April 30, 2009

-image-speaking of coffeehouses ….

Several times a week, we’ll be driving down the street, around the neighborhood, and one of us will point and say, “Oh, look! It’s Cigarette Butts Guy!” Or maybe, “Hey! It’s Dirty Santa!” Or maybe, “Wow. There’s Highchair Robert. I was hoping he was still alive.”

This is what comes from having a coffeehouse. You end up knowing lots of people and the ones you don’t know, you ruthlessly pigeonhole.

April 29, 2009

-image-men and espresso: what women think of what you order

During the time I worked at a coffeehouse and later became mistress of my own coffeehouse, I formed certain opinions about men and their espresso drinks. Now why I waste my time forming these useless opinions and then actually posting about them is truly beyond me. I’m sorry. I just don’t understand myself. Really. I lack basic self-awareness on every possible front which creates untold suffering for everyone around me, alas, including you. I probably should be writing about how SWINE FLU IS GOING TO KILL US ALL, but, so far, I’m a bit agnostic on that point. Besides, this topic — the men and espresso topic — falls in the range of slightly-to-somewhat more fun, based on my knee-jerk assessment of both topics a mere two seconds ago, so I’m running with it.

All right. My expert coffee analysis on men and their espresso drink boils down to this:

The more milk your espresso drink has in it, the less manly you will seem to be.

I’m sorry. It’s true. Do you think the (hetero) chicks who work in coffeehouses don’t discuss this stuff? I tell you they do. And they especially do if I’m there because, well, I initiate the discussion.



Because I care deeply about manliness, because I oppose the gender neutralization seeping into the culture, because I believe men in general are simply yummy, I give you, from the bottom of my heart, my list of ….

What Not to Order if You’re a Man in a Coffeehouse:

~ Cafe Au Lait: This is half coffee, half steamed milk. No, menfolk. This is not appropriate for you. This is a drink you give to gammie to help her fall asleep, not a drink to carry around in your thick, manly grasp. In fact, did you know that a recent Johns Hopkins study showed that male rats who were given cafe au laits every morning for a mere week lost their sex drives entirely and never got them back and later, drowned themselves in their water dishes? S’true. I don’t make this stuff up.

~ Any kind of Latte: Oh, please, no. Please. It’s espresso and steamed milk with foam on top. Very soft and milky and girlie. I forbid you to order these. If you currently order these, well, you simply must stop. In fact, right now, I wish I still had a coffeehouse because I would immediately institute a tough-love espresso policy wherein I tell various charming yet unenlightened menfolk, “No, I’m sorry. I care about you too much; you cannot order that. I implore you to pick something else.”

~ Hot cocoa: In the privacy of your own home, fine, I don’t care what you do. But don’t strut into a coffeehouse, looking all hunky, open your mouth to order a hot cocoa and then expect me, your certified barista chick, to ever look at you the same way again. Two exceptions: You have children with you and the hot cocoa is for them OR the children plead with you because they want YOU to have one, too, Daddy! If you are forced, as an act of solidarity with your kids, to partake of public hot cocoa, I give you a pass. Also, if you seem like you’re on a date and it’s late and everything is suddenly getting cozy. Fine. I will grudgingly facilitate the romantic hot cocoa vibe you’re trying to create with your little snuggle bunny. Whatevs. Just don’t do it in front of me, okay? And I don’t mean snuggle; I mean drink the hot cocoa.

~ Mochas: Espresso, steamed milk, a widdle bit of chocolate, whipped cream on top. No. NO again, menfolk! May as well just sidle up to the nearest cow and suckle on its teat. I’m serious. Ugh. At Boheme, we had this jolly group of gay guys who hung out on the patio every Saturday morning, about five or six of them, and I tell you true, every last drink was a vanilla latte, a hazelnut latte, a raspberry mocha (ick), extra syrup, heavy on the whipped cream, etc … sweet, frothy, milky drinks. I rest my case here.

~ Any drink involving espresso and sweetened condensed milk. They have various names: a bonbon, a Vietnamese coffee, etc. Good Lord, no. This is strictly verboten for men who care about manliness. Are you aware that a recent Harvard University medical study showed that poo-flinging male monkeys who were given just one espresso drink with sweetened condensed milk and were then informed by the researchers that the drink was, indeed, called a “bonbon” all suffered instantaneous atrophy of their bicep muscles and were forced to fling their poo with their feet only? So sad. Do you want this to happen to you, Peaches? Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t think so. I just present the medical facts. That’s what I do.

~ Any drink with syrup added. Hazelnut, mint, raspberry, coconut, almond, caramel ….. you get the idea. I give a slight pass for vanilla. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t tell you. Again, with the lack of self-illumination. A mind ravaged from the drink and the drugs.

So. All right. What’s left for the menfolk to order at a coffeehouse, you ask?

Well, basically, everything else:

~ Coffee: Yep. A straight cuppa joe. Red-blooded and muscular.

~ Espresso shots: Also kinda sexy, but a tad on the over-compensating side for me. Again, I don’t know why. Someone tell me.

~ Americanos: espresso with hot water. Good choice. Robust.

~ Eye Openers, Red Eyes, Hammerheads, whatever you want to call them: coffee with espresso shots. Another good one. Although because of the name, I always think men who order these are hung over therefore I judge them harshly, which is a glaring double standard considering I’m a raging alcoholic, now isn’t it?

~ Macchiatos: espresso with a touch of foam on top, nothing too emasculating, I promise. Manly, if slightly Euro.

~ Cappuccinos: espresso with steamed milk, but much less than what a latte requires, foam on top. I don’t know why I give a pass on this one because there’s still milk, just not too much. Maybe it’s a matter of proportion, for me. Some proportions simply seem too milky to be masculine.

Then again, I have no problem whatsoever with menfolk eating cheese of all kinds. In fact, I heartily support it. Cheese is men’s chocolate and they seem to require it just to survive. So, cheese away, I say.

One dairy, bad; the other, good. Again, who understands me? I sure don’t.

April 28, 2009

-image-i’m so hip … or cool …. or whatever the word is these days … yeah, i am that

So there’s this thing called mash-ups and, apparently, everyone’s doing them. Or rather, has been doing them for quite some time now and I’ve only just recently heard of it, but, whatevs, who cares, I’m still hip or cool or whatever the word is these days.

A mash-up is a new “song” created by blending two songs together and I found this one mashing together Beyonce’s Single Ladies and, ahem, Fleet Foxes’ Ragged Wood, which I believe I wrote about at great pointless length here. The “mash” makes great use of the “whoaaa-oh-ohh” — which I still want as background music to everything I do, because, well, I really think I’ve earned it — and the whole “new” song is just really fun.

Yes, fun and silly and … dope? Cool? Rad? Bad? Chill? Fly? Tight? Sweet? Sick? Which IS it??

I’m so old.

Comfort me.

April 27, 2009

-image-swine flu

In the news today ….

“The U.S. government on Monday issued a warning against any nonessential travel to Mexico, considered the epicenter of the outbreak.”

Oh, say it isn’t so!

What about the trip to Tijuana I’d planned for this weekend chock full of vigorous activities such as avoiding being stalked and avoiding being kidnapped and avoiding being ransomed and avoiding being shot or tortured or beheaded?

Drat it all, anyway.

April 26, 2009


HE: The way little kids and babies always stare at you — it’s like they see you as some supreme being.
ME: I’m their Overlord.

April 24, 2009

-image-and suddenly it’s here ….

…. your first night of clown college and you are quaking in your patchwork pants, hoping, ohplease, ohplease, to make a good impression.

April 23, 2009

-image-nothing is lost

Nothing is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

~ Noel Coward

April 22, 2009


The small post directly below is fiction; there’s a tag on it, but I feel bad because it seems like it’s upsetting people, triggering things. Let’s just say that precise circumstance is fiction — it’s a composite, let’s say — but I have plenty of experience with what you’re all talking about. I’m sorry if any of you feel misled.

And I do feel the pain of your experiences. Oh, believe me, I do.

April 21, 2009

-image-sentence challenge: “the day after my 9th birthday …”

(Write it quickly was the only parameter given me.)

The day after my 9th birthday, my father sat me down in the living room, heaved a leaden sigh, and began enumerating several points from a piece of paper:

1) that, unfortunately, it was now his job to tell me that over the last few months I had become “too chubby,”

2) that he and mom had agreed this was no longer simply baby fat, since I was, after all, nine,

3) that mother was deeply disappointed I no longer fit into “the proper size for my age,”

4) that, additionally, he’d seen how much chocolate mint monkey cake I’d eaten just the day before — my piece and my brother’s, with ice cream, and,

5) that, “therefore and in summary,” he was putting me on a supervised liquid diet and he was to be the supervisor and it was all because my parents loved me.

April 20, 2009

-image-favorite weekend snippets

My weekend communications — both oral and written — were weird and wild and awesome, frankly. At one point, three of us emailing each other at once, with 100 emails under one subject heading, I literally thought I was going to pass out or crack a rib from the howls of laughter tearing through my body.

A random smattering, no context:

Don’t touch that! It’s a load-bearing glove.


I envy the retarded.


I’m tired of listening to them pork with impunity.


All right. I’m going to kill you now.


Fine. Just throw me out of the car like an alley mattress!
An alley mattress?
You heard me.


It looks like we’re planning a political assassination. Like we’re the Unabomber or something.


What is WRONG with me that I’m sad she didn’t comment on my ovulation remark?? I am SO INVESTED in her insanity.

Yeah, really. What, you don’t like me anymore? She hasn’t responded to me at all. I’m strangely insulted that she doesn’t take me seriously as a sexual threat.

I know, I want her to reply. Come on. Knock the kid off the teet and get crackin with the comebacks!


She can just unroll one for each, like a long flesh carpet.


Because …. well …. I thought you’d know, but … your breasts are very loud.


Tingling in my fancy place and that is all I am sayin’.


That is WAAAAAAAY more interesting than a pimply greasy D&D virgin tweaker nincompoop.


We are now basically reminiscing about how we met.




But, on the upside, when your breasts fall off, perhaps you can bury them in the ground and a tree will grow and sprout delicious mammary-shaped fruit with nutritious milk inside.


You are trying to get me to say “ovary” because you are part of the same sex cabal.


That would be like me saying, “Because the root of the word ‘tree’ comes from the VULGAR Latin, I refuse to call a ‘tree’ a ‘tree’. I will now call it a ‘chipawkoo’.”


(Wait. I am still laughing at that last one. It is SO random. Hold please.)


“Overt” is not a word.

(Said in complete sincerity.)


My breasts are the feast for my son.


Seriously, an embarrassment of riches this weekend. I am still laughing about it.

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