Triple grande caramel mocha with a shot of self-esteem, please.

While passing out cups of java joy, I couldn’t help but notice you keep conversations brief and cordial for most customers – respecting their morning zombie-like haze. Yet, day after day you have delivered a shot of insults with my beverage. I don’t seem to recall asking for a tall-half-caf- vanilla-make-fun-of-my-hair- latte. Nor did I ask for a grande-criticize-my-outfit-mocha. What did I ever do to you mister Starbucks man. I apologize if I somehow managed to offend you with my order, but I find your vicious attacks are very unnecessary.

I’m willing to let a few insensitive comments pass before 7 a.m., but I must draw the line. Consider today your warning… the line has been drawn. Next time you stand there with your graying hair and expanding beer belly, be careful as you inform me that I that I look very old – old enough to be your mother. I also suggest that you choose your words wisely when telling me I would be lucky if I could ever find a boyfriend, and nobody would marry me. Once you hand over that cup, you’ve fueled a beast and I warn you – there’s no turning back. I can, and I will go Arabian Mocha Java on you, sir.

My sarcasm is typically intended for good humor, however you’re playing with fire. I’m fully prepared to unleash a flurry of hurtful jabs in your direction – Ralphie and Scutt Farcus style. So hand over that cup, and nobody will get hurt. One more poorly chosen line from you and I’ll show you why there is in fact a reason to cry over spilled milk.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

Oh mother dearest – please don’t worry about controlling that 3 foot beast running down the condiment isle. Seeing that you forgot to grab the child leash so charmingly disguised as a monkey, I’m sure you are feeling just a bit overwhelmed. After all, how does one expect a mother to manage a shopping cart and child without a Labrador-like restraining device? And yes, the high pitched screaming and tantrum throwing is perfectly acceptable considering the circumstances.

So, don’t mind us as we reach around your precious angel for a jar of Vlasic bread and butter chips. And as for the minor traffic jam your “little peanut” has created at the intersection of juice and crackers – no worries. We didn’t really have anything else to do today. We’ll just wait until you and all of the other parents finish counting to three before we scope out the Chex Mix inventory. That’s when something magical happens, right? Thank goodness you were bestowed the gift of counting to three slowly enough to create the illusion that your little terror mysteriously saw the light and adopted a socially acceptable demeanor.

If you would like, I’m happy to join in on the counting next time. Because let’s be realistic… we’re going to share this experience again once we hit the cookie isle. And as friendly warning, I may not be as patient if your little sweetie pie comes between me and the Double Stuff.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right – here I am.

Life is full of difficult decisions, and you often find yourself having to pick the lesser of two evils. Not out of laziness or lack of interest – but purely because all options simply suck. For example… you board the bus at 6 a.m. only to find that you’ve stepped into a chamber of bacteria, oozing out of parkas and wool mittens. You quickly assess the situation, hoping a golden beam of light will illuminate an open seat surrounded by sunshine, daisies, and a babbling brook. Instead, the flickering lights reveal your grim options of slush covered seats.

15 seconds to choose a bus mate… who do you go with? The man with the rattling phlegm filled hack? The woman that has already sneezed 5 times and is yet to cover her spray of snot? What about the lady you thought was safe last time, but turned out to be a flatulent culprit? Or, do you take your chances with the personal bubble invader, and hope she stays within her defined portion of the seat?

Of course, the bubble invader is the least offensive to the senses. So, congratulations Mrs. Space Invader. While your elbow and leg was rhythmically bouncing against mine through the entire ride, and you cracked open a bag of Doritos for a crunchy, (very crunchy), early morning snack… you have proven to be the least offensive person on the bus this morning. Take pride in this achievement. Walk into work - head held high as you welcome your coworkers with your recognizably Doritos aroma, knowing that even at your extra cheesiest, you were in fact chosen as the lesser of this morning’s evils.

Who pimped my ride??

To the %*&@$ it may concern:

The dime sized chunk you took out of my bumper has made me furious, and I must share my frustration. My very first brand spankin’ new car and some near sighted dill weed nudges up to my poor, innocent bumper until their license plate screw viciously digs into the smooth, dare I say perfect, back side.

Your failure to respect the junk in my trunk has been eating away at me for days, so I must tell you the level of disappointment and lack of trust I have in you – you mystery bumper nudging butt head. I took special care to avoid the prime parking spot near the station wagon at target knowing the 8 year old inside was bound to test the hinge in his mother’s car door… likely dimpling the smooth complexion of my passenger side. I have even been taking corners a little slower to avoid that curb I usually take out.

Yes, I’ve been taking special care to show this new car a little love in hopes that on that -25 wind chill day it will greet me with a smile and say “Hey, buddy! I know you don’t want to walk home in the cold, dark, up to your femur-snow drifts. Let me start right up and get toasty and warm for you.” I tried to protect it from the harsh world, but you – mystery bus rider – have tainted my wheels.

Thanks for getting that first ding out of the way for me. I was really dreading the day I had to come to terms with the fact that I put the first scratch on the surface. You really did me a big favor…. So thanks for that. I hope one day you come forward so I can show my deep appreciation in your bumper. Until then, keep on truckin’.

Idle Idols

The shock! The horror! How could he? What was she thinking? Better yet…. why on Earth are you so personally affected when a celebrity does something stupid? Are you BFF’s? Does Tiger Woods have the other half of your heart shaped friendship bracelet? Can you please tell me why his domestic issues have made people say that this "proves that nobody’s perfect"?

Tiger Woods may have been cheating on his wife with a baker’s dozen of yesterday’s pastries. Brittney Spears may be getting married to another trailer park prince. Angelina Jolie may be placing an order for the 2010 model of 3rd World orphans. Why do you care so much? Don’t model your life after them; buy perfume, clothes or makeup just so you can be like them. In case you didn’t know, Sara Jessica Parker doesn’t use Garnier Hair color – she spends $500 a month to get their roots touched up in some posh boutique by a guy named Zeek.

I’m not really sure why people seem to consider celebrities as the definition of "perfect" and get so upset when they let you down. Am I the only one that remembers the days of Angelina’s tongue taking residence down Billy Bob’s throat? Billy Bob.... If that’s perfection just call me Mother Theresa.

If you’re too lazy to pave your own path in life and need to look up to someone that you only know because you read headlines while standing in line at Cub Foods… I suggest you model yourself after a dead person. Living beings are too volatile. Their reputations may not be flawless, but they are set in stone. Rest assured that next month Einstein won’t be on the cover of US Weekly sneaking into a Motel 8 with Jessica Simpson’s dad, and Marie Curie won’t suddenly develop a breast augmentation and rhinoplasty obsession.

Aristotle defined perfection as "the ultimate completion of that which cannot be any better." So… unless you’re dead, you don’t qualify as perfect. I think there was a story about a carpenter that had the same moral….

Playing Cutsies

Hey, Jerk. Back in kindergarten I learned about this thing called a "line". It was also referred to as "waiting your turn." I don’t expect you to follow the ladies first rule, but it would be super if you weren’t so pushy. You seem to be under the assumption that your time is more valuable than mine. You also seem to be under the impression that by pushing me out of the isle you will get to your final destination faster. For this reason, I make it a point to park closer to the exit than you do, and take great pleasure in cutting you off at the stop sign every evening. When you start playing nice, I will too.

Must you push my buttons?

You may notice – the elevator button is illuminated. That’s because I pushed it. Actually, you watched me push it. And since there is only one button, and you witnessed the selection, I’m not sure why you felt the need to push it again. Did I not push it correctly? Do you have a magic index finger that will summon the elevator more quickly? If so, is there a reason that magic finger pushed two buttons when you boarded the elevator? “Oops!” You say, as if you really didn’t realize you work on the 26th floor and not the 15th. That’s okay… I look forward to spending more time with you and your intersting mix of Hugo Boss, LeAnn Chin, and cigarette smoke as a result of your compulsive button pushing magic finger.

I have a magic finger, too. But I’m too much of a lady to use it.

When Boots Go Rouge

Pardon me, Miss. While I am not claiming to be a fashion expert, I must beg that this boot trend must stop. I know that tucking your jeans into fur-lined boots is all the rage this winter, but the cuteness factor is lost on everyone over the age of 10. Which, clearly you are.

Maybe I critique out of jealousy. You see - I can't seem to stroll through Target so confidently while two miniature abominable snow monsters cling to my ankles. I fell like I have just caught the tail end of a mating ritual gone rouge - right as the UGG devours the boot-leg Levis.

On the other hand, maybe I criticize because it seems as though you've brainwashed your husband into following this awful trend. While I know absolutely nobody will believe my tail of two boot-crossed lovers, you've left me with no choice but to take drastic measures. Yes... that snickering you hear is me, hiding behind the Moxi Chocolate as I try to snap a picture to prove that I saw a real life Ken and Barbie Ski Cabin Weekend collector set.

I suggest you take a walk down isle P5, and get a good look at your look. If your still convinced your pant eating Maltese feet look good - by all means continue to rock your (not-so-original) style. But please, I beg of you.... stop dressing your husband up like Ski Cabin Ken. I have shopping to do, and it's difficult to focus when I'm so concerned that your husband's boots are going to eat what's left of his manhood.

*Yes... that's the photo. The figure in the white sweater is the husband. Believe me now??

Slippery When Wet

Attention Minnesota drivers. You live in Minnesota. Why are you so confused when the flurries start to fly? I’ve seen more powder on Whitney Huston’s nostril, yet you’ve turned into brake happy Betty to adapt to the conditions.

Yes…the roads may be a tad bit slippery, but there is no need for you drive 20 in a 60, or tap your breaks to the beat of “We Are the World”. In about 3 weeks I know you are going to be the crazy lady zipping through the snow packed mall parking lot at 70 so you can get that last make-shift parking spot next to the Sears entrance. You don’t fool me. Please find a happy medium so I don’t have to wake up a half hour early to compensate for crappy drivers.

Sometimes Gene Simmons' Tongue Would Make More Sense

Yes - you do seem like a hip fun loving grandma. I can tell by your crazy pink spiked hair, Kiss t-shirt, and Rockstar energy drink you so adamantly slurp between statements that you're not the average AARP granny. You didn't even wimp out and go for the sugar free kind. Impressive, G-Ma.

While I applaud your fun loving and artificially enhanced energy for life, I would like to shove a wool sock in your cake hole to stifle your political propaganda for just a moment. Much like a corporate executive responding to emails, you have focused on the single most insignificant point and have formed weak, (at best), arguments against things that have little to no importance to the big picture. I'm a big picture kinda' gal, and I'm not sure what your painting for me. I don't even care what the picture is, as long as it's a nice big, clean, well put together picture.

After your 45 minute "presentation," I am left with five pieces of a giant wooden Sesame Street puzzle, six pieces of a 3D King Tut puzzle, and a domino. Yep. Doesn't fit together too well does it? Maybe something was lost in translation. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Grab yourself another Rockstar, and Google yourself some facts G-Ma. When you have the pieces organized, I'm happy to listen.

Democrat or Republican, I'll quietly listen as you calmly share your well formed opinions and paint a clear picture of Big Bird, Sniffy, or Gene Simmons' creepy tongue. As long as you don't insult my shoes, I'll keep my opinions to myself.