I left early this morning for Puyallup and Abby's graveside service. It was raining. A quick stop by Bill's house to connect his mouse to his computer, and I was on my way.
Traffic was light, so I found myself in South Tacoma with a lot of time to spare. Enough time to stop and get a cup of coffee, trying to warm myself on this cold day.
I pulled into the lot; another car pulled in right beside me. I got out of the Jeep, a smartly-dressed woman climbed out of the SUV beside me. I headed for the door, she headed for the door. We were headed for a collision.
Being a gentleman, I pulled up at the last moment, allowing her to go ahead of me.
All of which was fine, right up until she reached the front of the line. "What's your order?" asked the barista cheerily.
"Well, I have a list," answered the smartly-dressed woman.
Turns out she wasn't just there for herself. She was ordering for all 18 people back at the office. None of whom wanted "coffee." Instead, they all wanted drinks along the lines of "nonfat soy frappalatte with Creme de Menthe flavor and extra whip."
Plus, they'd all written their own orders on her small yellow notepad. And apparently some of them wrote in hieroglyphics, or so I gathered by the barista's attempts to decipher all the orders on that list.
And there I stood, waiting for my simple little Americano.
I don't know. . .seems to me people with lists might be polite enough to say "why don't you go ahead; I've got a list."