Starbucks Date Quotes

I wake up like this, this sense that I've somehow been transported to an alternate universe where my life took a left instead of a right beacuse of some seeemingly insignificant yet cosmically crucial choice I've made, about a girl or a kiss or a date or a job or which Starbucks I went into...something.

Sooo, I'm tired of people thinking I'm a freak. I know you can't relate to that but -" "Get over it already, will ya?" Candace stood. "You're not Smellody anymore. You're pretty. You can get hot guys now. Tanned ones with good vision. Not geeky hose jousters." She shut the window. "Don't you ever want to use your lips as something other than veneer protectors?" Melody felt a familiar pinch behind her eyes. Her throat dried. Her eyes burned. And then they came. Like salty little paratroopers, tears descended en masse. She hated Candace thought she had never made out with a boy. But how could she convince a seventeen-year-old with more dates than a fruitcake that Randy the Starbucks cashier (aka Scarbucks, because of his acne scars) was a great kisser? She couldn't.

Stephanie, huh?” I ask, when she doesn’t respond. “You go by Steph?” “No. Not Steph.” she says as we cross the street to the familiar green and white Starbucks logo. “My ex-boyfriend called me that so I’m kind of over it.” God, someone actually dated this cranky little midget? Then my eyes skimmed the perky cleavage beneath the tiny tank top. Right. There was that.

You’re around an awful lot lately. Are you stalking me?” “Stalking you? This is my Starbucks. I live around the corner,” I tell her. “There’s at least two Starbuckses closer to your apartment than this one. I think you picked this Starbucks so you’d run into me.” I can’t imagine that’s true, but I wouldn’t mind it if it was. She’s been on my mind since I first laid eyes on her almost a week ago. “Uh, no,” she replies sarcastically. It seems to be her go-to when she’s nervous. “I never meet first dates anywhere within a three-block radius of my apartment.” A three-block radius? She kills me. She cannot be getting laid much, which pleases me in some ridiculously caveman way. “Well, that sounds very… safe of you.” She nods in a way that tells me she’s a little bit smug about her safety rules. She’s so fucking cute.

After all, no big business idea makes sense at first. I mean, just imagine proposing the following ideas to a group of sceptical investors: ‘What people want is a really cool vacuum cleaner.’ (Dyson) ‘. . . and the best part of all this is that people will write the entire thing for free!’ (Wikipedia) ‘. . . and so I confidently predict that the great enduring fashion of the next century will be a coarse, uncomfortable fabric which fades unpleasantly and which takes ages to dry. To date, it has been largely popular with indigent labourers.’ (Jeans) ‘. . . and people will be forced to choose between three or four items.’ (McDonald’s) ‘And, best of all, the drink has a taste which consumers say they hate.’ (Red Bull) ‘. . . and just watch as perfectly sane people pay $5 for a drink they can make at home for a few pence.’ (Starbucks)*

Thank you for this.” “You’re welcome. It’s not much, but I was kind of hoping I could take you out tonight.” I almost choked, “Out? Like a date?” He chuckled and grabbed my hand pulling me towards the bed, “Yes a date. I know it’s cliché, but how does dinner and a movie sound?” “Sounds perfect!” I said a little too enthused. I slapped my hand over my mouth and turned beet red. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled into my hand, “I’ve never been on a date.” He smiled and brushed the hair out of my face, “What was yesterday then?” “What, at Starbucks? I thought we were just hanging out.” “God you’re adorable.” He kissed my forehead then lay back on his pillows. “Okay, well tonight is a date.” I bit my lip and tried to avoid bouncing up and down. I was way too excited for just a date. “When do you want to go?” “It’s almost two, we can leave at six if that’s okay.” “Four

The Starbucks date she’d shared with Sam seemed like days ago, not just this morning. She’d managed to put aside all the emotions from her two-day roller-coaster ride during the afternoon, but seeing the Starbucks brought the news, or non-news, back in a flash. Talk about dodging a bullet. She

We have to stop spending our life waiting to be set free from this “prison” called singleness so we can finally join the ranks of celebrated coupledom. If society won’t throw the party for us, let’s throw it ourselves! Our unfinished, unwritten, imperfect lives deserve to be honored. Our life choices deserve to be recognized. And our singleness should be celebrated. We’re doing this life thing just fine alone, and if that isn’t brave and admirable and confetti-worthy, then I don’t know what is. I urge you to find a way to celebrate yourself and your singleness on a regular basis. Decide that you are going to be happy no matter what. Decide that you are going to make your dreams come true no matter what. And if those dreams include things like adopting a child and buying a house and doing things that people usually wait to do ’til they’re married . . . I want you to do them anyway. I want you to stop waiting and start living. Stop waiting for love, stop waiting for marriage, stop waiting for Prince Charming to come along and rescue you, and start designing a life you don’t wish to be rescued from. Life is short, and it’s high time to decide that, alone or accompanied, you are going to build the most beautiful life you can, and then you are going to revel in it. Because, guess what? You are the one you’ve been waiting for. You are the one who can make your dreams come true. You are the one, the only one, you will 100 percent definitely spend the rest of your life with . . . and it’s time to start making you happy. Not as a New Year’s resolution or at some lofty date in the future but right now. Because you are worthy of a beautiful life, and that beautiful life starts and ends with you. Don’t just accept your singleness—honor it! Appreciate it. Revel in it. Throw a shower for yourself and register at Target and Starbucks if you want to. But don’t keep wishing it away because you’re hoping and praying and longing for marriage. Stop letting the swipe rule your life. And don’t for one second allow society to cause you to believe that you don’t lead a life that’s worthy of celebrating. Whether your singleness is for a season or for a lifetime, there is great beauty, adventure, magic, love, laughter, and happiness right here in the middle of this moment. And I don’t know about you, but I’d say that’s worth a celebration or two.

to an understanding of that dizzying period, are dated and/or serve primarily as reference works. Obed Macy and Alexander Starbuck were two of the earliest nonfiction writers to explore the profession of whaling. Macy wrote

Once you’ve answered this question for yourself, replace a quick response with one that takes the time to describe the process you identified, points out the current step, and emphasizes the step that comes next. I call this the process-centric approach to e-mail, and it’s designed to minimize both the number of e-mails you receive and the amount of mental clutter they generate. To better explain this process and why it works consider the following process-centric responses to the sample e-mails from earlier: Process-Centric Response to E-mail #1: “I’d love to grab coffee. Let’s meet at the Starbucks on campus. Below I listed two days next week when I’m free. For each day, I listed three times. If any of those day and time combinations work for you, let me know. I’ll consider your reply confirmation for the meeting. If none of those date and time combinations work, give me a call at the number below and we’ll hash out a time that works. Looking forward to it.” Process-Centric Response to E-mail #2: “I agree that we should return to this problem. Here’s what I suggest… “Sometime in the next week e-mail me everything you remember about our discussion on the problem. Once I receive that message, I’ll start a shared directory for the project and add to it a document that summarizes what you sent me, combined with my own memory of our past discussion. In the document, I’ll highlight the two or three most promising next steps. “We can then take a crack at those next steps for a few weeks and check back in. I suggest we schedule a phone call for a month from now for this purpose. Below I listed some dates and times when I’m available for a call. When you respond with your notes, indicate the date and time combination that works best for you and we’ll consider that reply confirmation for the call. I look forward to digging into this problem.” Process-Centric

When out and about, point out social situations in which one person is ignoring the other through their use of a phone (bad dates, parents ignoring soccer games, concerts, Starbucks where every single person is on a phone). Ask them, “What do you think the other person is feeling?” If you’re ready to give a younger child a phone or Internet access, study resources such as Adam Pletter’s iParent101.com and the American Pediatrics Association’s Media and Children Communication Toolkit to educate yourself about the games and apps your kid uses. The Entertainment Software Rating Board (esrb.org) offers useful information about setting parental controls on games. Other sources we recommend are OnGuardOnline, which offers tips for protecting your computers; Common Sense Media, which rates programs and apps; and iKeepSafe.org, a fount of information about keeping kids safe online. Above all, talk to your children and let them know that it’s your job to help them learn to use technology well. Say, “There’s a whole world available on this gadget. If you get into something that’s scary for you, I want you to let me know.” Let kids know you’ll check their texts and Twitter page randomly until you feel they are not using it in a way that’s hurtful to others or that makes them vulnerable to being hurt—and then do it. Make video game use contingent on not freaking out when it’s time to quit. If your kid is using technology excessively, consider consulting with a psychologist or counselor.

There are a number of well and wearily trodden paths to a new man... Rather than catching up on your paperwork, you could squeeze in some 'best of a bad lot' power-flirting on the commute to work (and be gutted when, even though you didn't fancy them to begin with, ypur focus knocks you back). Maybe you're considering signing up for online dating or going to places where you should but absolutely never will, meet someone suitable? Since over the last year I've tried them all, I'll share what I've learnt with you. I've sat chatting to Belgian lawyers in Starbucks (willing them to be even a little more interesting); I've dabbled with online dating (where all the guys have done the Nick Hornby's Guide to Women course and are single parents with angelic but troubled kids, or run small, quirky yet failing businesses). I don't even want to think about going to another cultural event (to meet graduates of the Tony Parsons' Guide to Women course: bitterness over ex-wife, partially concealed by exterior of witty self-loathing, which in turn is momentarily obscured by an encyclopaedic knowledge of early punk bands).

I weave through LA's famous Farmers Market, which is really more of an outdoor food court, and now I'm a few minutes late. And the place is packed and there's still the uncertainty about where to meet when I look down and realize I'm wearing yellow pants. Yellow pants. Really? Sometimes I don't know what I'm thinking. They're rolled at the cuff and paired with a navy polo and it looks like maybe I just yacht my yacht, and I'm certain to come off as an asshole. I thin about canceling, or at least delaying so I can go home and change, but the effort that would require is unappealing, and this date is mostly for distraction. And when I round the last stall--someone selling enormous eggplants, more round than oblong, I see him, casually leaning against a wall, and something inside my body says there you are. 'There you are.' I don't understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. They're straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days. My knees don't buckle, my heart doesn't skip, but I'm awash in the warmth of a valium-like hug. Except I haven't taken a Valium. Not since the night of Lily's death. Yet here is this warm hug that makes me feel safe with this person, this Byron the maybe-poet, and I want it to stop. This--whatever this feeling is--can't be a real feeling, this can't be a tangible connection. This is just a man leaning against a stall that sells giant eggplants. But I no longer have time to worry about what this feeling is, whether I should or shouldn't be her, or should or should't be wearing yellow pants, because there are only maybe three perfect seconds where I see him and he has yet to spot me. Three perfect seconds to enjoy the calm that has so long eluded me. 'There you are.' And then he casually lifts his head and turns my way and uses one foot to push himself off the wall he is leaning agains. We lock eyes and he smiles with recognition and there's a disarming kindness to his face and suddenly I'm standing in front of him. 'There you are.' It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it and it's all I can do to steer the words in a more playfully casual direction so he isn't saddled with the importance I've placed on them. I think it comes off okay, but, as I know from my time at sea, sometimes big ships turn slowly. Byron chuckles and gives a little pump of his fist. 'YES! IT'S! ALL! HAPPENING! FOR! US!' I want to stop in my tracks, but I'm already leaning in for a hug, and he comes the rest of the way, and the warm embrace of seeing him standing there is now an actual embrace, and it is no less sincere. He must feel me gripping him tightly, because he asks, 'Is everything okay?' No. 'Yes, everything is great, it's just...' I play it back in my head what he said, the way in which he said it, and the enthusiasm which only a month had gone silent. 'You reminded me of someone is all.' 'Hopefully in a good way.' I smile but it takes just a minute to speak. 'In the best possible way.' I don't break the hug first, but maybe at the same time, this is a step. jenny will be proud. I look in his eyes, which I expect to be brown like Lily's but instead are deep blue like the waters lapping calmly against the outboard sides of 'Fishful Thinking.' 'Is frozen yogurt okay?' 'Frozen yogurt is perfect.

Those guys didn’t hurt you too bad, did they, Rach? They didn’t—they didn’t . . .” “No. Candice. No. Blake—” “I know, Rach. Blake took such good care of you last night, he was so sweet to you.” No! A sob broke free and the tears poured down my cheeks as I tried to tell her how wrong she was. “No. Blake—my car—he . . . he did something and I—I thought I was going crazy!” “It’s okay, sweetie. He took me to pick up your Jeep from Starbucks a few hours ago. It’s in the parking lot.” “W-what?” “Aww, Rach. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you last night. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that happened to you. I’m so thankful Blake was there for you.” A bone-deep shudder rocked my body and I tried to pull back from her; she wasn’t understanding! “You’re not listening! Blake’s the one who attacked me!” “Rachel! Why the hell would you say something like that?!” “Because he did! Before you came back!” She pushed away from my bed and faced me with a cold glare. “How dare you accuse my family of something like that! I know you had a rough night, Rachel, and I’m sorry! But you can’t just pin it on Blake. I can’t—” She huffed loudly. “I can’t believe you would do something like this. Why do you hate him so much? If you don’t want to date him, then fine, but don’t blame him for something like that. God, I feel like I don’t even know you.” My

Is everything okay?” Joe asks. “Yes!” I agree quickly. “I was just checking out the light fixtures,” I say, nodding to the Starbucks decor. “They’re nice, don’t you think?” Not a total lie. I’ve always appreciated the ambiance here. “They must have them custom-made,” I muse. Brilliant conversational skills, Chloe. “I guess.” Joe shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like you can buy them just anywhere,” I add, because I never quit when I should. “I imagine not,” he agrees. “They don’t want just anyone to get their hands on their exclusive light fixtures.” He says it kindly, like he’s not bothered by my inane light fixture observations. “Right.” I nod. Joe is really so nice. And he’s really good-looking. He’s got beautiful thick dark hair. “Are you Italian?” “No.” He shakes his head. “Well, I don’t think so. I’m adopted so I’ve got no idea. My parents are of Scottish and German descent.” Oh. “I love Italian food,” I respond. Because that’s an appropriate response to sticking your foot in your mouth. “I hate Italian.” Joe frowns and shakes his head, then laughs. “Just kidding. Who doesn’t love Italian food?” Why is Boyd watching? Is this some sort of payback for pretending not to know him the other day at the hospital? I’m sure I can’t be the only girl questioned by the FBI who didn’t want her friends to know about it. Sheesh. Oh, my God. Is he on a stakeout? Is he investigating this date too? No. I mentally shake my head. Not possible. “Have you ever been to Serafina? On 18th? My friend went into labor there last week.” “Um, wow. Okay.” He pauses. “Congratulations to your friend,” he adds slowly, because he’s probably unsure what the correct response is to that tidbit of information.