Gingerbread Lattes and Dirtbags
Decided earlier today that I would just write about whatever the hell was going on around me in my local Starbucks while I was there. This was the result.
Currently in a “quiet” Starbucks, and an absolutely adorable blonde angel is sitting next to me enjoying a song about the days of the week (thank god because I was beginning to forget what comes after Tuesday) and calling her older sister a dirtbag. Already I’m liking her, as I’ve never encountered a four year old with such a compelling knowledge of crass phrases to describe one’s family. She is now proceeding to fill me in with the details of their Christmas trip to Pennsylvania and exactly what shade of pink she wants her new boots, and how they will compliment her blue scarf, currently sticking out of her back pocket. Before I go on, I realize I am making this young girl out to sound very well spoken, but I am instead doing a service to whomever may read this, as I can barely understand her almost incoherent babble. Moving forward. For about ten minutes now, she has been describing the extreme stupidity in a person for wearing “Hawaii clothes in the cold snow”, (because apparently I am not in possession of the knowledge that snow is naturally cold) she’s now asking me if my favorite color is pink. I assume this question rushed forward through her mind as a revelation, that obviously the color of my hair is my ultimate favorite. Understandable, really. I don’t believe I will have a chance to answer, as she’s already moved on to the fact that her favorite color is orange. But she also likes pink a lot, too. Certainly this is my lucky day. Her father has just taken her by the hand now and is leading her out the door, carrying more hot chocolate than I ever thought necessary for two children both under the age of 8. I can’t help but giggle at the thought of whatever sugar induced hyperactivity follows the consumption of those drinks. This guy has completely asked for whatever is coming next. I truly believe he will regret this day for the rest of his life. But then again, as his 4 year old daughter has such a colorful vocabulary, I don’t think he really grasps the idea of “repercussions.”