Dear Internal Revenue Service,
Hi there, it’s me. It’s been some time, and you’ve probably moved on to far greener pastures. You may find it awkward to revisit an “old flame” like me…. Do you ever think of me anymore? (Just curious.) I don’t want to stir the pot with anyone new you’re becoming friendly with. The relationship you and I shared was euphoric and tempestuous all at once, and I understand if it’s a difficult one for you to revisit. I just want to say my peace and sort out whatever needs to be sorted out before I can truly take that next step. I hope you understand if I feel held back, because there are a few things that need to be openly expressed to you.
To start, I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve taught me about life and love; fear and loss; gratitude and forgiveness….. You opened me up to so many things, and these have become doors in my heart that can never be, and will never be, closed.
I should make it clear that I’m not trying to rekindle the fire because I know that what we had is in the past. I’m of healthy body and mind and after many “talking sessions” I came to many resolutions that have enabled me to begin to move on to create healthy, lasting relationships. I’m going out and meeting new government agencies; I am now able to make myself vulnerable, which is something I haven’t been able to do since, well, you.
I have really moved on, you know – for the record, I admit, I was rebounding when I fell into the comforting arms of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives…. I’m sure you heard around the grapevine that our courtship was bound to self-destruct. I had quite an “intimate” fling with the Department of Homeland Security for a couple of days at Boise International Airport last October not meant to last, but this gave me the confidence that I am still a desirable female. The Department of Welfare has been begging me to go to out for the past six months, but as I grow older I appreciate the stability that the Bureau of Labor and Statistics, as an example, could provide. The overarching moral of this story is: I.R.S., I am finally getting over you.
Still, I yearn for some kind of resolution between us – we’ve been on shaky ground lately, and I won’t give up on the fragile embryonic friendship you and I are attempting to forge. This is unchartered territory for both of us, I., I know. All I want is for you to be a beautiful symbiotic addition to my life, not the center of my universe – I understand that now. If this is all moving too fast for you, I get it. I would just like for you to answer my phone calls, just one. I know you are busy at work and it’s apparent that the ladies are calling you off the hook. Trust in me, they all hope to be the lucky one that finally gets through to you. But I am still saddened that you can’t face me, after everything we’ve been through – just let my call be the one call that gets through someday soon, some time before April 15th
I ask very little of you. At the very least, I need to know my Adjusted Gross Income for 2007, so that I can move on and claim my sizable refund for 2008. Just tell me what it is…… tell it from the infinite heart I know you possess. And then we can work on mending the wounds.
With a special place kept warm in my heart,
Caitlin, xox
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
CNN Money...Special Edition
It has been a while since my last posting. I was talking to dillycait the other night and I told her that I am just not as funny as she and fennifer. What’s a girl to do? How can I compare to their wit? I can’t so I won’t.
I will just be mundane.
Work has been going pretty well lately. We heard yesterday that we will be receiving bonuses. That makes me real pleased. It’s going to make the Credit Card companies really pleased as well since they will be receiving it. When I get my stimulus package the credit card companies are going to do a little dance since they will be receiving that as well.
When it comes to money, everyone gets it but me. I can’t hold on to it. I firmly believe that as a citizen of this country, I should do my best to be as nationalistic and patriotic as possible. That entails me being a strong consumer. I can’t hold onto money at all. It goes in the account and immediately is spent on bills, rent, electric, cell phone, CLOTHING, food, CLOTHING, a new ipod touch, hair, nails Gucci sunglasses, a new touch phone (not the iPhone sadly)….
The list goes on. I am a true consumer, which actually makes me a great citizen in this consumer based nation.
Everything besides money, I hold on to. I have no desire to move out of my apartment for the mere fact that it will be a bitch to move all my stuff. I am a hoarder. You name it, I bet its in my apartment somewhere. There are bills stuffed behind empty wine bottles. Almost every bottle of wine I have drank in the past 2 years, is probably still in my apartment. It doesn’t bother me. I find a place for it to go because I cant be bothered with taking them to the trash chute 1 floor down. Yes, I am that lazy sometimes. Bills and wine bottles are the big things that have been living in the house with me for the past couple of years. But the bigger thing is clothing. The amount of clothing I have could clothe a large nation. And every so often I get the need to “spring clean” no matter what season it is. I go through everything and put the clothing I don’t want or need into garbage bags. But instead of taking them to Goodwill or hell, even to the trash, they are still in the apartment. Granted they are living on top of the bathroom, but they are still there.
Why can't I get rid of these things??? I feel like there must be a reason why I can't let go of so much shit. I have no emotional claim to bills. I promise. But truthfully what happened to me in my childhood that makes me feel like I must keep EVERYTHING!!
My parents gave me everything I needed. Not wanted but needed. But they gave me some of what I wanted. I think it was a very healthy balance between the two. So…hmmm…nothing there to explain why I am hoarder.
I am convinced I am going to grow up into old woman who lives in one of those houses you see on TLC or BBC that is a fire hazard. No one will come to see me because they wont be able to find me under the stacks of bills that are 40 years old and the clothing that has been piling up to go to goodwill for 50 years. I am sure I will be surrounded by cats and cloned Mr. Moos
e’s. I probably won't even be able to find them due to the amount of stuff that’s piling up on me. My bed will be underneath piles of clothing and new comforters that I will purchase every year and never throw the old one of the way…
Just thinking about this makes me need some anti-anxiety medicine. I am sure I have some at home…Probably located in a shoebox that is also filled with bills, old makeup and maybe a sock or dog treats….
I will just be mundane.
Work has been going pretty well lately. We heard yesterday that we will be receiving bonuses. That makes me real pleased. It’s going to make the Credit Card companies really pleased as well since they will be receiving it. When I get my stimulus package the credit card companies are going to do a little dance since they will be receiving that as well.
When it comes to money, everyone gets it but me. I can’t hold on to it. I firmly believe that as a citizen of this country, I should do my best to be as nationalistic and patriotic as possible. That entails me being a strong consumer. I can’t hold onto money at all. It goes in the account and immediately is spent on bills, rent, electric, cell phone, CLOTHING, food, CLOTHING, a new ipod touch, hair, nails Gucci sunglasses, a new touch phone (not the iPhone sadly)….
The list goes on. I am a true consumer, which actually makes me a great citizen in this consumer based nation.
Everything besides money, I hold on to. I have no desire to move out of my apartment for the mere fact that it will be a bitch to move all my stuff. I am a hoarder. You name it, I bet its in my apartment somewhere. There are bills stuffed behind empty wine bottles. Almost every bottle of wine I have drank in the past 2 years, is probably still in my apartment. It doesn’t bother me. I find a place for it to go because I cant be bothered with taking them to the trash chute 1 floor down. Yes, I am that lazy sometimes. Bills and wine bottles are the big things that have been living in the house with me for the past couple of years. But the bigger thing is clothing. The amount of clothing I have could clothe a large nation. And every so often I get the need to “spring clean” no matter what season it is. I go through everything and put the clothing I don’t want or need into garbage bags. But instead of taking them to Goodwill or hell, even to the trash, they are still in the apartment. Granted they are living on top of the bathroom, but they are still there.
Why can't I get rid of these things??? I feel like there must be a reason why I can't let go of so much shit. I have no emotional claim to bills. I promise. But truthfully what happened to me in my childhood that makes me feel like I must keep EVERYTHING!!
My parents gave me everything I needed. Not wanted but needed. But they gave me some of what I wanted. I think it was a very healthy balance between the two. So…hmmm…nothing there to explain why I am hoarder.
I am convinced I am going to grow up into old woman who lives in one of those houses you see on TLC or BBC that is a fire hazard. No one will come to see me because they wont be able to find me under the stacks of bills that are 40 years old and the clothing that has been piling up to go to goodwill for 50 years. I am sure I will be surrounded by cats and cloned Mr. Moos
e’s. I probably won't even be able to find them due to the amount of stuff that’s piling up on me. My bed will be underneath piles of clothing and new comforters that I will purchase every year and never throw the old one of the way…Just thinking about this makes me need some anti-anxiety medicine. I am sure I have some at home…Probably located in a shoebox that is also filled with bills, old makeup and maybe a sock or dog treats….
Sunday, February 8, 2009
There Was Water In That Bong
I've wanted to write a blog about the Michael Phelps pot smoking incident for awhile now. After seeing this last night on SNL, I thought it hit the nail on the head, and expressed everything I wanted say.
Fennifer
Saturday, February 7, 2009
"I Want to Cut Her."
I wouldn't consider myself a typically angry or macabre person, but today, I wanted to cut a barista - hack her down to a bloody pulp. In the past I have made reference to the collective Crested Butte attitude problem, but today.... ohhhh, today, the barista really drove the last rusty nail in the coffin.........and I've spent a better part of the morning fantasizing about the most practical way to process her body into Aspen fertilizer.
This happened at about 7:45 a.m., and since we had no food in the house except the Ramen I prepared for lunch, I decided to be unwisely impulsive and treat myself to an employee-discounted Americano and Sausage-Egg-and-Cheese Burrito from the coffee house around the corner from work. I'd never had a burrito there before but thought "oh heck, it's my Monday, so I deserve a lethargy-inducing treat that I can't really afford."
Each sparing morning I treat myself, I round the corner and pray that the nice redhead is working, or the pregnant brunette who steams my soy and doesn't charge me for it. Most importantly, I check to see if THE HORRIBLE ASSISTANT MANAGER is working. If she is, I usually contemplate rerouting and settling for a $2 cup of Foldger's from The Bakery. But The Bakery doesn't spare me much 'tude either; I typically wait for at least one person in front of me to finish their closing statements to the nodding girl behind the counter about the importance of keeping corporate consumer culture away from sheltered little Crested Butte, a.k.a., humanity's last beacon of integrity; a rose-colored bubble enveloped by a materialistic, greed-driven world. At 7:45 a.m., I don't care for this hippie psuedo-intellectual crappola and wish they'd be a little more optimistic and proud of their darn country!! I suddenly feel a swell of inspiration to lobby Walmart to build a supercenter right smack in the middle of the National Forest, just to spite the people who made me wait.
My desire for espresso (and hatred for Foldger's) trumped any resistance I had this morning, as I stayed up late last night working on a watercolor painting. Entering the building with gritted teeth, I saw her - the one I dislike so very much - and anticipated the passive-aggressive interaction that would undoubtedly occur, a sacrifice I'd make for the stimulating effects of the beautiful, bitter coffee bean. This morning, however, she was surprisingly chipper - only mildly astringent - very out of character. She's the kind of person whose smile rarely meets her eyes when she speaks - now, I am hardly a body language expert - but I suspect there is a sinister entity posessing her mortal coil, because her soul is as dark as night. That's why I never make any effort to smile either, and instead give her a blank and slightly condescending stare which inevitably results in a 3-minute-long silent power struggle. To be even more patronizing and indulge my superiority complex, I briefly consider leaving her a tip this time if she behaves to my liking.
She claims victory as she fucks up my order once more, and this time I can feel it's on purpose. The lady in front of me had ordered a 12 oz. Americano, but then switched it to decaf after Ass Manager had made a caffeinated one. As I stood at the counter, Ass. Man. tried to give the it to the hairy coffee delivery guy, flirtatiously pleading with him. She was like, "you take it! It's free" and he was like, "oh no, I totally can't" and she was like, "why not?" and he was like, "'cuz that would be my fourth Americano of the day and another might greatly hinder my ability to effectively shred the nar nar'". Unable to pawn the free coffee off on the delivery guy, she set it in front of me and said, "I just made it, so it's still good", and charged me full price. By "good", she must have assumed I like verging-dangerously-on-lukewarm coffee. The decision was obvious:
NO TIP FOR YOU!
She microwaved my burrito, as the line behind me grew longer. I had to wait an extra 90 seconds for the burrito to be removed from the microwave while she pleasantly helped the next person. I was real excited about my burrito, so I could shrug off the negative experience that started my day. I got back to the office, unwrapped my foil-covered heavenly pocket, and took a bite into the burrito....... no sausage, no egg, just BEANS, retail price, $1.50 less than I had paid for the burrito I had actually ordered. It was too much of a pain in the butt to go back and return the burrito, so that's why I channeled my anger into a blog entry.
She should consider herself lucky that there's a counter between us; for mark my words: there will be blood.
~dillycait~
This happened at about 7:45 a.m., and since we had no food in the house except the Ramen I prepared for lunch, I decided to be unwisely impulsive and treat myself to an employee-discounted Americano and Sausage-Egg-and-Cheese Burrito from the coffee house around the corner from work. I'd never had a burrito there before but thought "oh heck, it's my Monday, so I deserve a lethargy-inducing treat that I can't really afford."
Each sparing morning I treat myself, I round the corner and pray that the nice redhead is working, or the pregnant brunette who steams my soy and doesn't charge me for it. Most importantly, I check to see if THE HORRIBLE ASSISTANT MANAGER is working. If she is, I usually contemplate rerouting and settling for a $2 cup of Foldger's from The Bakery. But The Bakery doesn't spare me much 'tude either; I typically wait for at least one person in front of me to finish their closing statements to the nodding girl behind the counter about the importance of keeping corporate consumer culture away from sheltered little Crested Butte, a.k.a., humanity's last beacon of integrity; a rose-colored bubble enveloped by a materialistic, greed-driven world. At 7:45 a.m., I don't care for this hippie psuedo-intellectual crappola and wish they'd be a little more optimistic and proud of their darn country!! I suddenly feel a swell of inspiration to lobby Walmart to build a supercenter right smack in the middle of the National Forest, just to spite the people who made me wait.
My desire for espresso (and hatred for Foldger's) trumped any resistance I had this morning, as I stayed up late last night working on a watercolor painting. Entering the building with gritted teeth, I saw her - the one I dislike so very much - and anticipated the passive-aggressive interaction that would undoubtedly occur, a sacrifice I'd make for the stimulating effects of the beautiful, bitter coffee bean. This morning, however, she was surprisingly chipper - only mildly astringent - very out of character. She's the kind of person whose smile rarely meets her eyes when she speaks - now, I am hardly a body language expert - but I suspect there is a sinister entity posessing her mortal coil, because her soul is as dark as night. That's why I never make any effort to smile either, and instead give her a blank and slightly condescending stare which inevitably results in a 3-minute-long silent power struggle. To be even more patronizing and indulge my superiority complex, I briefly consider leaving her a tip this time if she behaves to my liking.
She claims victory as she fucks up my order once more, and this time I can feel it's on purpose. The lady in front of me had ordered a 12 oz. Americano, but then switched it to decaf after Ass Manager had made a caffeinated one. As I stood at the counter, Ass. Man. tried to give the it to the hairy coffee delivery guy, flirtatiously pleading with him. She was like, "you take it! It's free" and he was like, "oh no, I totally can't" and she was like, "why not?" and he was like, "'cuz that would be my fourth Americano of the day and another might greatly hinder my ability to effectively shred the nar nar'". Unable to pawn the free coffee off on the delivery guy, she set it in front of me and said, "I just made it, so it's still good", and charged me full price. By "good", she must have assumed I like verging-dangerously-on-lukewarm coffee. The decision was obvious:
NO TIP FOR YOU!
She microwaved my burrito, as the line behind me grew longer. I had to wait an extra 90 seconds for the burrito to be removed from the microwave while she pleasantly helped the next person. I was real excited about my burrito, so I could shrug off the negative experience that started my day. I got back to the office, unwrapped my foil-covered heavenly pocket, and took a bite into the burrito....... no sausage, no egg, just BEANS, retail price, $1.50 less than I had paid for the burrito I had actually ordered. It was too much of a pain in the butt to go back and return the burrito, so that's why I channeled my anger into a blog entry.
She should consider herself lucky that there's a counter between us; for mark my words: there will be blood.
~dillycait~
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Reunion Tour
I am a lover of many things. At the top of my list are Art & Music, but I love them within reason. Imagine for a moment something that you absolutely love. Anything at all. An outfit, a band, a movie, a piece of furniture, a boyfriend, a girlfriend. Now imagine loving that thing/person so much you begin to hate it. I'm sure we can all think of something/someone in life this has happened with. For instance when you first start listening to a band. You get all the albums, you know all the songs, you sing along, you love them. They're all you can talk about. Then they start to get annoying. You get sick of all the same songs and all the same lyrics. Then annoyance turns into frustration. Frustration turns into anger. Anger turns into hate.
I'll be the first to admit that I had an unhealthy relationship with music while in high school. I was obsessed with being the first one to know about undiscovered, on the verge of being famous bands. I'd go to shows at least 3 nights a week. I had no other topics of conversation, but what bands I was listening to, and who I thought was up and coming. I'd spend
class time dissecting lyrics to find out what it all meant. I subscribed to all the alternative music magazines so I'd be the first to know about new bands. Then I started to get annoyed, with myself. I had no life. I finally realized there were better things to do on a Friday night, than sitting in my room analyzing Rilo Kiley lyrics.
class time dissecting lyrics to find out what it all meant. I subscribed to all the alternative music magazines so I'd be the first to know about new bands. Then I started to get annoyed, with myself. I had no life. I finally realized there were better things to do on a Friday night, than sitting in my room analyzing Rilo Kiley lyrics. This time my hate for music is being influenced by an outside source. The outside source is the hipster! The skinny jeans, studded belt, vintage t-shirt wearing hipster. The art classes where I spend my time is a breeding ground for these scarf wearing, messenger bag slung, ipod humping fools! There is more to this awful world than crappy acoustic acts and colorful scarves. Wearing overpriced pseudo-vintage clothes and asinine haircuts does not make you the proverbial shit. These people generally work menial jobs and act like they are gifts to the 'uncultured' and 'mainstream' world. They always seem to talk louder than anyone else too. It's like they want you to hear how cool they are. Talking about the new acoustic Bright Eyes maxi-flex press 7". That only 600 copies were made. That they searched so hard for on eBay, and got for only $200. What a steal man!
Fennifer
SAVED!
No surprise that being from Utah I'd somehow be linked to Mormonism. Sure enough I was raised Mormon, but stopped considering myself one at 16 years of age. I continued to go through the motions until I was 18. Going to church, participating in church activities, and feigning interest in the religion. I felt at 18 I was confident enough to stand up to my mother. Really put my foot down on the religion thing! She shrugged it off as a rebellious phase, and has been in denial about it ever since. Why do I bring this up? Because I've become what ever former Mormon, who has chosen to live an alternative lifestyle fears, I've become a project.
This is how it unfolds. Once you turn the magical age of 21, and dare I say it....haven't gotten married, you are 
encourage to go to what is called a singles ward. (A ward is the exact same thing as a parish). All in the hopes that you will meet that special boy or girl, and after a brief courtship you'll settle for someone you don't want, get married, and have babies. Someone, I'm assuming my mother, tipped off the folks in charge that I was back from my summer travels. They have made it their mission ever since, to save me from eternal damnation. They come in pairs, usually on Sundays, and tell me that they missed me at church that day. Really?! I haven't been to a church service in years, and you've just barely noticed my absence. My, what an observant group you are! I've been heckled at the gym by these people. At the height of my cardio workout no less! Most recently I was invited to join a large group of these singles, headed south to go skeet shooting. What was my excuse, you ask? 'I have strong issues about gun control.' If they had only known they, disrupted the cleaning of my 12 gauge when they came to the door. I do not fault these people for trying to magnify their calling to find my lost soul. One might ask, 'Heather why don't you just put your foot down and tell them to hit the road?' Well, that would be like kicking a puppy. A sick, homeless, frail puppy. I just don't have the heart to do that.
encourage to go to what is called a singles ward. (A ward is the exact same thing as a parish). All in the hopes that you will meet that special boy or girl, and after a brief courtship you'll settle for someone you don't want, get married, and have babies. Someone, I'm assuming my mother, tipped off the folks in charge that I was back from my summer travels. They have made it their mission ever since, to save me from eternal damnation. They come in pairs, usually on Sundays, and tell me that they missed me at church that day. Really?! I haven't been to a church service in years, and you've just barely noticed my absence. My, what an observant group you are! I've been heckled at the gym by these people. At the height of my cardio workout no less! Most recently I was invited to join a large group of these singles, headed south to go skeet shooting. What was my excuse, you ask? 'I have strong issues about gun control.' If they had only known they, disrupted the cleaning of my 12 gauge when they came to the door. I do not fault these people for trying to magnify their calling to find my lost soul. One might ask, 'Heather why don't you just put your foot down and tell them to hit the road?' Well, that would be like kicking a puppy. A sick, homeless, frail puppy. I just don't have the heart to do that. Fennifer
Career Opportunities
I am a receptionist in the spa of a four-star hotel in Crested Butte, CO. When I arrived this morning for the leisurely daily routine, I was called by the hotel front desk, who warned me of a potential "Secret Shopper" staying at the hotel for two nights, purveying the facilities, grading the restaurant, etc. The front desk girl was convinced she had this lady pegged, and when one particular lady came down to the fitness center to check out the facilities, I knew she had to be the one. There was this distinct "I smell poop" expression on her face (.....................uuuuh, don't look at me.) and a wedgie forcing its way into her high rise Levi's. I greeted her, but am never really one for many words early in the day. So I did what I could - hid my lunch box and pretended to look busy. I wasn't really too concerned either way; enough people have quit in the past week to give me the illusion of job security.
But then I started thinking about the whole Secret Shopper deal. I mean, why couldn't I do that too? One of my biggest joys in life is to evaluate service (and I'm lucky to have found a highly critical life partner, too). I'd describe the majority of service and quality I've received recently as mediocre and teetering on awful; though I am the first person to shout accolades when something is truly excellent. I never initiate culinary experience smelling the proverbial poop; I declare innocence before guilt. Unless it's McDonald's.
Unfortunately, I am frequently unhappier and less satisfied than I started out, and of course, significantly poorer which is the real pisser. The mid-range dining establishments in Colorado rarely seem to serve fresh food; the meals I've had, have the commonality of tasting like an 18-wheeler would, if they were edible. Of course, I do have exceptionally sensitive and refined taste buds and can easily identify these things. Last week in Denver K, D and I went to a Brazillian Steakhouse to celebrate D's birthday (and he lives for a quivering piece of red flesh, especially the kind that comes around on skewers in rapid rotation). We thought the meal started well with grilled Mahi-Mahi, but then it took a quick turn for the worse. The little steak we did get was tough and the filler meats seemed to consist of oddly-flavored pot roasts and chicken hearts. The best description of the place was that it was "The Brazillian Steakhouse equivalent to The Golden Corral" (who incidentally also boast bacon-wrapped turkey medallions on their menu!).
Moreover, the customer-service industry in general has been slacking. Perhaps it can be reduced to Colorado; everyone is so darn efficient in Texas! Here, I wait in line at the coffee house for the barista to finish having her vapid conversation with the person in front of me, whom they know via-via, just loudly enough to demonstrate how well-connected they are in town. Me? I know who to borrow skis from and where to get pot. That's about the extent of my personal heirarchy of needs, and both are met with the greatest of ease.
And because of this consistently rude experience, I don't tip there - and that's pretty hard for me, having been a barista. I'm considering asking for a comment card, then taking them down.
Criticism and constructive feedback can be a beautiful present to business owners insightful enough to cherish it as they would a 3-month old puppy. For how does one know to improve, unless they know that they need to improve? No one is perfect, and I am just the person to let the faceless entities of America know!
~dillycait~
But then I started thinking about the whole Secret Shopper deal. I mean, why couldn't I do that too? One of my biggest joys in life is to evaluate service (and I'm lucky to have found a highly critical life partner, too). I'd describe the majority of service and quality I've received recently as mediocre and teetering on awful; though I am the first person to shout accolades when something is truly excellent. I never initiate culinary experience smelling the proverbial poop; I declare innocence before guilt. Unless it's McDonald's.
Unfortunately, I am frequently unhappier and less satisfied than I started out, and of course, significantly poorer which is the real pisser. The mid-range dining establishments in Colorado rarely seem to serve fresh food; the meals I've had, have the commonality of tasting like an 18-wheeler would, if they were edible. Of course, I do have exceptionally sensitive and refined taste buds and can easily identify these things. Last week in Denver K, D and I went to a Brazillian Steakhouse to celebrate D's birthday (and he lives for a quivering piece of red flesh, especially the kind that comes around on skewers in rapid rotation). We thought the meal started well with grilled Mahi-Mahi, but then it took a quick turn for the worse. The little steak we did get was tough and the filler meats seemed to consist of oddly-flavored pot roasts and chicken hearts. The best description of the place was that it was "The Brazillian Steakhouse equivalent to The Golden Corral" (who incidentally also boast bacon-wrapped turkey medallions on their menu!).
Moreover, the customer-service industry in general has been slacking. Perhaps it can be reduced to Colorado; everyone is so darn efficient in Texas! Here, I wait in line at the coffee house for the barista to finish having her vapid conversation with the person in front of me, whom they know via-via, just loudly enough to demonstrate how well-connected they are in town. Me? I know who to borrow skis from and where to get pot. That's about the extent of my personal heirarchy of needs, and both are met with the greatest of ease.
And because of this consistently rude experience, I don't tip there - and that's pretty hard for me, having been a barista. I'm considering asking for a comment card, then taking them down.
Criticism and constructive feedback can be a beautiful present to business owners insightful enough to cherish it as they would a 3-month old puppy. For how does one know to improve, unless they know that they need to improve? No one is perfect, and I am just the person to let the faceless entities of America know!
~dillycait~
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