I’m nursing a Starbuck’s addiction, but that’s a whole ‘nother post for a whole ‘nother time. It’s become my guilty pleasure and I’ll write more about my corporate coffee opinions and my struggle with them later . . .

“I’ll take a triple grande soy latte,” I said to the unnamed girl at the counter.

“And your name?” she asked.

I don’t like to give my name. I don’t ask for theirs. I want to be incognito. I don’t want them to perk up and start screaming “Good Morning!” when I walk in the door every day. And they often will. I feel strange enough that I find myself going there on a daily basis, so at least allow me my privacy and let me get my fix in private, please. Sometimes I make up a fake name. But the other day, I just didn’t feel like playing that silly game – at all.

“I don’t feel like giving my name today,” I replied in a courteous manner, with a simple smile.

“Uh . . ” the Starbuck’s counter-intelligence stammered, “And your name is . . .?” But I could tell by the look on her face that she herself was confused as to why those words were coming out of her mouth, but at the same time, could not stop them.

I repeated myself, gently. “I just don’t feel like playing the name game today.”

I think that smoke was about to come out of her ears simply from sheer confusion. I’d completely thrown her for a loop. She continued to stammer, “Um . . you want a . . . Venti what?”

“A triple grande soy latte.”

“And your na-” she broke her words off. And then averted her eyes and said, “uh, that’ll be $4.09, please.”