Bandolero by Day

I will not know a moment's peace until I find a job.

This is me, walking around with a perpetual D: face.

My aprehension is perhaps unnecessary, because I've built a nest egg that I could live off of comfortably for at least six months, but I can't get over the blood-freezing fear that if money is not regularly being poured into my account it will all just magically disappear overnight.

My internal organs have been put in their place, and the four day headache from hell is no more.

Positive!

The store has been decked out in preparation for my most hated of all holidays, and I have been made to look like an elf in my red shirt and green apron.

Negative!

Management starts playing Christmas music next week. I can't handle that yet. I still haven't gotten over LAST year's overexposure. Worse yet: one of the feature songs is "Baby It's Cold Outside".

No, it's not. It is not cold outside, by any stretch of the imagination. IT IS 90 DEGREES OUTSIDE. WHY MUST YOU TURN MY COFFEE SHOP INTO A VILE PIT OF LIES??? STOP SINGING ABOUT COLD AND SNOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Did I mention they haven't actually started playing the Christmas music yet?

NEGATIVE.

Fun fact: our music system had some sort of glitch back in August, such that it would randomly insert that song into the playlist from time to time. As violent as my rage is now, it's nothing compared to the white-hot madness that comes from listening to "Baby It's Cold Outside" five times a day in August. In Phoenix. Where the temperature outside is no less than 115 degrees Fahrenheit.

To say that I hate that song would be an understatement.

The line is approaching the x-axis, never quite reaching zero, growing infinitely closer and staying infinitely negative.

("What's your least favorite emotion?" "Itchy." "Itchy...")

...of the idiots who patronize my particular Starbucks, but I feel it's worth mentioning considering how out of their way they went to BE idiots.

Some woman came in and ordered two French vanilla cappuccinos with whipped cream for her mother who was "just out of the hospital," and apparently sitting in the car in the parking lot. "How long will it take? I'm going to go sit in my car until they're done. Should I come back in ten minutes?" The barista at the register suggested that she come back sooner, say in five minutes. I made the drinks, placed them on the bar, and continued down the never-ending line of orders. First of all, some woman picked up one of the cappuccinos and said "This isn't what I ordered! You got my drink wrong! Make it again!" I had to explain that, no, it WASN'T what she ordered. It was someone else's order. It was written RIGHT THERE ON THE CUP. I got to her drink, several cups down the line, went to put it on the bar, and she snatched it out of my hand. Clearly she was upset that other people were in line ahead of her and then served before her, causing her to wait more than sixty seconds for her drink. Her life must be very sad and difficult.

At any rate, the cappuccinos were still sitting there, and they sat there for nearly twenty minutes before the woman who ordered them came back in from her car. For the uninitiated, cappuccinos are half steamed milk, half foam. That foam doesn't last for twenty minutes. The woman took the lids off of the drinks, and demanded more whipped cream. I stopped making everyone else's drinks to give her an extra dollop. It wasn't enough. She wanted more, whipped cream to the top of the cup. That's several inches of whip, as the foam had disappeared by then and left the cups rather empty, but I complied because the customer is always right. I made brief, cheerful conversation with her and bid her a good evening and she left. I thought all was well.

Half an hour later, she called into the store and complained that her cappuccinos were half whipped cream.

No, seriously. Let me repeat that for you.

Half an hour later, she called in to the store and complained that her cappuccinos were half whipped cream. There was too much of that whipped cream that she INSISTED I PILE ON, WHILE WATCHING AND TELLING ME TO ADD MORE. She wanted compensation. My shift manager told her that she'd give her two more cappuccinos on the house. "Oh, we're already several blocks away, we don't want to drive back. We want you to mail us some gift cards."

If it were not for the fact that I might lose my job, I would deliver those gift cards to her personally, and shove them up her ass.

Humanity, I'm sorry, but you're down twenty points right now. I suggest you start sending better representatives my way, because when your points hit zero I turn into a homicidal sociopath.

Tomorrow (well, okay, today) at work we are having a "Cheer Party." This means that, among other things, we will be giving out free tall drinks. This in turn means that we will be painfully busy, and this, to me, does not sound cheerful. Furthermore, my boss selected me specifically to work this shift because he thinks I have a good personality. As I said to my coworkers...

"So John picked me to work the party because he says I'm 'cheerful.' I didn't know I was 'cheerful.' I thought I was 'barely-suppressed rage.'"

Clearly I am an amazing actor.

Because I will always associate you with gay films. This upcoming movie produces so many emotions in me. For example...

Approval: Hot guy. Hot guy. Two hot guys. Two hot guys in a hot make-out scene. I AM OKAY WITH THIS. If it's wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

Confusion: Bareback Mountain? Oh, wait, no...

Amusement: Gay cowboys. Eating pudding maybe? OH ZING. SOUTH PARK, YOU SO CALLED IT!!

Further approval: I likes me some Ang Lee!

Further confusion: Ang Lee... directing a movie about... gay cowboys?

Even further amusement: Heath Ledger's character is named Ennis. Guess how I pronounce that in my head. GUESS.

Apprehension: I am not touching those forums with a 30-foot clown pole.


UNRELATED SIDE NOTE: I don't want to work today, because people have magnets in their heads that pull them to Starbucks every Sunday morning in a line that goes OUT THE DOOR, and stays that way for at least several hours. The Lord said no coffee on the Sabbath. Maybe you just weren't listening closely enough. HEATHENS.