(Probably titling the entry "Starbutts" is not the best start, but I never claimed to be particularly politic. And come on, Starbutts? There's an eight year old inside me that finds that very, very funny.)

I really need to become a shift supervisor at some point. Sooner, rather than later, since my dad is retiring and for some ungodly reason, this means I can't hit up my parents for rent money anymore. Credit card bills are one thing to let slide, but rent is quite another. Time to get a real job.

(I know, I know. Nobody feels sorry for me.)

I started thinking seriously about it this weekend, when both my assistant manager and a shift supervisor were talking about how everyone already thinks I am a shift, because I've been there forever and I know what I'm doing, and I'm trustworthy and a leader and people look up to me and blah blah.

I mean, it's not brain surgery. It's coffee making. Throw in some cash handling and customer service, and there you have it. I know I can do the damn job.

One reason I haven't actively tried to become a supervisor is because our district manager wants a commitment of 25 hours a week, which I can't do. But primarily, it was because I had been unable to work more than five hour shifts without excruciating back pain. "Yes, I'd like a promotion, but I can only work three hours at a time, two days a week, and I won't get up before eight in the morning."

Now, thanks to the Bra of Miracles, my back doesn't hurt very much after five hours of work, and I may be able to be more flexible in scheduling. I still can't commit to 25 hours a week, but I have a feeling that I can persuade them to train me as a shift anyway. One of our other shifts works less hours than I do. If she can do it, why can't I?

And like I said, I am really going to need the money. An extra $2 an hour will go a long way, believe me.

Like I mentioned a couple of entries back, I need new work pants. I knew I needed them when I was up on the counter at Starbucks, changing the chalkboard, and I realized that all the customers in line could see my underwear, since my pants had shuffled off to Buffalo. "Buffalo" in this case being halfway down my ass.

I do have a belt, but it's a little too small. Okay, it's a lot small. In fact, I think I've been hanging onto it since I was twelve years old, in the hopes of fitting into it again. I punched an extra hole in it and wore the belt to work on Monday, but by the end of the day, it was cutting into my precious flesh in a painful way, so I surreptitiously took it off.

So the pants are too big and the belt is too small. What are you gonna do. (In my case, hit up my mother for fifty bucks and buy new pants. Wow, that was easy.)

(Except, hey, I could buy a thong instead, and then get up on the counter and flash our customers again, and maybe they'd give us bigger tips. If you were waiting in line for a Grande latte, you'd pay to see my butt crack, right?) (On second thought, don't answer that.)

My mother said she is proud of me for needing new pants. I am not sure how to take that, except that I don't think I want to be complimented on needing new pants. I get the feeling that if I started snorting PCP instead of eating, my mom would still be proud of me as long as I needed new pants.

I'm proud of myself for sticking with this whole bike riding thing so far. I'm proud of myself for getting out there and pushing myself. I'm proud of myself for re-thinking my priorities, for my discipline, for my commitment, for my devotion to the Way of the Holy Chicken.

Needing new pants? Really, who cares. That's the least of it.

"Wow, two days in a row. Or something. Sort of. Okay, not really. But close! I don't know. I lost track. Don't pressure me."