Archaelogists Are Smarter Than Doctors

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

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

Kate: "An archaeologist?"

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

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

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

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

The Torture of Audiobooks

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

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

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

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


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

Just Talk in The Third Person Already!

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

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

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

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

Denny's Elistism

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

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

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

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

* I'm a snob?

Little Red

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

















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

I'm An American And I Hate Fireworks

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

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

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

You Are Done

Yes, there is going to be a picture of me for every post from now on. If you look close you can see my fat lip.

When I was nine years old I had a disastrous summer. I don't know if I was going through a growth spurt, and my body and mind couldn't keep up with each other, but it wasn't pretty. First, while driving my cousin's toy car, I panicked and ran straight into a bolder, which caused major damage. Then a week later, while running up to my uncle's sports car to say hello, I burned my skin against the exhaust pipe, that ran along the edge of the car. (In my defense, how was I supposed to know my uncle had purchased a 911 call waiting to happen.) Then, that same day, I decided to play go fetch with my Grandpa's crazy dog, which, by the way, consisted of throwing rocks for him to go get. After a few minutes of this bizarre game, the dog went crazy (and really who wouldn't go crazy playing a game of "almost being pelted with a rock by a nine year old") and jumped up to bite the rock out of my hand. I, of course, panicked again, and launched the rock behind my head. Unfortunately, instead of landing on the ground, my rock found the dead center of my grandma's glass table. Needless to say, my mother announced I was done and for the rest of the summer I wore a helmet, played under heavy supervision and hoped my seasonal stupidity would pass.

It's been 22 years since those touch and go months, and now, like a vicious cycle, I fear I am experiencing another destructive summer. First, while putting away a coffee syrup, I managed to dump about a gallon of it all over the espresso machines, the phone, the fridge, the steamers and the wall. It took me a little over 3 hours to clean and the phone still sticks to its receiver. Next, while changing the menu boards we have in the market, I clocked myself dead in the mouth with one of the bars that holds them together. Not only is my bottom and top lip swollen, but I bled for about an hour. Lastly, while bringing up gallons of milk from the basement storage area, I managed to turn the corner too quick and drop a gallon of milk onto the pavement. Instantly, the milk exploded onto my leg and into my shoes. As I watched the milk spew from the busted container I heard my mom scream, "You are done!"

It's only June...what's next? Am I going to catch on fire?

Superstar

Me during lunch. I'm about to go suck on my exhaust pipe.

Since I was 18, I've been working lacrosse camps. Camps are interesting places. No matter where I run a camp the scene is always the same. First, you have one optimistic camp director, who has forgotten that by lunch they are going to be ready to slam their head into a car door. (That would be me.) Secondly, you have about four kids, who actually show some promise, and by the second day, you aren't even trying to hide the fact that they are your favorites.

And lastly, no matter what camp I'm at, there's always one kid who stands out so much I am forced to give them the nickname "Superstar." Now, before you think I'm a master motivator, let me explain what is required to receive the title of "Superstar." First, you have to have an incredibly delusional parent, who is dressed in some type of lacrosse gear, for no apparent reason, and who wants to talk to you about the recent National Championship game you never saw. Secondly, you have to be completely "geared out." I mean, you have to have the most expensive stick, the cleats and eye gear have to be top of the line and a freshly molded mouthguard must be already in your mouth. Thirdly, you must, and this is very important, march to your own drum. In other words, no matter what I say, keep throwing like a one-armed shot putter and disregard, under all circumstances, any type of correction. And lastly, you must display, at least once during the camp, a very awkward breakdown of emotion. If you can accomplish these things then you will be named the camp "Superstar."

Last week I coached a camp in La Canada. The Superstar of this camp was a dynamic winner. What pushed her out in front of all the other candidates? Well, she really nailed the #4 criteria. During a water balloon fight (I'll discuss tomorrow how utterly ridiculous this camp was) I saw her carrying a water balloon. I figured she, like everyone else, was holding onto the balloon so she could get me wet, so I exploded the balloon in her hands. As I was doing this she started screaming, "I want to take this home!" (That would be the balloon. The balloon of water.) As I went to apologize for the explosion of water into her stomach, she picked up what was left of her balloon and threw it in my face (yes, it did hit my face) and started to cry. (Over the balloon. The balloon of water.) And that was it. That was when she became...Superstar.

Did I mention I have no idea why I do these camps?

Museums Think We Are Idiots

Yesterday, Ranger Rick (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I decided it was time to check off some things we have been wanting to do since coming to LA. (Okay, this is more my list that I have forced upon Ranger Rick, but I think he's really catching the spirit of it...the spirit of coolness. I debated about keeping that in. It might be one of those that sounds cooler in my head.)

Anyway, yesterday we traveled to the La Brea Tar Pits and to the Grove. (I know major sites of LA.) The Grove was basically a crammed version of our 3rd Street Promenade. (Yes, you did read "our." I've been here 3 1/2 years - it's time to start taking some ownership.) The Tar Pits, however, were awesome. What was so awesome? Well, not to spoil the attraction, but let me discuss the following picture:Behind me is a depiction of a mother elephant getting caught in the tar, which will ultimately lead her to an unfortunate death and final resting spot in a museum. On the edge of this death trap is future dumbo crying out for its mother, and a rather uninterested, if I say so myself, mate looking on. (I really think they could have worked on the mate. I sense no remorse in this guy at all. Has he seen this before? Was he a serial killer, who led all his mates to get some fancy "black water" and then watched them die? Where's the creepy guy from Dateline to narrate this unsolved mystery?)

In short, I found all of this disturbing. I mean seriously, I am perfectly capable of reading a sign that says, "During the Ice Age large animals got caught in tar and died." I don't need to see life size re-enactments to drive the point home. What's next, we go to a Civil War Museum and they actually show us a man getting his neck pierced with a bayonet so we understand that a war and some combat took place? Come on museums - we aren't idiots.

I'm in Love

Today we received a little package in the mail...and I think I'm in love. We actually got this TV a few weeks ago, but when we took it out of the box, we realized the screen was completely cracked. I can't fully describe the sadness that swept over our faces when we saw the gigantic crack. Picture a kid seeing a Christmas tree full of decorations and presents, and then just when they are about to rip off the wrapping paper, some madman comes in and burns the tree and presents. That's just a tenth of how we felt...

But now, we have our TV - and won't be leaving the house until we need more food.

The Final Installment

The fifth day of our trip we drove out of Paris and headed across France to Annecy. On the way, we decided to randomly stop in a little town called Beaune. Unbeknownst to Pierre and I, Beaune is apparently famous for its wine and vineyards. (So obviously, we got roaring drunk and headed out of town...oh wait, that didn't happen.) Instead, we enjoyed a small lunch and a fun walk around the old town, that is still encircled by Medieval ramparts, battlements and a MOAT! The pictures you see are typical scenes of our trip. One, me with Rick Steves book, attempting to decipher his handwritten maps of sites and restaurants. And two, Pierre and I making fun of things that are probably deeply important to the city we are in. (Why they made a mural of someone filming a movie - I will never know? Do I want to know? Sort of.)











The first morning we were in Annecy we woke to rain. Attempting to find some alternative activities we walked over to the local tourist information and were told, "It is raining and you really shouldn't do anything." (We found in most cities the people who worked at the tourist information actually hated their jobs and hated tourists. It seemed like every single TI specialist tried to stop us from doing something cool. I don't know who hired these people, but at some point in their training they really should have learned the concept of being happy ambassadors for their cities and towards tourists. Just a thought.) Anyway, fortunately, we stayed at the Alexandra Hotel, which was run by two of the happiest French people we came across the entire time (that picture of the canal is the view from our room) and unlike their TI counterparts, they pointed us to a fun hike and off we went. For almost two hours we hiked through the forest and scored some awesome views of Annecy Lake. That night we went to the old part of town, which resembled Venice with its canals and small winding streets, and as I've mentioned before, experienced our delightful dinner of raclette. (Picture of the restaurant to the left.)























The next day in Annecy, after killing a fantastic buffet, we rented some bikes and headed around the Lake. Without a doubt, this was the best way to experience Annecy. I can't describe how beautiful of a blue the lake was and how glassy it appeared. I love this picture of Pierre cruising through the old streets of Annecy on his bike. After our ride we grabbed some awesome paninis and headed out of town towards Chamonix.










I really think Chamonix was my favorite part of the trip. You could literally see the Alps in every direction. The picture to the left is us in front of our hotel. It wasn't exactly the most amazing room, but outside our window was a beautiful river, that we could hear while we laid in bed. To the right is Pierre "enjoying" a little ice cream. (check out those Alps in the back...)

As we all know, from my entry a few days ago, the next day in Chamonix Pierre and I traveled up Aiguille Du Midi and then hiked down. (scroll down for pictures) Once we recovered from the hike, and watched the US tie Slovania (Did you hear that? That's the sound of a bandwagon going by.) we had delightful dinner at a quaint little restaurant run by a father and son.

Unfortunately, this is our last picture. The last day of our trip we drove from Chamonix to Lyon, and after a complete debacle of returning our rental car (entry coming) we braved the rain and did a quick tour of the city. (Okay we basically sat underneath a tree and read Rick Steves' descriptions of things we should have seen had it not been raining and if we weren't sick of museums. It really sounded like a lovely town.) After walking in the rain for a few hours, we found ourselves in Rue Merciere, which is a four block area of just restaurants, and ate our last French meal. Dinner was great, however, the highlight was, without a doubt, the lemon meringue pie we had for dessert. I'm not a restaurant dessert person, but oh my...

Okay, we're done. Or are we??

Four Days in France

I know...I want to see my pictures too.After traveling for almost 24 hours we finally arrived in Paris. I choose this picture to start with for two reasons. One because we stayed just a mile away or so from Champ Elysees Avenue at an awesome hotel in Etoile. And two, because try as I might, I was never able to properly say "Champ Elysees."







The first day we decided to "walk off" our jet lag and made it all the way up to the top of the Eiffel Tower.





The next two days we did the museum circuit. Name a museum - I bet we went to it. I think my favorite was either the Centre Pompidou because of the fantastically bizarre modern art and the Mongolians I met outside, who I spoke broken Spanish/Mongolian to - a blog entry about this meeting will be coming - or the Army Museum/Napoleon's Tomb because this is where Pierre (my husband's European name) declared, while falling to the grass for a nap, "I don't care if I see the inside of another museum for the rest of my life."




The fourth day in France we rented a car and drove to Normandy. I have to first give major props to my husband, who not only got out of some ridiculous roundabouts, but also managed only a few stalls. Normandy was amazing. I can't fully describe how breathtaking it was to see Omaha Beach and think about the sacrifice made by so many young Americans. After we checked out the beach we walked up to the American cemetery. If you haven't done this, I encourage you to see this memorial. It will truly make you proud to be an American. Our last stop to Pointe du Hoc (picture of me standing in a hole made by a bomb) was equally incredible. I couldn't believe the amount of bombing that took place at this site and how the Germans were able to attack the Americans so precisely from this point.




After our tour of Normandy, we stopped in Bayeux and had our first two star dinner. Pierre went with a set menu of duck and I went with some type of white fish with a caramel sauce. To finish the meal, we experienced a French version of our apple pie. Simply put, it was awesome. I would like to say the day was perfect, however, on the way home we experienced some bizarre French highway construction. I say "bizarre" because for no reason they kept closing the highway and directing us through random towns. I never saw one Frenchie working on the freakin' highway!!

Okay, I'm off to work. More to come tomorrow.

A Moment Captured

Picture this...30 people crowded around a very famous painting. Pierre (the husband's European name until I feel like enough time has passed) fights his way through the crowd to get a better look of this masterpiece. After a few seconds of inspection, Pierre decides he's not impressed, and in the sea of flashes, the following picture is captured.Without a doubt my favorite picture of the trip.

Meters Are Longer Than Feet

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

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

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

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

Oh Frenchie How You Melt That Cheese

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

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

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

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