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.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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.
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.
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