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.
3 comments:
I just read your latest blog, and your last sentence rang my chimes. Please
allow me to philosophize for a minute.
I'm convinced Mother Nature isn't really a female, or she would have given
us something like a button to turn off the menstrual cycle when we knew we
were through having babies. Anything this side of maqjor surgery.
Mine began at age 10. By the time I had my hysterectomy at age 45, I had
spent approximately 420 month bleeding. That's 2,520 days. Many of the
first 10 years were with double-you-over cramps. There's a reason we called
it "the curse."
They didn't have tampons back then. Or if they did, we virgins certainly
didn't use them. Our "badge of honor" was a sanitary pad the size of a
hoagie bun. If you wore stretch pants, it looked like an athletic cup in
your pants. You couldn't go swimming. And the absolute worst thing that
could ever happen was if you leaked through your clothes and a boy saw it.
Total devastation.
I guess I shouldn't complain. My mother and her three sisters had to use
rags. And they washed them out and reused them!
Love, Arlene
You never cease to make me laugh!!
Sorry you didn't get your latte right, I hate that and I'm usually too embarrassed (or tired, or in a hurry) to tell them they got it wrong (and yes, they always seem to think you told them wrong, and maybe I did... but still) At least I"m not in Latvia anymore where they make you feel like you've committed a crime just by entering their store and forcing them to actually do their job! Like you came in to order a pastry just to ruin their conversation that they are having on the phone or with their coworkers... as if your whole goal is to ruin their day **big sigh**
Latvia? That sounds exactly like New York City.
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