Kick Him While He's Down

Today in the paper I read the following article:

"Segway owner dies after falling off river cliff. All police found at the bottom of a cliff was a man's body in a frigid river and a Segway, the two-wheeled electric device that was supposed to revolutionize personal transport."

Now, there are few things that are funny* about this article. First, and obviously, the fact that the GUY WHO OWNED THE SEGWAY COMPANY dies while riding one. What's next Ronald McDonald choking on a quarter pounder?

Second, is it just me, or does the author of this article sort of hate segways? I mean, here he is reporting on a tragedy and he takes the time to sort of sarcastically say, "...the two wheeled electric device that was supposed to revolutionize personal transport." Why not just leave it at Segway, a two-wheeled electric device? Why go a step further to rub a little salt in the dead man's wound by basically saying, "Some stupid device that I found incredibly annoying and pointless." The man died falling off a cliff. Let him be.

* Not ha, ha, but more hmmm. There's a difference.

Found Snake

Tonight while I was walking back from my car I saw two signs stapled to a pole. One said, "Missing Cat" and the other one said "Found Snake." I'm not a detective, but I think there might be a correlation here.

And more importantly, who just found a snake and decided to make a sign for it? A snake? Really? So, next time I come across...say a...black widow should I be making a sign for that also?

False Advertising

* I couldn't get the actual advertisement but these are the pictures they used.

The other day I was driving down Santa Monica Blvd. and along the street were these ridiculous signs for the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra. I'm not sure who is in charge of their PR department, but I think they might want to re-think their whole marketing strategy. First, these signs don't make me want to attend their concerts. If anything, they make me want to donate money to cure whatever is ailing this individual. Honestly, he looks like he is suffering from either cerebral palsy, or from hemifacial spasms. Second of all, these "advertisements" sort of scare me. If I was shown this picture, without LA Philharmonic Orchestra all over it, I would think this guy was performing a exorcism or needed one himself. Honestly, this picture screams, "Come to my little concert so I can eat your little children."

Lastly, I think my biggest problem with these "advertisements" is the fact that orchestras are not cool. Going to the symphony is not cool. So, don't try to make some edgy poster to convince me otherwise. I've been to the symphony, and some eccentric and overly excited conductor is not going to change the fact that every song is going to sound the same in my head, and each second I spend trying to like the experience is only going to send me into a fit of rage.

Dear PR Department of the LA Philharmonic Orchestra,

Next year please be more honest in your advertisements. I really feel like a picture of an old man sleeping, empty seats or zoned out faces would really be more accurate.

Thanks,
Kate

Yooo Hooo semite

A few weeks ago John Muir (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I traveled to Yosemite National Park. Please enjoy the pictures.We got to the entrance of the park in five hours, but then had to drive an additional one hour and forty-five minutes to our campsite. Yosemite is huge! Behind John Muir is El Capitan.The next morning we woke up and did an awesome hike. Behind our friends is the first waterfall we saw.This is where we stopped for lunch.Nevada Falls. My favorite picture of the day. Oh wait...actually this was my favorite picture.We drove up to Glacier Point to see the entire park. Outside of almost running out of gas and watching a Japanese girl almost fall to her death, it was an amazing view.

A Little Flashback

Today I was organizing some pictures and I came across this gem. I love that while I was passed out my husband thought to take this picture.

Oh Kelly Clarkson!

Last night Nurse Betty (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) had to work late, so I had to give myself a shot. There's nothing worse than inflicting pain upon yourself.

I can only compare the experience to this clip.

May You Rest in Peace Michael

I know, how much can I milk our trip to Universal Studios? I just had to make this a separate entry because I absolutely love this picture. Picture a sea of people shuffling along a rather famous sidewalk. In the middle of this, my smooth criminal drops to his knees and the following picture is taken.When he came up, an African American man looked at my husband and said, in sort of an accusatory tone, "That's my man." I wanted to tell the guy, "Um, maybe Jackson 5 days, but I think we can claim him Bad on."

Stark County Meets WWE

Because of my political science degree I found this quite amusing...Oh, and the fact that this guy is nutso.

Universal Studios Hick Style

Here's the thing...when the husband and I do something - we don't really do it in the most conventional sort of way.

At first, we took some normal pictures.















And then things got out of control. The picture of the husband was absolutely hilarious. As soon as the husband touched his hips, he completely freaked out, and I'll be honest, I don't think the Monkey saw me coming. What can I say - I was feeling the spirit of Universal Studios.















And then...things continued to go south.












And the characters continued. Yes, that would be a female mullet.

The Star of the Show

Today, Mr. Ed (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I decided to head out to Universal Studios and get a little touristy. I have more pictures to post, but I thought this short video would be a good introduction into our visit.

Location: Animal Show

Volunteer: Mr. Ed (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband)

Living in the 90403

The past couple of weeks Larry Appleton (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I have been looking for a new apartment. Our only criteria has been the following: Santa Monica, 2 parking spaces and a dishwasher. Sounds like that would be an easy fit. Well, not where we live. Last weekend I went and saw a bedroom apartment for $2,400 a month. (Yes, for those of you not living in California I did write $2,400.) Here's what I encountered at this "luxury" apartment listing: the elevator didn't work, the door looked like a crazy bear had tried to break it open, the front room sported a delightful blue spot about the size of my face, there was only 1 closet and when I opened the refrigerator, I definitely smelled something like cat urine...definitely cat.

I swear Santa Monica for $2,400 I better see a dancing bear serving waffles, a hot tub in the 2nd bathroom, an included cleaning service and car wash each month and a talking squirrel that does my dishes.

Reality TV...come on....

There's many reasons The Bachelor, and any spin-off of it, bother me. One, it pains me to watch grown adults vie for someone's affection, not because they are actually in love, but because HUMAN BEINGS ARE COMPETITIVE. Two, I think Chris Harrison should be fired, or at least paid 1/10 of his salary. I mean, the guy only says, "There's a Rose Ceremony," "When you are ready," and "There's only one final rose" and gets paid probably g-gillons dollars of monies.

And lastly, and this is where I get the most fired up, I hate, no I loathe, when the Bachelor or Bachelorette imply that they came up with the dates. Yeah, I believe some unemployed Reality TV star just happened to be sitting in their mansion dreaming up a helicopter ride over San Francisco, followed up by zip lining down the Grand Canyon and dinner at a private club in Vegas. Sure....

Come on Reality TV, you had me at "When people stop being polite... and start getting real..." Just keep things classy.

Mom and Daughter Moment

I know this is probably an old video for some of you, but I enjoyed watching this after a long day of work.

I don't know what I enjoyed more, listening to my mom giggle on the phone as we listened to this together, or the fact that she was driving to a church activity. If you haven't met Barb - you haven't fully lived.

The Two Cards You Need

For the past year and an half I've had some pretty cool interactions with celebrities. I was able to explain the game of lacrosse to Michael Keaton, I saw Kate Hudson just a few days before her breast augmentation, I asked Queen Latifah if the three meals she was ordering were for her or for her friends (they were for her, if you were wondering) and I was able to tell Anne Hathaway I was a big fan of hers. (Which I was sort of awkwardly forced into because my other co-workers were telling her she was great and I had to be like, "Yeah, Princess Diaries...wowww.")

However, as exciting as these experiences were, they unfortunately, did not prepare me on how to deal with when a celebrity becomes your real friend. For example, about a year ago I became friends, through her daily appearances at the restaurant, with a particular celebrity.* This particular celebrity then scored a starring role on a new show, shot the show and then invited me to watch the first episode with the cast. Everything was going swimmingly up to this point. And then, I saw the first episode, and the second and then the third. Now, I'm not sure how to proceed. If this person was a normal friend I would say, "Yo, saw your crap on TV last night. Are your writers escapees from the crazy farm, because I'm not buying a single minute of this."**

But, with a celebrity friend it's much different. I mean, one, I have a friend on TV right now - you don't mess with that. You keep that card tucked right behind the "I lived in Mongolia for a year and a 1/2" - those two cards ALONE will destroy any "one upping" conversation you might find yourself in. Two, she might move beyond this disaster and then become truly famous - which again, will be an even cooler card to play. So, this is the dilemma I'm in. Be honest or keep the celebrity as a friend? Hmm....If winning "one up" games were just not so much fun...


*The name will not be revealed because she might be in the habit of googling herself and then how do I explain, over a warm latte, that I cyberally took her down.

**That's actually a lie. Let's be honest, anyone who knows me knows there's no way I could be that forthright. Instead, I would just tilt my head and say, "Look at you. Heyyy..."

Neat

Some of you might not know, but outside of coaching lacrosse, changing young girls' lives and working at a restaurant, I also dabble in the video editing world. Before I decided to run off to LA, I was working for an incredibly demanding man* editing family biographies and any other fun project that got dropped into our laps. When I first starting working for this demanding man I started a biography for a particular family. For many reasons, the project never got finished and now, almost six years later, I'm finally attempting to whittle down there "exciting life" into a 2 hour video. However, I'm having a bit of a hard time.

One, I'm trying to remember what I actually shot and edited four years ago, and, how do I say this, these aren't the most interesting people on earth. For example, their favorite word to describe everything from the birth of their daughter to the creation of their company is "neat," and when they really want to throw an exclamation point at the end of an idea they'll say, "And that was really fun." For those of you who have never edited something it goes like this: you listen to a clip about ten times, drop it in your timeline, listen to it some more, edit some pregnant pauses, listen to it again and finally listen to it as a whole. In total, you probably listen to a clip 100 times. So, let me be perfectly clear, if I hear the word "neat" one more time I might stab myself in the ear with a pen.

To ward off my own suicide, I've started a new game with the subjects of my biography. The game goes like this: After hearing a lame story for the 30th time, I'll say out loud, in my most sarcastic drawl, "Neat story Sue."** Or when they say "And that was a lot of fun," I'll respond, again in grand sarcasm, "Sure was Steve."** Sure it doesn't stop them from being incredibly boring, but at least it helps me keep my sanity. (because talking to one dimensional people seems completely sane.)

*There's your shout out.

**(name has been changed to protect the privacy of my clients)

My Dangerous Job

The caption of this picture should be "Would you like a bigger chance of death with your burger?"

According to The Week (my source of news...at a week late) the "Health Scare of the Week" is: A recent study found that 40 percent of cash-register receipts from major retail outlets carry significant traces of bisphenol A, or BPA, an industrial chemical that lately has come under close scrutiny for its possible impact on health. Even low level exposure has been linked to heart ailments, cancer and behavioral and reproductive problems.

Um, so being a cashier might be a slight problem? Great not only are years being taken off my life due to stupid people, but the receipts I hand to these stupid people might also be killing me. I think I'm stealing a cookie tomorrow. That place owes me.

Camp Observations

Well, it's official: I survived Girls Camp. Now, before I make a few sarcastic observations about the experience, let me just say that I actually had a pretty good time and only said out loud once, "Give me strength." (I won't, however, repeat some of the things I thought.)

Anyway, first observation: I understood that as a leader at Girls Camp I needed to set a good example and show a good attitude. However, as hard as I tried, there were just some things I couldn't condone nor participate in with my fellow leaders. For example, one night we met with another camp from Pasadena and had a "Sing Off." Now, I'll admit I'm not really a "singer," but that isn't where the game broke down for me. Instead, my biggest problem was the songs we were expected to know and sing with all our hearts. What songs you ask? Well, first - Disney Songs and the second - musicals. Now, I've seen some Disney movies and I've seen my fair share of musicals, but I wouldn't say I could actually sing a verse from any of these genres. But, you know who could? THE ENTIRE CAMP AND STAFF. So, there I sat, watching in disbelief, at the crowd of grown women singing at the top of their lungs, not just a short chorus, but almost an entire song from Hairspray.*

After 30 minutes of music torture, I stupidly shouted out, "How about some current songs?" and was responded with, "Um, hello, Wicked came out a few years ago." Right you are Momma Jean wearing woman.

Second observation: Kids today are fat. On the second day, we scheduled a hike, and absolute hysteria swept through the camp. I've never seen such fear of exercise in anyone's face. You would think we were asking them to hike 100 miles, with only one water bottle and a flip flop. The hike ended up taking 40 minutes, and that was after two rest stops. Fortunately, at the end of our hike brownies, cheese, crackers and fruit were provided. Because after walking a mile you really need to replenish those 100 calories you burned.

Last observation for the night: Some kids are cool and some are not. As hard as I tried, I could not, how do you say, enjoy one particular child. She was exhaustingly helpless, constantly miserable and thought hanging on me was a way to my heart. I tried each day to befriend her, but by breakfast, I always found myself sticking an imaginary gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. I just don't understand how some kids can be so endearing and others you just want to find their parents and ask, "Really?"

More stories to come.

*How did I know it was from Hairspray? Because I turned to my neighbor and said, "Um, what in the world is everyone singing?" And she replied, with an incredulous look, "Hello, Hairspray!" And, then I had to throw my hands up in the air and say, "Oh yeah, I always used to listen to that soundtrack when I read Twilight." To which she said, "Me TOO!" And then, I thought, "I was trying to be funny and now I feel like a moron."

The "Break Room"

A few weeks ago my place of work instituted the "break room." Now, instead of enjoying a meal in our hip dining room, we have to take our break in an empty room next door. At first, I thought this sounded like a great addition to my workday. I figured I would take my bowl of cereal, sit up to a quiet table, pull out my book and enjoy some peace and quiet. Little did I know that this room was going to be anything but peaceful. First of all, this room is quiet, which means any sound made echoes through its walls. Therefore, and I hope SOMEONE is reading this from work, if an individual orders, say...NACHOS, at nine in the morning, you are going to hear every freaking chip break in their mouth and every swallow of the coke to wash it down.

Second of all, before we instituted this mandatory Chinese torture, we really should have had an etiquette class on the following: chewing with your mouth open, breathing while you are chewing, using your hands as utensils, answering your phone while you have a mouth full of food and snoring after your meal. I really think had we gone over these things this room could have actually been a "break" room. Now, it's become the room from hell.

You think I'm exaggerating? Okay tough guy, next time you sit up to a meal picture this: A guy walks in with a plate full of eggs, chips, cheese and whatever else he got his buddy to throw on his plate. As you quietly eat your meal he proceeds to shovel (yes, this would be the appropriate verb, since he really isn't chewing and his hands are forming a cup) food into his mouth, and just when you think it can't get any worse you notice he actually has sour cream all over his cheeks and chin. Desperately, you look around for a napkin, but all you see is a pile of newspapers. From the newspapers you check back to your dining companion and realize he has used the back of his hand, and oh wait for it, yep, that was a good sounding burp. Are you getting an apology for this ghastly dining faux pas? Absolutely not.

When you can picture that and not get slightly nauseous, well then, you just might be ready for the "break room."

A Little Overboard

Does this strike anyone else as a "little" extreme?

Summer in California?

The husband has always called me "Abnormally Cold Woman." (There's even a song to it.) Put me in any restaurant around the world and I'll ask, when we sit down, "Do you feel cold?" I layer in movie theaters, I truly believe there's a conspiracy in my church against women because I'm always close to hypothermia, I always bring a sweatshirt to the beach and don't even get my started on airplanes. You would think growing up in Pennsylvania, serving a mission in Mongolia and living in Utah would make me less sensitive to the cold, but unfortunately, that's not the case.

So three and a half years ago, I got married and moved to sunny southern California. I figured my days of goose bumps and layering were over. Silly me. Since I moved here I can recall three weeks where I have been legitimately warm due to the weather outside. Three weeks. The rest of the days? Well, I know there are those of you who will scoff at what I'm about to say, but it's cold here. Today, I went for a run with the husband, and it was 64 degrees. No, we weren't running at the crack of dawn or in the middle of the night. Just mid-evening when the temperature dropped two degrees from what it was today. Yeah, our high for today? I staggering 66 degrees. Folks, it's August. I need heat. I need laying in bed wishing some small boy was waving a giant leaf over me. I need a desire to wear shorts and t-shirts. I need a little perspiration to form from walking outside. I need a freaking summer. I know, there are those of you in Arizona who hate me right now, but honestly, I'm sick of being cold. Alright, I got it out. Time to put the down comforter over my head and go to bed.

License To Illl

Here's a video of the song done by a horrible high school. I thought it was so bad, it was actually awesome.

Today, Mike D of the Beastie Boys came into the restaurant. I'll admit my powers did not sense his presence, and even after seeing him, I wasn't sure if that was actually him. Come on, I bet even Superman couldn't see through EVERY wall. Anyway, this sighting, though it wasn't offically mine, was actually pretty cool because the very first tape I ever bought was the Beastie Boy's album "License To Ill." Why my mother ever allowed me to listen and to purchase this tape I'll never understand. Anyway, I remember one day we were cruising in our purple Oldsmobile station wagon (which was actually a tank developed by the federal government during the Cold War) and I decided to play my new tape. For some reason songs like "Brass Monkey" and "Fight For Your Right" had no effect on my sweet mother. It wasn't until I sang the lyrics of "Girls" did my mom finally snap out of her taxi driver mode and exclaim, "Kate what is this?" The lyrics you ask. Well, picture a fifth grader singing this in the back seat:

Girls - to do the dishes
Girls - to clean up my room
Girls - to do the laundry
Girls - and in the bathroom
Girls - that's all I really want is girls
Two at a time - I want girls

I thought they were talking about hanging out with their friends. I really should have told Mike D today that his music is really chauvinistic. (Because that would wipe away the memory of horror on my mother's face.)

Reality Check

Okay last story from camp, but there was so much material. At the end of camp, I announced, "If anyone would like some personal feedback, please come up to one of the coaches and we would be happy to discuss some things you can work on." Within 30 seconds, I had about ten kids lined up in front of me. Now, I'll admit, when I made the initial announcement I assumed that only the "good" kids would come over. I neglected to factor in that the "bad" kids were also going to come looking for some feedback. So, this is how it went down:

Good Kid Feedback From Me: "You had a great camp. I would work on developing your defense and keep building your confidence."

Bad Kid Feedback From Me: "Have you ever thought about swimming? There's no contact, you don't have to have a group of girls depending on you to play your part, you get to be under water so people can't really hear you, it can be cheaper than lacrosse and what a life skill? Who doesn't wish they could swim better? Alright, have a great summer."

Honestly, parents please make my job easier. Sit your uncoordinated children down and have a heart to heart. Apologize for the lackluster gene pool, inform them that they were sent to camp because you needed some time alone and remind them not to put an unsuspecting coach on the spot with a ridiculous question of: "So, what do I need to work on?"

Unnecessary Beatings

So, last week during lacrosse camp, we experienced some fantastic lightning storms. During one particular storm we decided to usher all the campers into a metal pavilion, and while waiting for the skies to clear, tell stories of our "Favorite Lacrosse Moments." For the first five minutes, my fellow coaches told wonderful and heart warming stories of last minute victories and epic teams. When it came to me the only story I could think of was the following:

The setting was downtown Philadelphia, the opponent was Temple University and I was a timid freshman. The scouting report on Temple was anything but positive. They were brutal girls, who were known for punching you in the ribs when the ref wasn't looking, and cussing you out when the ref was looking. The night before the game our coach implored us to not retaliate. If they hit us, we were to walk away. If they said something about our mothers, we were to nod and smile.

When we began the second half, the score board read 11-2. (Not in our favor.) After a few minutes, I came to the conclusion that we were most likely going to lose this game, and therefore, I might as well start the "unnecessary beatings." For those of you who haven't played sports, or usually act like grown-ups, "unnecessary beatings" typically means you take cheap shots at your opponent because you can't beat them in a regular way. I know it sounds childish, but for me, it's always helped to alleviate the pain of a loss. It's sort of like if I can't play tomorrow either will you.

Anyway, my "unnecessary beating" came in the form of a "slight" shove while we both were running out for a clear. Unfortunately, my opponent didn't appreciate the game I was playing, and in a split second, she lowered her shoulder and lifted me into the air. As I fell back, I looked over at the stands and saw my mom covering her face, Temple fans pointing and laughing and my dad screaming, "Go get herrrr!!!" As I pulled myself up, I had one objective: find that chick and kill her. Across the field I found her and started running in her direction. As she saw me coming, she stopped running away and started running towards me. So, there we were running at each other at full speed. When we met, I held out my arm and clotheslined her just like I had seen my heroes do every Saturday morning on WWF. Instantly, the ref blew her whistle, pulled out two cards and we were set to our sidelines. As I sheepishly approached my coach, she grabbed my jersey and said, "Nice hit. You are going in in two minutes." Once I got back into the game I was on fire. I went to goal with absolute no fear, and dared any chick to get in my way. My team responded to my aggression and we ended up losing the game by three goals.

Now, I'll admit this is truly my favorite lacrosse moment, but probably not something I should have shared at camp. Because there I sat, in the little hole I had dug, trying to tell a sea of terrified faces that violence is not a good idea and should not be resorted to during any circumstance.

What can I say? As a youth speaker I failed. Miserably.

The "S" Word

My mom never liked when I said the "s" word, (no, not shit). Instead, she hated when I said, "I suck at..." or "that really sucks..." I don't know why that word fell under the category of "Bad Things To Say That Really Aren't Bad,"* but sweet, sweet B-ba never approved. Well, Mom, cover your ears because I'm about to get all sorts a crazy in this entry about things I...yep, here it comes...suck at.

What caused this entry? Well, for the past three and an half hours I've been ironing Philip Drinker's (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) shirts. And well, I suck at it. I don't think if I worked at a dry cleaners for the rest of my life, (insert comment about being Korean), (insert apology for racial stereotype), or if practiced all day could I iron ONE forsaken shirt in less than 30 minutes. I don't know if I'm missing a "wife gene," or if I'm really bad with pressing hot objects down on cotton, but I suck at ironing. And, by the way, who decided we needed to look all pressed and neat? Whoever you are - I'm not a fan.

And since I've already offended my sweet mother, let me just continue on a few more things I suck at. 1. Listening to my messages. I currently have something like 40 unheard messages in my inbox. I don't know why I'm so bad at this, but just know, when I call back I have absolutely no idea why you called. 2. Hiding my thoughts when I look at someone. You will, by the look of my face, know if the girl, who just passed me, is wearing proper sized shorts or not. 3. According to Mr. Drinker (I just asked for his opinion) the English language. It's not that my vocabulary is bad, I just don't know how to properly pronounce things. (It sucks being smart and not being able to show off.)

Okay, I think that's enough for now. You suck for wanting more...

* The taboo list also included: guts, piss (in all forms) and ass. Okay, the last one is a lie. Who can really get mad at a kid who says something with ass in it?

The Different Stages of Camp

Today, was the first day of my lacrosse camp here in good ol' Sandy, Utah. For me, first day of camp always involves stages of emotions. For example, no matter how hard I try, I always find myself being way too sarcastic during the first morning. I really need someone to remind me that singling out a girl during the first hour, and declaring she is most likely going to be the "most improved"* is not something I should say. Secondly, once I stop being overly sarcastic, I move to the next stage, which is overly excited. Of course, this stage happens, when I realize I've insulted at least six girls, and I now need to act like I love lacrosse and camp, so they don't draft a lawsuit for the following day. Once my excitement starts to wane, and my voice is almost gone, I go to the next stage of, "Why did I agree to coach this camp in the first place?" This emotion causes me to berate girls, who are talking in line, by saying, "Oh, I get it. You actually know all of this. I guess I'll just take your pinny and you can have my whistle. Please continue with coaching us at this camp." (I agree, this stage seems awfully close to my initial stage of sarcasm. They are, however, quite different. The morning sarcasm is supposed to be funny, where as, afternoon sarcasm, is truly mean and sort of like a tired toddler lashing out.)

Once I've struck fear in every campers' heart, I move to the final stage of gratitude. Now, don't misunderstand me, this is not when I grab all the campers, and with a tear in my eye, thank them personally for coming out to camp. No, the only gratitude I feel is looking down at my watch and realizing I'll be in my car in 20 minutes. Now, that's something to be grateful for.

So, I know, you are wondering why do I do this? Well, for a few reasons. One, I get paid. Two, I feel incredibly coordinated when I leave. And three, well, okay, I sort like coaching....I know, totally lame ending to this entry.

*Of course, when I say "Most Improved" I'm actually implying, in an incredibly sarcastic way, "This girl looks desperately unathletic, and anything she learns will be not only a miracle, but a vast improvement."

Our Endangered Menu

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Gonna Break the 11th Commandment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4 Gallons of Juice

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

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

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

*Not actual weight.

I Gots Crazy Hormones

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

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

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

It's Britney...

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

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

Quite the Pet

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

Satan's Minions

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

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

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

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

Archaelogists Are Smarter Than Doctors

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

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

Kate: "An archaeologist?"

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

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

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

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

The Torture of Audiobooks

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

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

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

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


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

Just Talk in The Third Person Already!

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

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

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

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

Denny's Elistism

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

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

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

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

* I'm a snob?

Little Red

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

















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

I'm An American And I Hate Fireworks

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

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

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