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?

No Tweeting at the Table

While attending some of a blogging conference in Boston today, an interesting topic came up at one of the break-out sections: setting limits for your personal connectedness. This question is more relevant every day- as people become increasingly latched onto iPhones, Twitter, Blogs, Facebook minifeeds and the even old standbys, cell phones and text messaging. Is it okay to play with your cell phone during dinner with someone at a restaurant? What about just making a phone call while walking with someone down the street? Do you really want your boss reading the e-mail you sent while she's in the bathroom?

And, have you ever felt that you've let technology supersede a personal relationship, even if it's just eating dinner with your parents when you haven't seen them in a while?

I found myself taken aback today, when I was interviewing someone, and she spent most of her time frenetically pounding at her iPhone. Maybe I am wrong in thinking there are inappropriate times to live-blog, even at a blogging conference? But even if I had the interview chops of this girl (which most days I do), it seemed a wee bit unprofessional.

Just curious what you think. I feel like I'm a bit more sensitive to this than some others, as I've been known to flinch at the slightest of techtiquitte-oversteps (I made up that word. Roll with it). Ever waited for a yapping sales girl to get off her cell phone? Had to stop mid-sentence while a date finishes a text? Or listen to the second stall's reactions to the every-gloomier financial doomsday while you're trying to go tinkle? Leave a comment instead of answering your mother's email

Sacrificing my integrity so you don't have to be bothered.

One of my favorite things about the never-ending sketchfest called Craigslist is its "missed connections" section. This is where dozens of people, who are likely emotionally imblanced or sex starved, post notes to strangers they saw on the street, train, or anywhere else. In a pleasing display of romanticism, they leave these notes on the board and hope the missed connection will read the message. Then, the two will live happily ever after. Or at least go on a really creepy date. I bring you, the best of the Boston area's "missed connections" from this week, written by men to women.

I saw you today (about 4pm or so) browsing in China Fair on Mass Ave.
I tried to make eye contact and smile, but I don't think it worked :(

Okay, this person clearly doesn't understand missed connections. If she never even saw you, how would she know this message is about her? Dumbass.

I admire this second man's attention to wardrobe:

The second I got on the train at Copley and noticed your warm smile, I was smitten. I sorta smiled when I saw that you were enjoying music on your ipod touch so much you were "boppin" your head to it. Seemed like you were enjoying yourself. I was dying to ask you what you were listening to. And I saw the chance to, when that seat opened up right next to you. Instead I froze up, and watched another guy ( the one with the mowhawk )sit in that seat. The seat I should have grabbed.
You got off at Bu east. Thought I'd look out the window to wave if I saw you. But that would not be my luck. Taking your heart-warming beauty with you. Yet leaving some of your positive vibes with me. Thank you , you made my night :)
You wore your blonde hair in pigtails. Had a pair of smooth ocean/sky-blue droplet earrings. A light-cream almost sleeveless top. The shoulders were flared. Flared ,light blue jeans. With a pair of white flip flops.

I was the guy with dreadlocks who was being foolishly shy :)

At least this guy was made a better citizen by his missed connection:

To the girl who talked me into voting again I would love to sit down and chat sometime. I know a great place for fruit drinks

Fruit drinks? Okay, well if I am going to sit through a date with a guy who didn't have the balls to ask me out in real life, I am going to need something a little punchier. And finally, someone who hates Boston (there are people like that?!).

I think Boston is filled with these species and I find it hard to understand them! I just moved here and surprised at their snobbish behavior.

I bet you all wish to kick us all out of here! Right?

And this is happening to me who is no wanker! God knows how the common man is surviving here:).

Maybe next week I'll set up a sting operation to catch one of the hookers from the erotic section. There is really nothing I won't do for this blog.

Self-Inflicted and Uncalled For

For no reason, other than that I feel like it, I am going to undertake a Catherine the Greatest history-making effort: 20 posts in 30 days!

Do you think I can do it? Do you want me to even try? Do you have anything you want me to write about! Leave it in the comments section.

Brace yourselves. It could get messy.

P.S.- I am counting 30 days as Oct. 6t through Nov. 6. because I posted that lovely entry about Cotton Mather and it should count for something.

Something I don't remember from AP history

I just finished reading The Heretic's Daughter, a first effort by Kathleen Kent. It turned out to be, by far, the best historical novel I've read since Sarah Plain and Tall. And I hold that book in HIGH ESTEEM, people. Kent's book takes place during The Salem Witch Trials, a subject many of us are familiar with, and one which has the potential to grow stale quickly when revisited in fiction. But Kent makes the trails an entirely personal affair, telling the story through the imagined words of Sarah Carrier, daughter of Martha Carrier, who was hanged for being a witch. It's a searingly intimate portrayal of one of the most incredibly times in U.S. history.

But this is not a book review. Instead! I have to pass onto you a piece of information I gleaned during a tour of the Witch History Museum in Salem this weekend, which was only enriched by reading Kent's book and having all of that witchy scandal still saturating my brain.

Cotton Mather, famed Puritan minister, was partly responsible for starting and perpetuating the mass hysteria and utter craziness that culminated in the deaths of nineteen innocent people. He was, by all accounts, a full-time, first-class freak show. In fact, he routinely dug up the bodies of dead, deformed babies, convinced they were the work of Satan, and displayed them in his lab as proof of such. (If you think I'm being unfair, you can read some of Mather's side, here).

Anyway, interestingly enough, Cotton Mather's pappy, Increase Mather (Increase? Not a typo!), was the first American-born President of Harvard University! His tenure was somewhat marred by controversy, but Cotton enrolled without issue when he was 12, and graduated with an M.A. at 18. He eventually become a fellow at Harvard, and according to tour guides at the Witch History Museum, despite his greatest wishes, was never considered for President because of his loathsome reputation once the Trials were deemed ridiculous and unfair.

Bitter and scorned, Mather's next actions bring a whole new aspect of delight to the greatest Ivy League rivalry in the U.S.

Mather saw potential in a school in Connecticut, one which he hoped, unlike the increasingly liberal lost cause Harvard (*cough*theydidn'twantyou*cough*), could become a haven for the Puritan religion. He contacted wealthy businessman Elihu Yale, and convinced him to make a substantial donation, and to change an existing college's name to Yale University (it had previously been known as the College at Saybrook and various other names, until it moved to New Haven).

So. There you have it. Harvard wouldn't take crazy Cotton Mather, so he went and essentially founded Yale as we know it today. Next time you get stuck in a conversation about The Ivy League, and don't want to bring up grade inflation again, whip out these tidbits. You are welcome.

This would have been a great story for Wishbone.