All My Clothes Have Mocha Stains

"Ventisoychaitwoandthreequartesinchesoffoamwithtwoeightsofacentimeterofcaramelsauceanda

turkeysandwichwithonlyahalfpieceofturkeyandineeditallinthenextminuteandahalfcauseihavea

traintocatch."

I've been working here long enough that I now have the coffee language down, but would it hurt for people to breath in between their words?

I look at the sixteen year old girl in front of me, decked out in Tiffany's and Bloomingdales, and then at the line of 25 people behind her also waiting for their drinks.  There is no way that her order will be ready in 90 seconds.

"Our sandwiches are pre-made."

She rolls her eyes.  "Whatever.  This is bad business.  Just give me the drink.  Now I only have 72 seconds until my train comes.

I mark her cup and call someone to ring up the rest of the customers so princess can get her replenishment via mommy's credit card.  I steam the milk, pump the chai, and top it off with caramel.  I try to meet her measurement requirements but I'm not about to whip out a ruler to get exactly two and three quarter inches of foam and two eights of a centimeter of caramel sauce.  I finish her drink in record time and pass her the cup.  She takes off the lid and peers inside, a look of disgust on her face which she then transfers to me.

"It's not filled to the top."

"I'm sorry, if I fill it anymore it will overflow and then that would be a full three inches of foam."

"Show me what's left in the container."

I take the pitcher which I steamed the milk in and show her the five or six drops left on the bottom.

"Techincally, I paid for that."

'No, technically your parents paid for that.' I want to say.

I sigh and take her cup, pouring the rest of the milk in which, as promised, causes the cup to overflow.

The girl glares at me from underneath her false eyelashes and swoopy bangs and grimaces.

"You need to make me another one.  I'm not taking that, I'll get chai on my hands."

I sigh again, my frustration becoming increasingly difficult to contain and pour the drink into the sink.  A little bit of my pride rushes down the drain with it.

I make her next drink while a pile of other orders crowd the counter space around me.  The girls whips out her bedazzled cell phone, a la Paris Hilton, and begins to bitch to a phantom friend on the other end.

New drink finished, I slide it to her and immediately turn to the next order before she can complain about anything else.  As she walks away she turns back and sneers.

"I'm going to Starbucks from now on."

"For the love of god, please do!" I call out after her, watching her mini skirt ride up her ass with each step.