Momma Gettin' Old

The other day after working out on the elliptical I decided to do a little stretching. While minding my own business a girl walked in and started to stretch next to me. After a few minutes of me attempting to stretch a butt muscle that has been pulled since February, I heard her say, "You have got to be kidding me." I thought she was talking to me about my unshaven legs (don't you love when the hair begins to get soft) and said, "Excuse me?" She then whipped around, and in the heaviest Boston accent, proceeded to tell me how much her body is falling apart. I just sat there dumbfounded as she told me about how her knee gets swollen after a few miles of running, how her back gets cramped (which I didn't even know was possible) and how her groin muscles don't seem to be connected anymore. (I know, I wanted to ask also, "connected to what?") I then, and I'm not sure why, asked her what was the cause of all these injuries. She looked young, she was in great shape and I just saw her on the treadmill plowing away. She then said, that in college she played field hockey and since then she's been an exercise freak. I asked her how she did it with all the pain and she then told me what I already knew: Once a jock always a jock. For the next fifteen minutes we traded stories of how much our bodies hurt, but how we insist on hiking, biking and working out. Eventually, she ran off the lift and I sat there on the floor thinking about where my body is going to be in ten years. Will my back be cramping and my groin muscles become unattached? Will my butt ever stop hurting? Will my knees ever feel normal? Man, I hate getting old. Just take me to a beautiful field, preferably in Chadds Ford, Pa, and shoot me when they inform me they will be replacing my hips and knees.

I know random entry...it's 6:30 on a Saturday night and I'm trying to recover from a ten hour shift at the restaurant and a 40 mile ride today.

A Real Gift

Lately, I've been opening the restaurant with a girl named Zipper. Zipper is an interesting bird. She openly professes (with pride) that she is a redneck, orders my co-workers around like she is our boss, screams at us if we don't wash our hands after sneaking a nibble of some pastry and generally scares the crap out of me. In an effort to lessen her wrath I have been trying to befriend her. The other day, while I was taking orders from her, I mentioned how I had planned a special weekend to celebrate my husband's birthday. She then informed me that the following week she would be celebrating her 5th year anniversary with her boyfriend and she TOO had planned a special night. Innocently, I asked, "Oh, will you two be going to dinner together?" And she replied, "No, I'm taking him to a strip joint."

There are few times in my life when I have found myself speechless...There was the time my finger became dislocated and all I could do was stare at it and mouth inaudible sounds. There was the time my teacher caught me cheating in 9th grade trigonometry, and in front of the whole class, asked why I had done it and all I could do was give my best Helen Keller impression. Then there was the time when a bald guy, wearing a woven belt and corduroy shorts asked me if I felt the chemistry between us and I just looked at him completely dumbfounded. And now, I can add this experience.

Finally, I was able to snap out of my coma state and a flood of questions came gushing out like, "What are YOU going to do there? Do you talk to the girls? Are you going to use your tip money to tip them? Can you request songs when you go there? Really a strip joint - were all the Popeye Restaurants full that night? Are you insane? Is this a tradition? Are you going to yell at me?" Unfortunately, she answered all my questions and now I'm plagued with all sorts of images.

A strip joint? Man, I'm a bad wife. All I got my husband was a pair of golf shoes, a dinner out and a massage (No Happy Ending).

My Retainers or My Marriage

I know it sounds pathetic, but at 30 years old, I still need to wear my retainers at night. If I don't my teeth slowly creep back into their natural state which is sort of a cross between a redneck in Alabama and a peasant during the Dark Ages in England. However, as aesthetically important as it for me to wear my retainers (yes, the original ones I was given at 16 years old) I have come to realize they are beginning to hurt my marriage.


For example, when I put my retainers in I instantly develop a fantastic lisp and speech impediment, and the amount of spit I typically produce in my mouth increases by 100 times. Consequently, I usually try to slip my retainers in right before I'm about to go to sleep so I don't have to speak to anyone. However, my husband, who I think has super human powers in regards to my retainers, always knows when I have them in, and without fail, finds some way to make me feel like a complete idiot. For example, if I say good night, and that word "night" sounds a little extra "airy" I will actually feel a smile spread over his face and then he'll innocently ask, "Before you go to bed would you tell me a story?" I can not fully describe the rage that surges through me when he makes this diabolical request. And then, as if I'm not embarrassed enough, he'll then roll over and try to kiss me. Now, I'm not what you would call "shy" in the kissing department, but when metal bars and 14 year old plastic is covering my teeth I'm not really in the romantic mood. Eventually, I am forced to retaliate by tickling him, he begs me to stop, I yell at him for making fun of me and we both go to sleep with zero trust in one another. So, you can see my retainers might not to be worth the martial problems.

* Above are some of my favorite moments with my retainers. What can I say Halloween wasn't complete without my retainers. #1 picture: Halloween 1999 #2 picture: Halloween 2000.

I Can Handle the Truth

This morning while I ate my breakfast I was reading through my "friends'" statuses on Facebook. I have to admit I hate when people write things like, "John Smith is off to Italy." Or "Rachel Goodwin is baking cookies." Or "Tim Anderson is excited about his $10,000 raise he received for being the top salesman at (insert stupid company.)" I really wish people would be more honest. Like:

"Emily Carter is feeling completely constipated."
"David Wright is hiding homosexual tendencies by going out with a girl from work."
"Jane Mann is wondering if she is pregnant and who the father is."
"Jessica Roberts just ate the entire batch of cookies she made because she feels insecure and alone."

Now those statuses would be interesting.

Me, As a Mom

A few weeks ago I placed a beautiful pot of flowers on my porch. I then proceeded to meticulously water the thing for a few days and then...I sort of forgot about it. I hope this isn't a sad indication of the type of mother I will be. I can just see it at my first parent/teacher conference:

Teacher: "Now Billy is a good student."
Me: "Great."
Teacher: "He's nice to everyone."
Me: "Great."
Teacher: "My only concern is that he's been bumming rides to and from school."
Me: "Yeah...I haven't seen him much, but he likes first grade, right?"

Sh#t Happens

Since my fascination with the word "Sh#t" in first grade I have always tried to keep a clean mouth. I have taught myself to yell, "Dang it," and "Son of a B" when I'm mad. I say things like, "How the heck are you?" and "That guy sure is an A-Hole." However, there are times my makeshift swear words just don't cut it. For example, I woke up at 4:20 in the morning (which I sort of still consider Monday since the sun is not even close to being up), rode my bike in the dark to work, stood on my feet for 9 and a half hours, got called "Love" three times by three separate men (who didn't even leave a tip), rode my bike home, convinced myself to wash my car, drove in traffic for 30 minutes to reach the Costco 2 miles down the road from the car wash and when I pulled into a coveted empty spot I realized I had left my wallet at the house. To ensure I didn't lose my wallet somewhere between the house and the car wash I called Mr. Hick (name has been slightly altered to protect the privacy of my husband) and asked him if my wallet was in the apartment. When he said, "Yep, wallet. Check." I screamed, "Shiittttt." (Sorry no censorship this time.) Come on, let's be honest, a "Freak!" Or "Gosh, Dang it" just wasn't going to cut it. So what's the point of this story? Well, 1. I'm exhausted and for some reason this experience struck me as funny. 2. I think I was on to something in first grade. I loved the word "sh@t" before, and I still do.

A New Friendship

Today I had a strange experience at work. No, it didn't involve the co-owner, who looks like the ugly twin to Nicholas Cage, rubbing my shoulders and winking at me - though the more I think about it, I really hate when he does that. Question: When the owner is sexually harassing who do you inform the dish washer or just steal more food to make up the difference? Answer: Option B. until you grow tired of the food and then scream "rape" next time he touches you. Question 2: What kind of grown man winks at people? Answer: Clowns, Popeye, Pedophiles and Adam Lambert.

Okay, I'm not sure where the one sided Q&A session came from. My apologies. No, the strange thing that happened today was I think a girl was trying to date me a friend. I mean, she wasn't flirting with me, but as I talked to her and we expressed the same interests she said, "We should totally become friends. What are your digits?" My digits? How did we go from talking about working out to becoming best of friends and giving each other our phone numbers? I was completely confused. I then said something equally as awkward like, "Oh, my husband and I sure do a lot of things together." (I'm not sure what this was supposed to mean other than, 1. I don't swing that way, if that is what you are looking for, because I have the world's worst gay-dar and 2. I typically like to find my friends in more conventional ways like working with them for awhile, at church, introduced to and in play groups my mom used to put together etc.)

Unfortunately, my cryptic answer did nothing to deter her, and while she waited for her coffee, and called me "honey" about three times, I relented and gave her my home phone number. (The home line doesn't have an answering machine. It's the sure number for creepy chicks trying to be your friend and the relief society.) I don't know what I'm going to do when she comes back into the restaurant. Am I going to have to be her friend? She does work for ESPN...Kate....no.

Shut up Ned Flanders

In my building lives an old man, who, no matter the time of day or the day of the week, is ALWAYS freaking happy. Now, I'm not talking the polite smile and nod when you see him at the mailboxes, or a kind holding of the elevator. Instead, I'm talking about shouting at you down the hallway to have a great day or high-fiving you that you finished a day of work. I don't know where this guy came from or what type of drugs he is using, but man, he's the happiest person I've ever seen.

Now, I know this sounds terrible, but if given the chance I try everything I can to avoid this man. It's not that I envy his bliss or wish that everyone walked around in a quiet stupor. It's just that sometimes I can't handle the "How's Pepperdine?!! or "Go Waves!" or "Hidey Ho. Make it a great day!" I don't know what it is but sometimes I just want to give him the finger or tell him, "You know old man, what would make my day great?...Is you shutting that hole of yours."

I know, it doesn't make any sense, but I just can't take it anymore. Today, we entered the garage at the same time and you would have thought a murderer was chasing after me by the way I was pounding on the elevator button. Unfortunately, the elevator got caught on the floor above me, and as I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, I heard the door open and then the fateful words, "Alright we get to ride together. Go Waves!!" For a second, I thought about how sharp my keys are and then quickly regained control. I can't say he'll be so lucky next time.

Man-Card

Chris Hansen (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) made an astute observation while watching me watch the Bachelorette tonight: you really do have to turn in your "man-card" before you go on this show.

Big John

I love my job...today I got to meet Eric Bruskotter. No idea who that is? Well, he only starred in one of the greatest movies of all time in the 80s - Can't Buy Me Love. I attached a little clip. He's the meat head in the pink shirt.



Side note: For those of you, who have seen the movie, will remember that his character was known for unbelievable farts. He said for years people always asked him to fart so they could experience the smell. I thought that was funny.

Penny Lover

While counting out the ridiculous amount of pennies, people leave us in our tip jar, I was reminded of a special moment I experienced in college. Okay, I probably shouldn't use the word "special" because it doesn't involve clothing the naked or feeding the hungry. But, it does involve a near death experience...

One night my freshman year in college, my coach had our entire team over for a barbecue. On the way home, the entire freshman class, which consisted of 8 people, were jammed into a Ford Explorer and a Isuzu Trooper. At the first stop sign, I grabbed a handful of powdered doughnuts and threw them at the Explorer. (I would like to say I was being an immature freshman, but if given the chance, I would do the same thing tomorrow.) In retaliation, the Explorer unleashed a handful of cut up fruit and a water bottle. And so it began. At each stop sign, we would get out of the car and throw food at each other. Eventually, we ran out of food, so we decided something a little more lethal...pennies. My roommate always had a cup full of them and I could never figure out why she had such a stash...until now. I'll never forget the sound of those pennies pinging off the hood of the Explorer.

Now, this is where the fun took a bad turn...after the last stop sign the Explorer got in front of us, and while driving through a narrow bridge, decided to turn the wheel all of the sudden and cut off the exit. Again, 12 years ago, and I can still remember putting my foot on the dashboard, and while screaming, "Brakkeee!!!" seeing the horrified faces of my friends in the approaching Explorer. I'm happy to report that my roommate didn't hit the Explorer, but I did wet my pants.

So, see pennies are good for nothing. One, they really can't buy anything. Two, they cause potential accidents. Three, they cause grown women to wet themselves. AND Four, they aren't substitutes for tips. Come on you cheap bastards - drop at least a quarter in.

Six Months

This morning a homeless lady came into the restaurant and informed me that she had been in prison for six months and now she needed to use the bathroom.

Question: What kind of prison was she in that didn't allow her to pee for six months? And more importantly, what crime did she commit that warranted such a punishment? Man, I used to think waiting through an entire movie was torture.

Anyway, those were just side thoughts...the real thing I wanted to write about was what happened after we tried to kick her out of the bathroom. (I say "we" when I should really say "my manager." "I" wasn't really a part of the equation. Instead, I stood back about fifteen feet and halfheartedly nodded every time my manager said, "Let's go." What can I say, I'm a total weenie. My mom knows...and she still loves me.)

Again, anyway...after "we" (refer to the above paragraph) got her out of the bathroom she then proceeded to sit on the floor and tell all of us, who could hear, that she was going to kill us. (So, maybe that was the crime.) Eventually, my little manager (the guy is probably 5"6) grabbed her things and tried to lead her to the door. Again, more threats. Now, instead of killing us, she was going to pee right there on the floor. (Come to think of it, the woman had waited six months. I guess a little bathroom time would have been nice.) Finally, the cops came and removed her from the restaurant. For the next couple of hours I just watched her pace the street. I wonder if she ever got to go?

The Odd Ball

I have never felt more conventional and boring than while working at the restaurant. For example, the other day I learned that my barista left home at 16, apprenticed as a piercer for a year, got hooked on LSD, moved to Ashville, North Carolina to grow and sell pot, left that booming enterprise to squat on Lisa Beniot's (Lisa from the Cosby Show) property in Hawaii, got pinworms from drinking sewage water, went to rehab, started a coffee training company, lost all his money, married a girl and moved to Venice, California. And just when I thought I had heard enough, another girl chimed in and said she too left home at an early age and became a professional belly dancer and worked little kid birthday parties as Cinderella. Cinderella? Crap, I finally found a card that trumped my Mongolian Card. I can't out do that.

So, there I sat, wondering what to say. Do I make up a cool story about a brief brush with prostitution and how I once spent an entire year in Tanzania learning how to make a pot out of cow dung and straw? Or do I just shoot from the hip and talk about my functional relationship with my parents, my 3.9 grade average in high school or the fact that I can count on one hand the classes I missed in college? I know it was a tough decision. Finally, I decided to go with option 3: Grip a knife, look off into the distance and mutter, "My parole officer said this would be difficult." What can I say I want to remain "mysterious."

A World Class Librarian

The other day I went to the library to check out a new book. After aimlessly walking around for a couple of minutes, I decided to ask the librarian if there are any books she would recommend. Now you tell me how bizarre this conversation was...

Kate: Excuse me, I'm looking for a new book and was wondering if you have any recommendations.

Librarian: What kind of books do you typically like?

Kate: Well, I've been reading a lot of biographies and I try to read some classics.

Librarian: Do you like anything with hard sex and language?

Kate: (Completely dumbfounded) Um, no not really.

Librarian: Yeah, that stuff can be awkward to listen to.

Kate: (Searching for the exits) You know I'll just go over there and look.

Now, here's my question: How in the world did this crazy librarian jump from me saying I read biographies and classics to being interested in hardcore sex books? And more importantly, does the public library at Santa Monica carry a lot of hardcore sex books? And is this an untapped genre I've been missing out on?

Bee Boop, Bee Boop

For those of you who are not Jack Bauer fans the following story might not mean anything to you. But, for those of you addicted to 24, the following took place between 9:30 and 10:30 am.

While working at the restaurant, Edgar (star of 24 season 5)came in and ordered some breakfast. Because I have no pride the following conversation took place:

Kate: "Hey, I just wanted to tell you I loved you on 24."
Edgar (Louis Lombardi): "Hey, thanks I really appreciate that."
Kate: "Man, when you died...it was intense. It was the first time they didn't go 'Bee Boop, Bee Boop' at the end of the episode."
Edgar: "Yeah...thanks."

After the awkwardness dissipated...

Edgar: "So, did you watch this season?"
Kate: "No, we have it Tivoed."
Edgar: "Oh yeah, can you believe Jack dies?"
Kate: "WAIT, don't tell me that. I haven't watched it yet!!"
Edgar: "I'm just kidding. I love doing that."

World's Greatest Teacher

My friend from college, Finn, is now living in Chile teaching high school at an international school with her husband. The other day she sent me this clip that one of her students had created. I thought it was hilarious and thought you might enjoy it.

Note: Before Chile, Finn was a high school teacher in Chicago. One day she decided to see how dumb her students could be so she taught them that Sir Isaac Newton was the one who created Fig Newtons. To her surprise, no one questioned her. Instead, they all asked how Newton had developed that wonderful fruit inside and cookie cover. What can I say my friend is truly molding minds in the classroom.



Finn would also like to point out that she is not Hitler, but his boss/teacher/evil overlord.

James

I'm not sure what is more demoralizing:

1. Slicing EVERY ball I hit today on the golf course?

OR

2. Playing with an 8 year old, who completely schooled me, and I think, who snickered every time I slammed my club down and muttered a quiet obscenity.

James, if you are out there, go home and play video games or something. Stop torturing a pathetic 30 year old.

A Special Seat in the Back

I neglected to write one more thought I had about my excursion to America's Got Talent with my dear mother:

To those of you who haven't attended a live taping of a TV show, let me give you a little behind the camera perspective. First of all, that audience you see, who are clapping their hands in enthusiasm, have actually been waiting for a couple of hours outside AND inside for the hopes that some camera sweep might catch them applauding like little monkeys. (Okay, I've been guilty of this group. And yes, I did just finally erase my "appearance" on Ellen. Man, I looked good clapping.) Second of all, the host, or panel of judges you see, typically have three layers of hairspray in their hair and 16 coats of make-up. Honestly, every time they cut to a commercial break a pack of magical trolls appear with tool belts full of brushes, make-up, duct tape, hair dryers and mirrors. (I wish I had that, but instead every time I yelled "break" they handed me snacks - preferably, wheat thins.)

And last of all, have you ever noticed that you never see an ugly person in the front? Well, as you can imagine this is not just an unexplainable coincidence. No, like all things in TV, even the appearance of the audience is carefully planned. Now, as I stated before, the taping of the show was pretty pathetic, but this part, of ushers strategically placing good looking and bad looking people, deeply intrigued me. For example, what is the criteria these ushers are using to place people?

Mustache on woman = back row?
Large boobs = guaranteed front row?
Man with Gigantic Afro = Back Row next to woman with Mustache?
Man with Hasselhoff T-Shirt = Next to Judges so The Hoff Can bask in his last fan's admiration?
Family of Black people = Front Row to appeal to a wider audience?
Family of fanny pack wearing Mid-Westerners = Back Row because boring people don't watch such a cool show?

Honestly, it was hilarious watching the ushers subtly, and not so subtly, direct people to certain places. And then, what was more funny, was watching people's reactions to their final destinations. Some people, who were placed in the front, walked confidently to their seats thinking, "Yeah, that's right, I'm good looking," while others put their heads down and thought, "WHY am I sitting in the back? Does that mean I'm ugly? Do I look fat? Why did I wear this shirt? This is just like high school where I was left alone on prom." Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I have never seen a happier or sadder group.

So, where did my mom and I sit? Well, since we aren't overly endowed (sorry Mama), or do we have an abundance of facial hair, we were placed in the middle. I have to admit I was little offended. Does that mean we are just average? I hate TV.

America's Got Talent?

Last Monday night my mom and I traveled downtown to see a taping of America's Got Talent. For those of you who have never seen this show let me first say, congratulations and keep up the good work. You are successfully leading a fruitful life. No, seriously they have got to come up with a new name for this show. Something like: America Scraped And Found These People Who Were Willing to Do Anything, Even Appear a notch above a crazed Monkey, In Order to Be On TV for 2 Minutes. OR America Is Really Good At A Lot of Stuff But We Can't Get those People To Be On this Show So Here Are Some Other People Who You Can Laugh At. OR America's Show of People To Help You Realize That You Aren't As Depressing and Pathetic As You Think. Something other than America's Got Talent!!

Sorry. I know what you are thinking - Where does all this rage come from? Well, tell me to "cooperate and get ready for bed" and you will see the root of the monster. No, I kid. Milton (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) - that was for you.

No, this disdain for America's Got Talent comes from that fact that after three hours of sitting in a cold theater all I saw was this:

1. A deranged woman yanking a small horse up onto its hind legs and forcing it to make small circles, while wearing a princess outfit and pink shoes. I don't know what was worse - the animal cruelty or the fact that the horse laid a deuce on the stage during rehearsal.

2. A ventriloquist, who moved his mouth when speaking for the dummy. I guess he missed the part where he is supposed to keep his mouth shut and the dummy and him aren't supposed to sound the SAME.

3. A woman who sang opera while a bored looking guy played the electric guitar. I didn't know what to look at: the girl screaming into the microphone or the guy strumming along with absolute no commitment to the performance. Come on this is TV...you got to bring your "A game."

4. And last but not least, a husband and wife doing a tap dance on a step exercise box. Unfortunately, the only cool part was the full man leotard the husband was wearing and the obvious sham marriage between the both of them. (Come to think of it, maybe the act was for us to believe a man wearing a leotard was happily married to a straight woman.)

My American Idol

Here are my thoughts from the American Idol finale:
1. That "Mountain" song made me feel funny.

2. I hope that Bikini Girl gets hit by a bus on the way home. (Preferably in her bikini)

3. Adam Lambert tongue bothers me. I feel like his breath would smell.

4. Was Rod Stewart drunk?

5. My heart goes out to the blind guy, but making him sing, "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" is just plain mean.

6. What kind of tape does Paula use to tape her boobs together? Is it industrial tape? Good ol' duct tape? Super glue?

7. I sort of want to put Kris Allen in my pocket and pull him out for an afternoon song each day.

8. How many days does Kris Allen's wife have until the supermodel wife?

9. I will always watch the finale with my parents for comments like these, "What does it mean for that guy to trash his guitar?" "Kate, he's wearing make-up!!" And..."Who's that?" after every new person who graces the screen.

10. Boo to the yeah that Kris Allen won. (Spoiler alert) for you Tivo people.

People

After working two days at the restaurant I've noticed a few things about people:

1. Some people are cool. And some people are not. For example, after a lady told me she was allergic to cilantro, I made a special note of it on the ticket and notified the kitchen. Her omelet then came out with extra cilantro. She didn't complain. (cool) Another lady came in three separate times, complained each time and was comped three meals. (Not cool).

2. Some people have given up. For example, a rather large man, who could barely walk down our stairs, ordered only bacon to go. I have to admit, I sort of admired him.

3. Some people simply creep me out. For example, there was a guy from Italy who wore a fanny pack, Dolce Gabbana sunglasses, a mesh shirt and red spandex shorts, who kept hanging out near my counter asking me questions about Santa Monica. It wasn't the constant questions that weirded me out - it was the shorts that left nothing to the imagination.

More observations will be coming.



This was the closest picture I could find to my run in with the Italian Stallion.

Number Five

Today is my best friend's birthday. She is obsessed with the number five so here are five reasons why I think she's cool.

1. She has fantastic taste in music and has given me probably half the songs I own. Because of this generosity Jacque (named has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I started calling her my "music whore." Unfortunately, the name didn't really stick so we just call her EMad.

2. She'll put the entire world ahead of herself.

3. Once, when she got cut off while driving down the highway by a dirt bag in a large truck, she drove up next to him and got his attention. She then pointed down towards the groin area and then measured an inch with her thumb and pointer finger to indicate to him, that by cutting her off, he was not very well endowed. I love that story.

4. She's a vegetarian who eats club sandwiches at Red Butte Cafe in Salt Lake.

5. She'll pick you up when you get a flat on your bike, come to your game when it's 40 degrees outside, buy endless bottles of Diet Coke and mentos just to wash them burst, tell you are cool, run around with you in a haunted house and always have your back.

Happy Birthday E Mad.

Barb

One time when I was in high school my mom, my sister and me went out to dinner at the Olive Garden. (This of course, was when bread sticks and salad were unlimited and free AND when they used to cook the noodles in actual water and not in the microwave. Those were the days.) Anyway, when we came out of dinner we noticed the car, that was parked next to us, was now sporting a bashed in bumper. After inspecting the damage we noticed a note on the windshield that said, "Sorry about the bumper, but your car looked old so I guess it won't be that big of a deal." Instantly,we started to laugh at the audacity of someone to leave such an insincere apology for such a horrible act. As we continued to laugh, we started to think of other bizarre notes we would like to leave on people's cars. This led to my mom pulling out paper from her purse and us leaving notes on people's cars like, "Would you mind washing this piece of crap?" and "Are you really handicapped?" After leaving a few choice notes on people's cars we all ran to my mom's car and drove off.

I love this memory because it's one of those moments I think of when someone asks me to describe my mom. She is without a doubt one of my favorite people and I love her for her sense of humor and her love of life. I know people say it, but I really do have the greatest mom. Happy Mother's Day Mom!!

Rule of Thumb

Should I be worried about this conversation I had the other day with Einstein (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband)?

Kate: "It's always a good rule of thumb to wash your hands before making dinner."

Einstein: "Do you know where that term 'rule of thumb' came from?"

Kate: "No, Einstein. Now hand me that pan."

Einstein: "Well apparently there used to be a law in England that stated a man could only use a stick the thickness of his thumb to beat his wife."

Kate: Silence.

Einstein: Smiles.

Kate: Silence.

Einstein: "Isn't that interesting?"

Kate: Silence.

Einstein: (Holds up his thumb) "I guess that wouldn't really hurt."

Was he weighing my threshold of pain or thinking he was going to need a thicker stick? (I got to stop tickling him. I can tell I'm pushing him to the edge.)

A Small Earthquake

After living in California for almost two and a half years, I finally experienced my first earthquake. Sure, to you native Californians this was nothing more than a boring Mother Earth nudge, but to this east coast kid, I was pretty sure the world was coming to an end. For what seemed like five minutes (it's my story and I will freely embellish) my entire apartment building shook and groaned. Instantly, my body froze and I'm pretty sure my heart stopped beating. (Again, I'm the storyteller here. You are the reader. If you want to judge leave a comment like everyone else.) When it was finally over I let go of the pillow I was clenching and called Jimmy Dean (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and told him of my ordeal. Without an ounce of sympathy he said, "Oh please, that was nothing." Nothing? The world shook. That's not normal. I just don't get native Californians. I will give you the warm winters, the sunny days and the beach. However, I will never budge that earthquakes are something you just deal with and brush off. I'm mean seriously - do we finally freak out when LA splits in two, or when Santa Monica falls into the ocean? Just curious.

Heaven and Hell

For the past couple of days I have been participating in a "tasting" of the menu of the restaurant I will be working at starting next week. What's a tasting? Well, it is sort of my personal heaven and hell. Heaven because it's free food, everything I have had is amazing and I basically don't have to eat for the rest of the day. Hell because of a couple of reasons:

1. We all can agree that pancakes are awesome. (If you don't agree with this statement then you are either a communist or an idiot.) However, pancakes followed with a spicy tuna roll, followed by a turkey omelet and then followed by a burrito is not awesome. Actually, it's kind of making me sick thinking about it right now.

2. An enormous tasting is a horrible exercise for me to participate in because of my upbringing. Like many of you, I was raised by a mother, who I'm pretty sure was the actual Grand Master of the "clean plate club." Growing up it didn't matter if it was lima beans, jello chunks or a piece of gum you were saving for later - everything had to be gone before you could leave the table.

So, today, there I sat, surrounded by endless plates of untouched tacos, sushi and salads and all I could see was my mom's face telling me to keep eating. So, that's what I did. I ate sushi, a Caesar salad, tacos of every kind and an egg sandwich. However, I have to admit, that even when I gently undid the top button of my jeans to force one more taco down my throat, it still pained me to see food on the table. I swear I'm like Pavlov's Dog.

3. A tasting involves sharing a plate of food with three to four other people you don't really know. Consequently, you can't say, "Hey fatso, stop taking all the guacamole for your ONE taco," or "If you double dip that fork of yours one more time, I'm going to use my fork and stab you in the eye," or "Here's a fun game we are all going to play - STOP USING YOUR FINGERS AS A SPOON." No, a group tasting is a lot more delicate. Therefore, again, as fun as the free food is, it definitely comes with some awkward and difficult situations....but alas, I will endure. I mean, it's my job.

Our Addictions

For about a week McHale Slobadon (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) has been singing this commercial. At first, I just didn't get it, and then after watching it a couple of times, (once in Spanish), I started to really hear the magic inside this jingle. I promise you, after three times of listening to this you will start singing along. (Or is it, if you say a word in a foreign language three times you will remember it?) Anyway, for those of you who are not from California please enjoy.



I would call my husband crazy, but last week I played Text Twist for almost four hours. Four hours - and all I got is: for, our, ours, sour, four, hour, hours, fur, furs...sorry.

A Little Dance at Rite Aid

The following is what happens when:

1. Rite Aid says a pharmacy is open 24 hours a day, and yet, when you go it's closed.

2. When Javier (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I decide to get a milkshake at 11 pm.

3. What happens to me when I see a cane display...so hard to resist.



I understand if no one watches this.

To Burn, Or Not to Burn

At the moment, I find myself in a bit of quandary. A couple of months ago I was hired to work as a counselor for a summer camp on the beach. Initially, I was excited about the job because I would be working outside and playing games all day (because let's be honest I'm still a six year old boy). However, as time went on from my initial interview (which was a cross between a really bad drama class and a drunk AA meeting) my excitement for the job began to wane. Why? Well, let's just say the owner of the camp wasn't exactly my favorite person. (I know that sounds cryptic, but let's think about this in a broader sense. I like most people. Most people like me. So, if I don't particularly like someone, they must either 1. suck 2. smell bad 3. insist on recycling everything 4. A weird mid-30s guy who wouldn't let me even interview for the job I wanted or 5. religiously watch Oprah, read her books from her Book Club and read her magazine. You can decide which category the owner fell into.)

So, anyway a few weeks back, I decided to go hunting for a new job and stumbled upon a restaurant opening in Santa Monica who needed a cashier. I, without thinking, applied for the job, got the job and now I'm sitting with two jobs. (And people say the economy is bad...please.) So, here's my quandary: I obviously need to quit the beach job, but how do I do it? I mean, life has given me an opportunity to burn a bridge and really tell someone, who I'll most likely never encounter again, how I really feel about them. So, should I just tell the truth that I got another job and the commute is much better? Or should I just not show up that first day of camp and not return any of his frantic phone calls? (That was how I broke up with most of my boyfriends - definitely the tried and true approach.) Or should I call him and tell him that I think his staff, who he feels is really the "cream of the crop," is nothing more than a notch up from community college drop-outs, and that this camp, even though they tried to convey that during the interview process, is not curing cancer but glorified baby-sitting, and if I wanted to be treated like a moron I would have taped a "Kick Me" sign on my back and walked along a busy street?

I must admit, I'm really leaning towards the disappearing act. What can I say - thanks Universe for the opportunity, but let's be honest, once a weenie always a weenie.

Does anyone want to work for a total (insert something that reminds you of the beefy guy at the gym who stares at his muscles more than he actually lifts) this summer? There will most likely be an opening that first day of camp. Just look for the beach with four counselors instead of five.

What's With Abercrombie and Fitch?

It should be noted that this was the most innocent picture I could find...

Tonight, I spent over two hours walking aimlessly around the Santa Monica Promenade attempting to find a white shirt for my new job. You would think this would be an easy task, but apparently all white shirts are actually made with see through white material and are designed to show a valley of cleavage. Since I don't enjoy wearing an imaginary shirt and...oh yeah, I was not exactly blessed in the boobage category, this turned into a fruitless activity.

I think my frustration reached its pinnacle when I made the fatal error of walking into Abercrombie and Fitch. I must admit, I haven't been inside one of their stores since college, and maybe its because I'm 30 now, but I was completely perplexed by the store. First, what is with the porn all over the place? Is this supposed to make kids feel more inclined to drop sixty bones on a stupid t-shirt or have pre-martial sex? Second, what is with the music? If I worked there I would go insane. Is this a clothing store or a weird psychological experiment to test breaking points of noise? Third, could we turn up the lights? I literally had to use my phone to check the price of a white shirt, that actually turned out to be a light blue. Lastly, the smell. Are we serious about the smell? I remember in sixth grade I bought my "boyfriend" a bottle of Drakkar Noir, that I stored in my locker because I was afraid my mom would find out about it. And then one day, while throwing my books into the locker I smashed the bottle, and for the entire year, you could smell my locker a mile away. I was convinced this was the most pungent experience I would ever endure, and then I walked around Abercrombie for five minutes and blood started to trickle down my nose. Do they pump the cologne through the vents or do workers periodically dump bottles all over the store?

Will someone please get back to me with these answers...and a white shirt?

Love / Hate

Last weekend I drove to St. George, Utah for a little birthday getaway/celebration with my twin sister. This drive is an absolute love/hate experience for me. Love, because of the fact that I'm getting away and have almost six hours to think about baby names, weird diseases I would never want to attract, why everyone driving to Vegas are always Asian, how long could I drive with my eyes closed and does my voice sound good enough to audition for American Idol? Hate because of the fact that there are just too many forsaken people on the road, there is absolutely nothing to see between LA and Vegas and after an hour my knees start to kill from being locked in the same position.

To remedy the unpredictability of my road trips I always bring a book on CD. Like the drive, this experience can be either turn into a love or hate scenario. For example, there have been times that a book on CD has soothed me while I sit in traffic and try not to look over at the moronic guys, who are trying to get my attention and who still reek of the lame Bachelor Party they attended the night before in Vegas.

However, other times on book on CD can ruin a perfectly pleasant drive. For example, for this past weekend I chose a book on CD called "Kingdom Come," which seemed to be a rather innocuous suspense. Yet, after the first two discs I was already apologizing to the spirit for the language Jimmy G., a corrupt union guy, was using, blushing during the interesting "moments" between the protagonist and his wife and writhing in imaginary pain as they described IN DETAIL how the killer sliced open its victims. (Fun fact of Kate #1300: I hate hate hearing about an injury, surgery or anything that involves the following statement, "Yeah, so I actually heard my bone break, and then when I looked down, the bone was actually sticking out." I will vomit if I hear this.)

So, needless to say this book on CD did not add to my trip. I guess I could have listened to the Conference Talks I have on my Ipod...so the book wasn't thaatttt bad. I'm sorry Spirit.

Computer Camp Alumni Still At Work

When you know you have a cool husband...He's building me a freaking computer. I know he'll make me take this post down - so...enjoy this picture.

Heaven

A few months back Russell Crowe (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I decided to change churches and attend one in Santa Monica. Don't worry, you faithful readers, we are still Mormon, but we decided to go to the church we are actually assigned to. (And, before you think we are being incredibly obedient, we heard this church starts at 10:00 am. Out a 1:00 is a beautiful thing.)

Anyway, this new church has been fantastic. First, it meets in this beautiful old building, which people claim to be one of the first churches in Southern California. I believe them because the tiny pews were definitely made before Mormons found out that Diet Coke and Cafe Rio are great substitutes to alcohol and drugs, and unlike most current churches, this one has a stain glass depiction of Joseph Smith and a mural of...well, to be honest, I'm not sure. The other week Russell and I spoke and had the entire meeting to figure it out - and still all we could come up with is that none of the animals in the mural actually have four legs. (Don't worry, you Mormon conspirators, the lack of four legs is not symbolic to how we see the Catholic church.)

Anyway, outside of the cool building and meeting time, the best part of our new church would definitely be the members. For example, a couple of weeks ago I noticed an older woman tucked a napkin into her shirt, pulled out a tupperware of soup and crackers and proceeded to eat during the lesson. And then if that wasn't cool enough, she then, in between bites, raised her hand and made comments. (While still holding her soup, spoon and napkin tucked in her shirt.) IT was awesome. Secondly, the older ladies in our church call themselves the "Silver Beavers." Need I say more? Lastly, our members, who are teachers, are amazing because, without fail, during a lesson something like this happens:

Teacher: "Does anyone have a story they would like to share about faith?"
Response from member: Long story of how their divorce doesn't make sense because King David had more than one wife.
Teacher: (With a complete straight face) "Thank you for that."

Honestly, its a gift to not start laughing in the middle of all that.

Now, before you think I'm making fun of my new church, please know I have never enjoyed going to church more. I love the absurdity, the unity and the fact that all of us are just trying to be good people. I hope heaven will be much the same.

Earth Day and Cocaine

Have you ever had a moment where you agree with someone because you don't feel like getting in an argument or making a situation awkward? Well, today I had one of those moments. While standing in the check out line at the grocery store, a guy, who sort of smelled like my rancid laundry and a bar I used to go to in college, asked me if I had done anything special for Earth Day. I, trying to be nice, said, "No," and then in a moment of weakness asked, "Did you?" (What I really meant to say was, "One, who the crap cares about Earth Day? And two, does your participation in Earth Day include not showering?" - but I didn't. I should have, but I didn't.)

Anyway, he answered my question with another question and asked, "Remember, last year in July, they had a worldwide celebration? Did you participate in that?" What is this guy the national Earth Day inspector? Again, I said, "Um, no I don't remember that," and then he said, (with a weird wink, I might add) "Oh, I get it, you are one of those people who wants to legalize marijuana." HUH?

Okay, let's take a moment here and re-cap what is going on. I get behind a crazy man at the grocery store, who is only buying a bottle of peanuts. We establish I didn't celebrate Earth Day today or last year. Earth Day Gestapo then deduces that my lack of celebration indicates I smoke pot. Are we all following this?

Alrighty, back to the story. So, while I'm nervously laughing at his pot comment, he then says, "Hey, you might want marijuana, but I think we should legalize cocaine. You know why?" Heck, I've come this far in the conversation, why not see it through...so I said, "No why?" He then responded with, "Because there would be less DUI's because alcohol and cocaine go together so well. You know?" (And here's where the moment happens) I answered, while enthusiastically shaking my head, "Yeah. We should totally legalize cocaine to curb DUI's." Really? Did I just say that? Why didn't I just say at the very beginning I planted a forsaken tree?

Which One Are You?

How cool are those old guy's shorts?

Last night while sitting at the park reading I realized there are many types of runners. For example:

1. There's the "I'm running with my shirt off because, in 1988, I had an awesome six pack."

2. There's the individual who runs with their elbows locked into their sides and slightly out, or the "T-Rex Run" as I like to call it.

3. There's the "I run because I love it. NOT, because I'm scared of getting fat. NO, I love it. I'm so freaking hungry, but I LOVE it."

4. There are the guys who run at 11.7 miles an hour because they really aren't human, but robots designed by an evil man plotting to destroy all self-esteem the rest of us have.

5. There are the ones who just started their diet today and thought a run would be a good way to kick it off. (These are easy to spot because they are usually running in construction boots, cut off jean shorts, a worn t-shirt and gasping for air - these people could also be running from the law.)

6. There's the ones who drag their feet so much I wonder if they are just creating enough static to power their disc man, or wiping off dog crap they stepped in a few feet back.

7. There's the couple out for a run, who have two completely different objectives. The guy, is there to get through this miserable experience so he can get back to his couch. The girl, is there to help him get back to the weight he was when they first started dating.

8. There's the dancers / pop singers / runners. These are sort of my favorite. They are the ones who become so enraptured with their Ipod they don't realize they are singing along and bobbing their head as they run.

9. There's the mom pushing her baby in a stroller, who hopes she'll be able to get rid of the lingering baby fat, but knows once she gets home she's most likely cool down with a diet coke and cake icing.

10. There's the girls who run in almost nothing because they are actually not out for a run, but heading to work at the Gentleman's Club. (I loathe this group.)

I guess I would put myself as #11: The retired college athlete, who only runs in lacrosse paraphernalia, and cries out in pain after twenty minutes because her knees are old. So, what kind of runner are you?

Crack Whore?

The other night, while enjoying a peaceful stroll along the beach, I encountered a crazy woman screaming profanities from inside her parked car. At first, I thought she was just another homeless person blowing off some steam, but as I got closer I realized it was a rather normal looking woman just sitting in her car having a fabulous breakdown/tantrum. I, never being one that was good at looking away from awkward situations, continued to stare as I walked past. Unfortunately, this was not a good time for my conspicuous habit to kick in. As I made eye contact with the crazy woman, she leaned over and rolled down her window (yes, by hand - which only made me more transfixed on her) and screamed, "What are you looking at, you crack whore?" Crack whore? Now that was a new one. I thought she would have gone with the obvious female dog reference or called me the mother of a trucker. But, a crack whore? What part of my Citizen jeans, Puma sneakers and Duke T-shirt screamed "Crack whore?"

Anyway, as I continued to walk home I thought about this lady and how good it must feel to be her. I mean seriously, how many of us walk around in our lives repressing and holding everything down? Wouldn't it feel good to just pull over next to a peaceful park and just let it all out? Wouldn't it feel good to roll your window down and attack unsuspecting people with strange insults like, "Dog Face" to really good looking people, or "Satan's Legion" to a group of moms and their kids? I just think it could be a really healthy exercise for a lot of us. And I also think crack could be another answer. I'm full of options.

What I Learned In Health Class

For almost the past year Pierre (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I have been trying to multiply and replenish the earth. Unfortunately, because we aren't teenagers at a New Jersey prom we have been unable to fulfill our procreation duties. Consequently, throughout this year I have been dabbling in the fun world of, "What the heck is wrong with my body?" This fun exploration has taught me a lot of things. For example, I've been learning about patience, trials, how jacked up one can really get on hormones and female anatomy. Now, I'm not trying to be uncomfortably explicit, but honestly, throughout this process I have learned of how little I actually know about the female body. For example, the other day I went to get an x-ray of my tubes, or plumbing as I like to call it, and realized that I have no idea what a fallopian tube is. As I laid there getting mine x-rayed, the doctor pushed a screen in front of my face so I could see what he was doing. In a moment of panic I saw some squiggly lines and thought, "Oh, crap there's the problem. My plumbing is all over the place." As I started to imagine the conversation I was going to have with Pierre about our childless future, the doctor said, "Well, the fallopian tubes look great." Look great? What are bad ones supposed to look like?

So, I guess those Health classes in fifth grade were really helpful, and apparently, our plumbing isn't all streamlined and color coded. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed.

So Strange, but So Good

Yesterday, as I was staggering home from my birthday massage, glistening in lotion and oil, I started to think about how bizarre the whole massage experience is. First, you voluntarily strip down and enter an enclosed room excitedly anticipating the touch of a complete stranger. Didn't we learn as children that this is exactly what you SHOULD NOT do? I mean, wasn't the highest commandment we were given by our parents was to not talk to strangers, let alone let them touch us? It all seems a little counter intuitive if you ask me.

Second of all, there is complete silence, outside of the "ocean" sounds, during the entire experience. So, now we have someone touching us and they aren't saying a word. And yet, for me, if the masseuse opens its mouth to make conversation I instantly hope that their car is being keyed at the moment or they will die that night.* Because let's be honest, if I was paying for a good conversation I would make an expensive long distance phone call to a friend of mine in Mongolia. I'm here to get rubbed down.

Third of all, after being touched and soothed into a tranquil state, the buzzer dings and you are asked to leave. This has to be the cruelest part of the whole experience. One minute you are lying on a lily pad of fresh cotton and being caressed by doves, and the next second you are being handed a cup of water and shoved out into traffic. They really should have a holding room where you can go and ease yourself back into reality.

Oh well, as bizarre as it all was, I swear, as all of you are my witness, when I become a millionaire I'm getting a private masseuse. That, and adopting a child from Cote D'Ivoire.

*I don't really want anything to happen to them that moment because they still have 33 minutes left to work on me.

Completely Self-Indulgent

I don't know about you, but whenever it's my birthday I feel completely justified in being overtly self-indulgent. It's like overnight I lose all sense of self-control and approach every temptation with, "Come on, it's your birthday. You can do whatever you want." So, yesterday when I woke up, I started to think of which forbidden urges my "birthday mentality" was going to fulfill. Should I go park my car illegally and wait for the parking attendant to come so I can steal his little three wheel mobile and drive it into the ocean? Should I put an "Out of Order" sign on the elevator just to infuriate the old people in my building a little more? (Our unreliable elevator has led to some heated conversations in the lobby, which I always seem to get caught in because I live on the first floor and because they think I "care.") Should I go get a pizza, Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, peanut butter and Wheatthins for lunch and then take a nap until the hubby comes home? So, many options.

Well, as great as these thoughts were, I'm sad to report that I didn't get into an awesome altercation with a parking attendant, nor did I mess with the geriatric population of my building. I did, however, not shower until six, ate whatever I wanted, got a massage, answered my phone for only birthday wishes and ate a ridiculously fattening dinner. All in all a good day.

30

So, today's the day...the big 30...here's how far I've come.

Duke

One day and counting...

At seventeen, my life plan consisted of graduating from high school, going to Utah for school, getting married and making babies. That was it. And then I found myself at a lacrosse tournament in Annapolis, Maryland and my whole "plan" changed. From that small tournament I started getting recruited by Ohio State, UNC, Duke, Loyola and Georgetown. All of the sudden my life became a Choose Your Own Adventure novel and I had no idea which path to take.

Initially, my first choice was UNC. I loved the coach, the athletic tradition and the school. And then, I went on my recruiting trip, and after being told by the team that I wouldn't fit in because I didn't drink, UNC was no longer on my list. After UNC, I went on more recruiting trips and each time I walked away just as disappointed. Ohio State was too freaking big, Loyola was too freaking small and Georgetown was too freaking urban. All that was left was Duke, and from the first phone call, I was convinced this was not the school for me. Yet, once I stepped on campus, met the team and hung out with my coaches I began to realize I was supposed to be in Durham. So, in April, right before I graduated, I signed the official papers to go to Duke and began an entirely different life plan.

I chose this story as my last because this decision affected me more than any other moment in my life. For example, I would have never gone on a mission if I hadn't spent four years being a missionary. I would have never experienced playing a Division I sport with some of the greatest people. And more importantly, I wouldn't have met the love of my life. (A side note...a year after I left Duke, Jorge (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) was headed to Michigan for law school, but decided in Kentucky to head south instead and go to Duke. There's not a doubt in my mind, (and by every fiber in my being) that we both were supposed to go to Duke so we could meet. (And for our sister-in-laws to be there to set us up.) I'll always see Duke as the decision that took my blinders off and changed my life forever.

The Time of My Life

When my sister and I were eight we were forbidden to watch the cinematic masterpiece of Dirty Dancing. According to my mom, it contained "mature subjects" that were not appropriate for third graders. (I know, my Mom was a tyrant. I mean honestly, what's the big deal about dancing in a suggestive way, trivializing an abortion and lying to your parents about sleeping with a dance instructor? I think all third graders need to know these things. That and reading.)

Now, I was typically a very obedient child, but the phrase "mature subjects" intrigued me and I began a quest to see this forbidden movie. Fortunately, a couple of weeks later my friend announced she would be having a sleepover AND the main attraction would be Dirty Dancing. I swear those days leading up to our uncensored viewing of Patrick Swayze couldn't move fast enough. Finally, the big moment came, and I'll never forget sitting on the floor in my pajamas, clutching a coke and devilishly smiling during the entire movie. To be honest, I was a little confused about why Penny was so upset about being "knocked up," and then in so much pain when she came back from the doctor's. I'll admit the entire abortion aspect was over my head, but I did walk away wishing my name was Baby. (For those of you who haven't experienced this movie - stop reading and go rent it.)

Anyway, the reason I bring up this experience is because this movie has been a part of my life in so many ways. For example:

1. I wanted the soundtrack to this movie so bad I traded my innocent belief in Santa for my brother's promise that he could actually show me the tape cassettes in my parent's loft two weeks before Christmas. This nefarious deal led to my Mom threatening to take Christmas away after she found out we had seen our gifts AND a few sleepless nights for me as I grappled with the idea that Santa was a lie.

2. In fifth grade my sister and I and our two best friends won the coveted 50's Dance lip sync contest with "Be My Baby" - a hit from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.

3. When I was a senior in high school our basketball team's mantra was, "NO ONE PUTS BABY IN A CORNER." (I wish this led to us winning a state championship, but it only ticked off our beloved black coach named Mr. White.)

4. One of the things on my "Do Before I Die" list is that Jorge (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and me will one day reenact the "Love is Strange" scene in Dirty Dancing. (As seen in picture above)

5. My senior year in college I took a Social Dance class. Much to my teacher's dismay, each class I found a way to either act out a scene from Dirty Dancing or quote directly from the movie. For example, whenever I approached my partner I would say, "This is my dance space and that is your dance space." (Well, actually I would say "This is your damn space" because I didn't find out it was "dance" until I was 25). Or whenever I was given the chance I would attempt to jump into my partner's arms and see if he would lift me above his head. Which he never did. Will if you're out there one attempt wouldn't have killed you.

So, no I don't regret stepping off the straight and narrow and watching Dirty Dancing. It changed my life...much like Baby did for Johnny.

Just Another Day

Today was one of those days when I realized, once again, I live in a very unusual place. For example:

1. While at Bed, Bath and Beyond I saw Adrien Brody (Oscar Winner for The Pianist) picking out pans.

2. After coming out of Costco I saw a homeless man holding a sign that read "Spaceship Needs New Parts Please Help."

3. Before driving into my parking garage I saw a man running towards the bus holding a stick with a crystal ball on the top of it and wizard clothes underneath his arm.

4. After reading on Perez Hilton about Leighton Meester (Gossip Girl) and Sebastian Stan (Kings and Gossip Girl) being a new couple I saw them walking into Shutters, a hotel, together while I was running along the beach.

And that's a day in Santa Monica.