Meters Are Longer Than Feet

Bonjour from Chamonix, France. Right now, Pierre (my husband's French name that has been decided to protect his privacy while across the Atlantic Ocean) and I are sitting in bed, digesting a dinner of salad, tartiflette (basically a huge pan of potatoes au gratin with ham), a couple loaves of bread (I swear, France is going to have a new Bastille Day where all my waiters are going to celebrate the liberation of me saying, "Um, can I get a little more bread?" - and then followed up with a lame, "merci.") and some delightful crepes. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy crepes? No? Um, zey are fantastic. (Said with a horrible French accent)

So, outside of the exciting game of US vs. Slovenia (okay, I'll admit, I was sort of into the game. We have a foot by foot TV, so I ask you, how could anyone NOT get into a sporting match of any kind with this type of entertainment magnet?) Anyway, like I was saying, outside of the World Cup, today was awesome. We decided to venture up into the mountains and take a gondola up to Aguilli du Midi, which is the highest vertical ascent cable car in the world, from 1,035 m to 3,842 m. Yeah, meters. (I thought it was feet at first, so I said to Pierre, "Why is this such a big deal?" - I'm a stupid American.) Anyway, the ride up was incredible. After a few minutes we were above the clouds and could see gorgeous peaks sticking out, like Mont Blanc, the highest peak of the Alps. Again, I can't do justice to what we saw - pictures will be coming.

After an hour of hanging out at the different observation points, the clouds rolled in and we decided to travel down to Plan Aiguille du Midi, which is the first stop the gondola makes from the top (about 2300 meters up) and hike down. Again, very cool - the only drawback was my old woman knees were dying. These "switchbacks" weren't exactly back and forth, but more like straight down. Anyway, it was worth it. Every once in awhile the clouds would pass and we could see the entire town of Chamonix below, or we would see an awesome waterfall flowing from above. Absolutely gorgeous!

Well, it's time for bed. Tomorrow we'll spend the morning eating more croissants and baguettes (because that's what we do) and then head to Lyon. Night.

Oh Frenchie How You Melt That Cheese

Today I find myself in Chamonix, France, just an hour east of Annecy and nestled in the Alps. I've only been here a few hours, and I already think this is one of the coolest cities I've ever seen. Right outside our hotel room is the river that runs from the mountains into town. It's been raining for the past few days so the river is flowing really hard. Tomorrow I think we are going to venture up to Aiguille du Midi, the highest peak in Chamonix and maybe, if we get lucky, check out Italy and the tip of the Matterhorn. ORRR...we'll continue to feed our faces and take a nap in the town square.

Speaking of food...last night, on the top floor of a snug little restaurant, I experienced another milestone among my culinary experiences. The French and Swiss call it "Raclette." I call it "food from angelic fairies." First, a warm stove is placed on your table. (Which by the way, I am a huge fan of any type of food that consists of having a hot surface placed right next to you. I hate trying to eat and freezing my butt off.) Secondly, you are given a steel skillet and some cheese, which you place inside the stove and melt. (Yep, I'm liking where this is going also.) While the cheese is melting, you place potatoes on top of the stove and get them all nice and roasted. Once the cheese is melted, you take the warm potatoes and cut them up on a slate plate. You then pour the cheese over the potatoes, and along with cured hams and salad, go to town. I can't describe how amazing of a bite it was to take a little cheese, some warm potato, a little ham and some lettuce into my mouth. I've enjoyed some great meals in my life, but this one will not be forgotten.

Well, it's back to watching World Cup. How I love soccer!!

* pictures will be coming once I get back. Because yes, we did take pictures. And yes, the entire restaurant was staring at us.

Why World Cup?

At this exact moment, I'm sitting in a bizarre little hotel in Annecy, France - which is located in the French Alps. Next to me is Pierre (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband). He's asleep because eating ridiculous amounts of croissants and baguettes can cause spontaneous bouts of sleep. On the other side of the wall, is apparently a French man, who either drank a great deal of water or cafes. (The walls are slightly thin...oh, no, I take it back, he is German. Finish man!)

Outside our hotel runs a small canal and an array of shops. At this moment, Switzerland and Spain are playing their first round in the World Cup and I can hear men screaming at the TV in some nearby cafe. I got to admit, I just don't get World Cup. First, it's soccer. Why is this cool to watch for long periods of time? No offense to you soccer lovers, but man, these games are freaking long and MANY end in TIES or DRAWS! No winner? I just watched something for 90 minutes and no one gets to walk away the winner? Can't we at least have a massive knife fight at the end? Last man standing is declared the winner? Now, that is something I think the world would really enjoy watching.

Secondly, what's with the horns? (The plastic long horns people blow at games or to announce royalty.) Apparently, the discussion here in Europe is "Should we get rid of the horns or not?" I think the question to discuss should be, "Why and HOW are these people blowing these for 90 minutes?" I think we should find these people and do studies of their lung capacities. Obviously, these individuals are incredible specimens.

Lastly, what's with grown men laying on the ground, crying out to the heavens in agony and pain, when they are slightly pushed from behind? I think these men are great athletes and then I see them rolling around on the ground behaving like children, and I think, maybe these lads should pursue drama and not soccer. HONESTLY, man up and play some stinkin' soccer.

I know, I just lost all my international readers - all of them in Denmark, you know who you are - but, I'm sorry, after being in France for five days and watching almost every soccer game (it's the only thing that's not French news or badly dubbed American shows) I can't take it anymore. Has the world see UFC? Now, that's a sport.

More to come from France. We are now off to have some raclette...

Quite the Sign

This weekend my sister and I traveled up to Lewiston, Utah and rode in the Little Red Riding Hood Bike Race. Don't worry pictures and commentary will be coming. Until then, I thought this sign was really funny. I think it's cool that an entire city, through a sign, has abdicated themselves from any responsibility from all accidents. I like that this sign is also located in some remote park. If you are going to make a ridiculous sign at least put it in the town center.

Baby Showers and Black Holes

Recently, I attended a baby shower. For those of you, like me, who don't have children this can be a very strange experience. First, as you watch gift after gift being opened a strange creaking sound begins in your womb, of course, indicating to yourself that you are getting old and your womanly duties are being grossly neglected. Secondly, and maybe this is just me, but every tiny shirt and shoe sends me into a tailspin and I find myself screaming out loud, "How is this possible that I want to eat a shoe because it looks so freaking cute?!" No, just me? Anyway, outside of my internal biological clock clanging like Big Ben, and the desire to eat tiny Gap clothes, I also find that baby showers can be very revealing in incredibly disturbing ways. What do I mean?
Well, I always heard the "fun stories" of giving birth - Like it's nine months of gaining weight, there's some kicking, you pick out a name, you wait in anticipation for your little angel and you have occasional doctor appointments. Then I went to a baby shower, and my safe world of "birth" came crashing down. First, IT'S NOT NINE MONTHS! Who decided to lie to woman and tell them nine months? I mean even wikipedia is in on the game. I googled "How long are women pregnant" and I got back "nine months" AND then followed up with it saying "40 weeks." Um, that's 10 months. Apparently, someone decided women wouldn't allow procreation if they thought it was longer than 9 months.

Secondly, I learned about contraptions, creams, bizarre after effects, breast pumps and a myriad of other things I'm not even sure I still fully understand. Again, where is the warm and fuzzy story? How come no one ever told me that you would need inserts for your bras so the leaking milk doesn't soak your shirt? Pads for bras? And not something I used in middle school to enhance my chances for a good time at our monthly dances? What is going on?

I still want kids, but I don't know if I'll be attending another shower anytime soon. I feel like next time we should all gather and someone can explain black holes in outer space. I think that would be less overwhelming.

The Myth of the Aircraft

On the way to Vegas there are numerous signs that read: "Speed Enforced by Aircraft." Now, I don't know about you, but I always thought these signs were jokes. Honestly, after seeing one, I always expected to see a follow-up sign that read, "Warning Easter Bunny Crossing," or "Warning over the Hill is the end of the Rainbow and a pot of gold." To me, the mysterious "aircraft" was just a myth...AND THEN...Yesterday, I made the delightful drive from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City. About five miles outside of Vegas, I started to get a little drowsy, so to wake myself up, I started to shake my legs. (This always used to work in college, so I figured it would have the same effect.) However, the only thing that happened was my foot pressed down on the accelerator and off I went. After two seconds of going close to 90, I took my foot off the accelerator and hit the brakes. Fast forward five miles and I'm being pulled over. According to the jack ass, who pulled me over, I was clocked by the "aircraft" at 88 miles an hour. Incredulously, I exclaimed, "What? Are you kidding me? The Aircraft got me?" (I had to restrain myself from using quotation marks while using the word aircraft.) To which he replied, "Yes, mama, the aircraft."

Now, I have received a ticket in the past, which to be honest, was completely warranted. (Between you and me, I still have no idea where he was because I was absolutely flying.) BUT, to receive a ticket by some mysterious aircraft just seems wrong. What's next? I actually receive coal for Christmas because of my love for Hellen Keller jokes? Will I receive a dollar if I yank out a tooth and put it under my pillow?!

So, to all of you beware - The aircraft is above us and watching...and so is some fat guy in the North Pole.

Not Tonight

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

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

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

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

The Go To Move

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

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

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

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

*I obviously don't do marijuana.

Frozen Like A Deer

I know this is a total winnie picture.

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

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

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

Sometimes Even Superman Can't Fly

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

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

Canadians Can Do Anything They Want

Today the following conversation took place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Back

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

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

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

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

Not The Reaction We Were Going For

Last Tuesday night I was given the opportunity to attend our church's annual "Standard Night." This is basically the night where the youth of our church learn about the importance of not drinking, doing drugs, using bad language and other such naughty things. After the two hour presentation, I ran into a friend of mine, who happens to be a youth leader like myself and said the following:

Friend: Did you ever see that documentary on McDonalds? You know the one where they talked about the negative effects of eating all that fast food?

Me: Yeah. Super Size Me. Right?

Friend: Yeah. Well, you know what I did after that movie? I actually went out and bought a Big Mac and supersized it.

Me: Wow.

Friend: Yeah. And you know what? I night like this, and all this talk of standards, makes me want to go out and just get ripping drunk, swear like a sailor and beat someone up.

Me: Wow. You have strange reactions to things people tell you not to do.

Decisions To Be Made

There are just some things we should have worked out ahead of time. For example, if you ever get the impulse to rob a bank, where are you going to hide the money and lay low until the heat dies down? Or if your child is not cute what are you going to say is his best trait so he doesn't grow up with a complex? And what would you do if you had to kill a man? Would you go for a good strangle or sharp object? You got to decide.

Unfortunately, I can't fully answer those above scenarios (though I'm working on them), but the other night, on my birthday, I was at least able to fill in one blank to a very important question. What's that question? (And how many times can I write the word "question" in one paragraph?)

Well: If you were on death row what would be your last meal?

My Answer: Maestros, Beverly Hills, CA. 12 oz filet with bone in, mashed potatoes and grilled mushrooms.

You laugh, but I'm not kidding, after eating this meal I was ready and prepared to say good-bye.

A Good Deed Punished

I consider myself a good wife. I try to cook, clean and watch my chick shows when the Jonas Brothers' Other Brother (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband)works late. However, I think I'm going to stop trying so hard. Right now, I'm typing with three fingers. Why you ask? Well, I decided today I was going to repair my husband's shoes with a little thing called Krazy Glue. (And Krazy it is) It said on the packaging this glue was "slow binding to the skin." I suppose their definition of "slow" is more like a bullet being fired? Or um...a rocket ship taking off?...Or um,hmmm...the speed of light? I Googled "How to remove krazy glue from skin" and found out the first suggestion is: "Don't let Krazy Glue touch your skin." Thanks Google for that sage advice.

I guess it's pretty cool since I just turned 31. Now when people ask me I'm ready to show my three fingers and 1 from my other hand.

The Luck Has Run Out

For the past few weeks I've been experiencing amazing luck. First, Duke won the National Championship (which of course, as an alumni I take full credit for). Second of all, I won a freaking free trip to Paris. Free. Third of all, I got pulled over for making an illegal U-Turn (which apparently is a $350 ticket) and was let go because I work at the restaurant the cop happens to love. And fourth of all, I found a $5 bill randomly on the ground while shopping. Sure it's not $100, but it paid for my freeee lunch.

Anyway, as amazing as all these events have been I'm sad to report my luck has officially run out. Today at church, I was informed I get the pleasure, no the honor, of taking our three teenage girls to camp in August. Yep, you are now reading the blog of the official camp director for my church. And how cool is it going to be? Well, when I was told about the new assignment I was warned about three things. 1. The camp we'll be attending (which by the way, is where they filmed M.A.S.H.) has a ridiculous amount of bugs. (awesome) 2. The girls need to learn how to make fire, tie knots and how to make food over fire before they go. (I'll be shortly introducing them to a lighter, duct tape and dried fruit) and 3. I'll also be expected to attend about ten meetings before we go, and ONCE we are there I need to construct "activities." (I hope the kids will enjoy "quiet Nap time" and "Don't talk to Kate for an hour.")

Mannnn...things were going so well.

I'm Officially a 30 Something

Well, today I'm 31. I would like to say I feel my age, but since I wore my retainer to bed last night, laughed at something deeply inappropriate at work the other day, and watched 90210 on my DVR yesterday I would say I'm feel more like a 13 year girl. Oh well, I don't know when I'll ever start acting my age. Hopefully, when my child goes to college I'll stop giving the finger to my friends and laughing at fart noises. Until then all bets are off.

For my birthday, I decided to share a little video from my childhood. It features my twin sister, who's birthday it is also today (a lot of people neglect to make that connection) and I think, it shows as to why I didn't pursue a dancing career.

Please enjoy my birthday tap dance...

Advice From a Mexican Sage

The other day I mentioned to a co-worker of mine, who is of the Mexican descent, that Big Poppa (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I have been trying to start a family for some time now. She was a little confused on what I meant by "trying to start a family," and decided to offer some advice. I swear to you this is a direct quote:

"You white people have no idea how to make a baby. Us brown people got it down. First, we eat only cheese, tortillas and chicken - which obviously, gives us lots to work with, and then when it comes to game time, we just go: insert two loud grunts and a strange gyration of her body. And that's how it's done. Stop thinkin' so hard - you white people..."

Now, every time I see her she just makes those grunting noises. I don't have the heart to tell her I have a slight hormone screw-up (official medical term) and not a problem with the actual process. Then again, maybe she's right. Maybe I should start eating more cheese, tortillas and chicken.

Tell Me You Like My Hat

For those of you questioning my ability to do accents - might this video put that debate to rest.

New Dawg in Town

I have an amazing aunt, who through sheer determination, has managed to win ridiculous amounts of contests. To be honest, I have no idea what her secret is. I don't know if she stuffs boxes with her name, bribes people in back rooms, has ESP or was born on some lucky day, but this woman has the touch. I think, and please cousins correct me if I'm wrong, but she has managed to win shopping sprees, trips and even a life size statue of Ja Ja Binks from Star Wars. There is nothing this woman can't do. For years, I lived in the shadow of this great and lucky woman, but today is my day of luck.

In January, my manager informed me that the top two sellers of a "Frequent Diner" promotion, from each restaurant in our district, would be entered into a contest to win an all expense paid trip to either Paris or Madrid. Now, I'm competitive, but not necessarily lucky, so I decided I would sell the promotions (I mean, you got cash for each one you sold) and then congratulate who ever won the trip. Little did I know that today my manager would call me and say, "Kate are sitting down?" To which, I would reply, "Why, am I being fired?"* And she would say, "Um, no. Actually, I'm calling because you won the trip to either Madrid or Paris!"

So yeah, Aunt Linda, move over - there's a new lucky dawg in town and this one is going to Paris for free!

I am planning on taking Little Napoleon (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband), but if he comes down with a case of the "I gotta work" please submit a 500 word essay on why you feel lucky enough to go with me. All submissions should be submitted before May 1st and please include a picture if you are between 25-30 years old and a male.

* I don't exactly steal money out of the register, but I have been known to eat a good deal of pastries.

Nominated For Being A Good Loser?

Today I found out that I have been nominated for "Coach of the Year." Now, in any other circumstance I would be humbled by this nomination, but this is a weird situation. One, I sort of feel like President Obama accepting the Noble Peace Prize. I mean, my team has won three games this year and been beaten by an average of 11 goals in each of our defeats. That's not exactly stellar coaching at work.

Two, I have been known to make somewhat belligerent comments during and after our games. Some of my favorites: 1. Getting a card at our BYU game (in the freakin' first half) after screaming out, really to no one, "Wow, so we are actually not reffing today? Good to know. I hate when I don't check my email. 2. For "muttering" "d-bag" after shaking Chico State's coach's hand and feeling good about it. 3. For screaming out, after a girl from UCSB tried TWICE and NOT even sort of successfully, to shoot behind her back, "That's it, because you definitely get extra points for difficulty in lacrosse. And by the way, the shot is even on goal, so let's go back to the old fashioned way of shooting! Shall we?"

And three, the nomination, put in by coaches from UC Davis, in itself was constructed to basically say, "This coach is great because when we were killing them she acted really cool." So, that's it. I'm nominated for being a good loser? No thanks. I would rather by nominated for my wit, my bitter sarcasm, my name calling, my attempts to trip refs as they run by, my 12 year old antics of informing my girls that they are already winners because the opposing coaches are either pedophiles, losers or some other choice playground term etc., etc., etc. Anything, but being a good loser. Seriously, it's downright embarrassing.

It Will Go Beyond Getting Your ZZZs

I know it's been a while since my last entry, but since last Saturday I have been in a nyquil coma. I don't know if I contracted the swine flu, the black plague or I'm being cursed for not getting a flu shot, but I have been bordering on death. Since my first cough I have been self-medicating myself with nyquil. Those of you not familiar with this drug, let me read from the bottle, sitting right next to me, what effects are listed: Excitability may occur, especially in children (this was probably written by a child on nyquil because there is no way someone becomes "excited" while on nyquil), and marked drowsiness may occur (when they say "marked" do they mean "extreme?"). It then goes on to say: be careful when operating heavy machinery or driving a motor vehicle and alcohol, sedatives and tranquilizers may increase drowsiness. (Who is taking tranquilizers with nyquil? That would be like eating a bowl of prunes and then drinking a glass of ex-lax to go to the bathroom. It's just not necessary.)

Anyway, after a few days on this miracle drug I feel like they really need to add some additional warnings and effects.

For example:
1. Nyquil may cause you to under react in extreme circumstances.
Where this conclusion came from: On Sunday, April 4, a 7.2 earthquake hit Southern California. I was laying in bed at the time, and while my bed was swaying back and forth and the blinds were rattling, I muttered, in a comatose state, "Stop the moving." Charles Ritcher (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) came running in and exclaimed, "Did you feel that!" Again, all I could do was roll over and moan.

2. Nyquil may cause you to lose all reasoning skills.
Where this conclusion came from: While on nyquil I decided, in between drinking my liquids and blowing my nose, I would send a document to Pepperdine. In the course of sending this document, I managed to uninstall our printer and title my email "ducument."

3. Nyquil may cause you to have weird food cravings.
Where this conclusion came from: Since Saturday I have eaten cool ranch dorritos, egos, granola bars, gatorade, oj, root beer and a slice of pizza. In any normal circumstance this food together would make me vomit, but since nyquil has deadened my appetite reasoning I find myself eating like a 13 year old boy.

I am happy to report today is my first day off nyquil and, though my hands are shaking a little bit, I plan on facing the day without it. Unless another earthquake hits - then it's back to the bottle...

Coaching is Awkward

I always thought being a coach would be easy. You show up, grab a whistle, steal some motivating lines from Rudy and tell a bunch of girls what to do. However, after four years of coaching, I can testify that it's not easy and surprisingly entails a lot of awkward moments. I know "awkward" sounds like a strange word, but honestly, it's the only one that fits. For example, during our game today one of my players turned the ball over six consecutive times. It got so bad that I had to signal in to our captains that no one was to pass her the ball. This strategy was working until this particular player got a loose ball and decided to shoot about ten yards out. Now, for those of you who don't know a thing about lacrosse, shooting ten yards out is like shooting a basketball from half court. No one actually does it in a real game, and if they do, it usually entails winning a car at half time.

Anyway, you can imagine I was sort of ticked off at this shot (which mind you, was at a critical time in the game) and I exclaimed from the sideline, "I swear (insert name of player) you are the absolute bane of my existence!" From that, I decided to continue to vent my frustration and said, "I swear she couldn't catch a ball if it was made of glue and she was holding a laundry basket!" Finally, after watching her make another unfortunate mistake, I decided to pull her out. Now, as a coach, I typically like to be ultra-positive when kids come out. I try to use it as an opportunity to coach them and build them back up. However, this time I wasn't really in the coaching mood. Instead, I said something like, "You are killing us out there. I said clean up the turnovers, and what do you do, but turn the ball over. I can't have it. You are killing me!" Now this is where her lip starts to quiver and I feel like a jerk. So, I quickly recover and say, "Hey chin up. You are having a rough day and I just need you to re-group and then you are going back in."* As I went to walk away, she turned around and said to a group of people sitting directly behind us, "Don't worry I'm alright." I then stopped in my tracks and turned around to see her entire family (grandma and all) sitting there with very unhappy faces. I suppose they heard me say the thing about the glue and the bane of my existence. So awkward. I wish Hoosiers or Rudy would address moments like this.
*She actually never went back in.

Locker Room Etiquette

I don't know if anyone has ever discussed this issue with gym owners, but let me shed some light on female locker rooms: About 99.9% of females don't enjoy being naked around other females. (The other .1% are typically European or grossly confident Exhibitionists.) So, please, people, build some changing rooms. That way I wouldn't have to walk into the locker room to use the bathroom and see some old woman's butt staring back at me. I swear seeing a bare and saggy butt before working out is like eating a chili cheese dog before running a marathon. It just ain't pretty and after about 30 seconds of running I promise, no matter how strong you think you are, you are going to vomit.

And lastly, might I just add a little word to you .1%, who insist on breaking the female code and undressing out in the open: Please for everyone involved, go into a bathroom stall, put up warning tape, change in your car or don't go to the gym. I don't want to see it and, trust me, us 99.9% don't want to either.

4 Stages Of Rational Behavior

I like to think that in most cases I behave like a rational adult. For example, today after working 9 hours, and running a goalie practice up in Malibu, I went to start my car and found it to be dead. Now, unlike most people, I didn't overreact. There was no banging the steering wheel, no giving the finger to people driving functioning cars and no girl tears*. (Okay, there was maybe a few choice words, but come on, the car was dead.) Anyway, I would say that that was one of my better moments. Last night - not so much.

Picture this: A weekend of lacrosse. Flight delayed an hour. Flight full. Man to my right kept trying to talk to me. Girl on my left kept talking to herself about how her mom was crazy not to be supporting her recent elopement. 45 minutes to get my bag. 30 minutes to wait for my shuttle. Endured two trips around the airport while stopping at every shuttle stop. And finally after landing 1 1/2 hours in LAX I was able to leave the airport.

Now here's the question: How did I react?

Well, let's start with the poor Chinese people who got in the shuttle on our second trip around the airport. While our shuttle driver got out and tried to help a lady find her destination address, I exclaimed, pretty much in their faces, "Is this for REAL? I swear this is ridiculous!!" Their response, "You live LA?" To which I muttered in exasperation, "You got to be kidding me. Not only am I in the shuttle from hell, but I'm with Chinese people who are taking pictures of each other inside the shuttle! Kill me now." (Cue Chinese people moving closer together.)

Anyway, once I was finished terrorizing the Chinese, I moved on to more productive things like, yelling out like a turrets victim, "Come on!" every ten or fifteen seconds. When that didn't work, I moved on to a more rational protest of throwing my head back, and while letting out a huge breath, would bring my hands to my head and mutter incoherent words. Finally, when I realized my driver was not coming back any time soon I moved on to the last stage of my frustration - "ANGER and HATE For Everyone." Now, I can't explain this stage fully, but basically, my anger reaches such a level that it becomes a virtual vacuum and everything and everyone, who has ever bugged me, comes to the forefront of my mind. And all I can do is sit in a state of utter frustration and chronicle the people I hate.

Here's what I came up with last night:
1. Shuttle drivers
2. Pilots, who act like if they are super chipper we won't notice we are going to be an hour late.
3. People who don't use blinkers.
4. People with bad breath.
5. Refs.
6. People who drive below the speed limit.
7. Greenpeace workers.
8. Snakes.
9. Rappers, who are basic idiots, but who will make more money than I'll see in my lifetime.
10. Men who coach womens lacrosse.
11. Parking ticket attendants.
12. Ugly people who make out in public.
13. People who talk with their mouths full of food.
14. Keith Olbermann

Okay that's all I can remember from last night. I'm telling you it's like a blind rage. Fortunately, I was never driven to the last stage...murder...

*You know - mascara everywhere, whining into a cell phone at some daddy far away.

My Neighbors Suck

I present to you all a problem...
Recently, I have noticed a series of nicks on the passenger side door of my car. (See evidence to your right) Now, I realize these unfortunate blemishes can be the result of poor parking at the grocery store, or the angry peckings of midgets. However, I fear, since I ride my bike to the grocery store and I haven't offended a midget in a long time, these annoying dents and scratches are actually the result of my neighbor's disregard for my car. How do I know it's my neighbor? Well, first, their driver side door has nicks on it where it would match up to my passenger side door. Secondly, they drive a crappy car and therefore are obviously jealous of my awesome 2005 Honda Accord. (sorry to anyone who drives a PT cruiser.) AND, every time I encounter them in the elevator or outside my car they ignore me. Yeah, ignore!

So, I come to you all for a solution. How can I stop this blatant attack on my car? How can I send a proper neighborly message of: "If you touch my car again I'm going to stab you with a fork?"

And just to add to your suggestions I've come up with a couple of my own:
1. Stealing their bikes. Eye for an eye baby.

2. Starting a conversation with them in the elevator that goes like this, "Man, great weather we are having. Doesn't it just make you want to come clean about destroying someone's car?"

3. Finding an angry midget to peck away at their car.

4. Bash in their front bumper. Oh, wait...(See picture to your left)

Okay it's only four ideas. I need your help. This madness has got to stop.

Mental Map of My Mind

Yesterday, on a beautiful Saturday*, I went downtown to see a high school orchestra play at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Why did I do this? Well, one, I went to support an awesome girl from my church, who plays the viola. Two, to go inside the Disney Hall, which was very cool. And three, because I love, I mean, LOVE, high school orchestras. There's just something exciting about the possibility of a freshman accidentally ripping a screeching sound off a violin, or the awkward kid, who "plays" the cymbals, to crash those mammoth things at the wrong moment or too loud. Oh, just the chance of disaster makes me get all sorts of excited.

Anyway, as I sat there listening to the orchestra, who I might add, was actually quite incredible, I found my mind wondering. It wasn't until the kid next to me whispered to his mom, "This is really boring," did I snap out of my trance and do a "mental map" of my thoughts. You know what I mean by the "mental map": the tangent thoughts you have from one original thought. For example, here was my mental map:

First thought: Wow, the orchestra conductor should really not wear black. With that lighting you can really see all the folds of back fat she has. Next thought: Back fat. I wonder if I have back fat? That woman has back fat. (Finding random woman in crowd) Why is that woman bobbing her head to the music? She's not at a freaking rock concert. I haven't seen a real concert in a while. I need to go to one before I get pregnant and can't do cool things. Next thought: Me with kids. I wonder if in fifteen years I'll be sitting in one of these things. Man, I hope not. What if my kid ends up like that cello player? Is that kid high fiving his friend after their part? What a loser. Man, I'm mean. That girl has got massive feet. How does she even...AND SNAP...that was my "mental map."

Try your own mental map. It's super fun. High school orchestras...not super fun.

*A total crime.

Party With A Parrot

On my way home from work today I saw a sign painted on a suburban that said: 602-428-STAN.

Driving the suburban was a creepy man, I'm assuming Stan, with a parrot on his shoulder.

All I could think was two things: 1. What the hell? and 2. What the hell?

Why Beetlejuice?

I couldn't use a picture of the subject matter. I'm sorry. It was too gross.

One would think at the age of 30 your skin would grow up and stop acting like a pre-pubescent 13 year old. I don't get it. Once you conquer three decades I think the zits should cease. Just saying.

Anyway, for the past couple of days I've been nursing a crater of pain just above my lip. I've never been more conscious of speaking and eating than I have now with the absolute epicenter of poison on my face. Of course, like all good human beings, I've been unable to leave this gift from heaven alone. I've squeezed it, touched it and prodded it to go away, but nothing has worked. Instead, all I've created is a nasty red wound.

Yesterday, as you can imagine, I was feeling rather self-conscious of my skin and went to work hoping no one would notice. Things were going well until I was asked to deliver food to a certain table. Sitting at this table was none other than Michael Keaton/My friend. As I placed their plates onto the table he asked me how I was doing, and then told me to show my eyes to his friend. Now any other day I would have been flattered that Beetlejuice wanted to admire my eyes, but this was not one of those days. As he pointed out to his friend the cool blueness of my eyes, all I could think was, "PLEASE, FOCUS ON MY EYES. DON'T LOOK DOWN. DOWN LOOK AT THE PUSS WAITING TO COME OUT OF MY VOLCANO OF PAIN! PLEASE!" After a few awkward seconds of staring at a stranger, and trying to hide my zit with an inconspicuous tongue, I made a lame joke about wooing my husband with my blue eyes and ran away.

Yeah, yesterday was a good day.

Breaking Out of My Shell

For those of you, who religiously follow this blog (Mom, Baby A, EMad and someone in Nova Scotia) you know that I have written many times about being unable to confront conflict.* My mom has informed many times, with a unhelpful shrug, that it's part of my genetic make-up to fear confrontations and arguments. I, for fear of upsetting my mom, accepted this hereditary disorder, and since I can remember, have been apologizing for things I never did.

Then one day I met and married Dr. Phil (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband). Through the past three years, Dr. Phil has been pushing me to break out of my passive state and fight back. I'm not going to lie - there's been some dark moments. There was the time I was severely cut off on the 405 and I didn't even attempt to honk. And then, we were at dinner and the waitress forgot about my order and I ended up apologizing for bothering her. It makes me shudder to think of those times.

However, today I think I would have earned a bright star in Dr. Phil's file. While riding home, (IN THE FREAKING BIKE LANE), after work I was almost run over by a chick in a Porsche. Now, the old Kate would have mumbled something under her breath like, "Geezz lady," and then continued home. But, not this new and improved Kate. First, I gave her the universal, "What the crap is your problem?" by lifting my arms in the air. She then responded, with her own hands in the air...and then it was on.

As we got to the intersection, she rolled down her window and screamed at me for erratically riding my bike. Oh, the test was on and she just raised the stakes. I then responded with, "Lady! (big step up from 'Excuse Miss') Are you insane? (Yeah, I went to a straight mental health reference) I was in the freaking bike lane. Learn to drive." (Okay, at this point I'll admit I was starting to get a little worried that I had insulted her. I mean, maybe she never learned how to drive and maybe her family was too poor to own a car, and therefore, she never learned the proper rules of the road. I didn't know her full story.) Fortunately, as I was about to offer a free car wash, she responded with, "YOU are the crazy one and I don't even see a bike lane!" This is when I heard Dr. Phil's voice (kind of like Yoda in Star Wars ) and said, "Are you really going with that argument? (I'm buying time) Seriously? (still buying time) (Okay, time for the zing) Lady, if you follow my hand I'll show you where the good workers of Santa Monica painted in the freaking bike lane. Oh look, there's a little stick figure of a bike so everyone, including you, will know it's indeed a FREAKIN' BIKE LANE!!" And as she drove off, I screamed, "You are crazy. Learn to drive!"

I have to admit it felt good. And I even received a round of applause from a fellow biker behind me. Actually, he might have been clapping to break my deranged moment of rage. Anyway...

* Or I'm a classic elementary school playground winnie.

It's Alright Alrighttt

Yesterday, while I was waiting for the doctor, I started to examine the wall of pictures of successful pregnancies and babies. As I looked through and determined which kids had a fighting chance at not being ugly like their parents, I noticed a picture of my doctor and Matthew McConaughey with his recent son. I don't know how I feel about me and Matthew McConaughey having the same doctor. On one hand, I feel good that, with all the money McConaughey has, he chose my doctor to deliver his baby. Yet, on the other hand I remember reading this quote from McConaughey and feeling like someone should have been stopping this craziness (that "someone" turns out should have been my doctor):

"The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard. 'It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit,' he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta."

I wonder if placenta harvesting is covered by my insurance?

If Only

As I mentioned in my last entry, my team had a rather "difficult" weekend playing lacrosse up in Santa Barbara. What I failed to mention was that, while my team was getting worked on the field, I was getting worked off the field. What do I mean? Well, before our second game started on Saturday, I realized someone had stolen my stick. Yeah, not only did we drive two hours to get killed by creepy men, but I also had to endure petty theft. It was in a nutshell the perfect weekend.

Anyway, because I had a game to coach and because there was about a thousand people at this tournament I had no chance to search for my beloved stick. Therefore, the following day I looked over the schedule and found out who had played on our field after our first crushing defeat. I had narrowed it down to two suspects (well, two teams with many conniving suspects) and set out to find my stick. I first went to the University of Texas's sideline, which of course, was absolutely covered in that burnt orange color and longhorns were strewn everywhere. (I swear, is their food at the cafeteria all dyed in burnt orange?)

Anyway, after not finding my stick there, I headed over to my second suspect's sideline: The University of Oregon. As inconspicuously as possible, I leisurely walked along their sideline. As I reached the end of their bags I saw my stick lying on top of a pile of other sticks. (Probably other ones these kleptomaniacs had stolen) After looking both ways, I quickly grabbed my stick and started to walk away.

Now here's where I fail in this story...I WALKED AWAY. QUIETLY. I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING!! Why am I such a weenie? I might as well of said, "Excuse me, Oregon. Sorry to bother you during your game. Um, I think you stole my stick yesterday. Yeah, it's right here. Um, I'm going to...no, I'm sorry for not holding on to it tighter, I'm going to take it back. Yeah, no. Good luck this weekend. Yeah, thanks." I swear, there are only a few moments in life I wish I could take back. (ex: cutting my hair really short my junior year in college and then sporting a mullet for the rest of the year while it grew out) I wish I would have said something like:

Kate: "Hey Oregon, is this your stick?"
Some Stupid Duck: "Yeah, it's mine."
Kate: (While charging her with a knife - it's my scenario) "Oh, so you are the (insert derogatory name) that stole my stick!!"
Some Stupid Duck: "Here's my wallet. Take everything inside of it."
Kate: (While throwing the wallet to the ground and grabbing her jersey) "Getta out here. You ain't worth it."

THEN I walk away...

Men and Lacrosse

This Picture is me telling the subject of my entry to hit the road...

Last weekend my team traveled up to Santa Barbara for a lacrosse tournament and managed to walk away 0-4. 0-4. I honestly can't say if we'll win a game this year. It's not that my team is particularly bad. I just believe, with all my heart, that all the teams we played this past weekend were actually doping, and some actually had men on their teams. No, I don't have any substantial evidence to back up these claims, but I'm sticking with that story, and yes, it helps me sleep at night.

Anyway, after our first loss on Saturday, I gave my girls the "we still have three more games" pep talk, and ran away to play in a post-collegiate game. (I just needed to hit someone with a stick and not be arrested for it.) As I walked back from my game I had to encounter numerous coaches, who I've had the pleasure* of interacting with over the course of fours years at Pepperdine. All of them consist of 30-35 year old men, who may or may not of actually played lacrosse at some point in their lives, decked out from head to toe in their school paraphernalia, holding a lacrosse stick (like that will instantly give them credibility), and who find it NOT at all weird that they hang out with a bunch of college girls AND never receive a paycheck for it. I absolutely loathe these men. I loathe them because 1. they think we are equals. We are not equals. I played lacrosse and now coach it. They watched a video on Youtube and now think they are experts. If I hear one more of them tell me something about Duke or a real Division I team I'm going to murder someone. Just because you subscribe to Lacrosse Magazine doesn't mean you ever wore a skirt and played our sport. 2. Their life is lacrosse. They recruit. They go to practice and they go to games. This would be great if they actually got paid for it, or if they could actually offer scholarships, or if this WASN'T CLUB LACROSSE! 3. And this is probably the worst part. Their teams win. I hate it. It makes me feel like maybe I should start watching more Youtube clips and going unemployed.

I swear, this season is going to either kill me or leave me with the biggest chip on my shoulder.

* When I say pleasure, I mean, more in the sense of pouring vinegar in my eyes.

Honesty Is Not Worth It

Last Friday, while driving home from practice, I decided to call my mom. Like a total idiot, I neglected to put my phone on speaker or to use my blue tooth device. Consequently, I was pulled over and asked the idiotic question of, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" I don't understand the logic behind this question. If I'm speeding, I know I'm speeding. If I'm snorting cocaine and changing lanes erratically, I know I'm snorting cocaine and changing lanes erratically. It's not that difficult. I wonder if they just ask the question in order to immediately make you feel like a little child, who got caught painting their room with magic markers. So, belittling...

Anyway, in response to his stupid question I replied, "Was it because I was on my cell phone? Because I was just looking at it because my phone is out of battery." (Cue showing cop cell phone out of battery. Wait five seconds. Cue phone beeping out of battery.) What can I say, my phone was honestly almost out of battery? I'm what you call "quick." Or a "liar."

Anyway, I could tell he was about to buy my story and then, after a little hesitation, asked for my paperwork. Sheepishly, I handed over my registration and proof of insurance, and then with as much polite flirtation as I could muster, batted my eyes and said, "So, I sort of forgot my license at home." He then marched back to his car, and I began to hear Erik Estrada (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) say over and over, "Why didn't you have your license or blue tooth on you?" I swear, there's nothing worse than the mockery of your spouse. Anyway, after a few minutes, (which by the way, what are they doing that entire time? Thinking of other stupid questions to ask like, "Do you know why what you did was so bad?") Anyway, again, he came back and informed me he couldn't find me in the system. Couldn't find me? Ha! I then repeated my birth date and watched him sulk back to his car. For a few seconds I wondered if I was about to get out of a ticket, and then I saw a van rental receipt I had from the weekend before. Written out on the contract was my license number. At this point, I was torn: Do I pretend I didn't see the contract and hope that the cop doesn't find me, or do I give my number and pray my honesty will get me out of the ticket? I've always been a little bit of a "gambler"* so I waved the cop down and gave him my license number. Minutes ticked off and he returned once more. He then said, "Because you were so honest, and not really on your cell phone, I'm giving you a warning." Immediately, I screamed a loud thank you and continued on my way.

As I called my mom back, this time on speaker, I began to reflect on what had just happened. I, immediately, realized I felt rather torn about the situation. Because on one hand, I felt bad for lying to the officer about being on my cell phone, and yet, I was sort of proud of myself for being honest. It was a strange feeling, and yet, if I had to do it all over again, I would, without a doubt, play the "out of battery" card any day of the week. Because let's be honest, honesty is not worth a ridiculous ticket or a spouse's disapproval.

* Actually, not at all.

Sore Loser

I mentioned before (see "I'm Old Now Get Off My Lawn") that I was going to milk my recent trip to Arizona into two entries. Well, here's the second one...

The other thing I realized, outside of becoming not nearly as cool as I think I am, is that I'm a terrible loser. I know this statement sounds rather obvious, being that I've played sports since I could walk and I'm now a coach, but let me explain. First of all, as I begin to accept the fact that my team is going to lose, I start to get even more sarcastic than I already am. For example, as a player, if my opponent is clearly going to win and then calls a time out, or stops the clock for an injury, I will start muttering, "Greeeattt. I wanted this game to continue. No, please take your time. This will allow the parents to properly loosen their wrists and hands before they applaud like a bunch of morons at the end of the game."

And as a coach, if I'm on the losing side, I first start with the players. (I don't really discriminate between which team.) I'll say something like, quietly of course, "How can someone that uncoordinated be winning this game? I swear, does Heaven even exist?" Or "I swear when we get back to Pepperdine I'm going to get (insert name of player) checked out for Ideational dyspraxia." *

After the sarcasm, anger and aggression take over. I can't even begin to apologize or recount all the cheap shots I threw at girls for no reason other than I was losing. Unfortunately, as a coach, I'm not really able to hit anyone. (Innocent water bottles lying on the ground don't really count.) Therefore, all I can do is give the evil eye, disgusted looks and sometimes fingers to spectators behind me. It doesn't feel as good as watching a happy winner become a dirty loser on the ground, but it blows off a little steam.

And lastly, once the sarcasm and aggression have subsided I make the final push and attack the opposing coach. (No, not physically attack. Come on that's insane.) But, I will, in my rousing pep talk at the end of the game, make several comments about the opposing coach in order for my girls and myself to know, that even though we might have lost the game, in life we were still ahead.

Don't judge. I hate losing.

*According to Wikipedia: Difficulty with planning a sequence of coordinated movements

Stop Talking

Today my ever awkward co-worker asked me how much I weigh. (Let me say, that nothing warranted this question. Absolutely nothing.) Anyway, for fear of getting in an even more awkward conversation, I told her how much I weigh. She then replied, "Damn girl, you weigh as much as my left butt cheek." I know I should have been flattered, but I was just grossed out...Oh the images in my head! Oh the images! (That would be my best Heart of Darkness impression.)

I swear, there is no end to the awkwardness this one girl can produce.

I'm Old Now Get off My Lawn

Poison - Bret Michaels - Something to Believe in - MyVideo

Please play the video before reading. I think like a good wine it will enhance the experience...

Last weekend I had the wonderful opportunity of driving a 15 person van down to Arizona. No, I didn't lose a bet. Instead, last weekend marked the beginning of my final season as the head coach of the women's lacrosse team at Pepperdine University. And how did it go? Well, let's put it this way, I left LA at five in the afternoon, on Friday, (while it was raining). Proceeded to sit in traffic for three hours. Arrived in downtown Gilbert, AZ at 2 in the morning. Watched my team lose in the last minute on Saturday. Drove to Tucson on Sunday. Arrived at the field in Tucson and found out the game was canceled due to rain. Drove back to Malibu to drop off the kids. Stopped by my apartment in Santa Monica for an hour to watch a little Super Bowl. Then drove to LAX to return the van and finally went home at 10 pm. So, yeah it was awesome.

I will say I realized some interesting things while driving a boat down to Arizona. The first, and which will be my entry for today, (yeah, I'm milking this trip into two entries) is that I'm old. I know, I know, 30 isn't old, but when you get in a car with a bunch of kids who were born in the 1990s you are old. I remember the 90s. Vividly.

Anyway, here's a few examples that reminded me I'm no longer as cool or as a young as I once was:

1. We were talking about memories of growing up and I said, "Man, the day the Challenger blew up was one of the craziest days." My kids' reply, "What was the Challenger?"

2. Feeling rather bold, I put my Ipod on shuffle. To my delight, "Something To Believe In" came up randomly. After a few seconds, someone asked, "Who is this?" I said, "This was my sixth grade boyfriend and I's song. It's Poison." My kids' reply, "Poison? You guys didn't have a good relationship?"

3. I have never professed to be a good texter. And apparently, my texting skills were deemed slightly better than someone's grandma, who suffers from arthritis. I'm sorry I can't remember which forsaken number corresponds with "T" and why "good" always comes up when I want "home."

4. And lastly, unlike all the young and vibrant college students, when I exited the van, I first had to gingerly step down because my back was asleep, then stretch my tight hamstring and finally slowly limp because my knee was locked.

Oh, getting old sucks. Come on Bret Michaels...give me something to believe in...

Thank Goodness

I know it was incredibly cruel of me to post about my basketball date with a quasi-movie star and then NOT report immediately on how it all went. Well, here's the thing...miracles do happen. When I arrived at the stake center I received a text message from Missy informing me that she had over slept and would be unable to attend. Now, I know what you are thinking - you think at this point I threw my phone down and cursed all those years of reading Tiger Beat and Perez Hilton to only be stood up by the celebrities I love so much. When in actuality, I was completely relieved because warming up on the court, while I received my text message, was one of the most motley crew of women I have ever seen.

Picture this if you will...(Now introducing the starting line-up for the LA Stake Women's Pick Up Basketball game)

1. An immigrant from Ukraine, who drops the F bomb every time she misses a shot and also screams in my face, "You want more?!!" in a bad post-communist accent, every time she makes a shot. (Which by the way, makes me want to send her to a work camp in Siberia every time she opens her mouth.)

2. A barely English speaking 5"0 woman, who dribbled every three steps and shot most of her shots two handed from her waist. I wanted to tell her to stop doing that, but all I could remember from Spanish class was Callela boca, Cerveza and Tengo que usar el baño. I guess the first one would have worked.

3. A woman, no a mom, who hasn't worked out since Clinton was in office, and who kept calling time outs so she could run over to the stage and tell her boys to stop fighting. I sort of suspect she was actually using the timeouts to suck on crystal lite and re-adjust her mom sweatpants from Target.

4. A girl who definitely never got picked at recess, gym class, sorority rushes, prom, or to sit in the emergency aisle on the plane. She's got a sweet spirit but if she shows up again I'm asking her to leave. You think I'm kidding. I would take the crazy Ukraine any day of the week.

5. And lastly, yep, just six of us...the token single girl who I think shows up to awkwardly flirt with the guys after our "game." She's not a bad basketball player, but I just don't think she's fully committed.

So, you can see that, though it would have been cool to hang out with a celebrity, this was NOT the venue for it. Can you imagine how traumatized she would have been? These are my people and I'm still recovering.

*Side note: the picture is entitled "Grateful African American" on google. And who says I don't celebrate Black History Month?