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kittenscribble...or, at least, in Starbucks receipts.
I have all of the receipts because I'm a miser, you see. I'm also a control freak, at least insofar as my checkbook is concerned. So I save all receipts, even the piddly little ones, and add them to my spreadsheet whenever I have the urge to update (generally when my wallet starts to bulge).
Apparently I buy a lot of coffee. Expensive coffee, too. Starbucks charges near $4 for one of their frothed sugary blended ice concoctions, and I'll cheerfully pay it if I'm so inclined. (Note that my self-descriptor "miserly" does not connote "thrifty" in this case; a more accurate term would be "anal." I save the receipts in order to record the purchase, but I do not angst over the price of said coffee.)
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes.
26th June, 3pm: one large gelato. From the espresso bar in the National Gallery of Art, near closing time so they were running out of the popular flavors. (They make it fresh every morning, DC said, it's great. We have to get some. It's the best gelato in the city.) I chose the orange, which turned out to be a delicate fruit concoction with frozen orange slices hidden inside. We sat in the cafeteria and sampled one another's desserts, the four of us chipping away at the cups with tiny plastic spoons, sweet shards of ice melting on the tongue.
The morning had been spent wandering around the National Mall, looking at the Folklife Festival exhibits. Lunch at the Post Office Pavilion (and where's my receipt for that wonderful gyro, anyway?), followed by a wander through their summer exhibition of Diego Rivera's artwork. Cubism doesn't do much for me, but it's fun to squint at the shapes. Calder's mobile was absent for cleaning, creating an unnatural empty space in the ceiling of the modern art wing.
27th June, 4pm: one tall cappuccino, one tall iced black tea lemonade. Bought from the Starbucks on Wisconsin near AU, with its large tables and college students, sunlight reaching lazily through the tall front windows. We had just left a free performance of selected Goldberg variations; a pianist named Haskell Small had been promoting his new CD at the Middle C Music Store a block from the Tenleytown stop. The performance had been decent, I suppose. But I'd been spoiled by my Glenn Gould CD and the machine-gun perfection of his keystrokes; poor Mr Small couldn't even compare. Still. It was amazing to see his skilled fingers flicker across the keys, the movements so much more intricate than I could ever have guessed from merely listening to the music.
The tea lemonade was sweet and slightly tart on my tongue, leaving behind the familiar aftertaste of strong black tea leaves. The iced chill was a bit too cold for the air-conditioned coffee shop, but a perfect counter for the hot day outside.
I have all of the receipts because I'm a miser, you see. I'm also a control freak, at least insofar as my checkbook is concerned. So I save all receipts, even the piddly little ones, and add them to my spreadsheet whenever I have the urge to update (generally when my wallet starts to bulge).
Apparently I buy a lot of coffee. Expensive coffee, too. Starbucks charges near $4 for one of their frothed sugary blended ice concoctions, and I'll cheerfully pay it if I'm so inclined. (Note that my self-descriptor "miserly" does not connote "thrifty" in this case; a more accurate term would be "anal." I save the receipts in order to record the purchase, but I do not angst over the price of said coffee.)
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes.
26th June, 3pm: one large gelato. From the espresso bar in the National Gallery of Art, near closing time so they were running out of the popular flavors. (They make it fresh every morning, DC said, it's great. We have to get some. It's the best gelato in the city.) I chose the orange, which turned out to be a delicate fruit concoction with frozen orange slices hidden inside. We sat in the cafeteria and sampled one another's desserts, the four of us chipping away at the cups with tiny plastic spoons, sweet shards of ice melting on the tongue.
The morning had been spent wandering around the National Mall, looking at the Folklife Festival exhibits. Lunch at the Post Office Pavilion (and where's my receipt for that wonderful gyro, anyway?), followed by a wander through their summer exhibition of Diego Rivera's artwork. Cubism doesn't do much for me, but it's fun to squint at the shapes. Calder's mobile was absent for cleaning, creating an unnatural empty space in the ceiling of the modern art wing.
27th June, 4pm: one tall cappuccino, one tall iced black tea lemonade. Bought from the Starbucks on Wisconsin near AU, with its large tables and college students, sunlight reaching lazily through the tall front windows. We had just left a free performance of selected Goldberg variations; a pianist named Haskell Small had been promoting his new CD at the Middle C Music Store a block from the Tenleytown stop. The performance had been decent, I suppose. But I'd been spoiled by my Glenn Gould CD and the machine-gun perfection of his keystrokes; poor Mr Small couldn't even compare. Still. It was amazing to see his skilled fingers flicker across the keys, the movements so much more intricate than I could ever have guessed from merely listening to the music.
The tea lemonade was sweet and slightly tart on my tongue, leaving behind the familiar aftertaste of strong black tea leaves. The iced chill was a bit too cold for the air-conditioned coffee shop, but a perfect counter for the hot day outside.
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no subject
Date: 2004-07-26 03:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-28 04:54 am (UTC)