A not-so-open letter to Starbucks

Dear Starbucks,

I have a confession to make. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I’m only interested in you for one thing.

No it’s not your iced caramel macchiato. It’s not your over-enthusiastic androgynous employees with bolts in their faces. It’s not your cooler-than-thou ambiance, replete with black and white photography and the constant din of folksy alternative tunes. It’s not your prepackaged parma paninis or your mini lemon scones. And it’s not the superiority I feel using quasi-European terms like “vente” and “grande.”

No, I’m sorry, but I’m only using you for your Wi-Fi.

Sure, I have internet access at home, but I can’t seem to get anything done there. There are too many reasons to procrastinate ÔÇô a pantry full of snacks, a dog to scratch, a DVR filled with reality shows. Plus, we can’t fit our car in the garage due to all the junk in there, and when the neighbors see my dirty white minivan in the driveway, they can’t resist knocking on my door.

So I come to you. I pay for “coffee” but, like some kind of phony massage therapist, you offer me extra services in the form of unlimited Internet access. Now don’t get me wrong ÔÇô I like our little arrangement; however, I do have a few suggestions to keep our relationship mutually beneficial.

First, stop freezing us all to death. Just because you keep the temperature at a frigid 65 degrees does not mean that your customers will succumb to this thermo-bullying tactic and buy more of your overpriced coffee. Do you realize that, when my daughter sees me getting jackets from our coat closet, she declares, “Mom must be going to Starbucks today.”

I’m actually jealous of the smokers who are banished to the heat of the outdoor caf├® tables. I’d gladly inhale their second hand carcinogens for a little warmth if I could only see my computer screen in the sunlight. When I can’t take it anymore, I huddle in the women’s bathroom under the hand dryer, exposing my jugular vein to the heat until my blood temperature comes back from the brink of hypothermia.

This mention of the bathrooms brings me to my second point. Just because you have one of those toilet seat cover dispensers does not mean that you can allow the toilet to be a veritable petri dish of contagion. There’s a little something called bowl cleaner that you might want to try. Don’t be afraid, you can do it. Just like you squirt a shot of vanilla syrup into your iced grande skinny cappuccino, you can shoot a little bowl cleaner into the toilet. Similarly, the antibacterial soap dispenser does not obviate the need for you to disinfect the sink. Have you ever thought that a quick spray of common household cleaner might kill that ring of mold around the faucet? Just a thought.

Lastly, if you advertise “FREE” Wi-Fi, then please don’t allow your employees (especially that older lady who works the morning shift) to give me the evil eye when I stay for five hours sipping the same vente golden roast. We both know it’s gone stone cold, but I simply don’t want another cup. So, unless you post a sign requiring patrons to buy a drink an hour like some kind of New Orleans strip joint, I’ll leave when I’m darned well ready.

Perhaps the reason I’ve been getting the obvious cold shoulder (pardon the pun) from your employees is due to the fact that I don’t fit the Starbucks corporate image. At your weekly employee meetings, have you discussed strategies to get rid of the frumpy mom who’s been taking up a four-seat table for several hours every Tuesday and Thursday? Are my middle-aged gut, mom jeans, and dirty white minivan parked out front cramping your style??

That being said, I must confess, recreational people-watching in your establishment is quite entertaining. The vast majority of customers fit the stereotype of the perfect Starbucks patron ÔÇô thin, stylish, independent, with artificially whitened teeth and naturally inflated egos. Everyone seems very serious and usetrendy coffee jargon with confidence. Men aren’t embarrassed to order foo-foo beverages like Frappuccinos and eat things like mini tarts and cake pops, as long as they can do it while talking loudly into invisible speaker phones about “brand merchandising” and “periodic image assessments.”

Women arrive in maxi dresses or yoga pants, and chat at the caf├® tables about their relationships. Hip moms bring their children and willingly pay double digits for chocolate soymilk and glorified doughnuts so their kids can freeze their Huggies off. I find it all wildly entertaining, and a nice distraction from the work on my laptop.

In conclusion, while I’m pretty steamed about your chilly atmosphere and tepid employee attitudes, not to mention your questionable restroom cleanliness standards, which are, frankly, more in keeping with that of a city bus station; I will continue to pad your greedy coffers with $2.09 every Tuesday and Thursday, as long as you keep doling out your Wi-Fi like some kind of Hoboken hooker.

It’s a naughty little arrangement we have, so let’s keep it our little secret.

Confidentially yours,

Lisa Smith Molinari