Good Times, Good Times

Due to the recent, alarming increase in customer service complaint calls and emails I've received about one of the cafe locations, we'll be hiring several positions immediately. I'll be cleaning house as soon as we get promising candidates on board.

Rather than list necessary qualifications, I'd rather go into who need not apply. (Long haired freaky people are okay.)

1. If you have an out of area phone number. You're out.
2. Band members. Your "gigs" come first, I understand. No.
3. Anyone leaving for school at the end of August. You must be joking.
4. People looking to start in mid-September. Then only on Tuesday mornings and on
Sunday between 10:30 AM and 2:00 PM.
5. Organizational nuts, whiners, blamers, flakes, crackheads and drifters.

Perhaps you know someone looking for a solid, fun job. Perhaps that person has vowed to never again wear a tie and/or pantyhose. Please give them my address at shannon@hartfordcoffeecompany.com.

Tower Grove South thanks you, as do I.

I Can Talk About It, Now

Finally, after many tears, I am ready to tell the story.

I live in a four family affair with two townhomes topped by two condominiums. My family resides in the former. Several months ago, our neighbors above moved out. These are the same folks who had an entire chest freezer of meat go rancid after said freezer crapped out and nobody noticed until I made some pointed threats about the horrific smell. But I digress...

The neighbors moved out and the condo sat unsold for months. I began to see critters in my kitchen on occasion. Yup, a real, live roach every few days. Clearly, the hoosiers upstairs had bugs and now that their food source was gone, the lousy little things decided to camp out in my kitchen. I didn't like it, but at least I knew it wasn't really my problem. Famous last words.

Fast forward a month and the damned things had fully taken over my kitchen. Primarily, the dishwasher. Every time I opened it, one or two of 'em would scamper around until I unleashed my full fury and squashed them into paste with a leg here and there. I went to Home Depot and purchased every "pest" product available. The kitchen was a NO-GO zone due to all the poison about. Unfortunately, there was very little improvement until we made a drastic decision.

After some very deep breathing and arming ourselves with towels, poison, 9mm spray, an internet print out identifying different types of roaches and their...eww..egg sacs, we dismantled the entire dishwasher. We had found the Roach Mecca. Deafening screeching ensued, as did serious bruising of the side of my fist and several accidental poisonous over-sprays.

I no longer have a functioning dishwasher. The damage caused by our Shock and Awe campaign rendered it useless and impossible to reassemble. The silver lining is that we no longer have a roach problem, either.

Exit Strategy

If I am suddenly, inexplicably missing one of two things has occurred.

Scenario Uno: One of my multiple ex-husbands has made good on his promise to "get me." This is the far more unlikely possibility.

Scenario Dos: I've dropped out of society, Unabomber style, and am stumbling around Beale Street in Memphis. Most probably, I will be mumbling to myself and have unintentionally developed dreadlocks. I will not be "stalking" him in the literal/legal sense, but I may believe that I am dating Jonny Lang.

Please try to keep a five-spot in your pocket if you come looking for me. I'm gonna need a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a menthol cigarette.

Just, you know, in case this ever happens.

As Good As It Gets

It's pretty commonly known that I have some germ issues. Most of them relate to food or items having a relationship to food like dishes, glasses and silverware.

I like to prepare my own food. My hands are immaculately clean, my workspace is spotless and I don't scratch my head or pick my nose while I'm cooking. At home I use disposable utensils, plates and cups. Paper towels are stocked and antibacterial soap is at the ready. Yes, I know I'm killing the earth.

Communal dining is also a major problem. Nothing makes my skin crawl like the phrase, "Here, try mine." There are only a few people permitted to trade foods with me. You know who you are. To take a bite from your fork, share a dessert or stick my hand into your box of cheese doodles, I must be incredibly comfortable with you.

I like to use plastic or paper at the cafe. I eat at places where I can see the kitchen from my seat. I go out with people who don't give me a hard time about my quirks. Eat-Rite or don't eat at all? I'll pass, thanks.