I like turtles. I mean, who doesn’t? But I like my straws too, and I’m struggling with the “no straw” rule that’s happening in California to “Save the Turtles.” I mean, I recycle. I’m earth responsible, but I want my straws. Straws in iced soy lattes are how I start my writing day. It’s not just practical, it’s a ritual.
That’s my dog, Fiona. She likes straws too.
Yes, I know the new caps at Starbucks are made to drink without straws, but here’s the thing, I have an overbite. I never had braces, so I want my straw. Besides, what do they think the caps are going to do for the turtles? Will they have hats to wear?
So I dislike these new rules. I dislike that I must live the way people tell me to because a nine-year-old girl did a science project. I’m not a fan of paper straws. (Is anyone a fan of paper straws?) The metal ones make the coffee taste weird. And no one seems to care that McDonald’s and Taco Bell, etc., still have straws.
I only drink Starbucks, FYI, because they have virtually killed the independent coffee roasters. For most of my life, I went to Dana Street Coffee (where I wrote a large portion of my Ashley Stockingdale series) and Coffee Society. I moved away from Dana Street and Coffee Society is no more. A moment of silence.
So while the straw dilemma rages on, I’ll be muddling through with my own straws. (In restaurants now, you must ask for straws. They cannot give them to you willingly.) When I went to Colorado, the waitress told me I could keep my straw as a souvenir. Now, if you’re like most people, this issue has very little impact on your life. But to me? To me, it’s one more freedom slowly ebbed away where I must conform or get out…
Maybe I need to write a poem — an Ode to Straws…