Look at My College Degree At Work

For the past couple of days fellow alumni of mine from Duke have been coming to the restaurant to dine. I'll admit, these aren't my favorite encounters. There's just something slightly demoralizing about reconnecting with one of your old classmates as you wear an apron and ask if they want coleslaw or fries with their cheeseburger. However, the thing I hate the most is the unspoken conclusions I imagine my friends are coming to as they see me bus tables and run food. Like: "Oh Kate, didn't seem like the type to get knocked up after school, give the baby up for adoption, fall into heroine and now, 10 years later, getting her life back together as a lowly waitress." Or "Hmmm...waitress? Yeah, I could see that. She always seemed like the lowest paying job type of person." Honestly, I can see it in their faces.

So, what do I do? Well, after loathing our chance meeting, I find myself saying absolutely ridiculous things. Like today, after encountering a guy, who's roommate I dated for a semester, I said, and mind you this was completely out of context, "Oh, and just so you know this is a total part time gig. My husband has a really high paying job as an attorney." Really - did that just come out? Or a few weeks ago, a past basketball player at Duke, who never actually graduated or attended a single class and who makes more money than I'll see in my lifetime, came in, and I said, "I just picked up this shift to help out my friend. I actually work from home." Work from home?! Doing what - professional checker of Facebook? I'm a total fraud!

Oh well, at least I get the sympathy tip.

One Swing At the Clown

After four straight days of golf I find myself with one complaint: This is not a sport that allows or accepts natural reactions. For example, throughout my athletic career I was always allowed to express my frustration and anger while playing the sport. If I was playing lacrosse it was completely acceptable for me to run down my opponent, wildly check at their body and cause mild bodily harm. If I was playing basketball no one cared if I flagrantly fouled a chick as she drove the ball down the paint. And if I was playing tennis no one really minded if I launched a ball over the fence.

Now with golf - it's a completely different story. Hit a bad drive and all you've got is a head down in shame, a rough grabbing of your tee and crestfallen walk back to the cart. Does this help you feel better about slicing your ball into the water? Absolutely not. Try chunking a ball 100 yards away from the green. All I find I can do is yell incoherent noises at the ground while I angrily stamp my chunk of grass back into the fairway. Again, this does nothing to relieve my frustration.

So, here's what I suggest. As soon as you hit a bad drive you are given one swing at a clown, who stands there watching and waiting for you to release your pent up anger about your crappy shot. Why a clown? Because everyone out on the golf course seems to be having a great time, and as you watch your ball disappear into a ravine, the only thing that's going to make it better is if one other person isn't smiling. My second suggestion is to allow more throwing of clubs. I really think this could go a long way. (pun intended) Honestly, let's say in the game of golf you get one traditional score and one score based on how far you are able to launch your club down the fairway, or how close you can fling your putter to the cart. Can you imagine how fun this would be? It would be like golf meets javelin throwing.

And lastly, may I suggest a little less Masters and little more Happy Gilmore. Honestly, the lack of celebration in golf is killing me. When I scored a goal in lacrosse we used jump up and down screaming in a pack. Now when I hit a long put in golf I just nonchalantly walk over to the cup and retrieve my ball. No one likes this...especially me. Instead, I wish it was acceptable to ride your putter like a horse around the green, shouting, "Whoop, there it is!" as you swing your visor around like a cowboy hat. Or if you hit a great drive I wish it was totally cool to slide into the grass as your golfing buddy slid next to you and raised arms in victory. Honestly, I need something because this game is way too buttoned up for me.

Accidents and Idiots

A few hours ago the husband and I returned from a golf trip to St. George, Utah. As we were approaching the 10 from I-15, we were stopped by an accident. Being that we live in an area with a very high concentration of traffic, accidents on the highway are, unfortunately, a frequent occurrence. However frequent these accidents are, I will never understand three things: 1. Why idiots, who drive these incredibly busy highways every day, still continue to be complete morons and cause these accidents? Two, why, why, why can't someone invent a machine that pulls up all the cars involved in the accident and MOVE THEM to the side of the road? Instead, we get to sit in three hours of traffic while Hector from West Covina argues with Malibu Mom about his broken bumper in the middle lane.

And lastly, why must you morons, who were not involved in the accident, drive five miles an hour as you pass by the scene of carnage? Are you hoping to see a dead body? Are you thinking in that ten second drive by you will be able to assess the situation and testify later, when of course you are called for your testimony, as to who was at fault and who was not? Or are you trying to find the idiot, who caused the accident, so you can add one more look of disapproval to their already stellar day? (Because that's what I'm trying to do.)

Honestly, all of you who faithfully read this blog, promise me, if you come across an accident, that is being fully taken care of, press on your accelerator and fight the urge to look. You'll be a better person for it...unless you find the idiot who was texting and caused the whole thing. Then find him, stare him down and shake your head in disappointment.

And the Bed Making War Begins

Last night I complained to the husband about his lack of bed making skills. I informed him, that as the last person to get up, it was his responsibility to make the bed. I came home today from work and found the following...
On the phone he informed me that he made his part and that I'm the one lacking in my own bed making skills. Damn lawyers and their technicalities.

My Angry Egg

For the past couple of weeks I've been watching the U.S. Open which has caused me to reflect on my own short tennis career when I was a young girl. Many of you might not know this, but at 12 years old I was ranked #1 in Delaware for girls 12 and under AND #1 for girls 14 and under. Now, before you ask why I'm not currently playing on the tour, let me explain a few things. One, there were three of us under 12, who played tournaments, and there were like two other kids under 14. So, if you won a tournament or happened to beat 2 of the random kids under 14, you got to be the reigning champ of Delaware. Yeah, I said Delaware. So, that's what I did.

Second of all, I really should have been tested for some type of growth hormone or steroid use. You see, at 12 years old I was basically a grown woman. Honestly, I think since that age I've gained about ten pounds and grew about 2 inches. So, again the vast competitors of Delaware had no chance against my freak of nature strength and size. (As did the poor boys I attempted to have crushes on in middle school. To this day, I think most of them held my hand due to sheer fear.)

Anyway, outside of this horrible attempt at a humble brag, my experience with tennis growing up was pretty funny. There was one chick, who looked like an angry egg, I always had to play in the finals of every freaking tournament. Honestly, in my memory she's just this round and unemotional blob. She would never say anything except grunt an occasional "out" when she needed a point, and when I fought her to prove it, she would attempt to shrug, but being that she was a rounded egg, shrugging was difficult, so after a few minutes of me ranting she somehow would just move on to the next point without really resolving anything. Eventually, I stop fighting her bad calls. I mean, watching that attempt to show emotion through her shoulders was just too much for me at that age.

The other ridiculous part of this chick was the fact that her entire family used to come out and see her play. I remember they would bring coolers and umbrellas and fill up an entire bleacher. On the other hand, I never let my family come see me play. I guess I sort of knew in my heart that my "matches" were really just glorified ping pong games, and I loved my parents too much to submit them to endless hours of boring rallies. Man, I hated that family of angry eggs. I remember one time after hitting a pretty decent shot, I said out loud, "You got this Kate," to which they replied, "No you don't Kate." Who uses a 12 year old's name to talk trash at a junior tennis tournament? I'll tell you who - the angry eggs.

Well, I wish I could tell you that after my #1 reign I continued with tennis, but unfortunately, at 13, scarred from Monica Seles's stabbing, I decided to give up tennis and start playing team sports. My only regret is that I wasn't able to ever see the angry egg crack and show some emotion. I sometimes think of her and wonder what she is doing. I wonder if she drives around my neighborhood and writes tickets all day. They seem to have no emotion. Or I wonder if she euthanizes animals because that would definitely require no feelings. Or maybe she works in security at LAX and is the one that sits poker face in front of the x-ray machine as your bags go by. Again, another job that her lack of emotions would be great for.

Anyway, if you are out there, angry egg, give me a grunt and let's play another never ending game...

It Was The Car's Fault

The other day I walked out and found that someone had deliberately thrown a milkshake onto my car. As I stood there studying the ice cream, that was now crusted over my windshield wipers and headlights, I wondered what had possessed someone to commit such vandalism. Was it just a case of jealousy of my 2003 Honda Accord, that sports scratches from multiple keys along the sides of the car, a busted front bumper and the classic splattering of bird feces on the roof? Was my car just in the wrong place when someone went from enjoying a nice milkshake to learning their boyfriend has been cheating on them with their best friend and everyone knew it but them, and they just found out through a mistaken text that was sent from her boyfriend? Or did my last European customers, who pretended not to speak English, really understood me when I said, "I wish all of you a safe a happy trip home as your plane crashes into the Atlantic?" after I found out they weren't going to tip me? So many possibilities...who can know?

So, 2003 Honda Accord owners beware. You aren't just driving a fuel efficient car, you are driving a dangerous and anger provoking machine.

The Grocery Store: A Place of Food, Idiocy and Cat Camping

Waiting in line at the grocery store is an interesting experience. First, and I don't know about your local grocery store, but mine is staffed by three people and there is always twenty people at each line. So, already it's an awesome experience.

Secondly, I don't think people fully understand the "express lane." I'm not even sure they can count or understand the word express. I swear, every time I'm just buying milk some genius in front of me has 26 items and has decided to pay with a check. All I can do is give them a cold stare as they look at me, as they attempt to place their over the limit items on the smaller conveyer belt, and say with their eyes, "Oh, I know what you are thinking, but these twenty tomatoes actually count as 1 item, so I'm technically okay." Really? Because when we get out to the parking lot, I'm going to take my 1 car and quickly, no in an express manner, into your 2 legs.

Lastly, what is the deal with what people buy at the grocery store. Today a guy in front of me bought kitty litter, a pineapple, soda, waffles and beef jerky. Is this guy taking a cat camping? Or is he in the middle of a random quickfire challenge on Top Chef? Too hard to tell.

Flashbacks

My junior year in college I lived in a house with eleven of my teammates. Yep, you read that right - 11. This house exuded craziness. How crazy? Well, try these on:

1. After a week straight of partying, to kick off the new year, of course, a few cops stopped by to regulate the madness. After a short conversation, one of the cops got the number of my roommate (who he started dating) and the other cop started to party with everyone. From that point on we had constant back up and no reports of disturbances were ever responded to.

2. Another roommate of mine decided each night she was drunk she would steal something. Consequently, by Christmas break we had a deck full of bar stools, rocking chairs from our neighbors, signs and plants.

3. At least once a week a night of fun turned into a night of "gooning out." For those of you not blessed with the opportunity to go to school with meat heads, "gooning out" entails getting blitzed and then destroying everything in sight. Therefore, each week we had either a bench (that had been stolen the week before) thrown through our door, a couch thrown out onto the road or a window just bashed in. There's nothing more fun that hearing the sound of broken glass and then the yell from a barbarian. Man, I miss college.

Okay, enough down memory lane. The reason I bring up these memories is because I thought, at 32, living in an apartment with my husband would be much simpler than it was in college, but I was wrong. For the past week I feel like I've been trapped in a bad time warp.

For example, on Monday some idiot, at 2 in the morning, started throwing glass bottles onto the road outside my apartment. Now as if this wasn't bad enough, I then got to hear cars go over the glass, stop, yell at the guy to stop, him yell back and then more glass thrown. (Now that I think about it, I wonder if I went to college with this guy. It's just so hard to cut the gooning habit.)

On Tuesday, and I'm not kidding, some lady was heard screaming, "Help, Help!" in an alley just outside my apartment. We then all got to sit in our beds and listen to her run, scream some more for help and then go silent. To be honest, after being awoken the second night in a row, I don't know what bothered me more, her being potentially killed outside my apartment, or the fact that some neighbor across the street kept yelling, "Are you there? I called the cops. Are you there? Hello." Lady, no one answered. Not our chair, not our problem.

And lastly, after being awoken up by some muscle car that just couldn't turn over (thank heavens the person tried ten times) I heard the familiar laughter and stumbling of a drunk chick outside my apartment. I listened to them for awhile and prayed they would move on, but it continued. Finally, I got out of bed and looked through the window just in time to see one of them attempting to go number uno in our bushes. That was it. Immediately, I went into college Kate mode (this means I either call the cops on my own house, or head out to the situation to yell at anyone I can find) - I chose the latter. So, there I was, old Duke t-shirt, pajama pants and hair everywhere, ready to fight, but as I rounded the corner to our lobby I found three drunk chicks, one clueless guy and a naked girl. Yeah, a naked girl. All of them looked at me, and immediately said, "Oh sorry, it's a batchelorette party and she, pointing to the naked one, had to go swimming in the ocean." I was completely dumbfounded. So, all I said was, "Oh, congrats. Well, night." Night? Congrats? Have I really been out of college that long that I couldn't come up with at least a decent lecture or raised voice? How about a disapproving face? Nothing. All those years of training and now look at me. Pathetic.

*The picture is what I should have done.

Be Honest

(The coordinated ones. I usually surround myself with them. It's part of my contract.)

A few weeks ago I was Utah running a lacrosse camp. After almost 16 years of running sport camps I find that I have mixed emotions about them. One, I think it's great that kids go to camp. I mean, if kids don't go, I don't get paid...I mean, kids don't learn and get better. And yet, two, I just wish there was a screening process prior to sport camps. You know a little agility course they have to complete in a certain amount of time. Or they have to send in a tape of them running and then we can determine if there is any athletic ability at all. You know, something. Because honestly, this floodgate of minivans packed with overpaid sticks, cleats, clothes and uncoordinated children has got to be curbed.

For example, after the first day of lacrosse camp I surveyed my motley crew of campers and this is what I found:

• 3 Girls wearing deeply chaffing jean shorts with soccer cleats and Justin Bieber T-Shirts. 3. Yes, 3 different sets of parents allowed this attire for camp. Not acceptable.
• 5 Girls never put their hair up in a ponytail, but awkwardly ran around the field with unkempt manes. I'm sorry, you are not an athlete if you think running around like Pocahontas is a good idea.
• 2 Girls were forced to sit out for the afternoon because they had hurt themselves during lunch while they were playing "catch." (They were throwing to each other. That means one got hit in the face, cried about it and then hit her friend in the face.) Not acceptable.

And finally...

• 1 girl was riding her lacrosse stick around the field like a broomstick. (Hey Hermione, Gryffindor called and wanted to know when you were headed back to Hogsworth.) (So, outed myself just then.)

Anyway, as I always say after running lacrosse camps: Parents, please, please take a good look at that kid of yours. Be honest. Be brutally honest. Are they coordinated? Are they wearing jean shorts? Should they be at a camp involving balls? Answer these and save us all some time.

I Don't Get Paid Enough

Do people even check this anymore?

Well, after two years plus of serving at a restaurant I thought I had seen it all...and then Thursday morning took place. If you are eating please stop. If you have a delicate stomach stop reading. Okay let's continue.

At 8:30 in the morning, there were two individuals sitting on the patio of our restaurant. After refilling my customer's coffee I turned the corner of the patio to check on my co-worker's customer. As I approached her table I noticed she had placed her credit card in the server book to be run. Now, let me state that this woman was on the phone and had her back to me. As I approached her table I began to ask, "Would you like me to run this card for you?" At the exact moment I was reaching for the book, this lady lifted up her derriere and proceeded to loudly fart on me. Now, words cannot adequately express the horror I felt as our eyes locked while she released her morning gas all over me. (It was like looking into the face of the Devil. You want to run, but your body just won't work.)

After a few awkward seconds, I regained the control of my body and ran for the door of the restaurant. Once inside, I tried to find acid, lighter fluid, gasoline - anything that I could use to burn my throat and eyes. I could NOT believe some lady, that looked like my dear mother, had lifted up her butt cheek and farted on me! Now, I've cleaned up mashed bananas underneath a table, I've pulled hair out of food and I've reached into the trash of discarded food to save a spoon, but this...this...this was on another level.

So, what have I learned from this experience? 1. Always make myself known in all situations. I might even start screaming, "Hey, coming around the corner. Hold in all anal acoustics* and other bodily disasters until I've passed." 2. Try to block out my co-workers' responses. One said, "I mean, that's okay at home or in your car, but not at a public restaurant." Okay? No, that's not okay. Or this one: "I mean, I do it in here (meaning the restaurant) but it's loud with music." (Mind you, I don't walk behind this person anymore.) and 3. If I hear a funny noise on the phone I'm no longer believing when the other person says, "Oh, that was weird, my phone just made a weird noise." Right. Who farts while on the phone?

Again, so glad my college degree from Duke is going to good use.

* I found that description at: http://www.heptune.com/fartword.html

What? I'm Dehydrated.

I find when I'm really tired towards the end of my shift at work I start making really, I mean really, bad jokes. Here's a few I've made in the past few days. You tell me if I deserved a tip:

Situation 1:
I'm clearing the table of four people. As I get to the Asian man's plate of tacos I say, "Well, I can tell you didn't like this." (This is one of the jokes I say at the end of meals to get a cheap laugh, and what also makes me silently hate myself.) Anyway, the plate was virtually clear except for a few pieces of rice. So, he responded with, "Well, I didn't finish my rice but the rest was very good." And I said, "Oh yeah rice, you have probably never had this food. I'm sure it must be exciting trying it." So folks did the racial slur deserve a tip?

Situation 2:
Guy sits down and seems like he's in a bad mood. I say, "Well, how are you doing today?" He grumbles out, "Well, I just got my prostate checked." And I say, without thinking, "Do you want a second opinion?" Belittling a possible cancer victim? How much on that tip?

Situation 3:
Four old people sit down for lunch. After I shout out my welcome, three of them order alcohol. As the fourth one tells me he doesn't want anything to drink I say, "So are you the driver for these drunks?" Immediately, all the hearing aids go off and the woman, who ordered a beer, says, "You think I look drunk?" (So hard to resist.) And I say, "I saw you walking in and it looked like you were about to fall." Ah yes, insulting the old. Definitely worth the lack of tip.

What can I say, when I'm dehydrated all sensors get turned off.

Grossly Under Qualified

As I mentioned before I'm in charge of a youth camp for my church. And as I mentioned before, I am grossly under qualified for this job. I mean, let's break this down. This is a religious focused camp, where singing of cheezy camp songs are encouraged, crafts are demanded and gobs and gobs of food are provided. Okay I'll take the food, and there are days I would call myself "religious," but all mixed together in the woods just isn't me. Honestly, as I've been planning this I keep thinking, "(yes, I think in quotations) Me? Really?"

The other night my "fish out of water" mentality came blaring out as I sat at a table with five other women, who are planning another camp at our same campsite. We had met to coordinate...blah, blah - and in the course of talking about our themes and individual camps the following conversation took place:

Old Lady: "So, we are going to try to do away with pranks this year. For the past two years things have really gotten out of control."

Kate: (Ears perk up for some stories)

Old Lady #2: "Yes, two years ago was awful. One of the girls found a bra of a leader and put it up the flag pole."

Kate: (While laughing out loud) "That's funny."

Old Lady #1: (While Kate is laughing) "That's not funny."

Kate: "Yes, that's what I meant. NOT funny."

Old Lady #1 and #2: (Disapproving looks)

After that exchange I thought, "(yep, more quotations) Well, things can't get worse." And then Old Lady #1 said, while looking at me, "And please don't let the girls drive the golf carts." I may or may not have commandeered a golf cart last year and allowed my 12 year olds to drive it.

See? Why me?

This Is The Group

Well isn't this embarrassing. Almost a month and nothing. Well it's been a rather busy month - so for the next week you'll be reading (because I still believe there are two or three people out there who still read this stupid thing) random thoughts and ideas I've written down to blog about on my phone. (Yes, I keep a memo entitled "Blog Ideas" - folks, this magic doesn't just happen on a whim.)

Monday's Random Thought:
So, last week the significant other and I traveled to South Carolina for a little family vacation. After a dreadful red eye - I say "dreadful" because the hubby decided to take nyquil before the flight. Now, this would have been a good idea, but he decided to take the mind numbing drug right after dinner, which was two hours before our flight. Therefore, I got the fun experience of dragging our bags through bag check and nudging him to stay awake. The good news was everything was funny to him - I mean everything - my face, me dragging bags, entering the airport, dogs in suitcases...everything - AND he slept like a dead person the whole way there. Me? I did the head bob for an hour and ended up watching some Tyler Perry movie. (Why can't we all have a large man/woman in our lives to solve our problems?)

Anyway, after our red eye we had a four hour layover in Atlanta. While I was waiting for our plane I surveyed the crowd, who were also waiting for our flight, and had this random thought: So this is the group. This is the group I'll have a near death experience with. This is the group I'll land on a deserted island with and build shacks out of leaves and pieces of our plane. I'll befriend the fat man with the Eagles' jersey because we are both from Philly and long to go home. This is the group who will fight over the small amount of food left in the morning, and who will somehow become friends again at night as things slow down and music plays. This is the group who will try to build boats to freedom and deliver the baby of the girl sitting next to me. This is the group who will become my family as people search for Delta flight 702. This is the group.

Honestly, since watching Lost I have this thought every time I fly. Some flights I'm sort of excited (I once flew with a men's soccer team from Colorado) and other times I'm a little worried/disappointed (like my flight from LA to Boise which carried a fanatical group of Disney lovers - Disney lovers are not going to be able to fight the black smoke.)

We Were Robbed

A few weeks back, I was involved in organizing a Speech Festival for the youth of my church - which basically entailed about 40 kids writing their own talks, giving them and then being judged on their content and delivery. Now in theory I'm sure this seemed like a great idea. However, I was put in charge of 6 kids, who I wouldn't describe as little Anthony Robbins...heck, these kids' stage presence made Kristen Stewart, of the fascinating books Twilight, seem incredibly engaging and gregarious. But, I was given the task and so we pressed forward.

Over the course of a few weeks I took the most awkward one of the bunch and became determined that she would be the victor of our 6 and go on to the main Speech Festival...which she did. (High fives around). Now, before I go on, let me just describe my sweet Autumn. She is shy beyond description. Before giving this talk I'm not sure I ever heard her speak more than two sentences at a time, and yet, she somehow nailed it. So, fast forward two weeks, Autumn, after being coaxed and bribed, was sent to the main Speech Festival to compete against six other churches' winners to determine the ultimate speech giver...and to win 2 free movie tickets!

Now, Autumn is not my child and I'm not even a mom, but I'll admit I sort of got into "Mom Mode" watching this speech festival. For example, and I'm not sure moms actually do this, or even admit to doing it, but I truly wanted to see all the other kids fail. I mean truly fail. Every time a kid stuttered, forgot a line from their talk or made an awkward statement I found myself thinking, "Alright, this one sucks - we totally got this."

Secondly, when Autumn got up to speak I felt like one of those crazy moms from the TLC show Toddlers and Tiaras. (See picture up top. Yeah, that would be wire cones on her little girl.) Honestly, if you could have seen me, I was almost mouthing the words and smiling in that way that says, "If you make eye contact with me, I'm trying to tell you to smile bigger." It wasn't pretty.

And lastly, I'll admit I sort of behaved poorly as we were waiting for the verdict. I, may or may not have, told some of the judges Autumn's background and how winning this could help her conquer her shyness, and the fact that she is waiting for a kidney transplant. (She doesn't actually need a kidney, but I thought it painted a courageous picture.)

Unfortunately, at the end Autumn was robbed. She did manage to take down Barack Obama Jr. and hippie happy 17 year old from Malibu, but second place was where she stood....and I, may or may not, have said rather loud, "We were robbed," over and over again when the winner was announced.

So, what did I get from this experience? Well, one you can conquer fears. Two, we have some great youth coming up as the next generation. And three, I think I'm going to be that annoying Mom on the sidelines,who runs up and down screaming, "Billy get the ball! Get the ball! You got it! Score! He scored! That's my kid! That's my kid! That's my...oh geez.

Write With Some Pride

The restaurant I work at serves three groups of people: 1. Moms and their children 2. People in the business and 3. People, who come in at 8 with their laptops and write the next great screenplay until 4. I enjoy the last group for two reasons. (Yes, I'm going to keep listing things.) One, they are always game to talk because, heaven knows, they aren't possibly getting anything done as they suck down their fifteenth free cup of coffee and hide from my nasty stare for taking up a table in my section. And two, I love their answers to my favorite question: "So, what are you writing?" For example, I was once told by an individual, who comes in EVERY DAY, that he's writing the next Sex In the City for men. Why do I love this answer? Because if you could picture anyone more unsuited to write about sexual conquests and adventures in any city on the planet this would be your guy. I really think instructional manuals on microwaves could be more of this guy's expertise.

Another person once told me that he was writing a comedy. Now, again like our Mr. Carrie Bradshaw, this guy writing a comedy just didn't fit. For one, I've never seen him smile. I don't even know how this guy chews because I've never seen his teeth. I wanted to follow-up his answer with the question, "Does your comedy include torturing kittens and beating children?"

And lastly, my favorite answer came today. For the past couple of weeks a writing team has been camping out at our restaurant furiously typing away on a laptop. I decided to finally ask them what they were writing, and they replied they were writing a romantic comedy. Now, I'll admit I'm sort of a fan of this genre and they both struck me as rather normal people, so I then asked, "Have you guys written anything before? and they replied with a meek voice, "Um, we wrote The Wedding Planner with Jennifer Lopez." I think I loved this reply the most because there was absolutely no pride in their admitting they wrote The Wedding Planner, and as I continued to maintain eye contact, they both put their heads down in shame and said (and I quote as they pointed to their laptops) "But, this one won't be like that."

I know, I know what you are thinking: Why the shame in such a cinematic masterpiece? Why didn't they hold their heads up high and ask, "Did you see them getting together at the end? How about him leaving his own wedding to get her? HIS OWN WEDDING??!! We are freaking geniuses!" Instead, there was just apologies.

Come on you laptop campers, write with some dignity. Write what you know. Write stuff we want to see...and tip your waitress, she's trying to make a living too.

I Had A Day Off Today

That's Enough

After watching The Bachelorette on Monday night I came to one conclusion: People from Utah, because everyone assumes they're Mormon, and real Mormons, must stop going on reality TV shows. Honestly, as a practicing Mormon, I beg these idiots to stop and think about how their actions cause serious consequences for the rest of us. For example, do you remember Julie from MTV's Real World: New Orleans? Now, I'm taught at church to love all God's creatures, but she was one of the worst individuals I've ever come across. During the first episode Julie started to hysterically cry because her black roommate was the first person of another race she had ever interacted with. As she sat there crying, my college roommate turned to me and asked, "So, Mormons are all white? And you guys aren't allowed to 'interact' with black people?" Thanks Julie for that stupid conversation.

And now we have Bentley Williams of The Bachelorette behaving like a complete (insert something about a bag here.) Just for fun, I decided to Google Mr. Williams and you know what I found? Several articles discussing two things: 1. What an unbelievable jerk this guy is and 2. Yep, you guessed it, the fact that he's a Mormon.

So, listen up you Mormons out there, find another hobby. Keep eating in your living rooms (about 15 Mormons have been on The Biggest Loser), keep dancing in your basements (another five or so have been on dancing reality shows) and stop being totally crazy on TV.

Oh, and if you are Ken Jennings, the guy who holds the record for the longest winning streak on Jeopardy!, feel free to go on TV. Honestly, during those 75 episodes I really thought we were finally erasing the damage done by so many idiots.

20 Cents To Lose

After working at a restaurant for two years, I've come to hate three things. One, I hate stupid parents. You know who you are. You are the ones who come in with two or more kids and decide, that since you are leaving a six dollar tip, it's okay to absolutely destroy the place...and then leave. Did you know that when your kid throws his food on the ground someone (me) actually has to clean that up? Or did you know that a napkin used to clean up snot, spilled milk and whatever else you decide to leave behind actually has to be touched by someone (me)? Honestly, I get it. I'm not a parent, but even I know it's not okay to watch your child throw his drink on the ground, and then say to your server (me), "Um, you missed a spot of milk over there."

TWO, I hate the "menu changers." Again, you know who you are. You are the ones who see that we have turkey, tomatoes and tofu on our menu and decide to create your own sandwich out of those ingredients. Hey, guest judge this isn't a quickfire challenge on Top Chef - order from the menu!

And THREE, more than anything else, I hate foreigners. If I hear an accent my attitude instantly goes from, Curly McLain singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'" to Michael Jackson singing "Beat It." Why all the anger? Well, for one they never, ever, never order from the menu. It's always do you have...(insert their homeland food.) Second, there are the most demanding little foreign friends. First they want an espresso, but then that's too hot, now they want some cold milk, oh but the milk is too cold, please heat it up. (Mind you, our restaurant is quite long, and all these requests add up to fifty yards each way.)

And lastly, after all the accommodations and running around they don't leave a tip. It absolutely drives me nuts. So, finally last Thursday I snapped. After watching a particular foreign couple come in three days in a row, and three days in a row screw my co-worker, I decided this needed to stop. So, the following took place:

Kate: (While handing them the check) So have you guys been to America before?

Foreigners: (While sipping on their third espresso and just right milk) Um, yes wes love ze country. Wez been here a many times.

Kate: Oh, wow like how many times?

Foreigners: Let me see. We been to, uh, New York and Miami and to California many times.

Kate: Wow. So, do you understand the tipping policies of America?

Foreigners: Yes, we have been leaving zomething.

Kate: Not really. You see today your bill is 28 dollars so you can tip anything from $4.50 to $6.00. You have been leaving 20 cents or 17 cents. (Their tips from the previous days.) That is not 15%, which is the typical practice in America.

Foreigners: We did not sthink it applied to breakfast.

Kate: Well, anytime someone comes to your table to serve you - then you may tip them. Do you understand?

Foreigners: (starting to forget English) Um, oui.

And the tip was?...$4.00. Figured I only had 20 cents to lose.

Satan's Game

So, in a few weeks the husband and I will be traveling to South Carolina to celebrate my Dad's 70th birthday. While there, we plan on laying at the beach, eating ridiculous amounts of food, playing a little tennis and, if I'm ready, playing golf. Now, for those of you, who haven't had the opportunity of being tortured and belittled by a small dimpled ball, let me tell you a little secret - golf sucks. It sucks bad. It makes you question every coordinated day you've ever had in your life. It makes you wonder if anyone is up there in heaven or if Satan is really in control - and just to show his control he makes people play golf. It's such a hard sport, that even me, a rather strong willed woman, can sort of look past Tiger Woods' transgressions because he is able to hit this small ball into a hole. Honestly, people, his man can't be all bad.

So, why do I attempt to play this sport? One, because I once hit a hole in one and that's just too bad A to not continue. Two, people say you can play this sport until you die. (Sure, I think this sport will actually kill you, but we'll see.) And three, because after chunking 100 shots, slicing the other twenty and missing too many puts to count, you hit one forsaken good shot and you think, "This sport isn't all bad."*

So, wish me luck - I've got four weeks to master this game. And just so you know, if my golf lessons don't start producing some results I'm going the pre-Thanksgiving/scandal Tiger route. Don't judge, it's not love, it's just about being a better golfer.

*Lies, lies, lies.

My Memorial Day

What does Memorial Day mean to you? Is it about the selfless men and women who gave their lives to protect our country? Is it a day to barbecue, drink or drive to Santa Monica so you can overrun a beach that is already packed with foreigners and tourists? Or is it a day to visit cemeteries and remember those past generations?

Well, for me, Memorial Day will always hold the special memory I was given by a rather loveable customer today. No, he didn't give me a minature flag and say, "God Bless America." Instead, while balancing six tables' orders, he said, "Kate, come on be honest, do you have something to tell me?" I, thinking I had forgotten to thank him for his service in the Korean war, was about to say, "Oh yeah, thanks for beating down those Koreans. We wouldn't be the same without it," when he interrupted my thoughts and said, "You know, because you look really fat."

Now, granted this came from a man who smells like Irish Spring soap and someone who has been dead for two weeks, but I'll admit it, it sort of ticked me off. I mean, it's a holiday. Save that stuff for the middle of the week.

The Clydesdale and the Shetland Pony

This weekend The Man and I traveled to St. Jorge for a little family time andddd...to see two young men participate in a Triathlon. Here's a few pictures of the event.

I begin with this picture because I love The Man's uniform pre-event. It doesn't matter if he's running a marathon, biking a century or doing a Triathlon - jeans are always his choice of attire to enter the ring. I really think Levi should think about expanding its clothing lines into warm-ups suits for professional athletes.
Can you feel the tension? The male torpedo is just about to enter the water.
Once the male torpedo was off, The Man's bro (or The Clydesdale as we like to call him) got in line to enter the water. Unlike The Man's two layers of wet suit, rash guard and biking shorts, The Clydesdale entered the "widow maker," or the swim, a "little less clothed."

To the left The Clydesdale finishing the swim, to the right The Man coming in from the 20.5 mile ride and...












behind the camera one woman going insane with this kid rattling a cow bell for 45 minutes straight. (Yeah, I took her picture.)

After a mile swim, a 20.5 mile bike ride and a 6.5 mile run the Triathlon was over.













There are no words to accurately describe this.

$20.00 For A Baby?

So, as we know I've been trying to get pregnant. However, my constant judging of other people's babies, my tendency to swear and the occasional stealing from work has, in my opinion, probably impeded the process. So, today I decided to summon the karma gods and finally do something right. (I realize my alternative motive probably negated my effort, but I still tried.)

Anyway, there's a guy that comes in often, who I would describe as surprisingly grumpy and rather cheap. Last week after he left, I went to clean his table and found a 20 dollar bill left on the ground. Now, after two years of serving this cheap s.o.b., I knew this wasn't a forgotten tip. So, I pocketed the twenty and wrestled with myself for the next few days on what to do.

Finally, judgement day came. As I went to get his orange juice and bran muffin, I heard the devil say, "Kate, twenty dollars could buy a dram of fertility drugs. Don't do it." And then the angel, on the other shoulder obviously, said, "Kate, give him the twenty and that baby is as good as yours." What can I say, Momma's desperate.

But here's the thing...okay, I told him about losing the twenty and how I felt like he should have it back, but the guy didn't even say thanks. He took the twenty. Just took it. No reward for being honest. No high five for "The Server of the Year." Nothing. ANNNDD...the guy still have me a crappy tip.

So, what did I learn from this? One, like The Steve Miller Band says, "Take the Money and Run." Two, karma can't be bought off with $20.00. And three, I think I need to come up with other strategies to get a baby - this approach is costing me way too much.

I Don't Sound 32?

Tonight a representative from the LA Times called me to see if I would be interested in getting a subscription to the newspaper. At the time of the call I was making dinner, which consisted of a bowl of cereal, and wasn't fully speaking into the phone. Consequently, the caller asked to speak to my parents. This statement made me laugh, and while putting a spoon of cereal in my mouth, I said, "Um, I don't live with my parents." In retrospect, I don't know why I said this, but the caller responded, "Well, I'm not talking to you because you don't sound over 21." Again, I started to laugh and said, "Really? You don't think I sound over 21?" This only infuriated her and she said, "I'm going to call back when your parents answer the phone." My response, "Great! Talk to you then."

Who knew sounding like a moron or a ten year old would get rid of solicitors on the phone. I'm totally using this again. Thank you LA Times.

My Mom is Better Than Yours

Being that is it Mother's Day today, I thought I would take a moment and express my love and admiration for my mom. I know people say it, but truly I have the best mom. Why? Well, here's 5 reasons:

1. Look at the woman, she's hot. 60+ and she has still got it.
2. She's hilarious. Tell her a dirty joke, or anything that involves farting, and the woman will be laughing. How can you not love that?
3. She knew that the husband was the one before I knew she was the one. So, she's smart is what I'm saying.
4. She is an AMAZING cook. (I wish that was hereditary.)
5. She always puts us kids first.


Barb, I love you. Thanks for having me and sorry about the 28 minute wait....

Unusual Brain Activity

Today, for fun* I got a MRI of the brain. For those of you who haven't had the rare opportunity of being locked down inside a little body capsule, while a loud beeping noise somehow takes pictures of your brain, let me give you some tips and insights into the process. (Because, sadly, this was my second MRI of the brain.)

Tip #1:
When the technician asks you what types of head traumas you've had to warrant your first MRI, just stick with your first answer of, "I started having migraines and they wanted to know what the cause of them were." Don't add, "And sometimes I talk back to my husband." No one will laugh, at least, mine didn't.

Tip #2:
When the technician asks you if you would like to close your eyes or watch a nature video on animals, choose closing your eyes. (Yes, there was a video inside my little claustrophobic chamber.) All of the sudden I'm watching a polar bear with her cubs, and then I'm watching a wolf chase down Bambi and slaughter it. I wonder what activity they'll see in my brain as I'm screaming out, "RUNN!"

Tip #3:
Don't try to read the face of the technician after the procedure. I couldn't tell if I have six months to live or he has indigestion. Maybe he was all torn up about Bambi also.


*And when I say "fun" I mean fertility.

Stellar Police Work

Dear Local Police Force,

Thank you again for my $234.00 ticket. I really appreciate the time and effort you put into turning your siren on, pulling me over like a reckless outlaw and teaching me about breaking the law.

Oh, and I also wanted to thank you for keeping my community so safe. Just the other day I saw a car being broken into and when I called to tell you, you not only didn't respond in a timely manner, but managed to call once the car was pulling away. And there was the stealing of my bike from my own garage. I'll admit I had that coming. I mean, that bike could run more stop signs. Thank goodness that got stolen. And then how I look back on fondness, the time we found my husband's car broken into and my Ipod stolen. How you dusted that car for fingerprint....oh wait. And now, I just wanted to say thank you, thank you again, for all the hard work you put in. I mean, sure on Monday night my Thule bike and surf rack was stolen, but I'm sure again, someone who runs stops signs on their bike doesn't deserve a rack to carry the dangerous bike! No!

So, thank you again, and thank goodness that at least one real criminal (me) is being punished for breaking the law.

Kate

NASCAR and CBS

According to Wikipedia: NASCAR holds 17 of the top 20 attended single-day sporting events in the world, and claims 75 million fans who purchase over $3 billion in annual licensed product sales. So, who, I ask you, are all these people flocking to these events? And if there are so many people who are fans of NASCAR, and who buy items attached to NASCAR, why is there such a stigma attached to the sport of cars going round and round? I mean seriously, how come admitting you like NASCAR is like tweeting about Osama Bin Laden and saying, "@dkeller23 We’ll never know what really happened. I just have a hard time believing a plane could take a skyscraper down demolition style." (To read about this actual dummy check out this article) You just don't do it.

In addition to the mystery of NASCAR, I would like someone to explain to me, or tell me, who are all the people who watch CBS? I couldn't name you one show I've watched in entirety that airs on CBS, and yet, almost every single show in the top ten of viewership is from this network.

So, here's the only conclusion I can come to: The same mysterious people who show up and watch NASCAR, must be the same idiots who think Two and Half Men is one of the funniest shows on TV, and (insert city) CSI is just plain brilliant.

Who are you people and who is leading you?

Dentistry and Waterboarding

Today, I went to the dentist. I hate the dentist. Why? Well, for one I hate the accusatory looks and questions. Like, "Well, I see you have some receding gums (which I'm already sensitive about) do you floss?" To which I answer, "Yep, every night." To which they reply, "Every night?" I then say, "Yes, every night." And then they say, while getting out the torture towel and bucket of water, "Every night?" What do these people want me to say? "Okay, there was that one Friday night when I got strangely involved into a Lifetime movie and decided swishing warm water in my mouth was going to be my nightly cleaning." Seriously.

I also hate the entire cleaning process. I hate the suction tube that always gets left in my throat, I hate the cool air on my teeth, I hate the chipping away of my tartar, and I hate the different levels of "opening one's mouth" we are all supposed to know. Like how am I supposed to know that "Please open your mouth" actually means tilt your head back and show me the inside of your esophagus? And yet, "Please open your mouth" can also mean, just slightly release your jaw muscles so I can look at your first molar. There really should be signs.

And lastly, I hate the up sale at the end. Today's up sale: some stupid scrap that removes all the bacteria that accumulates at the back of your tongue, which causes bad breathe. As I sat there telling them politely no, I started to think, "Do I have bad breathe and that's why they are trying to sell me this?" I swear this office gives me a complex every time I leave. They either convince me I have early signs of pyorrhea (google it) and if I don't start wearing a full facial head gear I'm going to lose all my teeth, or my teeth are so yellow that it's almost a crime I haven't broken down and gotten them bleached. Why can't they just say, "Teeth are still there. You can still chew. Here's a toothbrush in a little bag?"

I hate the dentist.

Celebrities Are Weird

As I've mentioned before, I've had ample opportunities to see celebrities at my place of work. I've seen A-List stars like Kate Hudson, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Orlando Bloom, and I've even seen some D-List stars like, Urkel, Ed Rooney and the meathead from Can't Buy Me Love (they are such D-List stars they don't even deserve the time it would take me to look up their actual names). Now, in all these brushes with fame I've noticed a few things. One, a lot of them are tiny. For example, one of the hobbits from Lord of the Rings (not the famous one from Lost) is an actual hobbit, and Helen Hunt has huge hips but a tiny, tiny face (which is always in a permanent frown - what Soul Surfer wasn't what you envisioned after winning an Academy Award?) Secondly, I've noticed that celebrities, regardless of their status, feel like it's okay to exhibit a complete disregard for social norms on PDA. Worst offender would have to go to Kim Raver, who plays Teddy on Grey's Anatomy - who basically got on top of her husband while I was delivering their taco platter. Come on Kim, I supported the long face through 24, Lipstick Jungle and I'm even attempting to believe you can tame Yang on Grey's. Thirdly, I've noticed that if you are a celebrity it is alright to look homeless when you come to breakfast. Again, worst offenders would either be Alison Lohman, who starred in Big Fish and Flicka, (I actually told her she would have to buy something in order to use the bathroom) or Luke Wilson, who looked like he actually stole a homeless man's shirt and was wearing a beard that was eating his face.

Lastly, I've noticed that old man rockers all sport the same haircuts. What is this? Does it still make them cool to have haircuts that make them look like they just stepped off the tour bus, or that they just finished a weekend bender with Led Zeppelin? Seriously, there's this guy, probably in his late 50s, that comes in all the time (no names because I sort of love this customer, but suffice it to say, he's very legit and plays with a legend) who has the most ridiculous haircut. It's sort of a cross between Bon Jovi 1980s and Gary Busey of today. What makes his haircut even better is when he has lunch with other old time rockers. The other day, there was a whole table of grown men, some older than my dear father, who were sporting crazy highlights, hair going everywhere, and two had long stringy hair, that you could tell was just longing for the days when women actually liked to run their fingers through it. Honestly, these guys need a quick trip to reality land...and maybe Supercuts.

Oh, Here Go Hell Come

Well, the verdict is in for my reckless biking. (For those of you who haven't heard I was pulled over ON MY BIKE for running a stop sign.)

Ticket Price is: $234.00
How many times I yelled, "You are a jackass Officer Knotts." - 234 times.

I will be fighting this. Until then, Redondo Beach Police Force...

32 and 3 Days

So, on Friday I turned the big 32. 32. Ah, that sounds old. At least my life plan, I made for myself fifteen years ago, is working out perfectly.

1. Wearing an apron every day and asking, "Do you want bacon or sausage with that?" - Check.
2. Living in a 1 bedroom apartment with a hot guy. - Check.
3. Having no sight of children. - Check.
4. Mildly healthy gums. - Check.

(I didn't set very high standards for myself. It was the mid 90s.)

Okay, seriously my birth day (yes, two words) was awesome. And here's the pictures to prove it.

First, I woke up at 6:15 and was unable to go back to bed. I'm not sure if I was just excited for my birthday, or I'm now so old, I'm incapable of sleeping in. Do I get to start watching Matlock?

After breakfast, I read for awhile and then drove up to Malibu for a ride up in the mountains.
Here's some pictures of my ride and views. 2 Hours, 1,600 feet climbed and 3 snakes spotted.













And then, because I'm old, after my ride I got a massage. I don't know about you, but whenever I get a massage I always have two thoughts, ONE: "This feels so good that I don't even care if he beats children after work, I really think I'm in love with this man." No? Just me? TWO: "Sure, I'm in love with this man and his hands, but do I really need to tip him 50%?" (Honestly, what is that about? All over the room are signs that read: "Tipping Recommendations" - which mind you, recommend about $30.00 for a $47.00 massage. I mean, this is good, but he's not giving me the secret to life.)

Once the tipping quandary was crossed, the husband and I went to dinner at Bandera. (Please said with a creepy Spanish accent.) What can I say? I thought I had experienced my best meal last year at Mastros, but this was unbelievable. Ribs, chicken, slaw, cornbread, cobbler - my mouth is watering as I write this. Honestly, this restaurant makes me want to live to see my 33rd birthday...and become ridiculously rich, so I can casually say to the husband on Tuesday night, "Hey what about swinging over to Banderas?"

Inner Therapy

I always find myself saying after a shift of work, "Well, that was it, I've seen it all." - And then, something else happens the next day. Today, I was taking the plates off one of my customer's table when she said to me, "Now this will not effect your tip in any way, but can I ask you something?" Immediately, I thought she was going to ask me something about the restaurant, so I said, "Sure." She then said, "Um, what do you think of me?" Now, I should mention that I have never met this lady before, and I really didn't spend a lot of time at her table because I was really busy, so, I replied with a confused stare. She then said, "You know, what is your impression of me?" Oh, I thought, "Thanks so much for clarifying your initial bizarre question. Now, I feel a lot less awkward answering your request."

Finally, after enduring her piercing eyes into my soul, I stumbled out a few things that I'm not proud of - remember, I work for tips. I think I said something like, "Um, you didn't seem like you were going to be difficult. A lot of customers can be difficult. Um, you seem nice. I like your hat, and you seem happy." I kept hoping she would cut me off and say, "Just kidding. I just wanted to see you make an ass of yourself," but she just stood there. Finally, I stopped complimenting random things and said, "How's that? Are you going to leave me a dollar now?" She then replied, as serious as possible, "Thank you. I'm just doing some inner therapy and I'm working on my self-image."

Only in LA.

Are You A Waitress?

The other day I went to the bank to deposit about two weeks worth of tips. As I pulled out my wad of money, with almost 89 1 dollar bills included, the teller, AS ALWAYS, asked, "Are you a waitress?" Now, this is where I find myself in a joking quandary. Of course, I could just disregard the joke lob and nod my head and say, "Yep, just depositing the ol' tips," but who wants to hear that? I mean, these innocent tellers are basically begging for me to give them some fantastic responses. So, what am I to do? Disappoint my local tellers? Of course not.

The following are my favorite responses to give. (Remember readers I'm a 5"8, blue-eyed, blonde chick, who just learned about the song "Regulate" from her ghetto Fairfield friend last week.)

1. "Nope, not a waitress"...pause for a friendly chuckle..."Just the neighborhood drug dealer." Followed by asking them if they need anything for a "headache."

2. "You would think I'm a waitress, but actually I steal from collection jars around supermarkets and cafeterias." Followed by friendly chuckle and complete eye contact.

3. "Waitress? I wish. Actually, my husband gives me an allowance for cleaning the apartment, picking up his dry cleaning and cooking dinner. It's been a good month of work." Followed by uneasy chuckle and no eye contact.

4. "What did you say?!" "Yeah, whatever - just hurry up." Followed by looking over my shoulder and at all security cameras.

And lastly, my tried and true...
5. "A waitress? Almost right. I'm actually a stripper." Followed by pointing out a hundred dollar bill in the wad and saying, "He's a great customer."

Sadly, only #5 gets a laugh. What, don't I look like I could be a stripper? Geez Citibank....

Another Kitten Bites The Dust

So, lately, to either torment me or to cause me to find him not attractive at all, the husband has started insisting on watching old re-runs of Star Trek at night. At first, I thought he was kidding, but the habit has persisted. Tonight, I couldn't take it and had to resort to torturing him with tickling. I know, it sounds childish, but my husband crumbles at even the mention of tickling.

So, there I was, tickling the crap out of him, when he screamed out, "I swear every time you tickle me God kills a kitten!!"

I had to stop.

Crazy Train

I realize I'm a little late to the game on this movie review, but last weekend, Roger Egbert and I finally rented Unstoppable. (Just in time before it started showing weekly on FX.) Now, I realize that many people found this movie to be "Exciting" and "Grabbed our attention and didn't let us go for 98 nail-biting minutes of non-stop action and tension..." (as said by Louise Keller of Urban Cenfile), but I'm not sure I was as "riveted and excited by the show." First of all, and not to spoil the movie for those six of you who haven't seen it, but it's a train. Just a train going fast without a driver. I wouldn't call that non-stop action. If anything it's just non-stop stupidity watching this train move along because a fat idiot couldn't run fast enough to stop the train from starting in the first place. Now had a diabolical terrorist sent the train down the track, laced with explosives and threw in some fifth grade kids into the caboose, I would have had a little more "tension" watching this.

Second of all, the attempts of stopping this train were just plain ridiculous. Roger had an especially hard time with this aspect of the movie. I think he shouted a total of seven times, "This is so stupid, just put some people on the train and they'll stop it." (Spoiler alert: That's what happened...well, after they tried to shoot at the emergency brake button - which was, of course, right next to the fuel button. You CAN'T write more high tension stuff than this.)

And lastly, my problem with this movie was the incredibly anti-climatic ending. Of course, I knew at some point they were going to stop the train, but watching Chris Pine pull the lever off autopilot and watching the train slow down left me feeling empty inside. There was no final fight scene between the disgruntled Amtrak employee, who wanted to kill everyone, and the rookie operator, who still believed in the integrity of the train system. Or was a new love formed after surviving such a horrifying experience. No instead, we had to watch Denzel flirt like an old man with Rosario Dawson, and Chris Pine win back the love of his wife after pulling the lever that stopped the train.

So, overall...not my favorite movie. I mean the train did stop soooo it wasn't exactly "unstoppable." Just sayin'...

I Love These Jeans...I'm Headed for the Sink

The other day I was riding my bike home from work, and yes, I do now stop at every stop sign, fire a rifle, hold out some flares and then cross through the dangerous intersection - thank you Redondo Beach police force for ruining the joys of commuting on a bike - ANYWAY, sorry about that passive aggressive diatribe. What was I saying? Oh yes, I was riding my bike down Broadway, between 4th and 5th, if you local Santa Monicans were curious, when I saw a ridiculous ad for Joe's Jeans. Just how ridiculous was this ad? Well, basically it showed a strung out chick, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing on top. Now, I get the whole edgy attempt here, but the thing that bothered me the most was that she was sitting in a sink, looking at herself in the mirror. Really? Come on Joe's Jeans. What chick, who hasn't been snorting coke all morning, would decide your jeans were so cool she had, I mean had, to take off her shirt and go sit in the sink? Really? Just for that I will not be buying Joe's Jeans. I mean, my sink isn't even that big.

The Dos and Don'ts of Winking

So what are your feelings on winking? Good? Bad? Sort of creepy? Here's my guidelines:

Okay Winking:
1. Indicating to someone you are murdering them in the fun filled game of "Murder."*
2. If you are over the age of 80 and are actually Santa Claus dressed up as a normal old man.
3. If you have a glass eye, which prevents you from blinking both eyes together.
4. If, while making fun of someone, they start to believe you and tear up, an immediate wink is absolutely acceptable. (I've been caught in this situation many times. Too many times.)
5. If you were the star of any 80s hair band. (Somehow I just expect Bret Michaels and Sebastian Bach to use winks in an appropriate manner - like right after they say - and mean it - "You're sayin' my love won't do yeah
But that ain't love written on your face
Well honey I can see right through yeah
Yeah who's on who at the end of the race." Truly poetic.

Not Okay Winking:
1. When someone says, "Try the soup. I always put a secret ingredient in it that may or may not taste like the sweat I rubbed off my dog."
2. When someone comes in and asks for an application and when you give it to them they say "thanks" and then wink at you. Really, a wink? That's going to make me disregard the fact that in the column "Crime Record" you are a registered sex offender? (The first part really happened. The second part I just guessed.)
3. If you are over 65, wearing old man spandex shorts and a fanny pack, please don't wink at me as I bring you your 1 freaking pancake and refresh the coffee you brought in from Starbucks. (The catalyst for writing this entry.)
4. At a pirate. That's just mean. He can't properly respond.
5. If you are a 2012 presidential hopeful from Alaska.


*Who decided turning murder into a fun game? I suppose the same ones who decided throwing playground balls at weak kids would be fun. "Hey kids, run outside and play some murderball."