Bases Bloated: The Winter of Whatserface’s Discontent


The longest I’ve ever gone without getting a beverage from Starbucks was four days and that’s only because I had the flu and couldn’t muster the energy to go down the street. I call them beverages because I’m all about the frothy, foamy, sugar lattés aka the who-needs-teeth? drinks. Turns out I need teeth so I now have to forgo the 19 pumps of mocha hazelnut vanilla maple toffee nut sizzurp. The point is, I need my lattés or my cappuccinos on the reg.

I drink coffee every morning, drip, President’s Choice brand, with a very small amount of unsweetened almond milk. I’m lactose intolerant, not a gross hippy. Relax. In the afternoon, I prance myself down to Starbucks and get a decaf lactose-free latté situation. I have a caffeine window that closes at 1pm, hence the afternoon decaf. I am not only addicted to the lattés but the act of going to Starbucks itself.

So now you’re at the point in this piece where you’re not sure if you want to keep reading because you either hate Starbucks or stumbled upon this site accidentally while searching for porn – which leads to the question, what the frig did you type into your search bar that led you here instead of the dirty site you were looking for?

Anyway, there’s a point to this article. As the title suggests, there is an employee who works at my friendly neighborhood Starbucks who isn’t so friendly. Let’s call her Whatserface because I do not know her name and Meany Meanerson sounds too fake.

It started right before Christmas, or as us Jews call it, the week that leads up to Chinese Food Superfest. I went into the Starbucks I always go to and ordered a Tall Pike Place for the boyfriend, a Tall lactose-free latté for myself and what can only be described as a holiday miracle sandwich. This sandwich had turkey, cranberry sauce, gravy and stuffing. It was one of those things that you’d make after smoking the entire state of Colorado then fall asleep after you took your first bite. The sandwich was for me and the boyfriend to split because according to him we, “already have food at home. Why do you need to spend money?” BECAUSE I DO, EVAN. BECAUSE I DO. Did he eat his half of the sandwich? Yes. Did he like how it tasted? Yes. Am I getting off-topic? Yes.

starbucks Okay back to Whatserface. She takes my order and asks if I want the sandwich heated up. I say that I do because I’m not an animal. Naw, I just said a plain and polite, “Yes, please.” Whatserface goes over to the sandwich warming up station and puts the holiday miracle in the oven. Great. Good stuff. Things are normal here at good ole Buckity Bucks. She does up the Pike Place and hands it to me. Now it’s time to pay. I hold up my phone to the reader thingy so it can scan my Starbucks app to take my “I have a university degree in Creative Writing so I have no money” money. The total is a whopping $22.

While my mouth is agape trying to figure out where my life went wrong (probably somewhere in high school) the app reader scans my phone and the transaction is done. This is where Whatserface turns on me.

Me: Sorry, can you tell me how much each item is?

Whatserface: (saucy as fuck) Why?

Me: I didn’t realize that it would be $22.

Whatserface: (still saucy as fuck) Well, two sandwiches…

Me: Oh sorry, I only ordered one sandwich.


Her manager comes over. I’m terrified because I’m thinking that I’m about to get eaten by one of the X-Files monsters. The manager asks what’s wrong. Whatserface starts going off on me while I stand there like a deer caught in the headlights of one of those ginormous semis that is transporting logs or some other nature stuff to Leonardo DiCaprio’s environmentally friendly model-banging green château. Finally, I have the courage to speak up and say that I only ordered one sandwich but at this point I’ll take the second one because I’ve already paid for it.

Manager says no, don’t be silly and tells Whatserface to refund my money. Whatserface gives me one of those “I’m gonna kill your family” looks and obeys her manager. She voids the second sandwich and I get reimbursed. Unfortunately, I still have to wait for my latté. I move over to the waiting-for-your-drink area and guess who has to make my latté? If you guessed Whatserface, you guessed correctly. Instead of making my drink politely and forgetting about the whole sandwich ordeal she starts telling her coworker about it and making me sound like a dictator. I’m about to defend myself when the manager comes over with my sandwich. I thank her; she thanks me and apologizes about the whole thing. I say thank you again, she apologizes again. This goes on for about 67 minutes because we’re Canadian and only know three words: pardon, sorry and thanks.

My drink is now ready. I take a tray and place mine and the boyfriend’s drinks on it and tuck the sandwich in the middle between the two coffees. Traumatized like that time my mother called me to tell me she and my father watched 50 Shades of Grey, I haul ass out of Starbucks faster than it takes Donald Trump to say something racist.

I’d like to say that I never saw Whatserface again or that she was just having a bad day but unfortunately she held a grudge.

Two days later I’m back at Starbucks for a client meeting. You’ll never believe who’s working, Cruella DeCoffee. She is not happy and giving me cut-eye so sharp you could cut a steak with it. I order. Whatserface scowls. She tells her coworker who’s on drink duty something that I couldn’t hear but assume was “THIS IS THE SANDWICH BITCH I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT SHE NEEDS TO DIE I HATE HER WHAT A SLUT I HOPE SHE GETS RUN OVER BY A CAR AND GETS SARS” or something equally offensive. Her coworker laughs nervously and looks at me like I’ve stolen her wallet then tried to sell it back to her. I get my coffee and proceed to continue to be an accidental pawn in the winter Whatserface’s discontent. During the entire client meeting, Whatserface shot me stares so deadly that I was declared legally dead three times in the span of one hour.

Whatserface and me had another encounter weeks later. She yelled “IN A MINUTE” at an ear shattering volume when I asked for lactose-free milk to put in my Tall Blonde Roast. They don’t keep the “alternative” milks at the bar, okay?

I haven’t seen Whatserface since the milk incident and I can only assume that she hated me so much and asked for a transfer to another Starbucks. Maybe she was fired for yelling at another patron when they ordered one sandwich instead of the two she thinks we all need?

So now you’re like, why did I even read this? Or can I get back to my porn search? Or dang, I could really go for some Starbucks right now. Or why didn’t you say anything to the manager about Whatserface? Three words: Pardon. Sorry. Thanks. No, wrong three words: Liberal. Jewish. Guilt.


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