Seven Things This Barista Wants You to Know

I just celebrated my nine-year anniversary as a barista. 

I know, "what’s the opposite of congratulations?" Because I feel like that's what most people want to give me—like "ohh, 9 years... how about that?"

But being an grown-up barista isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, I enjoy it for the most part. I get a ton of free coffee, and it appears that people are really concerned with NOT pissing me off.

One search of "things that piss off your" gives barista top billing.

barista google

People are more concerned with not pissing off their barista, than their girlfriends, boyfriends, and/or husbands.

Guys, this kind of power is maddening.

But after clicking through some of the results from the search, I was extremely disappointed in the advice my fellow baristas were putting out into the universe. It was all, IT'S ESPRESSO, EXPRESSO. DON'T PAY ME IN NICKELS. 

Excuse me, have you been doing this job for approximately four minutes? Because as a veteran coffee wench I can say, for certain, that I don't care if you call it eXpresso, as long as I don't have to clean up any of your human waste. 

In fact, you can make absolutely zero eye contact with me, while talking on your cell phone, and paying me with car wash tokens, if you pee inside the toilet and not try to rob me.

My standards are extremely low, but here are some things I think you should know.

 

She's probably not gonna down on you. Probably.

You would be shocked at the amount of people who found this blog, and my previous blog of the same name, while searching for ways to have sex with their barista. (I see your googles, bruh.)

But it's probably not going to happen. I'm sorry your weird fetish won't be realized.

Mainly because we're covered in various syrups and smell like milk and summer-time dumpster, but also because you ordered a Strawberries and Creme Frappuccino. You can't try to smooth talk a coffee artisan while sipping on your $6 millennial pink milkshake. 

Don't shit on stuff.

It's upsetting as someone who doesn't have a child, just how often I have to deal with other people's excrement. However, it's more upsetting that people can pay $5 for a latte, but have no idea how to use a public restroom.

Did you have a full-blown seizure while you were in there? Do you asshole-specific Parkinson's? No? Then let me give you a crash course.

  1.  Sit down.
  2.  Do your business.
  3.  FLUSH. (you animals)
  4.  Wash hands. 
  5.  Leave.

Stop trying to levitate over the toilet. No one has ever contracted AIDS from pooping in a public restroom, unless their toilet seat was covered in dirty needles--in which case, it's probably best you wait until you get home.

Coffee is not a mood stabilizer.

Can we all stop pretending that coffee fixes people's defunct personalities.

I get it. Coffee Before Talkee. But if you can't function in the real world before you've had a sip of dark roast, you're not a caffeine addict. You're an asshole. Work on that. Maybe with a skilled therapist and a fistful of pills. 

Exchange pleasantries with us.

The answer to "Hi, how are you doing today?" is not "medium cappuccino."

So when I ask you the aforementioned question and you respond with medium cappuccino, I'm going to make sure that my co-worker wearing natural deodorant in Florida makes your drink. 

I understand to you I'm just some coffee robot who is paid solely to provide you with a service, but that doesn't mean that this coffee robot doesn't have feelings. Maybe I really do care how your day is, Jim! Maybe I really do care that your wife is screwing the dude that cleans your pool! Maybe I really do care that you haven't had a non-pharmaceutical-assisted erection in 12 years!

Nah, you're probably right, I don't care. Here's you're medium cappuccino that smells like raw onions.

STFU about the price. 

It is no secret, this dumb shit is expensive. I know this. You know this. And guess what? Complaining to the person at the bottom of the coffee-company food chain about the price of your latte is not going to change that.

Ohhh, you don't want to pay $7 for some caffeinated dumbuckery you're making me concoct because you saw it on Pinterest and want to stunt on the 'gram? Well, let me send slide into my CEO's DM and let him know. He definitely values my opinion. 

Don't give me money from your undergarments.

Nope. Don't do it. This does not need an explanation. I am ASHAMED of you and so is your mother.

Relax. It's just a name.

So I misspelled your name. It was Kimberly with a C and two EE's. 

My mistake, Cimberlee. But here's a thought, maybe I didn't misspell your name. Maybe your mom did. Take it up with her.  Also, it's loud in here. There are a ton of things going on--milk steaming, timers beeping, and you're talking like Marcel the Shell. Or maybe I'm stupid and don't know how to spell. Either way, it's not nice to spell-shame people.  

I once had a man tell me his name was Raleigh, but he knew I wouldn't spell it right because people always spelled it with an "R". I almost asked this man how one would go about spelling Raleigh without an "R", but then realized it literally didn't matter, wrote "Ralieigh no R" on the cup, and went home.

Life is too short, Cimberlee.

I'm Old and I Blame Kylie Jenner

I'm Old AF, y'all.

Well, let me rephrase that, I'm young enough to know what "AF" means, but old enough to know that if I use it in front of a group of teenagers they'll probably make fun of me. Good luck buying your own beer, you ungrateful little a-holes.

Being in your early 30s is weird, man. Especially when you work with people who were born after TRL was a thing. The average age of my co-workers is at max 20 and nothing makes you feel screaming "GET OFF MY LAWN" like working with 20 year olds. Don't get me wrong, there's benefits. I now know who Lil Uzi Vert is--so that's something.

They also taught me how to use Snapchat, and now I spend exactly three hours a day putting different filters on my face to see which one makes me look like the most attractive/unrecognizable version of myself. I want to go to Sephora and find out what it would take to make me look as good as when I have a dog face, but it probably involves drinking water and taking care of my body--so yolo. Is that still a thing, Drake?

Now before you say it, I know my pre-menopausal ass should not be on Snapchat. I have zero business being on an app that at one time was solely used by middle-schoolers sending disappearing pictures of their genitals, but I can't help it. Snapchat makes me feel young again.

I've turned into my mother when she created her first--of five--Facebook profiles. (She makes a new one every time FB deletes her page, i.e. she forgets the password.) She was so excited. Her days were spent finding friends from high school and sending me posts about angels, who seem to have a vested personal interest in me liking and sharing posts about them. Go figure.

But it also didn't help that the New York Times was out here writing actual articles in their newspaper about how Snapchat was the new king of social media and Mark Zuckerberg could eat a bag of dicks or something. I was minding my own business, trying to ignore every block of text that included the words Donald and Trump and President (because I was flying through valium like candy), when they basically called me a nerd and forced me to download the app. 

Let me be honest for a moment, my biggest fear in life, aside from everything that is actually happening on this planet, is that one day I will not know what the aforementioned preteens I work with are talking about. And while you could not force me to watch the whole season of "13 Reasons Why". Cassettes, seriously? Even after death you're a pain in the ass or that Ludacris, the artist responsible for every time I got felt up in high school, is now hosting a remake of Fear Factor. What was that sound? Ohh, just my hip breaking. But I can't NOT know about these things. Because what would that mean? I'm actually in my 30s, and it's time for me to move on to the next chapter of my life.

Fuck you! I'm not ready for the next chapter!

What does it even entail? Do I have to start selling leggings on Facebook or even worse, have a kid. What else do people do in their 30s? Buy houses? With what money? You know we buy too much avocado toast. I actually started looking at houses with the dude that I live with, aka my husband, and literally had a panic attack after every single viewing. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. I'm aware this is unhealthy and probably something I should be discussing with a therapist instead of the internet, but mental well-being is hella expensive and last time I checked shrinks don't take monopoly money or cuddles, so now I'm just looking for a scapegoat. Someone that I can target all of my age-related frustration towards.

I think that someone is Kylie Jenner.

It's like one day I was young and no one was ever concerned about the viability of my eggs, and then the less conventionally attractive Jenner girl started over-lining her lips in the color DogShitBrown and made people pretend she was always racially ambiguous. We have pictures, Kylie! And then everyone lost their fucking mind and started wearing those stretchy tattoo chokers again. I wore those as a sexually-confident 13 year old, who had recently received a pair of gifts from boob Jesus. IT'S NOT TIME FOR THEM TO BE BACK YET!

Why is this happening to me?

Who can I blame for this? I swear on everything holy, Kylie, if this was your doing, I'm will beat you with a sock full of pennies--preferably one from your brother's sock line.

I may be overreacting, but It's a stressful time for some of us aging millennials. On one hand we're not following the the same script that was set in place by the generations before us, because they set the script on fire and are mad we aren't trying harder to put it out. I'm sorry we're killing off napkins and TGI Fridays, Linda. I wasn't too happy that you ruined the housing market or elected a reality star president.

So a lot of us are out here trying to figure it out for ourselves. Which explains why I'm a 31-year-old barista trying to be a writer--yes, I'm aware, I am the stereotype of all stereotypes.

But it's cool, because no matter what happens in the all the other aspects of my life, Snapchat is it for me. Whatever life-ruining garbage app comes after it, will not find its way onto my phone. Unless it's really cool, like an app that puts flower crowns on all unsolicited dick pics. However, if that doesn't happen, It'll just be me and my mom on Facebook, sharing posts about angels, and trying to figure out how to get past Kylie Jenner's security team.

 I'm coming for you, girl.