I'm Not a Racist

I work with an interesting co-worker. We'll call her Tonya. Tonya happens to be an African American, and for some reason, always finds a way to remind me of this fact. Now before you go calling the NCAAP on me, I should mention that her daily reminders are not the result of me making repeated racist statements towards her or her race. Instead, it's just that she makes bizarre statements that make me awkwardly go, "Oh yeah. You're black and I'm white. Cool. That's awesome." For example, I asked her why she always drinks chocolate milk when she gets to work. She answered, "Of course, I drink chocolate milk. Look at my skin." To which, makes me stiffly nod my head and say, "Oh yeah, I love regular milk...because I'm white." Another example: I asked her which cookie out of our pastry case she likes the most. She answered: "I like the chocolate brownie." And before I could ask why, she said, "You know, because I'm black." Again, I had to fight not scrunching my eyes together and saying, "Yeah, that makes sense. I like the cheese coffee cake...because I'm white."

I don't know what I'm supposed to do in these situations. Is she waiting for me to actually say something racist so she can say, "Ah ha. I told you I was black. I can't believe you said that!!!?" Should I say thanks for her believing in me and knowing that I don't see color or race? Do I start answering her questions the same nonsensical way? Like, when she asks me, "What did you do yesterday?" I answer, "I played ice hockey, ate crackers and danced really bad...because I'm white." I just don't know.

I guess the only thing I do know is that I will continue to ask her questions like, "Black or pinto beans with your tacos? Young Michael Jackson or old Michael Jackson? Coffee with cream or without? Jet magazine or Newsweek? Obama or Bush? Bengal tigers or panthers? Day or night? Black Sea or Mediterranean Sea? Salt or Pepper? I can only dream what her answers will be...

The Episode

I wouldn't call myself a typical attention getter, but sometimes I just need the spotlight to be on me for once...So, on Thursday that's what I decided to do. Oh, and I should mention I didn't go the "standard" route of doing a little dance or singing a song. No, I decided in the middle of a busy work day, and at a public restaurant, I would pass out. I know, great idea! It was perfect. One minute I was loading boxes of drinks into the fridge and the next second I was seeing double and mumbling incoherent things.

Okay, since only my twisted sense of humor is finding this funny, I had a little episode on Thursday that involved me being sort of passed out for a few hours. The diagnosis was dehydration, but I'm shooting for over work because that's apparently what I told the paramedic when he asked me what was wrong with me. (I don't remember doing this, but apparently I pointed to my manager and said, "She works me too hard." Got to love that I still have a sense of humor even when I'm two sheets to the wind.) Don't worry you faithful readers (who must be faithful because I write about once a month) I'm doing great now. I'm hydrated, conscious and ready to be overworked this week.

Enjoy the video of me waking up after being passed out for a few hours. (Don't I have a loving husband who is always there to catch my highs and lows...)

Whatever Columbus

As I've discussed before I attend church with rather interesting people. For example, there's the woman who loves to make comments during Sunday school while wearing a napkin bib and eating mouthfuls of lunch. There's the blind lady who can play any hymn by memory. And there's the deaf old lady, who laughs out loud - of course not knowing she's doing it - in the middle of the sacrament. (She's sort of my favorite)

Now you would think I've become accustomed to the craziness in my church, but actually, I'm still surprised each Sunday by the new level of "colorfulness" my church can produce. For example, yesterday was what we call Fast Sunday. Once a month we as a church fast for the day, and participate in an open meeting where anyone can get up and say whatever they like. Typically, people get up to discuss faith promoting experiences and bear their testimonies of the church. However, in my church, we never know what is going to happen.

Yesterday, a woman got up and started to discuss the importance of the holiday season. At first, Dr. Feelgood (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I thought she was talking about Columbus Day - because that was the closest holiday we could come up with. (Well, that and "Athletic Day" which apparently is being celebrated in Tokyo right now, but probably not on her radar.) Anyway, she sat down and we all nodded our heads in agreement that tomorrow (today) we would go out kill a Native American, throw them off their land and declare it for Spain. (Isn't that what you do to celebrate Columbus Day?)

After the meeting, we all shuffled into Sunday School and at the end of the lesson the Columbus Day Proponent raised her hand and announced she wanted to say something. The teacher, knowing this could be anything, tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted it would only take a minute. After hesitating for a couple of awkward seconds, the teacher gave her the podium, and with a bang of her hand, she announced, "Listen it's Christmas today and you aren't fooling me. You need to feed the homeless." Christmas? Homeless? I literally laughed out loud. I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't keep it in. I mean first, how cool would it be to always think it's Christmas Day? I mean, that's the coolest day of the year. And secondly, who cares about Columbus Day? She's right. Forget the Explorer/Genocide Poster Child* and bring on the gifts...and feed the homeless.

*Sorry I'm still a little disillusioned from my college Genocide Class

Something That Will Never Happen Again

Last weekend Usain Bolt (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) decided he would run 26.2 miles. After a tough week of training, which consisted of working and sitting diligently at a desk, Usain hopped in the car and said, like a true Olympian, "Let's just get this thing over."















On Saturday morning, he woke up, ate an English Muffin, that would later come back to haunt him, pulled on his jeans (we forgot it was going to be cold) and climbed onto a cold school bus that took his fellow runners up the canyon. At 6:45, the gun went off, indicating the race had started, and everyone started to cross the start line. Ten minutes later, after Usain decided to pull his jeans off, give his last pieces of clothing away, and without stretching, because let's be honest whoever said that was a good idea, took off and started weaving through the "slower people." According to Usain, the first five miles were absolutely torturous. His delightful pairing of an english muffin and a gatorade started to swirl his stomach, his Ipod didn't work and a small cramp started in his calf. But, like the great Cake song, "He's Going the Distance" states,

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up,
And long ago somebody left with the cup.
But he's striving and driving and hugging the turns,
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.

Cause he's going the distance.
He's going for speed.*

And Usain truly was going the distance.

Eventually, I was able to catch up with Usain at mile 18. He looked good, outside of the fact that he threw his Ipod and running belt at me, and shuffled on with a grunt. (Seriously, he looked like he was on mile 4. Later, he described that point as the "wall," but I couldn't tell.) From mile 18, I followed Usain into town. Lining the streets were marching bands, signs and cheering fans. Unfortunately, because of Usain's overwhelming speed, and me running through a crowd with a camera, video camera and bike, I missed him crossing the actual finish line, but I'm sure we all can imagine how cool that must have been.

When I finally found Usain he looked me in the eye, and with an exhausted face, simply said, "I'm never doing that again." I don't know if those were words of confusion, dehydration or of misguided agony, but I hope, like many of you, that I'll see the great Usain run one more time...

Laundry Day

So, maybe this blog has become too revealing, but I sort of love putting Jeremiah's (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) clothes on and making him laugh.

Here was my one of my favorites while folding laundry.



Happy Thursday!

Take Me Out To the Ballgame, or Buy Me Online for 19.99

You know what happens when Babe Ruth (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I attend a baseball game? Well, first we settle into our seats. Then we intently cheer through the first five innings. Then we start looking around. And then, finally, we decide that the guy behind us has a mail order bride and we must take a picture of it...discreetly.

Seriously, this guy was about thirty years older than this sweet girl.

Actually, the best part of this picture is that while we were taking it the people next to us asked if we wanted them to take our picture because we were holding Babe Ruth's camera at such a weird angle. I then, after Babe told me to, told them that we were actually ten years old, and we were taking the picture of the mail order bride behind us. To which, they turned around and started laughing. Good times at Angels' Stadium!

I'm So LA

Here's a creepy picture of me "before." Notice the unhappy countenance. Darn those capillaries and their confidence sucking presence.

I'm now officially "LA." On Saturday, I was talked into heading down to the original General Hospital, or the hospital at USC, to be lasered by my brother-in-law. Why would I allow my brother-in-law to laser me? Well, we have a strange relationship...

Okay seriously, outside of being a sadist, my brother-in-law also moonlights as a dermatology resident. And for free, or for me, he was able to laser some broken capillaries on my face. It was pretty cool, outside of the fact, that the head resident looked at my face and said, "Now will we be getting your chin too?" And I had to respond with, "Um, no that is a zit." Oh, and the fact that I had to just clench my eyes shut while they lasered a capillary about 2cm from my face. But, hey it was free.*



Now when people talk about "getting some work done," I can join in and say that I too have dabbled with a few procedures, and then shake my dry martini around and talk about the merits of building a wall around the 10 to keep the rift raft out. (Sorry that's LA talk)


Here's a shot of my bruising...oh and my awesome seats at the Angel's Game. Look at the confidence beginning to rise. Thanks Lasers!!

* Jeff you know I appreciate the laser and I apologize for my ungrateful rant.

A Real Mentor

For the past couple of months I have been serving as the second counselor in the Young Womens Organization. (For those of you not of my faith, this is an organization geared towards helping and teaching teenage girls from the ages 12 to 18.) At first, I thought this was the perfect calling for me and I would be a great mentor to these girls. Unfortunately, I'm beginning to realize 1. I wasn't a very good young woman and 2. I still think like that 15 year old young woman. For example, last Sunday the first counselor gave a lesson on self-discipline and making good choices. The lesson was going well until she read out of the manual a scenario and then asked us how we would have reacted in that situation.

Scenario:
Julie and her friends decided to attend a party at their friend's house. When they got to the party Julie realized the party was being unchaperoned and boys and girls were pairing off to go make out and heavy pet.* Julie wanted to leave but was stopped by a boy she had liked for a long time....What should Julie do?

Kate's Answer:
Go outside. Making out in some dark basement is weird and uncomfortable. Have him walk you home. That way you leave the "bad" party and you might score a kiss.

First Counselor's Answer:
Julie should call her parents to come pick her up.

Kate's Thoughts:
I hope Julie likes spending Prom Night at home with those same parents who picked her up.

As you can see, I'm not the right person for this job.

*As long as I live I will always snicker at this phrase. Sometimes I'll roughly slam my hand down along LT's arm (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and say, "Hey are you in the mood for some heavy petting?"

TGIF

The other day Jaleel White came into the restaurant. I know, Jaleel White. I couldn't believe it myself - of all the celebrities. Oh, you don't know who Jaleel White is? Um, are you also going to tell me that you didn't count off the days until TGIF started and you got to watch not only Perfect Strangers, Full House, Step by Step annndd Family Matters?? Are you going to tell me you didn't laugh every time Uncle Jesse complained about his bunny rabbit bedroom or how Balki Bartokomous would say the craziest things?

Okay, for those of who didn't grow up in the blessed 1990s Jaleel White played one of the most annoying characters, named Steve Urkel, on a "hilarious"* show called Family Matters. Honestly, even at 12 years old, I couldn't figure out why people thought he was funny.

Anyway, when he walked into the restaurant you could tell he was trying to act all important and "celebrity like." For example, he kept pulling out this wad of money and telling his friend about his new Range Rover, (Which I think is an even trade for being known as Steve Urkel for the rest of your life.) Finally, when he turned the corner to get his table I pulled out a hundred dollar bill from my register and said to my friend, "100 bucks if you drop a plate of food by his table and say, Did I do thatt??" I truly would have paid good restaurant money, and come up with an air tight explanation for the lack of 100 dollars in my register, to have see that.

*And when I say hilarious I mean not funny at all.

Television For Women

Last Sunday afternoon I got caught in what can only be described as a terrible misstep. No, I didn't light a cigarette during Sunday school. Nor did I speak out about my favorable views on heavy petting while teaching the Young Women. Instead, my gross error happened while flipping channels after church. (Again, don't get ahead of me - I didn't start watching porn.) No instead, I found myself becoming strangely intrigued by a movie called "Decent Proposal" on the Lifetime channel. I don't know what sucked me in: the absolutely horrible acting or the mind numbing dialogue, but before I knew it was screaming things like, "Jimbo (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband), can you believe her rich husband tried to kill her painter boyfriend?!!"

Honestly, what is up with this channel? First, who are writing these movies? Do they enjoy watching women suffer? Are they all closet rapists and past abused women that are incapable of telling normal stories? Secondly, how come this channel, that poses itself as "a channel for women" only tell stories of infidelity, rape, kidnap, divorce and misfortune? Am I missing something as a woman? Should I be out kidnapping my neighbor's kid and running from the law? Would that make me more of a woman? Thirdly, who, and seriously, I want to know the answer to this question, are trying out for these parts? Does Lifetime only look for struggling actors who have actually never acted before, but learned in order to look sad you have to actually face the camera and make a frown? I swear I saw better acting in my Drama Camp. (Shout out to my fifth grade cast of Pandora's Box). And lastly, why do women support this channel? I had a roommate who every day after work would watch one of these ridiculous movies. Women, we have to join together and stop this madness. We'll take Project Runway, but we want the rest of your movies gone, such as "Hush: A woman moves with her husband to his old hometown, only to discover the his old girlfriend has a deadly obsession with him" and "Cradle of Lies: A woman and her husband get pregnant with a girl. The husband isn't happy because he needs a son in order to inherit his fortune." What the hell?

Lifetime: Television to degrade the sanctity and sanity of women.

Nacho Head

The other day a woman walked in and asked, "Are your eggs organic?" Because in my mind, whenever I hear "organic" I instantly picture a space age lab, with lots of men in shiny suits, growing animals and vegetables out of recycled paper and aluminum cans (which is sort of the opposite of organic) I hesitated for two seconds before answering a less than confident, "Yeah." She, being incredibly irritable from not eating good ol' American processed food, asked, "Are you sure?" To which I replied, "Yeah absolutely," while again picturing a group of scientists watching in glee as their artificial chicken lays an egg. Again, my annoying customer, sensing my distracted answer asked if I would go and ask a chef. Always wanting to serve a customer, I walked over to Miguel, a rather lovable Mexican, who was grating some cheese and told him to nod his head. The customer could see us both, but could not hear what I was saying. Therefore, I just wanted Miguel, who by the way, doesn't really speak English, to just nod his head. (That way the crazy loon would think I asked and she could go choke on some magical eggs.) His response I think cleared everything up for everyone involved...When I said, with my hand on his shoulder, "Nod your head," he said, "Who you callin' Nacho Head?"

I'll take that as a yes...

Too Much Of a Good Thing

I've always believed in the adage, "You can never have too much of a good thing." For example, I could honestly have a full body massage every night before I went to bed. I could watch 8 seasons of 24 consecutively over 8 days. And, I could watch Top 10 plays from ESPN while eating Cheerios every morning until the day I die.

However, the other night I realized some good things are better in moderation. Take for example a celestial place called Yogurtland. I don't know if this heaven on earth is found anywhere but California, but let me explain the beauty of this place. First, you are given a small tub and directed to choose any amount of yogurt from 10 flavors. After, you try 8 out of 10 flavors, and finally, fill your tub with "Nonfat" magic, you move on to the bar of toppings. Now, we are not talking about some syrups, marshmallows and a few nuts. No, we are talking every kind of candy, fruit, cake, cookies, paint thinner, spices from Fiji and anything else you can imagine would go on Yogurt. And, here's the kicker...you can put on as much as you want. You can mix and match. You can go fruit for one second and then dazzle the crowd with snickers and chunks of cheesecake because in the end you just weigh the sucker and pay by the ounce.

Now, last Friday I experienced this place for the first time. And by my third visit, on Sunday, I was going virtually crazy with the toppings. I remember as I slurped up in one spoon full some Vanilla Wafer Yogurt, Captain Crunch, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries and Japenese Mochee I thought, "I could literally eat and bath in this everyday."

...Then Thursday night came and as I looked down at my tub of toppings my whole world came crashing down. I had hit my wall and I was about to throw up.

So, I guess the bad news is I won't be becoming a regular at Yogurtland. However, the good news is I won't be making any more kids cry while I yell at them to hurry up with the Fruiti Pebbles so I can finish my masterpiece of yogurt.

Cause and Effect

Question: Why do you go to a Dodgers' game wearing the opposing team's jersey and clutching a foam tomahawk?

Answer: Because you are an idiot...now kill yourself.


Question: How do you properly celebrate a walk off homerun to beat, not only the Braves, but the loser who is clutching a foam tomahawk?

Answer: The following video.

Shoot Me Down

Even though I'm 30, and grew up in a very homogeneous farm town outside of Delaware (yeah, Delaware) I like to think of myself as street smart. For example, I know what weed looks like, I've keyed a car, I've seen two men fight with their bare knuckles, I've lived in a foreign country, I've been to Raging Waters in New Jersey (and somehow avoided attracting TB) and I've seen a man die - okay, that's a lie. But, what I'm trying to say is in my small 30 years I've seen a lot. And then, I went to the Dodgers game last week and felt like all my life experiences had meant nothing.

The story:

After traveling in traffic for an hour and a half my friends and I arrived at Dodgers stadium. As we entered the stadium security started to direct our car to right field, which was in the opposite direction of our seats. Not wanting to walk three miles we decided to break from the herd and try and park in the VIP section. However, as soon as we pulled away from the masses we were stopped by a security official, who told us to get back in line. Hoping for a miracle, my friend asked if we could park in the open spots in the VIP section. Apparently, this was the magic question... In response, the security guy said, while looking around like we were about to buy some drugs, "Ahh, dog shoot me down." Shoot me down? All of the sudden I felt like a complete white girl from the east coast who had never been around minorities and inner city stuff. (Oh wait)

Anyway, as he continued to look around my friend said, "Shoot me down? I'm sorry, what?" And again, he replied, but now a little bit more frustrated with our obvious stupidity, "Shoot me down." And again, we responded with confused faces. Finally, he let out a sigh and said, "You want to park there, amigo, give me some cash." Oh yes, how could I be so stupid? See I usually say "Shoot it down."

Once we understood the proposition, we scrambled to find some cash and came up with a whopping $4.00, which apparently covers the "shoot me down" cost. However, when we went to hand him the cash we made another obvious blunder. (Which again, was sort of my fault that I didn't remember the correct procedure.) Apparently, when you "shoot someone down" you don't hand them the cash like you hand it to a cashier, but how you would if you were buying C4 to bomb a building (down at your waist and let him reach into your car for it.)

So, I guess I still have a long way to go. However, and not to toot my own horn, but I am still a force to be wreckin' with when it comes to a street brawl with broken beer bottles and switch blades.

Idiots

The fourth Jonas Brother (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) doesn't like when I talk about him, but I sort of love how he treats and acts around strangers.

For example:

We are at Sports Authority looking at running shoes. I say to him, "Will you go find me a salesperson?" He then, rounds the corner and finds a salesperson. I then walk towards him and the salesperson and say, "Oh great, could I see this running shoe in a 7 and an half?" Then before the salesperson can say something the fourth Jonas Brother says, "Ma'am, excuse me. This salesperson was going to help me. You'll have to wait your turn." Now this is where I'm supposed to fight back and say something like, "Listen jerk I need some help, why don't you go find someone else to help you." However, I can never do this to the innocent salesperson. Unlike the fourth Jonas Brother, one look at the confused and shocked face of the unsuspecting stranger and I instantly crumble. Immediately, I'll inform the stranger that my husband is only kidding and attempt to move on from the fact that the Fourth Jonas Brother's target just looked like a complete idiot.

Now I part of me wants to tell my husband to stop making innocent people look like morons, but then again it can be kind of funny. For example, and this was one of his best...

The fourth Jonas Brother and I went to the gym one night. Because our gym is the size of our apartment, and everyone decides to work out together in Santa Monica (it's a strange community thing) there was only one machine available which my hubby let me have. After 30 minutes, Jonas Bro came over to my stair master and said, "Miss, are you going to be on that machine much longer? I mean how long can you walk up those stairs that go no where?" I, not really thinking anyone was listening nor realizing Jonas Bro knew he had an audience, replied, "Shut up. I'll get off when I'm ready." To which Jonas Bro responded, "Seriously, I'm going to murder you if you don't get off right now!" While I was thinking of a witty comment back, the girl next to me started to quickly grab her water bottle, book and towel and then said, "Sir, please, you can have mine."

In retrospect, I really wish we had carried this one a little longer. I wonder what the girl would have done if Jonas Bro had grabbed my ankle and physically pulled me off the stair master?

Attention all salespeople, waiters, people at gym, strangers on the street...you have been warned.

Ridiculous Declarations

During each fall season my team had a mandatory lifting session at nine in the morning each Saturday. Of course, this session was not all about lifting, but really a lame attempt by my coach to curb the raging alcoholics that made up my team. Looking back I really think counseling or semi-detox centers would have been more effective than forcing semi-drunk and hung over girls to bench press and perform dead lifts. It's truly a wonder none of my teammates crashed a barbell into their chests or tore the muscles in their legs.

Anyway, one morning my freshmen year my entire class was late to lifting due to being still drunk from the night before. Consequently, after our weight room session, my coach decided to take our entire team on a run around campus, and then after chasing my coach, she informed my class that we would be running a stadium for being late. I'll never forget the overcast sky, my coach yelling at us for being total morons and my friends laughing the entire time because that's what you do when you are still drunk and you are stumbling up stadium stairs. Finally, we completed the stadium and were free to go. In silence, we drove to our freshmen cafeteria and loaded up on everything we could get our hands on. During breakfast my friends began to sober up and realized what had just happened over the past two hours. Quietly, all them made the same declaration: That they were no longer going to drink.

Of course, after a nap and some more food, all of my teammates found themselves as drunk as they were the night before. I tell this story because this is how I feel when I go to the dentist. For 30 to 45 minutes I'm beaten up, yelled at, pushed to my breaking point and then sent home. And as I ride my bike home, I too, make ridiculous declarations that I have no intention of keeping, but in the moment, it's all I can do to regain some control. For example, I promised myself that I was going to floss and brush every ten minutes. I swore I would swish mouthwash after every bite of food and even made a mental note about attending to some hygienist classes. Will I do these things? Will I be weak like my teammates? Most likely. Because right now my mouth is making new tartar and there ain't nothing I can do about it.

Laurel, My Two Friends

About a week ago I was driving from Salt Lake City to LA. Because I had no where to go, and weekend minutes, I decided to make some calls. After running through the usual suspects I decided to call two of my childhood friends, who's numbers I had received and never called since "reconnecting" with them on the beloved Facebook. The first friend went straight to voicemail and I left the typical message of, "Hey, it's me Kate. Long time no talk...blah, blah." For the next friend, I decided to leave a little longer message. (Again, weekend minutes, you got to stick it to the cell phone companies somehow.) This time I said, "Hey Laurel, it's Kate. It's so strange to hear your voice on your voicemail. I can't believe it has been so long since I talked to you. We really got to catch up and see how life has been treating us. And blah, blah."

Now here's the funny part...

About two days later I got a call back from my friend Laurel. However, it didn't sound like her and the number was from Tennessee. Yet, she was very excited to get a call from me. She too, said we needed to catch up, and get together. Get together I thought? How were we going to get together while she lives in Pennsylvania and I live in LA? After listening to the message a couple more times, I realized I had called a girl named Laurel from my cooking class I took about five months ago instead of my childhood friend. Now here's my question, "Why did this girl not think my message was a little strange?" I mean we spoke for about ten minutes every Tuesday night for six weeks, and I only took her number because people were doing that after our final class with the false belief (and hope) that we all would continue to meet in an over sized kitchen and make food together. What good times did she think I was talking about? The time we made hummus from scratch and I said, "Wow this is actually better than the stuff you can buy at the store."? Or did she think we needed to catch up on all the laughs we shared while I asked her each week, "Now, again tell me what your name is."

I know it sounds cruel, after leaving such a heart warming message, to just disappear, but I don't know what to do. If I call her back what do I say? "Um, yeah, that message wasn't actually for you. I mean seriously, I really could care less how you are doing since we made pasta together."

I guess the moral of the story is 1. put last names on all the random contacts you have in your phone. 2. Erase numbers you put in your phone to be nice 3. If you receive a message about catching up with someone you barely know DON'T CALL THEM BACK.

Huh?

Today while waiting for the clock to hit five so I could cash out and ride home I started thinking about things I don't understand. Before I list them, here's what spurred my thought process: A guy walked in today covered in tattoos. Along his neck read in very large writing, "Nina." I, always being sort of an idiot, asked, "So, I guess Nina is someone special?" And he answered, "No, just an ex-girlfriend." (Kate inner thoughts) An ex-girlfriend?! Please tell me you at least thought it was serious before you carved her name into your skin. Or you have really short term memory and this was the only way to remember her name. Geezzz. I love Ricardo (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) but you don't see me getting his portrait on my back.

So, that is what got me thinking of things I just don't understand. Here's a few others:

1. The organization "Jews for Jesus." Either I'm missing something, or they are missing something.
2. People who tell me how awful the food is at the restaurant I work at, and then come back the following day.
3. Why women have to have a dress rehearsal each month for making a baby even though they have no plans on making a baby until they are 30.
4. How come when you ask people to spell their name they always act like you have heard of the last name Berkizuieek a thousand times so it's okay to spell it at mock speed. Come on people I'm not asking about the last name SMITH.
5. How come European men all wear capri pants, fanny packs and sandals during the summer when they are touring America? Is it an issued uniform in order to visit the states?
6. Why people still like Cher?
7. How come every Republican is getting caught in a sex scandal?
8. Skinny Jeans on guys
9. The Santa Monica Pier and why everyone and their mother has decided to visit it this summer.

Yep, nine...that's all I got. If you have any answers or explanations please leave a comment.

This is For You Candence

As you can probably tell from my last two entries * Ben Lynus (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and me were a little "frustrated" with our Saturday. Therefore, at night we decided to go to the gun range. I apologize that the video is a little long - but it gets funny at about 1:35. Well, at least I think it gets funny at 1:35.



* Assumption you have actually read my last two entries. And yes, I know what happens when I assume.

Emergency Move

On Saturday, after Bill Fontaine (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) ran 11 miles and I biked 25 miles we were lounging on the couch when we received a call from a nice man at our church who said we were needed for an "Emergency Move." After a few minutes of cursing ourselves for answering the phone, we dragged our tired bodies off the couch and down the road to help.

Now, if you'll indulge me, there are a few things I would like to discuss in regards to this event. First, I would like to ask the question: When you hear "emergency" what do you first think of? Do you think flashing lights and someone on the brink of death? Do you think of someone entering a home with, let's say a gun, and you calling 911 to protect against being shot? Do you think of a pregnant woman on a highway about to give birth? OR Do you think about moving apartments on Saturday afternoon so you can see the ocean better and have more sunlight? Apparently, to our new good friend Candence the last option is what she deems as an "emergency." I wonder how she would classify a major chemical attack of hydrogen cyanide on the city of Los Angeles? Probably "something to look into."

Second of all, if you are going to alert everyone to an emergency move, or ask anyone to participate in a move for that matter, shouldn't you at least have a few things boxed up, organized, participate in the move yourself, have food available, brush off the excessive cat hair all over your stuff and maybe minimize a little of your crap ahead of time? Just a couple of thoughts.

And lastly, if you call for an emergency move, and someone, say myself, asks you, "So, has the landlord told you you only have 24 hours to move apartments or you can't move at all?" Please lie and say, "Yes, the landlord also threatened to kill one of my cats if I didn't get everything out in the next two hours." Then I would have felt better about participating in one of the lamest moves of all time.

And scene.