I ordered a coffee today. I really don't do it very often because it is spendy. I love it. Don't get me wrong. I would be there everyday if I could. The point is that I like my lattes, and because I live in a society that tells me I can have it however I want it, I order it how I want it.
I ordered a grande, iced, 2%, vanilla latte. "Do you want whip with that," says the cute little bistra who obviously does not have whip on hers. She is way to anorexic. No, thanks. (Yuk...)
I looked over at the counter, and there is my latte with whipcream all over the top, and it was so thick I knew it was whole milk. My thighs screamed in dispair. I can deal with the whole milk thing, although I shouldn't because I paid money for this over-priced, trendy drink. I just don't want fat globs on top, thank you. When Steve goes to get it, I tell him I want the whip off. Sorry, but I just can't see stirring all that fat into something that already has way too many calories in it. I would rather eat chocolate later tonight. I don't want to blow it all in one setting.
The lady actually asks if I changed my mind with a snooty little look on her face. They kind of chuckle. No, I didn't change my stinking mind. Your co-worker wrote it down wrong, and I simply want it right. Why is it my fault? I know what I like. I know what I order every time. I am a pro at ordering. I just want a grande, iced. 2%, vanilla latte, no whipcream. And I want you to serve it to me with a smile on your face because you have a job that requires customer service skills. Be friendly for goodness sake.
We walked outside, and I snaped at my husband, "I really don't like it when you guys act like you need to do what ever you can to tame the b--ch." I actually say this. See if he ever chuckles with the bistra again. Poor guy. Maybe I just need some midol.