Turkey Week, Round 4

I was recently informed that some day I will make some man very happy. While this could be viewed as a compliment, I instead saw it as an expectation I could never possibly live up to. This is primarily due to my family - more specifically - my dad's side of the family. I love them all. I really do. But they're frightening, especially to outsiders. They're loud, opinionated, rowdy, and they multiply like rabbits. No, seriously. I thought my aunts and uncles had a lot of kids but my cousins are certainly giving them a run for their money.

Every year my Grandma Lee (my father's mother) hosts a Thanksgiving dinner at her house. There are usually at least 30 people who show up. This year we only had 29 attendees but that's because roughly 20 of them weren't able to travel. And incase you're wondering, the answer is no, my grandmother does not live in a mansion. She owns a quaint 2 bedroom, single floor home that barely fits all of us.

...

So I started this post a month ago. And then I saved it as a draft and forgot about it. Now I don't have the motivation to finish it. To sum up, we drank, we ate (my amazing father smoked three amazing turkey breasts - SO GOOD!), my more talented relatives played music afterward, and there was much rejoicing.

The end.

Turkey Week, Round 3

Friday was by far the most relaxing day of Turkey Weekend. My mother was making dinner, only a couple of my friends were coming over and I was not expected to look nice or behave well. I also didn't have to cook/prepare anything. It was wonderful.

The day began with me driving to Tacoma to retrieve my friend Nichoel who had been stranded on this holiday weekend. Although she insisted that sitting at home with her inattentive boyfriend (the culprit responsible for her being stranded in the first place) would be fine and she didn't need rescuing, I took it upon myself to disregard her protestations and retrieve her anyway. With a home cooked meal and full liquor cabinet as incentives, Nichoel didn't need much convincing (But honestly, what twenty-something needs more than free food and booze as an incentive?).

After retrieving Nichoel and surviving some minor Christmas shopping (we managed to avoid most of the black-friday zombies), I headed home with my captive to partake in the consumption of rum and eggnog. My dear friend Sam showed up around 7:30 and we all (Nichoel, my sister Sarah, my mom and Sam) sat down to a fantastically prepared meal. And more booze.

The evening was capped off with a lovely conversation where Nichoel and I declared Sam the "Godfather" of our friendship (this basically translates to "Sam is the scary one that we never want to answer to when we've done something wrong"); we confirmed that Nichoel needs to address her "crazy" issues; and it was established that I care too much about what others think and I need to stop getting so loud and obnoxious when I drink... or just in general. We drank and cried and laughed for hours upon hours. It was great! Who needs crazy family when you can have crazy friends instead?

Turkey Week, Round 2

*I would first like to issue an apology for my severe tardiness in getting these posts out. The holiday weekend took a lot out of me and I just haven't felt like blogging lately. Sorry.

Anyway...

In Thursday evening's program we had my mother Kate, my sister Sarah, cousin Robin and her partner Amy, Robin's parents Don and Melody (my uncle and aunt), and my aunt Linda and uncle David (v1.0). We all gathered at Linda and David's quaint little 3-story, 4 bedroom, 3&1/2 bath home on 1.19 acres overlooking the Puget Sound and Olympic Mountain Range (it's really not as glamorous as it sounds - it only has 2 fireplaces, one deck, one patio and one of the most beautiful gardens you've ever seen).

This particular evening is what one would expect to be the more "classy" of all of my Thanksgiving dinners. Don't let the fancy china, antique silver flatware or classical music fool you - these people are just  as capable of crude jokes and cat-fighting as the rest of my family. However, things were fairly mellow this year. Our combined collection of iPhones kept us entertained for several hours along with damnyouautocorrect.com (hysterical, by the way).

The highlight of the evening had to be when aunt Melody decided to share her personal experience with "surfing the web". Generally when Melody shares a story or tells a joke it turns into an uncomfortably awkward moment. Her sense of humor is a little "off"/non-existent. When she finally gets to the punchline, everyone just sort of stares at each other or the wall until someone eventually changes the subject. Emitting a fake laugh in order to placate Melody would only serve to encourage her behavior. But I digress...

So Melody shared a story that began with her describing how she had been jealous of her husband's newly found affinity for Internet browsing. She decided one evening that she, too, would surf the web in hopes of finding some new and fascinating groups to join. (Melody and Don are retired and therefore have entirely too much free time on their hands) Melody then proceeded to inform us that she decided to do a search for duct tape.

Let's just let that sink in for a moment. Duct tape.

No, she was not in need of duct tape; she was not looking to purchase more duct tape; to the best of my knowledge, she does not have a duct tape fetish. Melody simply thought it would be "interesting". Naturally, it didn't take her long to find a group and add herself to the email list. Can you see where we're headed with this? Melody couldn't.

It took poor Melody two days before she unsubscribed to the duct tape email group. Apparently she wasn't expecting to receive photos of naked people held in duct tape bondage. But then again, who would expect that?

Four Thanksgivings

The holidays are often viewed as a highly stressful time of year. Crowded shopping centers, tight budgets,  complex recipes and, the most stress-inducing of them all, family. My holidays are no exception. As Halloween creeps up, my anxiety begins to set in and the realization that another holiday season is right around the corner causes a panic in me that only my therapist can truly benefit from.

The root of my agitation stems from the amount of relatives I have. My family firmly believes in the practice of marriage, baby-making, divorce, and remarriage (not necessarily in that order). If at first you don't succeed, try again... and again... and again. Don't get my wrong, I love my family. All of them. But four separate Thanksgiving dinners (complete with four separate uncle Davids - no, I'm not kidding) is enough to unsettle even the most enthusiastic cheer mongers.

Now that Turkey Week has arrived, I've decided to chronicle my Thanksgiving experiences this year. That means you'll get not one, but four new blog posts this week. As I've already had the first of my family meals, we'll begin this week with a tale from my Grandma Pat's home.

Let me begin with a brief explanation about who the main players at Grandma Pat's house were. When I was five, my mother married my Step-Dad, Bob. Pat is Bob's mother. My mom divorced Bob when I was 18 and Bob has since remarried to a wonderful woman named Liz. Bob and my mother had a daughter of their own, Sarah (she's 21yo). So that makes Bob my ex-step-father, Pat my ex-step-grandmother, Sarah my half sister and Liz my ex-step-father's-new-wife/Sarah's step-mom - or something like that. Liz's parents, Dick and Linda, were also in attendance at dinner Sunday night.

Sarah and I were the first to arrive at Grandma's house, followed closely by Linda, Liz's mother. It wasn't long before the topic of politics was broached and I was reduced to sending pleading text messages to Liz, begging her to come and save me. Pat is a staunch republican who thinks Michele Bachmann would make a great vice-president. Need I say more? Yes? She's also a devout catholic and mild racist. I love her dearly but there's only so much I can tolerate.

After the rest of the gang made their grand entrances, we finally sat down to a lovely dinner of roasted lamb (Grandma Pat was kind enough to not subject us all to turkey over-load). Conversation was going quite well until someone brought up the TLC show "19 Kids and Counting". I know what you're thinking. "Sure, this can be a touchy subject, especially when you're in the home of a faithful catholic;" but that's not where I'm going. Even the most conservative of families can have their moments.  Ours came when my sister referenced the mother on the TV show by saying "Talk about throwing a hot dog down a hallway!" My grandmother and Linda both had the good sense to pretend not to hear her comment. Bob pretended to be shocked until my sister reminded him that he was responsible for teaching her that little gem. The rest of us either gasped or sat there shaking our heads in disapproval, secretly wishing we had the guts to make such a vulgar statement.

All in all, I survived round one of Turkey Week 2011. Thanks to my recent graduation and new job, I didn't have to bob and weave through any pressing questions about when I would finish school, where was I going to work or whether or not I was going to be a barista for the rest of my life. It was (almost) enjoyable.

Next up: Thursday Night at Aunt Linda and Uncle David 1.0s' house.

Respect Thy Coffee

As a barista, it's no secret that I've grown to have a passion for coffee and espresso. I take great pride in delivering the perfect cappuccino and I appreciate it when other baristas do the same. I try not to be a coffee snob though. I don't expect perfection every time I visit another caffe. But. I do expect a certain amount of professionalism and basic food handling precautions to be taken. And I expect my coffee to be hot. Call me crazy, but lukewarm coffee is not really my thing.

Maybe I should start from the beginning.

A few months ago I was headed to a busstop and arrived about 20 minutes early. There was a caffé on the corner (I'll not mention the name) and I decided to grab a quick cup of coffee. I ordered three shots of espresso over ice. It took nearly 10 minutes to get my drink. There was nobody in line ahead of me. When I was handed my cup, it appeared as though there was maybe a half an inch of espresso in the bottom. I asked the barista, as nicely as I could, "Um... is this three shots?" His response, "Uh yeah, is there a problem?" Yes. Yes, there is a problem! "Well, it's just that I'm a barista as well and three shots of espresso usually adds up to a bit more liquid than this..." With a snarky and pretentious tone he responded "Oh, well we pull all of our shots as ristretto."
"Whatever."

First of all, if I wanted ristretto shots (basically, short shots) I would have asked for that. And if I had asked for ristretto shots, I would still have expected more coffee in my cup than what was handed to me. Pompous ass.

But my story doesn't end there! I decided to give them another shot. Again, I arrived at my busstop early and wanted to purchase a bottle of water. I figured it was just water, already bottled. All they had to do was ring me up for it. Simple, right? There were only three people ahead of me. However, I failed to recognize that it was "Get to Know Your Barista and Every Trial and Tribulation in His/Her Life Day". I stood in line for 20 minutes before I gave up. I can't believe I held out that long.

And then there was last Saturday morning. The most egregious of the offenses. I left my apartment early, planning to have enough time to grab a cup of coffee from Macrina Bakery before my bus left. Macrina has always done a good job. Macrina was always professional. Macrina was packed. I opened the door and realized there was no room to stand, let alone enough time to let the crowd thin out so I could get my coffee. I left. Without my precious cup of coffee. I walked to my destination, all the while craving a double 8oz mocha. I could feel the caffeine headache begin to set in. I had 15 minutes before my bus arrived. Out of desperation I gave "nameless" caffé one final chance.

I entered the shop and got in line. Two people ahead of me. *Please let this go quickly and smoothly* The credit card machine ran out of paper. The blonde bimbo (I can call her this because I am also a blonde and her fingernails were painted green and chipped) at the register couldn't figure out how to load a new roll of paper. She couldn't get the paper to feed through the machine correctly. After struggling for 2 minutes, the guy at the bar reached over, dropped the roll in and shut the lid. Easy. Apparently too easy.

I finally get to the front of the line and the blonde bimbo is ignoring me and trying to do some quick cleanup. Okay. Fine. I understand wanting to keep the workspace clean. But you should probably at least acknowledge your customer. Nope. Not even eye-contact. She then preceded to pick up two steam pitchers, not by their handles, but by sticking her fingers with chipped, green-painted fingernails INTO the pitchers. Ew. Not only are you not supposed to be wearing fingernail polish when working as a food handler, but you're definitely not supposed to pick up pitchers by putting your dirty, cash-handling hands into said pitcher. Gross. I then watched her take some previously steamed milk, re-steam it, and then serve it to another customer. Big barista no-no.

Unfortunately, my desperation for coffee had grown so high that even after watching these horrific events, I still orded my mocha. I did not tip though (Yeah! That'll show 'em!). When I finally received my drink, it was, not to my surprise but definitely to my dismay, cold. Lukewarm at best. FAIL.

Oh coffee gods, I have learned my lesson. I hear you loud and clear! A decent cup of coffee, even in downtown Seattle, is not a given but a privilege. It is to be worshipped and not taken for granted. Good coffee is to be respected and taken seriously; not retrieved at the last moment, only to be slurped down in a hurry. I will be giving myself more time in the future. I will plan ahead. Or I'll just do it myself.

I Can't Nerrr

As some of you may know, I have 2 nieces whom I love to death. I may occasionally reference them and their crazy antics because like most aunts, I feel that my nieces are the cutest, funniest, most entertaining nieces in the world.


Anyway, this post is only partially about my niece Sophia (almost 4). About a year ago, Sophie was terribly distraught over something but wasn't able to articulate what had upset her. When asked, her only response was a very tearful "I can't nerrr!" Whatever she was experiencing was clearly awful. I asked Sophie's mother, my sister-in-law, what it was that Sophie was trying to convey but she, too, was at a loss. 


"I can't nerrr" is a phrase that came up several times for a period of months whenever Sophie was upset about something or other but a definition for "nerrr" was never given. It wasn't until I shared this story with my best friend, Sam, that we decided Sophie was simply a genius who had created a new word. While an exact definition will never be known, Sam and I have begun using the verb "to nerrr" in our everyday vocabulary. It seems to have several meanings ranging from an inability to concentrate or be productive in any way, to lacking the patience to deal with other human beings. Other uses for "nerrning" include but are not limited to:

• An inability to wake up
• Lacking any and all motivation
• Inability to sleep
• Inability to finish a complicated task or answer a difficult question
• Inability to face one's fears

With that being said, this last week I've been in a continual state of not being able to nerrr. I took on a second job and put in roughly 50+ hours of work in 5 days. While trying to make coffee, I couldn't nerrr. When attempting to communicate with coworkers and friends, I couldn't nerrr. Every night when I got home, I couldn't nerrr. I was all nerrr'd out.

One problem is that even if I could nerrr, I'm not sure I would know what that even looks like. Without a clear definition, I'm afraid I'll be stuck in a perpetual state of "un-nerrring". If anyone has any suggestions for how to best nerrr, they would be greatly appreciated!

Sticks and Stones...

I had a rather rude awakening this week. As children, we are encouraged to disregard the horrible things that others might say about you. At the age of 8, it might be acceptable to cry when someone says something hurtful. As you get older though, the better you're able to ignore the snide and spiteful comments, the stronger you are. Or so we're told.


For me, and for many others I'm sure, the mantra becomes "never let them see you cry". In our society, crying is often viewed as a weakness. If your antagonizer can't get a visible reaction out of you, then they lose. You win. For years I have been able to do this; I've almost perfected the "I don't give a shit what you think about me" attitude. I almost had myself fooled too.


So what happens when it's not some random stranger or casual acquaintance who hurts you? What if it's a friend or family member? Someone you care about? It's easy to put on a brave face and let the harmful remarks slide. It's not a strength at all. The real strength comes from confronting that person and saying, "Yes, that comment hurt me. Yes, you made me feel bad about myself."


I don't care who you are or what you portray to the world; if you have friends and family members who you care about, then you value their opinions as well. What they say and what they think matters. Admitting that someone else's opinions and judgments affect your emotions may feel like you're giving them the power of knowledge. The important thing to remember is that in a real relationship, the "power", the ability to hurt with words, is mutual. And in a real relationship, you should be able to let that person know if they've hurt you.


It's a lot harder than it sounds. Letting someone you care about know that they've hurt you in some way is painfully difficult. You have to access your emotions in a public way and make yourself vulnerable. However, if it's someone who truly is your friend, who cares about you, they will not abuse or exploit that vulnerability. They will respect what you have to say.


I learned this week that I am most definitely not immune to hurtful words. I am not always able to compartmentalize my emotions. It was simultaneously agonizing and cathartic to let a friend know that [they] had hurt my feelings. My initial instinct was to let the comment slide. My second was to go to the bathroom so I could cry by myself. Luckily, my friend could see that I was visibly upset and pushed the issue until I admitted that was hurt. My friend respected that. Had this friend not pushed me to acknowledge my emotions, the issue never would have been resolved and the relationship would have been altered, negatively.


Although the experience was painful and extremely uncomfortable to me, it was worth it. I am thankful for this rude, yet ultimately beneficial, awakening.

And So It Begins...

You know how most people feel like they're "special" or "unique" and therefore other people must surely be interested in their day-to-day happenings? It's the reason why social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter exist; most humans have an egocentric impulse to notify the world of their every thought, opinion and emotion. Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying this is a negative trait; it's specifically why I started this blog. I, too, feel that others should find me interesting and insightful. The jury is still out on that one though.


Anyway, as a barista and Seattlite, I've witnessed and experienced enough absurdity that I finally feel it is necessary to begin cataloging these occurrences. I also need an outlet to share some of my opinions, ideas or just random thoughts.


I should maybe mention that I'm an artist (translation: emotionally neurotic and overly insecure with a tinge of arrogance). I once heard the phrase "It's okay to be smarter than everyone in the room, you just don't need to tell everyone that." I struggle with this concept from time to time. To be fair, I don't really think I'm smarter than everyone in the room; I'm not a genius or anything. I just (on occasion) think everyone in the room is dumber than me. 


I'm very honest - almost to a fault. I have a dry sense of humor. Very dry. A lot of people interpret me as being "bitchy" and I'm okay with that, for the most part. The truth is that I am very insecure and entirely too consumed with what others think of me. I'm working on that. I also have a poor track record for following through with new ventures so we'll see how long this "blogging" thing actually lasts.


I think that's it for now. Yup. I'm done.