I am most annoyed when the shortcomings that I have appear in others...
How can someone not remember to flick the turn signal off once in the left lane on the interstate? There is no turning left unless... no. No turning left. Duh. (Usually I notice later... when I didn't earlier because my music was too loud to hear the clicking.)
Know what you are going to order... know what you order so you don't complain later when you get something that is different than the way you imagine it in your head. (I am always the last to order... then ask for more time... and substitutions.)
Mainly, in my line of work, this conundrum applies to coffee... espresso... cappuccino... whatever... it's all the same. Right?
Most people have no idea what they want... except they don't want what you suggest. They order something they heard someone else say at Starbucks with expectations of satisfaction... then get miffed about spending $4.00 on a too strong or too sweet or too caffeinated coffee drink. They will continue to order anything that gets them through the line, yet continue to be unhappy with their choice, rather than educate themselves or ask about what the incoherent terminology actually means.
(I find this to be true when you ask people what kind of eggs they prefer, too. Most people say scrambled... I like to believe it is primarily because that the preferred preparation at Shoney's and continental breakfast bars nation wide.)
(I find this to be true when you ask people what kind of eggs they prefer, too. Most people say scrambled... I like to believe it is primarily because that the preferred preparation at Shoney's and continental breakfast bars nation wide.)
I work at typical, unique, like-all-the-others, hipster coffeeshop in a typical, conservative, small town. We play safe, quirky, background music that sounds cutting edge for the Twittered soccermoms that just dropped the kiddos off at the private, religious, K-12 compound across the street.
Rarely does one know what the hell she wants to drink. Latte, cappuccino, espresso, breve... no one really seems to understand which is which... nor do they care to admit their inclarity. On top of their unbeknownst obtuseness, the very act of deciding which sugar-based sauce with which to flavor their identity... and quiet possibly a flavor as foreign and confusing as mocha... is daunting. I now plea the fifth when asked So what is good? My suggestions tend to cause bitter beer face.
Before I continue, I must point out that I prefer black coffee. Good. Black coffee. Otherwise, I take two shots of espresso with full fat foam on top sprinkled with cinnamon. Strong. Rich. Not in a paper cup nor with a lid.
It takes me back to Spain. I take what I can get.
The best, good, black coffee that I have had in this small town has come from Dunkin Donuts. I love it.
I found this great mug at Goodwill that appears to have been from DD's first marketing launch... marble edition... art design: Michaelangelo. I like to imagine its delicate handle gripped by the thick, worn first and middle fingers of a trucker. Loved. The stains suggest high traffic and a needy java junkie.
So... back to complaining. People just don't get how to order their caffeine. Dunkin Donuts... to plug the rival to my employer even more...is trying to... subtly... educate their drinkers:
I can't stand answering stupid questions
This is my worst trait by far. Though no question is stupid, and I ask stupid ones constantly, I am impatient and can be a bit biting, short, judgmental, rude... in my responses.
I am awful when it comes to looking for... and locating... anything. Food in the fridge moves on its own and entire neighborhoods tend to evade my sight. When driving... as soon as I do, finally, arrive at my destination... how I managed to get there is erased and I have to figure my way back out of the mess.
I ask where the carving tools are nearly every time I step into Hobby Lobby.
So, despite this acknowledged hitch that I have, I get unnecessarily frustrated with people asking stupid questions. Especially when I work at the kiosk in the lobby of the Bone and Joint clinic. Next to Where is Doctor ________'s office? I hate to hear Where is the bathroom? Through those doors with 10" tall letters that spell RESTROOMS. See them? Yeah... that way. I get way more tense about that question than is healthy. But really, the sign is one of the few in that room... and there is very little to look at, anyway. Besides me and some stringy tropical-esque plants: to the right, we have the elevators that take you to the only other floor in the building... to the left, next to the coffee and pastry kiosk, the eye doctors' commune... and directly in front of you, a pair of automatic doors labeled RESTROOMS, SURGERY CENTER and PHYSICAL THERAPY.
I got mine, though... and quite rightly... not long, actually, after I had admitted... out loud and to myself ... that I need to work on my anger at answering this easy question. What else do I do there, at the kiosk? Cut crapes and make fudge. Do I know the answer to the question? Yes. Am I saving my breath for later when it may be more important? No... I almost never bite my tongue.
So... I resolved, long before the new year, to just answer. Get over myself and be helpful.
I didn't.
I was tested and failed and deserved it all:
A woman, who I had seen earlier shuffling across the lobby to her appointment with one of the optometrists, approached me and, her gaze in the general direction of the delicacies, asked if there were restrooms nearby.
Actually, yes... Through those doors? It says RESTROOMS, you see?
No, actually... I don't.
Blind. That, I deserved.
She was kind, and probably more forgiving than I have been on myself.
I still get a little snooty sometimes, to be honest... but I do answer. It is the least I can do... unfortunately.
Before I continue, I must point out that I prefer black coffee. Good. Black coffee. Otherwise, I take two shots of espresso with full fat foam on top sprinkled with cinnamon. Strong. Rich. Not in a paper cup nor with a lid.
It takes me back to Spain. I take what I can get.
The best, good, black coffee that I have had in this small town has come from Dunkin Donuts. I love it.
I found this great mug at Goodwill that appears to have been from DD's first marketing launch... marble edition... art design: Michaelangelo. I like to imagine its delicate handle gripped by the thick, worn first and middle fingers of a trucker. Loved. The stains suggest high traffic and a needy java junkie.
So... back to complaining. People just don't get how to order their caffeine. Dunkin Donuts... to plug the rival to my employer even more...is trying to... subtly... educate their drinkers:
Alright. Allow me to explain...
Next to my bellybutton-muffin top mug you see a recyclable, cardboard cup-hugger. It displays the difference between a latte and a cappuccino. Literally, latte means milk... in Italian. Cappuccino means capped... it comes from the Italian friars with their cute little haircuts. (Think: Friar Tuck in from Disney's Robin Hood.) So... a latte is espresso, another difficult concept to conquer, with steamed milk; a cappuccino is espresso and steamed milk capped with foam.
Mocha only means chocolate... nothing else. In Italian. So, order a mocha cappuccino with caramel and french vanilla but don't tell me you didn't say chocolate and don't ask for more steamed milk because the cup is only half full of fuzz.
I can't stand answering stupid questions
This is my worst trait by far. Though no question is stupid, and I ask stupid ones constantly, I am impatient and can be a bit biting, short, judgmental, rude... in my responses.
I am awful when it comes to looking for... and locating... anything. Food in the fridge moves on its own and entire neighborhoods tend to evade my sight. When driving... as soon as I do, finally, arrive at my destination... how I managed to get there is erased and I have to figure my way back out of the mess.
I ask where the carving tools are nearly every time I step into Hobby Lobby.
So, despite this acknowledged hitch that I have, I get unnecessarily frustrated with people asking stupid questions. Especially when I work at the kiosk in the lobby of the Bone and Joint clinic. Next to Where is Doctor ________'s office? I hate to hear Where is the bathroom? Through those doors with 10" tall letters that spell RESTROOMS. See them? Yeah... that way. I get way more tense about that question than is healthy. But really, the sign is one of the few in that room... and there is very little to look at, anyway. Besides me and some stringy tropical-esque plants: to the right, we have the elevators that take you to the only other floor in the building... to the left, next to the coffee and pastry kiosk, the eye doctors' commune... and directly in front of you, a pair of automatic doors labeled RESTROOMS, SURGERY CENTER and PHYSICAL THERAPY.
I got mine, though... and quite rightly... not long, actually, after I had admitted... out loud and to myself ... that I need to work on my anger at answering this easy question. What else do I do there, at the kiosk? Cut crapes and make fudge. Do I know the answer to the question? Yes. Am I saving my breath for later when it may be more important? No... I almost never bite my tongue.
So... I resolved, long before the new year, to just answer. Get over myself and be helpful.
I didn't.
I was tested and failed and deserved it all:
A woman, who I had seen earlier shuffling across the lobby to her appointment with one of the optometrists, approached me and, her gaze in the general direction of the delicacies, asked if there were restrooms nearby.
Actually, yes... Through those doors? It says RESTROOMS, you see?
No, actually... I don't.
Blind. That, I deserved.
She was kind, and probably more forgiving than I have been on myself.
I still get a little snooty sometimes, to be honest... but I do answer. It is the least I can do... unfortunately.
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