Thursday, April 23, 2015

I'm Dumb and Need Help!

Soooooooo. Guys. How's it been?

I know it's been forever, but I swear I've been thinking about all of you. Mainly at night. When I'm lonely.

But seriously, I have been planning on overhauling (and possibly changing the name of) this blog for the longest time, and I think I'm finally ready. The problem is that I honestly have no idea how technology works [see this blog post]. I'm essentially your 45-year-old aunt who calls it "The Facebook" and opens those emails from a Middle-Eastern prince, who needs her bank account number so he can transfer a bunch of money to her for no reason whatsoever.

Therefore, I need help from someone who knows how this stuff works, i.e. you people!!!

Here's my dilemma: I know I should buy a domain, but I don't know where I should get that from. Do any of you have any recommendations? And when it comes to design, is it better to outsource or figure it out yourself? How much upkeep is it to host your own website? Any other information I should know? Any insight will help! I miss blogging and interacting with the incredible people who read the super dumb shit I write, but I want to start a new chapter and do it the right way.

On another note, I've been thinking about changing the name of my blog (since I plan on doing this long term, but do not plan on being a barista forever), but am kind of afraid of leaving behind all the work that has been associated with my blog with its current name. Anyone more savvy than myself have any opinion on this dilemma?

Now that I have shamelessly begged anyone who still reads this blog for advice, I will leave you with some current cuteness.

After the unexpected loss of our dog in October, we decided to get a puppy! He is a 5-month-old French Bulldog named Wrigley. However, I prefer to call him by his spirit name, Monsieur MeatNugget.

Monday, January 12, 2015

My Husband's Not Gay and Other Lies TLC tells us.

TLC, the channel once dedicated to learning that now primarily showcases ultra-religious nutjobs, human vending machines, and people who eat sofa cushions, has done it again.

What is it you ask?

Oh I don't know, followed a bunch of Mormon dudes who went to see Magic Mike on opening night and their wives who are in complete freakin' denial.

My Husband is Not Gay is an hour-long special, sure to be turned into TLC's next horrible reality show, that features four straight-identified men from Salt Lake City, who claim to be afflicted with SSA--or Same Sex Attraction.

Now don't you dare get it twisted, these men are not gay. They are straight men (three of which have wives the other is actively dating)  that are primarily attracted to men. And this is totally normal, so normal that the subjects of this show have to explain what SSA is about every 12 seconds.

As one of the wives adamantly explains, her husband is "not gay. [He's] SSA."

Yep. Totally straight. Just want dicks in and around their mouths. Not bi either. Just a group of straight gentlemen who rate other guys on a "danger scale" and spend their time debating with one another which male body type makes their "li'l mormon" wiggle the most.

These men decided that while they are attracted the same sex, they don't want to identify as gay for religious reasons. Because we all know that homosexuality only a sin, if you act on it. Angry Mormon God is totally cool with you fantasizing about Jared Leto, as long as you're doing it inside of a vagina. Amen.

But just because these men are batshit insane closet cases SSA doesn't mean they aren't totally into their wives. As one of the guys quips, "I feel like I've won the lottery. I mean have you seen [my wife]?

Umm, dude, I'm guessing you haven't seen your wife since you fashioned that paper bag with Ryan Gosling's face on it.

This show is obviously ridiculous, but furthermore it's offensive and completely dangerous to the LGBT community. It's giving legs to the idea that there is a difference between homosexual desire and homosexual behavior. That if someone wants to be straight bad enough, they can make that decision. It's essentially the basis of reparative therapy--which is "therapy" used to "change" one's sexual identification. Reparative therapy has been proven to increase depression and suicide attempts among patients and has been denounced by the American Psychological Association.

And here comes TLC giving this nonsense a platform, a piece of media that bigots can point to and say "See it can be done! Homosexuality is a choice and an abomination, now let me get back to my show about polygamy, followed by the show about some broad who spit out like two dozen kids."

I love to write about stupid reality TV because for the most part it's a break from the heaviness that is actual reality, but shows like this bleed into real issues.

This is not toddler beauty pageant contestants or Armenian porn stars, this is a group of men forcing themselves into a category for fear of being ostracized by a religious community. It is self-hatred at it's finest, which is not entertaining. It's heartbreaking.

So sure, your husband may not be gay, but he is a self-loathing closet case, which is worse no matter how you look at it.

Watch the trailer here and let me know what you think. Is it just another crappy reality special from TLC or something a little more sinister?

And thanks to Zane for filling me in on this raggedy ass show in this first place. Good looking out, my friend!

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Seriously, Serial.

I am completely in love with the podcast Serial. Partly, because I like things that everyone else likes, and also because I really, really love cereal. #fruitypebbles

I think it's safe to assume this how our grandparents felt about Matlock? Because every Thursday I need my fix of that sweet-talkin' inmate, who may or may not have killed his ex-girlfriend in a parking lot.

For those of you that have no idea what I'm talking about, Serial is a podcast from the creators of This American Life. It is essentially the story of Adnan Syed and his ex-girlfriend Hae Min Lee, both high school seniors. Hae disappeared on January 13, 1999 and one month later was found dead. Adnan was arrested and has served 15 years of a life sentence for a crime that he insists he did not commit. Each episode of the podcast follows journalist Sarah Koenig, as she tries to get the real story. Read a better and more in-depth description here.

Now of course I like this show. I am a liberal with Weezer glasses who loves farmer's markets. I am NPR's core demographic. But just to clarify, my husband, who would rather chew off his arm than listen to 15 seconds of All Things Considered, loves this shit.

It's like Law and Order but instead of Ice T screaming at me with his crimped ponytail, Sarah Koenig is lulling me into a calm daze while detailing the tragic, life-altering events of a group of popular high schoolers.

I was lame as fuck in high school, so this nonsense would have never happened to me. You can't really get arrested for a crime while you spend all day alternating between masturbating to Dawson's Creek and changing your AOL away message. wHy U gOt 2 go ~N~ mAkE tHingZ sooo comPLicaTeD?

In fact, all I wanted in high school was for some beautiful, exotic boy to love me so much he might try to kill me in a Best Buy parking lot. I mean, fucking swoonville, amirite?

So here I am every Thursday listening to Serial, pants off, eating Lucky Charms, and asking Matt how bad he wants to bang Adnan. The answer is always: super bad and please don't blog about this. whoops.

But here's the problem: this coming Thursday is the last episode of the season--which means the last episode featuring the Adnan/Hae case. And unless the episode begins with, "He's innocent and we're driving him back to his family right now." Or "He's guilty, we found a picture of him wearing his "I Did It" t-shirt." I'm going to lose my whole fucking mind.

I have become too emotionally invested in this. I spend at least 30 minutes after every episode turning into Nancy Drew and googling random legal information, wondering if I could crack this case open my damn self. You mean they never read him his Miranda Rights? Case Closed. Ice T let this man go free.

But seriously, what am I going to do? I'm worried that soon, the smart, funny Sarah Koenig, whose voice is a lovely mix of honey and cigarette smoke, is going to shoot to #2 of my Enemy List (right after that one customer who said I reminded him of Sarah Palin). I'm just going to be on every one of her social media accounts like, "why did you let me love you if you knew it wasn't going to be forever?"

Basically the only thing that will console me if I don't get the answers I need, is NPR literally sending me hundreds of boxes of real cereal.

Then your girl will be like "Adnan, who?" yumyumyumyumyum

Anyone else completely obsessed with this podcast? What will you do Thursday?

Sunday, December 14, 2014

It's Like Rain on Your Wedding Day.

This is the post I've been meaning to write, but absolutely, positively do not want to write. I'd rather do anything else than begin the emotional train wreck that will become this blog post.

Now, I know what at least a couple of people are thinking.


No! That is not what happened. Fuck you, guys. He went through with marrying me. sucker. 

It was beautiful. Small and intimate. My brother married us and we were able to completely surprise his grandparents with our nuptials. We laughed and cried and then laughed at our crying. We were the couple on top of the cake. We were giddy. However shortly after the ceremony, our beloved English Bulldog, Zeus, passed away. It was completely unexpected. The emergency vet told Matt it seemed like Zeus had some sort of underlying respiratory condition that went unnoticed, and the mix warmth and excitement, labored his breathing. It stopped his heart. She assured us it could have happened at any time.

We were devastated. Zeus had been our homie for over five years and we were ridiculously obsessed with him. He was our partner-in-crime and, as silly as it may sound, our furry little kid. 

Despite the horrible circumstances, our friends and family helped us make the best of the remainder of the day--well, them and a little panacea known as alcohol. But as soon as everyone went home, Matt and I were left with the task of dealing with an empty apartment. 

The next couple weeks were taxing, we tried to come to terms with this loss, and the fact that it happened on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of our relationship. Eleven years we waited to get married, and within 20 minutes of saying "I do", our squishy dog-child was gone. That fucked with me pretty bad, I'm not going to lie.

I wish I could have come back after being away for such a long time and say that everything was perfect, but that just ain't life, baby. As I get older, I'm learning that life will fuck with you sometimes. It will tear you apart, just to prove you're capable of putting yourself back together. And even though I miss Zeus every single day, I can't help but feel lucky that I didn't lose any family. Or friends. Or my husband.

Recently, I saw a picture of someone I know on Facebook. She was sitting on her fiance's grave in her wedding dress. Someone always has it worse.

It's been almost two months since our wedding and Zeusie's passing. Sometimes I'll come home and still expect him to greet me at the door, before being reminded of his absence by the silence in my house. But then again, sometimes I still forget that I'm someone's wife now.

I guess these things just take time.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Updates and Lifemates.

Yo! It has been forever since I've posted anything and while I wish I had a good excuse (superhero duties?) I've mainly just been busy with life away from the internet. But because I didn't want you guys to think that I jumped off a roof after serving one too many frappuccinos, I thought I'd give you all some updates/excuses as to why I've been MIA.

Without further ado ...

1.) I moved. There is a certain kind of hell that can only be experienced by putting all of your shit in boxes, moving those boxes one city block away, and then unpacking those boxes. It makes you reevaluate all of your choices as a consumer. Why do I have this many scarves when I live in Florida? Why do I own 3 crockpots? I could have sent several children to college with the amount of shit I've purchased at Sephora! And if you're anything like me, it makes you realize that no one told you that you need to dust more than once every 5 years. My bare apartment looked like the Wild West with dog-hair tumbleweeds rolling all about. I'm disgusting.

However, the new apartment looks great, and I'm currently best friends with my duster--which should last about another week or so.

2.) I'm getting married. I've spouted ever so eloquently on this very blog that I would rather share a needle with Kesha than tie myself to someone for eternity. I'm currently holding the record for longest engagement ever (9 years. Suck it, Brangelina.) But the dude I share a bathroom with (aka my fiancé, Matt) finally wore me down and we set a date. October 18, 2014. Which is soon as fuck, so I've been busy pissing off family members (we're having the smallest wedding ever) and stress eating Little Debbies like it's my job.

And finally.

3.) New Blog. I'm planning on completely rebranding I'm Not Really a Barista very soon (once I figure out how the internet works). I've mentioned before that I've felt myself growing beyond this little barista niche I've carved for myself, and I feel like it's finally time to create a new space that can grow with me as a writer and an asshole. My time as an actual barista is coming to an end sooner than later, and I'm starting to feel a little too old to bitch about lattes and talk about dicks on the internet. I'm ready to solely talk about dicks with no mention of lattes. But seriously, this blog has been my home for so long, but I think it's time for a revamp. As soon as I have more information, I promise to update all of you via this blog and every social media outlet I have. I know the 3 people who read this regularly are waiting with breath that is bated.

So that's it. I moved. I'm getting hitched. And going to quit bitching about being a barista.

Shit's about to get real, y'all!

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Seven Things your Barista Wants you to Know.

The internet is now solely comprised of lists. I've written about this phenomenon before, but I feel like I just have to give up. Buzzfeed and Thought Catalog and every rip off of the two have taken over the world one "20 Things to Do as a 20 Something before You're a 30 Something" at a time.

I guess I'm not winning this battle.

But after seeing several pieces with names like "How to Piss Off Your Starbucks Barista" or "Things You Shouldn't Do at Your Coffee Shop" I felt I had to throw my two cents in--mainly because these assholes got it all kinds of wrong.

Particularly this one. It's all--don't say eXpresso, don't order weird stuff. Bitch, have you been a barista for three minutes? I have been doing this dumb shit for closer to a decade than I care to admit, and for the most part as long as I don't have to clean up your human waste WE ARE GOLDEN.

So without further ado...


1. WE'RE NOT GOING TO GO DOWN ON YOU. LIKE EVER. Lets make this clear. I know there is something super sexual about baristas, I know this because half of my readers find my blog while searching for barista porn (I see your googles, bro), but that doesn't mean that we are actually going to have sex with you. Mainly, because we're covered in various syrups and smell like a dumpster, but also because you just ordered a Strawberries and Creme Frappuccino, fool. In the unusual case your barista wants to give you a quick bathroom HJ, he/she will let you know--so don't try to woo us. But hey--if you talk the cute, little orange girl I work with into doing some irresponsible things with your genitals, more power to you. Quick Warning: Her favorite song is still Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines and she's thinks that having chlamydia gives her super powers. Have fun, dreamboat.

2. DON'T SHIT ON STUFF. It's upsetting to someone that doesn't have a child just how often I have to deal with other people's feces. But it's more upsetting that you can pay $5 for a latte but have not figured out how to use a toilet. What do you have Parkinson's of the asshole or something? It's not that hard. Sit down, do your business, FLUSH (you animals) and leave. Stop trying to hover! No one has contracted AIDS from pooping in a public restroom, unless their toilet seat was covered in dirty needles--in which case, I think it's best you wait until you get home, okay?

3. COFFEE IS NOT LITHIUM. Stop pretending that coffee is going to fix your defunct personality. If you cannot function in the real world before having a sip of your dark roast, you're not a caffeine addict, you're just a bitch. Work on that. Maybe with a trained therapist and a handful of mood stabilizers. Thanks a bunch.

4. 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 someone with questionable hygiene makes your beverage. I understand that to you I am just some coffee monkey who is paid solely to provide you with a service, but that doesn't mean that this coffee monkey doesn't enjoy a little social interaction. Maybe I really care how your day is! Maybe I really care that your wife is screwing the dude that cleans your pool! Maybe I really 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 athlete's foot.

5. STOP BITCHING ABOUT THE PRICE. It is no secret that 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 moronic concoction of a caffeinated beverage you created? Well, let me send the CEO a snapchat letting him know. He definitely values my opinion.

6. DON'T GIVE ME MONEY FROM YOUR UNDERGARMENTS. This one doesn't need an explanation. You are a gahtdam savage.

7. IT'S JUST A NAME. CALM THE FUCK DOWN. So I misspelled your name. It was Kimberly with a C and two EE's. My bad, Cimberlee, but here's a thought, maybe you should be mad at your mom for not knowing how to spell your fucking name. 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 just can't spell, you ever thought of that? Maybe I'm an idiot who makes coffee for a living and spelling isn't exactly my forte. Does that mean that you should instagram my mistake, so you and all your friends can have MAD LOLZ at my expense? That's not nice. How about I make fun of you for not being able to pronounce macchiato or for ordering a coffee milkshake at 7am? Oh wait, I already do. Guess we're even, Tifanknee!

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Happy Father's Day. Please Don't Shoot Me.

I live in FL and my AC went out 2 days ago, and I now know what true suffering is. So because it's Father's Day and I can't bring my laptop into the bathtub full of ice I'll be laying in for the rest of the night, here's an old post about my dear old Dad.


My dad is an interesting man.

Not interesting like he runs marathons and speaks Latin.

Interesting like he goes in and out of a Cajun accent without ever having spent any real time in Louisiana. He is obsessed with Nazi history, much to the dismay of my half-Jewish mother. He refers to himself solely as Padre de Gato and almost shot me in the face when I was a kid.

Yeah, you read that right.

I was six years old, and my dad almost offed me.

He was teaching my brother and I about gun safety. Being a southern-raised good ol' boy, my dad having an arsenal of weapons was as common as other dads having golf clubs.

"Never touch my guns," he said. "Now this one isn't loaded, but..."


A single bullet whizzed by my head and shattered the dining room window.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My mom drew up divorce papers.

It was a pretty traumatic day.

Surprisingly enough, my dad was not kicked out of the house after his safety lesson gone awry, but he did spend the rest of the afternoon boarding up the window and trying to figure out how to spin this story to DCFS.

To this day he swears the my first near-death experience was an intentional lesson in disguise.

"I taught you an important lesson--accidents happen," he'd preach, "You now know to be afraid of guns... And besides if I wanted to shoot you, Allison, you'd be dead."

Good to know, Pops.

However, his "lesson" didn't really teach me to be afraid of guns, but it did make me very suspicious of him.

So Dad, just know, I'm still watching you, you son-of-a-bitch.

 But happy Father's Day, nonetheless.