Coaching is Awkward

I always thought being a coach would be easy. You show up, grab a whistle, steal some motivating lines from Rudy and tell a bunch of girls what to do. However, after four years of coaching, I can testify that it's not easy and surprisingly entails a lot of awkward moments. I know "awkward" sounds like a strange word, but honestly, it's the only one that fits. For example, during our game today one of my players turned the ball over six consecutive times. It got so bad that I had to signal in to our captains that no one was to pass her the ball. This strategy was working until this particular player got a loose ball and decided to shoot about ten yards out. Now, for those of you who don't know a thing about lacrosse, shooting ten yards out is like shooting a basketball from half court. No one actually does it in a real game, and if they do, it usually entails winning a car at half time.

Anyway, you can imagine I was sort of ticked off at this shot (which mind you, was at a critical time in the game) and I exclaimed from the sideline, "I swear (insert name of player) you are the absolute bane of my existence!" From that, I decided to continue to vent my frustration and said, "I swear she couldn't catch a ball if it was made of glue and she was holding a laundry basket!" Finally, after watching her make another unfortunate mistake, I decided to pull her out. Now, as a coach, I typically like to be ultra-positive when kids come out. I try to use it as an opportunity to coach them and build them back up. However, this time I wasn't really in the coaching mood. Instead, I said something like, "You are killing us out there. I said clean up the turnovers, and what do you do, but turn the ball over. I can't have it. You are killing me!" Now this is where her lip starts to quiver and I feel like a jerk. So, I quickly recover and say, "Hey chin up. You are having a rough day and I just need you to re-group and then you are going back in."* As I went to walk away, she turned around and said to a group of people sitting directly behind us, "Don't worry I'm alright." I then stopped in my tracks and turned around to see her entire family (grandma and all) sitting there with very unhappy faces. I suppose they heard me say the thing about the glue and the bane of my existence. So awkward. I wish Hoosiers or Rudy would address moments like this.
*She actually never went back in.

Locker Room Etiquette

I don't know if anyone has ever discussed this issue with gym owners, but let me shed some light on female locker rooms: About 99.9% of females don't enjoy being naked around other females. (The other .1% are typically European or grossly confident Exhibitionists.) So, please, people, build some changing rooms. That way I wouldn't have to walk into the locker room to use the bathroom and see some old woman's butt staring back at me. I swear seeing a bare and saggy butt before working out is like eating a chili cheese dog before running a marathon. It just ain't pretty and after about 30 seconds of running I promise, no matter how strong you think you are, you are going to vomit.

And lastly, might I just add a little word to you .1%, who insist on breaking the female code and undressing out in the open: Please for everyone involved, go into a bathroom stall, put up warning tape, change in your car or don't go to the gym. I don't want to see it and, trust me, us 99.9% don't want to either.

4 Stages Of Rational Behavior

I like to think that in most cases I behave like a rational adult. For example, today after working 9 hours, and running a goalie practice up in Malibu, I went to start my car and found it to be dead. Now, unlike most people, I didn't overreact. There was no banging the steering wheel, no giving the finger to people driving functioning cars and no girl tears*. (Okay, there was maybe a few choice words, but come on, the car was dead.) Anyway, I would say that that was one of my better moments. Last night - not so much.

Picture this: A weekend of lacrosse. Flight delayed an hour. Flight full. Man to my right kept trying to talk to me. Girl on my left kept talking to herself about how her mom was crazy not to be supporting her recent elopement. 45 minutes to get my bag. 30 minutes to wait for my shuttle. Endured two trips around the airport while stopping at every shuttle stop. And finally after landing 1 1/2 hours in LAX I was able to leave the airport.

Now here's the question: How did I react?

Well, let's start with the poor Chinese people who got in the shuttle on our second trip around the airport. While our shuttle driver got out and tried to help a lady find her destination address, I exclaimed, pretty much in their faces, "Is this for REAL? I swear this is ridiculous!!" Their response, "You live LA?" To which I muttered in exasperation, "You got to be kidding me. Not only am I in the shuttle from hell, but I'm with Chinese people who are taking pictures of each other inside the shuttle! Kill me now." (Cue Chinese people moving closer together.)

Anyway, once I was finished terrorizing the Chinese, I moved on to more productive things like, yelling out like a turrets victim, "Come on!" every ten or fifteen seconds. When that didn't work, I moved on to a more rational protest of throwing my head back, and while letting out a huge breath, would bring my hands to my head and mutter incoherent words. Finally, when I realized my driver was not coming back any time soon I moved on to the last stage of my frustration - "ANGER and HATE For Everyone." Now, I can't explain this stage fully, but basically, my anger reaches such a level that it becomes a virtual vacuum and everything and everyone, who has ever bugged me, comes to the forefront of my mind. And all I can do is sit in a state of utter frustration and chronicle the people I hate.

Here's what I came up with last night:
1. Shuttle drivers
2. Pilots, who act like if they are super chipper we won't notice we are going to be an hour late.
3. People who don't use blinkers.
4. People with bad breath.
5. Refs.
6. People who drive below the speed limit.
7. Greenpeace workers.
8. Snakes.
9. Rappers, who are basic idiots, but who will make more money than I'll see in my lifetime.
10. Men who coach womens lacrosse.
11. Parking ticket attendants.
12. Ugly people who make out in public.
13. People who talk with their mouths full of food.
14. Keith Olbermann

Okay that's all I can remember from last night. I'm telling you it's like a blind rage. Fortunately, I was never driven to the last stage...murder...

*You know - mascara everywhere, whining into a cell phone at some daddy far away.

My Neighbors Suck

I present to you all a problem...
Recently, I have noticed a series of nicks on the passenger side door of my car. (See evidence to your right) Now, I realize these unfortunate blemishes can be the result of poor parking at the grocery store, or the angry peckings of midgets. However, I fear, since I ride my bike to the grocery store and I haven't offended a midget in a long time, these annoying dents and scratches are actually the result of my neighbor's disregard for my car. How do I know it's my neighbor? Well, first, their driver side door has nicks on it where it would match up to my passenger side door. Secondly, they drive a crappy car and therefore are obviously jealous of my awesome 2005 Honda Accord. (sorry to anyone who drives a PT cruiser.) AND, every time I encounter them in the elevator or outside my car they ignore me. Yeah, ignore!

So, I come to you all for a solution. How can I stop this blatant attack on my car? How can I send a proper neighborly message of: "If you touch my car again I'm going to stab you with a fork?"

And just to add to your suggestions I've come up with a couple of my own:
1. Stealing their bikes. Eye for an eye baby.

2. Starting a conversation with them in the elevator that goes like this, "Man, great weather we are having. Doesn't it just make you want to come clean about destroying someone's car?"

3. Finding an angry midget to peck away at their car.

4. Bash in their front bumper. Oh, wait...(See picture to your left)

Okay it's only four ideas. I need your help. This madness has got to stop.

Mental Map of My Mind

Yesterday, on a beautiful Saturday*, I went downtown to see a high school orchestra play at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Why did I do this? Well, one, I went to support an awesome girl from my church, who plays the viola. Two, to go inside the Disney Hall, which was very cool. And three, because I love, I mean, LOVE, high school orchestras. There's just something exciting about the possibility of a freshman accidentally ripping a screeching sound off a violin, or the awkward kid, who "plays" the cymbals, to crash those mammoth things at the wrong moment or too loud. Oh, just the chance of disaster makes me get all sorts of excited.

Anyway, as I sat there listening to the orchestra, who I might add, was actually quite incredible, I found my mind wondering. It wasn't until the kid next to me whispered to his mom, "This is really boring," did I snap out of my trance and do a "mental map" of my thoughts. You know what I mean by the "mental map": the tangent thoughts you have from one original thought. For example, here was my mental map:

First thought: Wow, the orchestra conductor should really not wear black. With that lighting you can really see all the folds of back fat she has. Next thought: Back fat. I wonder if I have back fat? That woman has back fat. (Finding random woman in crowd) Why is that woman bobbing her head to the music? She's not at a freaking rock concert. I haven't seen a real concert in a while. I need to go to one before I get pregnant and can't do cool things. Next thought: Me with kids. I wonder if in fifteen years I'll be sitting in one of these things. Man, I hope not. What if my kid ends up like that cello player? Is that kid high fiving his friend after their part? What a loser. Man, I'm mean. That girl has got massive feet. How does she even...AND SNAP...that was my "mental map."

Try your own mental map. It's super fun. High school orchestras...not super fun.

*A total crime.

Party With A Parrot

On my way home from work today I saw a sign painted on a suburban that said: 602-428-STAN.

Driving the suburban was a creepy man, I'm assuming Stan, with a parrot on his shoulder.

All I could think was two things: 1. What the hell? and 2. What the hell?

Why Beetlejuice?

I couldn't use a picture of the subject matter. I'm sorry. It was too gross.

One would think at the age of 30 your skin would grow up and stop acting like a pre-pubescent 13 year old. I don't get it. Once you conquer three decades I think the zits should cease. Just saying.

Anyway, for the past couple of days I've been nursing a crater of pain just above my lip. I've never been more conscious of speaking and eating than I have now with the absolute epicenter of poison on my face. Of course, like all good human beings, I've been unable to leave this gift from heaven alone. I've squeezed it, touched it and prodded it to go away, but nothing has worked. Instead, all I've created is a nasty red wound.

Yesterday, as you can imagine, I was feeling rather self-conscious of my skin and went to work hoping no one would notice. Things were going well until I was asked to deliver food to a certain table. Sitting at this table was none other than Michael Keaton/My friend. As I placed their plates onto the table he asked me how I was doing, and then told me to show my eyes to his friend. Now any other day I would have been flattered that Beetlejuice wanted to admire my eyes, but this was not one of those days. As he pointed out to his friend the cool blueness of my eyes, all I could think was, "PLEASE, FOCUS ON MY EYES. DON'T LOOK DOWN. DOWN LOOK AT THE PUSS WAITING TO COME OUT OF MY VOLCANO OF PAIN! PLEASE!" After a few awkward seconds of staring at a stranger, and trying to hide my zit with an inconspicuous tongue, I made a lame joke about wooing my husband with my blue eyes and ran away.

Yeah, yesterday was a good day.

Breaking Out of My Shell

For those of you, who religiously follow this blog (Mom, Baby A, EMad and someone in Nova Scotia) you know that I have written many times about being unable to confront conflict.* My mom has informed many times, with a unhelpful shrug, that it's part of my genetic make-up to fear confrontations and arguments. I, for fear of upsetting my mom, accepted this hereditary disorder, and since I can remember, have been apologizing for things I never did.

Then one day I met and married Dr. Phil (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband). Through the past three years, Dr. Phil has been pushing me to break out of my passive state and fight back. I'm not going to lie - there's been some dark moments. There was the time I was severely cut off on the 405 and I didn't even attempt to honk. And then, we were at dinner and the waitress forgot about my order and I ended up apologizing for bothering her. It makes me shudder to think of those times.

However, today I think I would have earned a bright star in Dr. Phil's file. While riding home, (IN THE FREAKING BIKE LANE), after work I was almost run over by a chick in a Porsche. Now, the old Kate would have mumbled something under her breath like, "Geezz lady," and then continued home. But, not this new and improved Kate. First, I gave her the universal, "What the crap is your problem?" by lifting my arms in the air. She then responded, with her own hands in the air...and then it was on.

As we got to the intersection, she rolled down her window and screamed at me for erratically riding my bike. Oh, the test was on and she just raised the stakes. I then responded with, "Lady! (big step up from 'Excuse Miss') Are you insane? (Yeah, I went to a straight mental health reference) I was in the freaking bike lane. Learn to drive." (Okay, at this point I'll admit I was starting to get a little worried that I had insulted her. I mean, maybe she never learned how to drive and maybe her family was too poor to own a car, and therefore, she never learned the proper rules of the road. I didn't know her full story.) Fortunately, as I was about to offer a free car wash, she responded with, "YOU are the crazy one and I don't even see a bike lane!" This is when I heard Dr. Phil's voice (kind of like Yoda in Star Wars ) and said, "Are you really going with that argument? (I'm buying time) Seriously? (still buying time) (Okay, time for the zing) Lady, if you follow my hand I'll show you where the good workers of Santa Monica painted in the freaking bike lane. Oh look, there's a little stick figure of a bike so everyone, including you, will know it's indeed a FREAKIN' BIKE LANE!!" And as she drove off, I screamed, "You are crazy. Learn to drive!"

I have to admit it felt good. And I even received a round of applause from a fellow biker behind me. Actually, he might have been clapping to break my deranged moment of rage. Anyway...

* Or I'm a classic elementary school playground winnie.

It's Alright Alrighttt

Yesterday, while I was waiting for the doctor, I started to examine the wall of pictures of successful pregnancies and babies. As I looked through and determined which kids had a fighting chance at not being ugly like their parents, I noticed a picture of my doctor and Matthew McConaughey with his recent son. I don't know how I feel about me and Matthew McConaughey having the same doctor. On one hand, I feel good that, with all the money McConaughey has, he chose my doctor to deliver his baby. Yet, on the other hand I remember reading this quote from McConaughey and feeling like someone should have been stopping this craziness (that "someone" turns out should have been my doctor):

"The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard. 'It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit,' he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta."

I wonder if placenta harvesting is covered by my insurance?

If Only

As I mentioned in my last entry, my team had a rather "difficult" weekend playing lacrosse up in Santa Barbara. What I failed to mention was that, while my team was getting worked on the field, I was getting worked off the field. What do I mean? Well, before our second game started on Saturday, I realized someone had stolen my stick. Yeah, not only did we drive two hours to get killed by creepy men, but I also had to endure petty theft. It was in a nutshell the perfect weekend.

Anyway, because I had a game to coach and because there was about a thousand people at this tournament I had no chance to search for my beloved stick. Therefore, the following day I looked over the schedule and found out who had played on our field after our first crushing defeat. I had narrowed it down to two suspects (well, two teams with many conniving suspects) and set out to find my stick. I first went to the University of Texas's sideline, which of course, was absolutely covered in that burnt orange color and longhorns were strewn everywhere. (I swear, is their food at the cafeteria all dyed in burnt orange?)

Anyway, after not finding my stick there, I headed over to my second suspect's sideline: The University of Oregon. As inconspicuously as possible, I leisurely walked along their sideline. As I reached the end of their bags I saw my stick lying on top of a pile of other sticks. (Probably other ones these kleptomaniacs had stolen) After looking both ways, I quickly grabbed my stick and started to walk away.

Now here's where I fail in this story...I WALKED AWAY. QUIETLY. I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING!! Why am I such a weenie? I might as well of said, "Excuse me, Oregon. Sorry to bother you during your game. Um, I think you stole my stick yesterday. Yeah, it's right here. Um, I'm going to...no, I'm sorry for not holding on to it tighter, I'm going to take it back. Yeah, no. Good luck this weekend. Yeah, thanks." I swear, there are only a few moments in life I wish I could take back. (ex: cutting my hair really short my junior year in college and then sporting a mullet for the rest of the year while it grew out) I wish I would have said something like:

Kate: "Hey Oregon, is this your stick?"
Some Stupid Duck: "Yeah, it's mine."
Kate: (While charging her with a knife - it's my scenario) "Oh, so you are the (insert derogatory name) that stole my stick!!"
Some Stupid Duck: "Here's my wallet. Take everything inside of it."
Kate: (While throwing the wallet to the ground and grabbing her jersey) "Getta out here. You ain't worth it."

THEN I walk away...

Men and Lacrosse

This Picture is me telling the subject of my entry to hit the road...

Last weekend my team traveled up to Santa Barbara for a lacrosse tournament and managed to walk away 0-4. 0-4. I honestly can't say if we'll win a game this year. It's not that my team is particularly bad. I just believe, with all my heart, that all the teams we played this past weekend were actually doping, and some actually had men on their teams. No, I don't have any substantial evidence to back up these claims, but I'm sticking with that story, and yes, it helps me sleep at night.

Anyway, after our first loss on Saturday, I gave my girls the "we still have three more games" pep talk, and ran away to play in a post-collegiate game. (I just needed to hit someone with a stick and not be arrested for it.) As I walked back from my game I had to encounter numerous coaches, who I've had the pleasure* of interacting with over the course of fours years at Pepperdine. All of them consist of 30-35 year old men, who may or may not of actually played lacrosse at some point in their lives, decked out from head to toe in their school paraphernalia, holding a lacrosse stick (like that will instantly give them credibility), and who find it NOT at all weird that they hang out with a bunch of college girls AND never receive a paycheck for it. I absolutely loathe these men. I loathe them because 1. they think we are equals. We are not equals. I played lacrosse and now coach it. They watched a video on Youtube and now think they are experts. If I hear one more of them tell me something about Duke or a real Division I team I'm going to murder someone. Just because you subscribe to Lacrosse Magazine doesn't mean you ever wore a skirt and played our sport. 2. Their life is lacrosse. They recruit. They go to practice and they go to games. This would be great if they actually got paid for it, or if they could actually offer scholarships, or if this WASN'T CLUB LACROSSE! 3. And this is probably the worst part. Their teams win. I hate it. It makes me feel like maybe I should start watching more Youtube clips and going unemployed.

I swear, this season is going to either kill me or leave me with the biggest chip on my shoulder.

* When I say pleasure, I mean, more in the sense of pouring vinegar in my eyes.

Honesty Is Not Worth It

Last Friday, while driving home from practice, I decided to call my mom. Like a total idiot, I neglected to put my phone on speaker or to use my blue tooth device. Consequently, I was pulled over and asked the idiotic question of, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" I don't understand the logic behind this question. If I'm speeding, I know I'm speeding. If I'm snorting cocaine and changing lanes erratically, I know I'm snorting cocaine and changing lanes erratically. It's not that difficult. I wonder if they just ask the question in order to immediately make you feel like a little child, who got caught painting their room with magic markers. So, belittling...

Anyway, in response to his stupid question I replied, "Was it because I was on my cell phone? Because I was just looking at it because my phone is out of battery." (Cue showing cop cell phone out of battery. Wait five seconds. Cue phone beeping out of battery.) What can I say, my phone was honestly almost out of battery? I'm what you call "quick." Or a "liar."

Anyway, I could tell he was about to buy my story and then, after a little hesitation, asked for my paperwork. Sheepishly, I handed over my registration and proof of insurance, and then with as much polite flirtation as I could muster, batted my eyes and said, "So, I sort of forgot my license at home." He then marched back to his car, and I began to hear Erik Estrada (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) say over and over, "Why didn't you have your license or blue tooth on you?" I swear, there's nothing worse than the mockery of your spouse. Anyway, after a few minutes, (which by the way, what are they doing that entire time? Thinking of other stupid questions to ask like, "Do you know why what you did was so bad?") Anyway, again, he came back and informed me he couldn't find me in the system. Couldn't find me? Ha! I then repeated my birth date and watched him sulk back to his car. For a few seconds I wondered if I was about to get out of a ticket, and then I saw a van rental receipt I had from the weekend before. Written out on the contract was my license number. At this point, I was torn: Do I pretend I didn't see the contract and hope that the cop doesn't find me, or do I give my number and pray my honesty will get me out of the ticket? I've always been a little bit of a "gambler"* so I waved the cop down and gave him my license number. Minutes ticked off and he returned once more. He then said, "Because you were so honest, and not really on your cell phone, I'm giving you a warning." Immediately, I screamed a loud thank you and continued on my way.

As I called my mom back, this time on speaker, I began to reflect on what had just happened. I, immediately, realized I felt rather torn about the situation. Because on one hand, I felt bad for lying to the officer about being on my cell phone, and yet, I was sort of proud of myself for being honest. It was a strange feeling, and yet, if I had to do it all over again, I would, without a doubt, play the "out of battery" card any day of the week. Because let's be honest, honesty is not worth a ridiculous ticket or a spouse's disapproval.

* Actually, not at all.

Sore Loser

I mentioned before (see "I'm Old Now Get Off My Lawn") that I was going to milk my recent trip to Arizona into two entries. Well, here's the second one...

The other thing I realized, outside of becoming not nearly as cool as I think I am, is that I'm a terrible loser. I know this statement sounds rather obvious, being that I've played sports since I could walk and I'm now a coach, but let me explain. First of all, as I begin to accept the fact that my team is going to lose, I start to get even more sarcastic than I already am. For example, as a player, if my opponent is clearly going to win and then calls a time out, or stops the clock for an injury, I will start muttering, "Greeeattt. I wanted this game to continue. No, please take your time. This will allow the parents to properly loosen their wrists and hands before they applaud like a bunch of morons at the end of the game."

And as a coach, if I'm on the losing side, I first start with the players. (I don't really discriminate between which team.) I'll say something like, quietly of course, "How can someone that uncoordinated be winning this game? I swear, does Heaven even exist?" Or "I swear when we get back to Pepperdine I'm going to get (insert name of player) checked out for Ideational dyspraxia." *

After the sarcasm, anger and aggression take over. I can't even begin to apologize or recount all the cheap shots I threw at girls for no reason other than I was losing. Unfortunately, as a coach, I'm not really able to hit anyone. (Innocent water bottles lying on the ground don't really count.) Therefore, all I can do is give the evil eye, disgusted looks and sometimes fingers to spectators behind me. It doesn't feel as good as watching a happy winner become a dirty loser on the ground, but it blows off a little steam.

And lastly, once the sarcasm and aggression have subsided I make the final push and attack the opposing coach. (No, not physically attack. Come on that's insane.) But, I will, in my rousing pep talk at the end of the game, make several comments about the opposing coach in order for my girls and myself to know, that even though we might have lost the game, in life we were still ahead.

Don't judge. I hate losing.

*According to Wikipedia: Difficulty with planning a sequence of coordinated movements

Stop Talking

Today my ever awkward co-worker asked me how much I weigh. (Let me say, that nothing warranted this question. Absolutely nothing.) Anyway, for fear of getting in an even more awkward conversation, I told her how much I weigh. She then replied, "Damn girl, you weigh as much as my left butt cheek." I know I should have been flattered, but I was just grossed out...Oh the images in my head! Oh the images! (That would be my best Heart of Darkness impression.)

I swear, there is no end to the awkwardness this one girl can produce.

I'm Old Now Get off My Lawn

Poison - Bret Michaels - Something to Believe in - MyVideo

Please play the video before reading. I think like a good wine it will enhance the experience...

Last weekend I had the wonderful opportunity of driving a 15 person van down to Arizona. No, I didn't lose a bet. Instead, last weekend marked the beginning of my final season as the head coach of the women's lacrosse team at Pepperdine University. And how did it go? Well, let's put it this way, I left LA at five in the afternoon, on Friday, (while it was raining). Proceeded to sit in traffic for three hours. Arrived in downtown Gilbert, AZ at 2 in the morning. Watched my team lose in the last minute on Saturday. Drove to Tucson on Sunday. Arrived at the field in Tucson and found out the game was canceled due to rain. Drove back to Malibu to drop off the kids. Stopped by my apartment in Santa Monica for an hour to watch a little Super Bowl. Then drove to LAX to return the van and finally went home at 10 pm. So, yeah it was awesome.

I will say I realized some interesting things while driving a boat down to Arizona. The first, and which will be my entry for today, (yeah, I'm milking this trip into two entries) is that I'm old. I know, I know, 30 isn't old, but when you get in a car with a bunch of kids who were born in the 1990s you are old. I remember the 90s. Vividly.

Anyway, here's a few examples that reminded me I'm no longer as cool or as a young as I once was:

1. We were talking about memories of growing up and I said, "Man, the day the Challenger blew up was one of the craziest days." My kids' reply, "What was the Challenger?"

2. Feeling rather bold, I put my Ipod on shuffle. To my delight, "Something To Believe In" came up randomly. After a few seconds, someone asked, "Who is this?" I said, "This was my sixth grade boyfriend and I's song. It's Poison." My kids' reply, "Poison? You guys didn't have a good relationship?"

3. I have never professed to be a good texter. And apparently, my texting skills were deemed slightly better than someone's grandma, who suffers from arthritis. I'm sorry I can't remember which forsaken number corresponds with "T" and why "good" always comes up when I want "home."

4. And lastly, unlike all the young and vibrant college students, when I exited the van, I first had to gingerly step down because my back was asleep, then stretch my tight hamstring and finally slowly limp because my knee was locked.

Oh, getting old sucks. Come on Bret Michaels...give me something to believe in...

Thank Goodness

I know it was incredibly cruel of me to post about my basketball date with a quasi-movie star and then NOT report immediately on how it all went. Well, here's the thing...miracles do happen. When I arrived at the stake center I received a text message from Missy informing me that she had over slept and would be unable to attend. Now, I know what you are thinking - you think at this point I threw my phone down and cursed all those years of reading Tiger Beat and Perez Hilton to only be stood up by the celebrities I love so much. When in actuality, I was completely relieved because warming up on the court, while I received my text message, was one of the most motley crew of women I have ever seen.

Picture this if you will...(Now introducing the starting line-up for the LA Stake Women's Pick Up Basketball game)

1. An immigrant from Ukraine, who drops the F bomb every time she misses a shot and also screams in my face, "You want more?!!" in a bad post-communist accent, every time she makes a shot. (Which by the way, makes me want to send her to a work camp in Siberia every time she opens her mouth.)

2. A barely English speaking 5"0 woman, who dribbled every three steps and shot most of her shots two handed from her waist. I wanted to tell her to stop doing that, but all I could remember from Spanish class was Callela boca, Cerveza and Tengo que usar el baño. I guess the first one would have worked.

3. A woman, no a mom, who hasn't worked out since Clinton was in office, and who kept calling time outs so she could run over to the stage and tell her boys to stop fighting. I sort of suspect she was actually using the timeouts to suck on crystal lite and re-adjust her mom sweatpants from Target.

4. A girl who definitely never got picked at recess, gym class, sorority rushes, prom, or to sit in the emergency aisle on the plane. She's got a sweet spirit but if she shows up again I'm asking her to leave. You think I'm kidding. I would take the crazy Ukraine any day of the week.

5. And lastly, yep, just six of us...the token single girl who I think shows up to awkwardly flirt with the guys after our "game." She's not a bad basketball player, but I just don't think she's fully committed.

So, you can see that, though it would have been cool to hang out with a celebrity, this was NOT the venue for it. Can you imagine how traumatized she would have been? These are my people and I'm still recovering.

*Side note: the picture is entitled "Grateful African American" on google. And who says I don't celebrate Black History Month?

Basketball With the Ladies

Every once in awhile I am reminded of what a strange place I live in. For example, Michael Keaton, star of Batman and Beetle Juice, has now become my new favorite customer. Each morning he comes in and says, "Morning Kate, I'll have my usual." To which, I reply, "Oh Mike, what possessed you to ever participate in the cinematic disaster of Herbie Fully Loaded?" To which he'll say, "Oh, Kate, your coffee is so bitter as is the truth that comes from your mouth." Okay, we don't really have a conversation but, he does say he'll have his usual and I get to shout out, "Latte for Mike!"

My other example, which is actually true, consists of another "movie star." (I use this term sort of loosely because 9 out 10 people won't know who she is, but if you ever had the pleasure of watching Stick It at the Sugarhouse dollar theater then you will definitely know who I'm talking about.) Yes, I'm talking about Missy (won't use last name in case she googles herself on a daily basis) from the hit Stick It, Heroes and the WB hit Reaper. Okay I think that is enough hype.

Anyway, the other day at the restaurant, while I was setting up the dining room, Missy called me over and we started to talk. (We became friends before) She asked me if I play any sports and I said, "Well, I coach lacrosse, cycle and occasionally play some pick up basketball." She immediately asked where I play basketball and if she could join me. Like a total idiot, I said, "Sure, a bunch of girls from my church get together on Saturday and play. Would you like to come this weekend?" To which she said yes.

So, I guess tomorrow I'm taking "movie star" Missy to the stake center to play basketball with a bunch of post-pregnant mothers, who will probably be dressed in full BYU attire and ask to pray before the game. What in the world was I thinking?

Lacrosse Is A Total Lie

The other day I was attaching a throat protector onto my goalie's helmet. While sifting through the many screws, diagrams and directions I stumbled upon a small insert entitled "Helmet Safety Booklet." Because my dear father always preached the importance of safety, I decided to see if there was anything I was missing about constructing an ordinary lacrosse helmet.

After a couple page, I realized three things: 1. I didn't know the truth behind the sport I loved. (The following is taken from "Helmet Safety Booklet")

Yeah, death! I've played this reckless sport since I was five. My parents encouraged me. I went to college on a scholarship to play this forsaken sport...and NOW I'm finding out that I could have died? I feel like I've been lied to my entire life. Thanks Safety Booklet for finally having the conversation everyone was afraid to have.


2. What a concussion is:Ahh, yes, thank you for breaking it down into layman terms.

AND 3.I learned that bad actions can have some nasty consequences:...one wrong hit could ruin your life...for..ev..errrr. Who knew? WHO knew?

I never said my sense of humor made sense.

Humans are the Worst

My $30.00 3D Glasses, that I'll be wearing during every movie for the rest of my life.

Last night Roddy Piper (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) and I decided to follow the masses and go see Avatar. Now, I must admit that I was rather impressed by the special effects and the 3D was...well...it was...totally worth it. (I'm trying to tell myself that since I spent my future child's college fund on my movie ticket.)

Anyway, as spectacular as the special effects were, I must admit, I was rather perplexed by the story and end message of the movie. (Spoiler alert) Take for example the last battle scene between the Avatar people (sorry I don't remember their Tribal name because I'm not a dork or still live in my parent's basement) and the humans. I couldn't help but think, as I was watching humans get speared with arrows, that as a spectator was I supposed to be hoping that humans got killed? Was I supposed to cheer every time one of my fellow homo sapiens was torn apart or flung from a ship in order to protect the beloved planet of Pandora? Apparently so, because, and I'm not exaggerating, as more humans were being killed, more people starting cheering in the movie theater. I felt like yelling out, "Yeah, get 'em. Humans suck!!"

Whatever happened to the typical scenes of humans killing aliens, dinosaurs, King Kong, sharks, predators and machines from the future? Now, those are movies I get.

As a side note, I read in The Week that people are experiencing depression after leaving Avatar because they long to live on Pandora. Maybe humans do suck...

Awkwarrrddd

* I tried to find the most awkward image and this one has always been seared in my brain.

Over the course of my life I have participated in many strange conversations. For example in college, I've answered questions about my religion and why I don't drink from countless intoxicated people. (There's nothing like bearing a strong testimony to someone struggling to stand up.) I've pieced together through hand gestures and broken Mongolian that the milk I was drinking was from a sick sheep. And, I've tried to explain and coach lacrosse to a number of questionable intelligent and athletic girls.

However, as disjointed, confusing and sometimes awkward these conversations were nothing compares to speaking to one of my co-workers. She takes awkward conversations to a whole new level. For example, while polishing silverware with her yesterday the following conversation took place:

Awkward Girl: Where are you from?
Me: Pennsylvania.
Awkward Girl: Go to much Eagles' Games?
Me: Nope. But watched them every Sunday.
Awkward Girl: What sign are you?
Me: Sign?
Awkward Girl: Yeah your sign.
Me: I don't know I'm an Aries.
Awkward Girl: Hmmm.
Me: What does that have to do with football?
Awkward Girl: It doesn't.
Me: (While looking away) Huh?

Example Two: (Last week sometime)
Awkward Girl: Kate, do you lift?
Me: Used to. Not really anymore.'
Awkward Girl: So you use dumbbells?
Me: Yeah I used to.
Awkward Girl: Dumbbells can be heavy.
Me: (While looking away) Yeah.

Now in my mind, after one of our awkward conversations, I high five the air and scream, "Awesome conversation (name of employee)!" It's the only thing that stops my body from convulsing into spasms of awkwardness.

I've decided from now on she's going to be the one feeling awkward. For example, if she asks me about what I ate for lunch I'm going to respond with, "Food makes my body gasy. Do you ever feel like running into a wall full speed?" Or if she asks me one more time what sign I am (this is a re-occurring question in the middle of awkward conversations) I'm going to say, "I'm the Ram after the golden ram that rescued Phrixos, taking him to the land of Colchis." And then walk away. Let her go into spasms...