land with his mom's eye liner.  Then there was Bristol Palin who went to prom wearing a corsage and came home pregnant.  I bet she still reads Seventeen magazine while her baby naps.  And lastly, there's Lisa Benot.  Don't know who she is?  Well, good ol' Lisa from The Cosby Show had a new baby on December 15th who she named Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha.  (I would insert a sarcastic comment here, but I think this kid's classmates in a few years will think of a couple of good ones.)

Seriously, all I want is to bring a normal kid into the world.  Well, a kid who will beat up kids like Bronx and (insert random vowel) boy.  Is that too much to ask for?

Two Years

A week ago we celebrated our two year wedding anniversary by hitting two bucket of balls, enjoying a little dinner at our favorite restaurant and slurping through a broken straw a ridiculously thick milkshake from Jack in the Box. I know, we are such romantics. I will have to say it was a step up from our last anniversary that was spent on an airplane to Costa Rica with the in-laws. Now that was hot.

During our anniversary I started to think about when I knew I was going to marry this boy from California. In 2004, we were set up on a date in North Carolina by our sister-in-laws. I wouldn't call it love at first sight for either of us. He seemed nice, but at the time I was living in Utah and didn't see a future with someone so far away. A year went by and one day, as I was walking out of the gym, I had a thought to call my Duke blind date. To this day I don't know where that thought came from. Maybe divine inspiration or my mother's relentless reminders of him were finally working. At any rate, we talked and decided to see each other again when he came out for a snow boarding trip in a few weeks.

Again, the dates were fun, but I couldn't figure out how I felt about him. There was no denying that we were incredibly compatible, but I just couldn't take the next leap. And then a few months later we were sitting outside at a restaurant in Salt Lake. I'll never forget the scene. He had just graduated from Law School and had stopped in Utah on his way back to California. He was wearing a light blue polo and talking about his trip across the country when all of the sudden I knew. I knew I was going to marry him. I didn't know when, and I sure as heck, didn't know how I was going to get there, but I knew.

A year and a half later we were married. I still can't believe that little blind date in Durham actually worked.

Woulda Shoulda Coulda

* This picture reflects my excitement for the new year and... for the Obama Administration.

I wouldn't call myself a "goal setter." If anything, I sort of hate the whole "I'm going to change my life by writing down some stupid things I'm probably never going to do." I remember each year in college my coach used to make me write down five things I wanted to accomplish during the season. I would inevitably write things like, "I want to score more, improve my left hand and become faster." I really should have written a personal note to myself that read, "Stop dating that abusive moron you call your boyfriend, and try writing your papers sooner than the night before." I think those goals would have been more important and beneficial to my college experience.

Anyway, it's a new year, and as much as I hate the whole resolution thing, I have been thinking of some things I would like to accomplish in 2009. Again, I'm about as optimistic as a man swimming with sharks is of not getting killed, that I'll actually reach these goals, but maybe I'll set a goal to reach my goals. Does that even work?

Anyway, in order to maximize success, I've chosen five resolutions that I think I'll be able to achieve in 2009. Life is about small steps right?

1. I will Tivo all of 24 before watching the show. I watched 24 week to week last time and it just wasn't the same.
2. I will drink more water. I sometimes go all day on a diet of pretzels, cereal and licorice. You wouldn't believe how parched I get by dinner.
   
3. I will finish my wedding video. So, it's been two years since I was married.
4. I will stop lashing out at reality TV contestants...even when you pick the wrong 15 bachelorettes to begin the show. Come on Jason didn't Deanna teach you anything!?
5. I've been doing a really good job at wearing my retainer to bed. I think I'm going to continue that even though my hubby insists I tell him a story every time I place those little tortures in my mouth. *

Okay, so my list doesn't consist of going to the Temple more or eating more vegetables. What can I say, I'm a realist.

* Come to think of it, I would like to create a resolution for him: to stop laughing when I can't pronounce my "th" and "s" sounds when I'm wearing my retainers.

I Feel My Tempature A Rising...

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time by myself in my apartment. It would be an understatement to say I'm going a little batty. Just the other day I actually engaged the crazy man in our apartment complex, who wears only a bathrobe and hangs out by the mail boxes, in a real conversation. (Well, as real as you can have with a man in a bathrobe reading the daily coupons, but I think we really had a moment. Vietnam sounded like an interesting war.)

Anyway, this past week I've been trying to find things to occupy the time I'm not working at my computer. (Yes, that would leave about 8 hours left to occupy. I kid.) Since Monday I finished a book, caught up on my Top Chef episodes and even finished my Christmas cards. However, I still feel the craziness creeping in.

Fortunately, today I found a rather unusual reprieve from my lunacy. While trying to find a song for the wedding video I'm editing I came across a wonderful song called "Burning Love" by Elvis Presley. At first, I just clicked on it because I was curious to hear the song. However, before I knew it I was bopping in my seat and nodding my head. I have to admit I repeated the song three times and even sort of got out of my seat and did a little number for my clothes and alarm clock. Finally, I coaxed myself back to my desk and resumed working. However, as the day went on I kept going back to that song. (I'm even listening to it right now).

So, yes, I'm 29 and going a little crazy. At least the King understands...

Tiger, Tiger What???

I never thought I would say this, but I have found a new love. No, it's not the second season of The Pick-Up Artist...which by the way is so awkward, and yet, so goood.

No, my new love is golf. I know, I know, I never thought I would say it. I mean, I have always believed for something to constitute as a sport (and yes, I always argued golf was not a real sport) 1. Your heart rate should rise above a resting level from playing it. 2. You shouldn't be able to drink and smoke during the participation of it. AND 3. You should perspire from chasing something, NOT from carrying a load of graphite and metal. I know such stringent standards.

Now, I still believe in these prerequisites, but something happened today. This morning me and the hubby went to play a little Par 3 course. From my first shank I was hooked. I don't know if it was the fact that my hubby kept showering me with lies of how good I was doing, or the fact that I actually made par on a couple of holes, but I can't get this activity (still can't go with the word "sport") out of my mind.

To say the least this new love troubles me. One, I feel like I'm going against a belief system. And two, and probably more important, I wonder does this mean I'm going to start wearing plaid and knickers, practicing my swing during conversations with people, and take up smoking cigars? Will this be the end of my athletic career?

I think tomorrow I'm going to go for a long jog and hit someone...and then maybe this phase will pass.

The Souliers and 2 Hicks

Our Thanksgiving weekend in St. George was amazing. We rode almost 55 miles, played ping-pong for several hours (forgave the hubby for cheating), watched movies and even coerced my family into taking 3 PICTURES. You would think I was asking them all to give blood. Anyway, here's 2 of the 3 shots I was allowed to take.

The real family.

Adventures in the Public Library

At the moment I'm in the library working on one of the personal computers the library offers for free porn and anarchy research. Why I am here? (Other than trying to contract the flu from this germ coated mouse?) Well, for some reason during the day our internet at home has decided not to work..and since I spend probably 66.8% of my day surfing the net (all work related, of course) I thought I would come down here and get my daily fix. However, after watching a man literally eat a coffee cup...yes, the entire cup...no, not drink the coffee inside...but eat the actual paper I think I'll be headed home a little sooner than I thought. Oh and the fact that a man behind me has turned around in his chair and is trying to read my screen. TURN AROUND CRAZY MAN! If you don't hear from me again...well, you'll know I was taken out at the Santa Monica public library.

p.s. I would like to add an addition to my last post "The Biggest Loser." I too agree that Heba is the spawn of Satan and the fact that they went after Philip and his wife just proves how evil they are.

The BIGGEST Loser

After years of watching reality TV I have finally found a contestant I absolutely despise. Now, don't get me wrong I have disliked reality TV contestants before. For example, all last season I had a sincere prayer in my heart that Jason Castro (the stoned Jack Johnson wannabe from last year's American Idol) would be run over and then beaten. And, I have hoped that not only would every contestant on MTV's Real World/Road Rules Challenge contract every STD in the book, but also be caught in the middle of a mugging gone wrong. And of course, there was the ever lovable Kenley, from Project Runway...words do not describe how much she bugged. OKAY, so the list could go on. What can I say...I don't read a lot.

Anyway, as much as I loathe these people, I can still finish an episode and walk away. However, lately, while watching The Biggest Loser I find myself not only giving the finger to this contestant during the episode, but after wanting to drive up to the "ranch" and take this contestant out. Her name is Vicki and for some reason I want her stopped. The Biggest Loser used to be about amazing stories of people changing their lives and working together. This crazy tub from Louisiana is all about back stabbing and complaining. I know I sound like a raving lunatic, but I usually watch this show either smiling or almost crying as they drop another 8 pounds! Now, I'm all sorts a fired up.

How far have I gone? Well, the other day on Yahoo's homepage was an article discussing how awful and conniving Vicki has been on the show. Attached to the article were a bunch of comments from other people stating their dislike for this woman. For a minute I read these comments and actually felt good. I felt vindicated, and to be honest, I felt proud to be finally standing with my fellow Americans over a real cause. Sure we disagree on most things, but at least we can join together and hate on Vicki.

Baby A

I'm not sure if it's a family tradition, or a tradition I try to enforce upon my family, but after eating an obscene amount of turkey I like to take a moment and make everyone around the table comment on what they are grateful for. (I guess this exercise makes me feel better celebrating a holiday that really inaugurated the end of the Native Americans...darn that Genocide class in college.) Anyway, while packing for this gluttonous holiday I started to think of what I would say during my forced "Norman Rockwell moment." Obviously, I'm grateful for my hot hubby, the shelter over our heads and the health we enjoy. However, what really came to mind was my sister. Almost six months ago due to unfortunate, or fortunate circumstances (depends on how you look at it), my twin sister and I were re-introduced. No, I wasn't in some prisoner of war camp (again, reference to that darn class), or was she on some deserted island. Instead, our lives as twins sort of came to slow stop almost ten years ago. I was at Duke, she was in Utah, and all of the sudden we began different lives. Through that time we tried to stay in touch, tried to stay close, but I always felt like we were people with a common past, but no common future. Then six months ago I got a call from her and our paths became one again. I can't express how complete I now feel having my twin and best friend back. So, without a doubt, the thing I am most grateful for, would be my sister and for life bringing us back together.

Check the Plate

The other day me and the hubby were out biking. While we were approaching an intersection a suspect Camry began to drift into our biking lane. Immediately, we started to yell at this moron, but stopped when we saw the license plate: "Caution Asian Driver." I had to applaud the honesty, and forgive the apologetic Asian in the driver's seat.

If we all could be that honest...

My Grandfather

I know it sounds strange, but if I was to describe my grandfather I would say he was just a cool man. I know that sounds rather trite and superficial, but in this case I think it's quite fitting. Through the depression he played the piano and thrived in the big band scene, he married a beautiful woman, started Frost Drug in Kaysville, Utah and never lost his quick wit and sense of humor. He was also one of the hardest workers I ever saw. Until his last years he pushed himself to work outside and maintain his home.

This morning my grandfather passed away. As in many cases with our elderly generation, his passing is both sad and a celebration. It's sad because I no longer have a grandparent on this earth, and a celebration because of the reunion I know he is experiencing right now. He was quite a man and I'm proud to be his legacy.

Take care Grandpa.

Weenie

I have decided after much consideration that I'm a total weenie. Sure, I have no qualms about knocking someone over on a field or giving the finger to a passing motorist. But, if I'm asked to confront someone and raise my voice, ever so slightly, I completely crumble. For example, the other day I had to yell at two of my kids for drinking on our recent trip to Hawaii, AND then posting the freaking pictures of the act on Facebook. When I heard about this display of stupidity I was completely fired up. I instantly proclaimed things like, "They are so off this team!" "I'm going to kill them!" and "When I see them I'm going to freaking yell at them!"...Now, let's cut to the actual conversation...

Kate: "Hey you two morons can I talk to you for a second?"
Morons: "Yep."
Kate: "Did you drink in Hawaii and then post pictures of it?"
Morons: "Yep."
Kate: "Okay, that was stupid." (looking at worried faces of morons) "But, hey did you take them down?"
Morons: "We can."
Kate: "Okay, great."
Morons: "Anything else?"
Kate: "Um, yeah...how about apologizing?"
Morons: "Sure, we're sorry."
Kate: "I wasn't going to play you on Sunday." (trying to pick up some steam here)
Moron #1: "I think we deserve that."
Moron #2: "Really??? Oh, come on."
Kate: "Okay, I'll think about it. But, I'm not happy." (good recovery Kate)
Morons walk away and Kate...well, Kate feels BAD FOR YELLING AT THEM!! What is wrong with me?

I wish I could be like my sister, who never seems to take crap from anybody, or this really mean girl from my freshmen dorm who always told me to get out of the "warm shower," or Chuck Norris...that guy is amazing.

No Longer A Quiet Supporter

So, I've sort of reached my limit. Since I heard about Prop 8 I became a quiet supporter. I participated in the things the church asked of us, and I voted yes last Tuesday. Since, the election I feel like I can't be a quiet supporter any longer.

Last Sunday after church we drove down by the temple. Words cannot express the sadness I felt seeing so many individuals outside our temple protesting with such anger and animosity. Their signs read, "Vote yes on Love, Hate the Mormons," "Tax the Mormons," and "Go Back to Utah." Never in my lifetime have I seen or experienced such anger towards our religion. Of course, I've endured countless rounds of jest about my non-drinking behavior, my quest to remain a virgin and attending church for an unbelievable three hours. Yet, I have never been accused of bigotry and intolerance.

As unbelievable as it may be to the opposing side of Prop 8, my support has nothing to do with them. I have no desire to attack or punish the homosexual community. I support California law that states domestic partners should have the same rights, protections and benefits as married spouses. I have good friends who are gay, and I don't want to lose their friendships.

My support for Prop 8 is about me. It's about protecting what I believe. It's about protecting my marriage. It's about my children. It's not about hate and intolerance.

I am tired of listening to the loud minority scream for tolerance and then punish us for thinking differently. I am tired of watching my fellow Mormons waffle through this issue and allow the world to trump a tested belief system. I am tired of being attacked for being religious and wanting to protect something that was established in the very beginning.

I know this battle will continue, but I don't know if we will win. All I know is that today and, "...as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."


Make no mistake about it, brothers and sisters, in the months and years ahead, events are likely to require each member to decide whether or not he will follow the First Presidency. Members will find it more difficult to halt longer between two opinions. (See 1 Kgs. 18:21.)

Your discipleship may see the time when such religious convictions are discounted. M. J. Sobran also said, “A religious conviction is now a second-class conviction, expected to step deferentially to the back of the secular bus, and not to get uppity about it” (Human Life Review, Summer 1978, pp. 58–59).

This new irreligious imperialism seeks to disallow certain opinions simply because those opinions grow out of religious convictions. Resistance to abortion will be seen as primitive. Concern over the institution of the family will be viewed as untrendy and unenlightened.

If people, however, are not permitted to advocate, to assert, and to bring to bear, in every legitimate way, the opinions and views they hold which grow out of their religious convictions, what manner of men and women would we be?

- Neal A. Maxwell "A More Determined Discipleship", 1979

I Live In Two States

I know you were worried I wasn't going to continue my commentary on my trip back east. So, here's some pictures of our trip to Chadds Ford.

Above and below are some typical shots of the farmland just beyond my high school. While I was growing up our family used to come out to this area for a fox hunt during Thanksgiving. I guess this is why I'm not so much a "city person."

To the left and the right are pictures of one of my favorite parks in Delaware. The trees were absolutely perfect that day.

Boo Yeah

Last night I felt a mix of emotions over the Election. To be honest, I was pretty apathetic about the presidential race. I figured it was over before it started. However, I was extremely nervous about Prop 8. Yet, the masses have spoken and Prop 8 passed by 52% of the vote. Los Angeles county even was in favor of the proposition! I know it's a small victory, but it feels good to see something being protected.

As a side note...I love this story. A few weeks back I was making calls in regards to Prop 8. I was using this automated calling system that is pretty awkward. There's a lapse between when the call connects and when you hear the person. Consequently, you sound like a telemarketer. Anyway, I called this lady and as she heard the lapse she started to get angry thinking someone was soliciting her business. When I finally told her what I was calling about she apologized for being such a b*tch (her words) and then informed me she was a Christian. She then asked me if how it was going and my success rate. I told her that I was not enjoying the phone calls, but I knew I needed to be making them. She then asked if she could pray for me. I said yes, and then all of the sudden she broke into a prayer on the phone. I know it sounds strange, but I thought it was so cool for this lady to do something so unexpected and so sincere. When I finally got off the phone with her I felt like maybe we had a fighting chance on this issue. I guess I felt right.