I For One
So, you got to understand why women argue or more accurately try to. It’s an area with which I have some degree of familiarity with, yet also lots of uncertainty. Think of argument as their secret weapon to balance things out in different situations, kind of like leveling the playing field type of weapon.
Have you ever heard your lady saying that she feels comfortable around you? Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean she feels safe. It often means she’s discovered your “button” That huge red button, prominently labeled ‘Do not press’ in bold letters. The one that can instantly ignite your anger like nothing else does. Just a small trigger, and off it goes.
I’m not referring to ordinary anger; I mean that throbbing vein in the middle of your forehead anger. I’m talking about not knowing what to do with your anger. You’re just there like a conductor, conducting an orchestra or something.
I’m talking about her making you so mad that you embarrass yourself in front of everyone. She’s gonna hit them buttons out in the middle of a convenient store somewhere. Say something that will really get to you and you lose your shit. Your mad meter on the scale of zero to 10 hits 12.
When you are this mad, that’s when she puts you into overdrive and adds something that is completely out of context. Something you had confided in her. “See, no wonder your grandmother wanted to kill you when you were little.”
Right now, even breathing is a problem. You are furious and before you even say anything she adds,
“This is why we’re having so many problems right now. Listen to your tone, oh my God. How can we communicate and work things out with your tone? ” Well, we could try communicating in dance. if that helps but Bubu has webbed feet. Her dancing you’ll think she has epilepsy or something.
Then, you appear to be the one looking foolish, red with anger, while she plays the victim.
You’ll think it’s over, it ain’t over. You’ll be back home, three hours later. You think she’s upset? No, her mission is already accomplished.
She’s on the call with her friend again. “Girl, he’s mad as hell. I don’t even know what I did, he just punched the wall. I don’t know why he ain’t gonna do nothing but hurt himself. I don’t…”
Anyways, away from the rants. To the story.
Well they say the way to a man’s heart is through the stomach. As for me coffee will do. Iced coffee to be precise. No sugar, double shot. It gives me a more uniform taste, letting me taste the drain first then the caramel later towards the end.
Fun fact, the difference between a macchiato and a latte is the location of the milk, foam, and the espresso. From the bottom, in macchiato, the milk goes first, then foam, and espresso. As for my fav caramel macchiato, vanilla syrup is at the bottom before the milk and caramel on top. For latte, espresso goes first, milk and then foam.
I know you think I am bragging but it’s not bragging if I’m smart. Plus I am giving you conversation starters next time you go on a coffee date. Star this post. Each time you say ‘ezawa saying’ while taking a sip on your single dose minted mocha, act like you know what you’re doing.
So this one time she tasted my coffee, and she loved it. She then asked me what it was. I told her it’s a vanilla latte. She told me she’s going to get one. She insisted she’d snag one for herself, inquired about its café origins, and, being the tenacious character she is, turned down my offer to place the order. She’s a self-sufficient adult, after all, who can conquer her own caffeine quests. I insisted she doesn’t know how it works there but who is she? We get to the caffe and I’m pretty sure she has never seen anything like that.
The first thing I noticed was that she didn’t like the pressure the barista was putting on her. She didn’t know the lingo. He could tell it was her first time being at this place. So, she’s over there, wracking her brain for the coffee name I mentioned, like she’s participating in the world’s slowest coffee quiz show. Finally, after a dramatic pause that felt like it could power a soap opera, she goes, “Give me a vanilla latte…”
The barista goes, “I’m sorry, what did you say vanilla latte?”
“Yes, let me get a small vanilla latte.”
“You mean a tall vanilla latte?
“No, that’s not what I want. Small is small and tall is tall. I am tall, not small. I want a small vanilla latte. Okay I don’t want to cause a fuss but get me whatever version there is small or tall”
“How would you want it served? Would you like it iced or hot?”
She looks at me like what the fuck is going on? What is he talking about?
“Would I like it cold or hot?” She repeats the question.
That’s when you can tell she’s confused. She looks at me and it’s like she’s asking how did you get yours? I just stare at her blankly, then she goes inaudibly
“Let me get the iced one.”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“Let me get the hot one. In fact get me icy hot. Put it together. That’s how I want it. Actually that’s how I prefer it.”
“Will you like it whipped or blended?”
She goes off again “would I like it whipped or blended? You know what, whip It! Whip it real good”
“Okay for 200 shillings would you want to make it skinny?”
She gives that confused look again and goes “just do what you have to do. Okay?”
“What kind of milk do you want? Whole milk? Skimmed milk? 2% soy…”
“Make it with every milk God made”
“Blended. Okay. Would you like a caramel layer on top?
I thought she was just going to cancel it. At this point she didn’t even know if she was getting coffee or baking a cake.
She fires, “You know what? Let me just get a banana. Can I get the banana? And please just help me with some water. If you don’t mind.”
The barista goes, “do you want the water to be cold or hot?”
“She loses her composure completely. I could see her forehead turning beet red. She had reached her limit. She stepped aside, furious like an enraged bull itching to charge at a matador.
It was my turn.
‘Give me a caramel macchiato. Let me repeat, a caramel macchiato. Light ice Don’t make it heavy, if it’s heavy I don’t want it. Do me a favor. Put a little bit of soy in it. Not a lot, just enough for me to taste it. Make it 3 whips and the third whip to the top of the lips so that I can taste it when I take a sip.
We strolled along for a good 500 meters in complete silence, and then out of nowhere, she exclaims, ‘I just can’t believe you let that guy…,’ And just like that, she embarked on another spirited debate, all in an attempt to distract from the coffee-ordering mishap that had left her red-faced. But at that point, I’m in my own world, savoring my coffee, listening to her voice as if it’s underwater. She didn’t say a word afterwards but I knew all the house chores that week were on me.
Adapted from Hart Foundation