The Stars and the Cookie Jar

I prefer my beef screaming. Two minutes on each side, salt, pepper, a skritch of fresh garlic. Allow to rest for five minutes, and serve in a pool of gore. Yes, sadly, this is me. Observe my sharp carnivorous teeth.

But my beloved doesn't eat beef, and it's damn expensive for the cuts one can actually eat a la fressen; so I reserve the tri-tip and the filet for nights when things have gone grindingly at work. And this, my friends, was one of those nights.

*ravages beef*

I hate Holiday. I don't hate holidays, or the holiday season. I hate holiday retail. I hate people who toss my displays and mangle my merch. I hate unsupervised little darlings who pull my wreaths apart leaf by paper leaf and berry by plastic berry. I hate people who expect table service because they have shopped all day (and have no children to juggle; I will always carry plates and drinks for people who are using their hands to contain their infant). I hate people who think this is Dunkin' Donuts, and get miffy when I don't put extra cream and eight sugars in their coffee for them. I do not presume to know what you want in your coffee, you velour-suited lack-wit. I hate people who stand behind the woman in a wheelchair and roll their eyes and huff. I hate people who cut in front of the mother with a baby on her hip and a young child clinging to her hand. If you commit either of these last two sins, you are a lesser being, and you are getting decaf.

If you make a snarky comment about how welfare moms shouldn't be getting their coffee in a Starbucks, in front of that mom who may or may not be using WIC to make sure her kids have enough to eat, then I reserve the right to put your drink in the back of the queue, and keep on scooching it back, and you still get decaf. You know what? I don't give a damn if she is on welfare. I will give her the same service and the same smile I'm giving you. I will make her a good drink, because everyone gets a good drink from me. Maybe she's a welfare mom. Maybe this $3.63 grande vanilla latte once a week, or once a month, or once all her errands are done and she's worn out, is what reminds her of what she can be, if she gets it together, if she gets her kids into Head Start, if she remembers that she has dreams still, if she sits and sips her drink and dreams them. Maybe she sits in my cafe and thinks some day soon I will have a good coat and a wool suit and my kid will learn French at her kindergarten and I will have a safe car to drive and the mortgage will always get paid and I will have a vanilla latte every day.

Who are you to comment about who should do what, and why?

Happy Holiday.
And yeah, you'll be in line an extra minute and a half while I ask her toddler whether she wants a chocolate or a vanilla moo.