(no subject)
I haven’t felt much like doing anything blog-related lately. Thinking about my future has me hesitating while trying to do those activities I have been doing routinely over the last couple years. Today, however, I feel not only like updating, but desiring to post pictures as well. So I will do it.
Work. Over the last couple of days I have not been able to shake the suspicion that many people, when informed of my position, romanticize the environment. Picture me in a 15 x 5 foot cubicle getting paid for making approximately 20 drinks a day. With my time spent primarily reading, writing and listening to NPR it is tough to complain, but it is also getting to be the dreaded place of boredom I at first envisioned.
Here’s what it looks like from the outside.
Here’s what it looks like from the inside.
Here’s where I make the frappies.
Here’s the beautiful espresso machine (and stopwatch).
Here’s me leaning against the cold glass because it’s hot (inside and outside).
Today was the worst day of all. I sold 25$ worth of drinks in 7 hours; that’s a lot of downtime. And add my recent, and mild, disgust with literature, and you have one lazy and unproductive day. Unless, of course, you can count reading Entertainment Weekly, People, and some other teen magazine productive. I can’t lie and say it wasn’t fun reading the top 125 people in entertainment, but I can’t say that I felt extremely good about myself, either. Those magazines are primarily there for the pictures because what the people have to say is slanted in this overly-interested-in-celeb-importance way.
I met some guy named Dowell. He likes his cappuccinos to be 220 degrees. I gave it to him at 180 and he didn’t mind. Not only did he have a fake leg, but he smokes, has tattoos, supports our troops and likes to talk your ear off. Make sure, baristas, that you put lots of butter rum in his cappuccino because he is not afraid to tell you that you’re a bitter son-of-a-bitch. He told me he’s said it to people, but I think (deep inside) he’s a kind man who likes to install sprinkler/mister systems in nice peoples’ houses.
The reason today was such a stinker is due to its ending. Ten minutes before closing I opened the door. [For those of you who weren’t just outside of Tucson around 6:50 there was quite a wind storm that, if you weren’t holding your hat, would have gobbled it up.] Opening the door slightly, it violently crashed open against the side of the building. The compressor for the door broke out of the wood and the screws went flying into the flower pots. Several expletives later, I hopped down the steps and retrieved the screws only to find out that there was nary a screw driver to be found (car or coffee shop).
I made a drink and closed up shop. Leaving-making sure to keep the A/C on-I hightailed it to WalMart (only place nearby) to get a 95 cent screwdriver. It took 20 minutes to get through the massive line as only three checkers were open. Much of that time was spent digging the driver into my arm and looking at the plump lady’s behind in front of me. When I got to the register I realized that I was the only person left in the line. “Gee-wizz,” I thought. Then I realized that’s what Angela Chase’s English teacher says. I was brought back to Wal-Mart land by the checker’s voice: “Just a screwdriver. What you gunna do- break into someone’s car in the parking lot?” “Yes,” I said, “I’ve had a very bad day at work and I think some jail time might cheer me up.” Then I told her the real story. She laughed.
When I got back to the shop I realized that I had left my drink there; I didn’t even realize, after specifically making it for the drive to Wal-Mart, that I wasn’t sipping on it during the drive. I downed the iced mocha (watery film and all) and took 20 minutes fixing the door as best as I could. After leaving a note for the owners I hightailed it out of there. “One more day and then Laguna Fucking Beach. No-five more days and Mario fucking Bucca.”
And in spite of the day the drive home was awesome. The moon, “Sonny came home” by Shawn Colvin, thoughts of California, and Ethiopian food and Howl’s Moving Castle all kept my aggression at bay. And, to top it all off, I’m drinking beers with Jenna tonight.
And an awesome excerpt from Faulkner's Light in August:
The mild red road goes on beneath the slanting and peaceful afternoon, mounting a hill. 'Well, I can bear a hill,' he thinks. 'I can bear a hill, a man can.' It is peaceful and still, familiar with seven years. 'It seems like a man can just about bear anything. He can even bear what he never done. He can even bear the thinking how some things is just more than he can bear. He can even bear it that if he could just give down and cry, he wouldn't do it. He can even bear it to not look back, even when he knows that looking back or not looking back wont do him any good.'
Work. Over the last couple of days I have not been able to shake the suspicion that many people, when informed of my position, romanticize the environment. Picture me in a 15 x 5 foot cubicle getting paid for making approximately 20 drinks a day. With my time spent primarily reading, writing and listening to NPR it is tough to complain, but it is also getting to be the dreaded place of boredom I at first envisioned.
Here’s what it looks like from the outside.
Here’s what it looks like from the inside.
Here’s where I make the frappies.
Here’s the beautiful espresso machine (and stopwatch).
Here’s me leaning against the cold glass because it’s hot (inside and outside).
Today was the worst day of all. I sold 25$ worth of drinks in 7 hours; that’s a lot of downtime. And add my recent, and mild, disgust with literature, and you have one lazy and unproductive day. Unless, of course, you can count reading Entertainment Weekly, People, and some other teen magazine productive. I can’t lie and say it wasn’t fun reading the top 125 people in entertainment, but I can’t say that I felt extremely good about myself, either. Those magazines are primarily there for the pictures because what the people have to say is slanted in this overly-interested-in-celeb-importance way.
I met some guy named Dowell. He likes his cappuccinos to be 220 degrees. I gave it to him at 180 and he didn’t mind. Not only did he have a fake leg, but he smokes, has tattoos, supports our troops and likes to talk your ear off. Make sure, baristas, that you put lots of butter rum in his cappuccino because he is not afraid to tell you that you’re a bitter son-of-a-bitch. He told me he’s said it to people, but I think (deep inside) he’s a kind man who likes to install sprinkler/mister systems in nice peoples’ houses.
The reason today was such a stinker is due to its ending. Ten minutes before closing I opened the door. [For those of you who weren’t just outside of Tucson around 6:50 there was quite a wind storm that, if you weren’t holding your hat, would have gobbled it up.] Opening the door slightly, it violently crashed open against the side of the building. The compressor for the door broke out of the wood and the screws went flying into the flower pots. Several expletives later, I hopped down the steps and retrieved the screws only to find out that there was nary a screw driver to be found (car or coffee shop).
I made a drink and closed up shop. Leaving-making sure to keep the A/C on-I hightailed it to WalMart (only place nearby) to get a 95 cent screwdriver. It took 20 minutes to get through the massive line as only three checkers were open. Much of that time was spent digging the driver into my arm and looking at the plump lady’s behind in front of me. When I got to the register I realized that I was the only person left in the line. “Gee-wizz,” I thought. Then I realized that’s what Angela Chase’s English teacher says. I was brought back to Wal-Mart land by the checker’s voice: “Just a screwdriver. What you gunna do- break into someone’s car in the parking lot?” “Yes,” I said, “I’ve had a very bad day at work and I think some jail time might cheer me up.” Then I told her the real story. She laughed.
When I got back to the shop I realized that I had left my drink there; I didn’t even realize, after specifically making it for the drive to Wal-Mart, that I wasn’t sipping on it during the drive. I downed the iced mocha (watery film and all) and took 20 minutes fixing the door as best as I could. After leaving a note for the owners I hightailed it out of there. “One more day and then Laguna Fucking Beach. No-five more days and Mario fucking Bucca.”
And in spite of the day the drive home was awesome. The moon, “Sonny came home” by Shawn Colvin, thoughts of California, and Ethiopian food and Howl’s Moving Castle all kept my aggression at bay. And, to top it all off, I’m drinking beers with Jenna tonight.
And an awesome excerpt from Faulkner's Light in August:
The mild red road goes on beneath the slanting and peaceful afternoon, mounting a hill. 'Well, I can bear a hill,' he thinks. 'I can bear a hill, a man can.' It is peaceful and still, familiar with seven years. 'It seems like a man can just about bear anything. He can even bear what he never done. He can even bear the thinking how some things is just more than he can bear. He can even bear it that if he could just give down and cry, he wouldn't do it. He can even bear it to not look back, even when he knows that looking back or not looking back wont do him any good.'