Starbucks brings out the worst in me - or maybe I should say it brings out a side of me that is usually best to repress. Wish I could say it makes me feel like a rebellious 19 year old again, waving my fist in the air and talking about "sticking it to the man" ... or something even close to that. But no, it's worse. I've often said I have "the soul of a 12 year old boy" and maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing ... if I was male, but no ...
It's like being a superhero, but not really - To the outside world, I appear relatively normal, diamond in my nose aside. I have a job, a family, two dogs and a cat.
And the unfortunate tendency to laugh out loud at things most adults don't even see let alone find amusing. Like the time in Borders. I was sipping a very nice caramel latte (a grown up drink, right?) and browsing through books (a grown-up pursuit, right?) when I spotted it: A review for one of the books that started off with "Praise for Erica Jong's Fanny." Okay, okay. I knew what it meant, but the 12 year old boy soul didn't care. I choked on that caramel latte and started to laugh - out loud - until I realized people were staring and I managed to go hide behind some bookshelves until I calmed down.
Or the time in the library where I was browsing through books (I do that a lot, no?) (and it IS a grown-up pursuit) when it leaped out at me. The book was titled "The President's Assassin." But you know the stickers libraries put on book spines "FIC" or "NONFIC" with either numbers or part of the author's name? Well, someone had put that sticker right over part of the title and retitled it "The President's Ass". I thought this was so funny that I laughed all the way up to the check-out desk with the book to share the fun with the two librarians sitting there.
I know at this point you're asking how all this relates to Starbucks and, if you were actually sitting here listening to me relate this, you might even poke me with your finger or a fork or something to urge me to get on with it and "for god's sake, get to the point!"
I am both put off and irritated by the pretentiousness of Starbucks in the way they try to force you to order. I'm not the only one who hates having to go through the large is a small, grande is a medium and who can remember what to call the large except for the barristas behind the counter who really don't want to give it to you if you don't say it right. But that isn't the part that brings out the 12 year old boy soul. It's that they ask me for my name so they can write it on the cup. I asked why. "So we know whose coffee it is," I was told. "But, I'm the only one here," I responded, getting only an indulgent smile in response.
It makes me want to give fake names - BAD fake names - the kind middle school age boys would find hilarious. "Asholay," I picture myself saying and then smiling, indulgently when asked how to spell it ... "A-S-S-H-O ...etc." Or trying to convince my son to say that his name is Al Kohall. I do know a guy who said his name was Mr. Cool and when challenged said it was spelled K U H L. He said the look of vague discomfort on the server's face was very satisfying as they called it out and people snickered. I imagine doing an accent, something unidentifiable that could be Eastern European and giving an unpronounceable, vowel-less spelling for it.
Maybe it is a sort of fist waving "sticking it to the man" sort of thing - but a 12 year old version of it. Until I can grow up a little (if that ever happens), maybe the safest thing to do is make coffee at home and put it in whatever size cup I want - maybe even using the one I was given as a gift about 20 years ago - the one that has "Donna" printed all over it.