Mean Girls

So the Barista attended a bachelorette party this past weekend that was, well, a train wreck, at best.  It is more fitting to describe it as Britney & K-Fed getting together to film season two of Chaotic (btw this may happen, fingers crossed).  Seriously.  Girls were fighting over who could get the stripper’s phone number.  Say it with me ladies….eeeeewwwww. 

More disturbing than the sweaty man-whore beast was the debacle that ensued the next morning.  Me and my Russian bestie headed around the corner for breakfast.  A few minutes later, a Tasmanian devil whipped into sight – fangs bared.  This devil was not happy that she did not receive a special invitation to breakfast.  She found fault with the general “who’s hungry – we’re going to grab breakfast now” sort of notice.  Two things are important to note here – me and the Russian know this chick marginally, and secondly, the Russian fought all her natural instincts and remained calm during the shit storm.  Let me stress again, we do not know this woman.  After a three minute tirade, the Barista eventually asked the Tasmanian devil to please calm down or go away.  The little monster chose the latter, called yours truly a biatch and then sent the following email.  My official response is in italics:

I know you basically told me to shut up but I need to tell you this for me.  But I need you to go away for me.

I am so completely shocked about what happened this morning. I’m not.  You both really hurt my feelings when you ditched for breakfast. You are crazy.   My feelings were hurt when you left without me. You are crazy.  I thought you would have wanted to hang out with me since we don’t get to see each other very often.  And when I told you that I was upset you didn’t even care. In fact, your reaction was to hurt my feelings even worse.  Uh, whaaa?

You act like we don’t have any history. We don’t.  Like we aren’t any kind of friends. We’re not.  Like my feelings didn’t even matter at all. They don’t.  Maybe it’s because I’m delusional and we really aren’t friends. Good job here.  We’re not friends.  If we aren’t please tell me so that I won’t expect that you’ll want to hang out with me like I want to hang out with you. We’re not friends.   Because that’s what it comes down to. I just really wanted to hang out with you because I like you all.  ?!?!?!

Don’t feel obligated to write back. I don’t.   I don’t want any drama so hopefully we can at least get to that point where it won’t be awkward. Hopefully I’m not delusional and it was just a bad morning and we can just go back to normal.  If by normal, you mean I only have to see you once every five years, yes.  Let’s be normal.

Meow!  I hope I didn’t just burn a bridge…I’d really like to know who wins the stripper’s heart.

 

 

Another Episode of ACD

Y’all are on fire asking us real questions today!  Thankfully, this is another topic that the Barista and TLW can knock out of the park, or bat 1,000 with, or tackle with no problemo like champs.  I really wanted like 8 more sports analogies in here but I can’t be so bothered.  You get the idea…we’re winners.  Pretty, pretty winners.  And smart, but that’s not as important as being  pretty winners.

Dear Barista & TLW,
 
What exactly is a Vodka Limeade and where can I get one?  I’m thinking it’s not a Yankee thing, therefore I’m SOL.  Or I’m just a moron and it’s literally Vodka + Limeade.
 
Thanks,
Thirsty up North

Barista says:  It’s vodka with limeade.  Don’t get all sad and think that you are a moron, there is more magic to a Vodka Limeade than just it’s ingredients.  But before I tell you what is so awesome about this cocktail, I have a confession to make.  I too was once was confused by the simplicity of a name.  At my very first waitress gig, a gentleman ordered a Beefeater gin and tonic.  I gave the order to the bartender.  While he mixed the drink, I went to the kitchen for the beef-eater.  I plopped two beef bouillon cubes in the cocktail and presented it to the gentleman.  None of my coworkers stopped me.  Just like when I was bartending I did not stop the tenderoni who put blue food coloring in his customer’s Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic.  I just had a fresh drink waiting when he came back to the bar.

Back to your question…a Vodka Limeade is served over fantastic crushed ice, on the porch in front of Phil’s International Lounge in Richmond (shh…that’s how I like to think of the joint).  Phil’s lounge is crawling with characters such as The Richmond Pirate, Victor (bonus points to any reader who can tell me why Victor is famous), the Lady Who Never Stops Drinking and at least 12 dudes who all claim to be bankers or stock brokers or some other dead-end job.   You can watch half the city jog by while you’re having a cocktail.  This is fun because you and your friends will never run out of other people to talk about while at Phil’s.  Apparently there’s karaoke at Phil’s some night, but I don’t believe this.  Phil’s will close whenever it damn well pleases them, which is usually about 9:20 pm.  This works out well for the Barista and TLW because we can pop some Advil and get some shut-eye and totally skip the part the next morning where we say things like “what were we thinking ordering so many cocktails on a Wednesday?”.

Get down South and go to Phil’s.  Enjoy your Vodka Limeade.  Then go somewhere else in the city, maybe Havana 59.  We highly recommend their mojito.  Go forth and testify on RVA’s awesomeness.

Ask Cafe Darkness

Holy shit, y’all. We actually got a legit question this time and not one that we made up because we think it’s funny.  Ha!  Enjoy!

Dear TLW and Barista,

First of all I LOVE your blog! I look forward to reading it everyday and it puts a big smile on my face. You two are such classy ladies and I love hearing about your day to day escapades.

Ok, so I have a question/statement. I was in the gym the other day in my own world listening to my ipod and loving being by myself for point two seconds. I was on the treadmill and a man got on right next to me even though there was four other open ones. That annoyed me, give me my space dammit, I am trying to be alone. Anyhoos, the really annoying part was the man cleared his throat every 10-30 seconds while he was working out RIGHT next to me. He did this for the next 30 mins. while I was on my machine. I thought I was going to punch him in the mouth and scream.  My mind went right to T saur and how you guys must feel everyday. How the HELL do you deal with that form of torture every day?!?! Hearing someone clear their throat over and over again is the most annoying thing I have heard in a long time and I have a toddler. I stared him down and began to talk to myself out loud like, “Are you fucking kidding me?” “oh really, you are going to play me like that”. I felt by the end of my 30 min. workout that I was going a little crazy myself. My question is, how would you guys handle that situation? And is throat clearing contagious? I felt like I had to clear my throat after listening to the man over and over again.

Thanks for all your help TLW and Barista! Keep the laughs coming.

Yours Truly,

CT

TLW says:

First off, I haven’t been called ‘classy’ in a long time-maybe ever-so thanks for that.  Secondly, I can relate to your question on a level that you can’t even fathom. As I type these words out this very second T Saur is clearing his throat loudly and continuously and will for the next eight hours.
 
Start by dealing with it passive aggressively.  Ask the man if he had a cold and would he like a cough drop?  When he asks for clarification you can reply, “Oh it’s just that you were clearing your throat quite a bit and I thought this would help”.  If that doesn’t work (which it won’t) you could then start by being less passive and more aggressive. Clear your throat and see if he notices.  If he looks at you simply nod and say, “Right?”  If that doesn’t work (which it won’t) then the only other option is go postal on his ass and scream at him to stop his clearing his god damn throat every two seconds, sweet Baby Jesus! Perhaps you could wield a letter opener or butter knife at him in a threatening manner.  This should do the trick.  I’m going to do this later today so I’ll let you know how it goes from the unemployment line.

Barista says:

Hmm…we’re classy.  Yes, yes we are.  If by classy you mean I drink whiskey on Tuesdays, get punched in the face, scold strangers in grocery stores and called a bitch in public on a Sunday morning, then of course, I am classy.  In my defense, I did wear my pearls and speak softly during all of the shenanigans above.
 
The key difference between Tsaur and your gym buddy is that you could leave him and move to another machine.  You could, but I don’t advise this.  You were there first and he should learn to not be such a stain in public.  If you follow TLW’s advice he may stop clearing his throat.  He may also die if you follow her advice, and in that case, I hope you know how to properly dispose of a carcass.
 
My advice is to be more annoying than the throat clearer.  Let me give you a few examples to try.  Pretend your imaginary cell phone is ringing.  Actually make phone ringing noises with your mouth.  Then answer your two-finger cell phone and get into a shouting match with no one about how your kitty cat was not dry cleaned properly and you’re not going to pay for such shoddy service.  Then flip the script and end your fake phone call by saying something like, you’re in my heart forever.
 
If the throat clearer has not left by now, take it to the next level.  Become a ventriloquist and sing an annoying song in a very high pitched, small voice.  I really like Madonna’s old song La Isla Bonita, I mean who doesn’t?  Do not move your lips, but sing with your mouth wide open.  This is creepy.  Practice in a mirror if you don’t believe me.  It helps a lot if you only sing about two lines of your song.  The key is to sing these lines over and over and over….
 
And if this doesn’t make the throat clearer shuffle off?  Turn off your treadmill.  Face him.  Stare at him intensely.  Each time he clears his throat, clear yours ten times louder.  He will leave – trust me.  No one can withstand that kind of scrutiny and not be uncomfortable.

Folia and running….is nice.

Definitely not T…but Cheese and Rice! Meow! My Lord!

Tired of hearing about T Saur yet?  No? Never?  Awesome, because I never get tired of talking about him. 

He fancies making up his own words.  On Monday he was talking about a plant he bought over the weekend for his “new place” i.e. a different apartment in the same building he already lived in.  He told me that he likes having “folia” around.  “What’s ‘folia’, T Saur”? I asked.  “Uh, it’s a word, okay? It’s a word for plants”.  Let’s pause here for a hot second and let me clarify that he says this to me like I’m the idiot.  Oooooooookay moving on.  “Oh is it? Huh…see I don’t think it is.  I mean, ‘flora’ is a word for vegetation, plants, etc commonly used by 19^th century poets, whom I’m fairly certain you’ve never read.   ‘Foliage’ is a word for sure and I’ll even give you ‘folio’ as a word, although it has nothing to do with greenery, but ‘folia’ is most definitely not a word. Sorry Charles! Look it up!” I love it when I can call him out for being stupid. Makes me happy.

T Saur is trying to “get in shape”. He likes to do “cardio” which consists of push ups (not cardio) and running for about 10-15 minutes a day (cardio but not enough to get in shape).  He likes to talk to me about his workouts because he thinks I care-which I don’t.  Yesterday he saunters over to my desk and says, “I totally smoked some guy yesterday at Belle Isle”.  “What are you talking about T? I’m trying to Facebook over here”.  “Oh man, it was totally sweet” he continues unfazed by my dead eyes.  “This guy was trying to smoke me on the 300 and I totally wouldn’t let him. I pulled hip to cheek and wouldn’t let him pass”.  Now if you didn’t understand a word of that sentence, don’t worry, neither did I.  From what I could ascertain a man (a runner) was trying to pass the ‘Saur and he took it as a challenge of sorts.  “So, T. A guy was trying to pass you while you were running and you sped up and raced him for no apparent reason? Did he know he was in a race with you?” ‘Oh for sure, he was totally trying to sweat me.”. “Yeah, see T, I don’t think he did. I think he was just trying to pass you and then you speed up like a dick.  Nice move. I hate it when people do that”. 

Then he went on to tell me that in eight weeks (not sure what’s happening in 8 weeks but anyways) he was going to enter a 5K as a “sleeper” and he was going to win that 5K and be all “Booyah! I won this!”  I then asked him to leave my desk. I waved at my monitor at said “T, I’m trying to Facebook here. I have 124 pictures to look through of my friend’s trip to Budapest and this mouse isn’t going to click itself. We’re done here”.

Special Lady Times 2.0 Redux

Oh hey there, Time of the Month! What’s shakin? Gosh I feel we just saw each other.  What’s it been? Only a month?  28 days?  Meh, who’s keeping track? Well what’s new with you?  Oh, nothing? I bet you’ve got some new tricks up your sleeve, TOM!  You’re always shakin’ things up-have been since I was 13 years old.

TOM, you’re such a trickster! You’re all, “Oh hey, I’m here. Never mind, I’m not” and then “What’s up, I’m back”.  I love it when you do that! Keeps me on my toes.  I like it even better when you’re like “K, later for reals this time” and then you’re all “Sike, I’m back” for a third time. What a neat trick!  You’re always playing hard to get it and I like that. 

You know what else never gets old?  Zits at 30. Totally rad.  Thanks for those.  If someone asked me my favorite thing about you it would hands down have to be the cramps. I give props where props are due and you are really good at being a pain. Being a pain? Get it? Funny.  I love being bloated. Some people don’t and I don’t get why not. It’s sweet to not fit into your clothes for a few days each month. Makes you appreciate the days you can fit into them in my humble opinion.  Feeling like a stuffed sausage is totally zexy and so 2009.  Sucking in is for losers. 

Alright TOM, I’m gonna run. I’m hungry like a savage beast and need to find some chocolate STAT.  Or something salty. Or maybe sweet and salty sweetmotherofgod.  Talk to you soon, or in 28-31 days.

Somebody call 911! Shawty fire burnin on the dance floor!

What's the problem here, officer?

You know the perfect amount of boozin that makes driving super fun and enjoyable and you don’t give an eff because you’re blasting your tunes and just generally having a rad time?  No? Well then, neither do I.  But let’s just say I did, I wonder what it would be like?

For the sake of arguement, let’s just say that very thing happened to me last Friday after I left casa de Barista.  And I may or may not have been blasting a little bit of “Kiss Me Through the Phone” (don’t worry about it if I was-that’s not the point of the story) when I pulled up to a light about a mile away from my apartment. 

Furthermore I could have been singing this song quite loudly with the windows down whilst smoking a cig.  And I it may have been at my most favoritist part of the song which causes me to do a what I call my Car Jig. 

In addition, a cop may or may not have pulled up right next me at the light and I more than likely didn’t turn my music down, stop singing or smoking my cigarette.  As a matter of fact, I bet I didn’t give a rip and continued breaking it down. 

It’s probable that said officer attempted to get my attention but couldn’t be heard over the music.  “What?” I may have said.  “YOUR BRAKE LIGHT IS OUT!” the cop maybe said to me. “YOU REALLY NEED TO GET THAT FIXED! I COULD GIVE YOU A TICKET FOR THAT!”.  “Ooooooooooh nooooooooo!” I more than likely replied.  “What a staaaaaaaaaaaaain! I’ll totally get that fixed! Thanks!” There’s a 50/50 chance that I winked.  The super nice officer who didn’t want to deal with me then could have just waved and pulled away.  Or not.  I may have just decided he was cool and I decided to drive away.  Either way, it sounds like it could have been awesome.  And I’m getting that brake light fixed to-da-hay cause luck like that doesn’t happen very often.

Mr. Chips-the Crossroads of Campus!

Sweet

I begrudgingly realized my Junior year at JMU that in order to support my activities of hanging out and doing absolutely nothing productive on the regular I would need to supplement my cash flow with a part-time job. Mom’s fundage was like unemployment-just barely enough to get the basics and nada mas!  How I managed to live off that money for as long as I did is a mystery to me but I guess inflation hit in 1999 because my hundo dollars every two weeks suddenly wasn’t nearly enough to sustain the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed (i.e. eating pizza every day while watching Judy Judy and Jerry Springer).

I needed a job that wouldn’t require me to work very much, would work around my class schedule and wouldn’t interfere with my nightly routine of drinking, smoking pot and making out with boys.  I didn’t want to work with anyone’s food, move around too much or interact with people I didn’t know.  This was a tall order to fill.  On campus employment seemed like the smartest move to fit these requirements and Mister Chips convenience store seemed like the best bet. 

Mister Chips, located at the “Crossroads of Campus” (!!) was one of the best jobs I didn’t realize I ever had.  The shifts were two hours each.  Two. Hours. Each. Are you kidding me with this? How awesome is that?  At the time however, these two hours were met with such dread and disdain that you would have thought I was going to work a double shift at a slaughter house for puppy dogs. 

Note: I was very lazy back then so in addition to actually having to work, I would also dread having to walk the .50 mile to get there. 

Once I got to work I would proceed to read hundreds upon hundreds of magazines while occasionally ringing someone up for cigarettes or a pregnancy test.  I got very good at correctly stereotyping people and guessing what kind of cigs they would get before they even asked:  Sorority girls = Marlboro Ultra Lights.  Hippies = Camels.  Northerners = Parliaments, etc. 

Senior Year rolled around and I was still technically employed at the Chips.  My first shift was to start promptly upon me returning to school.  I discussed it with my roommates who also worked there and we summarily agreed that we could not possibly continue to us work our Senior year of college.  It was way too big of a stain.  How could our parents expect to work 8-10 hours a week our Senior Year?  Totally ridiculous!  So we all quit and spent the entire year doing what we had done the previous three-skipping class, sleeping late and getting shit faced.  It was time well spent. 

If I could go back in time and visit 21 year old TLW I would bitch slap the shit out of her for complaining about reading magazines and hanging out with her friends at work.  I would then tell her to buck up, stop crying and to exercise just a little bit for the love of God.  Then I would tell her that before you know it you’ll be 30, working all day, every day and are forced to endure one of the most annoying people on the planet.  So go ahead and read another Us Weekly there TLW.  Just you wait…….

I believe in love!

TLW is officially in luuuuuuv.  Amazing, right?  Several failed relationships and one bad marriage had left me skeptical about the entire concept of “love” and its ability to transform ones life.  That is until Saturday when I met  and instantly fell in love with my soul mate. 

I met the new love of my life at the AT&T store on the corner of Libby and Broad at approximately 2 pm EST on Saturday, July 18^th.  The moment I saw him I knew the connection was there for both of us and it was intense.  Granted this soul mate may or may not be a living, breathing person. This soul mate may be, in fact, a cell phone, but don’t you judge me!  This is no ordinary cell phone. It’s an iPhone and I have named him Billy Mays in memoriam of the best salesman the world has ever seen.  RIP Billy. 

I knew I was going to meet Billy Mays before I even met Billy Mays. I had a really good feeling when I walked into that cell phone store on Saturday. I had an even better feeling when the sales girl exclaimed, “Girl, hell yes you can get a cell phone! The one you have now is straight busted! Look at that ghetto ass phone. Dayum!” “Do you think I’ll be able to make phones calls inside with this new phone like normal people?” I asked.  “Girl, puulease!  You can do whatever the hayell you want with this phone!”. I was already convinced and knew I would be taking Billy home with me that day.  “Alright, sweet. Let’s do this”. And with that she brought out Billy Mays in all of his wonderful glory.  “Oh my god!” I said.  “Billy Mays is amazing!”. “Girl I told you.  You can do shit with this phone you couldn’t even dream of before! You on Facebook?” she asked.   “Oh yeah, for sure” I replied. “Girl, please. I’m on Facebook-we should be friends, look me up-but that’s not the point. You can get on Facebook on your phone now. Youknowwhatimsayin?  “Yeah, I think I get what you’re throwing out there. And I like it. I like it a lot”. 

Once Billy Mays and I got home we got to know each other a little bit better.  Apparently Billy Mays is also an Aquarius and enjoys the same kind of stuff I do: talking on my phone inside, text messaging and internetting at my own convenience.  We really are a match made in heaven.  I think this is it. TLW is no longer on the dating scene. I’m a one phone kinda gal and Billy Mays is the phone for me.

Let’s Go Outback Tonight

Liars

Yup, from 1998-2002 yours truly was a big old campy Outbacker, and I’ve got the kangaroo pins to prove it. 

“Outback time” means you are expected to be 15 minutes early for each shift, but you are not to clock in, because, well, then they would have to pay you.  If you are not 15 minutes early then you need to stay late and roll up extra silverware or lick the cabinets as punishment.  Oh, and you have to clock out before you take on your penance.  (Note to Outback – perhaps you’ve heard of this little thing called FLSA?  If not, I’d get Aborigine counsel on that for you right away).  In my 4 years there, I refused to ever get on Outback time.  My shift starts at 6 pm?  See you at 6 pm.   If you need me at 5:45 pm, ask me to show up at 5:45 pm.   So one afternoon I saunter in at the requested start time of 5 pm and I am immediately confronted by Craig the Manager.  He is so pissed that I blatantly ignore “Outback time” because I consider it still “my time”, that he demands I roll 100 sets of silverware.  I laugh and ignore that too.  I think I made him pop a vein in his eyeball.  Fast forward to the next morning when I’ve rolled in to pick up my tip-share from the night before.  Phone rings, I answer, and oh goodness it’s Craig the Manager.  He needs to know what time his shift starts, so of course I lie and tell him the latest possible time and remind him to be on Outback time!  Me and the Mexican prep crew had a good laugh that day.

I picked up my first fake ID from another Outbacker.  It was the single greatest ID ever to have been bestowed upon a teenager.  It was so golden my own mother thought it was my picture.  The only trouble was my benefactor’s name…Kibbe Cernahorsky.  No middle name, just Kibbe Cernahorsky.  It’s pretty difficult – alright, impossible to convince a bouncer that no, he did not graduate from high school with Kibbe, or take Kibbe to prom because I am Kibbe and I would remember that.  Lesson here is to stay out of bars in the town where Kibbe Cernahorsky grew up while using Kibbe Cernahorsky’s ID.  Also, don’t continue a losing battle with a bouncer and say “I don’t care if you call the police”.  This is never going to work out well.

God bless you Outback for teaching me how to drink on the job.  Bartending is waaaayyyy more fun if you are on the same level as your patrons.  Suddenly grenadine in a beer doesn’t seem like a bad idea any more…you don’t mind making 1,000 strawberry daiquiris because you know you get to finish the extra little bit in left the blender!  You want whipped cream on your gin and tonic?  Yum, coming right up!  It’s super fun when your fellow bartenders say things like “hey do a shot with us real quick” and you’re like absolutely, lets do this.  If you came into work with a hangover, you have all the tools for a Bloody Mary right in front of you.  A hair of the dog that bit you works every time.  I cannot stress this enough.

Also awesome?  Working with all your foreign friends.  Especially your Russian friends.  They don’t give a sheet about 17 seasonings or vhatever.  All they want to know is who is having the Vudweiser at the house of beers later.   The kitchen crew from Mexico?  I totally admired their commitment to not speak English while at work.  Outside of work they would totally have a beer with you or invite you to their soccer games, but inside, hablamos espanol, gringos.

My time at Outback ended rather abruptlyawesomely.  I had an epiphany of sorts.  It was like heaven cracked open and a great beam of light distracted me as I was being yelled at for not wearing the right kind of dark jeans and bright white sneakers…I tuned out Craig the Manager as he rambled and focused on what I believed was God speaking.  He said, “Barista, you should leave  here right now.  Just go.  Nobody will ever care that you worked at an Outback or that you don’t wear your kangaroo pins or have really dark blue jeans.  I promise you, you are going to be a peon for many years to come; this job will not alter the course of your life.  It won’t matter at all if you don’t finish your side work.  Just go.  Go now…live your life”.  I stood up and slowly drifted out the door with the sight of Craig the Manager already fading to black. 

Quit a job without any regrets or notice at least once in life – trust.

Friday poll!