Hurricane? More like HURRAYcane

WORK IS CANCELLED!! WORK IS CANCELLED!! WORK IS CANCELLED!!!

I haven’t been as active on Twatter or the blog as I would have liked to have been in the last few days, reporting on the hurricane and stuff, but sorrynotsorry. There’s slightly more important things concerning me at the moment. You know. Like. MY FUCKING LIFE???

To be honest, I wasn’t really paying that much attention to the weather. I woke up a few days ago with this unholy-end-of-the-world-larger-than-Sandy zit on my chin. It was from a handful of chocolate I had in a moment of crisis when my father told me he was going to Miami for a consultation on a plastic surgery. Apparently, someone else got ravaged by some psycho on bath salts and he was called in for support. You can imagine my surprise when he said he only had one ticket. He thought that since I was doing so well being independent I would have made arrangements to get out of the city and away from Sandy. Well, news flash, Dad. I’m not, and I didn’t.

I crammed a handful of chocolates in my mouth and savored their sinful deliciousness. It wasn’t until two days ago that I had woken up to a zit the size of Everest on my chin that shit started to get real. I had to get out of the city. If not for my life’s sake, for the sake of not being seen by anyone I knew.

A little bit about my living situation: I don’t live in the shittiest of apartments in lower Manhattan. But obviously it’s not the Hamptons. But on my floor, there’s a travel agent, Jessica. She’s constantly asking about my travels I used to do with my family. Somehow, word got out that I used to summer in Paris with Dad and then Spring Break in Bonaire with Mom. So she thinks I’m really worldly.

Anyway, I knew I couldn’t just go to the airport and stand in line at a ticket counter hoping that there was a flight out to Paris, or Barcelona, or some place dry with culture. Especially not with this abomination on my face. So I threw on some really chunky Chanel sunglasses and a Marc Jacobs headscarf that I usually only pull out on those days that I’m so swollen from drinking that I look like I’ve fallen in a salt lick, and walked down to her door.

The door was disgusting. I mean, most of the doors in my building could use some work, but this door was just straight up tacky. It had pin ups of ghosts and pumpkins and some fat green bitch riding a broom who looked like she was having way too much fun (sidebar, no way a broom could hold her weight up. But I guess not all witches are thin and pretty enough to travel by bubble). I tried to find a space on the door that wasn’t covered in fake/real cobwebs to knock on. When I finally found a space near the floor, I kicked it until
Jessica answered.

She, not unlike the witch on her door, was a plump woman. Frizzy red hair that was too done up with hairspray to be a mistake. Her glasses were askew and she was out of breath.

“Kaldi!” she cried. “What are you still doing here? I thought you’d be on your way to Miami by now with your dad!”

“He only had one ticket. And. Wait. How the hell did you know about that?”

“Paper thin walls. You know.”

I was instantly more nervous. What else had she heard? My phone calls with Dylan? My breakdowns after 9 hour days on cold bar? My obsession with Britney Spears? This bitch surely had dirt on me.

“Yeah. Well. Look. I need to get out of the city and lay low for a few days. Can you get me a ticket somewhere?”

“I know the hurricane is a mess isn’t it?” She smiled, shakily, exposing her lipstick stained snaggletooth.

“Huh? Oh yeah. The hurricane.” I adjusted the headscarf a little more to make sure my chin was covered.

“Actually. I have an extra ticket to my hometown. I tried to get my boyfriend to come with me but he changed his number last week. And I can’t find him on Facebook, and I don’t know any of his friends…”

She kept going on about her “boyfriend” which I could tell by this point didn’t actually exist. Jessica was clearly a victim of her own overactive imagination and her “boyfriend” was probably a Clay Aiken claymate. And as much as I would have enjoyed listening to her straight girl/gay man problems, I had a city to evacuate and she wasn’t making things any easier.

“Yeah. Jessica. That sucks. So. You have an extra ticket? Can I buy it off of you?”

She stopped her monologue and beamed at me. She was over the moon that I would volunteer to accompany her to her hometown, whatever shithole that might have been.

“Of course, Kaldi. It’ll be nice to have a friend along.”

A part of me felt bad. I never considered this chick a “friend” but she was doing me a solid, so I figure there’s no harm in letting her call me a friend. I packed a bag and Marilyn in her pet taxi and rode with Jessica to LaGuardia.

A few hours later I touched down in a place I never EVER fathomed I would EVER be.

Des Moines, Iowa.

I’ve tried my hardest to lay low over the last twenty-four hours. Not that there’s anyone here who would recognize me, but then again, you never know. I’m currently in Jessica’s parents’ house, sleeping in their guest room. It’s quaint but I need to get out. The walls are tainted with paper that might as well have been straight out of The Yellow Wallpaper and the upholstery hurts my delicate skin. I’ve seen more beerguts than I would have ever hoped to see in my life, and there are WAY too many Romney supporters. I don’t care if the state is projected to vote Democrat. The number of pick-up trucks and Fantastic Sam’s haircuts give me reason to doubt.

I need to get out of here. Please. Sandy. Go back from whence you came and let me return to civilization…. even if that civilization is Starbucks in lower Manhattan.

XOXO
Kaldi

Sandy blows harder than Frappuccino Happy Hour. #bitchingbarista

New Reality Show

My store is woefully understaffed at the moment. I don’t know what it is. We have the labor, so I’m told, but our partners seem to have…. less than open availability. Not me, you understand. I open, I close, I’m loaned out. I basically do whatever the store wants me to do because after my dad cut me off and Project Runway season 10 ended, I basically have nothing to do. But my obsession with reality television (believe me. It’s an obsession, and it’s sick) got me thinking. I am going to ask my hiring manager to let me host a competition to choose the next barista. It’s not that I think he hires bad people, but he’s not on the floor as much as he should be, in my opinion. He doesn’t see the opportunities that I do. The skills needed to be a great barista aren’t ones that a person is inherently born with, but this competition would find the rare human who was, dare I say it, born to be a barista.

And Bravo should totally pick this up for Summer 2013.

Picture this. Opening credits. An espresso machine flashes on screen. A blender appears. Whipped cream is being put on a hot drink. And then, against a white background, the Siren appears. The camera swoops from overhead to find me standing alone behind a hot bar with twelve hopeful barista candidates behind me. My hand is on my hip, my teeth are glistening white, I’m not stained with Frappuccino roast for once and I say: “This is Starbucks.”

The credits continue to roll showing each of the contestants. They’re struggling to make whipped creams. My voice is heard over the images: “Welcome to ‘The Barista.’ For these twelve hopefuls, Starbucks represents the chance of a lifetime. This is a challenge like no other. We’ll put these potential baristas to the test. Can they survive? Or will they go down in flames?”

And then, each of the contestants would have their 1-line introduction. Something like “I’m here to win,” or “These other bitches need to look out.” And the one obligatory gay man would say something like “You know my foam is firm!”

Each week the barista-testants would be challenged in a mini-game. I’d say something like “Contestants. In front of you is a pile of 2000 timers. One of those timers is going off. The first one to find the beeping timer will receive immunity from the elimination challenge.” Or “Contestants. In front of you is the pastry case. Working in two teams, you must change the AM pastry case over to PM adhering to Siren’s Eye. The team that does this the fastest will earn immunity.”

Each elimination challenge would be a timed bar-off between contestants without immunity. The two with the lowest score would be up for elimination. The two hopefuls would then plead their case as to why they should stay. The person who wins my heart/bullshits the best will receive a green apron, signifying their continued struggle to become the next Starbucks Barista. Eliminations would go like this:

Kaldi: “Angela. Your poor performance in the therapist mini-challenge proved to be… too stressful. Your foam is weak and your milk screams louder than the seams on a Star Jones dress. I’m sorry my dear but you are UP for elimination Why should you stay?”
Angela: “Well Kaldi, I’m really a great people person. And I think your shoes are to die for. I could learn so much from you.”
Kaldi: “Very well. Angela, will you accept this green apron?”
Angela: *crying* “Oh my god yes. Yes I will!”
Kaldi: “I’m sorry Christopher. That means your out. Auf weidersehen.”

The final barista-testant left standing would earn the coveted barista position at my store. They would grow. They would be great. And they would sell their soul.

I think this is a fabulous idea. And even if Bravo wouldn’t air it, I’d have fun putting these people through the ringer. You think Starbucks is an easy job? Come talk to me. I’ll see if you have what it takes.

XOXO
Kaldi

 

 

 

 

 

Honey Boo Boo makes me look normal. #bitchingbarista

 

New Pet’s Name

So a few days ago I told myself that I’d get a new pet. My cat, Marilyn needed a friend. Another cat is out of the question because Ms. Monroe (yes, my cat’s name is Marilyn Monroe. What the fuck do you want from me?) gets crazy jealous when there are other felines around. And a dog is a big no no because my Louboutins are way too important to me. So I thought the perfect choice would be a fish. But I couldn’t think of a good name. Here’s my list. Keep in mind, I wrote this list when I was on the verge of fainting because of hunger, so a lot of these are food related. I know. Dark.

Mocha

Latte

Howard Schultz

Popcorn

Mila

Karl

Kale Salad

Mittens Romney

Honey Boo Boo

Abby Lee

Sexy Pants

Sgt. Pepper

Apple

Zooey Deschanel

Kaldi

I realized a little too late that this has nothing to do with coffee or Starbucks. But this is my blog. So. I do what I want. Thanks for indulging me.

XOXO
Kaldi

P.S. Marilyn ate the fish within 5 minutes of me bringing him home. I decided to name him Mittens. Okay. Bye.

Iced coffee is my gogo juice. #bitchingbarista

Dear Kaldi via Twatter

From Twatter:

Dear Kaldi,

It’s your name based on the goatherder of coffee legend?

N*****

 

Dear Way Too Invested,

Interesting question. And one that I’ve actually had asked before. But not by anyone on my blog or Twatter. At least not until now.

The truth is, my real honest to goodness name is Kaldette. But it wasn’t always Kaldette. When I was born, my parents decided to name me after my mom’s grandmother, who practically raised her. Her name was Claudette. I never met her, but the stories that my mom tells me about her are really inspiring. Apparently, she was as obsessed with fashion as I am and actually snuck into the Chanel tent at New York Fashion Week in 1967. Love her for that. Anyway, when I was first learning to speak, I apparently had a terrible speech impediment. It was actually a topic that still gives me chills today. Maybe that’s the reason I find it much easier to write my thoughts rather than deliver them verbally. Regardless, when I was first learning to speak, I insisted that my name was “Kaldette” due to my speech issue. My mom, who at the time was going through severe bout with free thinking and expression mixed with daydrinking, (dark times) actually had my name legally changed to reflect what I had been saying all along. She thought it was a great homage to her grandmother, while still maintaining my own individuality. Dad supported the decision, thinking that Kaldette Jones had a nice ring to it. That, and I don’t think he ever cared for Claudette senior. Apparently she threw a lit cigarette at him on his and my mom’s first date.

Kaldi is just a shortened version of my name. The fact that there’s some goat herder somewhere in the history books having something to do with coffee with the same name is purely coincidental. Though, now that I think about it, it is pretty cool… and an odd coincidence at that.

Anyway, this shit just got real personal up in here. I need to go smoke out to forget that I ever told you coffee slaves any of this.

Keep it real
XOXO
Kaldette Kaldi Jones

Ellen hasn’t asked me to be on her show yet. That’s weird. #bitchingbarista

Good Morning, Starbucks

Every few months, I treat myself to a Broadway show. Being a gay man (practically), and living in Manhattan, it’s kind of a civic duty of mine to support musical theatre. My dad’s one of the top plastic surgeons in the city, so naturally he has box seats to just about every show. Fortunately for me, Dad doesn’t care too much for live theatre, unless it’s a Knicks game – which, sidebar, might as well be billed as A Chorus Line, with all of that choreography and unnecessary sweating. So I usually wind up with the tickets.

Broadway isn’t just about seeing a show. Oh sure, it’s inevitably a Who’s-Who in gay culture, but it’s so much more than that. It’s about being immersed completely in fictitious peoples’ lives and being shown a new way of seeing the world (am I published yet?).

I saw a show back in 2006 with my gay bestie Dylan from LA. He was in town visiting for the weekend, trying to land a modeling gig and I thought a good way to show him around would be to take him to a show. Now, normally, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea of seeing a musical named after one of the most horrendous, useless, anti-green, hair destroying bullshit products on the market, but Hairspray was actually a show worth seeing. Too, I loved the fact that Ricki Lake was the original Tracy Turnblad back in ’88.

I always make it a point to show up to these events wearing something a little, shall we say, avant garde. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to show up to a Broadway performance wearing a meat dress or some fucked up version of a broken disco ball – get your life right, Gaga – but I will wear something that will get me noticed. Because, at the end of the day, I need to draw the attention of the three straight men at any Broadway theater. Even if the show sucks major dick, either literally or figuratively, I figure the night shouldn’t be a total waste. On this night in particular, I showed up wearing a traditional early 1800s opera gown with a mask and a really elaborate up-do. In addition to being a model, Dylan’s pretty handy with a curling iron.

The first number had me lowering my mask. It was that good. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was the bright colors, or the pleasantly plump actress with a killer voice, or the 2/3 of a Xanax and double vodka tonic I had downed in the limo. Or maybe it was a combination of all three. This show was fucking awesome.

The reason I bring all of this up is because I got off the phone with Dylan earlier this evening. He calls from time to time to make sure I’m alive and check on the writing (he’s the only person in the world who knows that I write about Starbucks and I’m the only person who knows about his tiny coke habit and rendezvous with a former male politician. We’re great friends like that). We got to talking about Hairspray and it really made me think about the opening number, “Good Morning, Baltimore.”

First of all, why the fuck would anyone be saying “good morning” to a shithole like Baltimore? It’s smelly, loud, and really REALLY unchic. And then it hit me. Starbucks is Baltimore. And so, loyal readers/musical theatre patrons/gays, I give you “Good Morning, Starbucks,” in the style of Hairspray.

KALDI:
Whoa oh oh woke up today feeling the way I always do…
Oh oh oh, hungry for something that I can’t eat when I hear that beat.
That rhythm of town starts calling me down,
It’s like a message from Hell below.
Oh oh oh, pulling me out to the freaks and the bitches, I know.

Good morning, Starbucks!
Every day’s full of mindless fucks!
Every night is a headache!
Every drink order seals my fate!
Good morning, Starbucks!
And some day when I lose all control, the world’s gonna wake up and see…
Starbucks killed Kaldi….

Oh oh oh, look at my hair! This shit’s not fair. Can I go home?
Oh oh oh, I’ve got my apron and bullshit shoes. Dear God let me move!
The rats on the street, all dance ’round my feet.
They seem to say “Kaldi, your job sure sucks!”
So oh oh, don’t make me late, cuz I need to get down to Starbucks!

Good morning, Starbucks!
There’s the lady who gets “frappes!”
There’s the bum who knows my name!
I’m really nice, but they still complain!
Good morning, Starbucks!
And someday when I just can’t go on, the world’s gonna wake up and see…
Starbucks killed Kaldi!

I know every drink. I know every song.
I know there’s a place where I belong.
I know there are better jobs out there, I’ll bet!
So someone please take be before I drop dead!!!

Oh oh oh give me a chance! Because when I start to dance, Mila Kunis will cry!
Oh oh oh something inside of me starts to snap, when you order “fraps.”
My lead tells me “no,” but fashion says “GO!”
This bullshit apron has got to go…
So oh oh don’t make me wait one more moment for you to decide
(Good morning… good morning…. bitch needs to order right now)!!

I hate you, Starbucks!
Every shift seems like I get fucked!
Every night is a nightmare! I need a raise but you just don’t care!
And I promise, Starbucks,
That someday when I get out of here, the world’s gonna wake up and see…
Gonna wake up and see….
You did not kill me.
You did not kill me. (Yes more or less we are the free)
You will not kill me!!!

*headset dings* Welcome to Starbucks, my name is Kaldi. What can I get started for you?

 

 

XOXO
Kaldi

My dad doesn’t love me enough to get me a place in the Hamptons

So ever since I was forcibly moved out of my dad’s apartment in Manhattan and into my own place in the bowels of Hell, i.e. lower Manhattan, I’ve been trying to separate myself as much as I can from my former life. Like, I don’t frequent Barneys as much anymore because I can’t fucking afford it. I mainly just go in to smell the fabrics and frighten sales girls. I mean, sure. I still keep up with fashion and know what’s going on at any given point. I’m not an animal. But I’ve really had to reel it in.

The thing is, I started watching this show a few weeks ago on my friend’s Netflix account. She doesn’t know that I stole her account name and password while she was clawing through a bag of potato chips like a rabid alley creature, so let’s keep that to ourselves. Serves her right, though. Maybe that will teach her to lay off the trans fats. Love you, Lauren!

Anyway. I started watching this show called Revenge. Normally, I hate anything on cable that doesn’t involve copious amounts of male homoerotic undertones, but I have to say, this show spoke to me.

The quick wit, the plotting, the sass, and the FABULOUS clothes….. It was like I was looking into my former self…. My former self before the baseball caps and horrendous black polos.

It reminded me of the time I asked my dad to rent me a house in South Hampton if I couldn’t live with him any longer. He met my completely reasonable request with a swift “no,” and now here I am (more about this in my memoir!! If only someone would publish me…..)

But here’s the thing I love. You never see any of these Hamptonites drinking out of a Starbucks cup. You never hear about them running by Starbucks on their way to Ina Garten’s house. They’re too concerned with fundraising events for indigent Sri Lanken children to worry about whether or not they’re going to get the right amount of extra caramel in their venti extra caramel caramel Frappuccino blended coffee.

Why?

Because they have better things to do.

Watching Revenge really opened my eyes to the clients we keep at Starbucks. We cater to the middle management types. The types that don’t have a ton of control over their work or their career or their lives. But we as humans crave stability. We crave the ability to control our lives, no matter how small or how miniscule the detail. And in the case for most of us, that control comes in the form of customizing a latte past the point of any discernible improvements that might have been made to espresso, milk, and foam.

In some ways, I guess I can appreciate the futility that many of our lives have in spades. That is to say, were my dad to honor my request made years ago to live in the Hamptons, I would have never known this type of mentality. The type that says “My boss is a total cuntbag. There’s no way I can possibly get all of these reports to him in under three hours. I can’t control this. But I can control what I’m drinking. Give me a half-caf quad tall 3.5 pump vanilla 2 pump chai half 1% half soy upside down extra caramel 2 splenda 1 equal with whip in a venti cup caramel macchiato….. Oh I meant iced.” With so little control one actually has in his or her career, it’s easy to see why one would want to exercise that control in another way. In this case, at Starbucks.

Anyway. That’s my schpeal. My dad didn’t love me enough to get me a place in the Hamptons and now I’m learning about the other half (my half?) while watching Emily Van Camp/Katniss (unclear) fuck up some people’s lives.

My brain hurts after all of that. I’m taking a Xanax and sleeping until Tuesday. Kaldi out.

XOXO
Kaldi

What the fuck is this Dunkin Donuts cup doing in my trash? #bitchingbarista

Kaldi Kunis

For those of you living under a rock, Mila Kunis was named the sexiest woman in the world, by Esquire. And for those of you just joining the Kaldi Jones segment of pop culture, SHE FUCKING STOLE MY LIFE!!!!

I was originally supposed to be cast as Lily in Black Swan. Until the producers saw me drinking an iced venti latte when I went to hash out the details of my contract. What my iced latte said to them was “Oh. This girl is drinking milk. There’s no way she’ll be able to keep up with the fouettes needed for this role. Get Mila on the phone.”

And now, in addition to having to listen to listen to all my straight guy friends gush over how gorgeous she is, now I have to be bombarded with her face every time I open my browser. This shit needs to end.

That should have been me. I should be the one on covers of magazines. I should be the one on TV. I should be the one getting paid millions to be in movies. And instead, my milky white skin has been stained with Frappuccino roast. All of the conditioner in the world isn’t enough to restore my natural sheen to my hair after it’s been buried under a bullshit baseball hat. And my hands haven’t felt the gentile caress of a Korean manicurist in way too fucking long.

Life sucks.

Fuck you, Kunis.

Fuck you, Esquire.

Fuck you, Frappuccinos.

Fuck you, Howard.

You’ve stolen my fame.

I want it back.

I hit 20,000 views yesterday. I guess that’s something.

 

Kaldi

I could have been Mila Kunis. #bitchingbarista

Okay. Seriously. What the fuck, guys?

In this post I will break one of my cardinal rules: bitching about other partners.

A few weeks ago I was on loan to another store in the area. Something about another partner’s plastic surgery going horribly wrong. Or maybe my store just wanted to get rid of me for the week. I don’t know. Whatever. Anyway, being the awesome partner I am, I was sent to work at another store for a week. The reason it’s taken me this long to write this blog is because I was having a major internal struggle with whether or not I should write this at all. I decided that I would, because I think that my readers will really benefit from this. Maybe some of you will see yourself and your partners in this blog. And then maybe you can learn from these peoples’ mistakes.

I walked into the store on my first day and was instantly taken aback by how much slower it was than my store. Keep in mind, I’m used to constant lines. Both in drive through and in the cafe. We’re lucky to have a chance to breathe and grab water/fix our hair. This store was practically a vacation. Or it would have been, if the store wasn’t so fucking disgusting.

My first day in the store was spent cleaning as much as I could. I’m not saying that I’m quite as bad as this chick from The OCD Project:

But I like to have a clean bar. Not too much to ask.

I scrubbed sinks that haven’t felt the loving touch of a scrub pad and cleaning solution in months. I sanitized plexies that were brown.

But this wasn’t even the half of it.

No day dots. No red sanitizer bucket. The sanitizer trays under the bars might as well have been filled with breve.

Fucking disgusting.

And here’s the thing. Is it really that difficult to wipe a counter down? Is is that taxing on your day to clean the pastry case of crumbs? Is it too much to ask to stock the condiment bar?

The shifts that I worked with were jaded and annoying. They took the attitude of “I’ll let the next lead worry about breaks.” And let me just say this. I’m jaded too. I’m THE bitching barista. But really guys? Suck my dick. You stand around your store all day and do nothing. You people have nothing to complain about. Work an eight hour shift at my store. If you’re not huddled in the back in the fetal position crying after thirty minutes on bar, then you might earn a small percentage of my respect. But until then, shut the fuck up, grab a towel, and clean your bar. I don’t know how QASA hasn’t shut you down.

I guess the thing that bothers me the most is the fact that I busted my ass for an entire week; five days, eight hours each day making drinks, making backups, sliding from DT to bar to R1 all over the course of 15 minutes to fill YOUR spots because you’re in the back looking at porn on whatever iDevice you schlepped to work that day.

My intention in writing this is to try to open the eyes of my readers. Look at your store the next time you go in. If you see a spill, clean it up. If you notice your fridge has stains, wipe it out. If your espresso hoppers are yellow, do something about it. Becoming complacent and apathetic to your surroundings only gives validation to customers that think that we’re underachievers. I’m not saying you go psycho on your coworkers, but taking pride in what you’re doing will only have a positive impact on your life. What’s wrong with that? Nothing, that’s what.

And so, dear readers, I hope that this is the last time we have to have this little talk. Please. Just do your fucking jobs.

XOXO
Kaldi Jones

Is that a really awful tan, or did I throw a bottle of pumpkin spice at you? Hmm…. #bitchingbarista

Dear Kaldi… Tattoos

Dear Kaldi,

What are your opinions on visible tattoos at work? I ask because I recently got a tattoo for my grandmother who passed away on my wrist and my manager is saying I need to cover it. I think it’s totally unfair, given the circumstance. What do you think?

 

Dear Kat Von D,

Interesting question. To be honest, I’m not the hugest fan of tattoos, at least on me personally. The thing is, fashion changes so rapidly that it’s nearly impossible to keep up with unless you’re Heidi Klum or me. Right now, tattoos are “in.” But I can’t commit fully to them staying “in” too much longer. I digress.

Second, I have to ask. What is your tattoo like? Is it cute and simple like this:

Or is it something like this:

Please be the first. Please be the first. Please be the first.

Here’s the thing. I know that tattoos can be very personal and very meaningful. And truthfully, the coffee wouldn’t taste any different coming from someone free of any body modification versus it coming from someone who has full body tattoos. And on that note, I can sympathize with you. On the flip side, tattoos, no matter how small or discrete, can make people uncomfortable. And we are in the business of serving people; making sure that they are comfortable. So I can sympathize with your manager’s decision as well.

The bottom line is, at work you will have to cover your tattoos. Whether or not this is morally acceptable in my book is irrelevant. You are paid to adhere to Starbucks dress code standards. With that being said, I think a small tattoo on a wrist should be accepted. As long as the body modification isn’t excessive, I don’t see the problem.

But you shouldn’t see this as defeat. Use this opportunity to expand your wardrobe. It’s getting colder. Invest in some cute long sleeve shirts. Maybe a watch. In the end, I think you’ll be pleased.

XOXO
Kaldi

I didn’t know today would be so busy. I hadn’t prepared myself for that. I’m firing my astrologer. #bitchingbarista