Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

I know for a fact that all of my coworkers would agree with me when I boldly declare that Sundays suck.

I don't know if it's a Starbucks Phenomenon or if it's one that spreads across the entire food/retail span, but I have never, once, in my entire working life enjoyed a Sunday that I spent whilst at work in Starbucks. This goes from the mall to the drive thru to my brief stint downtown and back to the drive thru. They are all pretty much terrible.

I'm not sure what does it. Almost every customer that comes into the store that day will act like they've been caged for the past 15 years and have finally escaped into the wilderness, unused to human contact and reasonably disgruntled at the world for keeping them locked up. We get the most socially inept, awkward, idiotic, and bizarre people that decide to come to Starbucks on Sundays. It's like every Sunday is a full moon and it gives them all teh crazees. Even our normally crazy customers (here's looking at you, Soy Latte Guy) are extra crazy on Sundays.

Crazy customers are pretty much the feed and fodder of a typical coffee chain, though, they're the lifeblood that keeps the espresso flowing, so it's not just the fact that they exist and love coffee that makes Sundays so completely miserable.

Sundays lead to awkward orders in the drive thru, with weird pauses and screams from the back seat, with the yellers and the people who order their drink and inexplicably drive away before they get it. They lead to bizarre and unjustified complaints, like the woman who squeezed herself under the half-closed gate into the Starbucks in the mall at 6:01 (when we closed at 6) and proceeded to berate us and leave threatening messages for days afterward because she was "disabled" and didn't appreciate having to duck under the gate. Sundays lead to unexpected and usually time consuming and day ruining disasters, like this Sunday when apparently the pastry case exploded. Or the day that all of the drains decided to back up because someone had dropped an overturned iced venti cup into the drain some weeks previous. Or the thousands of times the espresso machine has done something unfortunate, usually involving water and drinks taking much longer to make. Sundays also invariably lead to a usually competent manager doing that day's schedule with their eyes closed and their fingers in their ears screaming Bowie lyrics while they punch in the information with their elbows. There will be insane conflicts and under scheduling and lengthy gaps between one shift of people and the next, leaving rushes to be taken care of by two or three people.

I mean, to some extent it is understandable. Sundays at the mall meant old people and harassed mothers squeezing in 3 extra hours of panic and anger into a shopping trip that had to be cut short by 6. Sundays at the Market Square meant that all Point Park dancers would come to our store because the school's was closed, ordering their nonfat sugar free caramel macchiatos and vanilla beans (for the ones that will soon no longer be dancers) which was more painful than what I imagine childbirth to be. I can't explain the drive thru's Sundays, but I'm guessing it's built over an ancient burial ground or something. On Sundays, too, most clever thinking employees have claimed unavailability, citing "homework" or "religion," so managers are left with very few people to work with, and every Sunday it's always the same people. I understand it, I just don't like it.

Every Sunday, I stand by my post at the bar and I dream of one day in the future when I, too, can work in a tiny cubicle doing very unimportant work for a boss that will underpay and under appreciate me, just because I know, I know, that then I will have Sundays off.