My senior year of college saw less financial help from my parents and more drinking coffee from home. The French vanilla Coffee Mate was always stocked, and my roommates and I worked out a routine of making coffee for each other. I kept going to Starbucks, but maybe only once or twice a week. After returning from Peru, Starbucks didn't sound appealing to me, especially with the abnormally hot summer San Diego had.
Now that the chill has set in, though, I've gone back to craving Starbucks. I still drink coffee from home every morning, but I sometimes need a grande nonfat vanilla latte pick-me-up in the late afternoon.
This week has been especially exhausting for me--waking up early to train for a half marathon, writing a newspaper article after work and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life. It's Thursday afternoon (which is like my Friday afternoon because I don't typically work Fridays), I'm running out of work to keep me occupied, and I needed a little liquid energy. I drove over to Starbucks, which was busy for 1:30 on a Thursday, and ordered my beverage. The price has gone up--it's now $3.85 for my grande beverage. I grabbed it from the bar but was a little distracted by a phone conversation. I drove back to work, sat at my desk and continued working when I took my first sip. Blech. I removed the lid--it was the color of mud, not vanilla goodness. I was so mad that my $3.85 Starbucks drink, which is now so rare a treat, was ruined. I stormed out of the office, starting to picture myself walking toward the counter angry, demanding a new drink and a free one. Or maybe a venti one.
Of course, conflict-hater that I am, I patiently waited in line until the ignorant lady in front of me ordered a "medium" mocha with "not that much chocolate." I then got all mousy and my hands got all shaky. I told the manager, "I was here about 10 minutes ago, and I ordered a vanilla latte," and then revealed the color of my beverage. "And that is not a vanilla latte," the kind bearded man replied. He took the drink from my hands and poured it out in the sink before wiping up the spill (from shaky hands) on the counter. The teenaged barista tried to defend himself, saying I had grabbed the wrong cup, but the manager defended me, reading "grande nonfat vanilla latte for Bethany" off the cup. I confirmed with a head nod.
The new beverage was out in a jiffy, and with it the embarrassed barista handed me the Starbucks golden ticket, good for any size or kind of beverage, even with extra shots. Merry Christmas to me.
