dog and ice cream

Your Dog Doesn’t Need A Latte

We took my grandma out for dinner a few weeks ago to an extremely clean, very sneeze proof buffet (which is the only kind I will even consider eating at). Everything was going along smashingly until my sweet grandma turned to me and said “Do you think that’s a service dog?” Across the restaurant, placing its paws on a previously disinfected table, was a small breed white dog with no collar and absolutely no tell-tell signs of being a service dog. I gagged a little thinking about these dog owners dragging a handful of rogue dog hair back to the salad bar and having it drift into the ranch dressing while their loving little poodle made a tootsie roll on the table. I wanted to scream “Take your fucking pet home and stop ruining it for real service animals, jackass.” Instead I just glared in their general direction, covered my entire body in hand sanitizer, and sprinted out the front door.

Your dog looks like he's really enjoying that espresso. #nope

Your dog looks like he’s really enjoying that espresso. #nope

Before we all have a come apart about my insensitivity towards animals and especially service animals, let me calm your tits with this little tidbit of info…I love animals and my family and I raised service animals for many years. Guide Dogs For The Blind allowed us to take their puppies for the first year of their training in order to get them acclimated to living with a family, learning basic commands, and being socialized in public places. While training our service dogs in public places, they were required to wear a vest that clearly stated their purpose. The first time my brother and I were in charge of taking our yellow lab on a grocery store adventure, we both began bawling in the parking lot at the thought of our little puppy dropping a load in the bread aisle.

“Please don’t make us take him in there. He’s going to poop and then everyone at school will see us cleaning up poop in the grocery store and we will never be able to show our face in public again.” The teenage drama was thick, but we all survived that trip and many others with our service pups.

Dog Poop

We not only took our dogs to grocery stores, but to restaurants, schools and many other public places. It was cool and not weird because they were actually service animals and not someone’s sweet little Bichon Frise wearing a ruby encrusted collar and licking the salt shaker at a fast food restaurant. The truth is…your dog doesn’t need a latte or a buffet salad and if they aren’t a service animal, they need to stay home.

Working at a coffee shop has opened my eyes to how entitled people feel when it comes to their pets and frankly…it’s disgusting. Last week we had to ask a customer to please take her pet outside after finding out it was not a service animal. We kindly asked her to take her four legged friend outside and she rudely stomped out the door yelling “You need to calm down.” Yes, we are the one’s who need to calm down. Another time, a woman placed her small dog on top of the condiment bar where patrons are meant to add sugar and cream to their coffee. Her sweet little Boo Boo began rubbing his shaved rectum all over the counter while she checked her phone and opened a straw. That’s not service dog behavior, that’s fucking disgusting. And that is terrible pet owner behavior. I don’t take my kids to Target and let them wipe their bare asses on all the two liter bottles of soda while I completely ignore them and scroll Facebook. (Or do I? No…I usually don’t). Unless your pet is a service animal, having been trained on how to act in public, they don’t need to go inside every fucking business establishment you frequent on your Saturday afternoon errands. That is what drive through windows and dog sitters are for.

Lookie lou...you can get your latte without taking your dog inside. #shocking

Lookie lou…you can get your latte without taking your dog inside. #shocking

You love your pet, I’m compassionate to that. I love your pet, too. Especially when Mr. Tickles isn’t rubbing his ass on my condiment bar or sniffing for a place to poop atop a table in the only buffet restaurant I can eat at. Or used to be able to eat at.

 

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Young Love And A Starbucks Card

When I was in elementary school there was a popular boy who had a crush on me in February. This is the perfect month to be crushing or have someone crushing on you because it can only mean one thing…PRESENTS. (Unless you are married, then it means something else.) My February crush gave me a stuffed Valentine’s Day bear and a note proclaiming his love for me, a love he promised would never end. It ended three days later. But I kept that bear and in high school, when I couldn’t get a boy to give me a pity box of those chalk flavored Valentine’s heart candies, I reminisced about that one February day in 4th grade when someone thought I was lovable. Now I have kids and watching those grade school crushes move in and out of their lives faster than a bowel movement is substantially more painful than the years I spent having no Valentine.

I'm going to take a hard pass on these.

I’m going to take a hard pass on these.

Three weeks ago my son began using hair gel in quantities that would have made the guys from Jersey Shore jealous. His hair was weighed down and lacquered up and my mom intuition told me something was going on.

“What’s with the fancy hair?”

“My crush has a crush on me, so I need to look handsome.”

He also started dousing himself with a can of Axe spray that we keep in the guest bathroom in case someone drops a smelly poo. The cologne smells only slightly better than a turd, but I ran out the good stuff. The romance was on and so was his black button up shirt and his nicest pair of jeans.

And then like wind between your cheeks, it was over. One day he came home from school with a droopy face and told me that his crush liked someone else. He stopped doing his hair and hasn’t showered in a month. It was heartbreaking, but at least we wouldn’t be spending twenty five dollars on a heart shaped box of chocolates or an overpriced giraffe sporting a red bow. Financial crisis averted.

I’m not the only one dealing with the Valentine’s Day gift giving charade. While at work last week, a woman and her 12-year-old son came in for a gift card and after three months of trying to decide which heart shaped card he wanted, they finally handed me one.

“How much would you like me to put on this?”

That’s when all hell broke loose. The son wanted to put 15 on the card, his mother was only willing to give 5 of her own money, which including his 5 only added up to 10. (I’m a math whiz, right?)

“But you promised.” The whining continued as I held the gift card in my hand and awkwardly watched the two of them like I was enjoying a new Netflix original program.

“We are still going to get her a card and a treat, so I think 10 dollars is plenty.” This is the exact moment where I became very jealous, very quickly.

“Fine. Just put 15 on it, please.” She turned to her son to make sure he knew that they would figure this out at home and I’m almost sure she meant that she would just pay for the whole thing and never bring it up again.

Picture it as a heart and then boom...you know what I'm getting for Valentine's Day.

Picture it as a heart and then boom…you know what I’m getting for Valentine’s Day.

A 15 dollar Starbucks card, a treat, and a card? I’ve been married almost 16 years and I don’t get shit like that. My husband is jizzing in his pants over getting us a heart shaped pizza and a dollar store card that he will probably sign with his first and last name because he still thinks I’m not completely clear on who he is. This junior high school gal has no idea what kind of Valentine’s Day gifts she will be forced to pretend she loves in 25 years. Like when her husband sends her a box of chocolate covered strawberries and he’s already eaten all but two. There will be no mom there to buy her a Starbucks gift card or a special treat. Your special treat becomes a half eaten Hershey’s bar that your kids forgot about from Christmas. Happy Valentine’s Day to you!

I’ll be over here snuggling that stuffed bear from elementary school, if anyone needs me.

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My Hair Is “On Fleek” And Other Things I Don’t Understand

I’m really feeling my age lately. It may be a combination of my desire to be in bed by 10pm and how completely wrecked the skin around my eyes looks, but I think it also has a bit to do with working next to people who are significantly younger than me. The kind of young that makes me do math in my head and realize I could have been their parent. Yeah…that kind of young. But I’m learning a lot of things that I think will really help me in the long run. Like when I want to ruin my own teenagers life with comments like “That outfit is on fleek.” Which brings us to my first lesson.

I wish my hair looked this backwoods Alabama. #hairgoals

I wish my hair looked this backwoods Alabama. #hairgoals

  1. Things are “on fleek” or “ratchet”

When I got to work yesterday with my new haircut, one of my coworkers said “Your hair is on fleek” to which I replied like a senior citizen with “What are saying to me?” I felt like it would have served the whole situation if I had been forced to turn up my hearing aid or pull it out completely so I wouldn’t have to continue to be confused. Having something on fleek is what old people like myself would have called awesome or dope or bomb. Which is what I like to say in my house to keep everyone consistently rolling their eyes and reminding me that people don’t say bomb anymore. Everyone except me. You can also have a ratchet face which is not a good thing. I think it’s like saying someone took a ratchet to you and now you look hideous. I’m not planning to use this one, so I don’t feel compelled to understand it. I’ll just turn down my hearing aid.

What I dream of doing when I see a group text from work. #dead

What I dream of doing when I see a group text from work. #dead

2. Group text is the new backroom cork board

Remember back in the day……yeah that’s where this is going. All the jobs I’ve ever had provided a wonderful space for employees to communicate concerns, find coverage for shifts, or complain about who was taking their tuna sandwich from the fridge even though their name was on it. It was cork board/blackboard/white board in the break room and it gave everyone the opportunity to passive aggressively keep other co workers in the loop. Those days are gone. The cork board has been replaced by group text and I personally would like to ban this practice from any company i have to work for, forever and ever. AMEN. As you know, when a group text is sent you will receive any and all correspondences to said message regardless of whether it pertains to you and regardless of whether you give one flying panty fuck about it. Which I don’t. You also have early morning people, late night people, people with insomnia, and people without kids sending out group texts about garbage bags at 6am on my day off. So instead of trying to guess who wrote “Keep your f@#$%&* hands off my Vanilla Coke” I have to guess who’s number sent a message about the amount of coconut milk in the front fridge. And I have to do it when I’m not at work. I’m petitioning to bring back the cork board or I’m going to be forced to get burner phones every week so when those group texts come through, I won’t feel as guilty about pulling out the battery, backing over the phone with my car, and not covering that shift for whoever is faking illness this particular Friday evening.

I searched for a burrito pic and this came up. Explains the E-Coli outbreak I think. #gross

I searched for a burrito pic and this came up. Explains the E-Coli outbreak I think. #gross

3. This mass hysteria about Chipotle

The one thing folks at my work want all the fucking time is the chance to run over to Chipotle for a burrito that outweighs my left leg by three pounds. I’m a sucker for a good burrito, but this whole thing is out of control. Even when they are serving up E-coli burritos, people cannot and will not stop thinking about/talking about/eating those giant foil wrapped belly babies. I’ve had the Chipotle and only because my daughter made such a fuss for the entire week we were on our road trip about finding one and eating there and maybe eating there again the next day. Calm your tits, teenagers…these burritos made with fresh ingredients that are the size of a Mini Cooper have been around for a hot second. (No one says hot second anymore, so I have to keep it going.) Ten years ago I was eating at a burrito joint in downtown SLC that served massive turd burritos with twelve pounds of guacamole and enough rice to feed a family of four. I think what has happened is that this Chipotle has made a name for itself on the internet web with You Tubers and other famous people I don’t understand pushing Chipotle bowls the way my neighbor growing up used to push weed. It’s a drug, guys. And it’s not even that good. There I said it.

4. My movie and music references are as outdated as the term ‘hot second’.

Pretty In Pink is 30 years old this year which means that it’s a decade older than most of the people I work with. “What is Pretty In Pink?” And then I fall to floor of heart failure or more likely because I slipped and was unable to catch myself. I brought up Nine Inch Nails in conversation once and got blank stares. “You know, Trent Reznor…lead singer.” Crickets chirped and someone changed the subject to Chipotle or something being ratchet and I just stood there in shock. It seems unfair to be almost finished with your teen years and never have had the experience of rocking out to Head Like A Hole. I feel like that’s child abuse and I won’t stand for it.

This shit keeps me young. Seriously. It also gives me new ways to connect to my teenager in ways that probably make her cringe and want to be adopted by a band of carnival workers. Which in itself is worth every group text I get on my day off.