My Froyo Brings All the Boys to the Yard

Why do all frozen yogurt shops have such ridiculous names?  Based on some pre-existing knowledge and extensive Google research, I have found that “Frutti Yogi,” “Cherry Berry,” and “Swirlicious” all actually exist, to name a few.  There’s even a frozen yogurt place called “Dream Cream.”  Seriously. 

Why do they do this to themselves?  It’s like they’re putting signs in their windows that say “Hey, don’t respect our frozen dairy treats.”  And such was the case at Bubbly Penguin Frozen Yogurt.

You see, I know this because I worked at Bubbly Penguin for exactly six weeks during high school.  Why only six weeks, you ask?  Well, until now, I’ve always told people that I quit because I wasn’t built for hard manual labor.  But that’s not exactly the truth…

I learned two things during my tenure at Bubbly Penguin: how to meticulously swirl frozen yogurt into a perfect eight-ounce mound, and how to become invisible.  I’d be standing at the register in my matching apron and visor, stripped of my humanity, when a gaggle of kids from my high school would pop through the door.  “Hi!  Welcome to Bubbly Penguin!  How are you today?”  I’d inquire.  “Small chocolate with strawberries,” would come the reply.  A visor is an invisibility cloak for Muggles.

Nevertheless, talking to customers was actually the best part of the job—because the rest of my pastel pink work environment was terrifying.  There were secret hidden cameras on the walls, and I constantly felt like I was being watched.  The phone would ring, and I’d answer it to a deep and gravelly voice saying,  “Stop touching your hair.”  Then, the line would go dead.

My boss exacerbated the situation, because I was always vaguely afraid he wanted to murder me.  He was a large, hulking man, weighing approximately 300 pounds of pure froyo gooiness, and he was always inexplicably soaking wet.  He tried to be a “cool boss,” ordering pizzas and inviting all the female workers over to his home, but every time I looked at him, I could only ever imagine him hacking me to little pieces with an axe and shoving me in the freezer next to the smoothie supplies.  He often reminded his employees to avoid teenage pregnancy, and he once advised me that I should “tastefully display the titties” more often.  

Here's a photo I took of him one day at work.

Needless to say, we never really became friends.  Instead, he wheezily threatened to fire me for “not invitin’ the customer to return,” and forced me to work alone with him long past closing time.  He would tell me odd, fantastical lies about his life in intricate detail, and then, while slowly slipping small cubes of moist banana into his mouth, would stare at me and say, “You an’ me are the same person.”  The day I finally got fed up and quit, he told the other employees I’d been working there for two years and was the first person he’d ever hired.  I remember being terrified that he was going to cry.

So why did I quit Bubbly Penguin after only six weeks?  Officially it was because I wanted to direct a play, and scheduling rehearsals around work shifts was too difficult.  But there may have been some other contributing factors.

Epilogue:  For those of you concerned about the implications of sexual harassment in this story, you should know that my boss was eventually fired for that very reason.  Someone else must have gotten fed up with his “mango” jokes.

Disclaimer:  The place wasn’t actually called “Bubbly Penguin Frozen Yogurt,” but I’m trying to not be sued.  Its name really was stupid, though.

PS:  I still possess the keen wrist technique for preparing perfectly swirled frozen yogurt, so if you take me to Yogurtland sometime, I’ll happily prepare your froyo for you.


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My Own Worst Frenemy

This is not going to be some condescending blog post where I chastise girls for being catty to one other.  I’m not going to sit here and be like, “Hey girls, what’s up with you being mean to each another?  Let’s celebrate our womanhood!”  First of all, you know girls can be bitchy.  I know girls can be bitchy.  And we’re all on the same page about “frenemies.”

I first became aware of the term “frenemy” in the early days of frozen yogurt, when Paris Hilton was still famous and the soundtrack to my life was “Music from The O.C. Mix 1.”  Frenemies are manipulative, competitive, passive-aggressive poison that we, for whatever reason, voluntarily chat with over salad lunches.  We listen as they make subtly nasty remarks on our love lives, haircuts, and workout regimens, and then we gossip about them to our other friends, who tell us, “They’re just jealous.”  

And it's true!  They ARE just jealous!  I know this, because I used to be a competetive, passive-aggressive frenemy, and it was always inevitably because of some horribly unjustified jealousy.

In second grade, my friend Lena and I would argue over which one of us loved animals more.  We competed to see who could buy the most kitten sticker books, subscribe to the most wildlife magazines, and draw the most accurate representations of lemurs.  We had daily in-class writing assignments, which we somehow got away with writing exclusively about animals.  The question would be, "What's your favorite food?"  And I'd respond, "I like dessert.  Horses also like sugar.  So do hummingbirds.  I like animals."  After a certain point, the things I wrote weren't even true anymore.  I just had this weird, desperate need to prove to Lena that I loved animals just as much as she did.  If Lena stopped eating meat, I'd (pretend to) stop eating meat, too.  And then I'd march over to the library to check out Puppies in the Pantry for the umpteenth time.

I drew this Lemur.

It was seemingly innocent, but in retrospect, I see that Lena was my first frenemy.  Later in life, she became a vegan and flew to Africa to become a surrogate mother to endangered baby monkeys.  I don't think it was ever a competition for her.  I think she just genuinely loved animals.  She won. 

Fourth through seventh grade were marked by conversations like this one:

FRIEND:  Why are you hanging out with that weird new girl?

ANNA:  Maybe because she's a better friend than you!!

Then, in eighth grade, I met Lexxi.  She might have spelled her name like a porn star, but she excelled in everything that was important to a thirteen-year-old.  She was super outdoorsy and athletic, had stunningly long, blonde hair, and she actually knew how to make eye contact with boys.  Lexxi and I sat next to each other in class, and every day we would stealthily pass notes to each other that said things like, "I LUV U!!!" and "ANNA <3s LEXXI!"

Nevertheless, most of our conversations went something like this:

LEXXI:  Anna, everyone says your bangs are weird and curly, but I think you look fine.

ANNA:  Thanks, Lex!  Tell me--is your hair wet?  Or is that gel?

LEXXI:  It's gel.  I know you like frizzy hair, but I don't.

ANNA:  My hair's just really, really thick.  You wouldn't understand.

Fortunately, I outgrew this competitive, passive-aggressive streak.  Either that, or the horror of high school just trained me into passive, non-confrontational submission.  My high school was like a massive, menacing, reality weight-loss competition that the popular kids always won.  Like at most large public schools in Southern California, mean, manipulative girls dominated the social sphere, and Disney Channel stars experimented with drugs in the bathroom.  If I had a nickel for every time someone made fun of my weight or concocted a nasty rumor about me, I'd have, like... a couple of dollars.  I primarily survived through chameleon-esque anonymity and a tendency to disappear at lunchtime.  I have now reached the point where I would rather harbor a secret resentment for someone for the rest of my life than actually talk to them about an issue or make passive-aggressive remarks.  It's definitely super productive and healthy.

Nevertheless, I do still say snotty things to my roommates about their terrible taste in television (sorry).  I also have a tendency to fake-hug the people I run into from high school--even the ones who didn't like me because I was "too happy."  But I try not to be a jerk, and I try to be a kind, supportive friend, because the truth is, I genuinely love the people in my life.

...Except for Lexxi.  She's married now.  She probably just wanted to be the first one to do it.  In fact, she probably got married just to personally spite me.  Maybe she was pregnant. 

Just kidding.  I'm a lovely person.

Just kidding.  "Lexxi" really does sound like a porn star name.

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