It’s oh so quiet, except…

Sitting on the front porch of the house we rent an apartment in, appreciating the quiet of the night air.

For the first time since we set up our little retreat out here, I hear a bat! I know bats strike terror into the hearts of a lot of folks, but I love the little winged fluff balls. Actually I plan to get multiple bats on my chest sometime in the near future. Tattoos, that is, not the real thing. Though, it would be pretty entertaining to walk into work with a bunch of actual bats clinging to my chest.

I've been told I'm twisted.
Not true.


Sickly but Inspired

Feeling pretty miserable today, not much up to leaving the bed. However, I'm not a complete waste.

I've had a lot of ideas running around my head for a book in the past couple of years. Aside from wanting to write a memoir of sorts, I also want to get back to writing fiction. The problem was I had so many competing things in my brain, and none was taking shape. Well, it's finally happened. I have to figure out a few things still but it's begun!

Former, Once Again.

Monday I start a new job.

I am excited, and nervous, and really just grateful I didn’t flub the interview. Also, apparently I understand technology a little more than I thought I did! Who knew?

I don’t mind slinging coffee, not at all. I don’t mind the majority of the customers, for some reason, coffee shop customers tend to be more pleasant than say, fast food ones. What I mind is the way that I was treated there, as well as some of my coworkers. Hearing my supervisor muttering while standing roughly 3 feet from me (as I’m running in circles doing several jobs at once) “Nobody fucking does anything around here!” was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

A week later and I have a new job, which allows me to use more of my skills than just coffee preparation – and learn a bunch of new ones. For the first time in quite some time, I’m excited about my day job.

Maybe I’ll have enough energy left to actually create too. Being happy tends to make it happen.

Why, Yes I Am.

I’m pretty fortunate, the coffee shop I work at has plenty of decent customers. I don’t deal with a lot in the way of nasty people – occasionally though, they do come out of the woodwork.

Today was one of those days apparently. A customer dumped his trash in the garbage can before the speaker in our drive thru, then hastily sped through and to the window, blowing past the speaker. The fact he did this, then pulled up to the window demanding we take his order after laughing at his own stupidity wasn’t quite bad enough I guess. While he was pulling up to the window I had already taken an order from some wonderful soul who understands how drive thrus work – then my headset started to beep again. I explained to the guy that I couldn’t just take his order at the window because a line had formed behind him, and it wasn’t fair to them to have to wait. He first laughed like he didn’t believe I was saying “no” to him, then he drove away fast, shouting “WHAT A FUCKING BITCH!” I was annoyed, however I replied without missing a beat “Why, yes I am!”

Two orders after that, as it turns out, was him. His attitude at the window was completely changed, however, he even gave me a sorry not sorry apology. I explained again to which I got more complaining and “I just…”

Hey, folks? Not a good idea to insult people making your food/drinks.

Samuel Would be Proud

My ladylike vocabulary goes way back to my preschool years.

I mean, ideally I would blame my parents, but they had specific “go to” words they used, and I would like to believe I’ve taken it to the next level, especially if I’m really angry.

I have this memory of when I was approximately three or four years old, one which my father remembered far more clearly than me (because I don’t recall the swearing part). My neighbour (who had the wisdom of a whole other year on me) and I were climbing up into my tree fort – which, by the way, was pretty sturdy. The method of getting up the tree, not so much. The crotch of the very large maple tree was probably eight-ish feet high *in kid terms though, this was more like thirty*. The “ladder” (Haha safety, shmafety. I was an eighties kid) was a two-by-six, with board scraps hammered across it horizontally. Whether the top of the ladder was attached depended on the week. Sometimes it actually was, until it popped out again. I didn’t always tell Dad to fix it, simply because I was too busy trying to break my neck.

However, I digress.

My neighbour was trying to climb the ladder, and I was at the base, attempting to steady it. Enter my father. Well, not really “enter” per se – he stayed in the chicken coop and listened in, admittedly for his own entertainment value. It went something like this:

“Lisa, would you hold the goddamned ladder straight?”

“Jesus christ, I am holding the goddamned ladder straight!!!”

My Dad apparently decided to come help us at this point, pretending he hadn’t heard the swearing – and also trying to stop laughing. At least by then I could say “L” properly, because it would have been “goddamned wadder”. Not sure Dad could’ve kept himself composed for that.

Oh and as a side note, a picture from those years, same neighbour and I decided to cut each others’ hair (the night before school pictures, even). It went smashingly, as you can see. Mother was not pleased. Dad, well, I never got his take on this one – but I know he probably laughed – both at the cut and how hopping mad my mother was.


Dad Was a Geek Before it Was Cool.

My father was not a perfect man, I couldn’t have asked for a better dad, though. He’s been gone nearly eleven years now, and I still miss him every single day. I wish he could’ve known the man I have ended up with, he would have approved. I wish that he could have been there when I ventured into making my own music – that’s why my music name is Lisa Patric, it was his middle name. It’s an homage to the man who never made me feel like I was less than I should be.

Now, I have bittersweet memories of him as well, because he was in denial about the way my mother treated me – even though her family saw it clear as day. Unfortunately, he found out the hard way when I moved out, just how bad she could be. She blamed menopause, I call bullshit. She wasn’t menopausal when I was small and that’s where my earliest memories of her abuse are embedded. She’s just an angry, unhappy person, and I have learned I am better without her in my orbit.

All of my best memories of childhood were ones he was part of. He nurtured my inner earth child, and taught me to treat nature with the respect it deserves. He taught me the love of books, especially poetry, as well as cartoons, British comedy, and Star Trek. At forty-three, I wonder what he would think of the person I’ve become. I hope that he would be proud of me, and that he would encourage me writing as much as he did when I was a kid. Most of all, I wish that I could listen to his rumbling voice again, to have another long talk about the meaning of life and what’s beyond those lights in the sky under a blanket of stars by a campfire. My bookish ways, my geekiness, they all come from dad. He was sort of an unintentional nerd, and I am far more like him than I am like my mother. I guess despite biology, I took on the traits of the parent who adopted me, instead of the biological one. I owe everything good in myself to him.

I’ve figured it out, Dad. The answer is 42.


The Customer is Always…Right?

Each day I am treated, via the day job gig, to both the best and worst of humanity. Customer service is one of those areas where you see both sides almost daily. Anyone who’s worked a job like this *ahem* in fact – MOST – people can attest to what I’m saying.


January is a lean month at my store, so staff is also trimmed down. Unfortunately, not all customers speak the language of reality. Today, one such customer chastised me for being the only person working in that drive thru (we have two), not grasping that I have absolutely no say over this. I should note, she was around 70, had her face stretched like a drum, and was wearing enough luminizer she looked like she was trying to pick up the Tin Man… so, source considered. It’s not like I can really say much back in that situation either, other than to point out that I was the only one working over there, to which she responded that I should tell customers – before they enter the drive thru – that I’m the only one in there… okayyy. Do they put brain damaging chemicals in that luminizer crap?

On the flipside – not even an hour after that, a customer told me quite earnestly to keep up the good work, that I was doing great. Weird how the universe sends out balancing weights against the ones that can knock us out of whack. Thanks, guy, whoever you are, for making this coffee wench’s day just a little better.

Also, next time you find yourself getting frustrated by speed of service, take into account whether there are actually enough people behind that counter to do the job you expect – one more staff member sometimes makes all the difference in the world.