We were shopping at Basha’s when the Nordic Warrior Queen said she wanted some coffee. So of course, being the loving, caring, supportive husband that I am, I offered to go. I figured she wanted one of those little courtesy cups the store puts out for the old farts. But no.
Her order? A tall half-caff, lowfat, white chocolate mocha. What, I thought you wanted coffee?
I made her repeat it, three times, then I put it in my phone. I knew I’d forget it the minute I walked away, and then she’d get pissed when I brought back the wrong “coffee.”
It gets worse. I wandered over to the Starbuck’s – they actually have one in the grocery store – and while standing in line I overheard the woman in front of me order a venti four-pump upside-down caramel macchiato, no foam. You can’t make this stuff up.
And the price? Five bucks for a stinking coffee! I could have a beer for that (actually two, on Tuesdays). I don’t get it. Whatever happened to just coffee, and decaf (for the ladies)?
Oh, and let’s not forget the sizes. If you order a small, medium, or large, the clerk looks at you like you have a duck on your head. We’re not in France, people! I don’t want a GRAHN-DAY, I want a large, damnit. And since when does TALL actually mean SHORT?
I’m going back to bed. Screw the coffee.