It was Sunday morning, Mother's Day, and I was sitting on a plush sofa in one of those upscale coffee shops about 15 minutes from my home.

I don't usually frequent these establishments. An avowed tea drinker, I don't like how all those fancy-sounding coffees — like lattes and mochas — overshadow the tea selection. Mostly, though, it's the high cost of a cup of brew that keeps me away.

But, I had hosted card club at my house the evening before, which caused me to miss my usual Saturday visit to the local library, where I like to wile away the morning reading and writing, and where no one can want anything of me.

It's "my time," I tell my family, when they wonder why someone who has spent her week sitting behind a desk would want to spend the first free hours of her weekend holed up in a library.

But on that particular Saturday morning, I was at home, transforming my neglected house into something presentable to the 10 people who would be coming for dinner that evening. I had to cook and clean. Remove the dangling Easter Bunny from the entranceway. And coax my son to take the car he was working on in our driveway down off the jacks.

Overall, the party went well, but by Sunday morning, I was still in need of "my time." And since the library is closed on Sundays, I decided to do my reading and writing at the local coffee shop.

Nestled on a comfortable although somewhat sticky fake-leather couch, I tried reading my book, "An Unfinished Woman," a memoir of the 1930s playwright Lillian Hellman. The coffee shop was noisy, though, with the comings and goings of Sunday morning coffee-drinkers, and I had trouble concentrating. I tried writing, but that didn't work either.

So instead, I sipped my tea — Earl Grey with a little honey — and listened in awe to the coffee shop customers as they ordered their drinks. They asked for macchiatos and mochas, espressos and frappachinos, all with same ease they might have when ordering a burger and fries. How did they know what to ask for, I wondered? And how did they learn to pronounce those names?

One gentleman bought a pound of coffee — Komodo Dragon Blend ($6.95/half pound) — and, without batting an eye, added, "It's for a drip coffee maker, metal filter, with a flat bottom." When did buying coffee get so complicated (and expensive)?

But it was the size of the customers' drink orders that confused me most. "Venti," said the young boy, grasping his mother's hand as he ordered a decaf Caramel Macchiato with whipped cream. "Grandé," said the elderly woman in the baggy sweater, when she asked for a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino Blended Crème.

Since the young boy's drink was bigger than the older woman's, then grandé must be small and venti large, I concluded. Until the man in a jogging suit ordered a "tall," which was smaller than both.

So tall is small and venti is large. But how can something called grandé be medium?

Ahhh. How I long for the simplicity of my Saturday mornings at the library, even if it means drinking Lipton from a metal travel mug.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.