As of late it has been brought to my attention by old friends, new friends, acquaintances, and the guy bagging my groceries that my purse is inordinately or at least relatively large.
So, on my way back to Ohio last weekend (Why? Why?), as I sat in the Atlanta airport reading fluff to pass the time during my two hour layover,* an article called “The Contents of Your Purse and What It Reveals About You” caught my eye.
Yeah, I went for it.
There was…
1. The usual arsenal: lip gloss, lip balm, lipstick, lip liner. This would suggest that I spend an inordinate amount of time on my mouth, but this hypothesis in order to be true, would require that I actually use any of these items.
Accuracy rating= dubious
2. Gum. Lots of gum. This would suggest that I am an unrepentant gum chewer. I have in fact been called “non-compliant” by a British abs class sergeant (go ahead say “non-compliant” in your best British accent for the full effect—you know you want to) on more than one occasion.
I’ve also had to, on more than one occasion, swallow my gum whole when the principal popped in unannounced to observe my teaching. In my defense, it has been scientifically proven that chewing a piece of gum lowers the production of stress hormones by at least 15%, so I made the very logical leap that if I chew at least 7 pieces of gum at a time...whatever, you try explaining ONE MORE TIME to 30 17- year-olds the difference between lie and lay without a little help.
Accuracy rating=right on and proud of it
3. Fistful of bobby pins in various colors and sizes. This would suggest…what? What exactly would this suggest? Some people leave paper trails. Some people leave fingerprints. I leave bobby pins.
Accuracy rating=undetermined
4. 1.5 liter bottle of water, which cost me $5.69 at the imposter Starbucks in terminal D (we all know that’s Folgers in those ‘air pots.’) This would suggest that I am 1) thirsty 2) a thirsty fool who is willing to pay $5.69 to quench a God-given need 3) an unwitting victim of discriminatory TSA regulations (see No. 7).
Accuracy rating= guilty, guilty, and guilty
5. Large calculator. On first glance this would suggest that I am a number person. But then again, number people (strange breed that they are) don’t need a calculator.
Accuracy rating=zero
6. Umbrella. This would suggest that I am an over-prepared person --perhaps a type A personality or a former Girl Scout—or Mary Poppins.
Accuracy rating=nil. I’m on my way to Ohio.
7. A so not stolen 5 oz. bottle of body lotion from the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami that has gone through airport x-ray NOT in a clear plastic bag at least four times undetected, which suggests one of two things, neither of which are about me: 1. God really wanted me to have the body lotion and 2. Despite the delays, rules, and hassles, the TSA still doesn't really know what it is doing.
Accuracy rating=two stars
8. A hard-boiled egg and Greek yogurt. This would suggest I just returned from a lovely two month sojourn on a farm in Mykonos.
Accuracy=false (protein, people—we all need to eat more protein)
9. Ibuprofen. This could suggest a myriad of things, including the possibility that I was suffering from back pain due to the third illicit carry-on bag I was lugging through the airport because I refuse—let me say that again—REFUSE to pay $65 to GOODNESS FORBID travel with any belongings (see No. 11 and then refer to No.7 part two again).
Accuracy=seemingly true, but the real reason is that 'tis the season when my students begin their grade "negotiations" with me via emails**
10. Ticket stub to a movie whose identity shall not be revealed due to my day job and need for some semblance of professional dignity. This would suggest I went to a movie whose identity shall (still) not be revealed due to my day job and need for some semblance of professional dignity (for what it’s worth, though, I swear I read all of the books first)
Accuracy=the fifth
11. Carry-on bag. Yes, in my purse. This would suggest that my purse is big. Very big.
Accuracy= we’ve covered this. My purse is very big. So what.
*direct flights are typically number three on my list of non-negotiables right behind pedicures and good coffee, so having one on Friday in conjunction with the faux SB Breakfast Blend clearly testifies that I’m batting way below average as of late.
** Dear Student Who Is Trying to Convince Me to Change Grade,
If I don’t know who you are when you write to me pleading to not fail you even though you never came to my class, well, you are already at a distinct and dare I say insurmountable disadvantage.
If you send me an email from your touch phone that looks anything like this: C’mon, Proff. Puleeez. i realy need u 2 give me a bee not a see + Puleeeeeeeez, well, thnx 4 xpressing ur concern 4 ur academic future but idfreakingtsntj.
And, if neither of these scenarios applies to you then please recall that final grades are subject to a simple premise that almost anyone can understand: they are final.
Next up: Big Bags and Shrinking Jeans
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Why Your Barista is Better Than Your Boyfriend
The blog “Coffee First & Then Love” (coffeefirstthenlove.blogspot.com) got me thinking about priorities, and long story short, I concur. In fact, for some people* coffee is love.
Now while you can't exactly date your coffee, you can wish that your boyfriend was more like your Starbucks barista.
So, I present to you:
Why Starbuck Baristas are Better than Boyfriends
1.Baristas understand you in the morning. You don’t have to feel bad about not wanting to talk to them pre-Grande Bold No Room, and they never mistake your pre-Grande Bold No Room mood as the silent treatment.
2.Some 3,709 Grande Bolds No Room later, which is roughly equivalent to five years of dating the same boyfriend, baristas can actually anticipate your needs.
3.Baristas always notice when you are wearing a new coat, get bangs or dye your blond hair red (duh).
4.Gender politics never enter the equation. Under those aprons, baristas—I’m pretty sure--are all the same.
5.Baristas are always there, exactly where you need them.
6.Baristas are always there, exactly when you need them.
7.Baristas never push their oatmeal raisin cookies on you. They respect your boundaries regarding shriveled fruit.
8.Baristas don’t care that you can’t cook.
9.Baristas speak Italian.
10.Baristas don’t lecture you about your totally legal addiction. In fact, they recognize and appreciate your undying loyalty with free refills, free WiFi, and the occasional free pumpkin scone.
11.Should a highly unlikely break up with your Starbucks barista occur, there is always another one just like him or her right down (or across) the street.**
12.Baristas never tell you that the only dog you’re ever getting is a pretend one or threaten to shoot the one you have.
*OK, OK, I speak of myself.
** Should this not be the case, a rebound with the Folgers pot at the Shell Station is always a viable if last resort option. It's called slumming it, and everyone from Tiger Woods to Jesse James has done it.
Now while you can't exactly date your coffee, you can wish that your boyfriend was more like your Starbucks barista.
So, I present to you:
Why Starbuck Baristas are Better than Boyfriends
1.Baristas understand you in the morning. You don’t have to feel bad about not wanting to talk to them pre-Grande Bold No Room, and they never mistake your pre-Grande Bold No Room mood as the silent treatment.
2.Some 3,709 Grande Bolds No Room later, which is roughly equivalent to five years of dating the same boyfriend, baristas can actually anticipate your needs.
3.Baristas always notice when you are wearing a new coat, get bangs or dye your blond hair red (duh).
4.Gender politics never enter the equation. Under those aprons, baristas—I’m pretty sure--are all the same.
5.Baristas are always there, exactly where you need them.
6.Baristas are always there, exactly when you need them.
7.Baristas never push their oatmeal raisin cookies on you. They respect your boundaries regarding shriveled fruit.
8.Baristas don’t care that you can’t cook.
9.Baristas speak Italian.
10.Baristas don’t lecture you about your totally legal addiction. In fact, they recognize and appreciate your undying loyalty with free refills, free WiFi, and the occasional free pumpkin scone.
11.Should a highly unlikely break up with your Starbucks barista occur, there is always another one just like him or her right down (or across) the street.**
12.Baristas never tell you that the only dog you’re ever getting is a pretend one or threaten to shoot the one you have.
*OK, OK, I speak of myself.
** Should this not be the case, a rebound with the Folgers pot at the Shell Station is always a viable if last resort option. It's called slumming it, and everyone from Tiger Woods to Jesse James has done it.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Dear Prince William: Big, big mistake. Huge.
A few weeks ago I stated that I wanted to date Prince William for the summer, thus inheriting The Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., for which I would get to wear a tiara, attend cricket and other strange English sporting events, as well as drink tea, pinkie out, every afternoon.
Well, it was most disappointingly brought to my attention this morning while standing in the checkout line at The Tiara Unlimited that Billy boy has gone and proposed to whatshername. This news, of course, was unnerving--namely because great now I suddenly would have no excuse to offer nonplussed neighbors and friends for my recent odd behavior. And, and! I was getting reeeeeeeeeeeally good at being a princess.
First of all, I've got the princess wave down (fingers together, slight rotation only at the wrist). Some of my neighbors have even begun waving back as I drive down the street waving out my rolled down windows (which were tinted last week as a preemptive gesture).
Second, Larry, the gate guard at the entrance to my "planned community" (as there doesn't appear to be any other kind here) has started curtsying after I say "Much appreciated, Jasper" in my now nearly native--and obviously convincing--sounding Queen's English accent.
Third, my new friends, who have been serving as royal body guards and security (admittedly unpaid and unbeknown to them) like me because I'm always up for going to a sports bar to feed my almost maniacal obsession with the World Cup. In one of those ironic twists my life is oh so prone to, it seems as though in practicing to be England's next princess, I've become one of the American guys.
Fourth, I've perfected the unemployment/leisure thing. I've taken to wearing gowns to the beach and I've been practicing my inevitable royal maritime etiquette by racking up as many hours as possible on the yachts of other people who have the unemployment/leisure thing down perfectly, and who also take to wearing gowns to the beach.
And then of course there was the little tea fiasco.
Yes, people, in a bold, bold move, I replaced my daily afternoon appointment at SB* with tea, pinkie out, at home on the linai.**
At first I was quite reluctant and actually somewhat angry over the prospect of giving up one half of my favorite addiction for subjects who weren't even loyal yet. But, I took a deep breath and in the name of foreign diplomacy headed to the Tea Emporium for what was supposed to be a quick trip for some English freaking Breakfast and whatever...raspberry scones.
Little did I know that this little jaunt would turn into a fascinating 90 minute research expedition and literary extravaganza: seriously, the writers at The New Yorker have nothing on those anonymous scribes who specialize in tea literature. Tea boxes, it turns out, provide an abundance of information that rivals both Shakespeare and Dr. Phil in the genres of wisdom, self-help, and love.
So now that Billy boy has made the Biggest. Mistake. Of. His. Life. by not officially offering me The. Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., I've decided that I want to date a man who espouses the same qualities as my Earl Grey and White Blossom Passion Fruit.
I mean, really, who wouldn't want someone who is "robust" or "full of character yet peaceful and serene?"
And who wouldn't be happy to go to dinner with someone of a "noble blend" or with the "the perfect marriage of sweet and spice?"***
I'm all for a man--royalty or not--who is "surprisingly potent and offering an ample dose of inspiration" or a man who is "bold in both depth and character." And for the record, I'm totally fine with a man who is "scented with bergamot from Italy."
"A well-rounded infusion with refined lingering notes" whatever that means exactly sounds good to me, as does a man who offers "sweet contemplation from dawn til dusk." Asking sweet contemplation of what, seems--at this point--beside the point.
*SB's CEO was understandably alarmed by the dip in profit as of late before I explained to him the whole prospective Best. Summer. Gig. Ever. thing. (soooo not looking forward to the certain groveling that awaits me tomorrow afternoon at 4).
**translates roughly to the American "screened-in porch"
***Boys, I'm informing you that, on the upside, soon potential girlfriends will no longer be comparing you to that Noah guy in The Notebook (yay!) or Johnny Depp just in general (whatever, you have Megan Fox, we have JD) in terms of a set of standards they want you to live up to. However, this means that, on the downside, you will soon be competing with tea leaves and other herbal infusions.
Well, it was most disappointingly brought to my attention this morning while standing in the checkout line at The Tiara Unlimited that Billy boy has gone and proposed to whatshername. This news, of course, was unnerving--namely because great now I suddenly would have no excuse to offer nonplussed neighbors and friends for my recent odd behavior. And, and! I was getting reeeeeeeeeeeally good at being a princess.
First of all, I've got the princess wave down (fingers together, slight rotation only at the wrist). Some of my neighbors have even begun waving back as I drive down the street waving out my rolled down windows (which were tinted last week as a preemptive gesture).
Second, Larry, the gate guard at the entrance to my "planned community" (as there doesn't appear to be any other kind here) has started curtsying after I say "Much appreciated, Jasper" in my now nearly native--and obviously convincing--sounding Queen's English accent.
Third, my new friends, who have been serving as royal body guards and security (admittedly unpaid and unbeknown to them) like me because I'm always up for going to a sports bar to feed my almost maniacal obsession with the World Cup. In one of those ironic twists my life is oh so prone to, it seems as though in practicing to be England's next princess, I've become one of the American guys.
Fourth, I've perfected the unemployment/leisure thing. I've taken to wearing gowns to the beach and I've been practicing my inevitable royal maritime etiquette by racking up as many hours as possible on the yachts of other people who have the unemployment/leisure thing down perfectly, and who also take to wearing gowns to the beach.
And then of course there was the little tea fiasco.
Yes, people, in a bold, bold move, I replaced my daily afternoon appointment at SB* with tea, pinkie out, at home on the linai.**
At first I was quite reluctant and actually somewhat angry over the prospect of giving up one half of my favorite addiction for subjects who weren't even loyal yet. But, I took a deep breath and in the name of foreign diplomacy headed to the Tea Emporium for what was supposed to be a quick trip for some English freaking Breakfast and whatever...raspberry scones.
Little did I know that this little jaunt would turn into a fascinating 90 minute research expedition and literary extravaganza: seriously, the writers at The New Yorker have nothing on those anonymous scribes who specialize in tea literature. Tea boxes, it turns out, provide an abundance of information that rivals both Shakespeare and Dr. Phil in the genres of wisdom, self-help, and love.
So now that Billy boy has made the Biggest. Mistake. Of. His. Life. by not officially offering me The. Best. Summer. Gig. Ever., I've decided that I want to date a man who espouses the same qualities as my Earl Grey and White Blossom Passion Fruit.
I mean, really, who wouldn't want someone who is "robust" or "full of character yet peaceful and serene?"
And who wouldn't be happy to go to dinner with someone of a "noble blend" or with the "the perfect marriage of sweet and spice?"***
I'm all for a man--royalty or not--who is "surprisingly potent and offering an ample dose of inspiration" or a man who is "bold in both depth and character." And for the record, I'm totally fine with a man who is "scented with bergamot from Italy."
"A well-rounded infusion with refined lingering notes" whatever that means exactly sounds good to me, as does a man who offers "sweet contemplation from dawn til dusk." Asking sweet contemplation of what, seems--at this point--beside the point.
*SB's CEO was understandably alarmed by the dip in profit as of late before I explained to him the whole prospective Best. Summer. Gig. Ever. thing. (soooo not looking forward to the certain groveling that awaits me tomorrow afternoon at 4).
**translates roughly to the American "screened-in porch"
***Boys, I'm informing you that, on the upside, soon potential girlfriends will no longer be comparing you to that Noah guy in The Notebook (yay!) or Johnny Depp just in general (whatever, you have Megan Fox, we have JD) in terms of a set of standards they want you to live up to. However, this means that, on the downside, you will soon be competing with tea leaves and other herbal infusions.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day sixteen
So last night I decided to write on the back porch because, well...on a good night, this is what writers do.
I was lost (as is usually the very unfortunate case)somewhere in the quagmire of Chapter 2 when I heard a branch break in the miniature everglade that is my back yard. Heh, a bird, I thought. It's just a bird. It's just a very fat bird. A very fat bird who landed on a very thin branch. I put my head down again, feeling rather proud for ignoring the distraction that would so obviously entice lesser writers (such as myself on any one of the other 364 days of the year) to stop writing in order to investigate.*
And then the rustling started.
Heh, I thought. It's probably a turtle. Yes, it's probably just a turtle. Or maybe a large frog. But then I wondered, do turtles rustle? Do turtles or frogs--even large ones--really rustle in the proper sense of the word? I put pen to paper again, but this time admittedly I was pondering the anatomy of frogs and turtles in attempt to determine whether rustling could be considered one of their feasible modi operandi.
And then...and then--I kid you not--the rustling turned into the sound of very distinct foot falls. Now, frogs have legs--we all know this--and presumably they have feet. But frogs jump. They do not walk. Hence "foot falls" can safely be eliminated. And turtles have feet of some sort, too--no one would deny this. But turtles' normal pace, it was clear to me in this moment, would also in fact impede them from making the distinct sound of foot falls.
As only a former Indian Princess and New Yorker** could do, I took a quick inventory of the remaining possibilities and none boded well: alligator, crocodile, panther, or serial killer.
I sat there frozen trying to match the sound of the very distinct foot falls with the possible predator for a good 10 minutes and then--I'm not proud to say--realized I'm her. I'm the girl who sits frozen on the back porch for a good 10 minutes playing Name That Predator while that predator lurks nearby waiting not to welcome me to the neighborhood with some lovely gift (say, perhaps a pie or a box of Girl Scout Cookies) but to POUNCE AND SHRED ME TO PIECES.
So, yeah...one minute I'm Earnest Hemingway and the next I'm the get-up-and-run!-run!-you-dumb-dumb-girl! in scary movies who sits frozen when she should be hightailing it out of there. Had I been shredded to pieces I would have fully deserved it.***
*investigation is only one of a thousand perfectly legitimate alternatives writers turn toward to in order to avoid writing. Others to which I can personally attest include day-tripping to discounted vitamin outlets, french braiding my shoelaces, and googling my middle-school boyfriends.
**Both Indian Princesses (that's Princess Raindrop to whomever is asking and yes, we were waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay cooler than the Brownies (minus the cookie thing)) and New Yorkers are very skilled in, as Chief Thundercloud and Rudy Giuliani used to like to say, "Situational Awareness."
"Situational Awareness" exponentially reduces your chances of being eaten by a black bear should one sneak up on you while you are sleeping in a tent in one of your fellow Indian Princesses' backyards. It also exponentially reduces your chances in NYC of being kidnapped, robbed, or mowed down by a kidnapper, robber or tipsy hipster on a retro-cool Huffy--respectively.
***It is true that I survived last night's potential attack, but let me assure you that contrary to the popular notion that Naples is a tame, laid back place, other southwestern Florida perils exist.
The ones to which I can also personally attest include covert sprinkler systems with haphazard "OH LOOK I'M NAILING YOU NOW, LADY, REGARDLESS OF THE HOUR YOU JUST SPENT GETTING READY FOR YOUR DINNER DATE WHICH HAHHAHAHHAHHAHA YOU WILL NOW BE LATE FOR" timing, traffic cops with such a fierce propensity for issuing a ticket for something! anything! they make Cleveland feel like the autobahn, and large beetles that apparently have a thing for tallish blonds with long arms.
I was lost (as is usually the very unfortunate case)somewhere in the quagmire of Chapter 2 when I heard a branch break in the miniature everglade that is my back yard. Heh, a bird, I thought. It's just a bird. It's just a very fat bird. A very fat bird who landed on a very thin branch. I put my head down again, feeling rather proud for ignoring the distraction that would so obviously entice lesser writers (such as myself on any one of the other 364 days of the year) to stop writing in order to investigate.*
And then the rustling started.
Heh, I thought. It's probably a turtle. Yes, it's probably just a turtle. Or maybe a large frog. But then I wondered, do turtles rustle? Do turtles or frogs--even large ones--really rustle in the proper sense of the word? I put pen to paper again, but this time admittedly I was pondering the anatomy of frogs and turtles in attempt to determine whether rustling could be considered one of their feasible modi operandi.
And then...and then--I kid you not--the rustling turned into the sound of very distinct foot falls. Now, frogs have legs--we all know this--and presumably they have feet. But frogs jump. They do not walk. Hence "foot falls" can safely be eliminated. And turtles have feet of some sort, too--no one would deny this. But turtles' normal pace, it was clear to me in this moment, would also in fact impede them from making the distinct sound of foot falls.
As only a former Indian Princess and New Yorker** could do, I took a quick inventory of the remaining possibilities and none boded well: alligator, crocodile, panther, or serial killer.
I sat there frozen trying to match the sound of the very distinct foot falls with the possible predator for a good 10 minutes and then--I'm not proud to say--realized I'm her. I'm the girl who sits frozen on the back porch for a good 10 minutes playing Name That Predator while that predator lurks nearby waiting not to welcome me to the neighborhood with some lovely gift (say, perhaps a pie or a box of Girl Scout Cookies) but to POUNCE AND SHRED ME TO PIECES.
So, yeah...one minute I'm Earnest Hemingway and the next I'm the get-up-and-run!-run!-you-dumb-dumb-girl! in scary movies who sits frozen when she should be hightailing it out of there. Had I been shredded to pieces I would have fully deserved it.***
*investigation is only one of a thousand perfectly legitimate alternatives writers turn toward to in order to avoid writing. Others to which I can personally attest include day-tripping to discounted vitamin outlets, french braiding my shoelaces, and googling my middle-school boyfriends.
**Both Indian Princesses (that's Princess Raindrop to whomever is asking and yes, we were waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay cooler than the Brownies (minus the cookie thing)) and New Yorkers are very skilled in, as Chief Thundercloud and Rudy Giuliani used to like to say, "Situational Awareness."
"Situational Awareness" exponentially reduces your chances of being eaten by a black bear should one sneak up on you while you are sleeping in a tent in one of your fellow Indian Princesses' backyards. It also exponentially reduces your chances in NYC of being kidnapped, robbed, or mowed down by a kidnapper, robber or tipsy hipster on a retro-cool Huffy--respectively.
***It is true that I survived last night's potential attack, but let me assure you that contrary to the popular notion that Naples is a tame, laid back place, other southwestern Florida perils exist.
The ones to which I can also personally attest include covert sprinkler systems with haphazard "OH LOOK I'M NAILING YOU NOW, LADY, REGARDLESS OF THE HOUR YOU JUST SPENT GETTING READY FOR YOUR DINNER DATE WHICH HAHHAHAHHAHHAHA YOU WILL NOW BE LATE FOR" timing, traffic cops with such a fierce propensity for issuing a ticket for something! anything! they make Cleveland feel like the autobahn, and large beetles that apparently have a thing for tallish blonds with long arms.
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