Starfuck(er)s

I went to Starbucks the other afternoon with a couple of mom friends while our daughters were in their piano theory class. I know what you’re thinking and, yes, pianos are real, scientifically proven to exist. But who cares? We had an hour to kill, and why not kill it with the one company who broke the will of a million coffee shop owners worldwide?

Normally I don’t mind going to Starbucks. I am very anal about the way I order, and I like to think they respect it, nay, welcome it. But this Starbucks is a little different than some others I have patronized. At other Starbucks, the employees refer to themselves as coffee baristas and take great pride in making their cappuccino foam swirl in the shape of a heart. At this Starbucks, the employees hope the customers don’t notice they reek of marijuana or mind that they are texting their friends on the clock. In other words, it is not all about the coffee for them. But they are mostly young men, and mostly not unpleasant to look at, and so mostly I don’t mind their flaws.

While my friends decided on their beverages, I ordered a grande non-fat decaf café misto, which at $2.25, is the poor man’s latte. I never know whether to pronounce the “e” on grande, like I was ordering a taco, or keep it silent, like I was ordering French food, which is why I usually stick to a tall, but it was such a bargain, I upsized a little. I know I ordered decaf, because I always order decaf. Caffeine makes me sick. Not like it does to my friend B, with her delicate digestive system, about which I will say no more. Caffeine gives me migraine headaches, the kind where you have searing head and neck pain and the urge to puke before falling over in a dizzy pile. So I always, always, always order decaf. Now, I know that getting coffee might seem like a crap shoot, but this was not my first visit to Starbucks. And I trusted them. They never let me down before. My friends ordered their lattes and the three of us crammed into two overstuffed chairs since every available inch of seating was occupied, mostly by the arrogant keyboard loners who had probably been there since it opened.

We chatted and sipped, and chatted some more. After fifteen minutes of chatting, I had the distinct impression I was doing most of the chatting. Rapidly. “Do I seem manic to you?” I asked my friends B and R. “A little, yes,” B replied. “Um-hm,” R seconded. “Goddammit, this thing has caffeine!” I said. I had already downed over half of it at that point. I held my hand up so we could stare at it, but it didn’t appear to shake any more than it normally would. I stopped feeling like I was chatting too much from a little extra boost. Instead, I felt like I was hyped up on speed. I was nervous and sweaty. I fidgeted and picked at my cuticles even more than normal. My heart was going at rabbit speed, if the rabbit had accidentally ingested a grande café misto, full caffeine version. We left to go back to the piano studio. B offered me some crackers, and I ate some but didn’t really want them, and they didn’t seem to help.

By the time the kids were in the back seat and I drove towards home, I just felt like puking. I looked around the front seat to see if there was a stray grocery bag in case I needed one. I have thrown up all over my car before, without a bag, so I knew my potential if I could not find an appropriate container. “Hand me your lunch box,” I said to my kids in the back seat. “Why?” They asked. “Nevermind, just hand it over!” I barked back. S was kind enough to toss it into the passenger seat, and I opened it at the ready in case things went down ugly. Luckily for me, and S, I didn’t need to use it.
We got home and I sat down, my head on the cool wood of the kitchen table. “Go play Wii or something, girls. Mommy doesn’t feel so good.” They ran off and I sat there wondering how one cup of what people drink everyday made me feel like I needed an intervention. It didn’t wear off by dinner, which I skipped, opting instead for a few forkfuls of leftover rice and some ginger snaps, hoping something would settle my stomach. I drank a ton of water, but even that didn’t help. By bath time, I parked my ass on the bed, and had to flee during story time for a couple of dry heaves after gagging on my own spit.

When I got up this morning, I just felt like I had the remnants of a lingering migraine headache and a slight hangover. All from a cup of coffee. One of my friends recommended I email to complain, which I did, but didn’t see the point. What were they going to do, give me a gift card for more coffee? What I don’t understand is how the rest of you people drink this stuff, full throttle. Is the majority of the population walking around, strung out on overpriced coffee like so many black beauties? I guess I will have to switch to herbal tea the next piano theory class, like someone’s therapist or something. This is what pure living gets you: the inability to assimilate at the Starbucks. And a bad coffee trip.