Installment Thirteen

A new resolve awakened me today, my brain pinging with ideas of how to move on with the rest of my life, for now anyway.

Barely out of bed, however, all the great ideas vanished as I went to make coffee. The smell of my coffee brewing triggered a memory. Jesus! I was supposed to be at work! It was day two of my job as a barista. Note to self: buy a notebook and leave it nearby always.

After my debacle with the baby bitch career counselor (she's not worth an acronym) I marched into the nearest coffee shop, asked to see the manager, filled in a form, and was hired on the spot.

Technically, though, I am not barista since my job is not at Starbucks.

In order to fully re-integrate into my Canadian culture, and capitalize on my excellent skills as a coffee server (endless dinner parties and luncheons must surely count for something) I jumped right in to the deep end.

I'm now working at a Tim Hortons.

To the uninitiated, that is anyone who is not Canadian, Tim Hortons (which I have kindly provided a link for greater cross-cultural understanding) is as Canuck as a Mountie on a horse or a hockey puck, and especially the latter since Tim was actually a hockey player tragically killed in a car accident.

It just doesn't get any more Canadian than Tim's.

I figure this 'career move' should put an end to AFG’s interest or indeed any potential male of my age looking for a nurse with a purse. There's no way any man will ever want to date a nut case like me who can barely look after herself never mind nurse another, and clearly there is no divorce settlement or life insurance money stashed somewhere (the purse).

I got that wrong.

In the middle of sweeping the floor (okay, cleaning up a mess I had personally made) I heard my name being called. There was AFG! He was peering over the counter at the cash register.

"Joelly? Is that really you?"

"Hello Alan. What are you doing here? I didn't take you for a double-double man." (Note to non-Canucks: that means a coffee with double cream, double sugar. Combined with maple glazed donuts, no fossil fuels required to function.)

"You didn't tell me..."

"...that I was completely broke and needed the first job I could get?"

"Well, yes. But why here? You are university educated. You have lived and traveled the globe. You are..."

"...much too good for this place? Is that what you are trying to say Alan?"

Did I over-do the nobility of working at a Tim Hortons? People were looking.

"Please let me take you out for dinner, Joelly. When do you get off...work...?"

So, dear reader (not you Deborah), I agreed to go out. Once only, I rationalized, just to get this guy off my back. What kind of loser hunts a woman like me?

The same kind of loser who posts on her Facebook page that she has started working at a Tim Hortons.

I knew I had forgotten something important.