Do you know what the color blue tastes like? I do.
Each morning at preschool drop-off, the boys take their seat at the classroom table and get their breakfasts out. One banana, one bag of Kix/Cheerios, and one yogurt. The yogurt is served in tube form under the on-the-go marketing campaign of Gogurt. I help open each item, kiss the kids, wave goodbye at the window and make my way over to my office.
Recently, one of the tubes must have experienced some pressure. It exploded from its constraints, the moment a pathway of air allowed release from the â€œtear hereâ€ line. (Note: â€œTear here is a lie. A filthy filthy deception.)
I mopped up the mess using a classroom paper towel with the absorbency of sheetrock, then licked the remnants off my fingers (as one does when foodstuffs get on them).
The yogurt was blue flavored. There is no other way to describe it. This was not a flavor found in nature. And I guess C37H34N2Na2O9S3 doesnâ€™t really roll off the tongues of tiny people when asked which GoGurt theyâ€™re interested in decorating the breakfast table with. Heavily sweetened of course.
In any case, I know understand what Honest Toddler means when requesting â€œRedâ€ drink. But itâ€™s not like our preference for colors dissipates when we reach the age-amorphous phase of adulthood. Apparently.
In between dressing myself in breakfast for the boys and the point at my desk where the office Hunger Games commences because no one ordered lunch for the lunch meeting (pro tip: bring cookies), I stopped to get coffee.
I frequent the local Starbucks. ClichÃ©, I know â€“ whether Iâ€™m tapping away at my keyboard while sipping my latte or simply escaping the day for a few moments of fresh air and preciously delicious caffeineâ€¦ I donâ€™t care; coffee is necessarily for my well-being.
Man: Doppio black, please.
Barista: A doppio espresso?
Man: Do you have any other kind of doppio drink?
Man: Then yes, doppio espresso, please. Black.
The man then received a tiny cup of coffee that looked like it contained no more liquid than the initial syringes used to tube feed my two-pound children, and would be quite at home in Searchâ€™s beloved pink dollhouse. I chuckled and paid for my drink, which the barista had already started. I guess Iâ€™m not only a frequenter, but also predictable.
Barista: Oh, I can never remember your name, but I always remember you because of your outfits. Love todayâ€™s color!
Iâ€™m gonna go ahead and take that as a compliment even if being remembered for your outfits can mean youâ€™re a little *too* out there (eg. Lady Gaga, Ronald McDonald, anyone from LA in the 80s).
I stood waiting for my order, when a woman pushed past me to get to the drink counter.
Lady: Umâ€¦this was supposed to be a venti extra-shot skinny white mocha. And I canâ€™t taste the white!
I can only hope the white tastes better than blue. In any case, the lady walked out of the Starbucks with her WHITE iced whatthefuckever, took one drink and said, â€œI don’t like this. It tastes too much like coffee.â€
P.S. To the lady at Starbucks, Iâ€™m pretty sure the white is supposed to taste chocolaty. But maybe next time, skip the coffee house.