“What kind of cookie would you like?” a mother asks her 3-year-old son. “They have triple chocolate chunk, white chocolate macadamia nut toffee,” she continues, squeezing the sides of his face between her thumb and index finger to get his attention, “snickerdoodle and oatmeal cranberry raisin.”

The pompous parent takes her son’s head and very lovingly turns it toward the plate of sweets behind a glass partition. I stood behind the register forcing a close-lipped smirk, waiting patiently for little junior to make, obviously, the most important decision of his life.

“Honey, listen to Mommy,” she tells him, looking at me with embarrassment shining through. “Do you want chocolate? Chocolate? Choc-o-laaaaat?"

Here I am, wasting away another summer as a barista, serving the masses of sleep-deprived tourists. Each year I tell myself that I won’t do this again, that I simply won’t put up with bratty children crying because they can’t have a cappuccino or ornery elderlies that make me pick through the pile of change in their hands to find exactly 34 cents.

A 10-year-old elitist was babbling away at lightning speed while Mother Dearest attempted to talk over her to order a drink.

“Do you want something here or should I drive you through Starbucks on the way home for a frappuccino?” Mother asked, interrupting her daughter’s interruptions. The tween queen wandered away, so Mother ordered for her a 16-ounce blended drink. With extra chocolate. And topped with whipped cream. With chocolate on the whipped cream.

While I was dressing the elaborate dessert-in-a-cup, the little girl was shoving a magazine in her mother’s face with — you guessed it — heartthrob Hannah Montana on the cover.

Someone, anyone, get me a stiff drink.

“Mommy, I want my hair just like hers,” she demanded, “but a little shorter and more straight.”

Mommy told her of course we can do that, my darling, it would look very nice. And then we’ll buy you that Prada handbag you’ve been just positively smitten on for weeks.

OK, so that last part was a bit fabricated. But I’m sure it’ll be just a few short years before the little monster is all over high fashion. Believe me, if there was a gravy train to ride, I would be first in line for a ticket. Until that day comes, I will need to earn my keep by slaving away at my demeaning, less-than-ideal workplace.

After all, there are a few bars within stumbling distance of the LLC that I’ll need to save some bucks for.

“Linda,” as we’ll call her, and her nameless husband whom she has never introduced, come calling at least three times a week, asking for large mochas with twice the espresso shots and half the “mocha.”

I wonder, do they honestly know what they’re asking for? That’s barely any chocolate with six whole shots of strong, caffeinated coffee; they may as well grab a tourniquet, slap their forearms and let me inject them in a dark alley. Hopefully they’ll know better than to share needles.

The kicker — everyone has his or her own method of making Linda’s drinks, yet she claims it’s “perfect as always” and “just what they needed” every time. Further proof that they do not know what they’re talking about.

In order to survive the remainder of summer, I must remain positive; I’ve been striving for a could-be-worse attitude. For instance, I could be a fuzzy puppy euthanizer or work in a sweatshop making Mary Kate and Ashley clothes exclusively for Wal-Mart.

Hell, I could be in school.

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