Mocha for Mimi!
In hauling all our work-related crap out to the car this morning, I oh-so-gracefully banged my head into the A-pillar on the Accord. That's what happens when you're loaded up like a pack mule and you're trying to reach inside the door to pop the trunk. Back inside for the Tylenol, but Dr. M gave the best prescription for healing: a mocha from Starbucks.
Unfortunately, we did not come to this conclusion until after we had passed the only Starbucks that is truly on the way to M's work. My new Starbucks, just a block or two up from the spa, isn't open yet, unfortunately.
So I did what any intelligent young woman craving a mocha would do. I cut through C on the way in after dropping M off, stopping at the largest Starbucks I've seen outside the one that's in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It's in what used to be the McDonald's, and I'm still holding a grudge that all the years I worked in C it was a stupid McDonald's, and only after I left did it become the Eden it is today.
But the best part of this incredibly dreary and boring story is this: when I placed my order and the barista working the register asked me my name, she didn't hear me correctly and I was christened, "Mimi." My mouth automatically popped open to correct her, but then my brain overrode it and I thought, "Wait. I could be a Mimi for a few minutes. Do I look like a Mimi? Could I pull off Mimi?" Of course, the only Mimi I could think of is Mariah Carey, and her album, "The Emancipation of Mimi." Not being a big Mariah fan, I'm not too pleased with my new moniker. After all, she's a breakdown-prone ditz with gigantic ta-ta's. I object only to the first part of that description, as the second part applies to me as well, although I prefer to not walk around with mine hanging out for the whole world to see. Sigh. Well, it's not like it's my regular Starbucks and I'll be known as Mimi forevermore. So I waited, just waited, for the barista making the coffee to call out, "Mocha for Mimi!" which would have cracked me up to no end.
But instead, all I got was, "Decaf grande non-fat no-whip mocha?" Bastard.
Unfortunately, we did not come to this conclusion until after we had passed the only Starbucks that is truly on the way to M's work. My new Starbucks, just a block or two up from the spa, isn't open yet, unfortunately.
So I did what any intelligent young woman craving a mocha would do. I cut through C on the way in after dropping M off, stopping at the largest Starbucks I've seen outside the one that's in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It's in what used to be the McDonald's, and I'm still holding a grudge that all the years I worked in C it was a stupid McDonald's, and only after I left did it become the Eden it is today.
But the best part of this incredibly dreary and boring story is this: when I placed my order and the barista working the register asked me my name, she didn't hear me correctly and I was christened, "Mimi." My mouth automatically popped open to correct her, but then my brain overrode it and I thought, "Wait. I could be a Mimi for a few minutes. Do I look like a Mimi? Could I pull off Mimi?" Of course, the only Mimi I could think of is Mariah Carey, and her album, "The Emancipation of Mimi." Not being a big Mariah fan, I'm not too pleased with my new moniker. After all, she's a breakdown-prone ditz with gigantic ta-ta's. I object only to the first part of that description, as the second part applies to me as well, although I prefer to not walk around with mine hanging out for the whole world to see. Sigh. Well, it's not like it's my regular Starbucks and I'll be known as Mimi forevermore. So I waited, just waited, for the barista making the coffee to call out, "Mocha for Mimi!" which would have cracked me up to no end.
But instead, all I got was, "Decaf grande non-fat no-whip mocha?" Bastard.
posted by Amy at 8:29 AM
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