Randomology.
Today, all I have is scattered thoughts. Stress? Maybe. Insanity?
Probably. Am I going to share? Definitely. Will I organize them and
make them sound pretty?
Highly doubtful.
When I worked at Starbucks, we were taught that espresso was not
'good' for longer than ten seconds after the shot was pulled (this, of
course, ignored the widely held notion that Starbucks espresso wasn't
'good' to start with...). For the barista, this meant that you needed
to add your steamed milk ( for a latte or cappucino), or your syrups
(for flavour...vanilla, hazelnut, et al), or your hot water (for an
americano), or your ice and milk/water (for an iced latte or americano)
to the shot within ten seconds, or vice versa, or the drink would be
utter and complete crap. We had recipe books and guides for the
structure of every drink, but you could likely mess that up and no one
would notice. But the shot! The shot! You had to act fast!
I tasted a shot that was left sitting on the counter for five
minutes once, and sure enough, it was slightly more acidic than the
perfect ones I would down with my assistant manager a million times a
shift. This would put me in mind of my love life, since I was growing increasingly more acid-tongued by the year, the longer I was left sitting around. But I digress. Have you ever noticed that I pretty much do nothing BUT digress? Oh well.
When I took my 'coffee class', some joker felt the need to point out that if a cold shot was bad, we shouldn't be serving iced drinks. The ever-patient trainer, no doubt used to this "Aha!" query, informed him that the shot went bad only if it cooled gradually and sat alone and untouched like a spinster. As long as you iced it suddenly, like the espresso version of the Polar Bear Swim, it would remain a quality shot in its drink of destiny.
I have not had a latte in forever, since the amount of espresso I
used to consume would pay a good portion of my rent now. So I was
thinking longingly of lattes today, and about that whole
hot-cold-espresso-shock treatment thing. And I came to the following
conclusion:
I am a latte.
My life is either all sunshine and bells and whistles (hot) or
totally barren and bizarre (cold). There is no in-between. Sometimes I
am in hot water up to my neck, and sometimes I am left shivering like a
flasher at the Arctic Circle. Sometimes I am up to my neck in social
commitments and work responsibilities, and sometimes I am as alone as
the candle on a one-year-old's cake. Lukewarm? No way. Balance? It does not happen.
I'd like the chance to get bitter, but there's too much to think about,
worry about, freak out about, and panic about in this all-or-nothing
life. Who has time to mellow out and go bad? I'm just trying not to
freeze with these ice cubes down my pants.
Flawed analogy? Sure. Lack of caffeine? Damn right. I've had a headache for almost a week. Which brings me to my next thought...
What is the deal with headaches? How do you know if you have a
really bad one, or if you're just a complete pansy? I have friends who
have headaches all the time, and some that claim never to have had one.
But here's a crazy thought...what if the no-headache people have horrible, throbbing monster aches and don't mention them because of their extraordinarily high pain thresholds? And what if the headache people are just giant wussies? How do
you know? Sure, some folks get MRIs that reveal insanely weird things
in their heads, or have giant spikes driven into their craniums in
tragic industrial accidents...you can trust their pain. I have
a headache right now, though, and I'm suddenly wondering if I'm whining
about something that's absolutely normal for a large percentage of the
population. I thought I was a pain toughie, but I might just be a
marshmallow. Speaking of...
The Yellow Peep in the graphic on this page looks a lot like this guy. Which makes me never want to eat a Marshmallow Peep again.
Today, I got a callback on a job...a non-writing one, but who's
picky? Not me! So I called the number left on my voice mail, which
purportedly belongs to the business to which I applied. A man
answers, sounding somewhat sleepy ("Heelllo?"). I ask for Gina, who
(can I say purportedly again?) left the message on my phone. He says,
and I quote, "That bitch left this number for you?"
Eeeeek. After a few minutes, he told me to look up the business name
in the "friggin' phone book" and call tomorrow. Apparently, he was the
CEO of the firm. Yeah, if CEO stands for CRANKY EVIL OGRE.
I'm a glutton for punishment. I'll call back. I actually should have
walked around to various pay phones and businesses in my area and
continued to call that nice man back. But we don't want to get Gina
fired before she gives me a job. Speaking of...
I used to have a fireplace in my first University basement suite
ever. Now, when I say I had a fireplace, I mean I had a glowing heater
in the shape of a fire. It was awesome...one of the weirder things I've
ever seen in my entire life, and completely in step with the decor of
the suite, which I would label, "How Many Weird Architectural Quirks
Can You Put In 150 Sq Ft?".
I would only turn the thing on for a few moments now and then,
because it kicked out heat like a female cat in springtime. I'm what
they call a 'warm person'...I never needed the help. One weekend,
though, I had houseguests. They were 'cold' people; not in the sense
that they were terrible, heartless CEOs, but just in that their bodies
were less efficient at supplying them with warmth than my own (aka,
skinny freaks). They slept in the living room, and had the glowing
fire-shape going all night. My bedroom, directly adjacent to the living
room, suddenly became one of the latter levels of Dante's Inferno, and
I was left sticking my head out the tiny basement-suite window and
gasping for -35 C air every two minutes or so. I could have asked them
to turn it off, but I figured the comfort of my guests was paramount.
By some divine provision, I also had a bottle of water in my room, so I
slugged that back, hoping to drain the vessel before the water
came to a boil.
Then I had to pee. This meant I would have to traipse across the
married couple just to go to the bathroom...well, not across them, but
right next to them. Opening and closing doors in this place created a
noise akin to shots going off, so I wasn't too eager to do that, either.
I just wanted to be a good host. And I was 20 years old. But none of
that is excuse enough for the fact that I climbed out my window, and
peed in the snow. Yes, me, in my flannel nightgown, in subzero
temperatures...I peed in the snow. And then I crawled back into my
bedroom, strangely relieved and refreshed, and fell asleep. They never suspected a thing.
However, the next day, my elderly upstairs neighbour thanked me for
"getting up to shoo the cats that always pee on our lovely backyard
snow...."
Errr.....you're welcome. Which reminds me...old people never sleep.
They go to bed at ten, read for six hours, sigh deeply, turn over
twice, and get up at five again to make tea and toast. They nap in the
afternoons, but don't let them fool you with the removal of glasses and
the leaning back in chairs! They are like coils, waiting to spring!
Like rattlesnakes, with walkers!
That's why nursing homes are like NYC (without the Rockettes and Hello Deli). Someone is always awake.
Children you can trust...they nap, and drool, and lie with their
mouths hanging open like Pac Man going for the 100-pt cherry. But old
folks?
They're the ones running the world.
That's really why I'm excited to turn 31 in a few weeks. I'm one step closer to unfathomable power.
Anyhow, I think I'll go phone Gina again ("Is your refrigerator
running?"), and call it a night. Only four and a half hours until tea
and toast!
12:35:36 AM 
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