A co-worker rant...

I am, of course, a perfect co-worker. I never leave you hanging, except when I do, I'm never late, except when I am, so of course it's only natural that I'd expect the same from you.

1. Take a shower before work. I hate your scent. I hate a lot about you, but that fucking patchoulli/body odor thing is top of the heap.

2. I know you love attention and being adored. Can you stop being adored long enough to make the drinks I need? I've got a line, this lady is asking me questions about every item on the menu, and I've got no time for your May/December self-esteem boost.

3. Quit flirting with her. It's getting a bit pathetic at this point, and when she's showing you the myspace of the totally unoriginal singer/songwriter that a girl moving here from the Midwest is bound to find, looking like you might cry isn't going to help your case.

4. Don't hide tip receipts. That one should have gotten you tarred and feathered.

5. Don't suck up to James Spader to make me look bad. He's a dick.

6. Quit telling me that my favorite customer is only trying to get into my pants. I know that. It's one of the bright spots of my day, and I manage to flirt AND make coffee all at the same time. I'm a badass like that.

7. To the musicians who play...don't be so gorgeous. I have to keep my wits, and I hate musician crushes, so you're just making it worse for me. Please quit singing my favorite Ray Price songs, whilst licking your lips. I just might turn into the co-worker listed above.

James Spader!

Wow. I was so excited today to get a customer that looked like James Spader. A few obvious imperfections made it apparent that he wasn't but still, it was remarkable.

He came through, was quite unassuming; I did take note that he ordered a strawberry banana smoothie, an odd purchase, I suppose, but then again, he wasn't really James Spader.

He drives off. We even 'googled' him to show a co-worker what he looked like. Good, clean early morning hi-jinks. I'm a fan of hi-jinks at work.

The line continues. He drives off smoothie in hand, and I turn my focus onto the other bits of minutia crucial to an efficient drive-thru. Until I hear his voice again, so laden with sarcasm it should ONLY be on a man who at least two generations of Americans have entrusted to be their oft underappreciated, always impeccable, not quite a "Bad Guy," but a real fucking creep. Maybe he really was James Spader.

There are apparently "no strawberries" in his drink. Why do we even say that we're going to put strawberries in his drink. He suggests that we either fix his drink or give him his money back.

We get into a near screaming match at the drive-thru, "I went through the rigamorole "what can I do?" he wasn't satisifed with a refund. I was a loss.

A truly Zen moment by a co-worker diffused the situation. I hope James Spader comes back. I'd apologize, for blowing a strawberry-banana smoothie that far out of proportion in life's grand scheme. In the end, it worked out, because I got one of the coolest James Spader stories out of it ever.

Oh, and to the cutomer who chatted with me on my smoke break after. Thanks.

Thanks, Mike...

Mike...

I'm not sure who you are, or why you felt the need to carve "Mike iz the bestest in the whoole world!!" into our table. One can only assume that you were feeling very proud of yourself for reasons only you might understand.

But remember, to be the 'bestest' you have to learn that words need to be spelled properly, and that 'bestest' is in fact, not a word.

"Mike is great!" "Mike is better than you!" Mike is better than absolutely nobody!"

All of the above statements might have been better options.

But better still...."Mike is an immature cunt!"

A day off....

...what a wonderful thing you have. Until you run to the grocery store, in your pajamas, without brushing your teeth, and run into your customers. While buying coffee.

Yeah, this actually happened to me. I'm not exactly a huge fan of the coffee at work, I prefer a totally different kind of roast on my beans. So, I'm at the store, getting a few vittles, and some coffee, when I run into one of my regulars. I stood there, bag of organic, co-op grown Tanzanian Peaberry in hand, and just smiled. He knew. I knew that he knew.

You see, nothing is more sacred than your relationship with your barista. You find a good place, with good people, and you'll come back, as long as there's wi-fi, no matter how bad the coffee might be. Bonus, if you get to flirt with one or several of the baristas. So, every morning, I see him. He actually bothers to park because he knows my co-worker, the one he'd apparently drink endless cups of mediocre coffee for, usually works the front register. He stands there for a minute chatting, inquiring about her morning, pretending that he might get something different, only to order the cheapest, smallest cup we have. That's romance.....

I came to work for the paycheck, he comes to the store to flirt with one of my co-workers. We nodded the "I'll keep your secret, if you keep mine" nod to one another, and went our separate ways.

An ode to Sara...

You , beautiful lady that I could set my watch by. I know my day at work has truly begun when you pull your shiny, new SAAB into my drive-thru line. You voice purrs into my ear, "I need a 12oz. coffee in a 20oz. cup, cream and four equals. I appreciate that you say 'need' instead of want'. A precious lady like you surely has no time for wants.

I've memorized your order, as has every single barista that I work with. We could make your drink in our respective sleep's. But again, in the interest of accuracy, I see that it is neccesary for you to say it every single time. A simple, "Hey, it's Sara," wouldn't suffice.

And thank you for having your little stack of change, your $1.62 ready. I'd hate to screw up on your change, making you even a penny off in your obviously meticulous accounting.

And thanks for not tipping. Thanks for teaching us that the rewards of work are not monetary. Our rewards lie in satisfying our customers, others can only hope to acheive the caliber of customer that you pride yourself on being.

Just realized....

...that I never actually told the story of the giant-wacky-wavy-inflatable arm-coffee cup. It's just that. And we get to stand out on the corner and inflate it every day. At 5:30am. All in the hopes that someone will sense the warmth of our lattes, based only on the vision that is this giant cup, and turn into our parking lot. We, like Mother Theresa, will be waiting with open arms, which we may use in our fight against decaffeination forces. Our muscles pumped from tamping, we will rise up, and fight your fight for you. And with a single inflatable latte, rising from the ground like the proverbial Phoenix, a lot will be accomplished.

Will the circle be unbroken....?

So, roughly a month and a half after taking my political stance against the corporate coffeeshop I worked at, I find myself back in it's employ. Holy christ. I hate being broke.

And now, the giant-wacky-wavy-inflatable-coffee cup has been replaced with breakfast tacos. Breakfast tacos that every customer views as the sole source of their daily nourishments and breakfast tacos that promopt whiny fits from customers who are told that breakfast tacos are not available until 7am, even at 6:45am, whiny fits as if we are holding out on sales simply because of the time, as if we are laughing behind their backs and horeding a massive stash of the magic breakfast tacos, only to propel our own follies. We're just that cruel.

Oh well. At least "Most Obnoxious Co-Worker of the Millenium" has departed.