SIS: YUCK

Pushy barista boys and oldster makeout sessions:

Scarlette’s trip to fake-Seattle takes a turn for the grody

     So let’s just come right out with it, I'm not going to beat around the bush: This whole torrential downpour thing has really got my panties in a bunch. I've had to reschedule several of my photography sessions, not once but twice.

     I keep telling my clients I’m sorry, apparently it’s going to rain for more than two weeks straight. People get mad, and I so badly want to say, "Don't blame me. Blame all those angels who are crying because you don't recycle."

     Anyway, the rain has now become an excuse for everything wrong in my life. Games are being canceled, shoots are rescheduled, my husband’s work is on hold, the roof in my kids’ room has sprung a leak and my ass is getting huge from lack of exercise.

Yet it still rains, day and night, night and day. Every morning I trudge out to my car, wading through mud puddles filled with fresh, bloated worm carcasses to take my kids to school, and then I hurry home to my prison. 

     It's like we live in Seattle, only we don't get the perks of fresh seafood and public transportation.

On about the eighth day of rain – remember back when it had only been raining for eight days? – I decided it was time to get a venue change. Maybe I would just embrace the weather pretend I was in Seattle. There has to be something about an all black outfit and a cup of coffee that makes the rain seem more like a warm aromatherapy bath.

     Speaking of Seattle, why would anyone on Earth subject themselves to constant rain? I think I may dislike rain more than snow. At least with snow you know what to do, what to wear and what activities go along with it. Have you ever heard of anyone going, "I can't wait till it rains then I can ..."

     You can what? Catch up on your housework? Bake? Go to work looking like a drowned rat because you never know where you put your umbrella?

     Ugh.

     Anyway, back to fake-Seattle.

     Naturally, I drove to Starbucks, dressed in black, toting my laptop and ready to sip coffee and listen to "cool people" music.

     There has to be some way to get over this rain funk, right?

     So I get into line, order a cup of black coffee and a glass of water, and I could instantly feel the rain clouds turning into clouds of joy. The rain was really caffeine, and life was about to be good.

     You see, pregnant people don't get to have caffeine all the time – we are forced to exist on one caffeinated beverage a day, which is completely unfair since we are the most TIRED people on EARTH.

     But, whatever. There I was, waiting for my coffee, when the slick little barista boy decided to tell me I wasn't supposed to have coffee. RIGHT?

     I gave him my fiercest stink eye (the one I reserve for people who smoke with their kids in the car) and he didn't even look sorry. I mumbled something to him about it being perfectly fine to have a cup of coffee now and then. Then his manager started chuckling and telling him she had coffee while she was pregnant.

     But it was too late, the damage was done. That little jerk had ruined my Seattle moment. The clouds were filled with rain again, and I was pissed. Not just regular pissed, pregnant pissed. Trust me, you never want to see pregnant pissed – it’s not pretty. I mean, try spending nine months with no caffeine, no sushi, no lunch meat, no soft cheese, no bike riding and no BOOZE while cradling a bowling ball full of squids in your pelvic cavity. Now try to tell me how you’d feel if someone tried to police your consumption choices!

     That kid's lucky I didn't take off my sensible slip-on shoe and slap the caffeine buzz right out of his smug little body.

Just imagining it makes me feel better. Not great, but better.

     Nonetheless, I sulked off to the corner to enjoy my one cup of coffee – despite the bitter taste of guilt – and work on the 500 deadlines I haven't met because I have too much downtime. 

     I started to feel better, almost productive. And this would have been the end of my story, but as luck would have it, a couple in their late 40's to early 50's decided to sit down about two feet from me.

     My initial though was, “Cute, a coffee date. Maybe I’ll have something to write about that has to do with being ‘Single in Sandpoint’ after all.”

     That’s when it happened.

     First they started making out. I mean, tongue and all. She was running her fingers through his six or seven grey hairs, and he was – OK, seriously, this is true; I'm just reporting what I saw – he started rubbing her upper thigh, higher and higher until…

     Ugh. Omigod. NO!!

     I shut my laptop with a slap and decided to get the hell out of there. I don't mind a little PDA now and then, but going for the gold at Starbucks at 10 a.m. seems to be a bit much. Upper thigh stroking doesn't go well with pregnancy and the scent of high-priced coffee.

     I guess fake-Seattle sucks. I'm never going to try that again. I’ll just wait out the rain like everybody else, and when I need a fix I’ll take the drive-through in a disguise and enjoy it in privacy.

Still Emotionally Scarred,

SQ

Comments

[John McLellan]

Great column. If reincarnation exists, then you must've been a hell raiser in a previous life, cuz you just can't seem to live a "peaceful life" this time around. Chaos, always. (Of course, "normal" is just dull. Chaos suits me, and you, fine. Wouldn't have it any other way.)

[Scarlette]

Um, I think I have been a hell raiser this life too. I was reading a card that my grandparents wrote me for my second birthday the other day... they called me "the pistol", so maybe I court the chaos. Thank you though, its nice to be reminded of your wild side when you are on pregnancy lock down.