Cup O' Joe

I was was watching the news today and I caught one of their random tidbits that piqued my interest. Then I thought about it and became simply annoyed. There's a guy at some coffee shop in Chicago who makes a really good cup of coffee, I guess. He can do that fancy trick where you take the foamy milk and drag the stream to make a heart. Awe, well isn't that just so fucking CUTE? Now gimme my caffeine and piss off. This dude will be going to London in June to COMPETE in the WBC--the World Barista Championship. Seriously.

Now I am no stranger to paying $4 or more for a large, delicious, caffeine-charged beverage from Starbuck's at least once a week. Can I HONESTLY taste a difference in how the hyper, Asian dude who likes to make inane small talk versus the chubby, chipper gal with a high pitched voice makes my grande black cherry nonfat latte? No, I sure can't. It's hot, it's yummy, it's in a to-go cup. And I think Starbucks is pretty high in the echelon of coffee purveyors in the industry. I'm sure there are some great little cafes which only serve free-trade, organic, camel manure-fertilized coffee ground by Himalayan orphans doing a tribal fertility dance. But to me, in the end a cup of joe is a cup of joe.

I know there are standards in coffee. I would rather lick a turd than drink coffee from 7-11 on the way out of town after I fill my tank on the way to Michigan. Sorry, friendly Indian man, your sweet demeanor and charming personality do not make up for the fact that your coffee tastes like asshole stew. Gas station coffee is bad. But MOST places make a decent cup of coffee with minimal effort. Even freakin' McDonald's has been known to satisfy my mid-afternoon caffeine jonesing.

But to raise the skill of coffee making to an art, one which can be tested in a competition on an international level is where I take issue. What are the events? Milk foam art? Hottest cup? Fastest latte? Do they do a little shimmy and flip those espresso handles around, a la Tom Cruise in "Cocktail"? Do they stand together in their extra long aprons and do a kick line while balancing a cappuccino in each hand? I don't get it. I would love to go and see what this elite coffee competition is all about. Granted, I would have to be drunk and would probably make fun of them and get kicked out.

"A barista is a person, usually a coffee-house employee, who prepares and serves espresso-based coffee drinks". With a few hours of training I am sure I could master the art of a damn latte. What is so fucking exciting about making coffee-based drinks, other than drinking unlimited amounts of them on your shift at Caribou? Who aspires to COMPETE as a barista??? Is there extensive training to prep for this? Do they have coaches? Is there a special locker room for their aprons? Do they dump Gatorade on each other when they win, because I think a cooler of cappuccino would be a little hot? I think this whole notion is really fucking weird. I just hope if this dude from Chicago wins, and the barista Olympic coffee rings are raised, that he doesn't get disqualified for doping. I've heard those baristas sometimes use some illegal performance-enhancing Guatemalan pygmy roast to up their game. Coffee freaks.

15 Minutes of Fame

I'll tell you what, Justin Bieber, I am not really sure what qualifies you as the Love Guru singing about broken hearts and romantic fantasies. When you "were 13, you had your first love". Really?! I highly doubt that. I'd wager a significant bet you don't even have PUBES yet. Your wild spastic flipping of your shaggy hair, your flirtatious nature with all the women that interview you, your puppy dog glances into the camera as if you have bedded 100 chicks. I watched you on Chelsea Lately and let me tell you one thing---Chelsea Handler could eat you up and spit you out in the shape of a dildo. She told you, "You'd better be able to carry through on all those promises you're making!" In other words, a horny rabbit on Viagra would have a hard time staking claim to all the pussy you think you can land.

I watched Bieber on Idol tonight and I'm pretty sure it was not pre-recorded. He wasn't that bad, it's just something about a KID singing and flirting with girls 10 years his senior. It's creepy. Dude, you're still wearing Garanimals from Sears (well with your new found money, maybe more like Neiman Marcus now) and probably ordered a Happy Meal within the last week. C'mon, you know you still like that cheap ass Spongebob toy. He played a drum solo which reminded me of a painful finale of a elementary school talent show. The only difference is the talent show lacks expensive pyrotechnics and back-up dancers. The chick he was seducing in his dance/song montage was at least 22. He doesn't even KNOW where her poonani is located and probably still giggles when he says "boobies". Please.

I also find his whiney, female voice painful. I never understood the deejays who announced his name when he first became popular--I seriously thought it was BEAVER. This stands to reason because it is only natural to assume he has one. I can guaran-fucking-tee once Justin actually grows hair on his man-sack and his voice drops 10 or 12 octaves, he will not be nearly so appealing. Even if he scores that Proactive deal to banish his back acne and chin boils. But by then some 10 year-old will have stolen his thunder because their boy soprano voice is more novel than his cracking, pubescent one. And he wears prosthetic ball hair because he learned from Bieber's peach fuzz nutsack mistakes. Oh, poor BABY, BABY, BABY!!! Ohhhhhhhhh!!!

Fuck You, You Weren't Invited

When I was a kid, having a McDonald's birthday party was the SHIT. I mean, Happy Meals for all your friends AND Ronald McDonald coming to wish you a creepy "Happy Birthday"? What is fucking better than that?! Nowadays, kids have upped the ante when it comes to expectations for their birthday parties. Granted, it is partially our own fault as parents. We set the bar high and then fuck ourselves for the years following. How can you go back to McDonald's when your friend invites your kid over to a live backyard petting zoo, snow cone machine, and balloon animals????!!!

My exuberance in planning my kids' parties began as soon as Sophie had her first party, which I know she hated, though she was only one year old. I chose a ballerina theme (for me, let's get fucking real here), with gorgeous invitations, a $75 cake that matched the invitation to a T, and "bouquets" of my old pointe shoes adorned with balloon clusters. I made Sophie wear a pink tulle dress with miniature pink leather ballerina Mary Janes. If I were her I would have purposely shit myself up the back to ruin the dress and have comfy jammies instead. I had about 50 people in our apartment in Chicago on the hottest day on record for April 11th. I gave myself raging migraines for weeks instigated by my party planning stress. What an asshole was I?

Every year that passes, the parties are just mandatory in my book. There's a theme, there's a buttercream-iced monstrosity cake, there are guests, there are party favors parents will probably toss in the garbage as soon as they get home. I have long since eliminated the option to have the party in my own home because then people NEVER FUCKING LEAVE. We have "location parties", which involve limiting the number of kids we invite. Sure, you have to lay out some cash to reserve the space, have a party attendant to serve food/clean-up, and entertain them in some way. But then the shit is over and done in two hours. No red frosting smashed into your carpet. No toilet clogged with errant turds 4 year-olds neglect flushing. No lingering parents who suck down two bottles of wine and want to talk bullshit about taxes or politics.

In having a "destination party", there is usually a limit to the number of guests allowed to attend the party. If you go over this quantity, you have to pay a fee per kid. In other words, the "let's invite the whole 2nd grade class" bullshit goes out the door. Do you want to go to college or do you want to have 32 kids at your fucking party? My kids have friends from several different circles. Playgroups since they were babies, gym friends, neighborhood friends, their old elementary school, their current school, their class last year, etc. Every year the guest list might change. Kids' friendships are fickle. I don't get my panties in a wad over them not being invited to other kids' parties, I get it. So when other parents get all fucking up in arms, I am perplexed and annoyed. Get the hell over yourself! Your kid got an invite last year, you didn't make the cut this year. Boo hoo to you. A friend of mine today told me how a neighbor kid who was not invited to his son's party had the parents actually COME TO HIS DOOR to confront him. He was leaving for the party, giant cake in hand, when the disgruntled parent assumed there MUST have been a mistake in why their son did not receive an invitation. Nope, no mistake, if the kid doesn't want to fucking invite him, he doesn't have to. Party quota was reached, no more kids allowed. End of discussion. And now you have assured your son will NEVER make the guest list thanks to your crybaby, bitch-ass antics.

Where will I draw the line with birthday parties? Have you seen "My Super Sweet 16" where the spoiled-ass little brats get helicoptered in to a bash that rivals most weddings? Daddy pays for some rap star to show up and serenade them? And their friends are all going APE-SHIT crazy to gain access to these parties. Limos, Manolo Blahnik heels, Gucci dresses, firework displays... And the night usually culminates with the dad presenting the birthday boy or girl with a Hummer or a Mercedes convertible. Because what EVERY sixteen year-old needs is a really expensive car and a swollen-ass head from thinking they have REAL friends who are not using them for their money and that fucking birthday party invitation. When my kids turn sixteen, screw it. I'm going old school. My Super Sweet McDonald's Birthday, baby! And no, you're STILL not fucking invited.

It's All In The Name

I have been married almost 14 years. In this length of time many of my friends and family have not bothered to learn how to spell my last name. I really don't see what is so difficult in spelling it. Sure, it's not "Smith" or "Miller" but there are some last names with WAY more fucked up spelling than mine.

It is GHAHTANI--pronounced "GAH-ta-NEE". Was that so hard? Really?! People see the two "H"'s and lose their minds. They starts to mouth how they THINK it should be pronounced but inevitably fuck it up altogether.They make some bizarre chortling goat mating call and then produce a phlegm wad. I have said at least a thousand times, "It's hard to spell but easy to say!" But what I really want to say is, "Are you that much of a dolt that you can't possible comprehend reading any non-American last name with more than two syllables?"

I have seen written, even as recently as this year...
Gantani--because why in the HELL would anyone put an H there! Clearly she must mean N..
Ghahtanitini---it's a new Middle Eastern cocktail that is made with camel's milk and garnished with a falafel wedge
Gahtanani--a yummy appetizer made with pita bread and sheep testicles
Cahtanni--Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK????

So not only is my last name intriguingly unusual, but pair it with my first name and it is downright BADASS.

Molly Ghahtani....say it a few times... That's right, it sounds just like the soup, Mulligatawny. Never heard of it? Have your ever seen the "Soup Nazi" episode of Seinfeld? It is mentioned in there. Go ahead, look it up on Google if you don't believe me. And I dare say I am probably the ONLY Molly Ghahtani around. Today I was pleasantly surprised at the cashier who rang up my groceries.
"Is Molly Ghahtani your REAL name?"
"Yup."
"Wowl!....It's really funny and cool at the same time. Awesome!"
I was astounded that A) this kid pronounced my name correctly, without stuttering, making facial contortions, or gagging in hesitation, B) he knew what the hell Mulligatawny soup was, and C) was able to see the irony in my name sounding so much like the soup's name. As I rolled my cart away, pleased I had an intelligent cashier with a full set of teeth, I smiled as I heard him still in awe of my name. That's right, I'm bad freakin' ass Molly Ghahtani. He was trying to relay the impressive news to the cashier next to him. She did not have the same luck of possessing a full set of teeth nor a full set of tools in the shed.
"Her name is Molly Ghahtani!"
"Huh? What?..."
Yes, this is the level of pathetic thrill I get psyched over and makes my nipples hard. Such is the life in suburbia. Now don't fuck up my name the next time you send me a Christmas card.