As I am sure that my loyal readers (to be) want to know, I took the high road and did not hatch my revenge plot against the Duck. Except in my imagination where I was my own avenging angel seeking vengeance on behalf of all women who have been duped and then dumped in cowardly, weaselly ways.
Many strands of silver lining today. First, it is very rainy and gray but it is NOT snowing. Besides April showers are expected and necessary for May flowers, right? And now not only I have talked about the weather but in cliche. Hooray for me.
Second, even though the day started off with me running late (again) and having to drop the Doodle off at school, I stopped for coffee ("liquid crack" or "morning fix") at the downtown Starbucks ("my dealer.")* Styling in my $5.00 paisley wrap dress, cowgirl boots, and Carrie Bradshaw curls (but only sporting one earring), I found myself in line behind Sean Connery's doppelganger (think Indy's dad in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom but without the accent). As I rooted in my wallet (Liberty of Londons from Target), I dropped a penny on the ground and it landed heads up. Despite the fact that I consider pennies to be lucky and don't spend them, I left this one on the ground hoping that sharing this potential bit of luck with a stranger could only mean good karma.
Indy's dad is clearly a regular ("addict"), as the barista (Italian for "dealer") handed him his latte before he even finished paying the cashier ("street hustler"). I ordered my complicated drink--quad grande skinny upside caramel macchiato--the practiced way the words glided off my tongue indicating that I am also a regular ("fellow addict"). I smiled at Indy's dad and told him it was a good thing that he had not been planning to try something new today (so droll, I know). He smiled and laughed, his blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses. He left ahead of me as I waited for my coffee ("morning fix). I followed him out and smiled as I saw him glance down, spot the penny, and pick it up (hoping it lead to him having "all day long good luck").
He held the door open for me and said: "after you, madame (meh-dame) and your complicated drink." Smiling down at me with those twinkling eyes (sucker for tall, blue-eyed men). I smiled back and said: "thank you. I am a complicated lady." And headed to my car with nary a glance over my shoulder as he headed toward the main drag with his umbrella. Totally feel a bit like a cross between Mae West with my cowgirl boots and sauciness and Katherine Hepburn with my cool, clever confidence and Ilsa Lund clad in my deep purple trench coat and air of cool mystery. Clearly, I have seen way too many movies.
Third, I passed the ball park on my way to work and the grounds people were making it ready and pretty for the home opener on Friday. To which I am going thanks to a great friend. Fourth, another great friend and mentor and ray of positivity gave me three hugs and pumped me up with her quest for joy and peace and positivity.
Bits of silver strands lining the clouds today for sure. No, I did not win the lottery or the Gods did not reach out and solve my problems and I am still technically a brunette. But it has been a good day, and I am smiling and enjoying these not-so-little things.
*Starbucks also turns 40 this year. I view this as a good omen. When I first began patronizing Starbucks, I rebelled against the ordering system, staunchly ordering a medium cafe mocha with skim milk. Refusing to partake of the kool-aid and to use their jargon. Shaking my head at the pretension. Then, I became addicted to the product and intentionally sought out the kool-aid for drinking. The first sign of addiction was usage of the jargon--grande non-fat mocha. Then, adding shots to the standard drink--triple grande non-fat mocha. Then, changing drinks with the seasons--hello triple grande non-fat egg nog latte. Then, suddenly, three shots does not have the same buzz, the same. One day, you find yourself ordering a quad grande skinny upside caramel machiatto. And you know that you're hooked, that you have a $5.00 to $8.00 a day habit and still living in the spare bedroom at your ex's house or your ex-house. You realize that "barista" is Italian for pusher and wonder how far you will go to satisfy your need.
It's not just the jargon, either. You notice the tools for taking in the product. French press pots, the tea baskes that more than resembles a spoon used for free basing cocaine, the pastries, and oh dear God, the musical compilations. Norah Jones, Frank Sinatra, Music for the road, Music for Sunday morning. You become impatient and aggravated with newbies and tourists who struggle to place their order and ask inane questions like "what does venti mean?" And who invariably slow down the delivery of the sweet, hot liquid into your veins. Oh and the proverbial straw, the nail in your coffin is the placement of Starbucks in Target; your two addictions in one convenient location, the two largest drains on your disposable income.
There is no cure, I fear. Maybe, I could give up Starbucks but I could never give up Target and how can a girl resist Starbucks when it is right there, issuing its siren song of a delicious, mental jolt. And all for 140 calories. Besides, even if they had a 12-step program for liquid crack addicts, what would they serve in lieu of coffee and cookies? Beer and peanuts?
Song(s) of the day: Ooo ooo Child by the Five Stairsteps; Singing in the Rain by Gene Kelly; Pocketful of Sunshine, Natasha Bedingfield; It's Raining Men by the Weather Girls
Inspiration(s) of the day: Carrie Bradshaw, Mae West, Katherine Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman, Indy's dad, Starbucks, MKD
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