Excerpt from: Men Are Like Mocha Lattes

I love chocolate.  Let me rephrase that.  I love all things chocolate, from chocolate mousse, to chocolate chip cookies, to Haagen Daaz Dutch chocolate ice cream.  By the time I turned twenty-one, I was an expert in creating chocolate desserts for all occasions, delighting family and friends with black and white chocolate truffles, café brownie sundaes, and chocolate glazed triple-layer cheesecakes.  I am a chocoholic.  In fact, the only thing I love as much as chocolate is coffee.  Starbucks mocha lattes to be exact, although I’ve been known to settle for a nice cup of white hot chocolate as well, con panna (with whipped cream).

It struck me this evening that men are like mocha lattes: a  temptation that some of us regret in the morning after indulging the night before.  They tend to be available as tall and dark, short and sweet, rich and smooth, non-fat or full-bodied. I think of my ideal man the same way as my favorite latte: tall, non-fat, with deep, rich character. Which begs the question why I’m dating Drew, who isn’t tall and doesn’t seem to have much depth of character at all.  On the other hand, he is thin and rich, and he always smells good, so he gets bonus points for aroma. I was feeling homesick last night, so I asked him to take me to Starbucks where I ordered a tall, non-fat mocha latte with extra whipped cream.  Drew just looked at me and shook his head.  He said the order speaks volumes about North American culture. 

Today I kept thinking about Drew’s comments, and whether it’s true that too many people today want to have their mocha lattes and drink them too. Take Sydney for example: she wants her house and her car, her career,  a steady boyfriend and the occasional Friday night fling. She’s all about sex with no commitment, even when it means the main guy she’s having sex with (in this case, a very lovesick Bryce) is miserable because he can never quite “have” her.

Then there’s Drew. He wants to go to school and get his nursing degree, have full custody of Miles and still be able to go for a pint at the pub most nights.  I think Drew figured out a while ago that his preferred lifestyle would require a very patient life partner, and his ex-wife Janine certainly didn’t fit the bill.  She called this morning, to extend her usual invitation to cut my hair.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Libby?”

“It’s Lindsay.”

“Look you Canadian tart, if you don’t leave my husband alone, I’m going to drive you straight back to America!  I’m going to chop every one of those curls off!  Do you hear me?  I’m going to – Mum!  Mum! Give me back the phone!”

“Hello?”  A mature woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, hello?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Lindsay.”

“Who?”

“Lindsay, the Canadian student staying with Drew.”

“Oh, Lindsay. Yes, of course, Drew’s girlfriend. Miles talks about you all the time.  Lindsay love, could you be a dear and not ring Janine anymore?  It’s rather upsetting for her.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Janine’s father and I would appreciate if you don’t call the poor girl.  She’s been through the wringer with all of Drew’s nonsense…”

“But she’s the one who keeps calling me!”

“…really quite upsetting. Well, I must be off. The girls are waiting for me at the country club.  We enjoyed your brownies by the way. Good-bye dear.”

Click.

I’m going to kill Drew.   I’ve told him a million times not to take my desserts over there.  I think he tries to placate Janine’s family with them, not that it seems to be having the desired effect.

Now, where was I?  Right.  Having your brownies and eating them too.  In Drew’s life, the person allowing his mocha latte factor (watching rugby at the pub) is me, the on-site babysitter.  I don’t mind taking care of Miles at all, in fact, I love spending time with him. But I do wish that Drew would take some responsibility. I worry sometimes about being involved with someone whose only motivations in life seem to be having sex and drinking beer.  I have no idea how he manages to take care of his patients at the hospital.

Which brings me to my own mocha latte factor: marriage. The only factor missing from the equation of my life happiness is a husband and a diamond ring to signify my “M.R.S.”

I don’t think it’s asking too much.  In the grand scheme of things, my mocha

latte factor is a small, not a grande.