the time i went WOWZERS

I have a feeling this is isn't the last time we're going to here about this:

It's Amazing.

I write now, a lot. For other people. Unfortunately, this blog has taken a backseat to all of that other writing which is a shame. I will make it up to you somehow. In the meantime, enjoy this grainy screenshot of Kanye West on SNL this weekend. Stunning AND I figured out what my Halloween costume for this year.

The Time I Got Called an Idiot

My name is Katie Friel.

I have (fake) blonde.

I have traveled to 11 different countries.

I wear my sunglasses an obnoxiously long time after I need to.

I have been to 33 states.

I have a brother.

I have lived in Washington, DC, New York, London and Austin, TX.

I will spend $24 on an expensive candle even if that means I have to eat at 7-11 for the next few days.

I work in a snow cone stand.

These are my truths, universally acknowledged.

First, I would like to point out that I actually really dig my job. Writing doesn't pay the bills yet so to supplement it with a cushy job where I make delicious treats all day isn't so bad. What is so bad? Dealing with the crazies.

Crazies, you see, are really only looking for an audience (aren't we all?). On public transportation, they are given a whole train car or bus of people to whom they can act out their elaborate fantasies or political muckraking. They catch you on the street corner where, in order to avoid them, you have to play that weird game where you both go the same way then switch directions but it's the same direction and eventually you just crack a smile and shrug your shoulders. Then, if you're feeling particularly wacky you say, "Thanks for the dance!" They show up in line behind you at the CVS, seemingly harmless until you ask them where they found the aluminum foil and they launch into a diatribe about how aluminum is the only thing keeping the satellites from controlling our thoughts. The thing about all of these situations? YOU CAN LEAVE. You can change train cars. You eventually win the dancing game. You can pretend you forgot to pick up dental floss, get out of the line and hide in the magazine aisle until the crazy with the aluminum foil has left. When you are stationed in an immobile food trailer in South Austin, you are stuck. You are a stationery audience of one and you just have to deal with it.

At this point, I would like to clarify my definition of crazy.

Crazy does not equal homeless.

Crazy does not equal alcoholic (although the two often go hand in hand, something for another entry).

Crazy does not actually equal crazy. It's just someone who is lonely or long winded (or, crazy) and feels that YOU are going to be the person upon whom they are going to heap their thoughts. As a journalist, the moment I say, "I'm a journalist"" 98% of the people I talk to say, "Oh wow. You know this one time..." and then launch into a tale (usually their own) that they think will make a good story. We all think we're important. We all think our thoughts and dreams and opinions are worthy of being heard, goddammit. The awful truth? They rarely are. This stupid story probably isn't even worth your time. Yet, here am I writing it.

So I am stuck. I am stuck in a hot trailer in South Austin right behind a bus stop where people loiter and smoke cigarettes and drink beers out of brown paper bags. But, you see, here is the thing about drinking beer out of paper bags at a bus stop in South Austin in the summer: the beers get hot. The beers get hot and when the person drinking the now hot beer sees that there is a stand advertising "Shaved Ice" parked directly behind them, a little lightbulb goes off. At least three times a day I have to shoo a drunk guy away from stand. He usually offers his own glass and says something like, "Y'all gaht ice hurr?"

Today was a day just like any other. I was sitting in my stand, trying to keep my hands raised above my heads so as not to exacerbate the sweat stains that were emanating from my arm pits when a man approached the window. He held out a dirty plastic cup and said,

"Y'all gaht ice hurr?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Can you fill this up for me? I'll give you a quarter."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I can't fill that up, it's against the health code."

(Now, I'm not actually sure if this is against the health code but the last thing I want to do is have to put my arms down to touch this guys filthy plastic cup.)

"I went to law school." he said.

"Really?" I asked.

"You're an idiot." he said. "Only idiots say 'really.' It's a redundant question."

"Really?" I asked.

"You know what you're problem is? You're an idiot. You don't read. Reading on the computer? That's not reading. Reading blogs isn't reading."

At this point, I was getting annoyed. A. Because I had to put my arms down when he called me an idiot cause he shocked me. B. Because he was drunk. C. Because he didn't laugh when said, "really" a second time and I HATE when my jokes bomb.

'Well," I said, "I'm a writer so I do tend to read quite a bit."

"Whatever. You're whole generation is a bunch of stupid idiots. Have you even ever seen this?!" At this point he held up a tattered, old copy of the Atlantic.

"The Atlantic?" I said, "Yeah, I've seen it. I think the New Yorker's better."

He stared at me.

"My sister is a professor at New York University," the drunk man said. "I don't talk to her though. I used to be a professor at Stanford."

Now, there is this little indie movie called "You've Got Mail" starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. In it, there is a scene where Ryan is writing an email to Hanks and she talks about how she can never come up with the correct insult at the right time. She always thinks of one too late. Hanks replies that he can ALWAYS think of a good insult and thinking of an insult isn't always all it's cracked up to be because you usually feel kind of bad and regret it. I usually have the later problem. And, because I was raised Irish Catholic, I feel the flagellating burn of guilt the moment the quip comes out of my mouth. It's a curse.

So to go back, the drunk man said, "My sister is a professor at New York University," the drunk man said. "I don't talk to her though. I used to be a professor at Stanford."

To which I replied, "Well, maybe you should head over to Stanford and ask for your job back."

The moment I said it I wanted to take it back. I wanted to take it back so badly. Even though this man called me an idiot, I didn't need to stoop to his level. I didn't need to say anything. I felt the first lash of the guilt whip against my back when the drunk guy looked right into my eye and said,

"You are a total asshole."

The Time I Embarassed Myself & Someone Else Ended Up Bleeding

The 6th grade was hard for me. I was awkward. I was unpopular. I had these weird wisps of hair that were growing in along my hair part making me look like I had a permanent, static-electricity charged Mohawk. I was starting to get angsty ( It was the age in which I started to write lyrics on notebooks and binders in big black Sharpie. Cake's version of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive," was written on my theology notebook. It read, "I should have changed that fucking lock I should have made you leave your key." What great meaning this had for me at the time, I'm not sure. I just know it meant something.) The source of all this angst? boys. More specifically one boy: Brett Hamilton.

Oh Brett Hamilton.*

Brett Hamilton was a boy who lived in my neighborhood. He was tall. He was cute. He went to public school. He had no idea who I was. I'm not sure when I actually met Brett Hamilton all I know is for the entire summer of 1996, I spent every waking hour of every day plotting how I would accidentally run into him. I concocted elaborate fantasies in which Brett Hamilton would casually pass me in the snack line at the pool. I would struggle trying to open my bag of Skittles. He would swoop in, tear open the package, pull out a couple of candies, pop them in his mouth, smile and say, "Hey there. I think you look really sexy in your Racerback one-piece, tie-dye TYR swimsuit." I would laugh, he would smile and later, out by the tennis courts, Brett Hamilton would give me my first real kiss- just like that guy who kissed Veda Sultenfuss before she got on the plane in My Girl 2.

In order to plot these "accidental" run-ins, I enlisted the help of three friends. Two, Marisa and Jessica, were girls from my neighborhood and the third, Lauren, was spending the summer visiting her grandparents. Her grandparents lived across the street from my family. She was 14, pretty, tall, had boobs and had already kissed a boy. She was the coolest. During the school year, when she was back home in Georgia, we would write letters in which she would tell me about all her boyfriends. I would write back straight-up lies about how many guys I was dating and how good I looked in Abercrombie & Fitch clothes.

Together, the four of us spent the entire summer riding our bikes from the pool to the park and back again, constantly complaining about how bored we were and how much fun life would be if we could only drive. At least once a day, I would make everyone ride down the dead-end street that Brett Hamilton lived on. He was never outside and, defeated, I would pedal on with my friends.

Until one particular hot July day when everything changed.

The girls and I were really hot. And bored. Bored and hot. So we decided to by-pass the neighborhood pool -it had already been determined that Brett Hamilton was not there- and head to my friend Jessica's house. Her family had a pool, good snacks and a perpetual box of Rose Franzia sitting on the kitchen counter.

So there we were, pedaling our bicycles, looking much like a suburban, pre-teen Sex and the City quartet complete with unintentional Mohawk's and bad skin. With Marisa and Lauren leading the pack, they pedaled, side by side, a few paces in front of Jessica and me who were also side by side. We headed down the hill, made the left onto Brett Hamilton's street and as we turned the corner and his house came into view, I saw him: Brett Hamilton was outside on his driveway... with his mom. As we pedaled closer and closer, my heart started to pound. My stomach turned and I realized: after two months of biking past Brett Hamilton's house, imagining all the ways in which he would make me his girlfriend and talking incessantly to anyone who would listen about how dreamy he was- I couldn't do it. There was too much at stake. So I took the proverbial wheel (or in this case, handlebars) and turned. I turned away from Brett Hamilton's house and right into Jessica.

What happened next was one of my most embarrassing moments for years and years.

To a bystander, it probably looked like I had some sort of fit that caused me to jackknife my bicycle directly into my friend's back wheel. When I hit her, Jessica flew off with her bike landing on top of her. Since it my tangled in hers, my bike landed on top of Jessica's bike and since I was tangled in everything, I landed on top of the pile which eventually skidded to a gravelly stop directly below the Hamilton's driveway.

Brett Hamilton and Brett Hamilton's mom stared at us, horrified. I jumped off the pile and tried in vain to pull Jessica off the ground. By this point she had surveyed her wounds (extensive), seen the damage (lots of blood) and began to cry. Both mother and son came running down the driveway towards us, "Are you ok?" Mrs. Hamilton asked. I assured her that we were despite the fact that Jessica was sobbing on the ground in pain. She eventually got up and accepted the pool towel that Mrs. Hamilton pulled out of her car (He WAS at the pool! How had I missed that?) After she had wiped off some of the blood and composed herself, Jessica and pushed our scratched and bent bicycles towards her house. It is important to note that Marisa and Lauren had witnessed this spectacle and then proceeded to BIKE OFF AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.

The rest of the summer was relatively uneventful. Jessica's scabs eventually fell off, Marisa continued being a terrible wing woman and Lauren... oh, Lauren. Lauren eventually started a torrid correspondence with Brett Hamilton behind my back which culminated in them French kissing directly in front of my face in the neighborhood park. I know it was a French kiss because as we biked away I asked Lauren, "Was that a French kiss?" and she confirmed that indeed it had been.

I thought this story was destined for the annals of my own personal history, a funny anecdote with which to entertain friends. Until about two years ago when I received a text message from a friend of mine who had recently moved to Los Angeles:
"Do you know someone named Brett Hamilton?"
I immediately called her and she informed me that he was in the same acting program as she was and she had figured out we had grown up in the same neighborhood. I told her the story and gave her the explicit instructions to never, ever tell him about me. "He has no clue who I am," I explained. "Oh I'm sure that's not true," she said. She still agreed not to ask him about me.

Fast forward about six months and I'm sitting in a bar in Hollywood with a couple of friends.

And Brett Hamilton walks in.

And I shit my pants.

Turns out that he and my friend have started hanging out and she's taken me to this bar because she's pretty sure he's going to be here. "Listen," my friend says, "This connection is too weird. I'm going to go over there and tell him." At this point I am a 24 year old woman. My static Mohawk has grown out, I look relatively decent in Abercrombie & Fitch clothes (though I don't own any) and I've even been kissed so I agree. Go over there, I say.

And so my friend walks over, hugs Brett Hamilton and begins talking. I see him look over at me, curiously and say something to my friend. She smiles, turns and walks back towards me- sans Brett Hamilton. She sits back down. "Well?" I ask. "What did he say?"

She took a big sip of her drink, turned to me and said,

"He has no idea who you are."


*the name has not been changed. it was just that perfect.

Why I'm Bad at Snow Sports

Growing up, I was always jealous of the kids who went skiing over Christmas break. They went to Wintergreen or, if there families were really avid skiers, Whistler or Aspen. Coming from a family that never once went on a vacation with just the four of us, my friend's travels seemed simultaneously foreign and utterly glamorous. I imagined my classmates with their families, in a giant lodge, huddled around a roaring fire captured in a stone fireplace, drinking hot chocolate as the snow melted off their North Face parkas. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to have stories about how I went down a double black diamond when I was 8. I wanted to see boys in Montgomery Mall and know them because "our families both have cabins at the mountain." I wanted to be the cute, bouncy, blond daughter of a skiing family.

The school which I attended from Kindergarten through 12th grade had a day designated every February called Ski/Skate Day. On that day, classes were canceled and the entire school was trekked off to either the Whitetail ski resort or a skating rink in Wheaton (STARK contrasts, FYI.) But here was a nasty little trick the school employed: up until the 4th grade, you couldn't go skiing, you HAD to go to the ice rink. So for 5 long years, I continued to pine and dream of the day when I would take my rightful place on the top of the mountain with two waxed, metal beams strapped to my feet. I would show everyone that Katie Friel was not only a good skier- she was goddamn great.

By the time we got to 5th grade I could not wait to start my skiing career. I could see it now: My innate rhythm and poise would make me natural. I would be going down double black diamonds by noon. By the end of the day, the resort would ask me if I would consider doing demonstrations. "Katie the Skiing Wonderkin" they would call me. I would tour the world showing off my skills. In my travels I would meet Pedro, a ski instructor from Spain. He would be in 9th grade and would take me to his school's prom. I would instantly pick up Spanish and wow all of his amigos with my natural American wit while all my friends back home stewed in jealousy. It was going to be awesome.

When we arrived at Whitetail, the class was divided up into two groups: the kids that could ski and the kids that couldn't. I was in the later- but I was determined I would not be in it for long. My group was regulated to the bunny slope. An instructor came out and showed us all the basics. What our equipment was (heavy), what the proper protocol on the mountain was (don't hit anyone), how to use our poles and how to stop (throw yourself on the ground). Within a few hours, my friend CC and I had made it down the bunny slope a few times without falling. And we were proud. We broke for lunch and while sitting in the lodge I had dreamed about for so long, in front of a roaring fire in a stone fireplace, I listened as my skier friends told stories about their morning. With red cheeks and snot dried faces, they talked of double black diamonds and run-ins with trees and cute ski instructors. "That's it," I thought. "I'm going to do this. I'm going to get off the bunny slope and get on with my life. Katie the Skiing Wonderkin will meet Pedro the Spanish Ski Instructor and I'm going to go to prom and I'm going to have a boyfriend and life is going to be great."

Somewhere along the way I enlisted CC. She and I had been on the bunny slope together all morning and I could tell she was just as anxious and I was to move onto something bigger and higher. "Let's do it," I said. We got in line for the ski lift that would take us up the next hill: a blue square. We managed to get onto the lift without incident. The entire way up (and it was a long way up) we talked about how excited we were and how totally prepared we were to do this. As the the lift got closer to the peak, we prepared ourselves. We lifted our poles like the instructor said, we arched our backs, pulled our skis up and pulled up the bar of the seat. CC got off without a hitch. She glided away from the ski lift with ease. I wasn't so lucky. As we got to the top I panicked and stuck my skis straight down. The result was my tips getting stuck into the snow and my body being propelled forward like a slingshot. CC saw me and, unable to control herself, threw herself on the ground in an effort to stop. The ski lift was stopped so that I could get up without being run over. I tried in vain to fling myself off of my face and onto my back. I finally did. I then duck-walked over to CC and prepared myself for the mountain that lie ahead.

The mountain was steep and full of mole-hills. I swallowed my fear, squatted down and pulled my poles up. I stated gliding. In a matter of seconds I was going way too fast and had to fling myself on the ground in order to stop. CC was right behind me. She too gathered some speed, freaked out and threw her body into the hard, icy snow. The pattern continued. CC and I would finally manage to get ourselves up, arch our backs, ski for as long as we could before we flung ourselves to the ground. 45 minutes and 1/2 way down the mountain, CC had had enough. She was sick of flinging herself down the mountain. She was going to go for it. There is a time in every relationship where you ask yourself, "Is this person holding me back? Could I be more without them?" CC and I had reached that point. She was ready to lift her poles, wipe the snow off her face and hurdle down the hill towards an indefinite but bright future. And so she did.

I watched as CC took off. She had decided what she wanted to do and didn't fall once as far I could see. And I was stuck there.

I was on the mountain for another 1/2 hour. CC had gotten to the bottom, I had skidded down the rest of the way on my ass. Other skiers had yelled at me, kids had laughed, I was mortified. When she got back to the lodge, CC had told one of the ski/skate day volunteers that I was still up on the slope. When I finally arrived at the bottom (a good 90 minutes after I had gotten onto the lift) all of the volunteers and a few of my classmates were waiting at the bottom totally worried. "Are you ok?" they asked. "We called the ski patrol!" I explained that I was fine, aside for a bunch of bruises and a horribly injured ego, I was uninjured.

I'm the kind of person that once I try something and it goes horribly wrong, I don't try again. 8 years after the initial skiing catastrophe, my friend Marisa convinced me to go back to Whitetail to try snowboarding. At this point, I was working at PacSun and, therefore, felt I was pretty hip to the skate and snowboarding scenes. I owned a couple of Etnie's T-Shirts and a studded belt so, as far as I was concerned, would at least look pretty damn cool on that slope. We hopped in my Mazda Protege and we headed towards the mountain.

We got to the resort, parked and headed in to rent our gear. At this point, I would like to explain my outfit: instead of snow pants, a sweatshirt, a warm jacket and long underwear, I had on jeans and a puffy red vest with the name of a concrete mixing company on the back and embroidered with the name "Vance". I used to wear this vest all the time in college. I was wearing it when I ran into my 8th grade English teacher in the mall over Christmas vacation. We exchanged pleasantries before my teacher blurted out, "So, are you working construction now?"

Marisa and I got our gear and headed out to the bunny hill. Marisa took to snowboarding with ease (as she does most athletic activities) while I struggled to manage the giant board strapped to my feet. The principles of snowboarding were similar to skiing: your equipment was heavy, you tried not to run into anyone and if you needed to stop you flung yourself to the ground. Over the course of the day I started to get the hang of it. I managed to make it down the bunny hill and moved onto the advanced bunny hill. But the end of the day, I was cold (I was only wearing my Vance vest) and tired. I found Marisa and we agreed: one last run.

My friend and I got onto the lift and headed up the advanced bunny hill. 20 seconds later, it was time to get off. Once again, the lift neared the end of our ride and suddenly- flashback! I saw my 10-year old self propelled forward off the seat and into the snow. I saw the embarrassment of having the lift stopped as the ski patrol raced to help me up and out of the way of the rest of the skiers. I saw the look on the ski/skate date volunteers faces when I finally got to the bottom of the hill- a mixture of worry and absolute pity. That was not happening to me again. I would not let it happen. So I jumped.

In an effort to prove to myself I was no longer the awkward, athletically incompetent 10 year-old I once was, I jumped off the lift too early. The seat hit the small of my back and and flung me just far enough that I landed face down on to the exit mound. I managed to roll out of the way so as not to disrupt the rest of the people. I got up, legs numb, face frozen and began my ride down the mountain.

The ride started off great. I was making turns, I was staying up, I was avoiding other people and I was starting to go really, really, really fast. I was going so fast that I lost control of my body as it hurtled down the mountain and into what I imagine was going to be a small child. I needed to stop. As I rushed towards the cement pole that held up the lift, I dug my board into the snow, flipped up in the air and completed what I can only describe as a triple axle-esque spin before landing face down in the snow.

I knew instantly I was hurt. My breath was gone and I was suddenly, painfully aware of my ribs. I laid still. I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't lift my head. I heard laughter. I rolled over to my back and looked up. There, on the slow moving ski lift were two little boys. They had seen my epic ride down the hill and the two little shits were now looking at me and laughing. One of them even shook his skis so that the excess snow fell off and onto my face.

I took my board off and grimaced the rest of the way down the hill. By the time I got home I was in so much pain, my mom gave me one of the left over Vicodin I had from getting my wisdom teeth out. It hurt to laugh, it hurt to stand and I couldn't even get up off the couch without someone coming and helping me.

Perhaps it is not a such a strange thing that I moved to a place where any mention of possible snow flurries sends people into a blind panic. Perhaps I will one day meet a Spanish ski instructor who will convince me to try it one more time. But more likely, I won't.

I don't regret the pain or even the humiliation that these sports caused me. The three truths about skiing are same three truths about life: the equipment is heavy, you have to watch out for other people and if you think you're going to fast, just throw yourself to the ground.

The Time(s) I Was Awesome at Sports

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time doing athletic things. It's not really by choice, more by necessity. I ride a bike. I walk EVERYWHERE. Sometimes I accidentally go hiking because living in Austin promotes these activities.

All this athletic activity has made me realize: I am terrible at sports. And I've tried ALL of them.

These are sports I'm good at:
- Flip cup (it's not bragging if it's true.)
- Bicycle riding (as long at the temperatures are mild and I'm not cycling uphill)
- Shooting basketballs (not basketball itself-that I'm bad at. But I'm pretty exceptional at tossing stuff into other stuff like trash into cans, pongs into beer, paper clips into co-worker's coffee mugs, etc.)
- Rollerblading (I wish so desperately that this was cool again cause I am so awesome at it)
- Watching sports

These are sports I'm bad at:
- Soccer (I once co-coached a team with my Dad and friend Marisa. Marisa was good at soccer, Dad was ok at soccer and I was really there to hand out the juice boxes at the end of the practice.)
- Lacrosse (this doesn't bother me too much considering that unless you grew up on Long Island, the DC metro area or in California, no one gives two shits about lacrosse)
- Softball
- Field Hockey (love the uniform, hate the game)
- Bowling ( I once bowled a 14)
- Running of any kind
- Jumping of any kind
- Gymnastics
- Snow sports- all of them
- Ballet

And so I am beginning a series of Essays Called: "Why I'm Bad at (blank)"

The Time with the Raspberry Scone

I would like to preface this post with two things: first, I am sorry I haven't updated in two months. I have no excuse. Second, for years now I have been planning on writing a series of essay's on the various roommates I've had over the past eight years. By my calculations I've had 15, most of whom I've lived with more than once, at various points, in various houses and even in various cities. This is about one of them. I hope she still talks to me after I publish it.

In the three years I lived in New York City, I had four different roommates. All of them moved out and away from me so what exactly that means, I don't know. I still talk to all of them though, so I like to think it is like one of those super happy divorces you hear about where the couple still loves one other and like to hang out but they just realized they couldn't live together.

So while in New York, I worked for a firm in Chelsea, in a building that was between 10th Ave & the West Side Highway. For those of you unfamiliar with what that means, it means it's far from ANY subway. And since it's far from the subway, it means you have to walk. And since you have to walk and you're in New York City, it means you're inevitably going to past at least three Starbucks. And since you're passing all these Starbucks, you're eventually going to go into one of them. And since you're already going into all these Starbucks, you might as well start developing what can only be described as an unhealthy addiction to their raspberry scones.

I loved their raspberry scones. At work, I was known as Raspberry Scone Katie. Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration but I did eat them a lot. Every morning I would walk into work (15 minutes late since I had to stop at Starbucks) with my coffee (iced if the weather was above 60-degrees, hot if it was below) and my delicious, perfect scone wrapped in a waxy, brown Starbucks pastry bag. I would set down my breakfast, turn on my computer and eat my scone. First, I would unwrap the delicious treat- the crinkle of the paper sending shivers of delight up my spine- then I would place the scone on top of the paper. As I watched the emails in my Inbox load, I would take that first bite of scone, take a sip of coffee, chew and repeat. I would spend approximately 25 minutes doing this, thus wasting a total of 40 minutes every morning on this weirdo ritual while everyone around me listened.


This routine went uninterrupted until a terrible day in Spring 2008 when it all came crashing down.






















The Starbucks on 23rd and 8th Ave is notoriously friendly. Once, while sitting at a bar in the East Village, I had a conversation with a total stranger about how super nice this Starbucks crew was. Every customer was greeted with a "Hey, buddy! What's going on?" or "Hey pretty lady, you're looking stellar! Do you want your usual 1/2 caff, skinny mocha?" This is a rarity in New York, especially in Chelsea. This crew would smile as the customer walked in, flirt, laugh at the customers jokes and compliment them if they noticed that the person had changed their hair or had on a flattering color. That is, every customer except me. They hated me. I would walk in and their smiles would fade. They would roll their eyes at one another. Their annoyance at my mere presence was palpable. I never figured out why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I hated my job and therefore was always miserable, never smiled and would run in to use the bathrooms all the time without buying anything. Who knows?

My third NY roommate (settled neatly in between my roommate who got married and my roommate who got me drunk all the time) was a very nice co-worker of mine. She was German and sweet. Every morning we would get our NY Posts and ride the subway into Manhattan together. It was the stuff 1980's working girl movies are based on (except we never wore sneakers on our commute- only heels. Our lower backs will thank us later.) As we exited the subway, we would say our goodbyes (despite the fact that we worked in the same company, in the same department and our desks were three feet apart, she inevitably got to work 10 minutes before me, every single day.) But every morning, my roommate would head into work and I would head over to see my frenemies at the 23rd St Starbucks.

That is, until that fateful day. It was a normal day. We got our newspapers, I ignored her on the whole train ride and when we turned to say our goodbyes, I was shocked when she said,

"I want to come with you to Starbucks."

"Really? Are you sure?" I asked. "They can be kind of mean in there."

"I go in there all the time. They're great. And I want to try one of these raspberry scones you're always eating."

And so we went, a happy German girl and a skeptical American girl walked into the Starbucks. I held the door and allowed her to walk in first. I felt a bit like a tour guide allowing someone to join me on a sightseeing expedition through my weirdo morning ritual. “Well, first we’re going to get scones, then we’re going to call my mom and both cry about how much we hate our jobs! Then we’re going to run into the bathroom in office before anyone sees us and make sure our make-up isn’t running!”

Immediately upon entering the store the baristas greeted my roommate, "Hey there! What's up? You look pretty today!" She thanked them nicely, order a café au lait and then added, “And I’ll take a raspberry scone!” They smiled at her, took her money, handed her a scone and passed her the coffee. Then it was my turn.

“Hey fellas!” I said animatedly. “What’s going on?” (Disclaimer: In my head I made that shooting gun motion with my hands. But I don’t think this actually happened.)
“Hi,” the guy responded. Unsmilingly.
“Ok, um, I’ll have a iced coffee (it was warm that day!) and a raspberry scone.”
“Sure. Oh except she got the last raspberry scone.” The barista gestured towards my roommate who was standing there, oblivious, and holding her breakfast which included my crinkly, brown paper wrapped raspberry scone.

“You got the last raspberry scone.” I stammered.

She laughed. “How funny.”

She then took the scone out of the wrapper and took a big bite.

“It’s delicious!” she smiled.

In that moment I said something so horrifying I thought about not adding it into this story. But in order to tell all sides, I’ll put it in. After my roommate told me it was delicious, I turned to her and said,

“I hope you choke on that scone.”

She laughed. She laughed cause she was nice and sweet and in her mind no one that you share a home with, a commute with, your meals with, office space with and a friendship with would ever turn to you and say, “I hope you choke on that scone” and actually mean it.

I didn’t really mean it of course. Well, I hope I didn’t really mean it.

I’ve since given up raspberry scones. Once NYC instituted the law that all chain food stores had to display the calorie count of their food items, I quit cold turkey. But I do still go to Starbucks and when I am there I hear the crinkle of the Starbucks paper wrapper, it still sends shivers of delight up my spine.