And, we're back.

The holidays are drawing to a close. If you're a celebrating type I hope you had a bright and cheerful Christmas and if you're not into holidays I hope bright and cheerful still describes your days.

At the shop we have been sa-lammin. No school, college kids in town, family visiting, people on vacation. These people all want coffee, not to mention our regulars. It makes for a rather hectic workday but the days fly by and we still manage to have some fun. Apparently no one besides us has to work, everyone comes in to visit instead!

First Night Flathead is coming up tomorrow, I sure hope everybody comes to catch some tunes. We have advance sale buttons at a discounted price up until the festivities begin. Live music til about 11pm and we'll be open til midnight. Ring in the New Year with us! If Tazia is around at the stroke of midnight I'm sure she'll plant one on ya. We like to call her Mother Earth.

Because it's been so busy lately and we interact with so many people, we are often inundated with questions, comments, conversations, etc. Sometimes it's hard to keep our game faces on. I'm sorry if you've even been on the receiving end of a look of unabashed surprise from me or anyone else. Recently, although I wasn't working, I know I dished one out without meaning to. I was looking all sorts of a hot mess this particular day. We're talking no shower, sweatshirt, hair half pulled back, grungetastic. Perhaps I shouldn't have been in public but I wasn't planning on being in public for long. I met a few girlfriends at the chop to go for a walk and it was insane-o busy, per usual. Walking out, I got stopped by a customer, Henrietta, to say hello. She asked me when I was due to which I replied,
"Oh man. Comin' right up. I'm looking at another 8 weeks."
"Well, I can see it all over your face that you're ready to be done." I know that sentiment such as this comes from a good, best interest at heart place but it's kind of like hearing, "Dang, girl. You look tired! Did you maybe get hit by a car recently? Or do you just take no pride in your appearance? Maybe that's it. The no pride thing."
I responded by saying, "Oh, you know. Thankfully I've had a really easy go of it. Eight months pregnant is not the most comfortable thing no matter which way you look at it, I guess."
"Yeah, yeah, I mean, like I said, I can just see that you are totally over it. At least you're not THAT fat."
Hokay. At this point I imagine I looked like Teddy Ruxpin who had just been told his Teddy Mother got chewed by a Shar Pei Chow mix.

Word to the wise. Just don't say the word 'fat' ever. Even if there is a negative in front of it, ie: not fat, just leave it out entirely. Weight is something women, especially pregnant women aren't into being publicly criticized about. If you do have an urge to comment on the fatness or not that fatness of an individual stop yourself and just say, "lemontree" a few times instead. People might look at you strangely but there will be no obsessing. Granted, I'm sure Henrietta had no ill intent but she probably didn't think about the ripple effect either. I've been wearing scarves everyday since(rather than just a few times a week) to try and hide any extra chins.

How sweet it is to undergo a significant body change under public scrutiny. Bubbles better be cute as hayl is all I've gotta say.

Later sk8r.

Satisfaction and moral fiber.

I've been getting good feedback re: the blog! This is good news! It means the Head Cheese is less inclined to make me blog on my own time. I am currently a paid blogger. This is very rare in the blogosphere (I don't know that HC knows the rarity of it though. Let's keep that just between us). It's nice to be complimented not only because it means Colter's stock is going up each time someone clicks but it also makes me less inclined to mutter an expletive when I write a student loan check. So, thank you all for inflating my ego and validating my exorbitantly expensive private school English degree.

This isn't exactly what I thought I would be doing as I stumbled into my comprehensive exam, haggard and harrowed. Four (oh, fine, five) years of advisors, heavy text books, sleepless nights, ass kissing and paper writing culminated into me slinging lattes and flashing smiles. I sat on one side of a 30 chair conference table while the Spanish department sat on the other listening to me draw comparisons between the house featured in the magical surrealism novel, Aura, by Carlos Fuentes to a uterus and the hallways of the house to a birth canal. Not kidding. You try talking about human reproduction via general construction in Spanish. And convincing a senile Peruvian and bitchy gay Spaniard that you're worthy of a degree of higher education in their beloved native tongue. While serving up an americano I'm often asked what's next for me, if I'm ever going to go to school or if perhaps my degree is already in progress. Not only is it already in progress, been there, done that. Time of my life. I've gotten to a place within Colter that I actually get to use my degree. Well, the English part of it. The Spanish part I'm working on. Don't tell HC but we'll be opening a SoCal location soon. I'll be spearheading the operation as the gringo liaison. But as for the question askers, I guess it's hard to believe that a 20something of seemingly above average intelligence and tenacity would settle for a barista position.

Thing is, guys. I love my job. Job satisfaction is not something that's easy to come by. If you have job satisfaction, keep a hold on it. Even if you think you oughtta be making more scrilla, if you wake up and generally enjoy going to work thank da lawd (if you're into that sort of thing) and certainly keep going to work. Eventually you might get the folding chair at the folding table up against a wall with no windows and an hourly rate in the double digits! That's not entirely true. When the Head Cheese goes to get lunch I steal his rolly chair and put it at my folding table. And I get commission. All because I loved this place enough to stick it out. That and I got a little tipsy at bingo one night with the Head Cheese and told him he was crazy not to promote me and if he didn't want to give me more responsibilities and make me feel like I'm doing something I'd take my resources and enchanting smile elsewhere. No shit. Tazia was there. I doubt I would have ever acted on it but after a few IPAs it seemed like a just and impassioned tirade. Next thing I knew I'm holding a formerly nonexistent position and getting business cards printed and torturing the credit card. Never hurts to ask and being able to do something you love is definitely worth the wait.

My office job portion of the performance helps with job satisfaction in that I feel important and accomplished. Otherwise I still love being behind the counter. In a post Bailey world my favorite to work with is Brenda. Granted, she scared the shit out of me when I first met her but over time we forged a bond and I just love coming to work on Tuesday morning when I know I get to work with Brenda. Or Monday morning with Tazia. I am trying to figure out a way to actually place a blue ribbon winner on one of them and the only logical method I've come up with is for them to jello wrestle, winner takes all. I'll include a trophy and frame a piece of paper that says their favorited credentials above the paper towels at the shop. Keep an eye out. Maybe I'll put the actual bout on YouTube. Without workplace harmony I imagine life would suck and the truth is we have a pretty rad team. Hopefully you can taste the love in the crema.

Enough with the hippy dippy peace and love shit. Work is work, it builds character. If you don't love your job today you should probably still go tomorrow. We're in a recession.

Speaking of character building. Kids these days. Where is their character?! I went to the school of hard knocks for character building seeing as how I spent a significant portion of my young adulthood pushing 260. You don't go through high school and college obese without developing a work ethic and a sense of humor because you certainly aren't skating by on sex appeal in this society. I know not everyone can have a coming of age, skin thickening, heartstring tugging story about being respectful and cognizant of the value of a dollar, but still. Some of these hoodlums that come slinking up to my counter are true spectacles. One of my favorites was a 15ish year old girl recently. Not to pass judgement on her because I don't know her very well but she didn't look like she spent her afternoons volunteering at any soup kitchens. But, like I said, let's not judge. Bailey didn't look like a choir girl either and she remains one of my all time faves. Anyway, let's call this one Diamond. Diamond walks in, thumb holes ripped in her exaggeratedly oversized sweatshirt cuff, heavy lined eyes and wearing one of those fat hemp necklaces with the blown glass pendant with a multicolored shroom inside. Probably on a coffee run for her fellow student councilors. At the counter she orders a large coffee but only half full (I later find out the other half will be filled with creamer and sugar). I half fill her coffee and as I turn back to charge her I see her hand in my tip jar. She quickly pulls it most of the way out and just rests it on the rim instead. Seeing my inquisitive eyebrow raise she starts to say something. I assume to explain herself or make an excuse why it appeared that she was stealing my tip money. Instead I got the following:

"Has anyone ever, like, ran off with your tip jar?"
Completely taken aback at the thought of it I stutter, "uhh. Well. No. Err... yeah, no."
"Huh. Funny. I mean, what are you going to do about it? Chase them?" She says, her tone challenging.
Composing myself, not to be intimidated by 15-year-old moral Gumby I say, "Heck yeah, that's a significant chunk of my income right there."
"Huh. Funny," she repeats, "'cause probably whoever takes it is hoping you'll chase them and has someone here to knock over the cash register as soon as you get out the door. Then you're fucked, now aren'tcha?"
After I picked my jaw up I managed, "I guess I just hope most people wouldn't think of doing such a thing."

I had no better comeback. Well I did, but it involved shin kicking and references to the obscene lack of willingness to work amid the young punk dope scene and how when I was a kid you got up on Saturday morning to help with the chores and milk the cows and banish the pack rats from the barn. We might not have had cows or pack rats but you get my drift. Kids these days. I will certainly not be able to raise a cherub but Bubbles will also never threaten to steal a tip jar or he gets to sleep in the barn with the pack rats.

It's funny how much more than slinging lattes and flashing smiles my job really is.

Peace, y'all.

It's Thursday?!

Holy potatoes. Do you ever feel like you're only either getting into or out of bed? Days just fly by. I guess scarce daylight is a contributing factor as well as being busy. Good thing too. Idle hands do the devil's work, ya know. How else do you think I got knocked up?

Speaking of, some people have no filter. They just say whatever is on their mind. As a customer service representative we have to swallow a certain amount of bullshit and keep smiling. Riding sidecar has not only lowered my bullshit tolerance but it has also increased the amount of bullshit people feed me. For some reason every pregnant woman needs to hear the 95 theses of proper child bearing and rearing. Good thing I have Pete to take it out on, otherwise paying customers might suffer.

I once had a woman notice my baby bump and said,
"Oh my! Are you pregnant?"
I replied, "I am!" with my trademark big smile.
She continued on to ask, "Are congratulations in order?"
"...well... yeah? I mean, I'm thrilled about it."
Perfectly matter-of-factly she narrowed her eyes a bit and asked, "So, then, you're not worried about over population?"

Welp. I guess not.

Seriously. Who are these people? Say that behind my back to your friend as you're leaving. Don't say it to my face.

(The following is a non sequitur but we'll pretend it's a segue [I had no idea segue was spelled like that until writing this entry. Now I know!] in regards to calling people on their shit.)

Before the days of babies and swollen ankles were the days of PBFs. Pretend Boyfriends. We all had several. Well, Bailey and I each had at least a half dozen and the rest of the girls maybe had one. If you have been a Colter fan for awhile you hopefully had the pleasure of getting to know Bailey. If you got to know her you can imagine that her PBFs all had highlighted hair, tanning punch cards and bedazzled back pockets on their jeans. Give her a dude in a too tight Ed Hardy shirt and she could hardly focus on pulling shots. She would check her face in the silver tamper on the machine, tousle her hair and scrunch her boobies up toward her chin

These PBFs gave us something to look forward to and usually due to our grace and tenacity, or lack thereof, something to laugh about later. I got the biggest red faced laugh of all one day last fall.

First of all, you have to hear about The Original. The Original was the first ever PBF, the reason this whole legacy came about. He is tall, kind, and curly haired. My home run of characteristics. I could never keep myself together when he came in. I muttered, dropped cups, talked too fast, laughed thickly. I was a typical 12 year old girl at an n'Sync concert circa their 2001 PoPOdyssey tour.

We all know about my imagination by this point so I hope you can please connect the following dots. Him saying hello and asking how I was on a given day turned into him being such a caring PBF and being truly concerned with my well being when I later recounted interactions back to Brenda. He once floated by my house in fishing boat and hollered at the shore that my wave runner was floating away. Swoon. Of course, according to my accounts, The Original was not conducting a guided fly fishing tour on the Flathead River, he came to see me. And then saved my life and property from dire peril! By this measure we hung out all the time and he was a hero all the time.

By happenstance we once were invited to the same wedding. One day when we were hanging out [read-he came in to get a vanilla latte] I asked him if he was going. He gave a wishy washy maybe response to. I told him what color my dress was so he could coordinate. Magenta. By this point any semblance of shame or dignity I had was reserved for other PBFs who didn't turn me into a pile of trendy clothes and goo over by the bulk coffee. He chuckled and said he would keep that in mind and carried on.

He left me at the altar. Well, he left me a few rows behind the altar on the bride's side. When, upon our next date and his next vanilla latte, I asked where the camel and pink pinstripe button up was to my magenta halter jersey knit dress. He told me he had something else going on. It was over. I knew it, he knew it. I would always love him but it was time.

I sadly recounted my tale to Brenda. How lovely it was when he came to my house, the musical montage of the progression of our relationship. Daisy chains and all that mushy gushy romcom shit. I may have been talking a little loud behind the counter I suppose but I was distraught!


The Original came in the next day.

"Hey, Jesse. I have a bone to pick with you."
"Me?!" I flushed red and clutched my hands over my sternum to brace myself for the blow.
"Yeah, you think you can just break up with me?!"
Ohmygawd. What. Shit. What?
"Heh. Hah. Um."
"I really thought we had something and then I have a friend tell me that you told Brenda we were through before you even told me!"

I swear this really happened. He later explained that a friend approached him and asked how she never knew that he was dating the blond Colter girl. I told Brenda a convincing enough story that this eavesdropping girl actually thought I was dating The Original and that he had bailed on a wedding we were supposed to go to together after saving my life from the river monster. Thankfully The Original had a sense of humor and recognized my eccentricities.

I talk too much. And too loud. You would think I would have learned my lesson after we had an employee meeting regarding a story I told the Head Cheese about a night in Mexico and a back alley high speed chase in Volkswagen and our savior in spandex on roller skates.

I should try to remember that I work in public and that there is no soundproof barrier between the pastry case and my mouth.

And, I know I'm a creepy dork.

I hope you all go in tomorrow (Friday) to take in Glitter and Lights theme day! Should be a trip!

I need some coffee.

If you only knew

I wish I could tell you all the crazy schemes we're concocting at CCR headquarters. You will know soon enough, my precious. It will all become clear. The light at the end of the tunnel, the unveiling of really cool stuff, is what keeps me calm in light of frustrating emails, defective goods, miles of red tape and East Coasters who think Montanans are snaggle toothed, slack jawed idiots. Maybe someday I'll take you guys to the edge of the precipice so you can check out what we're diving into. It's worth Dominic in New Jersey thinking it takes all 14 of my brain cells to operate a cell phone, I just have to keep calm and carry on. Could be worse, I could be from New Jersey.

I thought I would take a break from Excel spreadsheets and shipping terms to tell you all a story! I've put a similar disclaimer on a previous story but for any newbies I want to repeat and expand a little on something. I love my job. I love people. I've tried to office job it 9-5 M-F and I mostly wanted to punch myself in the face. I can't not be around people. It's just that... some people... well, some people make for good stories. How about that? When I share something on the blog the characters are amalgamations (how's that for slack jawed, Dominic?!) of a few different interactions, or a few characteristics pulled from several customers. These touches make for a much better story and also protects the innocent (albeit bizarre) people I am writing about. Technically, by mixing a little of George with a little of Ron and a pinch of Nancy I am making an entirely new character and no one can be offended, right? That's what helps me sleep at night, anyway. Basically I want to say, please don't get your panties in a bunch and worry that I'm talking about you or something you did. I'm not. Probably.

Anyway. We have this real pain in the ass come in every once in awhile and nothing is ever quite good enough. Occasionally pleasant, always mumbling, inevitably frustrating and obviously single for a reason besides the male pattern baldness; Harry likes things just so. He has a habit of starting to say something and shaking his head while turning his body as he completes the sentence. As I mentioned above homeboy is a chronic mumbler so combine that with the shake and turn and communication points are entirely moot. He, of course, wants a response though and will go as far as to do the eyebrow raise/open hand gesture/"hmmmm?" thing to get you to say something back. Sometimes I tell him I completely agree, sometimes I say I dunno, sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I look at him as though he has just said something so profound and interesting that I might go back to grad school and write my thesis on it. I once had to break up a fight between Harry who is a flaming democrat and another older gentlemen who is staunchly republican. I finally said enough when from one end of the store Harry yelled, "If you believe that load of shit you're probably going to tell me next that you rode a unicorn here with pinwheels for eyes." Ohhhhkay, Harry. It's time for a timeout. We're all friends here, all the man said was that he found Reagan to be a charismatic leader.

And that's Harry. Don't get me wrong, I like him well enough. He's just a bit of a pain in the ass. Aren't we all?

Harry comes to get himself a big americano and work on his computer for awhile one day recently. He happened to come in right at the after school rush so the upstairs was packed with chai chillers and strawberry smoothies. After collecting his americano he shuffled downstairs to work in peace. Or so he thought.

Our downstairs closes at 6pm, if you weren't aware of that. Whenever the second person is getting off shift they close it up down there so that the store closer doesn't have to maintain two levels of service. We're good but we still don't wanna. At about 5:55 I head down to start closing down on this particular evening. I first approach two men in the corner by the door and tell them it's time to start heading upstairs. They collect their stuff and mosey so I head toward Harry, who happens to be the only other person in the basement.
"Hey, Harry --" I start, he has headphones in. At this point he cuts me off by waving my words away with one hand and pulling his earphones out with the other.
"Yeah, yeah. I already heard you." He grunted at me. Well, fine then. Excuse me for being courteous and not just hollering a 2 minute warning down the stairwell before locking any poor bastards who didn't hear me in the dark scary basement.
Maintaining my cheerful demeanor I tell him I'll see him upstairs as soon as he gets his stuff packed up and continue on my way up. Before I can escape his drivel I hear from behind me, "What, by the way, is that awful smell?"

First of all, as we have already discussed, I am riding sidecar. As a pregnant woman my sense of smell is incredible. I am a grizzly sow to his mere human capacity olfactory. The basement smells like a basement. Cold, a little damp, not a lot of air circulation. I suppose we could install a fan. I wouldn't say it's offensive, I would say it smells like a basement. And I would know.

"Smell, Harry?" I ask, heading back toward his vicinity.
"Yes. It's horrific. It makes me feel as though I am going to be ill. I thought I could take it but the longer I sat down here the worse it got. It's positively disgusting."
"Oh, wow. I'm really sorry to hear that. I'm not sure I smell what you smell, and I don't know what could have caused that. I sure hope there isn't something moldy or--"
He cuts me off again to say, "No. It smells like someone used the bathroom down here. Right here!" And he points to the ground near his feet.

Seriously? Did you really just tell me that you think someone shit in the basement? Areyoufuckingkiddingme? Get out. Just leave.

Rather than spouting what came to my mind I found my inner diplomat and said, "Well, Harry, there is always the back room in the upstairs. I know it was full up there but the back room usually has--," this is cutoff number 3 now.
"I don't want to sit in the backroom because if I put my laptop on the table I have to lean too far to reach it and if I put it on my lap the screen slants and I can't see comfortably." He explains this to me in a similar tone to the tone Dominic in New Jersey uses to ask me how my snaggle teeth are feeling.

Well shit, Harry. Your life is just too damn hard. I bet heading over to Darfur would be like vacation compared to what you go through here in the Colter Coffee Undergrounds.

I finally tell him I have to head back upstairs and leave without consoling him further for our terrible smelling, unsuitable seating place of business.

Also, everybody who reads, come in this weekend for the art sale we're having in the rank smelling basement! A few local potters and a jewelry designer will set up shop downstairs and have a bunch of beautiful wares for you to decorate yourselves with! Beginning Friday afternoon and going through Sunday. Be extra sure to come in during the Art Walk on Friday evening. Shop local!

Until next time.

Imaginative customer service.

First, let me just say: I love gmail. I pushed send on an email to a tshirt guy just a moment ago and a window popped up saying, "you have typed 'I have attached' in your message but there are no attached files. Would you like to attach one now?" Holy smarty pants. Yes, gmail. I would. And thank you for remembering. What will they think of next?

Related, the email I was sending was a bid request because I am trying to get new shirts for the chop. If you see Head Cheese wandering through feel free to drop a hint that you would totally wear a swanky new Colter shirt. My bug in his ear doesn't quite cut it.

Anyway. I have a vivid imagination. When it was still socially acceptable I played entirely in made up lands. My younger brother was the only one I ever let come along. We had a blast. It is my nature to create worlds in my head, the only difference is that now I don't live in them, I just tell stories about them. Worlds with rather ordinary plot lines, some based on actual facts, some entirely fictional, all believable enough. It is how I pass my days. It really helps on days I forget my iPod when I go see Jim. Who needs music when there is a sweaty drama playing out before your very eyes?! The coffee chop is another place that is rife with material...

So, there is this couple, Daisy and her husband, Laz. They are an elderly couple, probably close to 80. Daisy always holds onto the tips of her fingers and speaks softly. Laz always has on plaid and a belt buckle. Daisy and Laz come into Colter several times a week, she orders, he pays. A regular latte for him and a decaf latte for her. A milk chocolate bar between them, they sit quietly and enjoy their afternoon ritual. I think they've been married so long that sitting in silence is comfortable and happy. Awhile ago they started coming in less and less. Sometimes Daisy came in and picked up drinks to go. It was evident on the occasions that they came in together that Laz's appearance had been withering. He was much skinnier, purply age spots splattered his skin and a yellowish tinge hung below his eyes. He never came up to the counter and their stays at the coffee shop became briefer and briefer. Eventually they didn't come in at all.

You see, Laz had been battling cancer. He lost his battle and left Daisy a widow. I shared the sad news with everyone behind the counter and we all hung heavy heads and slumped shoulders at the thought of it. After a few months Daisy began coming in every few weeks or so. Getting her decaf latte, sometimes a hot chocolate, sipping it by the window. Once I saw her at the grocery store. I became so overwhelmed by the sadness of it all that I choked up. She had spent decades cooking for her family. Now? Dinner for one. As I drove away from Rosauers that day I made several phone calls. Daisy was a good reminder for me to give a shout out to the top of my list. The whole mess hit me pretty hard.

Then, one day, Laz rose from the dead! He strolled into Colter still looking skinny but certainly looking alive! Alive enough to drink a latte and share a chocolate bar with his bride. He, in fact, hadn't died! Perhaps he hadn't been feeling well. Perhaps the slouchy economy had hindered his desire to spend a Hamilton unnecessarily. Whatever the reason, I had completely made up this man's death. Kinda like Tupac (yeah, I'm still waiting). He's alive and well, I saw him last week. I guess Daisy wasn't shopping for one. They just must eat less than me.

I learned my lesson. I quit sharing my stories aloud.

But then these two Russians walked into my life. They're two brothers amid a pile of other Russian siblings and they are the only family members in the States. These two, Donny and Josh (they obviously picked out their unassuming American names on the boat ride over), come in a coupla times a week. Josh, the bigger one always ordered. He never said much but communicated the necessary information and smiled and headed to the back room where he and Donny sat on their computer and skyped with their family in the motherland. Once Josh came in wearing a US Army fatigue jacket. Either this boy is really delving head first into his newly minted patriotism and joined our military or he is shopping strictly at thrift stores so he can send money back to the pile of siblings. Either way, what a guy, eh?!

Josh speaks some English, Donny doesn't speak any. He still engages enthusiastically with body language, and smiles and laughs wherever it seems appropriate to him. I took to these boys, we bonded. They even learned my name! Such lovely brothers, doing whatever they had to do to help the family. As we became friendlier I grew continually more impressed with their vocabulary. Turns out that Donny did speak a little English! Quite a bit actually. I learned more about them with each visit. Both Donny and Josh are expecting babies of their own although their baby mamas come with some drama. One baby mama has multiple babies and therefore other baby daddy drama. They both are pretty into hip hop.

I also learned that they are from Cleveland originally. Cleveland, Ohio. Ohio... Russia... Same difference?

Maybe I should focus more on cleaning than spinning story threads.

One last quickie:

I knew this wasn't true the entire time I was scheming it up but I still went with it for a good laugh. This will be most enjoyable if you know our Queen Bee, Brenda.

Brenda has obligations outside of Colter so she cannot work more than 20 hours a week unless there are extenuating circumstances. Recently we had a changing of the guard and new management was put into place and new hires are speckled behind the counter. While facilitating a smooth transition Brenda had to work more than her normal schedule.

This woman also happens to be incredibly anal organized. She has a step by step photo documented procedure for tying the garbage bags in case anyone has any questions. We also learned how to squish cardboard soy containers for most efficient use of space in the garbage courtesy of the Queen Bee. It should come as no surprise that she manages her finances impeccably. Every cent is documented in her Quickbooks and at the beginning of the month she inputs her projected income and debits her expenses so even though a bill isn't due for a week and a half, it appears as though that money has already been taken out of her account.

Picture this. Brenda, at the end of the month after having to work almost double what she normally accounts for, has almost double the cash she's accustomed to! What does she do? She throws caution to the wind and gets a ghetto blaster, a grill (the kind rappers put in their mouths, not the kind suburbia puts on their decks), and some Kanye shades and cruises Kali in her 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra with Boots (the cat) chillin in the red velvet passenger seat. Definitely makes it rain on the people waiting at the crosswalk. In slo mo, flashin the grill. Yeahhhhh Boieeee.

Now you know what I do at work all day, what keeps y'all distracted at work?

I just love this.

There is an epidemic of the Hipster Barista out there. Beware. They thrive in standoffish and snobby settings such as coffee shops in upper middle class Seattle neighborhoods. If you have been infected by the anti charm of the Hipster Barista don't worry. The symptoms are not life threatening and will subside as long as you leave the presence of the infectious creature. Definitely do not tip and try not to strangle the HB with their ultra hip scarf. Lastly, certainly don't let them get to you. They're assholes.

Coffee Snobs from Frankie Shaw

So there I was...

The following is a story loosely based on actual events.  Names have been changed in order to protect the innocent (even if said innocent are a bit brutish [truth be told I don't know the brutish one's name in the first place]).


So there I was, milk pitchers on the left of me, thirsty cups on the right.  John, down on my end of the counter, waited for his cappuccino and we chatted idly.  As a multitasking barista at your service I kept one ear on the transaction occurring at the register to catch any drink nuances.  I didn't catch much but I did get bla bla dietary restrictions bla green tea.  She paid her dollars and carried on toward the end of the counter.  Within earshot she overheard my conversation with John which was focused on hemp milk at this point.

Let me take a moment to tell you how I feel about hemp since I'm sure you're dying to know.  Hemp is a really cool plant.  I have some hemp lip balm, hemp yarn to make a loufa, and a few items of hemp clothing.  I even like to sprinkle hemp seeds on my salads for a dose of healthy fats and protein.  It is a super diverse and sustainable resource.  Hooray for hippies.  I don't love hemp milk.  In fact, I don't really like it at all.  I certainly appreciate that we offer it but I would never choose it.  I have a very scant amount of dairy in my life and typically opt for the beautiful simplicity of a black Americano.  Hemp milk doesn't steam well, it's not creamy, it has a grainy texture and it coagulates if poured into hot coffee.  I don't really want coagulated anything in my mouth, naw'msayin?  I think hemp milk takes a dedicated person.  A person who yearns for some semblance of a latte but will swell up and go into anaphylaxis  if they drink milk, this is the someone who should choose hemp.  More power to the hemp drinkers, though, they are getting way more nutrition in their hemp latte than I am in my black Americano.

I digress.  So, John and I are chatting about hemp milk and Maleficent (let's call her Molly for short) displays an excited gesture and interrupts, "You have hemp milk?!"
"Heck yeah!" I respond, sharing her excitement.  While I don't love hemp milk the way she obviously does, I do have some characteristics of a St. Bernard puppy and like to wag my tail when someone shows interest in something I've said or done.
"Oh my goodness, if I would have known that I would have ordered it!  I love hemp milk!"
I had just finished up John's order and Molly's green tea was next.  I passed John's cap down to him and told Molly that I could switch her order, no problem as I hadn't started her drink yet.  Rather than a simple, "great, thanks" she proceeded to narrow her eyes as a storm furrowed on her brow.
"The thing is," she started, in a low, solemn voice, "milk is disgusting."
John, the jolly jokester that he is, had just finished sprinkling raw sugar atop the mound of creamy foam on his cap to create a melty, sugary mass a la creme brulee.  Molly made the disgusting milk comment as he dipped a finger into the sweet goodness and as he slurped the foam off his finger with a cocked head and a wide grin he asked, "how can you say this is disgusting?!"
Unfazed by the bliss that Dairy had bestowed unto John, Molly continued, "It is!  It's disgusting.  Soy is bad too.  You," she accused, "are drinking pus.  Dead, rotting pus."
At this point I intervened to say that perhaps we should have this conversation elsewhere.  Say, anywhere else where dairy isn't the primarily traded good.  That dead, rotting pus is lining my pockets and buying booties for Bubbles, lady!  I didn't say the last part.  I understand there are a lot of politics in the dairy world.  The outbreak of extremely well endowed 13-year-olds of the early 2000s caused an uproar and we saw the decline of rBST, now we are seeing an influx of all sorts of alternatives, less tinkered with and easier on our digestives.  I get it.  In fact, I subscribe to it.  Almond milk?  Can I get a hell yes?  Still.  I'm not one to call milk dead, rotting pus in a coffee shop.  To a dude not only drinking but thoroughly enjoying a dairy to the gills beverage.

She continued on her rant in an effort to share the truth of the evils of milk long after I had passed her hemp decaf unsweetened pumpkin latte along to her.  It was hard to disguise my confusion and downright what-the-eff-ness as she turned red in the face while vehemently recounting a terrible tale of her son being fed crackers and juice at a local preschool.  For shame.

I think homegirl would have popped a hemorrhoid if I'd opened the fridge and she'd seen shelves upon shelves of whole, 2%, and skim gallons of milk, heavy whipping cream and that evil bastard, eggnog.

I get it, we have to stand for something.  We all live our own lives, absolutely, and we are all entitled to feed ourselves and share with our families that which we believe to be most healthy.

Maybe just take it down a notch.

It's time.

Colter needs a blog.  I know all you people crave the dish as much as the shots, suffice it to say coffee gossip salvation has arrived.  This is the place for you to come and get the low down on what's happening at your favorite coffee shop.  So now you can stop lurking at the edge of the counter by the machine and you can do all your Colter lurking from the comfort of your own computer screen.  But I'm not going to install a webcam so don't ask.  And if you were planning on asking maybe get a hobby.

I will warn you, Head Cheese has given me some liberties with this blog.  It certainly wont be raunchy but my sense of humor can lean on the inappropriate side.  Put it this way, Pete and I are cut from very different cloths.  I curse like a sailor but I will try to rein that in.  Consider yourselves disclaimed.  If you can take a few dirty jokes and an occasional four letter word and like stories about the bizzaro world of customer service you've come to the right place.

A lot of my time is now spent at a computer making phone calls that start with, "Hi it's BaristaGirl with Colter Coffee..." and then proceeding to talk about new accounts, art for mugs, t shirt designs, other behind the scenes stuff.  I like it very much but I miss all you crazies.  I hope this blog will be mutually beneficial so I can memorialize the good times and you guys can get a chuckle while I'm at it.

Right now we are seeing the end of an era.  Heather and her husband, BJ, are moving.  Heather's last day behind the counter is Friday, everyone needs to stop in and see her for sure!  When she first told me that she was leaving Colter my response was, "so, are we closing?".  I truly cannot envision this company without her.  I know we'll adjust and we'll be fine but she will certainly be missed and thought of often.  Especially when something goes wrong.  Who we gonna call?!  She has seen it all around this joint.  From the dude in the wheel chair, speeding by hocking loogies on our window and screaming about the resistance to the adolescents with matching hairstyles in different shades of Lisa Frank with each others hands down the others pants.  Seriously?  It's a coffee shop.  Do what the rest of us did and hold hands until you can find the backseat of a Camry.  Even as she is seeing it all, Heather is pretty damn tactful and mellow.  She could be freaking out under the surface and we'd never know.  Homegirl is the master of cool.  Hats off to the lady who taught me how to pull shots, run a tight ship, and be an employee.  Not only will we miss her as a manager, we'll all miss her as a great fwend too.  Aw dangit, now I'm gonna get emotional.  I blame Bubbles.

Speaking of, I think you all should be familiar with Bubbles by now but in case you're not, Bubs is the fetus.   If you hadn't guessed who authors the blog by now, pregnancy ought to be a dead ringer.  Only one of us is riding sidecar.  I'm still gonna go by my blog name though cause it makes me feel special and it distinguishes me from SweetiePeetie who will also be publishing every once in a while.  Head Cheese told me I had to play nice and let him go coffee geek on you guys.  Don't worry, he won't know if you scroll right through his paragraphs on roast levels and variances of notes among different singles origins we offer.  That shit is boring.  I make my living off of and love coffee and even I realize that shit is boring.  SweetieP still wants to stroke his geekgo and share his vast knowledge so whateva. Blog away, dude.

After much ado, here is the blog.  Check back often as I hope to publish at least once a week.  It's time for Manfriend and I to go to our ultrasound appointment.  Fingers crossed for a happy, healthy (boy) baby!

Shout out to Heather!