Why World Cup?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quite the Sign

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

Baby Showers and Black Holes

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

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

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

The Myth of the Aircraft

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

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

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

Not Tonight

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

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

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

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

The Go To Move

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

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

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

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

*I obviously don't do marijuana.

Frozen Like A Deer

I know this is a total winnie picture.

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

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

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

Sometimes Even Superman Can't Fly

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

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

Canadians Can Do Anything They Want

Today the following conversation took place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Back

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

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

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

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

Not The Reaction We Were Going For

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

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

Me: Yeah. Super Size Me. Right?

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

Me: Wow.

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

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

Decisions To Be Made

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Deed Punished

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

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

The Luck Has Run Out

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

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

Mannnn...things were going so well.

I'm Officially a 30 Something

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

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

Please enjoy my birthday tap dance...

Advice From a Mexican Sage

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

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

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

Tell Me You Like My Hat

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

New Dawg in Town

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

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

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

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

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

Nominated For Being A Good Loser?

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

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

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

It Will Go Beyond Getting Your ZZZs

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

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

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

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

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

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