Mar 26
SquidHumor, Relationships dating
I’ve never been great at picking guys who are ‘good on paper.’ Despite my two very expensive degrees from a reputable university, I’ve never dated someone who has put in more than a few semesters of community college. Despite the fact that I’ve been pretty much on my own since 18, I’ve dated many, many men who still live at home and whose mothers still do their cooking, dishes, and laundry. While I often spend summer evenings enjoying a bottle of wine and a good book in my backyard surrounded by my potted plants, I generally date men who would rather be playing Xbox with a six-pack of PBR in their parents’ basement.
Select friends tell me that my choice in men is a reflection of my being white trash (which, for the record, I am not). I’ve gone out with men who are ‘good on paper-’ who grew up in Connecticut, went to Ivy League universities, and are given lucrative stock options at their corporate firms… but these guys just aren’t my cup of tea. I mean, I’m the child of a foul-mouthed cop who always had a case of Bud in the fridge and a pack of Marlboro reds in his pocket… I can’t bring any-old pansy-ass home to mom and dad, and I wouldn’t want to.
Admittedly, when it came time for college, I packed up and moved away from my hometown to live in the city, and I do have quite the collection of designer clothes (from Filene’s Basement and Marshall’s, of course), and I do enjoy an al fresco Sunday brunch on Newbury Street or a night at the theatre… but that doesn’t mean that I want to date, in the words of the Governator, a ‘girly-man’ who does the same. I would much rather a man who can pinpoint the strange noise that my car is making, who can build a shelving unit for my books, and who wants to throw back a few pints after we do some yard work on a Sunday afternoon.
Perhaps when I hit my thirties my priorities will have shifted and I will be looking for a man who can’t take one hand off his blackberry to take his suit off and f*ck me, but for now, I’ll be at the neighborhood bars looking for every unshaven, Guinness-breathed, Boston-accented mechanic, carpenter, and state DOT worker who will mow my lawn and give it to me good once he’s already worked up a sweat.
Jan 07
SquidWhy Starbucks Sucks
If I am paying four or five dollars for a cup of coffee I like my server to be polite. When I walk into Starbucks, Peet’s or Espresso Royale I like to be greeted with a smile… or at the very least, simply greeted. I like someone to take my order in a timely fashion and actually make eye contact with me. Hey, I hate my job too… but I’m still smiling and wishing you a nice day when I order my drink at 7:30am, Ms. Barista, so I’d like the same courtesy.
When I’m the 20th person in line at a Dunkin’ Donuts or McDonald’s during the morning rush and enter the shop as 3 buses have just emptied outside, I don’t expect my server to smile, be polite, or wish me a nice day. I am just happy for them to shout “Next!” and hand my coffee over in a matter of seconds. Is this a double standard? Perhaps, but you get what you pay for. For $.99, you’re shouted at and your coffee is slid to you across a greasy counter; for $4.59, perhaps you could be treated well and spoken to like a human being. Right?
Well, things seem to be a reversed here in Harvard Square. I visit the Church Street Starbucks 3-5 times a week. Each day I wait in line for at least 5 minutes. Each day I am at the counter for at least a minute before someone even looks at me (despite there being three or four people running around behind the counter). Each day, even though I order the same drink from the same girl, my order is not remembered. Rarely do the baristas smile, make eye contact, or wish me a nice day (all three of which, by the way, are things baristas are told they must do). They seem inconvenienced to be there, angry that I’m using a debit card, and completely just fed up with life in general as they roll their eyes and sigh their way through their shift.
When I began working in the neighborhood I would visit the Dunkin’ Donuts at JFK and Eliot Street every morning. My order was the same every day: a medium black coffee and a reduced fat blueberry muffin (which is cheaper than a triple grande skinny vanilla latte). After about a week one of the women at the counter would see me at the end of the line and have my breakfast ready for me by the time I got to the register. She would smile and say, “Good morning! How are you today? Medium black and low fat blueberry muffin?” I would nod, hand over my $3.31, and she’d smile and say “Goodbye! Have a nice day!”
A few weeks ago, due to a little bit of Christmas debt, I stopped into Dunkin’ Donuts again after about a 6 month haitus. I got off the 86 bus, followed the crowd through the orange doors, and waited in line for no more than a minute. When I got to the register, my old friend greeted me. “Good morning! I haven’t seen you in a long time! Medium black and low fat blueberry muffin?” I love her.
Dec 15
SquidWhy Starbucks Sucks
I’ve always ordered my lattes with nonfat milk, despite the fact that everyday (or sometimes twice or three times a day), I leave Starbucks with my triple grande skinny vanilla latte disappointed by the foaminess of my non-fat milk. I like my latte foam to be similar to the consistency of a squirt of Mens’ Gillette Foamy Shaving Cream, but instead, I’m repeatedly given foam that more resembles bubbly spit. The milk, for some reason, waters down the taste of espresso in my latte as well- making the sugar-free vanilla far too noticeable… and so sweet that it is almost nauseating. All in all, my $4.50 coffee leaves me disappointed every time, no matter which Starbucks I visit.
Well… last week I went to Peet’s. And ordered a non-fat latte. With sugar-free vanilla. And it was amazing.
I’m not going to lie, they’re a little slow. But my coffee was unbelievable. First, they use real espresso machines and have real baristas. Back in my day as a Starbucks barista, we were trained to use manual espresso machines. With a little handle you would have to pull ground espresso from a grinder into a portafilter, and then ever so skillfully tamp the espresso into the portafilter with just enough (but not too much) pressure to pack the coffee in just right- so when the portafilter is put into the machine and the water is turned on, it takes between 18 and 22 seconds for the shot to pour. If the shot pours too fast, the shot will be too weak; too slow- too strong. For the last few years, Starbucks has been using an automatic machine- barista’s just press a button and a shot of espresso pours out. Plain and simple.
My Pete’s baristas also steamed my non-fat milk to perfection. The foam on top of my latte was thick and creamy and smooth- almost like a melted merangue. Starbucks baristas will steam whole half gallons of milk at a time in one large stainless steel pitcher and then divide the milk between the cups in the queue. If there is more milk left than is needed for drinks, the barista will put the milk aside and steam it again when it is needed (milk is only supposed to be re-steamed once- but I don’t believe that everyone sticks to that rule). You know when your latte tastes slightly sour and bit burnt? Yeah- your milk was re-steamed. Peet’s seems to steam their milk on a drink by drink basis… making your milk hot, fresh, and foamy. Yum.
To make a long story short, Starbucks sucks as usual, but especially compared to a coffeeshop that actually MAKES your coffee, instead of just pushing buttons and going through the motions.
Dec 03
SquidWhy Starbucks Sucks Coffee
Starbucks is now offering “clover coffee.” From what I can tell, because they no longer brew different blends on a daily rotation, they brew small batches of their different blends to order – kind of what they used to do with the french press, but now with a different machine. A friend and I went down to Starbucks a few days ago for a mid-afternoon coffee. I generally don’t ask anyone in the office if they’d like me to bring back anything, because frankly, it ruins my chance to leave my windowless office and take a leisurely stroll when I have to balance three different cups on my arm while walking down Brattle Street. But, my friend decided to make the rounds, announce that we were heading to Starbucks, and was asked to bring back a clover coffee. After waiting in a 10 minute line (without the barista offering to start drinks for those waiting), my friend ordered herself latte and a clover coffee for our co-worker. Apparently, neither our co-worker nor my friend realized that clover comes in different blends, as clover itself is not a flavor, so my very loud friend shouted over to me, as I’m at the bar, “Hey! I don’t understand this! What is this? Are there different flavors? Help me!” Now, I wasn’t too excited that this person had tagged along on my midday walk in the first place because she’s really loud and I’m usually too tired to listen to her, and I really didn’t feel like going back to the register to explain the process to her, but the cashier was just standing there, not offering to explain the process, blends, or anything else.
I made my way over to the clover station and told my friend to get any blend. If our co-worker didn’t know clover came in assorted varieties, then she wouldn’t be picky. Apparently, it takes about 5 minutes to make a clover coffee, during which time my friend decided to chat up the barista. In their conversation, which I was not involved in because I would rather just let the poor girl do her job, my friend asked the barista if she liked working at Starbucks. I see this particular barista at least once a day. She never smiles, she never makes eye contact, and she generally looks miserable, so I wasn’t surprised when she answered with a VERY unprofessional “I hate my job… I wish I could quit.” Um, wow. Really? I will go out on a limb and say that none of us absolutely love our jobs. I hate my job most of the time – but when a student asks how I like working at the university, I reply, “It is really interesting and I’m fortunate to work with such great faculty,” because my response, while ambiguous and not ridiculously positive, is at least professional. After spending 20 minutes in the tiniest Starbucks ever, my friend and I ventured back out into the cold. We made our way through the cloud of smoke on the sidewalk released by Shift Supervisor’s Newport Light, and delivered the damn clover coffee.
Dec 01
SquidSociety and Culture
Question: How was your Thanksgiving?
Answer: The first few minutes of Thanksgiving Day found me at a bar in downtown New Haven. More specifically, in the bathroom, holding my high school best friend’s hair while she rid herself of many a pint of Magner’s and a few red-headed sluts. I emerged from the bathroom with freshly washed hands and, after having done my friendly duty, I was ready for another pint. To my surprise, I had missed last call (at 12:40am). Bars apparently close at 1am on weekdays in New Haven, and cabs cannot be hailed, but must be called… and there is an hour wait. (I had had my father drop me off at the bar, because after having gone this long without a DUI, why get one now?) After a ride home from a stranger because I was not about to stand on a New Haven street corner for an hour, a late night visit to an ex-boyfriend, and three hours of sleep, I met my mother in her kitchen at 8am with a vicious hangover to peel some potatoes and polish some silver.
My parents hosted Thanksgiving dinner. To my mother’s chagrin, my uncle, a formerly bankrupt recovering alcoholic and cokehead, brought his ex-fiancé (now downgraded to girlfriend), whom we haven’t seen in about a year, to dinner. My mother made a delicious and beautiful meal and my father had generously bought a few bottles of my favorite Albariño. After dinner my uncle’s girlfriend decided to ask about my latest not-so-recent breakup, which is still a very sore subject. Now, I’ve never particularly enjoyed this woman- she’s kind of trashy, she’s kind of a bitch, and, while she and my uncle were broken up, all he spoke of her was what an easy lay she was- which is now the only mental picture I have of her. I simply told her that C and I had broken up, and left it at that. After her digging and prodding as to why, and after I’d downed another glass of wine, I said “Yep. He was an asshole. He was a suicidal drug addict who was abusive yet took me to court. Are we finished?” Girlfriend fell silent, and I took that as my cue to turn my Banana Republic wearing back on her Kmart-ladies-department-flyer-inspired self.
Friday night might have been my high school reunion… perhaps I didn’t get the memo? I had come down with a severe case of cabin fever after having spent 36 hours in a house with my parents, whose conversations all revolved around how they disagree with my political views, how I should be contributing more to my retirement fund, how I should be spending more time at the gym and less time drinking, and why they think I don’t have a boyfriend. I called a few friends (http://www.thebadapplesarebitter.com) who were meeting up at a margarita bar a town away, made my way through the holiday DUI checkpoint, and walked into the EHHS classes of ‘98-’04 reunion. I spotted a few guys who had gotten to know me pretty well in the backs of cars, a couple of girls who I’d had bitch fights with at the age of 17, and an ex-boyfriend’s “bro” who later intentionally bumped into me so hard that I spilled half of my Long Island Iced Tea on the floor. It was great catching up with my actual friends, though, since I only get to see them a few times a year, and it was a nice surprise to run into and catch up with a middle/high school friend whom I adore but had lost touch with.
I was pretty ready to head home this morning- after ridiculous amounts of food, booze, and little sleep, I felt like crap and wanted to be in my own apartment. I packed my bags, pulled on some leggings, a hoodie, and my pink wellies, and headed out into the snow for the ride to Boston. En route, I stopped for some coffee at our neighborhood Dunkin Donuts, and standing in line was my high school boyfriend- a gorgeous hockey player who, at the time, drove a Camaro, had big muscles, sparkling teeth, and amazing dimples. As I am no longer the 110lb blond cheerleader I used to be, and because I would not let our first run-in in 7 years have me in leggings and a hoodie, I made sure to stay out of his line of vision.
God apologized for some of the not so fabulous events of the weekend by somehow clearing all traffic on I-91, I-84 and the Mass Pike this morning, by calling away all state troopers, and by letting the weather hold up, allowing me to drive between 65 and 85 in the left lane for 150 miles and get home in about two hours, despite the reports of heavy traffic today. All in all, it was a great weekend- I love my parents and adore my friends, and while this weekend was a bit tiring and a tad aggravating- I can’t wait to do it all again in a few weeks when Christmas comes.
Nov 24
SquidWhy Starbucks Sucks
The Church Street Starbucks in Harvard Square has to be the worst Starbucks I’ve ever been to. Of course, it is the only Starbucks on my direct route to work in the morning, and seeing as how I’m one of those people who would sleep all day if they could, I really don’t leave myself the time in the morning to go to the better store three blocks away and still make it to work by 8am. Work has been unbelievably hectic for the past few months, and one can get rather stir crazy being cooped up in a windowless five by eight office for eight or nine hours a day. To break up the monotony, a friend and I have been venturing out to get coffee in the afternoon. However, what was intended to be our relaxing break from emails, phone calls, students and micromanagers has turned into a daily disaster.
Last week, we walked the block from our office to the Church Street Starbucks to find the line to be about 10 or 12 people deep. As I made my way to the back of the store and the end of the line, I noticed a woman handing a drink over to the cashier, telling her that it wasn’t what she wanted and she didn’t have the time to wait for another one. The woman was apparently holding a newpaper that she had yet to purchase, as the cashier’s reply was “so do you not want the paper either?” The woman, who was standing at the register, next to the newspaper stand, said “No,” and handed the paper over as well. The barista working the register didn’t offer the woman an apology or wish her a nice day. Instead, she looked at the next customer in line, handed her the newspaper, and said “can you put this back for me?”
Nearly ten minutes later my friend and I made it to the one open register. My friend ordered her tall white mocha with four equals, handed over her debit card, and the cashier rang in the $4.25 drink… which is about 50 cents more than a tall drink costs. When my friend mentioned this, the woman at the register said, “yeah, well, with tax…” To which my friend replied, “no.” The girl at the cash register tried three or four times to get my friend her 50 cents back, but apparently couldn’t figure out how to do it, and she was clearly getting upset. An older barista walked by and said to the girl at the register, “its fine, void it and ring it through again.” At this point, I seriously think I saw the girl working the register begin to twitch. She literally started to tweak out, saying repeatedly “oh god, my computer is frozen,” while frantically blinking and tapping the screen. Once the computer came back to life, she forcefully punched the numbers on the screen whilst shaking her head furiously and rang up my friend’s drink, and then began swiping her card… over and over again. Finally, it was my turn to order. It took at least three or four minutes to get my friend straightened out, and the line had grown to at least 15 people. There was only one register open and one barista on bar, but there were definitely two or three other “team members” floating around behind the counter doing absolutely nothing. I ordered my triple grande skinny vanilla latte, and my friend and I went over to the bar, happy to get away from Tweaky McGee.
As we approached the bar, the barista looked at my friend without a smile or a greeting and said “tall white mocha four equals?” My friend hardly had a chance to nod her head before the barista continued, “can you go over there and get me some equal?” Um, what? When you ask a waitress for ketchup at a diner, does she say, “yeah, go grab some in the kitchen?” Not so much. So, my poor friend who probably paid $14 for this cup of coffee once the cashier was finished swiping, walked to the other end of the store, grabbed a handful of equal, and handed it over to the barista. She speedily finished up our drinks, and plopped them on the bar without calling them, making eye contact or smiling. Just a “here” as she continued to pull shots and steam milk. Twenty-five minutes after we embarked on our journey, my friend and I were back at our office drinking our mediocre lukewarm lattes.
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