Pumpkin Spice Latte’s are addicting, I know. But that is so
last season. We’ve all moved on. But, seasonal Starbucks Patrons (SP’s from
here on out) don’t know that – or do, and either way it is irritating. And now
let’s all pretend we do not know what a Flat White is…
Starbucks and their seasonal delights are the epicenter of
Suburbia. The Mecca for Hipsters, Homeless and the Caffeine addicted (Hi, I am
Anastasia Elizabeth and I am addicted to caffeine). This does pose a problem
for those of us well versed in the Starbuck-ian culture, custom and language.
I’m in line, and I hear you struggle with the menu. ‘I’ll
have a… umm… large? Care-a-mel… latte? With an extra shot? Of ex-press-oh?’ at
this I tap my foot and lock my hand on my hip. I am irritated. You
struggle—like it’s a foreign language. You fumble for your gift card/debit
card/ exact change. I cringe. I want you out of my fucking way, so I can
fucking order like the expert that I am. You leave the queue, with your
stroller/laptopbag/massivefuckingpurse. I announce (so you hear) “Iced Grande
4-pump Caramel Non-Fat extra Ice Latte in a Venti cup” a semi-complicated
favorite of mine. I imagine you look back in awe. I also imagine the barista is
thankful for my fluency. I pay—with my card via my phone (iPhone, there is a
Starbucks app after all—get a clue). And move on. Please, fortheloveofgod, move
the fuck on.
Whilst waiting for my beverage. You drive me further to the
brink of insanity. You SP’s mill about, all thinking your drink is next. It.
Is. Not. Drinks are created in the order they are made. Unless you do something
like a hot or cold House Blend (decaf is for pussies), you fucking N00b. You
wait, I claim a coveted table/bar spot near an outlet do plug in my laptop and
write things like this (yes about you). All the while, you wait. I divide and
conquer. This is where it gets dicey. I
mean, you might have an army with you—your Stroller Brigade, Book Club, Study
Group—and I am alone. But again, I have claimed a spot—and you have not.
Now, the baristas as in the zen trance of creating drinks
with beatific smiles and the cashier is politely ushering us along—you along,
I’ve long since claimed my territory. You get frustrated. Your child is running
amuck—putting coffee stirrers up it’s nose and claiming to be a walrus, running
around dying and vying for strangers attention—since your focus is on your
poorly ordered beverage. Your study group is milling about trying to subtly
re-arrange the furniture to accommodate them—you know this is what STUDY ROOMS
on campus are for (as are campus café’s).
I assume Book Clubs do not meet at night—you all have families to attend
to. I can see you eyeing me—I have no beverage. Yet, I have a spot. You will
attempt to ask me to leave/move. I will not. I will politely tell you “I’m on a
deadline” in the tone of Fuck You; or if I have my headphones, ignore you—I’m
not listening to music yet, it is a prop. I only leave my spot if the call my
drink—or my name. Anastasia Elizabeth. You will see me rise, obtain my beverage
and saunter back to my prime real estate.
You will marvel. You will cringe. You will be amazed how I
knew my beverage was ready after such a “complicated” order. I know, I’m
amazing.
No comments:
Post a Comment