*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?
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, November 14, 2011
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.
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.
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