vacations rarely go as planned...

while i was busy frolicking in Oregon, The Matt got laid.  **

this is SO not fair.  i mean, i was the one to go 3,000 miles away and stay with TWO former lovers...  it stands to reason that I should be the one getting laid, eh? ***

but no.  oh, no.

back it up, back it up:  i just spent about ten days in beautiful, beautiful Oregon.  i went to four different cities, spent time on a mountain, had a blast, and saw a ton of people.

i also got my hairs did.  look ma, my natural color is back!  for now, anyway...

okay, okay.  minus that bright red part.  and the bleached blonde streaks.  oh fuck it, it's kinda reddish and i won't have to dye it for a while.... that counts, right?

i am a very loyal Satan - i find one person i love (such as my Oregon stylist), and i'll never bother switching.  i don't go to Oregon to get my hair done... but guaranteed if i'm there, i'll be seeing Gina, for she is The Awesome, and i can tell her something incredibly vague like "make it look cool," and i will LOVE it when she's done.  hell, i could go in and say nothing, and my hair would still look awesome.  of the many, many things, places, and people in Oregon that i dearly miss, Gina rates very high on the list.

THIS place is about four blocks from my former Portland house... and oh, i love it so.  it is exactly what it sounds like.  it is also open past bar closing time, for all the right reasons, and thus an extremely entertaining place to be at about 2 am.

BUS.
this place serves something called a Grilled Cheezus, which is a hamburger patty sandwiched between two grilled cheese sandwiches.  it might be a heart attack on a plate, but it's such a GOOD heart attack...

so when i mentioned the mountain....

my former roommate Dave has moved out to ButtFuckEgypt, and it is just GORGEOUS out there.  he lives in a wee shack, which is built onto a bus.  there is only one drawback to all of this:  the outhouse.

it is ridiculously difficult to get out of one's cozy lofted bed to run out into the chill of the night just to piss.  it was one of those few times i wish i was a guy - i would literally just open a window and piss right out of it.  fuck that whole "getting up" business.  bitches be lazy.

see those deer?  they're stupidly tame.  to the right, that's Dave.  i don't think he knew he was in this photo.

(ps, this photo is not cropped, i was just close.)

these motherfuckers aren't scared of shit.  they will walk right up to you.  i went to the outhouse one night and heard a rustle rustle rustle rustle in the bushes - and lo and behold if these little bastards weren't staring at me as i made my way to piss. 

"Shoo!" i said, "i don't want a fucking audience!"  i stamped my foot and waved my flashlight at them, and... they just stared at me like "WHAT. derp derp, i'm a deer. " 

they never did move.  they just stared at me, while i peed.  

evidently deer are into that sort of thing.

HOLY MOTHER OF BEER.

mulberry sour beer:  because fuck your lager.

i knew The Matt was gonna get fat someday.

this exists:  just one of the many reasons i love Portland so...

...right across from Mr. Paul Bunyan, of course.  like you do.

it makes sense.  i am SURE that lumberjacks are all about the titties.  i know i am, even if i'm not a lumberjack - although i certainly own enough flannel to fit right in.   (shh, don't tell.  i'm secretly still a grunge kid.)  

and of course... new ink.  

one of the aforementioned former lovers has a brother who is SO. DAMN. GOOD.  he did this tattoo.  see?  this is just one of the many reasons why it's a good idea to be friends with your exes.  i even got a friend discount.  yeahhhhh!

they're ravens.  eight damn hours i sat for these birdies...

i now have a firm rule:  i will never, ever sit for more than four hours.  ever ever ever ever ever.  jesus fuck, that was brutal.

my personal least favorite part of tattoos, and the getting thereof:  the motherfucking molt.

for those of you who have never gone through the ritual of sticking needles into yourself for no good reason, this is what happens after the tattoo.  i don't care how bad the tattoo itself hurts, this is the worst part.  it ITCHES LIKE A FIEND, and you CAN'T SCRATCH IT, lest you start peeling the scabs (ahem) and then your ink bleeds out, and if so you have to go BACK, and then you get more scabs...  it's the worst.  the tattoo only takes so many hours.  the healing takes two weeks.  

right now i'm in the supremely itchy "look ma, no more scabs!" phase, but you're still not supposed to scratch it, and GODDAMNIT I'M SO ITCHY SOMEONE PLEASE COME SCRATCH MY ARM.  

okay, okay, onto the juicy shit, cuz we all know you're reading this because there's sex involved.  aren't you?  i'm writing it because sex is involved.

i was just chilling at a Portland bar, when this text conversation happened - verbatim.

Matt: "i'm hung over."

me: "went out with the girls?"  (his two friends from his hometown that now live in austin, also.)

Matt: "yep.  ended up taking [redacted] home with me."

me:  "oh yeah?  how'd that go?"

Matt:  "she is paranoid that you will hate her."

me:  "why?  silly girl."

Matt:  "i told her that she just needs to fuck you too and it will be ok."

me:  "i think it's funny that i took the trip, and YOU ended up the one getting laid.  good one, universe."

i announced this fact on twitter at some point, and one of the tweeps was like "argh are you infuriated?"  i don't think she knew about the poly.  i find it amusing that so many people think my life is INSANE, and i think THEIR life is nuts.  (fuck only one person?  WHY?  i'll just be over here with this hot girl... erm, respecting people's monogamy.  yeah.)

the last final bit of "excitement":  my first flight got canceled, so i spent an entire goddamn day at the airport.  and there's only one thing to do when you're stuck in an airport... go find the bar, and get drunk.

which i did, with help from a random bar friend who was on my flight.  she was cool, and she snagged me a seat on the "massive amounts of leg room" aisle later.  but we had a LOT to drink all day, so imagine my consternation when we landed in dallas at 2 am, went to go to our complimentary hotel, and got into this...

this is a motherfucking strippermobile!!  if i hadn't had so much luggage, i might have had to try it out.  as it was, i was tired and drunk and barely made it to the hotel without falling over.  i did manage to text, though:  i always do.

Matt:  "i assume when i see you in the morning you will be beaming sunshine and sparkles.

glitter too, can't forget the glitter."

me:  "HAAA.  i will probably immediately drag you back to bed.

THE KRAKEN.

be prepared for mass amounts of cuddling."

Matt:  "i love you too damn much."

me:  "no such fucking thing."

THE KRAKEN!!!!!

** The Matt and i are polyamorous.  feel free to go and google that.

have i mentioned i'm shitty at being monogamous?  i am really, really shitty at it.  fun fact:  i haven't had a monogamous relationship since before i was legally able to drink.

*** damn all yeast infections, anyway.  

when SXSW kicks your ass...

this past week and a half was SXSW, which, for the uninitiated, is South By SouthWest.  it's a city-wide festival in Austin, which is a great deal of music absolutely everywhere (and a lot of it free or cheap), film showings, and also a conference full of tech-y stuff.

apart from all the Stuff Going On Downtown, and All the Ridiculous Traffic Nonsense And Bullshit, we had four days of photobooth gigs.  in a row.

Jesus Fuck.

three of those days were at the convention center.
a word about doing gigs at convention centers:  they are HUGE, massive places.  they have loading docks, and you must go through them.  there's no way you're going through the front door, which is the average photobooth gig's usual MO.  so, since we go to all these gigs in the previous post's pictured truck, we sometimes have a bit of difficulty getting INTO places like convention centers, since we don't have an Obvious Work Vehicle.  this requires Loading Permits, and other Assorted Annoyances that we usually don't deal with.

thankfully, dealing with the Austin convention center was surprisingly easy.  i was gratified to find out that i didn't have any Issues with loading in or out.

our first gig was a 3 day event, in the tech-y showroom.

lookee!  an actual picture of one of our photobooths.  i usually don't put them on here, so as to not jeopardize our employment, and such.  but since you can't SEE our company name...

 i had lots of fun with these guys - they were screen printing, and so i got to watch them churn out some really excellent prints.

ignore the scribbling, i'm preserving the anonymity of our customers, so as to Not Get Sued.

but seriously, how cool is this?

they were making these prints:

during this gig we were SERIOUSLY busy... i had one pee break during the first day.  ONE.
i left every day hungry enough to eat the photobooth, since i didn't have time for meal breaks.

there were a ton of fun things to see at this convention, when i did finally get a chance to step away from the booth... see if you can spot why this sign gave me a serious giggle.

hehe.  hehe.  "ass typing."  now i'm seriously imagining someone trying to type on this sucker.  WITH THEIR ASS.  and failing, obviously.  bad ass typing, indeed.

grammar.  it's important, yo.

this was an excellent backdrop for a booth.  i don't have a clue what they did there, but i had to snap a photo.  the artist's name is in the bottom lower corner, for those who are curious to check out his/her work.

this guy was roaming around.  i have no fucking clue what they did either, but... SQUAREHEAD.

the second gig we had was at a bar, where not only were our clients Truly Excellent, but they also gave me four FREE drink tickets.  FOUR.  FREE.  DRINKS.  i loved them so hard.  

traffic during SXSW is a fucking nightmare, and so is parking.  for four days of working, i spent $60 in parking alone.  and that was with one day of me not having to park, since Matt gave me a ride.  i know.  that's crazy.  when not parking, i probably spent two hours a day getting in and out of the city... and i live 15 minutes away from downtown.

for the rest of SXSW i did what any reasonable non-working person would do, and Went Out and Got Drunk.  i met lots of random people, brought a full-size hookah to my favorite bar, went to a small party that was literally in a parking space in a high rise, flirted with some hot ladies, and also Saw Amanda Fucking Palmer, for free.  she brought a lot of cool bands with her.

these girls ranged from 12 - 18, were all sisters, and were fantastic.  look them up - they're called Von Grey.  i highly recommend them.  another one of the Bands of Awesome were called Andy Suzuki and The Method.  also definitely worth a listen.  and of course, Amanda Fucking Palmer put on a great show.  if you haven't heard her, or heard of her, check her out.  she is AMAZING.

by the way?  the absolute BEST place to stop downtown for free bathroom facilities is also one of the prettiest - the Capitol building.  breeze through the metal detectors, take a few pics, and hightail it into the bathroom.

also.  did you know that you can bring pocketknives under six inches long into the Capitol building?  i asked a State Trooper to be sure, and his response was "sure, as long as you show it to the security guards, and don't go and wave it at people."

only in Texas.

Casa de Hell gets an UPGRADE

a lot of shit has happened, since last i blogged.  a lot of it was me being a lazy jackass.  like you do.  i could go on at length about that shit, but why bother?  let's get to the fun parts:

as it happens, in september The Matt came into a bit of money, shall we say...

overnight we went from BROKE AS FUCK to... well.  we're not set for life, by any means.  not even close.  but when you go from $4 in your bank account to "oh holy shit," things change a bit...

"i bought something really stupid," Matt texted me.  i was afraid - i mean, REALLY stupid? like what?  a fucking ostrich?  Really Stupid is generally Not Good.

as it turned out, the Stupid Purchase was rims. 

rims?  RIMS??

on an old beat up Chevy Suburban.  

really.  

to be fair, said rims aren't flashy chrome affairs.  they're fairly simple and tasteful, and Matt is making me say that the truck really DID need new rims anyway.  but.  RIMS.  

they see me rollin'... they hatin...

our first "frivolous" purchase was a washer and dryer, the blessedness of which can't even remotely be summed up in words.  I NEVER HAVE TO GO TO THE LAUNDROMAT AGAIN, OH JESUS FUCK YES!!! 

we thought we were Hot Shit, being all smart and buying some appliances.  but the crazy was just beginning...

it's strange, going from "can we pay the electric bill?" to "sure, let's buy a fridge!"  (which we had to do, here at our new rental house.)  

the cabinets were filthy... you're welcome for the gratuitous picture of my ass.

said rental house is more than twice the size of the closet we were previously living in.  like, we have to buy furniture for this place.  it's a weird feeling - i've always had too much shit to fit into wherever i was living.  and now we need a dining room table, and furniture for a guest room?  am i starting to act like a grownup?  SHIT!!

our neighbors have no idea what the fuck to make of us.  they're all older, with families, and they stare at us like we're cuckoo birds or something every time we go outside of the house.  i don't know if it's because we're young, or if it's because i'm wearing whatever ridiculous ratty thing i own, and climbing into the oldest car in the neighborhood.  these people are kinda snobby around here.  we live in one of those McMansion neighborhoods, which is causing no end of amusement for us, especially when the old dude across the street sits in his Porsche revving it like there's no tomorrow.

Matt decided to save his (and my) sanity by getting me a new laptop for my birthday, since my old one was on the fritz.  so here we go to the Mac store... where they wouldn't take our money.  it was the most bizarre thing i've ever seen.  

see, what had happened was...

we have been broke since forever, until now, so we both have daily limits on our debit cards.  limits that, even combined, wouldn't buy a laptop from Mac.  so we tried a check.  no go. "blah blah our third party check company blah blah go fuck yourself."  this was done a few times, despite the fact that our bank was approving it, so...

in we go to the bank for a cashier's check.  because everyone and their fucking brother takes  a cashier's check, amiright?  NO.  not Apple.  same bullshit.  "fuck your check.  your mother was a hampster, and your father smelled of ELDERBERRIES!"

in the end, it took FIVE TRIES for me to get a damn laptop.  we had to walk into the store with almost $4000 in cash like some fucking Gangsta Drug Dealing Badasses, Matt grumbling the whole time. "i feel like just throwing shit.  it's not like they could make me pay for it - they won't even take my money!"

my precioussss...

there's been a lot of amusement around here, just simple shit.  "argh, i really want to do/get this thing, but it's SO EXPENSIVE and i can't afford to.... 

WAIT A MINUTE."

i'm talking about things like doctor's visits, and going to the dentist - the things we've been putting off forever, due to, y'know, being broke.  

one side effect, which is AMAZING to my mind but CATASTROPHIC in Matt's world...

i can now BUY ALL THE BOOKS.  ALL THE BOOKS.  ALL YOUR BOOKS ARE BELONG TO ME! 

i filled up an entire bookshelf in a matter of a few months with new books - and when i mean full, i mean...

to be fair, i am buying them at thrift stores and used bookstores, but... still.

ALL THE BOOKS.  i think Matt is still holding it against me that we had to move all of them over to the new house.

Matt fulfilled his fantasy of having a tv larger than a computer monitor.  and now we are still going "WHOA!" every time we turn it on, because this thing is bloody massive.

old and new...

we also had my fucking car break down, and found ourself in need of new wheels, and thus...

vroom, motherfuckers.

texas drivers can't drive for shit, and i get sick of people cutting me off on the highway.  i want to ram the shit out of them, because they're douchebags.  and then i'd probably get arrested.  this has always stopped me before.  

but now i'm not afraid of getting arrested, it's just like... i don't want to go to jail today.  what a fucking hassle.

it used to be the money thing - oh god, i don't want to go to jail, how EXPENSIVE, i would diiie...   now? "dahling, what a bother."
(Matt informed me that if i rammed the new car into someone, he would let me sit in jail.)

 The Matt got some more insanely loud things...

and i got a motherfuckin box fort.  

best. fort. ever.

i now find myself in the rather curious position of having a Sugar Daddy.  Matt is Mr. Money all of a sudden, and i'm just... me.  not to say that i'm not reaping the benefits, certainly, but it's strange.  

"Daddyyy, will you buy me a pony?  preeettttyyyy please???"

we live in this strange in-between state - yes, we have some fancy-looking shit, and our new house is huge, and all of our friends probably think we hit the jackpot - but really, we're just us.  we still have this "we be broke as shit" mindset, and get all nervous about buying spendy stuff, even if we do need it.  

and then i have this weird guilt - like, god, are people gonna hate me and think i'm bragging & shit, just because i can buy some stuff?  fuck!  i'm just me.  um, with stuff.  a lot of stuff.

when we finally get this house set up, with all our shit unpacked and, you know, clean, i will of course shower you with some pictures.  stay tuned for more ridiculousness.  because in Casa de Hell, nothing ever goes as planned...

hello from Hell

there's a few reasons i haven't been blogging.  some of them are mundane - being lazy, working with the photobooths, etc.

i have plenty of things to tell you about, too - the great concert i went to recently, the cool people i've run into, what i've been up to for the past few months.  i've been living a pretty cool life, and it's not boring - i have stuff to say.

so then, why haven't i been here?

when i first started this blog, i absolutely wanted it to be a humor blog.  because of this, whenever my bipolar ass gets really depressed, i don't want to post.  because it won't be funny.

I, Satan, Am Currently Depressed.

and i've been trying to get myself to sit down and write about other shit, but it hasn't happened.  so fuck it, i'll write about right now.

i've written about my dad on this blog.  i portray him as a hilarious, fun person.  and generally, he really is.

sometimes, he isn't.  he can be judgmental, and viciously cruel, if you dare to disagree with him.  FUCKING GODS FORBID you try to talk politics with the man, and expect reasonable discourse.  his version of a political discussion is the equivalent of a toddler sticking its fingers in its ears and going "NYAHAH NANANANANNA I'M NOT LISTENING."

my dad came to visit me here in Austin recently.  about a week ago, maybe two.  and since then, i've been more than just a bit down in the dumps.  it took me a few days to really get out of bed and stay out.

my dad came on a sunday afternoon, and left on a tuesday afternoon.  obviously this visit was a ROARING success.  /SARCASM

i made the TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE mistake on monday night of actually attempting to talk to him about something that truly concerned me.  it was sorta political, but i wasn't talking about politics - i was trying to say something that really meant something to me.

earlier in the evening he had LITERALLY stormed out of a bar, leaving me to APOLOGIZE TO STRANGERS that we had been conversing with, because he didn't want to listen to something that someone was saying.  instead of being a rational human being and saying something like "let's talk about something else," he left the bar in a huff, and left me behind.  i had to run a block to catch up with him.

and after this happened, i made my DRASTICALLY HORRIBLE OPINION KNOWN - ie that i really think all human beings need health care, this being a major concern for me, as i have been hospitalization, i-think-i'm-dying sick from asthma a few times.  more than a few times, truth be told.  i once had walking pneumonia for nearly a semester in college, due to asthma bullshit that just wouldn't calm down. yay, senior year.

my dad is a republican.  not a fiscal republican, not a moderate republican - a Rush Limbaugh-listening, rabid, Fox News-watching, hate-spewing Republican.  i know better than to try to talk to him about politics.  i know it will end badly.  but i can't even make a simple point without him turning and attacking me.  as in, personally.

so here we are, sitting at this restaurant, eating some burgers, and i try to bring up a few things that are important to me - and try to explain WHY they are important to me.  instead of letting me get out more than three sentences, my dad turns on me.

he has a big beef that i haven't followed him in his judgment-filled christian ways.  he's not so much "do unto others" as "i think i know what the bible means and you're all WRONG and you live horribly blah blah blahblah."  which, considering that my dad is gay (and thus a self-loathing gay man, because his INTERPRETATION of his religion leaves no room for anything other than a slave-like devotion to antiquated rules), is especially shocking, but mostly sad.

"Don't think that you haven't turned out to be a major disappointment to me,"  he hissed.  as we were sitting in a mostly empty restaurant.  with all the staff staring at us, probably.  "I tried to raise you with all that is RIGHT and you have just gone and thrown it away."  or something to that effect.  i'm sure those aren't the exact words, because i was sitting there in shock, my eyes filling with tears.

i just shut down, and shut up.  i gave up.  i drank my bourbon, and we went back to the car and drove home.
i cried on the way home, i cried all night, i cried in my sleep.  i woke up crying.

and then, with my eyes so swollen anybody could tell there was something deeply wrong, my dad pretended that nothing had happened.  we went to lunch, we toured the Capitol building, we came home, he left.

i am the type of person who doesn't let anyone give me shit.  ANYONE.  but i just don't know how to deal with the man.  i have a very hard time dealing with people who can't think rationally.  and his first instinct is to turn and bite, and i don't want to go to that level.  i DON'T want to spit out some of this shit i really think about my dad, because hey - i'd like to have a relationship with him.

this is a man who, if i were to sincerely make my opinions of him and his politics known, would have no qualms about absolutely cutting me off and pretending that i didn't exist.  i would know.  i've seen him do it to others.  he has a nonexistent relationship with my brother.  i'm pretty much the family member standing.  and this is because i haven't spoken my mind.

this situation has somewhat come to a head, for me.  but it's not a good choice, either way.  shut up & bite my tongue, or say what i really mean, and possibly have him never talk to me again?

this is the shit that's on my mind.

I Can Leurn Things... I Thinks.

stay tuned for a completely random list of Shit I Haz Leurned This Week.

My Ass Is Too Big To Fit Under The Bed Sideways.

i know this, because Fuzzbutt has taken to hiding underneath our bed, because we have At Last Relented, and allowed her into the bedroom, despite the fact that i am hideously allergic to cats.
i know.  i'm not smart.
but it's either let her in the bedroom, or have to deal with constant bullshit - ie her coming in and out of the house at all hours of i'm-trying-to-sleep-damnit-fuckyoucat, which is IMPOSSIBLE to prevent, because she has, i shit you not, a meow the same approximate decibel level of an air siren.  and she will NOT give up.
or if it's not that, it's constant scratching at the closed bedroom door, which leads to me throwing her out of the front door in a rage, which leads to her standing underneath the bedroom window and doing that air-siren-yowl thing....
i gave up.  we let her in the bedroom, and now she doesn't do any of that shit at night.  win!

but then... we got a kitten.  yup.  KITTEN!!!   Matt has finally given into MY biological clock, which, unlike most peoples',  screams "I NEED A KITTEN!" every ten years or so.  (more on the amazing kitten later....)

anywho, Fuzzbutt has NOT forgiven us this Cardinal Sin of Loving Other Cats, which has prompted a hell of a lot of pouting underneath our bed.

which leads us to the point:  my ass will not fit under the bed when lying sideways.  i have to kinda do a snake shuffle underneath the bed to visit the cat every so often, because i kinda (if only kinda) feel sorry for her, as she has confined herself to our bedroom with a visible air of resentment.  "Fine!  I HATE YOU ALL, and i will Be In My Room.  Assholes."

so i have spent a more-than-normal amount of time underneath my bed, and i learned today, as i tried to roll out, that yes, my hips WILL get stuck if i try that shit.  i truly wish i could have videotaped the process of me trying to get the hell out of the bed.  it was kinda epic.

additional point:  i'm not a fat ass, evidently Matt's ass is also too big to fit under the bed sideways, as he recently learned.  "Mel... help!  The Bed Ate Me!"


My Couch Will Never Be The Same.

due to a combination of things.... my poor, poor couch.  it's on its last legs.
the cushion has... problems.  problems mostly due to us sitting on it constantly, as it is An Antique, and was CLEARLY not made for such things.  but it's got other problems, too.

The Kitten
the kitten, who has a name, but is generally known as Little Fucker, has taken to the underside of the couch like some Nutella to crepes, and has made it her stomping grounds.

this is generally exacerbated by the fact that Fuzzbutt FatAss can't fit underneath the couch, and so it remains her safe space - as long as she's small enough to squeeze under there, anyway.
she's delighted by the fact that the lining under there has a small rip, and she's trying as hard as she possibly can to enlarge it enough to, i imagine, someday fit in there and eviscerate the couch from the inside.
if that wasn't enough, she's also very prone to chasing her tail (very cute), which has the side effect of creating little claw marks allllll over the couch (Not Cute At All).  because she also has really shitty aim, in trying to catch said tail.

The Coals
just in case the claw marks and ripped lining on the underside weren't enough, we (and by "we" i mean NOT ME, and also not Matt) had a mishap involving hookah coals and burned gold velvet... yeahhhh.

I Forgot How Annoying Kittens Can Sometimes Be.

because they can fit bloody anywhere.

case in bloody point.


Porn Is Sometimes Incredibly Terrifying.

i had a mild twitter-splosion of EEEEW OMG KILL IT WITH FIRE.

by the way, the Look Of Utter Horror went as follows:

for anyone stupid brave enough to take a look at what horrified MY jaded ass, here you go...

click this, motherfuckers!  

skip ahead to the 14 minute mark if you want to skip the "erg" parts and go directly to WHAT THE HOLY FUCK.

But Mostly Though, Kittens Are Fucking Adorable.  

but y'all already know this.  which will in no way prevent my sharing a bunch of pictures, anyway.

First Evar picture...

holding still... for once!

pretending to be sweet... most likely right before she claws the couch.

ACTUALLY being the sweetest of sweet.

yes, kittens are great.  now if only i can survive her...

The Barista Fucking Hates You

::insert apologizing for not posting in forfuckingever due to [insert reason here], namely  working like a five year old in a sweatshop like a goddamn dog at this horrible, horrible JOB, in this case... ::

BUT NOT ANYMORE!  bwahahahahahha.  tomorrow is my Last Goddamn Day and i couldn't be happier about it.  but hell, it's given me a few things to think about, and here i present to you:

"How to Order Coffee Without Getting Cyanide In It For Being A Cockwaffle."


Be Specific, Dumbass.
"coffee."
WHAT.  no shit, you're at a coffee place, you dim bint.  so then, we play twenty questions!
"size?"
"regular."
what the fuck is that.  no, really.  we have three sizes.  the cups are right in front of you.  all you have to do is point, if the names are that confusing.
i hand them the cup for brewed coffee.
"no, i want a latte."
AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRVGVBVBBBHHH%@@&^@#%^!#&!#%#!&$&!#%^


"Tea."
ohgod, here we go again.
"hot?  iced?"
"hot."
"what type?"
"Black."  we have 4 different black teas.  fuck me.
ooookay.  "which one?"
"the red one."  fuck my life, you are stupid.
......"Size???"

or, oooh!  oooh!  i really like this one.
"yogurt."
we have 3 different brands, and like 8 flavors.  WHICH ONE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU HAVE A BRAIN, DON'T YOU?
"which type?"
"blueberry."  there are three different blueberry yogurts WHY MUST YOU SUCK SO HARD?




Just Say No To Cappuccinos. 
oh i know, but it's your FAVORITE and you MUST have one, right?
fuck you, no you don't.  there's a line of 40 people behind you (no seriously, this place really is like this) and FUCK OFF.

just in case you're wondering:  cappuccinos suck because, in order to make one that doesn't taste like burned asshole, i have to start with fresh milk.  which means i have to stop everything else i'm making, and make Just This One Drink.  which means the extra milk in my pitcher that i just steamed has to be dumped Elsewhere, for your Motherfucking Cappuccino.  it's a drink that takes twice as long to make, and it stops everything else i'm doing.
plus, it's just a fucking latte with pretenses, and Fuck That.
which is why it's earned a moniker, among baristas everywhere:
PITA.
if you ever hear a barista call out a "PITA," you'll know that whatever drink it is, it's a PAIN IN THE ASS.

Corollary:  Frappuccinos are for Slow Times Only.
don't get me wrong, i understand the siren call of a good frozen coffee beverage.
i do, believe me.
however.
i've timed my average transaction at this job; i round out at about 20 seconds per customer, which is CRUCIAL when you have a constant line of about 40 people, for a solid two hours plus.  the line MUST MOVE.  i am very good at moving a line.

fraps take time, you gotta squirt 23624903 different syrups into the blender and snag ice and shit and blahblahblahblahblah the blender takes 20 seconds.  which means that by the time i make your One Fucking Frappucino, i could have checked out 3 or 4 different people.  you are Slowing My Roll, Goddamnit.
i will be happy to make you one.  when i'm not busy.

another corollary: baristas have shorthand on our drinks.  a frap would be an F.  a caramel frap, a CF.  mocha, MF. etcetera.
so you can be sure that when you order a frappuccino when i'm slammed, i'll be calling you a "Fucker," a "Cunt Face," or a "Mother Fucker!" under my breath.  every single time.
i truly enjoyed making up shit just for this.
vanilla frap?  "Venereal-diseased Fuckface!"
i can go on for days.

"I just need [insert thing here], can i cut line?"  
NO.  YOU ARE NOT A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE.

Just... Why?
anything Decaf, Sugar-Free, with skim milk:  it's a "Why bother?"
see also, decaf americanos.  seriously.  watered down espresso with no caffeine content?  why bother?


Don't Do This:
"grande caramel latte."
::makes latte::
"no, i wanted soy/skim/special snowflake caramel syrup."
I CAN'T READ MINDSSSSSSSS.

Or This:
::goes to make your drink::
"can i have [special mods that cost $1.35 extra] in that too?"
no.  no, you can't.  you KNOW that shit costs extra.
or you CAN, and you can give me $1.35 more.  back to the register with you.


Or THIS:
::me, working a line of 30 people::
person i've already checked out, at the end of the counter:
"I Demand Special Thing No One Else Wants."
i don't respond within ten seconds, because i'm busy.
"I DEMAND SPECIAL THING NO ONE ELSE WANTS, FOR I AM A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE, RIGHT NOW, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, I WANT SPECIAL THING NO ONE ELSE WANTS, I AM A SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE."
mother fucker.  if you want whole milk instead of half & half or skim, MIX THEM TOGETHER, it's the same fucking thing.  or, you know, just DEAL.
alternately:  wait until i have two seconds, and POLITELY request your special snowflake item, and be goddamn gracious when i give it to you.

DON'T THROW CHANGE AT ME.
i will eat your fucking face.


How To Make The Barista Fucking Love You:
i don't expect everyone to have their coffee lingo down pat.  i don't.  i have a customer i LOVE that orders "that thing you make me."
she came up, described what type of drink she liked:  "small, sweet, really caffeinated, milky, iced!"  cool.  what flavors are your favorite?  "vanilla."
excellent!  you get a small iced vanilla latte, with an extra shot, and extra vanilla.  i got this.

if you can tell me what TYPE of thing you want, i can probably get you something you really like.  and i don't mind this.  i actually LOVE helping someone figure out their perfect coffee drink.

"the usual!"
if i see you often enough and you regularly order the same exact thing, chances are that i will spot you and start your drink before you've even ordered it.   i dearly love my regulars, no matter what type of ridiculous shit they order, even if they are assholes.  i never have to play 20 questions with them.  plus, most of them are awesome, anyway.

"you just make it better than everyone else!"  oh god, stroke my ego, stroke it i say!  i love you.


for the record:
if you would like to streamline your coffee experience, and you know what you want, you can list it in a certain way that will make everything go quicker.

1. size
2. flavor
3. type of drink (latte, coffee, frappy whatever)
4.  mods - ie soy/skim/breve, decaf, extra shot.

for example, if you want a medium latte with vanilla syrup and almond milk:
"medium vanilla latte with almond milk, please!"
::scribble scribble::
"THANK YOU, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"

SHITTASTIC! part two...

part one is HERE...

i seem to be having some seriously bad luck with plumbing this year, NONE of it my fault.
no, really.

so The Matt and i have recently moved into Austin, away from the damn shotgun house with no damn doors, and into a nice and shiny 3 bedroom house WITH hallways and doors, thankyouverymuch!

it was great... for the first two weeks.
and then...
well, it's OUR house, so something had to be wrong with it, right?

it started as flooding when we took a shower in our master bath... "why is the entire floor covered in water?  hmm.  maybe i didn't close the shower curtain enough.  will fix next time!"

only next time?  yeah.  that resulted in MAJOR flooding, into our room - and onto the brand-new fucking carpet. because obviously, we can't have nice things, even if I'M not the cuprit, for once.

and then the toilet was flushed....
oh god.  we weren't getting an overflowing toilet... we were getting a backup of (thankfully clean) water from the UNDERSIDE of the toilet.  what the holy fuck?
we called the realty company.

turns out?  foundation is all kinds of fucked up, and so is our plumbing.

suffice to say, ever since the last week of january, we've had the door to our master bath firmly shut?  why, you say?  oh, no reason...

well.  maybe there's a reason.

the realty plumbers came within 24 hours, and after yanking up the toilet and realizing there was a REALLY BIG PROBLEM, they contacted the landlord, who said "okay, we'll have the foundation guy come back, he's still under contract."

and, we waited.  and waited.  meanwhile...

this.  they left an OPEN SEWER PIPE in our house... in our fucking bedroom.
...for two months.

yes, really.
we had no contact information for the landlord, so when the foundation guy failed to show, for weeks running, we could only contact the realty guy who was SUPPOSED to be fixing it...
no dice.

so it stayed like this.  and the door stayed firmly shut, because...

well, suffice to say that the bathroom smells like musty asshole, and the only thing good enough to combat it is the MOST AWESOME scented candle someone gave me as a housewarming gift.

funny enough, we found out a few weeks ago that we had a NEW realty rep dude, one who *apparently* had NO IDEA about the shitstorm situation we had in the house.

we raised a motherfucking fuss, lemme tell you.  and dude (finally.  FINALLY!) got some shit done.  eventually.  after another two weeks, the foundation guy showed up at the house, and right now they're underneath the house, banging around.

the original plumbers left this shitwater mess on our carpet, and the realty company will be getting that steam cleaned, you BETTER believe it.

i'd be more pissed about this situation, except we got a whole months' rent for free, and i also get to imagine that every time i flush the toilet, it might just leak on that motherfucking foundation guy's head.  because fuck knows, half our plumbing is backed up in the house, and there IS a leak somewhere...