What to do When Someone with the IQ of Asparagus Pities Your Career Choices.

I've spoken about a girl I work with before on this blog, you may remember her, my slightly racist, orange co-worker whose long-term goal is to be an import car model. You can read posts about her, here and here.

She has proven to be an exercise in acceptance and humility. I've learned to tolerate, and occasionally even like, this former cheerleader who is the color of a dirty penny. I've learned that I can literally make friends with anyone.

If Charles Manson and I were forced to make lattes together, I would eventually find common ground with him. I would even learn to overlook that swastika he carved into his forehead. I mean, I have a hella embarrassing tribal tattoo. Youth, right?

Also, whenever I start to feel good about myself and my life decisions, I'm quickly reminded that I am career peers with a girl who doesn't know how to pronounce photography. PHOTO-GRAPH-EE. I wish I was kidding.

A few days ago, I was feeling particularly great. I just landed my first freelance gig. It paid nothing, but I'd be writing about a topic I love for a popular local publication. Cloud nine and shit! That was until this happened.

Spawn of Tan Mom: Allie, when do you graduate from school? 

Yours Truly: Oh sweetie, I graduated two years ago. 

Snooki's Oranger Cousin: Oh. You haven't been able to find a job? 

YT: No, I mean I have some work lined up, but I'm still trying to figure things out. 

Bronze Forrest Gump: Awwwwww, I'm sorry.

You don't really know what humility is until someone whose life ambition is to pose semi-nude on a neon green Honda Civic pities your career choices. It's like having the guy who pisses on himself outside of 7/11 refusing your change, because you look like you need it more.

It's kinda like this.

   

But mainly this.

So what do you do when someone with the IQ of asparagus pities your life choices? You cry and eat all of your feelings. And remember that at least you can pronounce the word photography! 

Which will not help you in the least when you are a 45-year-old barista. I'm going to make cookies.

Hey Y'all! Meet Huddle House!

Dry your eyes, kiddos. Your favorite blogista is back from a weeklong hiatus, one which involved me stuffing my face with pieces of gravy-soaked pumpkin pie and stabbing a person with a whittled down toothbrush over a discounted iPad.

It was awesome.

But alas, back to reality, which means back to latte making.

Normally being a professional latte-maker is a pretty big pain in the ass. Primarily, because I have to deal with assface customers who treat coffee like it's a hit of crack, but recently my store has been made less than desirable because of a new employee.

Like any workplace, mine has it's unsightly cast of characters: the slightly racist orange girl, the Asian fetishist, the World of Warcraft player. But all these people have been put to shame after the recent pity-hire of a woman who I will lovingly refer to as “Huddle House.” 

For those not familiar with the Deep South diner-chain known as Huddle House, let me give you the lowdown. It's like Waffle House's white-trash cousin. It's only acceptable when completely drunk, because the likelihood of finding a band-aid in your omelet is pretty fucking high. You will also always see one or more of the following while dining: spousal abuse, child abuse, malt liquor in a brown paper bag, ropes as belts, bare feet, Nascar tattoos and/or Looney Tunes tattoos, etc. 

Now my co-worker “Huddle House” is a woman in her early 50s, has undoubtedly smoked three packs of Marlboro Reds everyday since she was 6, calls everyone "mama," and I'm pretty sure was only recently released from prison.

These facts would not be so horrible if they were the only problems, but besides making every member of the Westboro Baptist Church look like a classy motherfucker, she also has no idea how to make a drink after being an employee at our store for over a month. She also doesn't know how to pronounce the name of drinks. She also doesn't know how to count all that well... or spell. 

Basically, she personifies every negative stereotype that revolves around white people in the South.

Oh, and she fucked a customer. For money more than likely.

And she is basically un-fireable because she is the mother of my manager's best friend.

So this is what I'm dealing with at work, which is why I'm going to start pre-gaming before all of my shifts.

But I know I can't be alone on this guys. Do any of you have a “Huddle House” at your workplace? I want to hear some co-worker horror stories. I need something to give me strength when this woman talks about being a "tiger in the sack."