Here's to Staying Home

After today, I vow to brew my own coffee in the morning and cook my own dinner at night. It all started when I took my morning break (translation: snuck out on company time) and went to Starbucks. I wish one of those idyllic city coffeehouses was near my work; the kind of place with a self-important professional student reading gut-wrenchingly bad poetry to a gaggle of clove cigarette smokers who rhythmically snap their applause. But that place doesn't exist in all of Vegas, let alone the suburbs, so I went to Starbucks, the only cup of coffee for miles around that won't give me the butt-dribbles.

I knew the guy in front of me was going to be trouble because he gave us a running dialogue of every thought that went through his head: "The line is long this morning...that pastry looks dry...is it my turn yet?" He was saying all of this out loud. Then he started reciting the specials board: "Gazebo blend. What the hell is Gazebo blend? I've never heard of Gazebo blend." Since he wasn't a four-year-old learning to read, no one was impressed. Then he starts in on the cashier, who's busy GUESS WHAT? taking orders, collecting money, and giving change. "Miss, what's Gazebo blend? I've never heard of Gazebo blend." He gets mad that she doesn't stop what she's doing and immediately answer his parrot prattle. He turns to an old asshole standby, the exaggerated sigh, followed by the douchebag kill move, the audible harrumph. "God damn it, I just want to know what Gazebo blend is."

I so wanted to shake his dentures loose, all the while shouting "It's coffee you mindless drone. Your tattered taste buds couldn't tell the difference between drinking a cup of Gazebo blend and chewing on an actual Gazebo!" But I was raised in a lower Midwest, upper south "false politeness" zone, so I stayed quiet and rolled my eyes.

When it's his turn, the cashier, a charming young lady who (and this is the truth) rescues dogs from animal shelters and finds them good homes, politely and oh-so-patiently explains the intricacies of the now ubiquitous Gazebo blend. She then says, smiling like she was talking to an actual person, "Sir, would you like a free sample of our delicious mocha frappucino?"

He replied: "Just give me my damn coffee. It would take an act of congress to get me to drink that shit."

That guy really needs a blog. Or a foot up his keister. But a blog would let him relieve some of the hatred that eats at the spot where a human soul should be. If not for my rage-releasing blog, I might have killed him on the spot.

In the evening I went to a pretty good Chinese take-out place for dinner. While I was waiting for my food, I overheard this deadly serious humorless guy go on and on to his friend about how this meal would no doubt pale in comparison to the Chinese take-out in the Bay area. First of all, when someone says "Bay area" they're from Oakland; I'm not impressed. Also, I learned that our aspiring critic had never been to this place before. Why did he automatically assume the food wasn't going to live up to his high standards? I took a quick look into the kitchen; those were Chinese people cooking the food. There weren't any Swedes preparing his Moo Goo Gui Pan.