Archive for July, 2011|Monthly archive page

Starbucks: My personal hell.

In Rants on July 31, 2011 at 11:05 pm

Going to Starbucks is my personal nightmare that I choose to relive again and again.

First off, I only go for the wifi.

If I need to make a coffee pit stop that does NOT include wifi usuage, I usually go someplace that is also known for their food…

Like Western Bagel in Burbank. It is the most seemingly disorganized place I’ve ever been to. You walk up to a crowded counter. They don’t believe in lines. But somehow, magically, in under 2 minutes, I’ll walk away with a toasted everything bagel and an xtra large hazelnut coffee….all for under 4 bucks. Take that starbucks.

You might be wondering…Erika, if you need wifi so badly, why don’t you go to Coffee Bean instead? Because I went to coffee bean once for wifi and I couldn’t figure out the internet password, and that one experience alone has ruined me for ever trying this again.

So back to Starbucks…I go for the wifi.

There’s first the choice of which cheap drink will I buy, since I’m only there to use my computer….

Is it classy to order water at starbucks as well to buy you more time at a table?

I hate being one of those people who sit around at a table for hours with random people inside of Starbucks talking about my dreams. It makes me uncomfortable. That kind of conversation is best suited for a bar after 3 martinis. If you’re discussing your dreams in a Starbucks in the middle of the day rather than pursuing them…I’m sorry…but you’re taking the elongated route.

There are 3 types of people that sit in Starbucks:

1)    People using wifi

2)    People who bought food at Panda Express and need comfy chairs to rest in while they pass out in a food coma

3)    The people I mentioned earlier who make me uncomfortable by talking about their dreams in the middle of the day.

Here’s the problem:

People types 1 and 3 are all using wifi. People type #1 is clearly there specifically for wifi. ….so that’s about 50% of the outlet population in Starbucks that is taken. 30% of the outlet population is being utilized by People type #3. People who are talking about their dreams inside of Starbucks in the middle of the day are usually backing up their points of conversation with visual aids…typically in the form of google images. So if you’re doing the math, 80% of the outlet population is in use before I even walk in the door.

As soon as I walk into Starbucks, before I even order my drink, I go into focus mode. Half of my brain is trying to scour the place to find an outlet. It can’t be one by a couch, because I’ll get too comfortable and overstay my welcome. It also can’t be one at a regular sized table. If I sit alone at a regular sized table, I will piss off People type #3. As much as they annoy me, they still need a place to sit. So I’ll be generous. I usually scour the place for an outlet by a tall skinny table that is usually only attached to one stool. I will be uncomfortable in the chair and therefore not stay longer than I intend. Perfect choice. At this very moment that I’m looking for an outlet, the other 50% of my brain is deciding what to order. If I order a plain coffee, theres little chance of them messing up my order. If I order green tea to be perceived as being healthy by my peers, theres a 75% chance that my order will come out wrong…

a)     because I’ll place my own order incorrectly, because in my head, I’ll be thinking that I want a venti-iced-non-sweetened-green tea…but instead I’ll SAY that I want a venti-blended hot green tea.

b)    And then when they hand me the wrong beverage, I’ll be pissy for the first 15 minutes of my stay at Starbucks, rather then focusing on plugging in my computer.

Theres a secret code of respect in Starbucks. It is each person’s responsibility to share an outlet. It is considered even chivalrous to offer to plug in a complete stranger’s laptop for them. True. Story. Next time you head to Starbucks in search of an outlet, your best bet is to sit next to an older gentleman…they’re always willing to share.

You belong in the circus.

In Uncategorized on July 30, 2011 at 3:43 am

Every kid fantasizes about running away.

Some dream about taking a leap out their window and flying to a different place. Some with less active imaginations, dream of packing a fanny pack and crawling out their bedroom window in the middle night, armed with the protection of a flashlight.

I didn’t want to run away to spite my parents.

I didn’t want to run away because I was scared.

I wanted to run away because I wanted a new and obnoxious adventure.

I saw no point in sneaking out of my bedroom window in the middle of the night. I wanted to see more than the street lamps that stood in the haunting moonlight. I wanted to hear more than the neighboring dogs yapping out of sheer boredom.

I wanted to run away and join the circus.

When I was a kid, this fantasy haunted me. What the hell would I do if I actually ran away and found a circus? I have no skills or strange traits to share with the world.

Come see the completely average girl who stands at a completely average height of 5’5″!

Come one, come all, and see the pig lady! She has the laugh of a new-born piglet! One more snort and she might grow a tail!

As a kid, I had no clue how to find the circus. Didn’t know what kind of offering I could give to them where they would actually want me to be a part of their clan. All I knew…was I wanted it…a gypsy livelihood, where the only thing you worry about day to day…is being happy.

The slightly more grown-up version of me no longer sits by her window at night contemplating running off. Somewhere along the road, you realize you don’t have to run off to make things happen in your life. You just have to believe that you aren’t average. That you have something worthy of offering this crazy circus…and you need to climb up to the high rope and walk across the damn thing and never look back.

When I grow up…I want an italian father-in-law

In Rants on July 8, 2011 at 1:05 am

When I was a kid, my parents would ask me, “Sweetheart, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

When I was in college and changed my major 3 or 4 times, my parents rephrased it to, “Seriously, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Now that I’m a little more older and wiser…meaning I no longer add vodka to my red bulls or stay up until 4 in the morning and convince myself that I will be a loveable human being the next day….I finally know what I want. I also kinda..and I mean kinda know how to get it. But like every other quirky and patient person in L.A…I’m trying to be just that. Patient.

My parents still indulge me by asking me, “So honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I like that they know that I’m on a journey. I like that they know that I left point “A”, but who the hell knows when I’ll get to point “B.” They know I’m trying, and that’s all that matters. But for christssake, I feel like I should have an answer for my poor parents. I could easily respond, “Parentals. I want to be a writer/actor.” But c’mon….lets add a little flavor to it. Let’s pull something from left field.

The next time my parents ask me, “Erika, what do you wanna be when you grow up?”

I will look them dead in the eye, and genuinely respond, “I would like to have a crazy Italian-father-in-law when I grow up.”

I’ve known from the time I was a kid that I want kids someday. 4 to be exact. I’ve just always known that this is something I would want. I don’t know when it will happen. Or with whom, and I won’t worry about that right now. Because, lets face it, being single can sometimes be a joy, so I’m going to own it while I can. But if I don’t know when I’m getting married, I can at least make a wish-list of all of the other nonsense that I want in my life. I want an Italian father in law. Someone who is loud. Someone who can make the meek extremely uncomfortable. A father-in-law who cooks with so much damn garlic, that my skin will reek for the rest of my life. A father-in-law with a couple of loud sons who will threaten to beat up their brother if he breaks my heart. A sister in law who is nosey and self-centered, but so damn likeable, that you don’t give a damn. A mother in law who insists that you eat. All the time. This is what I want. I want loud and crazy in-laws who can keep up with my loveably loud and crazy family. Mostly, I wanna pretend that I’m in the mob and sit at dinner tables with checkered table cloths in the back of a restaurant after closing hours. Let’s do this.