Wherein I complain about something and do nothing to remedy the situation

I'm always delighted when a social trend report is released and crotchity journos get all bent out of shape about the results. They write op-eds like this one, crying out in horror about THE CURRENT STATE OF THE KIDS. Here, the study in question basically said people don't go out on dates anymore.

Well, d'uh. We knew this. As a twenty-one-year-old, I can count on one hand the number of times I've been on a real "date." (Keep your rude comments to yourself.)

Charles Blow, the writer of this op-ed, seems baffled by this new trend, which is surprising because his picture indicates he is not, as you might think, an older brother of Methuselah, living underground since Alexander the Great came of age. To help him out of his cloud of confusion, he consults several experts, who I am sure explained to him in measured tones that these days, people hang out in groups. Formal courtship is a thing of the past. Girls don't get pinned. Boys don't give their letter jackets to their cotillion dates. Parental involvement is a no-go until an exclusive couple has been together for many, many moons. In his last sentence, I think the writer indicates he wants to instigate some sort of dating movement to bring Generation Y back into the dinner-and-a-movie days of yore. Those days do sort of sound like fun.

So I feel a little torn. Right now, relationships and dating are low on my list of priorities. I am not a swoony type, and usually, my friends make better conversation than suitors (no offense, hotcakes). But, ladies, what will happen when we are young professionals? What if, say, I move to Omaha and I'm responsible for finding a steady lover and new set of friends? How does one do that, exactly? I'd hate to be that awkward girl at the office trying to make friends with everyone within shouting distance of her cubicle.

This topic came up when I was talking with Lynda the other day, and we came up with few answers. We wondered if we'll have to sign up for online dating. It's certainly something that has shed its stigma, and attracted tens of millions of eligible singles (and also thousands of creepos and cheaters). Online dating just seems like unfamiliar, undesirable terrain to us; we teens and twentysomethings never been the target demographic for sites like Match.com and EHarmony. You see, we've been too busy signing the Devil's book, hanging out in groups, and macking on strangers we've only just met. In our future as "grown-ups" though, I suppose online dating could be a reasonable option, but then of course we'll have to meet these people on REAL DATES. If nothing else, that should make Blow happy.

What do we think about this? Am I being paranoid; have I been jaded by the college experience of non-committal group hangouts and informal tonsil hockey sessions? Personally, the resurgence of the old-fashioned date sounds sweet to me. Imagine, going somewhere together, and actually engaging someone in conversation. Conversely, there is something to be said for these new, hip methods of dating that the NYT exposed through its vigorous reporting. Hanging out with friends, etc., is a whole heck of a lot of fun, and meeting potential lovahs in that sort of situation is ideal. You can be introduced by mutual friends (character witnesses), and if conversation doesn't take off, you have a quick out.

So I don't know. Should we heed Charles Blow's oddly-timed and out-of-touch clarion call, harken back to the days of John Cusack's Lloyd Dobler, and actually call someone up for a date? Or should we relish in our revolutionary ways and continue playing it casual, sometimes to the point of absurdity?

Most of all, I think writers should stop balking at survey data that indicates trends we've known about forever. And also, someone should buy me dinner.

Shit happens

I've had some well-documented trouble getting over (and under...) Hottie McLatte. After more than two weeks of rushing to Starbucks after work, hopefully scanning the counter for his perfect face, I came up empty every time. He was really gone.

I used to love Starbucks, especially in the winter, when I would indulge in its seasonal drinks, and take shelter in its super-heated, gently lit interior. All that nostalgia is gone now. The coffee doesn't taste as good if McLatte doesn't pour it. Living in the fallout of our love affair, even the service seems less friendly.

But this morning, I was the subject of a divine intervention, orchestrated by Howard Schultz himself. He felt me slip away. He also needs to find a way to keep his customers paying $4.00 for coffee that takes 43 cents to make, all while they foreclose their houses and file for bankruptcy. So this morning, there was a girl on the corner near Copley Square, handing out $5 gift cards. At first I didn't see what she was giving away, but I smiled and made eye contact, because that's what I do. I analyze the irises of poor little creatures banished to the city streets in the name of marketing promotions. I was especially grateful when she handed me my gift card.

So this afternoon, when I left work, I decided to stop by Starbucks and treat myself to the gingersnap latte that I've been dying to try. I was delighted to find that the girl on the corner had given me not one, but two! gift cards. Double the latte, double the fun. This was a good sign. Would McLatte be back where he belongs?

It should be noted there is a Starbucks right near where my internship is, but I rarely go there, because McLatte's ghost does not linger in those walls. So, I headed to my old haunt, placed my order, and waited for the barista to make my drink. He seemed backed up, so I texted Ashley that H.M. was officially gone, never to be heard from again, and oh, woe is me, how will I ever go on?

I hit send, and McLatte LITERALLY COMES RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. He is dressed in street clothes, and had been talking to a manager in the atrium area that adjoins the store. McLatte didn't see me, and he headed for the door. I watched him walk in the direction of the train station I go to... could McLatte be commuting, like me? He slipped away into the night before Dumby McStupid could put together my gingersnap latte. As soon as the drink was made, I ran out into the street. I don't know why, because what did I think would happen? But I guess by now, you all should know about my unreasonable amount of emotional investment in this invented friendship. Clear thinking went out the window after I got my first discount.

So I crossed the street and was walking toward the station, when I felt a cool wetness on my pants. I looked down. Poop. Bird poop, on my leg. I was pooped on. In my quest to find McLatte love, I was literally shat upon. The world is laughing at me.

There are two ways to think about this. One, that it is a final sign that McLatte and I were not McMeantToBe. Or, my mother's school of thought, which says that if you are pooped on by a bird, you should buy a lottery ticket. The poop, you see, is a good luck charm.

I am curious as to your thoughts, and if you will sit with me, here, just for a moment, and picture the torture of McLatte wandering into the dark night, out of sight, as I stood waiting impatiently for my drink. And tell me in the comments... is the poop good luck, or a death certificate for my pretend romance?

Just for good measure, I don't drive to work, but if I did... could this happen?

So long, psychotic delusions. I will miss you.

I had a feeling the last time I saw him. The way he lingered after his shift was over, hesitant to leave the job he seemed to like so much. I felt a new level of electricity in his gaze, an unfamiliar urgency. It dripped from his words, when he told me he would start school again soon. I had a feeling then.

Hottie McLatte was going to leave me.

Like most amateur psychic mediums, I downplayed my intuition, told myself I was looking too much into it.

But now it's been two weeks since I last saw McLatte. New, strange men work his shift, ignorant of the fact that an integral part of their labor force is missing in action. What an anti-climactic end to the pseudo-romance I blogged about for you, dear readers. Our spark ended in a desperate fizzle.

I am reminded now of an oft-quoted poem, which serves as a comment not only on the cycles of nature, but also the undulations of every day life. Robert Frost's words are so apropos for this romance that blossomed as the crisp autumn leaves turned brilliant reds and golds, and then faded away as those same leaves fell to the ground, curled and crunchy, their vibrance only a memory.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay

Was Robert Frost writing about McLatte, just as Kristin Chenoweth sang about him? We will never know. I do know that I will miss McLatte dearly, his playful conversation, his easy smile.

Most of all, I will miss those discounts.

Peppermint mocha with a side of McLatte

Recently, I received several queries about the status of my budding "romance" with Hottie McLatte. Unfortunately, I had no news to report, as I hadn't been by his Starbucks in a couple weeks. When we left things, I was worried Hottie McLatte and I might have lost our spark, because I was the recipient of neither a friendly discount nor so much as a lustful gaze. I figured either he fell out of love, or his manager told him he should stop giving employee discounts to every girl who bats her eye lashes. 

But today, boys and girls, our affections reemerged. It bubbled over, steaming and sweet, with the bold jolt of new love. 

Okay, maybe not exactly, but can you humor me here? I took a one-time semi-flirtation and managed to stretch it out over several weeks in the interest of editorial content. This is for you, readers. 

Okay, maybe not exactly. It's really an entirely self-serving endeavor. But I'm not here to talk about my motives. I am here to tell you that today, McLatte and I sallied forth into new territory-- he opened up to me about his past. We shared laughs, prolonged eye contact (my fave), and a warm goodbye. I left with a mocha in my hand, and McLatte on the brain. 

Here's how it went down. I strolled into the Back Bay Starbucks, and saw McLatte placing an order at the counter. I think he glanced my way, but I was too busy nonchalantly drooling over the tempting treats in the glass display. I consider my even seeing him today a serendipitous occasion orchestrated by our Creator because I probably would have missed him, had I not decided to cut out of work a half hour early to stop a Barnes and Noble to pick up this month's gal-pals book club selection.

McLatte and I eventually caught each other's eyes, and he came over to say hello. I asked him if he was working, and he said he was just about to leave, to go home and relax, which might be the last time in a while, because he was starting up school again in January. Woah, holy overshare, Batman. Except not all, because I love oversharing, and I even have a tag in this blog called "Sharing is caring." Turns out McLatte is going back to school to study civil engineering, and the socially-awkward dateless girl inside of me emerged; I grinned like an idiot and exclaimed, "SMARTYPANTS!" Because some things are beyond my intellectual capacity. Things like science. Or engineering. Or the Internet. 

Mercifully, it was time for me to place my order, which I did, while McLatte McSauntered over to the counter to wait for his drink. I played it cool, and stared lustfully at their holiday coffee beans (special brews for Thanksgiving, people) while he made conversation with a man. The queued crowd waiting for their coffees eventually dispersed, until there was a lone cup, which had been sitting there for several minutes. I picked it up; the name written on the side said "Harvey." By this time, McLatte's friend had also left, and he asked the name on the cup. I told him, and he said it was his. 

I knew his name isn't Harvey, so I teased him about picking such a pseudonym that is not at all befitting of his countenance of demeanor. Then, in overarching overshare number 2, he started telling me about how in high school his nickname was Tyson, which led us into discussions about his successes in boxing and football. 

*swoon* 

It was in this moment, however, that I realized McLatte appeared significantly older than I remember. We're all familiar with the forgiving, if not downright flattering, lighting of Starbucks, and he always looked especially fetching behind the counter in the dim lights. In the slightly brighter area of the store, I could see McLatte looked more like 26, instead of the 23 I had guessed, which, let's be honest, only made him more attractive. Also, upon his mention of boxing, it was as if some scars on his forehead emerged like Rudolph's glowing nose, but in a hotter, much more erotic way. Are you still with me? We know how I love a weathered gentleman lover. 

As we continued our conversation, I saw McLatte pour approximately a third of a cup of sugar into his coffee. Conservative estimate. I exclaimed in horror, to McLatte's surprise and delight. This is the man who had made fun of me on more than one occasion for refusing whipped cream, or requesting sugar-free syrup ("You have to live a little!).  Well McLatte, tell me this, will you still love me if I can only wear pants with elastic waists and shirts I sew at home out of bedsheets? 

 While our laughter hung in the air, I figured it was best to make a quick exit while I was ahead. Before I yelled something like "SMARTYPANTS!" again or accidentally referred outloud to him as "Hottie McLatte." I said I had to be on my way, and as I turned to go, he said "All right, Catherine." He said my name with such warm affection. It made my heart swell and my uterus contract just a teensy bit. 

Until next time, McLatte. Until next time. 

Baristas and Blast-Off

*UPDATE UPDATE*

Okay, so maybe the Hottie McLatte hasn't fallen in love with me yet, but today, we did make conversation and he gave me my hot chocolate for free. Am I that obvious? I had finally broken my coffee-purchasing habits, and now I'm going to have to start up again. Because, our connection? It's electric.

But moving onto more sophisticated journalistic pursuits, I bring you the first post of my new series called, Stuff You Should Know (SYSK). This segment will regale you with information I've come across that I feel compelled to share with my public.

Let's get started. I know that I've been insensitive about NASA in the past, but a recent podcast about the Columbia disaster and a man who tried to prevent it gave me the chills. Reports like this one surfaced shortly after the shuttle and its members were lost, but I'd forgotten some of the story behind it. If you have six minutes, I'd reccommend a listen. But if you don't, here's all the relevant info:

(and James, this science blog is for you)

When chief structural engineer Rodney Rocha saw the video of a piece of foam from the shuttle's external fuel tank fly off and hit Columbia's wing at 500mph, he knew something was wrong. The Shuttle launched on a Friday, and he saw the video a day later. He sent emails voicing his concerns, but it was Martin Luther King weekend, and they went unanswered until Tuesday (How can NASA take three-day weekends when there are people in a rocket ship in "space"?). He put in a special request for high resolution photos, so experts could assess the damage.

His requests were flatly denied. He drafted an e-mail to senior managers, saying the decision was dangerous and irresponsible. Afraid to breach NASA protocol, he never sent the note. A committee came to its own conclusion nine days later the damage was not significant enough to merit serious concern. Rocha says making a decision like this without photographs is like telling how bad a car accident is if you only hear it from inside your house. But at the time, standard operating procedure was that the shuttle was assumed OK unless proven otherwise. "Today that seems crazy," Rocha says.

On February 1st, Rocha watched as the shuttle broke apart after superheated gas flew into the wing upon re-entry. The shuttle shattered and the seven people in it died.

I like to think there's a moral to every story, or, erm, massive tragedy. So what does this lesson teach us, children? Trust yourselves. Rocha says he wishes he'd tried harder to get through to senior officials. "One of my regrets is that I didn't break the door down." So, my precious snow peas, don't be afraid to break those doors down!

This has been Stuff You Should Know.

How can I get a barista to fall in love with me and also make my drink correctly?

I'm about to confess an embarassing fact. I have an awkward schoolgirl crush on a Starbucks employee. Not only that, but I convinced myself that together, McLatte and I have stolen a few moments of prolonged, frothy eye contact. I even thought he greeted me with a special smile the next time I came in. He held onto my cup a couple of second longer, and it gave me the sort of start that usually only happens after my sixth shot of espresso. But now that he has whetted my appetite with his soulful stares, I have a dillemma.

Today, while I waited extra patiently for my tall non-fat cappuccino, I fell deeper in love while he engaged a little boy (outfited completely in Red Sox apparel!) in conversation. He asked him his name and shook his hand. I tried not to stare like a creeper, but once the boy left, I couldn't help but notice that Hotty McLatte neglected to put any steamed milk in my cappucinno, and instead, just heaped ridiculous amounts of foam on top of the espresso. It would be hyperbolic to say it really bothered me; as you well know, I love a strong cup of espresso. But in this case, it's simply not what I ordered. So, next time I go to my bustling Back Bay 'Bucks location, and confront my coffee cutie, which line do you think is most effective:

-I was wondering if you are as strong as you make your cappuccinos.
-I apologize for being so distracting. Was it my good looks or sharp intellect that kept you from making my drink correctly?
-I know what you were thinking-- why steam the milk when you're already steaming up the room!

Any other suggestions?

The FedEx man knows the innermost workings of my soul

The same FedEx man who used to deliver to the main desk in BB still delivers this year to Booth. Last year, he used to make deliveries between 8am and 10, where he would frequently find me dozing in my post, because, frankly, it's a human rights violation to make college-aged students get up much before 10. He always greeted me with a smile, though, and would ask about my day and listen to the answer. If he didn't believe my almost unfailingly cheerful response, he would wait until I made my confession. ''I have a test! I'm tired!" He always calls me (and I am sure every other female on the planet) "dear," which you could say is sexist or inappropriate, but at 8am if you call me anything other than "loser-face" I would probably just crawl into your arms, sigh gently, and little tiny "Z's" would start coming out of my mouth.

Today, he came to deliver in Booth, and I was bent over (in my usual position), and heard him knock, looked up for literally a split second, then turned around to flip the switch to bypass the door and let him in. Immediately he exclaimed, "Uh oh, someone's having a bad day!" This he could tell a split-second flash image of my face as I turned to let him in? What!? I smiled broadly and said "What! Me! Heavens no! I'm in a good mood!" And he looked at me with that "Do I look like an idiot?" glare that I've found most parcel carriers have perfected and said flatly, "Really?" I can't lie to the FedEx man! He stared at me with his soulful brown eyes and defeated, I said, "Well, I'm sick, I think I might have the flu." He said, "I thought as much. I can just tell these things about you, you know."