Idiots

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

For example:

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

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

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

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

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

Ridiculous Declarations

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

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

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

Laurel, My Two Friends

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

Now here's the funny part...

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

This is For You Candence

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



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

Emergency Move

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

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

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

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

And scene.

Chicks, Man

* This picture is a crude reenactment of the following story. Elisa is playing the "chick."

I thought after living with a boy for the past 2 1/2 years my encounters with crazy chicks were over...and then I went for an innocent ride yesterday and was reminded that no matter how far you run, who you decide to live with or where you go...crazy chicks will find you.

Picture this...it's a beautiful Saturday morning and I'm dragging my lazy bones up a rather steep canyon. As I'm taking a mental inventory on my aching knees, a chick flies by me on a red bike. Now, I would like to say that I've finally reached the point where I don't have to be competitive in everything I do and am content at participating at a passive level...but, unfortunately, that is not the case. Instead, at 30, I still find myself a raging "has been" who refuses to lose at anything. Therefore, when this chick passed me my first reaction was to bump up my cadence and put her back behind me. For the next five miles I listened to her pant and moan as she attempted to stay on my back wheel. Now, I know I could have just slowed down and let the Tour de Craziness pass me, but I have to admit I was having a little fun. With about a mile to go, I reached down for some water, and as I took a sip, the chick popped out of her saddle and passed me again. Now it was on. Once I put my water back I settled back into my cadence and prepared to pass the Lance wannabe. However, this time she moved over so I couldn't pass her. I tried again and again she popped out of her saddle and cut me off. Now, I was getting angry. As we approached the last curves until the killer kick at the end, I surged forward and put her finally behind me. As I waited at the top, I thought she would say something like, "Hey, great riding." or "Hey that was fun." Instead, I got the cold shoulder and a look a death. Really? On a Saturday morning you are being this crazy? What are you like on a Monday morning?

Chicks, Man.

* And I know what you are thinking...And the answer is yes. I still would have written this entry had I lost the race. Only she would have been crazier and on the last hill I would have included a minor exaggeration about a billy club and some broken glass.

A Great Day

This afternoon I went to the doctor's office to get a shot. As I was leaning over, mooning a wonderfully nice and innocent nurse, I found myself wondering what is the proper way to respond in this situation. Do I ask, "So, can you tell I work out?" or do I politely inquire, "Man, did you stick a needle in my keester or just perform a perfect round house kick into my buttocks?" I just couldn't decide. And how come at 30, we have to go through these painful experiences pretending to be completely stoic and brave? I mean it's not normal to have someone shoot you in the butt, pat it with a little gauze, put a little teddy bear band aid on it and tell you to have a great day. A great day? What part of me tearing up indicates to you that I'm having a great day? I was having a great day right up to the point where you chuckled and said, "This might hurt a bit." I swear I was two seconds away from throwing an ultra sound machine across the room and yelling, "Now, that is making my day a whole lot better!"

But alas, all I did was whimper a little bit, make a stupid joke about how much fun it must be inflicting pain on kind people and limped out the door. Man, it would have felt good to see that machine hurl through the air...or sing "Moooonnn Rivvverr."

Momma Gettin' Old

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

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

A Real Gift

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

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

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

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

My Retainers or My Marriage

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


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

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

I Can Handle the Truth

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

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

Now those statuses would be interesting.

Me, As a Mom

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

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

Sh#t Happens

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

A New Friendship

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

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

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

Shut up Ned Flanders

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

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

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

Man-Card

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

Big John

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



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

Penny Lover

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

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

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

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

Six Months

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

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

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

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