For me, an ideal morning is some man getting out of bed without disturbing me, who prepares fresh ground coffee, turns the heat on, gets my thyroid meds and brings them to me with a fresh hot piping cup of coffee. If he can set out my clothes, press them, prepare breakfast, my son’s lunch and start the shower for me to run into like a track star completing a 30-yard dash – he’s my dream guy. I’m getting an orgasm at the thought of it.
Mornings aren’t exactly my thing. Luckily, the force of needing to get Brian up and going makes me deal with life before 9 a.m. I have a ritual. It’s the mathematical Catherine way to get out of bed in the morning. I keep my thyroid meds next to the bed. When my nasty-someone-buy- me-a-gun-to shoot-it alarm goes off for the first time at 5:30am I manage to roll over, pull out two pills, place them under my tongue, hit snooze, then roll over back to sleep. Off in a distant kitchen, the coffee makes itself. I am madly in love with the Engineer who put an alarm system on a coffee maker. He’s my hero.
After a restful 25-minute nap, Boonie the dog is my 6:00am snooze button. She comes and pulls on my blankets and growls until I get up and let her outside. I love her, but at this point in the morning I hate her.
Who invented dogs that get up before 9:00?
Luckily it is still dark, or I’d be forced to put sunglasses on, as I grab my cup of coffee and stumble out the back looking like Phyllis Diller on a binge. Boonie the dog is happy. Who can be happy at 6:00 in the morning? She runs around, does her thing as I shut the gate and race her, coffee in hand back to my warm bed. It’s 6:15am when my snooze alarm goes off again. Time to do math: “If I don’t wash my hair . . . I can sleep 15 minutes more . . . If I eat breakfast at the office . . . oh wait . . . there’s Brian, add 45 minutes . . . will he eat bagels add 10 more minutes.”
This morning, after a significant amount of mathematical equations I realize I am not smelling my usual morning coffee aroma. I arise to find my coffee machine is not working. Someone get out the Prozac drip now. I cannot start my day without that luscious first cup of hot adrenalin called coffee. As I recover from my panic attack I realize there is a drive-through Starbucks coffee just up the street. I nudge Brian awake to tell him I am going to Starbucks. He moans, “Bring me some hot cocoa please”, and he rolls away from me. He isn’t a morning person either.
I race out the door faster than the speed of light with a mission. Unfortunately, the drive-through line at Starbucks backs all the way to South America, so I am forced to go inside. UGH . . . I have to talk before coffee. I wait in a small line, and when I get to the counter, the young man taking my order can’t seem to get a simple cup of coffee straight. By his third mistake I muse aloud, “Maybe you need another shot of Starbucks coffee.”
To which he replies, “Oh God I hate Starbucks coffee. I don’t drink it!”
Submitted for your review, there is a 5th dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between caffeinated and decaffeinated, between coffee and murder, and it lies between the pit of man’s cash register and the summit of a redhead’s need for caffeine. This is the dimension of impatience. It is an area which we call the Starbuck’s Twilight Zone.
You are looking at Mr. Early Morning Starbuck’s Cashier, who carries on his shoulder a chip the size of the national debt. This is a sour man. A friendless man. A lonely man. A grasping, compulsive, nervous man. This is a man who lived twenty undistinguished, coffeeless, meaningless, pointless, failure-laden years. And who, at this moment, looks for an escape, any escape, any way, anything, anybody to blame about his coffeeless rut.
I stare at him with one of those “I am a nut redhead, and if I don’t get my coffee and son’s hot cocoa in the next 5 seconds, my head will explode like Krakatoa, East of Java!” looks only I can give. Luckily, two other workers ignore him as one prepares my coffee and the other prepares Brian’s hot cocoa and passes them to me while our misguided cashier is still figuring out if he really works at Starbuck’s or not.
Luckily for me, this Starbucks Twilight Zone is brief.
I am wondering if Starbucks enjoys paying employees who say they hate Starbucks coffee, and who is the real idiot here? Maybe when he applied at Starucks he was hoping it would turn into a beer pub by the time he showed up. Why was I lucky enough to get him as my cashier?
I need to buy a new coffee maker right now.
Until next time-