The Brother and the Barista

I woke up before the alarm this afternoon to the sound of giggling. I pondered for a minute, because there is no giggling in my house because if there is giggling, it's usually coming from me. Brother does not giggle. I stumbled out of bed, downstairs, to find another female in the house: Brother's...uhhh...well...Special Friend. Brother, who also happens to be a tattoo artist, had set up shop in the dining room and was putting the finishing touches on a tattoo while listening to the Chiefs getting pecker-slapped on television. Brother is pretty talented with the tattoo gun, and yet I am not inked. I'd let him give me a tattoo, but three problems exist: 1. I don't know what I want. 2. I don't know where I would put it. 3. It's permanent.

At any rate, Mom calls and mentions she spoke with Brother earlier, and knew about Special Friend being at the house getting a tattoo. Apparently, he also gave her a mushroom tattoo last night. Even more disturbing: Mom is the one who told me this. Brother doesn't know what the word "discreet" means. I'm guessing it thinks it where you can park your car. In discreet. I don't know which is worse. Knowing when Brother gets his jollies off, or the fact that Mom is the one telling me. Eww.

Brother rode with me to work tonight because he still doesn't have his truck fixed, and my car is currently the community transportation in my house. With him also having to report for work later that night, it just made sense to have him drop me off, then pick me up in the morning. When asked when we could expect the truck to be fixed, the answer is a solid "I don't know". In his defense, I am told that a new transmission for Oprah is going to run around $1200, and he is still saving up for it. I can't complain, he routinely takes it to get it washed, and he changes the oil. However, he did take the flowered leis that were hanging around the headrests and toss them in the backseat. When I asked him why, he said it was because he didn't want to look gay. I reminded him that he was driving a PT Cruiser and that it couldn't be avoided.

Before hitting the highway, I stopped by my favorite local watering hole (Starbucks) for something with teeth because I knew I was going to need it. A whole weekend with patients who were being assholes, and were good candidates for APT (anterior pillow therapy), and I was two seconds away from having a nuclear meltdown.

Brother makes a face when I pull into the Starbucks drive-thru. He complains that the cup sizing is confusing, and it's impossible to go in and order just a plain cup of coffee. Brother is not overly impressed with Starbucks. Brother drinks his coffee black. Anything added to coffee, he feels, just makes you a candyass. I'm a candyass. I know this, so let's move on.

I place my order, and ask Brother if he would like a coffee. Yes. A big, plain coffee.

Barista: Would you like any cream, or syrup or sugar in that.

Brother: No. My coffee doesn't need a vagina.

I pull around to the window and the Barista pops out like a cuckoo in a clock and says, "One Venti Iced Quad Marble Macchiato No Whip, and One Venti Brewed Coffee." She takes my Starbucks card and pops back into the window.

Brother: I didn't understand a fucking thing she just said.

We get our drinks, and we hit the road. Brother's coffee is so hot, a layer of his tongue sloughs off after one drink. He curses the Starbucks Barista. It was probably retribution for that vagina remark.

Monday is the visitation for Greg followed by Beam and Coke at Harry's, for those who might want to stop by and raise a glass to him. Hopefully, Brother will have avoided signing up for overtime, and I will actually have use of my car.