Saturday afternoon at the coffee shop of death

You know what happens when your car is in the shop and your town's public transportation system vaguely resembles a functioning alcoholic?

You ask your roommates to drop you off at the local coffee shop while they go on a 4 hour hike just so you can get out of the house.

And that's where I've been for the last 2 1/2 hours.  I meant to bring my headphones so I could listen to Pandora and drown out all the other coffee patrons, but wouldn't you know it?  I left them at home.

So, I've been forced to listen to some dumbass conversations, not to mention the cashier keeps slipping in and out of this forced country accent in between whistling to some very loud, uptempo harmonica music.

Really wish I'd brought my headphones.

A wildly attractive, vaguely Latino-looking man just came in.  I tried to show him my left ring finger so he could see it was bare and that he could propose freely without my large boyfriend, Biff, showing up to challenge him to a backwoods game of corn hole for my hand in marriage.

He didn't care.

After my Latin lover left, a petite blonde in a long, leather trenchcoat came in and ordered "EXPRESSO."  Not only was she a crime against fashion, but she had to offend me with her foul pronunciation.

I can't tell you how often I hear people say that and every single time, I want to rip my ears off and chuck them at the offender.  There simply aren't enough ears in the world...

That is also the main reason I could never work in a coffee shop.  I would correct the patron every single time.  None of that "customer is always right" bullshit.

The only thing the cashier does that is louder than his whistling is snap.  He snaps while he walks from place to place behind the counter.

Need a cup?  Snap, snap, snap and walk over here.

Need a spoon?  Snap, snap, snap and walk over there.

Have to grab something in the back?  Snap, snappity, snap and go get it.

Is it in time to the obnoxiously loud ragtime/dixieland mixed CD he's chosen to play in the store for the last two hours?  Of course not.  But rest assured that what he lacks in rhythmic excellence, he makes up with sheer volume and enthusiasm.

Oh good, now there's humming.  Very poor, very loud humming.

The whole time I've been sitting here, a number of groups have come in and plopped down in the couches all but three feet away.  As is typical, at least one person in every party finds me particularly interesting and chooses to watch me like you would watch a sea monkey.

I imagine their inner monologue to go something like this:

"What's she working on?  Is she studying?  She types really fast.  Why is she stabbing the keys like that?  Don't type angry.  Crap, she looked up.  Now she knows I'm watching.  I can't look away.  What if she moves?  I'll miss it!  She has big hair.  I wonder if I put a pencil in it if she would even feel it.  Damn it, she's looking again.  Pretend to read that magazine!  Better Homes and Gardens?  Ugh, why would anyone- hey, I didn't know you could make a Thanksgiving centerpiece using a summer squash and a pipe cleaner.  Shit, focus.  She moved again!  Wow, she's really snorking down that muffin..."

At the very least, I hope someone was entertained by watching me blog about someone watching me blog.

Hey, It's Okay Tuesdays

I like to do this every now and then for a couple reasons:

1) It makes me feel better about myself.

2) Amber at Airing My Dirty Laundry... does it and I think she's swell.

3) I'm having trouble making coherent sentences, so the shorter the better.


Hey, it's okay...


...if you were out in the sun for 7 hours last Sunday and now your pasty ass is burned to shit.

...if it took 10 whole minutes and two friends to help you find your car in a parking lot.  Again.

...to be super excited your mama is coming to visit so you can show her everything you hate about your current town of residence.

...if your car went from making an endearing, high-pitched whine to a gut-wrenching, bowel moving grinding noise.

...to eat an enchilada for breakfast and a burrito for dinner.

...if you could actually feel your brain leaking out of your ears while you watched The Bounty Hunter.

...if your friend Consuela was kind enough to loan you her car while yours is in the shop... and then you promptly left her car keys on the 3rd floor of the T-comm building.

...to wish Cheesy Blasters were a real thing.

Ridin' dirty

Her name is Madame Trash Heap:

And so is hers:

I also like to refer to her as Mrs. Threadgood and Giant Piece of Shit, depending on her attitude at that particular moment.

While test-driving this fine piece of machinery, I remember thinking that it drove like a tank, it sounded like a crabby old lady and it looked like a giant glob of bean curd.

I loved it.

So, I bought it, slapped some new tires on it and put my fuzzy dice in place.  And as soon as I find one bad-ass enough (much to my dad's dismay), I will be classing this sucker up with a bumper sticker... or twelve.

Madame and I have already developed a very special relationship.  A bond, if you will.

I've learned that she does not appreciate going uphill or over 20 mph unless she has been warmed up for at least 8 minutes prior.

She prefers to be unlocked from the passenger door.

If the gas cap is not on tight, and I mean as tight as one could possibly tighten, a fun little light comes up on the dashboard, instructing me to have the engine serviced.  And it stays on.

I respectfully asked Madame to knock that crap off.

She politely invited me to stick it.

I think we're going to get along just fine.

P.S.  I'm currently entertaining suggestions to giver her a little more character on the outside, to match the bitchiness on the inside.  Oh, and the tackier, the better.  She'll like that.