This is just me bleeding profusely. No worries, your food will be right up

"You okay?"

All my co-workers in the kitchen stare at me. I can feel my face getting pale while I try to feign a smile.

"Yeah Yeah, just um, cut myself. Do we have band-aids?"

"Oh really? Let me see. Sylvia, go grab some band-aids."

"Lemme see... Oh wow! Okay hold on."

I just laugh pathetically and run the gushing finger under water. "No worries, it just won't stop bleeding."

Sylvia runs off to find first aid and the cook comes around the grill to examine the damage.

This is what hell must be like, stuck in a hot room while slowly bleeding waiting for aid. Or perhaps I am thinking of the emergency room.

This is my own fault. I had thought what a bad idea it was mid-division to wield a large serrated knife to cut a moist English muffin. It crumbled, my finger got slashed. Maird.

The life in a kitchen is wrought with dangers.

"You see this? See this?" the cook holds up a mangled finger. "Almost cut the tip of my finger right off."

"Ew, well mine doesn't hurt it just won't stop bleeding. That's all."

I start to have one of those odd out of body experiences where I wonder how did my life get reduced to this. The tip of my finger is irrevocably maimed forever and if the cook is any indicator will also induce the need to vomit in others for years to come. But all I can wonder is if I was suppose to deliver ketchup to one of my tables.
"Hey Domingo! Can you take out this food? This food right here," I holler at the busy bus boy. "I'm just kinda dealing with something right now." I check the bread for signs of blood. Muffin preserved. "Here take this out, too."

Domingo looks at the paper towel that is quickly turning red. "What happened? Let me see."

I look beyond the double doors that shields customers from the reality of a restaurant kitchen to faces of anticipation in the dining room. I am the only server on the floor. Domingo the bus guy will have to take one for the team.

This is what my life has come to. I'm going to be left here to bleed to death, while starving customers attempt to eat me for lunch.

"Stick in coffee." The cook just looks at me in interest and says, "Domingo, grab her some coffee grounds. It will make the bleeding stop."

News to me.

Sylvia comes running in the room with two of the smallest band-aids I've ever in my life.

"Sweetie, are you serious?"

The poor thing just looks at my finger that would probably benefit more from stitches than an aid that would better serve a human the size of barbie.

So here I am sticking my finger in coffee grounds, while I image the look of the customers faces as I place their delectable platter down with a oozing finger that is covered in roughage.

And I need enough tips to be able to go to a music festival. This is getting serious.

"Look at this cut." Now Sylvia is in on the trick. I look at a large mark across her forearm that looks more like a burn from what I can only imagine came from a slick kitchen blade.

She merely shakes her head to show how brave she is and how accepting she is of her daily trials.

"Don't we have any bigger band-aids? Perhaps some gauze?"

She straps two of the aids fit for baby on my finger, both of us praying for a miracle that I won't leak all over a table somewhere.

Domingo enters from stage left, "You have some people that want to order."

Of course I do.

'They're in a hurry."

Of course they are.

I try to hide my hand as I run out to the counter. Their first words to me are, "I'm in a hurry."

Aren't we all, bud. Aren't we all.

Manager John creeps up from out of nowhere. He looks preoccupied. I privy him for a more sufficient form of first aid.

"Hold on," he says.

The couple stare at me, "How long of a wait do you think it'll be?"

Johan returns with a rubber sanitary glove and chops off one of the fingers.

"Here put this on."

I slip on my finger condom and stare at the ingenuity.

"Thanks," I say and stare at the pale gloved finger. It works.

I may be able to afford a music festival filled with drug-addled hippies after all. Go summer!

I continue the rest of my day imagining I'm Margot Tenenabaum sporting a fake appendage. This might be a look I could get used to.

The cook made me feel better pancakes. Sometimes getting hurt is the best!

The Pleasant Peninsula Yawns Hello

So you graduate college after years of aneurism inducing papers, all night cram sessions and out performing the chump sitting next to you.

Then lucky you.

Obama is going to be the speaker at your graduation. The most powerful man in the "free world." The man preaching hope, change and the increase of off-shore oil drilling.

And yet, your this guy with the bobble head. Or this chick with the google eyes. This is the future of America.

Let's hope they just forgot their Red Bull and game faces that day.

Remember kids, that box he's speaking into is called a camera. That guy with the big ears in front of you is giving a speech. Time to pay attention.

As a Kalamazoo alum, although from a slightly less prestigious academy, I feel little miffed that these kids can't get their act together. Good luck finding a job. This economy isn't exactly a sleeper.

I at least learned how to fake pay attention. Let's be real, I went to college.

BBQ at my place. I'll provide the sacrificial goat.

Ok sun gods, let's make a deal. I moved to Southern California for sandy beaches, a general lack of snow and a killer tan.

Two out of three isn't bad, but I am shocked at the lack of sunshine in the golden state.

I leave the pleasant peninsulas with the gas on the pedal and one finger out the window only to get a persistant marine layer. Translation: gloomy skies and cold winds.

Starting to wonder if there isn't some curse of the goat in the Peach family. Some great-great-grandfather probably screwed someone out of a killer parcel of land or one hot house maid and now I get to deal with wind chill.

Maybe some Peach cut done a bunch of trees and a quiet but powerful shaman decided to teach that unassuming chap a lesson.

I mean I did knock over a small palm tree once. But it was a total accident involving a lot of alcohol and some poorly placed landscaping.

We do this wherever we go, but it's normally only vacation. And it's normally Florida.

Torrential rains after three month of drought. Fires plaguing the countryside causing the sky to turn black as night.

Or my favorite, record breaking temperatures causing sister to vomit in the Disney World topiaries. She got wheeled out in a fervor of employees dreading a lawsuit.

So I get to Los Angeles only to find that the tales spun of sunlight for eons and bathing beauties as far as the eye can see is disappointingly overcast.

Must be the same feeling of tourists that come to glitzy Hollywood and only see all the tranny hookers around the Manns Chinese Theater. Or end up in the Valley with all the porn stars and airports.

I hear Michigan summer is going to be one of the hottest in recent memory. I don't miss streams of sweat bursting from every pore or walking through a blanket of humidity. It's just not for me.

Yet if I hear that these gloomy Santa Monica skies or chilling wind that is making even my toes grow hair is just so "unseasonable" one more time, I'm moving back to the Lake Effect mitten.

I'll See You in the Funny Papers

For those you of you who have not heard, my title as a reporter has gained even more legitimacy now that I am a staff writer for the Santa Monica Mirror.

Please hold the applause until the end.

I am very pleased to say that I am covering the local news, leaving no rock unturned in order to bring Westside residents the latest of pertinent information. Translation: I am covering a lot of school board meetings, store openings and the occasional rally in the streets. Every journalist starts somewhere.

The news staff consists mainly of a few freelancers, me and our fearless leader/ editor extraordinaire. I even have my own desk and special notebook. I know, I know it’s pretty legit.

Although this is not a brand new development, I am starting to meld comfortably into the office dynamics. Not to say that I am going to let my brilliance slag in any way shape or form at this juncture. I actually could get used to this.

The Mirror has welcomed me to the team, which has been an much easier transition since the publisher and editor are almost as young as I am. We look like a bunch of high school kids that tried to make a run for the grown-ups table. I even own a rad trench coat that could double for a secret agent gig.

I am still working on my luncheon skills. Memo to me, don’t try to order anything that can get stuck in my teeth or requires a lot of carving. Also pay the meter over what you think you will need. It’s just bad form to start excessively sweating due to a panic attack over a parking ticket.

Hold the raised eyebrows, The Mirror has one of top visited news Websites on this side of the 405.

This is how half of my time is spent, on the phone

Check it out to see yours truly each week and keep an eye for the revamped version of the site in July www.smmirror.com (Sometimes Firefox can’t open the site so try Safari or Internet Explorer).

This is Katherine Peach saying good luck and good night.

Why Are American Doctors Mutilating Girls?

In this age it is shocking that such mind blowing inequalities would not only be tolerated, but promoted by an organization such as the American Academy of Pediatrics. This is a practice that serves no medical purpose, is mentally as well as physically damaging, and is illegal in the United States. The article posted at The Daily Beast is as follows:

A new proposal by the American Academy of Pediatrics would have doctors assisting families in the ritual of female circumcision, but activist and Nomad author Ayaan Hirsi Ali says they’d just be complicit in perpetuating a grave injustice.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recently put forward a proposal on female genital mutilation. They would like that American doctors be given permission to perform a ceremonial pinprick or “nick” on girls born into communities that practice female genital mutilation.

Female circumcision is a custom in many African and Asian countries whereby the genitals of a girl child are cut. There are roughly four procedures. First there is the ritual pinprick. This is what Pediatrics refers to as the “nick” option. To give you an idea of what that means, visualize a preteen girl held down by adults. Her clitoris is tweaked so that the circumcizer can hold it between her forefinger and her thumb. Then she takes a needle and pierces it using enough force for it to go into the peak of the clitoris. As soon as it bleeds, the parents and others attending the ceremony cheer, the girl is comforted and the celebrations follow.

The majority of girls are subjected to FGM to ensure their virginity and to curb their libido to guarantee sexual fidelity after marriage. Think of it as a genital burqa, designed to control female sexuality.

There is a more sinister meaning to the word “nick” if you consider the fact that in some cases it means to cut off the peak of the clitoris. Proponents compare “nicking” to the ritual of boy circumcision. But in the case of the boys, it is the foreskin that is all or partly removed and not a part of the penis head. In the case of the girls, the clitoris is actually mutilated.

Then there is the second method whereby a substantial part of the clitoris is removed and the opening of the vagina is sewn together (infibulation). The third variation adds to this the removal of the inner labia.

Nomad : From Islam to America, A Personal Journey Through the Clash of Civilizations. By Ayaan Hirsi Ali. 277 pages. Free Press. $27.Finally, there is a procedure whereby as much of the clitoris as possible is removed along with the inner and outer labia. Then the inner walls of the vagina are scraped until they bleed and are then bound with pins or thorns. The tissue on either side grows together, forming a thick scar. Two small openings roughly equal to the diameter of a matchstick are left for urination and menstruation respectively.

Often these operations are done without anesthesia and with tools such as sharp rocks, razor blades, knives or scissors depending on the location, family income, and education. It is thus more accurate—as does the World Health Organization—to speak of female genital mutilation (FGM) instead of the obscure and positive-sounding “circumcision.”

According to the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, more than 130 million women and girls worldwide have undergone some form of female genital cutting. Some immigrant parents from countries like Egypt, Sudan, Somalia, and others in Europe and the United States, where FGM is common, continue this practice in the West even though they know that it is criminal. Some of them sneak their daughters out of the country during the long school summer vacation so that they can be subjected to any one of these forms of FGM.

Congressman Joseph Crowley (D-NY) recently introduced a bill to toughen federal laws by making it a crime to take a girl overseas to be circumcised. He argued, rightly, that FGM serves no medical purpose and is rightfully banned in the U.S.

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Resources don't grow on trees, people

So far Los Angeles has taught me about patience.

Patience to create a cove of friends, a real flock if you will, not a dreaded "network."

Patience to find genuine people to go out on the town, or the really specials one to spend the night in.

To wait for the winning pitch even if that means sitting until midnight, although it may never come at all.

Patience to wait for the bands that really matter, trusting good luck and fair judgment to find the right unknown legend to spend a night with.

Patience to scramble across town in hopes that you will be able to get in.

To sit on the 405 and wait for traffic to start moving.

To find the person who will get your name on the guest list in advance.

Patience to fight through security checkpoints, and wait for checked luggage. Even when said security drops panties on the floor in public (true story).

Patience to wait for the position of recognition that all career-oriented people strive for.

To break the devastating stories, whether good or bad, and speak with people who make a difference that I can believe in.

To write for a liberal magazine about artists and politics and sustainability in the garden...so I'm not picky on that part.

Patience to sit inside on a warm day with full sun and write that novel that is itching your fingertips.

Patience to trust your instincts when others say your wrong.

To know when you must, because you are right.

But mostly L.A. has taught me appreciate the people that don't care about a status or a faux paux or an accidental step backward on the corporate ladder.

It taught me to love fresh water and fresh air.

To not let the prickling in my toes turn in to anxieties about my future, or my rent, or the one who got away. Or even the what-ifs and the somedays.

If I am ever going to be the stringent editor scrutinizing the latest legislation on mandated sustainability requirements, while my breath-taking significant other waits with dinner at home, I must be patient.

Patience is just one of the many dwindling resource these days, so better not squander.