My Dog is Chelsea

Yesterday the guy who works at the coffee stand in the lobby told me that I have big arms.

Him: So how are you today?
Me: Eh, pretty tired.
Him: Tired? You know, you think you’re weak and tired, but you look strong. [He curled his biceps and flexed to illustrate his point. Gross.]
Me: Um…?
Him: You have strong, muscular arms.

He must’ve been channeling my mother, because she always says the exact same thing to me, except that she pinches the fat near my arm pit and replaces “strong, muscular” with simply “big.” Note to the Coffee Stand Guy: I am aware of the fact that my arms are “muscular,” and that “muscular” is a euphemism for “fat.” All I want is my americano, okay? No need to comment on my appearance. THANKS.

Since I’ve brought up the subject of the Coffee Stand Guy, I might as well mention the previous trouble he’s caused. I will say this: in general, he’s grown on me and I actually like him now. But it was a rocky start, to say the least.

INCIDENT ONE:

CSG: Would you like whip cream on your hot chocolate?
Me: No thanks.
Him: Sure?
Me: Yep.
Him: So that’s a yes?
Me: No, it’s a no.
Him: So no whip cream?
Me: No whip cream.
Him: You really don’t want whip cream?
Me: I really don’t want whip cream.
Him: It’s much better with whip cream.
Me: Maybe it is, but I still don’t want it.
Him: Okay, last chance for whip cream.
Me: Still don’t want it.
Him: You’re running out of time to decide!
Me: I’m running out of time to get where I’m going.

Which was true. He slammed the cup down in front of me and said, “FINE THEN!”

INCIDENT TWO:

I ordered a chai, which I rarely do since most places are incapable of making it taste good. The register dude assured me that this particular version was not very sweet and that it was milk-based—this is key—not made with one of those boxed cavity-creators. It turned out to be about as “not sweet” as a Pixie Stick. I should’ve known better.

Anyway, CSG started making my drink. He bent down and opened up the fridge underneath the espresso machine. I could tell he was having trouble finding the milk, and over his shoulder I noticed that the fridge was stocked with plenty of half-and-half but not a single carton of milk. After a minute or so, he stood up and started pouring something into my cup.

Except that before the milk search, I could see what he was doing. Now, he’d moved his body in such a way that I could no longer watch the chai-assembling process. But lucky for me, the espresso machine was stainless steel and in the reflection I saw the unmistakable pink-and-white of a half-and-half container.

“Um, excuse me, um, sir—” I tried to get his attention. “Would you mind using milk instead of half-and-half?”

He turned around and I kid you not, the following words came out of his mouth: “How did you know?! I even moved so you wouldn’t be able to see it!”

“I saw it in the reflection.”

“You were spying on me?” he asked. “I can see this is a breach in our trust. You don’t trust me, so you feel the need to spy.”

What?! “I wasn’t spying—I was watching,” I replied. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like half-and-half. I especially don’t want to drink 16 ounces of it. Can you please use milk? And if you’re out of that, can you use soy milk instead?”

“But it’s better with half-and-half.”

“I don’t like half-and-half. Please use milk.”

“If you’re not going to trust my recommendations, I don’t see how this relationship is going to work.”

OH. MY. GOD. He’d already admitted to purposely obscuring the half-and-half, which meant it wasn’t a “recommendation”—he just couldn’t find the milk. And obviously I didn’t need fatten my big arms, which would only later prove to be a source of CSG commentary. Not to mention that ‘this relationship’ was doomed from the day he nearly force-fed me whip cream. But whatever. I stayed calm.

“Look!” I spotted an unopened gallon. “There’s milk right there on the counter. Please, I beg of you, use that instead of the half-and-half.”

But he didn’t want to give up. “Okay, but it’s better with the half-and-half.”

“Well, I’m willing to sacrifice extra flavor for the milk.”

Grudgingly, he grabbed the milk, and then said this out of nowhere: “My hat’s not crooked because I’m crazy. It’s crooked because I’m an artist.”

So yeah, like I said, it was a bit of a rocky beginning.