Caffeinate Me, Cleveland!

Caffeinate Me, Cleveland!

Monday, September 28, 2015

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I'm a longtime fan of Starbucks. I know, I know, a lot of folks have a lot of disdain for the corporate caffeine monster, but I've just never been one of them. I understand their complaints - expensive, overly corporate, not as high-quality as they claim to be, etc. etc. - but you can't help who you love.

Unfortunately, my new neighborhood is a Starbucks desert. (There are a couple nearby downtown, but parking is too big a burden to bother.) Many a hipster Clevelander has raised their nose to me & declared that the dearth of Starbucks in our fair city is because the 216 is above having a big-name coffee shop on every corner, "like in some cities." They remind me that local coffee shops abound, & that I would be a better citizen of the CLE if I would give my patronage to them instead of to The Man.

So I do, albeit somewhat grudgingly. As I said, I like Starbucks. It tastes the same in every state, & I'm a big fan of getting a free drink after every dozen. Without a good nearby location, though, I've begun exploring indie alternatives to my favorite caffeine source. Here are my local likes so far.

The Root

15118 Detroit Ave., Lakewood
The Root was my first Cleveland-area coffee love, & it's still my favorite. It's just down the street from my boyfriend's house, which is, alas, a bit of a schlep for me now, but it's worth the 15-minute drive to get to this sweet little cafe with hippie vibes & delicious vegetarian food. Their beet pizza - yes, beet pizza! - has my heart, & because I can stay there unobtrusively for hours and order lunch, it's an easy place to spend an entire day.

Civilization

2366 W 11th St., Cleveland
This coffee shop next door - like, 20 steps away from my place - is perfect for a quick caffeine fix when I'm working from home. At first, I felt like it was a less-than-ideal spot for camping out because although the prices are low, it just doesn't seem like a place you're supposed to stay for very long. I once heard a crotchety barista lamenting that "All our generation knows how to do is stare at a computer!" - which was not exactly welcoming of a millennial staring at a computer 12 feet away. Now, though, I'm on good terms with all the baristas & stay for hours, regardless of whether they want me to or not. Civilization, I love you.

Loop

2180 W 11th St., Cleveland
This place doubles as a record store & a ticket vendor for shows at the Grog Shop, & I like it a lot - but I just don't think I'm quite cool enough for it. Somehow, whenever I walk through the doors of this hipster haven, all I can think is, "Oh, God, have I ever been cool?" And then I feel convinced that the answer is no. It's the second-closest coffee shop to my house, though, & they have amazing lighting, so when the weather is nice & the sun is out, I choose Loop over Civilization so that I feel like not-a-hobbit.

Phoenix Coffee

3000 Bridge Ave., Cleveland
I've never tried the downtown location (again, parking) but the Ohio City location is a gem. It has a seriously trendy vibe but somehow also manages to be cozy & welcoming, which is probably due in large part to its uber-friendly baristas. It's great for people-watching and for dog-watching, since it allows canine companions to accompany their caffeine-seeking owners inside, & even though the space is small, the staff doesn't seem to mind - & in fact seems to welcome - laptop-toting millennials like me.

What does it take for you to count a coffee shop among your favorites? And if you're a Clevelander, I'd love to hear which local cafes (or accessible Starbucks locales!) get your vote.

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Home Sweet Coffeeshops: On the Weird & Wonderful World of Becoming a Regular

Home Sweet Coffeeshops: On the Weird & Wonderful World of Becoming a Regular

Monday, April 13, 2015

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In case you were wondering how long it takes to be considered a regular at your local coffeeshop, here's the answer: two weeks.

I've been going to a new Starbucks, for reasons some of you may have read about on Facebook & that others of you will never know about because I can't talk about it here. Suffice it to say that the Starbucks I'd started to call home - like, all day, every day - is now off-limits. Instead, I've taken up residence at a new location, one slightly further from my home but in an area of town that I like a little bit better (namely because it's next door to my favorite restaurant & now I eat there basically every day). It's rarely crowded, & I never have trouble finding a seat, & one of the baristas remembered my name the other day without asking me for it, which was a milestone in my relationship with this Starbucks.

The next milestone came just this afternoon, when one of the other baristas said to me,"So you pretty much live here now, huh?" I was equal parts embarrassed & proud - embarrassed because there's something lame about being such a regular, but proud because it also makes me feel more like a real person & less like every other faceless customer when the baristas start to recognize me. VIP treatment means they don't even spell your name wrong on your cup! Usually.

For awhile (two weeks, exactly), I was going into another cafe regularly, one that's locally owned & that I like a lot, save for the fact that they sometimes rent out their space & I end up getting the boot; this has happened frequently enough that I don't go there much anymore. When I was going every day, though, I worried that the baristas started to think I was big bitch because one day, when I got kicked out for a room reservation, I sort of blacked out & stormed up to the manager & demanded to know, "Can you start putting a sign up to let people know when this is going to happen? Because it makes me not want to come here anymore." After that, I was super nice to the people who worked there because I wanted them to know that that particular incident was a rage-induced fluke & that I am indeed a super-nice person (OK, that might be an exaggeration of my personality, but I'm pretty nice).

Anyway. I went into that joint on a weekend day, & one of the baristas, this pretty, friendly blonde girl, said to me, "Hey, you just started coming here during the week, right?" I was so weirdly excited to be, like, worth recognizing. She introduced herself & made me a special drink & then by some moderately creepy coincidence of the Internet, we ended up following one another on Instagram. But still, I don't go there much anymore because I'm embarrassed about the time I raged out about the room situation - & also because I'm still mad about the room situation itself.

My point is this: It takes two weeks for the baristas to start to remember you. If you're nice, they'll even tell you that they remember you, & they'll start remembering your name along with it. If you're really nice, they'll ask you on a date (inside joke, ha ha ha ughhh, don't ask), but remember: This is your office now. Keep it professional. You're just there to drink coffee & do your work & spend half your salary on lattes & croissants & cold-pressed green juice.You're a regular. Don't eff this up.

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New Hobby: Being a Crotchety Grammarian on the Internet

New Hobby: Being a Crotchety Grammarian on the Internet

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

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I did something totally obnoxious this week. I am under no illusions that this wasn't an obnoxious thing to do, but I felt compelled to move forward with it anyway: I called a Dunkin Donuts - on the telephone - to tell them that they'd misspelled a word on the electronic sign outside their store. It read, "CROISSANT DONUT IS HERE! GET YOURS BEFORE THERE GONE."

Nooope.

I prefaced my call with a disclaimer - "I know this is a super-weird reason to call you..." - & then laughed nervously as I relayed my message. Luckily, the guy on the other end laughed, too, & thanked me profusely. "How embarrassing," he told me, "We'll change it today. Seriously, thank you."

This is within the spectrum of things I do these days, apparently. (P.S., thanks for that turn of phrase, Lena Dunham.)

In the last month, I've tweeted corporate misspellings to not one, not two, but three companies. While I never call out individuals on such errors (unless they're really hysterical, like runaway autocorrects), but I tend to think brands have a responsibility to do/be/look more professional than individuals. And as someone who helps manage a brand, I know I appreciate it when someone lets me know where I've made a mistake (even if I also want to crawl in a hole about it).

The new hobby of mine started -where else? - with Starbucks, who I hoped might give me a free drink as a thank-you for my eagle eye. No dice; I guess public humiliation is not the best way to endear myself to my favorite coffee shop. Still, they corrected their typo the next day:



My streak continued with this TV show that I'd never before seen but still felt compelled to correct. I know Ohio's got some strangely named towns (Wapakoneta, anyone? Tuscarawas?), but if you're a TV segment reporting on Ohio towns, please get your ish together. (They did not respond to me.)



And then I found this tricky little typo hidden on a nicely designed yogurt lid. To this company's credit, they did respond to thank me for letting them know, though I assume it takes awhile to correct a mistake like this.

And then I called Dunkin Donuts, because apparently I'm a militant, fighting the war against corporate typos every day of my life.

Now accepting freelance copy-writing opportunities & prestigious full-time copy-editing job offers... or your company can just make a very public mistake & I can very publicly call you out on it. Ball's in your court, corporate America.*

*This sentence makes me sound like a total jerk, & I am seriously just kidding about it. I just really like spelling, OK?!

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Four Things I Don't Like About Starbucks in Ohio (a.k.a. The Whiniest Nothing-Post)

Four Things I Don't Like About Starbucks in Ohio (a.k.a. The Whiniest Nothing-Post)

Thursday, December 11, 2014

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You've probably already figured this out, but, uh, I spend a lot of time in Starbucks.

Like, a lot of time.

Because I work from home - & because working from actual home is sometimes more conducive to cabin fever than it is to productivity - I often choose to work from Starbucks. Yes, it would be nice of me to choose someplace independent & locally owned, but I really like Starbucks. I like that the soy lattes taste exactly the same no matter where I go. I like that when I buy a dozen of them, I get the next one free. I like that Starbucks feels cozy, & that no matter what city I'm in, they mostly feel the same.

Except when they don't.

Disclaimer: I am very well aware that this post is complainy & first-world-problemy, & that none of the things I'm about to rant about are serious or important or even really worth saying. But sometimes it just feels good to get it all out, you know? And so, without further adieu, a laundry list of reasons I'm in a fight with Ohio Starbucks.

1. They're far, far away: It's painful not to be within walking distance of a Starbucks. Even in New Jersey, I lived walkably close to my beloved grande soy lattes. Here in suburban Ohio, Mondays are a whole lot harsher without the comfort of caffeine. The closest Starbucks is a two-mile walk, which isn't too bad but also isn't quite feasible for a weekday walk in the 'burbs, especially when it's 15 degrees outside. (This isn't Starbucks's fault, obviously. This is just the suburbs' fault.)

2. They make me hangry: In other cities, I'd become accustomed to eating lunch at Starbucks, staying for a few hours with a latte & then buying one of their protein boxes (crackers, cheese, almonds, dried cranberries, & apples) later in the day. The first time I went to "my" Ohio Starbucks, with an empty stomach & a full day ahead of me, I realized they only offer boxed, microwaved pastries - not even a damn tray of bananas! When I asked why, the manager told me that Akron isn't a big enough market to warrant real food. Now, if I want lunch, I have to pack it myself, sneak it in from the Panera across the street, or make do with a slightly wilted croissant.

3. Ughhhh, the bathrooms: In D.C., a 2006 regulation designed to prevent discrimination against transgender people prohibited single-occupancy public restrooms from being labeled as gender specific - which is also pretty convenient at bars, coffee shops, & other places where the line for the women's restroom is always longer than the men's. Here in Ohio, which is notably less progressive than our nation's capital, Starbucks' single-occupany bathrooms are gendered. At least once a day I find myself waiting for the women's restroom despite the fact that the men's is empty & that there are only, like, four people in the whole damn place. Whyyyy?

4. They're frickin' freezing: Most suburban Ohio Starbucks stores have drive-thru windows, which is great when you're on the go. I have no complaints about that... except when I'm not on the go. When you're camped out inside a Starbucks & it's below freezing outside, that constant open-&-close of the drive-thru window makes the entire place freezing. In fact, one of the stores near me is so frequently freezing that I've decided I can't sit inside anymore - at least until spring.

Ahhh, it feels better just to get these complaints out of my head & onto my computer screen.

I am a loyal member of the cult of Starbucks, & that's probably not going to change anytime soon, at least not as long as I work from home. But mannnn, Ohio, why you gotta make it all so annoying?

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Life Lessons: Apparently/Maybe/Probably You Can't Take Photos Inside Starbucks

Life Lessons: Apparently/Maybe/Probably You Can't Take Photos Inside Starbucks

Monday, October 13, 2014

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I'm waiting patiently for my Starbucks soy latte - because I am one bougie, basic you-know-what, apparently - when I notice that one of the baristas behind the counter looks ticked. Really ticked.

I follow her glare to the end of the bar, where a middle-aged woman is sitting on a barstool, finishing up a pastry. She's staring intently at her iPhone, holding it up at an angle in front of the big, silver, behemoth of a sink in front of her. I instantly recognize the familiar, focused look in her eyes, the way she's tilting her phone just so: She's trying to capture the perfect Instagram photo. And then, satisfied with what she's just snapped, she begins to pocket her phone.

The barista has a thick accent, & at first I'm not sure exactly what she's said - but the anger in her voice is unmistakable. "None of this!" she says firmly to the customer with the iPhone. "No photos!" The customer looks startled, like maybe the barista is scolding someone else. She looks to either side, but no one is there except me, & I look just as bewildered as she does. Turning back to the stern-faced barista & gesturing to herself despite the cup of tea in her hand, she squeaks, "Me?"

"Yes! You cannot take photos in here!" The barista is really mad now, glaring something fierce. This isn't your standard "Sorry, but..." or "Thanks for understanding..." sort of customer service. This is harsh & unfaltering &, frankly, confusing, because trying to take artsy, amateur smartphone photos has become something of an international pastime. Have you been on Instagram lately? It's positively replete with attempts at capturing creatives images of Starbucks cups.

The budding photographer splutters a little. "I was just taking a photo of the faucet," she explains meekly. "It's just a photo of a drop of water." She pushes her phone forward, & the photo on screen corroborates her story. But for all the anger in this barista's eyes, she might as well have flashed a photo of a thousand slaughtered kittens. 

Another barista, the one who's making my drink, mutters toward her coworker: "It's fine, I'm not even in it. It's fine." I wonder for a moment whether the angry barista is defending this one, somehow, if there's some reason she can't be in photographs - if she's a victim of domestic violence, or... I don't know, some other reason she shouldn't be photographed. But the customer's photo is as she explained: just a drop of water from a big, silver sink. And why all the anger? Can't she at least get an explanation or a little bit of kindness?

As the baristas mutter to one another, the woman with the iPhone turns to me. "I guess I shouldn't try to take artsy Instagram photos," she says, shrugging her shoulders & trying to laugh. I laugh a little, too, & shrug back at her in response, "What a Monday," I murmur. We're both still processing this weird & hostile scene.

But even with her coworker's placation, the angry barista is still angry: "You have to delete the picture," she insists. "Why are you taking it? You can't take photos in here. Delete it & leave!"

The customer, who looks exhausted by this point, turns & walks away. When she's out of earshot, the barista mutters, loud enough for me to hear, "No class. No class at all." She catches me staring at her, mouth wide open, but she doesn't seem apologetic or embarrassed - just as angry as she's been all along.

As I stop to grab a napkin on my way out of the store, I catch up with the customer to tell her what I've just heard & to say that I'd be emailing corporate Starbucks with a complaint. Maybe it's silly of me to inject myself into her scenario, but I want her to leave feeling like she has an ally, even if it's in a complete stranger.

She tells me she's going to send an email to corporate, too, & she seems pretty downtrodden, like maybe the day has just taken the mickey out of her. But then her face lights up a little, & she half-smiles at me: "You know, you can't take pictures in a Starbucks, but you can take a gun into one," she tells me. "How's that for priorities?"

***

Actually, Starbucks has a strict no-guns policy as of last fall, but I appreciate the sentiment. No guns, no photos, "no class," & never a dull moment, apparently.

At it turns out, this woman wasn't the first Starbucks customer to face the ire of a barista set on shutting down an amateur photography attempt. A rep confirmed for Business Insider last year that personal photography is permitted inside Starbucks stores, but the Internet is still full of similar stories & confusion about the company's in-store photo policy. For me, though, the issue wasn't that this woman was being prohibited from taking photos (although that's absurd). It's that she was being treated so rudely - as though she'd committed an actual crime - without being given even the slightest explanation as to what she had done wrong.

The Golden Rule applies all the time, even - & perhaps especially - in the service industry, going both ways. Drink your coffee & Instagram in peace & just be nice to other people, period. You're on notice, Adams Morgan Starbucks.

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I Confronted a Rude Stranger in a Starbucks, & (Surprise!) It Did Not Go Well

I Confronted a Rude Stranger in a Starbucks, & (Surprise!) It Did Not Go Well

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

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I'm of the belief that there's a special place in hell (you know, if I believed in hell) for people who listen to electronic devices aloud in communal spaces. If you're watching a YouTube video or playing Candy Crush or calling your mom or listening to Iggy Azalea in a place where there are other people - especially people who are working quietly, as in a coffee shop - then you should be wearing headphones. Period.

Of course, not everyone is on board with this concept; if they were, I wouldn't be complaining about it. Because I spend a great deal of time working in otherwise-quiet public spaces, I've encountered many a situation in which someone who is not on board with this concept aurally offends me on a deeply annoying level.

Today, I encountered the worst offender yet.

The Starbucks on P Street in Dupont Circle is hidden & quiet, one of my favorite work spaces in D.C. Its upstairs level has lots of one- & two-person seating arrangements, making it perfect for workday camp-outs with no "I've been here too long!" guilt. My friend Emily & I had been there for a few hours when the whole upstairs level flooded with a robotic voice & a barrage of bad elevator music; someone, somewhere was taking a phone call on speaker, & he'd been put on a loooooong hold.

Everyone around us looked appalled. The architecture of the building meant that the noise, which originated from a corner of the first floor, echoed up over a balcony & throughout the second floor, clearly disrupting every single one of the dozen of us up there. It was one of those moments when strangers came together in sympathetic annoyance, muttering, "Can you believe this?!" as "Your call is important to us" repeated at 30-second intervals.

Finally, I'd had enough. I walked downstairs to ask the offending call-maker to kindly cease public use of the speaker function.

What I found was a guy who didn't look crazy or rude or otherwise threatening. He was wearing a nice suit, & a freshly pressed purple dress shirt. He was bespectacled & balding, probably in his late 50s or early 60s, & he had the sort of accent I associate with Manhattan Jews. In other words, he both looked & sounded like he could be the father of any one of my friends. His speakerphone didn't seem loud from that corner, yet it was booming throughout the second floor. I figured he had no idea, & that if asked, he'd be happy to be a decent citizen of the world.

"Excuse me," I began. "Would you mind taking your phone off of speaker? I know it seems quiet from down here, but it's echoing up over the balcony, & it's actually really loud from the second floor."

He stared at me. I wondered if maybe he didn't speak English. I continued anyway: "There are a lot of us working quietly up there, & it's just... it's actually really loud." I thought I was being polite, but as his face contorted in anger, I began to second-guess my tone.

"Are you kidding me?" he boomed, morphing into a wild-eyed, Patrick-Bateman-with-an-axe type. "Are you serious right now? You know this is a public place, right? You know that?" I nodded, bristling with nerves & indignation, & reiterated that the second floor was full of people on laptops & that the noise was much louder from where we sat. "This is so rude," he insisted. "I can't believe this." It occurred to me that everyone upstairs could hear the conversation.

When I countered that it was actually sort of rude to blast hold music throughout an otherwise quiet public space where people were working in silence, he spluttered & stuttered. "You know, that's pretty rude!" he erupted. "This is a public place! You can't make other people be quiet! You can't dictate what I do!"

I was visibly flustered but tried to stand my ground. "Well, it's a coffee shop, so a lot of people are working here," I told him. "But look, I didn't come down here to be rude. I just thought you probably didn't realize how loud it was up there & that you might turn it off if you did."

"I'll turn it off," he snapped, as though he was doing me a huge favor by not being an asshole, "but this is really unbelievable. I mean, I've never gotten a request like this in my life."

"I wasn't trying to be rude," I repeated as I walked away. "Do whatever you want." My hands were shaking, & I could hear my heartbeat in my skull. The baristas I passed on my way back upstairs looked concerned, mouths agape, & when as I crossed the room to reach my table, a few strangers gave me smiles of... approval? Shock? Disdain? Impression? I was shaking too hard to be sure.

Shortly after the confrontation, my new friend stormed out of the Starbucks, hopefully never to be seen again. All was quiet on the home front for a good... 20 minutes. Then, as I wrote this post, someone else turned their phone on speaker - hip-hop music, this time, assaulting our ears on floor two yet again.

The struggle is so goddamn real, you guys. If I can't trust the rest of the world to wear headphones, I'm going to need to invest in a better pair of my own. Or just some straight-up earplugs.

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The Uncomfortable Exposure of Crying in Public

The Uncomfortable Exposure of Crying in Public

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

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There is a girl crying in this Starbucks, & I am the first person to notice.

I pass her on my way to the restroom, taking my purse but leaving behind my jacket & computer & various empty cups. I'm scanning the faces of the people sitting near me to see if anyone looks like they might rob me - whatever that means - & I've decided to risk it, that my bladder cannot wait. I hope that by making eye contact with a kind stranger, someone will feel obligated to speak up should they see my belongings being stolen in the 60 seconds it takes me to pee.

The old man sitting next to me is wearing massive headphones attached to a clunky, old-fashioned-looking machine, a recording device of some sort. He would get tangled up in those cords before he could ever walk away with my stuff. The old man next to him is gregarious & friendly & walks with a cane; it would take him, too, some effort to rob me. Next to them is a middle-aged women deep in a book & with her a young woman in her early 20s who was, just moments ago, engrossed in a GRE study manual.

She's not reading anymore. Now, she's holding her iPhone very close to her face, & she's crying.

She's trying not to cry, actually, & I know from personal experience that she's about to fail miserably. The pursed lips, the furrowed brow, the red cheeks, & the telltale watery eyes all give her away, as does the embarrassed look on her face, the fixed focus on her hands so she doesn't have to look up & face the prying eyes of strangers like me. She's trying not to cry, but she's going to, & no one else has noticed yet.

I think about what I might be able to do for her. How can I make her feel better, less alone, comforted in some small way? I think about all the times I've been that girl almost-crying in a Starbucks, or in the grocery store, or on the Metro, or somewhere else where crying doesn't belong, simultaneously wanting to go unnoticed & for someone to tell me everything will be OK. I think of all the times I've been that girl actual-crying in private, in my apartment or my car, balancing the desire to reach out to a friend for help & comfort with the need to appear perpetually self-possessed & unfazed. I think about what it feels like to be a disastrous mess in the midst of a world full of other people who never seem to be & how sometimes, you feel desperate for some sort of reassurance that you are a regular human being & that your feelings are OK to feel, even if they happen by accident in public.

Ultimately, I decide there's nothing for me to do that won't be terribly awkward or make it worse for her. When I return from the bathroom - unrobbed, by the way - her waterworks have begun, her mother has noticed, & eventually, she composes herself in the bathroom before the two of them link arms & walk out the door. End of story.

But I hope that the next time I start to cry in public, I think of her, red in the face, & how I felt, a helpless stranger watching it happen. And I hope I remember that we are never alone.

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The Day My Starbucks Life Paid Off

The Day My Starbucks Life Paid Off

Friday, August 30, 2013

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Today hasn't been great. It started out kind of crappy, if I'm being honest. Work is hectic, & I got into a really hurtful argument on Twitter, & everything's just been a little... much, you know?

Nathan got out of work early & asked if I wanted to get lunch together, so I took a break from work & we went to The Chowda House, a new seafood place that just opened up a few blocks from our place. I brought my laptop with me so that afterward, I could camp out at the downtown Starbucks for the rest of the work day.

There was some commotion happening across the street from Starbucks, but it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. In fact, there's frequently a commotion happening across the street from Starbucks, where Jay & Silent Bob's Secret Stash is located. It's a comic book shop owned by Kevin Smith (he of Clerks & Mallrats fame, among others), & it serves as the set of AMC's reality show Comic Book Men, which means there are often film crews & large-ish crowds gathered outside. In fact, I was recently reprimanded by a film crewmenber for daring to - gasp! - stop on the sidewalk to take a photo of filming. Not wanting to receive another slap on the wrist this afternoon, I thought nothing of today's gathering & went in for my coffee.

But then the crowd started moving down the street, away from the comic book store, & I heard someone in the coffee shop say, "Yeah, some mayor is in town. Newark? I don't know why, though, or why anyone cares."

Ignoring the fact that such a statement hurts my heart - learn your local politics, people - I went on high alert: CORY BOOKER IS HERE? I walked outside, phone in hand, & joined the small fray walking slowly down the street with him as he greeted citizens of my fair town.

A woman turned to me right away: "Do you want to meet Mr. Booker?" she asked. "You've got to get in there! Come on, I'll take your photo."

And that's how I ended up shaking the hand of my future senator, despite a little bit of verbal bumbling on my part because I was, let's face it, slightly starstruck. Cory Booker, y'all.

"I met you once," I told him, "when you spoke to the Union for Reform Judaism."

The mayor looked surprised, in a good. "Ah, the URJ!" he responded with a smile. "Great people."

Of course, it's possible that a seasoned politician like Cory Booker is an expert bullshitter & that he does not, actually, remember speaking to the great people of the URJ way back in 2007. But hey, he made me feel like he did, & that was nice.

And I was even having a good hair day!

Still smiling like a buffoon, I made my way back into Starbucks & settled in to work - for real this time. Except...

"Does anyone ever tell you that you look like Jay from the Jay & Silent Bob movies?" I heard a female voice ask. I turned to see a grungy, pink-haired teenager behind me addressing a grungy, long-haired dude picking up a cup of coffee.

Oh, you know where this is going.

I started laughing to myself. The Jay "lookalike" turned to me & winked.

"Yeah, sometimes people tell me that."

"You look a lot like him."

"You don't say?"

"Wait. ARE YOU HIM?"

And that's how I accidentally met Cory Booker & Jason Mewes within a span of 10 minutes.

Needless to say, my day got better. And sometimes, man, it's like the universe knows I wish I lived in a city, where quirky stuff like this happens all the time. Thanks for throwing me a bone, life.

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Notes on New York from a n00b

Notes on New York from a n00b

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

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My general feelings about free coffee
& good hair days, but not about 5:15am

It's 8:40am as I begin this post, & already, I've been awake for 3.5 hours. If you've ever woken up in my general vicinity (I'm also talking crashing on your couch & traveling together, pervs, not just sexytimes), you know that I am not exaaaaactly what anyone would call a "morning person." I see 8am only when I absolutely need to, & my work-from-home lifestyle means this isn't very often (but shut up about it, please).

Today, though, I had to catch a train into the city, & because I'm slightly lazy and/or cold-averse, I caught a ride with Nathan to the train station... at 6:20. I was thus on a train by 6:35 & arrived at Penn Station just before 8:00. Now, it's still shy of workin' time, & I'm sitting at my desk, avoiding work for 15 more minutes because why would I start work early?

It's been awhile since I've been to my office - three & a half months, to be precise. When I first moved to Jersey, I was doing a great job of coming into the city for a few days a month, crashing with a friend & working from an actual office building with actual coworkers who I can see in 3D instead of via GoTo Meeting (whaddup, GTM, you rock, though). But then Hurricane Sandy hit, & the train was out for more than a month, & then it was the holidays, & then I went to Israel... & now it's now. I had to come in for 48 hours for a really long meeting, so here I am.

I fancy myself pretty good at the city for a non city-dweller. I have a terrible sense of direction, but I have an iPhone & common sense, so I can usually make it work for me. This morning, though, I felt like a total new kid, messing up all the little things I usually pride myself on. I also came away with a few fresh observations, which I shall impart upon you at this time:

• This is how to not get robbed when you intend to sleep on a train:
  
  Although to be fair, I don't know that a lot of robbers are active in the wee hours of the morn. And speaking of the wee hours of the morn...

• There's a special place in hell for people who carry on loud, bellowing conversations - or conversations of any volume, frankly - on public transit prior to sunrise. Everyone around you is trying to sleep for the next 70 minutes, bro. I know you're from Jersey, but tone it down.

• Waking up on the train upon reaching your final destination (not like that) is among the most disorienting situations, much like waking up on an airplane is. WHERE AM I & WHAT TIME IS IT & DID I ACCIDENTALLY JUST GET OFF THE TRAIN AT NEWARK INSTEAD OF THE CITY? No? Oh, good. Carry on.

• Subway turnstiles & revolving doors are particularly hostile to luggage-wielding pedestrians, & of course, the city is lousy with both of them. Can't a girl get an old-fashioned hinged door up in here?

• I am incapable of assembling weather-appropriate attire in advance. To be fair, I also didn't check the forecast, but I just assumed it would be, like, four degrees out today, so I sported my thickest winter coat, the one with the faux-fur hood trim. But because I am the world's sweatiest individual & because subway cars in no way approximate outdoor temperatures & because the outdoor temperature is actually sort of balmy for January, I arrived at my office looking like I'd just run an early-morning marathon.

• But my hair stayed good! And good hair days get you things. Or they got me things today, at least, when I walked into Starbucks, all awkward & sweaty & heavy-coat-wearing, & the barista told me my hair looked "bangin'" & then rang me up for a tall coffee instead of a tall latte, which is approximately a million times cheaper. And then winked at me. 

I didn't even know my brain could formulate so many complete sentences prior to 9am. I'm so proud! And whaddaya know? It's 9am now, which means work beckons. Happy Tuesday!

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GTL, with Serious Emphasis on the G

GTL, with Serious Emphasis on the G

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

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Maybe I should just change the name of this blog to "Overheard at Starbucks." Today, I was seated next to a muttery old man who spends about as much time there as I do, but mumbling angry sentiments under his breath, much like Joe Pesci's character in "Home Alone" but without PG nonsense words like "riggum frackin" & instead with profanity like "goddamn motherfucking shit fuckers." I spent an hour crossing my legs tightly instead of going to the restroom because I didn't want to have to speak to him to ask him to keep an eye on my stuff.

When he left, three girls (women?) a little younger than me took his place. They kindly watched over my stuff & ensured I was not robbed during my bathroom break; upon my return, I repaid them by eavesdropping on their conversation because that's my jam & because so many people here have Jersey voices that I just can't help myself.

One of the girls was a bodybuilder. I know this because the other two girls (who were sisters & decidedly not bodybuilders, if you catch my meaning, in much the way that I am decidedly not a bodybuilder) asked her approximately two jillion questions about it. Here's what I learned:

1. Yes, being a bodybuilder is expensive – like, what-is-your-job expensive. Her trainer costs $500 a month, & the entry fee for her latest bodybuilding show is $400, plus the cost of paying for monthly testing to ensure that she's not Lance Armstronging the whole thing. That's already the cost of Nate's & my monthly rent. Ain't nobody got time money for that!
   
   
2. Yes, being a bodybuilder is difficult. For some period of time before competitions, she only consumes liquid. Liquid everything. Protein shakes, smoothies, juices, & all the coffee she wants. Can you turn that spaghetti into liquid? Then OK, she can have it. No? You can't? Then kindly GTFO.
   
   
3. Yes, bodybuilders miss real food. She has a "friend" who is fond of texting her photos of delicious desserts – tiramisu, doughnuts, cupcakes! She wants the friend to stop because it makes her feel like crap, but she doesn't feel like she can ask her to without calling her out on being a huge B. (And yes, this part made me feel bad for her because bodybuilders are people, too, & that friend clearly sucks.)
   
   
4. Yes, bodybuilders indulge sometimes. She ate flan as a Christmas treat, which "isn't that unhealthy, just loaded with sugar." So take that, dessert-texting frenemy! (PS: Uhh, flan? Some treat. Gimme some Reese's trees.)
   
   
5. Yes, being a bodybuilder is worth it. If she wins the upcoming competition, she can "get a pro card" to keep competing. Because after all you've learned about it, doesn't bodybuilding sound fun?!? Best prize everrrrr.

Eventually, they changed the topic: "What did you get for Christmas?" one of the sisters asked the bodybuilder.

"UGGs," she answered, "and a new tanning membership."

Oh, New Jersey. You just make it so easy.


Pssst! Have you liked Suburban Sweetheart yet on Facebook?

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"Jersey Voices" & A Potential Brush With Fame in a Suburban Starbucks

"Jersey Voices" & A Potential Brush With Fame in a Suburban Starbucks

Friday, December 21, 2012

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I am, by nature, an eavesdropper &, OK, a little bit of a gossip. I like to be in the know. When I was growing up, we had a neighbor who somehow seemed to know all the local dirt on the folks in our development; I secretly aspired to someday be such a person. While this quality (& my accompanying inability to keep secrets) has, at times, gotten me into trouble, it also lent itself well to my desire to be a journalist – someone who uncovers dirt & tells stories people about it for a living.

Alas, I did not grow up to be the journalist that my young "Newsies"-worshiping self once aspired to be, so this "skill" lies professionally dormant. It does, however, come in handy for overhearing interesting things in coffee shops.

Today, for example, I sort of wanted to throttle the three women sitting near me while I worked at Starbucks. They were very, very loud. Not on purpose necessarily, but they just were, you know? Those people whose voices that carry – Jersey voices, as I've come to think of them. You didn't have to be an expert eavesdropper to hear every word of their conversation, which was replete with, among other things, lots of raunchy references to getting it on with basically every man they've ever met. Pro tip, ladies: If you're gonna talk sex in public, bring it down a notch.

I digress. One of the women was particularly obnoxious, very tiny & pretty & louder than the other two, occasionally bursting into overdramatic song along the Starbucks soundtrack. In every other sentence she mentioned "the show," which lead me to believe she was a performer of some sort. Then, after admiring a particularly cute child, I heard her say, "You should see the adorable kids that come to the show, all dressed up for Mary Poppins on Broadway."

And just like that – activate celebrity sensors.

A hint! A clue! My Google skills went into overdrive! A member of the cast, surely. Right? Shortly afterward, I heard her say something about how her last name should be difficult to determine on Facebook & how she went on a date with a guy who, much to her dismay, discovered her real name & her work website. Despite her dating woes, my ears perked up, because... website? Obviously she was an (aspriring?) actress. So I Googled the cast, including understudies & ensemble... but I found no familiar faces. I conferred with my best Broadway experts, friends who obsess over the Great White Way. And then, between their sex chats, I heard one of the other girls refer to "Kelly's Dating Rules," so I Googled all things related to "Mary Poppins Broadway Kelly/Kelley/Kelli/Kellie." And when I couldn't find anything that seemed to match, I looked up the Playbook. And when I still couldn't find anything that seemed to match, I kept looking. Because I'm the kind of person who will spend three hours Googling something just so that I can return to you with breaking news. Which is, yeah, a little Asperger'sy, if you want to get clinical about it. 

This went on for hours, until I, the dejected former journalist, finally ran out of things to Google. It was only then that I heard it, my final clue: "At the show, we used to have to bring our own black, button-up shirts, & then they started providing us with them. Everyone at all of the theaters has to wear them now..."

It took three hours for me to determine that I was sitting next to a theater usher.

Damn you, NYC suburbs.

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Girl, Put Your Records On... LOUDLY

Girl, Put Your Records On... LOUDLY

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

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It was a really, really bad day to forget my headphones.

I own about three pairs of headphones, & I almost always have one of them with me. As someone who works from home – which often means working from coffeeshops – I need them in order to take conference calls in crowded, noisy venues, & of course, they're great for blocking out the world around me & losing myself in Billy Joel while I work. Or, um, something cooler. (What are the kids listening to these days, anyway?)

When I got to Starbucks this afternoon, the only seat left in the place was at a shared seating area, squished between a woman in her 30s working on a Macbook & two women in their 50s taking up much more space than they required. What stood out about them was that one of the women appeared to have brought her own cutlery & a China plate from home & was eating an orange with a fork while snacking from a plastic party tray of dried apricots. While I've been known to sneak outside food into Starbucks (& the movies & basically anywhere else), there's something distinctly brazen about setting up your own meal & digging in for everyone to see. She was also drinking an eggnog latte, which, she announced loudly – & repeatedly – was "absolute rubbish."

It gets weirder. I briefly considered the idea that these women – or at least one of them, the more annoying of the two – might've had some sort of developmental delay (which would've absolutely kept me from writing this post, let's be clear), but it became pretty clear that they were just... weird. The lady with the orange switched back & forth between a normal voice & a squeaky, high-pitched baby voice, favoring the latter but using the former just enough to sound like a normal person every so often. They talked & talked, in a manner of conversation I can scarcely think to describe in writing, though I'm sure I could muster a good imitation for you. I want you to imagine, for example, a grown woman speaking in a squeaky baby voice saying things like, "You're so fannnncy, always going to fancy places like the Caribbean & leaving wittle old me at home!" & "I want the gweeeeen juice, but I already dwank a diffff'went juice. What should I dooo?" At some point, they began to discuss the possibility that Eggnog Orange Lady's friend had mice in her apartment; the friend said she'd round up all the mice & drop them off at a Chinese restaurant (racist much?), to which Eggnog Orange Lady exclaimed, "Nooo! Not the wittle meecers! We don't eat meecers!"

At one point, Eggnog Orange Lady took the plastic wrapping off of her apricot container & asked Mouse Meecers Lady to wear it as a crown. Meecers Lady put it on her head as though it were a pair of headphones, which made Eggnog Orange Lady positively gleeful with laughter. Very loud laughter. Baby-voiced laughter, if such a thing is possible.

In between these totally bizarre, ear-splitting interactions, the two reverted to totally normal voices & conversations, including a mean-spirited one about what a bitch one of Eggnog Orange Lady's coworkers is – like I said, enough to let me know that they were, in fact, "all there" & that they were just the most annoying. When Meecers Lady said she had to get going, Eggnog Orange Lady screeched (in baby voice, of course), "Noooo! No, no, NO! Stay here with meeeee!" as though she were a child being left at daycare.

Throughout it all, try as I might (& I did, desperately), I was helpless to block them out. I even went back out to my car to search desperately for a pair of headphones that might silence the unending cacophony of weirdness, to no avail.

My frustration just miiiight have been evident, because as she got up to leave, Macbook Girl turned to me & said, just out of earshot of our two fellow diners, "I wish I had another pair of headphones. I'd totally leave them for you."

Nothing like a baby-voiced weirdo to bring two strangers together.

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Overheard at Starbucks

Overheard at Starbucks

Friday, June 15, 2012

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Working at home can be sort of boring, so I often work from Starbucks, but working from Starbucks can be really weird. Let me explain:

• Today I actually overheard not one but two people asking some version of, "Do you guys do iced lattes here?" Folks, this is a coffee shop.
  
  
• I also overheard a series of interviews for a job at a local boutique. During one of them, the interviewer asked her interviewee (who was wearing a sleeveless top), "So, with a background in human resources, why are you interested in retail?" The girl responded, "Well, I can't find anything in my field, & I thought retail would be great in the meantime." Unemployed, readers, take note: I think it's safe to say that's not the correct answer.
  
  
• A middle-aged stranger recently tapped me on the shoulder & told me with surprising enthusiasm, "I saw you texting the other day. You're the fastest texter I've ever seen. I was really impressed!" This prompted a short but intense conversation about my speed-texting skills. Thank you?
  
  
• A woman plopped her stuff down at a table next to mine & asked me if I'd keep an eye on her things while she got her drink. Sure, no problem. When she returned, she asked my name, shook my hand, & proceeded to tell me about her many medical ailments, including a few contagious ones. NO THANK YOU.
  
  
• I heard a young, otherwise-handsome dude ask the barista where he could catch the bus to WalMart because he needed to buy a new pair of Carharts. As he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal handwritten notes all over his flesh, it became increasingly clear that he was high on something aside from just life. As he left, he yelled over his shoulder, "Thanks, man! Sounds just dandy!"

As I finish up this post, a fellow Starbucks dweller who I once introduced myself to has spotted me from outside the establishment & is on his way in to chat, likely about his continued unemployment due to a back injury. I guess it's a good thing I'm done working, because I'm about to be talking for awhile.

Oh, strangers. You sure do keep things interesting.

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Christmukkah Came Early! (And a Giveaway)

Christmukkah Came Early! (And a Giveaway)

Monday, December 19, 2011

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*There's a giveaway at the bottom, if you hate reading my wonderful words & want to skip to the potential for free stuff.

Call me nerdy, but after eight days out of town, I was looking forward to coming home for a great many reasons, among them cat cuddles, sleeping in my own bed, and going through a week's worth of mail - especially at the holiday season!

Today didn't let me down. I picked up my letters & packages & was thrilled to feel like Christmukkah had come early! My mama sent me this amazing slipper boots, straight off my wishlist:

And speaking of my wishlist, my wonderful friend (& fellow Ohioan) Cara sent me the Mandipidy print I'd long been coveting. Funnily enough, I'd bought Cara a gift, too, which I gave to her at the convention we both worked last week.

The next one was more a gift to myself, or a disgusting sign of corporatism. After ordering 20 Starbucks drinks on my registered gift card, I finally received my Gold Card, complete with my name on it. Should I be excited or ashamed?

I also came home to about 30 holiday cards. Feeling pretty loved right about now! I've displayed just a few of them on our hall closet door using good, old-fashioned string - in mustard, very festive. I'm still trying to figure out how to display the rest!

Heather from Just Lovely Things sent me a package for the Cold Hands, Warm Hearts swap that is, indeed, just lovely. Soft black gloves with detachable fingers, a shiny black ring that looks like a little disco ball, two of Heather's favorite magazines, a homemade flower headband & a black sequined one, two nail polishes, a lip gloss, & a postcard from Oregon, where Heather lives. I'm delighted, & I hope she likes the goodies I sent her just as much. See, sometimes I participate in activities with other bloggers! I'm not a total online hermit.

I recently won two giveaways, one for this flowery, funky homemade pouch from Glow Kouture from Caroline's blog, & the other for a Shabby Apple bracelet from Christina's blog. The bracelet I won was out of stock (is it just me, or is that weird...?), so I got to pick something else, which is how I ended up with this clock necklace that I like even more. Score!

And finally, my Birchbox arrived. For reasons unknown, I received two Birchboxes this month, each containing the same samples. Coincidentally, this is how I found Birchbox in the first place - awhile back, I won a giveaway from the blog Capitol Hill Style, whose writer had mysteriously received two boxes & opted to give one away. I loved it so much that I signed up to be a member myself.

In the spirit of paying it forward, I'm giving away my extra Birchbox to one free-stuff-loving reader who's interested in checking out this fun service. For $10 a month, Birchbox sends you a surprise package full of three to five high-end beauty samples.There are six ways to enter using the Rafflecopter widget below, & I'll choose a winner on Dec. 27th. Go forth & enter!

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Frigid & Boring?

Frigid & Boring?

Thursday, November 3, 2011

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I love Starbucks' red cups as much as the next caffeine monster, but is it just me, or does the sweet sentiment printed on this year's cups not exaaaactly convey the holiday spirit they're intended to?

I get it, in theory, but...

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In Case You Were Thinking of Stealing My Car...

In Case You Were Thinking of Stealing My Car...

Thursday, June 9, 2011

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Greeting from Starbucks, which is currently serving as a safe haven for me & about 20 others in hiding from a severe (& severely rainy) thunderstorm.

I'm lucky this weather didn't happen yesterday around this time, when I picked up carryout Thai from a nearby restaurant. After making conversation with the owners about how pleased I was to find good Thai food outside of D.C., I returned to my car with my chicken kaprow... & discovered I had locked myself out. My keys sat on the passenger seat, taunting me.

Thank goodness for that AAA membership my grandmother gave me as a Chanukah gift. "Someone will be out within 45 minutes," the woman on the phone told me. Tail between my legs, I slunk back into the restaurant, explained what had happened, & asked if I could eat my to-go meal at a table. I dumped my food out of the carryout containers & into real dishes, my first solo meal in a restaurant that doesn't have wifi. What an undignified entry into the world of eating alone.

When the locksmith finally came, he was... well, not a locksmith. He yelled "Are you kidding me?" at least 10 times - I counted. He also griped that my car, a late model Honda Civic, is the most difficult car to break into - as though it were a bad thing. I suppose that, under the circumstances, it was a bad thing, but that's certainly not a problem I typically mind having.

As he attempted to break into my car, the restaurant's hippie hostess ran outside: "Next time, go down to the 7/11 & ask a bum to help you!" she advised me. "They're the best at that sort of thing!" And then she ran back inside. Hysterical advice, honestly, considering it was totally unsolicited & unexpected, & also because it seems totally unlikely that A) there are many car-jacking criminals lurking around the sleepy town of Kittery, Maine, and B) there will be a "next time" that I lock myself out of my car in that exact spot.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" the AAA technician shouted again, this time more angrily than before. As if to indicate that it was, in fact, kidding, my Civic burst into loud alarm peals. I took what was left of my chicken kaprow & made my way home, my dignity only slightly damaged & my appreciation for AAA wholly renewed.

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Stranger Danger Is a Myth

Stranger Danger Is a Myth

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

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Since my Unemployment Adventure began, I've been spending a lot of time at Starbucks. And the library. I'm trying to rotate between the two so I don't burn out on either; so far, I've been successful in rotating, but not necessarily in preventing burnout. Starbucks has pumpkin scones, so it usually wins.

Here's the problem: Because I have a whopping total of, like, two friends in town - & because they have, you know, jobs & lives & stuff - I find myself without anyone to talk to the majority of the time. The majority of my face-to-face interactions are with my mom & with strangers who frequent (& are employed by) places I frequent.

So I find myself thriving on these few-sentences-long chats with people I don't & will never know. Conversations like, "Will you watch my stuff while I run to the bathroom?" that, if I'm lucky, turn into a few lines of good-humored banter about trusting strangers to keep me safe from other strangers. Conversations with a middle-aged Sears employee about the horrors of turtlenecks & the many treasures to be found on jewelry sales rack & whether coral is an acceptable color palette for anything but necklaces. Conversations with the couple in line of front of me at WalMart who lets me cut them so I don't have to wait 15 minutes while they pay for their meth lab supplies when all I need to buy is contact solution & a Lean Cuisine.

I'm turning into my grandmother, who talks to every stranger she meets. I am one of those people. It's not new, of course; I've always done it, even in the city, where people sometimes thought I was crazy or obnoxious or an escaped mental patient for daring to strike up chats with folks I don't know. I even have a blog tag devoted to "conversations with strangers." And it suddenly occurs to me: This is, without a doubt, the most suburban thing about me. When paired with also being the loneliest thing about me, I'm a conversational time bomb just waiting to explode. No stranger is safe.

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Coffee Shop 'Til You Drop

Coffee Shop 'Til You Drop

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

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In my past life (that is to say, my previously employed life), whenever I walked into a coffee shop & saw the tables filled with folks on laptops, I always wondered, "Don't these people have jobs?!" The answer, I can now report back to you, is no. We don't.

I love working from coffee shops. During Snowpocalypse, I was so excited to work from a coffee shop (& to have human interaction after being snowed in for a week) that I trudged to Open City, laptop in arm, to sip chai lattes & live the coffee-shop-as-office life. Now that I'm (f)unemployed, I'm capitalizing on the, um, opportunity to patronize Starbucks during normal business hours.

A few thoughts on hanging out in coffee shops: 

• I'm trying to stick to a normal schedule, so I've been leaving my apartment around 10a.m. or so, & not coming back until 5p.m. or later. And though $5 is a cheap price to pay for office space, it seems eight hours is a liiiittle too long to spend in Starbucks.

• Comfy armchairs may look comfortable, but don't be fooled. They're basically designed to discourage folks like me from loitering too long after our lattes are finished. Also, I may have developed carpal tunnel from sitting Indian-style & holding my wrists vertical to type at a too-tall table.

• Inappropriate behavior abounds:

• People who don't wear headphones when there's sound coming from their computers in public are the worst kind of people. I'm looking at you, Dude Playing a Computer Game With an Autotuned '90s Theme Song.

• While coffee shops can make for quaint, intimate date spots, they're not the appropriate place for boisterous, not-so-witty banter & the kind of arm-smacking, shoulder-punching "flirting" that most of us mastered in the fourth grade.

• If you have a voice like Leslie Mann, you should not talk. Ever. But especially not in quiet coffee shops. Leslie Mann has a number of admirable physical qualities, but the sound of her voice is not one of them. My ears, they bleed.

Suddenly, I'm struck with a thought of mind-blowingly simple proportions: I have become one of those people who blogs from coffee shops. Temporary position or not, mission accomplished.

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Foursquare Has Given Me a False Sense of Ego & Fame

Foursquare Has Given Me a False Sense of Ego & Fame

Friday, July 30, 2010

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I used to work at a city-owned gym, where the local mayor came in to get his elliptical on with regularity. The gym staff, of course, knew who the mayor was, particularly because he’s held the position practically since my birth. We were extra-nice to him & to his wife, laughing at their old people-esque jokes & handing them sweat towels & generally hoping they didn’t recommend we be fired.

I want the Woodley Park Starbucks employees to do the same for me. After all, I am their mayor.

Last week, upon my post-lunch pick-me-up arrival, my favorite barista, the tall guy who used to work at the Starbucks in my old neighborhood, asked, “The usual?” I practically fainted with joy. I’M A REGULAR! “One shot?” he asked, just in case it was a two-shot kind of day instead. I’M SUCH A REGULAR THAT THE DUDE EVEN CHECKS ON MY WELFARE. You can’t imagine my happiness. Or maybe you can.

Today, I went ahead & ordered my drink because I am a noble ruler who can walk among the little people & live like them (much like @CongJoeWilson). When I asked the barista for a bag to hold my sandwich, cashews & yogurt cup (there’s a shortage of restaurants in Woodley Park, OK?), she informed me that she’d have to charge me five cents for it. “It’s a DC thing,” she lamented cheerfully.

I am fully aware of this “DC thing.” Because I live in DC. And because I come to this Starbucks every day.

To add insult to injury, as she handed me my receipt, she stamped the back & asked, “Are you familiar with our Treat Receipts?” My heart skipped a beat, & not in a good way (is there a good way for that? I guess it’s more of a medical malady than a metaphor). I know all about Treat Receipts, which allow you to purchase any cold grande bev for just $2 after 2pm with an a.m. receipt. I know all about Treat Receipts because I use them as often as possible. And because I come to this Starbucks every day. Did I mention that?

I campaigned hard for my mayorship. I’ve worked in this neighborhood for a mere two months but my dedication to the district means that I have already visited this store 20 times in an attempt to oust the previous ruler, who was no doubt undeserving & unqualified to serve in this post. And 20 trips means at least $87 spent, which is an expensive campaign investment for a young professional like me.

In short, I demand more of my citizenry. I KNOW ABOUT YOUR BAG TAX! I KNOW ABOUT YOUR TREAT RECEIPTS! I HAVE "A USUAL"! Can't a ruler get a little respect?

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"She Makes the City Seem Like Home"

"She Makes the City Seem Like Home"

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

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Best thing I've evereverever heard, spoken by a male Starbucks employee in a slow Jamaican drawl: "If I don't get another job, I'm gonna make another baby. That's what I'm worried about." I almost spit out my grande skim chai latte when I heard that one; he didn't seem to find humor in it, which, of course, made it that much funnier.

I was worried today that I'd found a mouse pellet on my hardwood floor... I was, however, quite relieved to find that it was only a rather large fuzz from my new brown sweater. Speaking of rodents, though, I saw an undetermined species of rodent skittering across the sidewalk this afternoon. Is it disgusting if I thought it was sort of cute? I swear it wasn't some big Shredder-style sewer rat; just a waddly little mouse.

I know the city's starting to feel like home: I spent Thanksgiving in the boondocks of sweet Lima, Ohio, & after fewer than 24 hours, I pined to be back in the District. As soon as I got home I indulged in some Sala Thai spicy fried rice & the comfort of my solo apartment. That's not to say that the travel experience itself wasn't a trip (no pun intended) (that's a lie; it was totally intended). Let's recount, shall we?

• On the way to the airport, my cab driver was listening to a sweet-voiced, Nora Jones-sounding female guitarist strum an acoustic ballad with the lyrics, "Child molestation isn't funny - HA!" and "Open access abortion in every city - but no gun control!"
• Later, sitting in Reagan National Airport, I chuckled to myself as the USAirways folks announced, "Paging passenger Landon Bridges. Mr. LANDON BRIDGES, report to gate 36A." Sneaky parentals on that one, huh?
• In other incredible name news, the guy who took my order at DCA's Cosi was named -- and I kid you not -- HAMLET. I swear on my life. The receipt even said it. That guy's parents effing despise him.

Life, my friends, is so good.

(just not to that guy)

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