now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

(The lad is currently out of town so I’m on morning shift)

“Good morning, Mommy! HAPPY PI DAY!”
“nnnngh. Mornin.”
“It’s PI DAY! Pi is between THREE an FOUR!”
“Yes it is. Do you want to play up here or downstairs while I get ready and drink coffee?”
“Downstairs. And I want to watch a movie and eat waffles. Pi is three point one four one five….I can’t remember the rest.”
“Pi goes on forever, honey, it’s infinite, no one knows all of the numbers.”
“You mean like To Infinity, and BEYOND! mommy?”
“Yeah, like that. I need to go make coffee now.”
“Mommy, if it goes on forever, how can you go beyond it. There’s no something after forever cause if it’s forever there’s no line to be on the other side of.”
“…..”
“Go get your coffee mommy, it’s ok. I’ll ask rhino instead.”

So today I turned into one of those people that, when the line is long, make me cringe. Fortunately, I was the only customer in the entire new Starbucks that has sprung up, like a certain hottie from Zeus’ forehead, 4 blocks from the house. Alas, the land to one side of the Starbucks is undeveloped, and the wind is so gusty I mentally flashed to Laura screaming frantically for Pa as a twister sprang up in Dakota territory in some long suppressed episode of Little House on the Prairie.

For all the world, this Starbucks could exist anywhere. Working where I do, I have become part of the Starbucks culture: it is our ritual before a big meeting, we all ‘meet at the Starbucks’ in giant conventions, we whisper disappointment to one another when the promised Starbucks at a shiny national chain hotel merely “proudly serves” Starbucks (and then we refer to it, in damning tones, as ‘Fauxbucks’, and everyone gets a plain coffee rather than risk something more complicated). The serene dark furniture, the little CD stand telling me breathlessly why good god fearin Kansans should buy kd lang’s new album (good luck with that, corporate), this Starbucks is just like any other Starbucks in all the damn land.

“Ma’am, here’s your triple grande nonfat latte single pump classic syrup. And if that’s not perfect for you, please, let me know, and I’ll remake it right away.”

Dear Corporate. Please to export midwestern barrista ethos to the Starbucks in Atlanta Hartsfield airport terminal A RIGHT. NOW.

Please, for the love of all that’s holy, resign. Please sir, I beg of you (but not if you’re into that sort of thing, you asshole), just….resign. Because I think if I have to pass one more day where I must avoid a legion of barely-avoiding-smirking newscasters trying to dance their way around the fact that you apparently like it bareback and more, I’m going to lose my ever loving mind. Frankly, my desire for your resignation tout suite has not a damn thing to do with what you’re accused of (though boy howdy, if you are guilty of all that’s being levied against you- legally, the whole liking it in various ways extolled by The Bloodhound Gang means if nothing else I sincerely hope you left the safe sex lectures to your teenage children to your wife but certainly isn’t illegal…in most states- you should not only resign you should prepare yourself for a festive 10 years in the big house) and more to do with my loathing of the media and my tenuous remaining grasp on any sense of rightness in the world. A grasp, I might add, that was nearly undone by that bitch Matilda’s casual mentioning of loofa, Bill O’Reilly, and falafel.

I’m going to go back to living under a damn rock now.