Today at Boheme:
MAN (not depressed braces guy): I was supposed to meet Carla, but she’s not here. (Exasperated sigh) DAMmit! She’s a !%?!-ing psychic! You think she’d remember!
SELF (rillyrilly trying not to laugh): Oh, I’m sorry.
MAN: I mean, why can’t she be something really useful — like telekinetic or something? I need some damn stuff moved!
So this weekly business networking group has started meeting at Boheme. Remember how I share space with a wine lounge — coffeehouse by day, wine lounge by night, all very super hero sounding? So that just means there’s some nice space for demanding ingrate business people to congregate on a regular basis and we’re all very excited about it.
Anyway, through this group of very networky people, I have met … Carla the Intuitive Clairvoyant. It happened two weeks ago.
“Hi,” she said, putting out her hand. “I’m Carla. I’m an Intuitive Clairvoyant.”
“Oh. How interesting,” I replied, trying to sound interested.
“Yeah. What I do is — (I hadn’t asked, but) — I sense emotional vibrations from people (do you, really?) — and sense disturbances in those vibrations (oh, like a seismograph, I see, uh-huh) — and then I help people correct them usually by going back to something in their childhood. It’s always that.”
“It is, isn’t it?” And she wandered off, bored, I guess, by my emotional vibrations.
Fast forward to the next week. She walked in for her meeting. I greeted her.
“Hi, Carla.”
“Oh … hi. Uhm, you remembered my name, wow. And yours is …”
“Well, you’re the Intuitive Clairvoyant — you tell me,” I laughed, meaning it as a very special joke we could share together. She didn’t laugh. Her eyes instantly narrowed. She stared at my face. It was like a serious challenge to her.
“Uhm …. uhm … it’s ….. Janice??”
“Well, no. It’s Tracey.”
Her Intuitive Clairvoyant face fell. Not even close, really. Not Stacey or Terry or even Nancy with that correct “cee” sound which is what a neighbor lady called me every day for 6 years when I walked home from school and I was too shy to correct her so I answered to it.
Fast forward to today’s meeting. She arrived with one of the men in the group. I was behind my espresso machine — thank God — when I overheard this:
Carla: I sense some deep inner excitement coming from you.
Man: Well, actually, I’m depressed.
Carla: No, no. It’s deep level excitement, trust me.
Man: No, I’m depressed about my braces. They hurt.
I have no ending to this story, really. Just stay tuned for more adventures with Carla the Intuitive Clairvoyant. I sense them coming.
Rundown of opening weekend:
— Beanhouse regulars showed up, which was good.
— They have not had any personality and/or character transplants, which was bad.
(Oh, and by the way, I’m “outing” The Beanhouse, since it no longer has retail outlets; it’s strictly a wholesaler. It’s where I get my beans and you should, too. Go here: Diedrich Coffee. I’d be happy to help any of you pick some coffees from them.)
Annnnyhoo ….
Oh, yes. The personality non-transplants. Some people don’t seem to understand that while I’m offering the coffees they’re used to and the espresso menu they’re used to, not every freakin’ thing will be exactly the same as it was at The Beanhouse. I’m a small business. Wee. Not a corporation. So, please, coffee kooks, enough with the …
— Traaacey, I thought you’d be open on the 1st!!”
“So did I. Stuff happened.”
— “Traaaacey, where are the cranberry muffins??”
“I’m a small business. I’m using a different supplier.”
“Oh. What bakery are you using?”
“Maison Coutez.”
“Ooooooh!”
(That’s Costco, peeps. I just made up that name for it, but it sure shut her up.)
— “Traaaaaacey, you need to have bran muffins. People like bran muffins.”
“No, they don’t.” (At least this customer is a good sport.)
— “Traaaaaaaaaaacey, where are my blueberry scones???”
“Hm. I don’t knnnnnow.”
— “Traaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacey, the parking situation isn’t very good.”
“Well, I’m not God. Or a city planner. I have no control over that. There’s free 2-hour parking right across the street.”
(The guy who complained about that pissed me off almost daily at The Beanhouse with his gloomy-doomy ways. That was his FIRST comment upon entering our pleasant cozy little bar area.)
“TRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACEY, WAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
Right now, I’m sleep deprived and questioning whether I’ve made some hideous mistake. So …. lie to me, say nice things. I don’t care what it is. Tell me you look hot today. Or you won the lotto. Or you look hot and you won the lotto.
Tell me what sleep is like. Or food. Or sleeping with food. Or gorging on sleep.
Ready … Go:
?!?@@$!!????%&!!##flahbernaga?!!#?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Boheme opened this weekend. My bones have officially liquefied into butter. Proof: When I went to type “opened,” it first looked like “pooooened.”
Overall, though, I really think it “opened” more than it “pooooened.”
And someday …. someday …. I will live to blog again.
Oh, and in between all our busy raging, how did we even find time for:
Boheme and its water heater leak and espresso machine leak and water line leak and screwed-up coffee delivery and “oh, we brought you the wrong brewer, sorry” episode and opening day which was supposed to be the 1st and then today, but certainly won’t be now and, of course, all the people coming by in the midst of the horror, saying, “When? When? When? When? When???”
LOOK.
I am a little behind schedule. Days, really — not weeks, not months, just DAYS — behind schedule, Demandos.
PLEASE CALM DOWN.
