Girl Scouts - or, The Temptresses of Tagalong Town

Dear Girls Who Dress In Strange, Outdated Uniforms and Sell Overpriced (Yet Still D-e-lectable) Cookies For The Briefest Time Period EVER,

Let me teach you something about this magical world that you might, one day, experience (if I let you live that long)... a world called "pregnancy". You see, in this happy land of swollen ankles, cracked ribs, and food cravings so fierce that no purveyor of edibles is safe, the will of the pregnant woman = law. Please her, and you've saved your own life. In this magical world, Oh Toters of the Tagalongs, it's best to just give Mama what she wants... and, right now, Mama wants to get her hands on some Thin Mints. And Tagalongs. And Samoas. And Lemon Chalet Cremes. How am I supposed to accomplish this task when you only peddle your wares for all of THREE WEEKS A YEAR?!

The last I checked, the following issues apply to you:

1. You, too, are susceptible to this recession, Oh Darlings of Detestable Attire
2. You have a quota, sure, but you also have a soul. I hope.
3. You have parents... parents who should know how to read a freaking MAP.

I fail, then, to understand why you continue to limit your sales period to 3 - 4 measly weeks a year. Really... REALLY?!

However, since I have yet to consume a single, freaking cookie this year (see point DIRECTLY above) and still have my wits about me, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Up. Your. Sales.
- Notice how you're having to cut back on how many cookies you're able to produce every year? It's not because the Magic Flour Fairy forgot to wave her wand above the factory, or whatever other nonsense your Troupe Leader has filled your dainty-hatted heads with... it's because your prices are too high, and your selling period is too short. I mean, think about it: You're badgering me to pay $4 for a box of cookies that will, in all humiliating honesty, last all of 2 blocks from store-to-home (1 block if there are traffic lights on that particular road), and you're only available for 3 - 4 weeks?! Darlings of Chocolate-Dunked Delectables, does that make sense?

2. Show a less demonic side (or, if that's too tall an order, just shoot for a softer side), and I'll show you my wallet.
- Lay off the freaking guilt trips, already! I know you reeeeeeeally have your heart set on that sparkling baton for selling 500 boxes of cookies, and you reeeeeeeeeally want to win that trip to Disneyland that you'd get by selling 74,500 more... but, um, it won't happen by jumping in front of my shopping cart with two of your closest friends. No, all that will accomplish is you getting run over by said cart, and your mother getting an earful when she tries to yell at me for hitting her precious Mini-Me. Have you heard of lying? Why not try THAT tactic the next time we meet in front of Safeway? Here's what it would look like:
You: "Gosh, lady... you're so pretty."
Me: "My, aren't you just the sweetest thing! Whatever are you selling? I'll buy all of them."
SEE?!

3. Go where the money is.
- Chances are, Susie Sixpack, it ain't the local Cash-N-Carry. By now, your parents are probably sick to death of hearing your endless blathering about quotas and goals and dreams and visions of a better tomorrow, which makes them your ideal business partner. Couple your new-found ability to tell boldfaced lies to complete strangers with your parents' knowledge of the community you live in, and you should be able to zero-in on the wealthiest neighborhoods in no time. Disneyland? It's yours.

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Whores of Wholesome Cookie Wonders that I know you have inside of you.

In all honesty, your organization is a great one. I love the concept of girls sticking together, learning some pretty valuable life skills, and raising money in a way that isn't likely to hurt another corporation's bottom line (aside from the evil mega-giants of Nabisco et all). Heck, I was even a Brownie... for all of 6 months, which was how long it took me to realize that we were called "Brownie", not that we got to eat them.

Now, lengthen your selling period or I swear on everything holy in Pregnancy-topia that I will teach my toddler that it is okay to pee on girls in ugly uniforms.

Do a Good Turn Daily,

Krystal

Baristas of Breve-ville

Dear Especially Perky Baristas that Won't Leave Me Alone,

How are you this morning? OMG, like, I KNOW, right?
...
Do me (and your other terrified customers) a favor and remove the espresso I.V. from your vein for a moment. We need to have a chat - you know, one of those things you're so fond of having at O-Dark-Thirty in the morning...?
Your perkiness is at whole milk levels; something that no one should ever succumb to on a daily basis. If I were to be honest - which, let's face it, what's the point? You only remember me because of my tipping tendencies - I'd say that you'd need to knock it back to a watery, almost see-through 'skinny'.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. Your job is to supply me with caffeine in the form of my choosing.
2."Starbucks" isn't a language.
3. Judging your customer's drink is frowned upon.
4. Excessive perkiness doesn't improve the taste of the beverage.

I fail, then, to understand why I - and my java-fiending friends - are having to live in fear of your multiple personality ways! One second you're Chatty Cathy, the next you're Depresso Espresso.

However, since my love affair with the coffee bean is a deep, abiding one... and your stores are the most abundant (and freaking addictive)... I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Stop trying to change my freaking order.
(I know you have a sales goal to meet. I've worked retail, I've worked food service, I get it. What doesn't make sense to me is why, after I've ordered my usual (tall caramel macchiato - I LOVE YOU!!!!), you proceed to up-sell me.
"Would you like to try that with whole milk?"
"How about an apple fritter with that?"
"Ooh, would you like to add fifteen more shots?"
I'm sorry, Susie/Becky/Tiffany/Lucy/Cici/Katie/Ee-ee, but my ass would likely explode if I were to go on any of those detours. Let's stick with the order, m'kay?

2. I took German for 6 years and ASL for 3; I don't need to learn another language.
(Why must you correct me when I say "small", "medium", or "large", Oh Foamer of my Froth? YOU KNOW WHAT I'M REFERRING TO... I know you do, because you immediately - and ever so passionately - correct me with "tall", "grande", or "venti". Um, wha-? Are you going to make my drink wrong because of some (non-existent) language barrier? I'm sorry, but if the Latino gentleman making my Orange Chicken at Panda Express can understand me, I'm thinking you can, too. Unless using your branding terminology will magically take the burnt taste out of the espresso you're pulling, LET IT GO.)

3. Give me the stink-eye when I order my drink with whole milk one more time, and I will kick your breve-booty.
(Remember my first point, about not up-selling me? Well, when I DO decide to indulge a wee bit and order a grande (yes, terminology) whole milk eggnog latte with whip (ok, that's a crap-ton of indulgence, but I'MPREGNANTLEAVEMEALONE), don't you think it's a taaaaad rude to pointedly glance at my belly/hips/bat-wings? I don't need your judgement, Oh Size Two Mochachino Mistress... I don't need it one bit. What I do need is a double chocolate brownie to drown out the guilt I now feel.)

4. Greet. Take Order. Smile. Give Change. Lather, rinse, repeat.
(Close your eyes for a minute - you may need to step away from the bar for a second, I wouldn't want you to burn yourself - and take a journey with me. It's early on a Monday morning, it's raining, and the sun is refusing to make an appearance. Your store is full of what you first assume to be the walking undead... but, no, you realize... it's a crowd of overworked, under-rested adult members of society. Their slow 'shuffle-stomp-stop' pace to your counter does little to distract from the vast emptiness in their eyes. What is the proper way to greet said zomb-er, uh, customers?
A. "GOOOOOOOOD MORNING! Welcome to Starbucks!!! OMG, have you noticed this RAIN?! It's almost enough to make me kill myself, you know? Okay so, like, what can I get started for you?"
B. "Good morning, Ms./Mr. How are you? Oh, hold on, your sweater is aDORable... is that Vera Wang? No? Good, I hear she uses child labor, and my Econ. professor, who totally looks like a mixture between George Clooney and Diane Keaton, said that child labor is a result of globalization. Anyway, would you like try our new Latin American blend?"
OR...
C. "I'm sorry you have to be alive right now. What can I get you to make it better?"
I'll give you a hint: A and B are out.

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Magical Mocha-slinging Sirens that I know you have inside of you.

In all sincerity, I wouldn't keep coming back if I hated the service. I appreciate your ability to whip up some of the best caffeinated beverages this side of 4-LOCO... and still have the grace and patience to deal with some of the craziest customers in the world. My love affair with the caramel macchiato has gone on for over a decade (not at all worrisome), and I owe it all to the baristas who make it juuuuuust right.

Now, if you don't lower the price on your holiday drinks, I'm going to have to cheat on you with Tully's WAY more than I have been. I may be an enthusiastic drinker o' the java, but I am one slutty customer.

Keep it frothy,

Krystal