This is what happens when I’m up at 4 am.

Two Starbucks, two cities, two approaches.

The U District Starbucks, when you make a purchase in the wee hours as I just did, the cashier asks,
“Would you like a treat receipt?”

Now, for those that are unfamiliar, a Treat Receipt is a voucher that entitles the bearer to a complimentary caffeinated beverage at a time of day that is, on the whole, inconvenient on two counts:
1. It is at 4pm, when I am hauling ass to wrap up my workday, and
2. If I hope to have any amount of decent sleep, I cannot consume caffeine after 1pm.

I don’t often patronize the U District Starbucks, as I usually carpool with my coworker and we stop at the Starbucks inside the Safeway in North Bellevue. More often than not, this proves to be a frustrating enterprise. We’ve noticed the grocery store franchises are the places where they send the most inept and uncommunicative of all baristas. My most recent grudge is the Treat Receipt.

“Here’s your treat receipt!!!!” (In a very nasally, high-pitched squeaky voice, delivered with a nightmarish Pennywise-like smile complete with cocked head.)
“Uh, no, that’s ok.”
“No, here, you get a free coffee!!”
“No, that’s ok, I don’t want it. Really.”
“Are you sure? If you come in at 4pm you get a free beverage!!!”
“No, because I’m working at 4 pm and I can’t have caffeine at 4 pm or I won’t sleep.”
“But we have decaf!!!”

At this point, mostly because I was pre-caffeinated, it was taking every ounce of impulse control I had not to jump up onto the counter in my 3-inch Danskos, grab the receipt and shove it into her idiotic, vapid, grinning face. I mean honestly!! This is like, Treat Receipt harassment. Who DOES that? I mean, I can’t imagine the twit gets any incentive for giving away free coffee. Bloody hell.

Compared to the adorable boy at the U District Starbucks:

“Would you like your treat receipt?”
“No thanks.”
“Ok! Have a great day!”

Egads! After days of Treat Receipt harassment I wanted to snuggle-tackle this young man. Who looked 12. Which now sounds really gross. Ew.

Anyway. That’s it. I’m at the bus stop at 6:30 am. So, uh. Yeah.


Hello.  My name is Niff.  And I am a Goo Hoarder.

The below media is intended for educational purposes only:

Fortunately my Goo seems to be restricted to lip adornment and has not yet evolved into hair care or nail polish.  Which is probably best, because as I have four housemates, space is limited.

Allow me to demonstrate:


So. This was the mass of products just in my backpack. This doesn’t count the ridiculous cacophony of pink tubes stashed away in the wicker baskets under my bed. Sephora LOVES me.  The number of points I’ve burned through is completely mad.  I acknowledge this isn’t healthy.  I realize that there isn’t a single person who needs all of this crap for their face.  I suppose I could find some comfort in knowing that I am not alone in my addiction…but not really.

I seriously don’t think I’ve finished a tube in my life.  I go to the drugstore for ibuprofen and walk out with Goo.  I go to Nordstrom for shoes…walk out with Goo.  Groceries?  Yeah.  Goo.  You will notice that all of the colors above are basically the same bloody color.  But I keep accumulating more, as if they will suddenly halt all Goo production and I will be left with Goo-less lips.  People have Zombie Plans but what about a Goo-Drought contingency?  Yeah.

Oddly enough, Goo is ridiculously cumbersome, despite what would, in all appearances, seem like an obsessive love affair: it attracts hair like freaking velcro and then you get to pull your Goo-covered hair off of your face.  It’s like face mortar.  And for some inexplicable reason, during my morning prep routine, in what I’m sure is a misplaced sense of efficiency, I plop this slimy mess on before I engage in my dental hygiene regimen.  Which means that not only have I successfully removed all of the afore-applied Goo, but now the crap is all over my hands and toothbrush and, somehow, my face.  I acknowledge this may be user error.  I think my body is absorbing all of this Goo, the lipids are being transported into my blood stream where they are carried to my brain and thusly clog all the areas of my brain responsible for rational decision-making skills.  Seriously.  Like some kind of Goo-induced aneurism.  Gooneurism.  Jesus, see?  No sane person comes up with that shit.

Voulez-voulez-vous I NEED THAT SCIENCE.

Internal monologue.

5:10 am, Saturday.

Me: Hey, brain? It’s Saturday. TOO EARLY, man. Go back to sleep.
Brain: But, I wanna get up.
Me: I don’t. You can get up at 5am on Monday.  Today?  Sleep.
Brain: Sigh. 

7:15 am, Saturday

Me: Whaddahell??
Brain:  I gave you two bloody hours! What, are you a lazy teenager all of a sudden?
Me: It’s the principle of the thing…
Brain: What time did you go to bed?
Me: I duno, 11, maybe?
Brain: And it’s 7 now, that makes 8 hours.  That is absolutely sufficient.
Me: But the point of the weekend is to oversleep.
Brain: Considering that you usually get around 6 hours during the week due to your pesky Netflix habit, you have succeeded.
Me: But –
Brain: My logic is undeniable.
Me: Sigh