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Do you Speak Starbucks or are you Committing a Caffeinated Crime | CSI Starbucks

The gore is almost too extreme to look at. BTW this was full before the incident!

When you walk into a Starbucks it’s a little like entering another country.  Some of the language is “Italianish” and the rest is completely fabricated, yet universally understood by all it’s regular patrons.

Like any new country, when you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the obvious language barrier.

You see, Starbucks drinkers have an acute understanding of this made up ordering system, the terminology, how to conjugate the verbs, and the proper phrasing of the request i.e. size first, then special requirements, then drink type.

The baristas, or should I call them caffeination interpreters, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino.  My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car.  When he sees it drive up, he starts my drink.  He deduces that if I’m wearing golf or workout clothes I will require my usual to be iced  has the appropriate drink ready by the time I hit the door.

He is keenly aware of my standard approach speed and if I seem to be ambling he’ll throw in an extra shot.

But sometimes, even I, a citizen with a green card – or should I say gold card – am shocked by how intricate requests can get.  I think some of these drinkers actually believe they’ve learned another language and take an odd pride in this false sense of intelligence.

Today the woman in front of me ordered a tall 2 splenda – extra dry – machiatto – with extra foam – on the fly.

Extra dry? Really? “What is extra dry… just beans?  Or does the dryness have something to do with the foam?”

Caffeination interpreter:  “No the consistency of the foam is directly correlated to the frothiness.”

Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with NASA?

And yet, who am I to talk? I know that a standard latte is made at 160°, which would be bad enough, except that I also know that I prefer mine at 140°.

My barista, who writes Jenny from the blog on every cup, actually figured this out while analyzing my drinking habits.

Caffeination interpreter:  “I’ve noticed you seem to wait about 8 minutes for your coffee to cool. I think the problem is an over sensitive pallet and I suggest you drop the temp about 20 degrees fahrenheit.”

“Shit, I think in Celcius.  I like to pretend I’m European… like Madonna and Gwennie P.

Caffeination interpreter: “There’s no reason to get smart with me.  I’m hypothesizing about your needs, I’ll investigate further.”

Soon coffee analyzation and Starbucks interpretation will be something you can major in, like criminal justice.  At the very least Bravo will make it into a show, “CSI Starbucks.”

There is nothing to see here.

“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI Starbucks unit (Coffee Scene Investigation) is here.”

“There is nothing to see here, please disperse.”

“What’s seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Disgruntled Customer:  “My mocha is not rich enough, and it’s too wet. I specifically said grande, 18 pump, extra fat, mildly damp, 157° Mochachokeonitccino with extra whip that is dolloped in the shape of a pygmy monkey.”

The area around the cup is taped off and a bit is spilled into a petri dish and run out of the store to a mobile CSI van.

The maverick of the team fearlessly swipes his finger through the java then smells and licks it, as if it’s cocaine. “One more lick for good measure and an extra jolt,” he says as he rubs some across his gums.

“Well your first problem is this is only 16 pumps. It’s also a mere 142°, which if my calculations are correct mean 7 minutes ago when it was made it was 155° and not a degree more. Your other problem was in the call. The cashier/Mayor should know not to call a whip sculpted in the shape of anything other than the Starbuck’s mermaid goddess on our logo, who we in the biz affectionately call Flo.”

Disgruntled Customer: “Like flow of the coffee or the ocean?”

“Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss Flo with civilians.  Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the Captain, but just for the record Cappy Joe, or Cuppa Joe as we like to call him, is the best. He’ll have this coffee and a full report back to you by day’s end. Please enjoy a maximum of 2 hours free internet access in the mean time.”

“And don’t forget to try one of our new hot breakfast sandwiches.”

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Tips for Dealing with Separation Anxiety

boy holding her mother's legsUsually, separation anxiety happens when children are in preschool, which means… it’s kinda not mandatory.  But, let’s be honest, the socialization is great for our kids, and it’s nice to have time for a shower.  It’s such a ridiculous experience if you think about it, you’re torturing your child and yourself and the whole time you’re asking, “For what?”  For three hours of freedom, which you’re going to spend worried and upset?  When it’s happening, all your parenting instincts are telling you to go in and save your child from this injustice and then finally the teacher pops out and says something like, “It’s okay mom, she’s doing great.”  Meanwhile, you hear the dry heaving in the back ground. Continue reading

The Day Jake’s Ladybug Ran Away


I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old, or 4 day old bug (whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen. Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name. About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the floor and made a mad dash for freedom.

 

Jake jumped out of his seat and flew towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling backward out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging is strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

 

Jake continued searching, solely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said with desperation, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use.

 

Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!” Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug). Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered his stick, which she eagerly climbed onto. A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.

His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab at freedom. I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn. I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick. She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window. She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.

 

A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU! She loved the stick! She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did! Sheeeeee’s gooonnne! I want Lady back, I WANT LADY! She loved her stick, and she loved me! She wanted to live with me on her stick!”

 

Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss. Calmly, I looked at Jake. “Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free. That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”

 

“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!” Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face. “I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”

Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry. “Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit. Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick. She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”

 

“NO, NO!!! She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave! I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”

 

“Mommy STOP it! It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state. Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain. She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”

 

“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable. “I promise she will,” I said, resolving to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.

 

He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old: “She won’t! She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”

 

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