Author Archives: Becky Bean

How Do People Like This Survive?

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Did I say I was taking a two week break? Whoops! I meant a month. My bad!

At any rate, I feel much better, despite the fact that I am now approximately 427 months pregnant and large enough that small objects in our house are starting to be sucked into my gravitational field and rotate around me like a mini solar system. The good news is that I only have about five weeks left to go.

The bad news is that I have about five weeks left to go. I wonder how soon I’ll feel like riding a horse again after I pop out the Squidgelet?

Anyways, moving on:

This morning I stopped by Starbucks on my way to work.

I know, I know. I hate the idea of Starbucks just as much as the rest of you.

It bugs me that they have stupid names for their sizes (Graaaande… Veeeeeenti… Whateeeever…) .

It annoys me that they’ve given their employees pretentious names like “barista” instead of “person standing behind the counter”.

Their coffee isn’t that great, they’re way overpriced, and every time I walk in there it makes me feel like I’m selling out.

On the other hand, getting a coffee at Starbucks also makes me absurdly happy. They have the world’s most delicious whipped cream, and while the actual coffee doesn’t taste that great, I love the flavors they offer, the familiar cups, and the old-timey jazz they pipe through the speakers. And I love their whipped cream. Did I mention the homemade whipped cream? Mmmm. Whipped cream. I’ve said it before: that whipped cream is addicting.

My name is Becky. I live in Orange County, I work in Newport Beach, and I like Starbucks coffee. I’m such a cliché.

During the winter Starbucks offers their seasonal specials. I always order their pumpkin spice latte, and over the years I’ve learned how to tweak it just right for my taste buds. I’ve spoken the order so many times that it rolls off my tongue like a script.

Me: “Good morning. I’d like to order a grande pumpkin spice latte with extra whipped cream. (Pause for them to write it down.) However, instead of putting the pumpkin spice powder on top, can you put the cinnamon dolce powder instead?”

Average Barista: “Sure, no problem. That’ll be [an exorbitant amount of money for one coffee].”

It’s usually a quick, painless, seamless transaction.

Not this morning.

This morning, I had the world’s dumbest person taking care of me today at Starbucks.

Me: “Good morning. I’d like to order a grande pumpkin spice latte with extra whipped cream. (Pause for her to write it down.) However, instead of putting the pumpkin spice powder on top, can you put the cinnamon dolce powder instead?”

Barista: “Wait. What?”

Me: I’d like to order a grande pumpkin spice latte with extra whipped cream. However, instead of putting the pumpkin spice powder on top, can you put the cinnamon dolce powder instead?”

Barista: “Did you say you wanted a cinnamon dolce latte?”

Me (realizing I needed to use MUCH smaller words): “No. I want a grande pumpkin spice latte.”

Barista: “Okay!”

Me: “With extra whipped cream.”

Barista: “Would you like any whipped cream with your latte?”

Me (sighing inwardly): “Yes, please. Extra whipped cream.”

Barista: “Okay!”

Me: “Now, you know how you put the pumpkin spice powder on top of the whipped cream?”

Barista: “Yeah!”

Me: “Instead of that, please put cinnamon dolce powder. I don’t like the spice powder.”

Barista. “Uh… okay.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Barista (hesitating): “Okay, so, uh… you just want an extra shot of dolce syrup with your latte? Is that it?”

Me: “NO. NO EXTRA SYRUP.”

Barista: “Ummm…”

Me: “THE POWDER. The pumpkin spice POWDER?”

Barista: “Yeah?”

Me: “I don’t like the taste. Please don’t put it on there. Please put the cinnamon dolce POWDER instead.”

Barista: “OOOOH! OH! I GET IT!”

Yeah. I don’t see nuclear physics in her future.

Taking a Short Break

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Hi guys,

It’s been a long week.

For those of you who understand, I went up to visit Bunnygal and her horses this past weekend, and not even being around their sweet scent revived me.

Usually just being around the horses puts a spring back in my step. This time the only time I felt connected to them is when Cotton, who is growing heavy with foal, laid down to take a nap in a soft spot.

I was leaning against the rails of her stall, aimlessly watching her stamp flies and blow hay dust out of her nose when she collapsed with a suddenness that alarmed me (colic? Is she colicking?!). After crashing to the ground with a grunt, she stretched out slowly and ponderously in her stall with a deep, deep, drawn-out groan. Her swollen sides jutted into the air, and she scratched her neck in pleasure against the grainy sand with a few rhythmic grunts, clearly pleased to be off her feet. Her stubby legs paddled slightly, stiffening in a deep stretch.

Finally, for the grand finale, she heaved a monstrously loud sigh, and shut her eyes.

I stared down at my own monstrously jutting stomach, straightened my back painfully, and realized she had the right idea.

So, that’s what I’m doing. I’m taking a break.

I took Bad Max out on a long walk yesterday while my mom watched the DragonMonkey. I didn’t realize until I did so that this was the first bit of alone time I had had in weeks, or maybe months. I’ve left the DragonMonkey with The Bean to run around and do chores, but that’s not quite the same.

Thanks to the time change, it was long-since night when I left the house. The crescent moon was high above the horizon and the riverbed was the only place I could think of that might have some peace, so I waddled up and down the deserted, empty stretch for awhile. I sat on the rocks lining the jetty and squinted my eyes, pretending that I was high on a mountain, and that the sound of the distant traffic was really wind in the trees.

Eventually, my butt got sore so I had to return to reality.

I was strangely unwilling to return to the house, so I hobbled my way through the dark night to a nearby park. I found a darkened crevice at the bottom of one of the hills and lay down on the grass. Max leaned heavily against my back, both out of a desire for warmth and for reassurance. Poor guy – he’s an indoor city dog, through and through. All this “outdoor” stuff had left him unnerved.

I shut my eyes and listened to the actual sound of wind in the trees, and did my best to pretend that the traffic sounds were now waves crashing on a nearby shore. Eventually I was able to tune it out, even the hum of the heavy power lines stretching above my head.

It was dark. It was cold. It was just the right amount of windy, with the chilly gusts licking at my cheeks and loosened, flyaway hairs.. My dog was quietly watchful, warming me, a solid weight against the curve of my back. The scent of the grass filled my nose, and something about the sturdy feel of the earth directly beneath my cheek steadied me.

I felt better. Maybe not healed, but better.

It felt like the right thing to do, so I am going to do it again. And again. The dog and I could use the exercise, and I know my soul could use the rest.

So, there you go. That’s my warning. I usually do my writing in the evenings, so I’m going to be neglectful of this blog for a bit. See you guys on the 23rd.