There’s no snow here yet. I’m bumming.
My headache has been lingering since my last entry. I made the mistake of playing Carol of the Bells and when my right temple pulsed searing pain every time the piano keys roamed above middle C, I realized that I probably had a baby migraine. Certainly having a five-day headache accompanied by nausea and light sensitivity wouldn’t have clued me in. I pretty much laid low all weekend, tried to wrap presents and clear up my ‘to do’ list, like purchasing bubble wrap and boxes for the Holiday Cheer gifts I wanted to send out, gathering a few latent gift purchases (I apparently cannot stop purchasing gifts for Esteban’ I just keep finding another and another and another), found black velvet maryjane shoes that go with my black velvet dress much better than the Boots, running to the art store to buy a replacement silver paint pen for my holiday cards, because my original silver paint pen was on its third project and certainly would explode in the 11th hour. I was right, by the way, about my original pen exploding. It did and then I did a happy little self-righteous dance of preparedness because I already had a pen in the wings. A pen that exploded after five cards and also got two silver paint dots on my white vintage 55 football jersey. Fuck you, Murphy’s Law. Fuck you very much.
Esteban and I did have some fun on Saturday. First we drove to Appleton for dinner at our very favorite Mongolian barbeque restaurant. We were both starving beyond belief. Normally I can only eat one course of the food before my poor tummy is pleading for mercy, but this time I rose to the challenge of a second course, which was, by far, the best mix I had ever concocted (lamb, cabbage, carrots, cilantro, broccoli, pineapple juice, garlic, lemon water, satay sauce, and treacle). Unfortunately, I only ate about a quarter of it before I realized that I would be in pain should I continue. I must remember what I did for future reference. Then we went to the pet store for Christmas presents for our cat. Because we’ve suddenly become one of those couples. I couldn’t even sneer at the mousy middle-aged bespectacled woman in front of us, wearing a kitty sweatshirt with a sewn-in matching polo collar, with the cart full of cat toys, cat nip, stuffed mice, and a carpeted multilevel ‘cat condo’ (Price tag: $180), because there we were on a Saturday night with $50 of cat toys. Not cat food or cat litter or anything else. Just cat toys. Our big ticket item was a Panic Mouse (an automated mouse on a string that flings around at various speeds). And then there was the idiotic discussion on the way home, wherein I wanted to wait until Christmas morning to give Tilly her presents, but Esteban wanted to give Tilly the Panic Mouse that evening, since he couldn’t wait and when considering the classic 1984 song ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’, the answer with a cat would be a resounding ‘No’.
But there is happiness because I did finish the unending project of my 130 holiday cards and packaging up the gifts and I *think* I’m done shopping for gifts, unless I realize that I’ve completely missed someone who is too important to get one of my emergency gifts of chocolates or paperwhite kit. And now, all that is left is the wrapping, which is about a third done and looks, I might add, smashing with retro silver paper and funky fifties-esque toppers. And, through no coincidence, will perfectly coordinate with my holiday outfit.
Yes, I am sick in the head.
By the way, the Panic Mouse is now Tilly’s arch nemesis. She’s plotting its death even as I write this. Even when she has been playing for half an hour and is laying on the floor, sides heaving, she still cannot resist the allure of its random mouse throttles. Well worth the $24.99, even if it did make us feel like massive tools.
This morning, I drove through Sbux, as is my nature in the cold weather, and ordered my usual.
‘Venti cr’me de menthe nonfat no whip mocha, please.’
Instead of the chirpy answer of ‘Thanks Weetabix, meet you at the window.’ (Yes, I realize how very sad it is that the baristas know my name, but in my defense, they only know it because I use a credit card to reload my Sbux card, and also I suspect that Sbux Corporate puts out a bounty on the names of all regular customers, so that they will seem just that much more friendly. But honestly, I don’t know their names, must instead resort to calling them Baranskista and Miss Prindle and Unsurly Girl* and Random Barista #1-7, so instead of sounding friendly, it’s a little TOO friendly, borderlining on the county of Creepy. In the morning, I just cannot deal with this much Big Brother crap and start to envision a big computer that tracks each purchase and redlines the instances where I go grande instead of venti or try a gingerbread latte instead of my normal mocha. Perhaps, for efficiency, the computer is actually hidden inside the big espresso thingy because that’s Sbux logic, a computer that also makes coffee.) I get a ‘Have you tried our Peppermint Mocha?’
Instead of suggestive selling, it sounds like a challenge issued through a squawk box. I have, but I do not like the Peppermint Mocha. They charge more and put red sprinkles on the whipped cream, which I don’t even want on there in the first place, so then the red dye #5 is mixing with my coffee and just bugs the heck out of me. Also, peppermint is too minty. The cr’me de menthe blends with the mocha into a Mozart concerto, played on National Public Radio (during a rare non-fundraising period, following the quiz that asked about what kind of tree is in the poem by someone I’ve never even heard of), whereas the peppermint is Nine Inch Nails played on cellos and violins in the background of a prison execution. The flavor collides with my little half-awake neurons and makes them disgruntled. I just don’t like it. But I shouldn’t have to explain this over the squawk box to some barista I don’t even know. I don’t like the insinuation that I am not learned in the Sbux drinkology. I want to call her a whippersnapper (which would prove that yes I am indeed 84 years old) and give her what for (as only 84-year-old women can do. Or even know what ‘what for’ means and how to give it).
‘Yes, I don’t like it.’ I answered.
‘Oh, ok.’ She sounded disappointed. Fucking barista.
I get to the window and whip out my Sbux card, proving that yes, I am a regular caffeine junkie so I don’t need you pushing your seasonal drink offerings, bizatch. And my suspicions are confirmed. It’s a barista I’ve never seen before. She takes forever. She screws up my drink and Miss Prindle has to correct her, knowing already exactly what I want.
I have got to get this Sbux monkey off my back. Clearly I’ve become too emotionally wrapped up in the entire process.
* Ok, that’s not entirely true. Unsurly Girl’s name is actually Jenny. But she’s been promoted to Head Barista or manager now, so I very rarely see her.
