I've been, but the visits are rare, because you cannot pay me enough money to pay that much money for some of the most consistently offensive coffee I've ever had. Starbucks is many things, none of which are coffee: Starbucks is slick surfaces under track lighting, multi-tonal, shiny device-things, prettified people, pastries made to sit, pert and plump and sparkly, under glass for prolonged periods. Starbucks is posh knicknacks: cutesy travel mugs with sparrows and owls and whatever the hell else, knockoff brewing systems, little holiday.. thingies? in browns and pinks and seafoam green? I don't know. I don't care.
Except, okay, that's not entirely true. I am emotionally available for iced peppermint mochas. They need me, and I am here for them. We have a relationship. More like a one-night stand, since I've only had one iced peppermint mocha. But one was enough, as in one was definitely not enough.
This morning, I woke up early, because I am housesitting in a different city, and I don't know how long it takes to navigate morning traffic in these parts, and I also needed to buy some fresh basil for work, and I was tired and edgy, and when I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, I smelled it, and there it was, right next door, with that stupid green lady logo and three empty parking spots right in front, the grease spots in each of which read Lisa, I swear, if I chose to see it.
If I chose to see it.
Don't look at it; don't you do it, Lisa, no, NO, you will NOT, Lis - you look away right now. Lisa. LISA LYNN. You don't dooooOKAY THE SMALLEST TINIEST ICED PEPPERMINT MOCHA MOLECULE THEY WILL LET YOU PURCHASE AND ONLY THIS ONE TIME and I'm not ashamed that I practically ran to the Starbucks door before realizing that I hadn't even parked my car. (that part isn't true.)
Walked in. Tried to remember which stupid Starbucks word meant small. Placed my order. Politely declined to purchase a beautiful styrofoam scone. Sidled around to the place where the Starbucks person waits for her Starbucks while the Starbucks people make the Starbucks. I'm the only customer in the store. The employees are decorating the space with Happy Birthday banners. Wear it around your waist, Creighton! Someone mentions eating a scone, and someone replies ugh, Sabra, no, the scones? So gross. The scones sparkle in response. Everything sparkles in Starbucks. It's the track lighting. So luxe.
The barista who made my coffee seemed really tired, and I assume it's because she walked here from an episode of Portlandia, burdened with the tasks of trudging here from Portland every day to schill burnt hipster corporate coffee to the bourgeoisie while supporting all those dreadlocks with a very skinny neck. I really do feel for her - the weight of those dreads is kind of pulling her head backward a little bit, and her eyes are only half-open, because she's got to be really tired after walking here from Portland, and I'm positive it's not that she's surly and disinterestedly looking down her nose at the process of making peppermint mocha happen to a cup.
But in the meantime, I just want my tiny iced peppermint mocha. Also, did you know that tits means awesome in Hipster? As in omg, I infused my patchouli oil with this amazing lavender blend I've been growing in the terra cotta pot on my back stoop, and now my dreads smell. so. effing. tits.
Far be it from me to be that girl, but those dreads smell like dog and burnt coffee, honey, because they're dreads, and because you work at Starbucks. I know this, because I'm standing six inches from those dreads as she does things which result a peppermint mocha happening to a cup. If it sounds like I'm being unkind, I'm really not. I celebrate her eventual freedom from the grind of anything not tits. Foot travel is a pain. Exhaustion is real. So when she plopped the straw in the drink and monotoned tall iced peppermint mocha for, uh, I don't know - it's not like she could read four whole letters on the side of a cup - and a little cup, at that, and the letters are on the side, not even on the top, where it would be easy! - it's not like it's simple to figure out who the drink belonged to, because, hello, we were two people standing on one whole side of a whole entire store filled with sparkly knicknacks, so the sensible thing to do was to walk to the other side of the store and place th drink by the register, guys; she couldn't assume it was mine, after all. Eye contact is just - what do you want from her, people?? THE SERVICE INDUSTRY IS HARD AND PEOPLE ARE SUCH JERKS.
It is hard, though, and people are jerks. I might return tomorrow morning. I'm tempted to tell them my name is Fred Armisen or Carrie Brownstein, just to see if she gets it; maybe if I tell them to write "bird," she'll get that I'm putting a bird on it. Maybe she'll crack a smile - a wan one, half-scathing, but only half. She did, after all, make a mean iced peppermint mocha.
Maybe I'll buy her one.
But then she'd have to make it. For herself.
Is that even nice to do to somebody?
Everything is so complicated.
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