Mommy tries to enjoy a morning out

I live for Wednesdays. Really just 3 hours on Wednesday morning because the rest of the day is consumed with carting the kids to activities. Taking the kids to activities has replaced activities that I once had. Back in the day, I hiked, biked, went to writing groups, and did things that people found vaguely interesting. Now, I transport and not in the cool Jason Statham kind of way.
But for a few precious hours a week I can do whatever I want. I can go to the bathroom alone. I can drink an entire beverage without sharing or having my straw chewed on. I can drive down the street without my three year old telling me I am going the wrong way. I can work on my novel. There is just one thing that has been a thorn in my side during these hours of glorious freedom and thy name is Starbuck's! The barristas really. I enjoy getting a cup of coffee and working on my laptop while the anklebiter is at mother's morning out. Trying to be health conscious, I order a skinny latte, and apparently being an idiot, I am not aware of the correct coffee lingo needed to place an order at Starbucks ...but it turns out neither do the barristas.

The scene went something like this:
"Hi, girl with B.A. in Medieval Literature. I would like a grande skinny latte."
"What flavored syrup do you want?" Imagine appropriate attitude of disdain you get from someone who studied Chaucer and has to get coffee for a plebeian.
"No syrup," I reply, refraining from saying that I have a MFA in Writing , so I'm really more qualified for Starbucks than her, and that they syrup nullifies the whole "skinny" part of the latte.
"Oh, so you just want a latte with skim-milk," she says with a snide tone that implies she needed the Rosetta Stone of Stupid to interpret my order.
Cut to this Wednesday. I'm versed in professional coffee pourer jargon, so order a grande latte with skim milk.
"What syrup do you want in that?"
"None," I say.
"So you want a skinny latte," she chirps. This barrista doesn't have attitude. She is more like a grammar school teacher gently correcting my mistake.
I will point out here that Cranky Mommy doesn't have a lot of patience. The urge to pinch people's heads off comes over me several times a day, but I didn't take coffee-girl down a notch like I really wanted to. I smiled, took my syrup free, skinny, skim milk grande latte and decided to get all coffee girls at once here.
This isn't an isolated incident. I ordered the same drink in another Starbuck's over 100 miles away and got the same response, so here is what I have to say to snotty barristas everywhere:
First, don't get snide with me about the whole tall, grande, venti thing. Venti was made up by a Starbucks corporate guy, so don't expect me to embrace the term anymore than I embraced truthiness. And when I say medium, you know what I mean, so don't say "grande" like I 'm a simpleton. GRANDE MEANS LARGE and VENTI MEANS NOTHING (but 20 in Italian and Italians measure their coffee in metrics, not ounces)! I know your menu, I'm just not feeding into your grammar errors.
Second, why can't you just give me the over-priced coffee I ask for without all the public flogging? I frequently filled in at the Starbucks in the bookstore I worked in and if I can't get a cup of coffee without being made to feel inadequate, then who can? I don't know what part of your psyche is fed by being the "Queen of Correct Coffee Orders" but I may start feeding my psyche by becoming the "Queen of Smacking Down Rude People." I'm sorry you can't get a job with your English/Art/Philosophy/Anthropology/Music degree, but I can't get a job with my writing master's either and you don't see me being snide (except here).
All I want is a medium latte made with skim milk and without attitude and a few hours of peace, is that so wrong?

Ballerinas or the Mafia?

When I signed my daughter up for dance class, I didn’t realize they were making me an offer I couldn’t refuse. The dance studio seemed like such a safe place. Bright flamingo pink walls. A crystal chandelier. Photos of lithe dancers in graceful poses. Who would’ve thought that behind all those tutus lurked the Don of Pointe Shoes? But here I am an “earner” for the Ballet Mafia. Actually, in Mafioso terms, I’m a big-earner (one who makes the family lots of money).

It starts innocently enough. Tap and ballet shoes for class. CHING. Leotard with school name on it, along with tights, wrap skirt, and personalized dance bag that you can only buy through them. CHA-CHING. Like a shop owner paying for protection, you think “Okay, that was a lot of money, but it’s only once a year.”

This is when an unemployed Sopranos extra named Vinnie should emerge from the back room and smack some sense into me. You silly mook, that money was just the initial payment. Now comes the vig. Tights on a 3yr old has the shelf life of a case DVD players that fall off the back of a truck in Jersey. So they hit you up for an extra $10 every other week. Then the recital payments kick in. My daughter ends up with a costume made by third world laborers, but carries the price tag of haute couture. $200 dollars for an outfit she’ll wear one day and will have stained with chocolate milk in under an hour? Meanwhile, for the recital I’ll wear a $10 shirt for Wal-mart, unless she needs another pair of tights that week. If that wasn’t enough of an expense, there are pictures for the program that you have to buy a $50 ad space in to tell your little angel what a great ballerina she is. (While the mom with the Prada purse makes you look bad when she buys the $140 full-page ad for her uncoordinated prima ballerina, oh and Prada Mama will take 3 pair of tights while she’s at it. This is when I have to suppress the urge to whack Prada Mama with my last season, T.J. Maxx clearance purse.) After the individual picture packages, there are the class pictures. One mother asks if we can buy a copy of the class picture. Another mother who looks like she’s ready to enter the Ballet Witness Protection Program sneers, “Of course you can buy them. You pay for everything here.”

I’m just glad there are only time-outs and no rub-outs in ballet class, but then I’ve never bounced a check to the dancing Don....

Welcome Tired & Cranky Mommies!

This blog is for mommies who need naps, let their kids eat too many M&Ms so they can get five minutes on the phone to schedule that GYN checkup, despise Dora and Diego (save those stinking marmosets already!) and dread attending other kids birthday parties (unless there is a margarita bar). I will not talk about the beauty of natural childbirth or how your child should know sign language by 3 months and spell his name by 18 months. There are enough of those nuts already blogging. This is for the moms who wanted a cocktail to top off the epidural and have normal kids who may not know sign language or speak French, but know the entertainment value of a nervous cat combined with some finger paints.