She totally hijacked my post - read her story farther down - but find out what I was writing. :)
Even though it is a Sunday - and I have plans for the afternoon - I wanted to celebrate inside a Starbucks.
I got two birthday cake pops and a raspberry passion tea lemonade. I had thought I was going to get a iced marble mocha macchiatto - but once I got to the store, I just wasn't in the mood. (Also, I really like to save my free drink coupons for those $5 pleasures).
Anyway.
The stupidity never lets up.
Within one short hour, let us chronicle the dramicle.
- The old-age pensioners who wait until the barista brings out an armload of new items for the cold case before thrusting the empty milk pitcher literally in their face and saying "THIS IS EMPTY!"
- Bad fashion. Balding. Thirty-something. Paunch from too-many PBRs consumed in an attempt to be ironic but really because he likes the taste. Green tee. Blue shorts. Black socks. Battered gray Nikes with orange laces. And don't tell me he was a runner or a jogger because he was sucking down a venti frappuccino.
Moochers. An old man perched outside getting refills on the same cup of drip coffee for at least 90 minutes. Came inside twice to get two Trenta waters. Flomax is not a problem with this one.
Downright skankiness. I was behind a girl at the register who had more pockets than denim in her denim shorts. Top to bottom, we're talking maybe six inches of fabric with a one-inch strip between the legs. She had a battered old cigarette case that she couldn't even wedge into her back pocket they were so tight. Black hair styled in a thin bouffant (tribute to Amy Winehouse?) - although it looked like a bird's nest that had been tossed through a wood chipper and put back together by a blind monkey. It was a sight.
Douchebags. Two loud sports fans who decided to grab two of the comfy chairs and stare at their phones for a half-hour while yelling to each other about the play-by-play of some baseball game. We literally don't care. Keep it to yourself. And really, NO ONE cares that you'd "pay a million dollars to see Jason Bourne take on some terrorists."
SWEET MOTHER OF GOD.
There's a woman in here who's wearing neither bra nor panties. She has on "pants" and a "shirt" and "shoes." That is all. There is NO evidence of undergarments - because the ENTIRE Starbucks can see both her nipples and her buttocks.
Let's try to describe this.
The top is a peasant blouse cut out of extremely sheer material. Curtain sheers are less sheer. Lace doilies are less sheer. This is something on the approximation of clear packing tape.
The fabric is so sheer that when she turns around, I can clearly see her nipples. There is no bra. Nothing. Just 50-year-old boobs. They're in good shape (good for her) but still. Areola isn't something you expect at a Starbucks at 3:30 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon.
This is both MORE and LESS than a peasant blouse. MORE in the sense that there is only the suggestion of sleeves - basically a poof of material somewhere between the bicep and the elbow. Got that visualization? Good. Now hold your arms to your side and realize how low that hangs. That's where the TOP of the fabric ends.
LESS than a peasant blouse because ... obviously, there's much less of it. It even happens to be a crop-top, held up by a three-inch band of elastic cinched under the boobs. There's a vast and wide expanse of leathery tanned stomach between the bottom of the "shirt" (I feel dirty even besmirching the term like that) and the start of the ... pants?
Once she enters, she realizes that she *might* not be appropriately clothed - so she hikes the thing up on her shoulders and crosses her arms so as not to flash the world.
But we haven't even gotten to the PANTS.
Which, again, is ascribing kind terms to piece of fabric approximating items of clothing.
More sheer white material stretched far beyond its useful limits. The best thing about these pants is that her rear end has not held against the ravages of time with the same force as the rest of her body.
In other words, her ass is sagging.
And this white, filmy material is gripping every inch of it.
And did I mention that the pockets (why God why?) have little silver swoops of crystals appliqued on them?
She tops (or bottoms) all this off with three-inch cork wedges. She clonks around on them like a champ. Obviously used to them.
She keeps staring around the whole time she's in the store. Nobody looks at her when she looks around, but the second her head is turned, EVERYBODY STARES.
MY GOD WOMAN, YOU'RE PRACTICALLY NAKED. Cancer patients wear more as they're being wheeled into the operating room. Their vital parts are covered.
Just another Sunday afternoon at Starbucks.
Thank you - Unknown Areola - for making the second birthday of Starbucks Drama such a treat!
PS: Subscribe on Kindle! Or buy me something off my Amazon.com wish list! (I love chocolate!)
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