Suburban Goddess

My workout partner & I were in the middle of our 5:00am 5 mile run this morning when something unusual caught my eye. It was on a long, lonely stretch of road that has no streetlights, so I was taken aback for a moment when I saw a tiny flash of light. I didn’t say anything at first, because K. & I are inclined to scare the crap out of one another on this particular stretch of road (“OH MY GOD! WHAT WAS THAT??!!”). As I continued to stare in that general direction, it happened again. A tiny little green light flashed in the pre-dawn darkness.

“Did you see that?” I asked K., and of course, I scared the crap out of her.

“See what?? Oh my God, WHAT? Coyote? Dog? What??? WHAT???”

I pointed in the direction of the dim flickering light, but the moment had passed & K. was ready to dive into the ditch anyway. We picked up the pace to get through the dark part, but my mind stayed with that tiny firefly. I wonder where all his friends & family have gone, or if they have succumbed to the dreaded mosquito truck…

There’s a certain coffee establishment that’s nestled in a nearby grocery store. Apparently, it’s part of the franchise, but not exactly; it is ruled by the governing board of this world power, but it is employed by the “Employee of the Month” types at the grocery store. It’s considered a privelege to work the counter here; once you’re a barista, the doors to a successful future are suddenly unlocked and wealth & riches are within your grasp…

Okay, so that’s a stretch, but the guy who works the counter acts like he’s sitting on the right hand of God, so I figured running the cash register at the coffee stand MUST be pretty important. Being an ex-waitress, I am ALWAYS cordial to ANYONE who handles my food or drinks. (Remember the first cardinal rule of the service industry; don’t #*#* with the person who brings your food!) But this guy is enough to even ruffle MY feathers. I used to let his condescending tone roll off, ignoring the obvious sarcastic remarks. After all, it’s expected that the coffee barista be slightly better than you; they actually UNDERSTAND all that fancy lingo for small, medium & large. But lately, Coffee Boy had more tone than I am accustomed to. I didn’t notice right away, until my co-worker made the comment, “God, I hate that dill-hole.”

I paused momentarily; had I missed something? I replayed the conversation in my mind:

“Cafe mocha, please, non-fat, no whipped cream.” In an effort to make his job easier, I placed my debit card on the counter.

“$3.15.” No please, no ma’am, no big deal. I pointed to the debit card. He pointed to the card reader. Me, feeling like an idiot, smiled sheepishly & slid my card before returning to my conversation with my co-worker.

“He’s such a prick. It’s like he’s got a venti stuck up his ass,” my co-worker continued. I paused again, and started to watch Coffee Boy closely, looking for signs of caffeinated elitism. Sure enough, they were there. He talked down to every single customer in line, and God help you if he was out of something.

“I don’t have that. It’s on the 86 board,” he would point behind the register, assuming the poor civilian would understand the large chalkboard with pastel “86″ taunting him. No caffinated slice of heaven for you today, sir. With a “You’re So Stupid” sigh, Coffee Boy would then tilt his head to the side and start tapping his foot, the impatience dripping from demeanor while the poor, disoriented customer would frantically try to decipher the ancient coffee language. As he floundered helplessly, Coffee Boy caught a glimpse of an older gentleman outside, and deliberately emptied the coffee machine.

“SORR-REEE, I have to clean the machine.”

“I’ll wait,” the customer shot back. Obviously he had been here before.

“Well, that’ll take about thirty minutes,” Coffee Boy returned with spiteful glee. Little bastard. I started to get genuinely upset for the customers in line. All they wanted was a $5 cup of coffee, not to be berated by some little coffee punk on a power trip. In a rare show of catiness, I lifted the Café Mocha and made the utterly bitchy comment:

“Well, maybe someday WE’LL be important enough to have a job like this.”

Karma will get me, but sometimes, it’s worth it. I’m sure they’ll be extra cream tomorrow, assuming that the machine isn’t being cleaned.

There was a rather large party in my neighborhood this weekend. It’s become somewhat of an annual event. We had a few friends in town, so we decided to go, and it was there that I realized I have absolutely no social skills whatsoever.

I hate small talk. I hate when people ask me questions and don’t listen to the answers just for the sake of filling some awkward silence. I suppose it’s better than the awkward silence, but it is not a skill I possess. And I don’t like being told what you THINK I want to hear; just be REAL with me. Don’t give me the fake smile with the feigned interest when I can tell you’re just waiting for the second the conversation is over so you can get away. I found myself letting some of the conversations lapse into that uncomfortable place, simply because I know some people can’t handle that space & will go away.

I know I’m coming across as anti-social, but truly, I’m not. I want to be accepted, and I want to be part of the group, but I can’t bring myself to fake something that doesn’t exist. Generally, people who accept this monster character flaw of mine get to meet the real me, and usually, sometimes, end up liking me. Those who can’t break past the barrier are generally not people I’d hang out with anyway.

Is this the result of being an only child? Of low self-esteem? Self-importance? I really don’t think I’m better than anyone else; I just prefer to hang with people that I CONNECT with. I have so little free time in my life, that I really like to make it count.