I will get around to posting all the wonderful things I want to write about BlogHer. I promise.
But one of the highlights of my week had nothing directly to do with the conference. It was an incident in Starbucks on the last morning, hours before I left.
I just get such a perverse kick out of watching people have a meltdown, and this one was fantastic.
I was in line at the Starbucks inside the NYC Hilton. It was a long line. The baristas were hollering over each other to get drink orders from waiting customers, which helped the line move along at a nice pace.
The woman in front of me ordered a muffin and a latte. I ordered my usual white chocolate mocha, no whip. I contemplated ordering a pastry but Starbucks puts the nutritional information on the price tags and I decided the WCMNW was enough sugar and fat and I didn’t need to pile on more.
See? Every once in a while I make good choices.
After I placed my order, the woman behind me, loudly and in a stereotypical East-coast accent, ordered “the biggest CAW-fee youse have.” And then I noticed she was in her pajamas.
Not sweats, not a T-shirt and yoga pants, which I’ve totally rocked at Starbucks.
She was in printed, polyester jammies. With an ugly sweater and her slippers. If this is a fashion trend in New York, and it could very well be because those of us who live in the fly-over states find out about these things years after they are out of style, then for once i’m glad I live in the sticks.
Read into this that I do NOT think this is a fashion trend as much as I think it was a statement to how klassie this bish was.
Anyway, the barista poured her CAW-fee and set it next to the register. That’s when Miss New York decided it would be a smart move to step in front of the woman in front of me and pay for her beverage. This bold move DID NOT set well with the woman in front of me, no doubt another blogger from the conference who was contemplating how much shit she was going to get from TSA trying to take home a caddy of Play Doh (answer: lots of shit, from what I hear.)
Miss New York’s move did not impress Fellow Blogger, who did not hesitate to point out that “there is a line here” in an authoritative voice that clearly denoted “Do not mess with me, you tacky bish.”
At this point, Fellow Blogger was my hero.
But Miss New York? She was shocked, shocked I tell you, at the assertiveness of Fellow Blogger, with her non-regional accent and the “I’ll cut a bitch” look on her face. And so Miss New York proceeded to loudly proclaim her dismay to all the customers in the shop.
“WHAAAAAAT??? That’s my CAW-fee right there!” she yelled. “I just want to get my CAW-fee!!!!” Her tone was dripping with frustration, indignation and exclamation points. I also noticed her hand was shaking just a little. As she hustled her ass back in line behind me, far away from Fellow Blogger, who was no doubt wondering if she could stuff the Mr. Potato Head toy swag down Miss New York’s throat, she bleated, “What kind of SYSTEM is dis???”
System? What kind of system? It’s called a line, you pajama-clad caffeine addict. In other English-speaking countries it’s called a queue, but it’s the same concept. This woman was at least my age, maybe older. She could not possibly have lived this long and never encountered this “system” known as a line, where you take turns, first come, first served.
She continued to grumble about the sheer injustice of it all, which is totally why I didn’t let her in front of me. Because as much as I respect another junkie jonesing for the java fix, I cannot tolerate an idiot. And at that point, listening to her whine was entertaining.
I paid for my WCMNW, and Miss New York laid down a couple of bucks, and no tip, for her CAW-fee, which she immediately took over to the counter, loaded with a half cup of sugar, and began to swig like a pledge chugs a beer at a fraternity party.
Someone needs a 12-step program. And to sit through a “What Not to Wear” marathon.
Stacey London would never tolerate any self-respecting woman running around in her p.j.s in NYC.
No. She. Would, Not.
