Life lessons: red, red wine.

Saturday night, I pulled out the Casillero Del Diablo wine I bought from Blanchard's. The Cabernet Sauvignon was a good buy - about $10 if I remember correctly, and flavorful without being overwhelming, full-bodied without being punchy, with a light oak background. For my first foray into the world of Chilean wine, I was quite pleased.

So anyway, Saturday night, I'm in bed, reading and drinking a glass of red wine. I guess I fell asleep at some point, but in the throes of some nightmare, I seized while waking up and knocked the glass of red wine off of my bedside table and into my bed. All over my favorite sheets that I've had since freshman year of college.

If that doesn't wake you up fast, I don't know what will.

In a 4 AM stupor, I somehow realized that the best course of action was to get the sheets off of my bed as soon as possible and get them into the washer. I would have liked to let them soak all night, but 30 minutes was the maximum. So I soaked them with Tide, then ran a full washing load a few hours later. I was quite pleased with myself when I pulled the sheets from the machine and they were almost completely free of stains.

I was not so pleased with myself, however, when I glanced into the full-length mirror on my bedroom door on my way to take a shower before work. In case you were not aware, red wine stains your skin, and considering I was laying on my back when the glass spilled all over the bed, I now bore purplish stains that literally covered the entire back side of my body, from my neck to my calves. The shower I took then didn't help, and it took several more to get all of the stains off.

So if you do happen to take an accidental bath in red wine, get any clothes or sheets directly into the washing machine... and remember to at least rinse yourself off.

This part of my life is called working harder.

In hot pursuit of happiness, I have made a choice that is... there's no other way to say this: ballsy. I hardly even recognize myself because I don't usually do things this ballsy. Inspired by the ballsy nature of the decision, I very nearly - on the spot - called a guy in whom I am interested to ask him out. I was hindered by the fact that I deleted his phone number from my phone some weeks ago.

So, what is this happiness I am pursuing? How do I personally define it? Happiness is different for everyone, I think. If I'm going to be putting serious effort into capturing it, making it mine, I sure as hell had better know what it looks and feels like, so I have a target. It looks like madness, with a method, always. It feels like my heart swelling with all things good in appropriate amounts. It is a pancake breakfast filled with laughter with my roommates. It is working hard, but not excessively. It is a smile that shows in my eyes. It is a cute dog on a leash that I hold. It is waves crashing on a beach while I watch from the warm sand. It is a hot cup of quality coffee early in the day. It is a college degree in my hands. It is enough money in my bank account so that I don't have to worry too much about bills. It is a job I enjoy that puts that money in my bank account. It is reaching my dreams in this lifetime. It is me, in Texas. It is a hug from my mother.

How do I get there from here? Well, to start, I need to be saving money. A lot of it. Money doesn't buy you happiness, but unfortunately, happiness does cost money. College degrees aren't cheap, and neither is moving across the country. Can I make it in Boston? Yes. I am not homeless, not hungry, and not insane. Do I want to be here that much longer? No. I am a Texan to the core, and it's difficult for me to be in a place like this. I don't know how long it will take me to get out of here - it could be 9 months, it could be a couple of years - but this decision should accelerate the process.

This is going to be the hardest I've ever worked. Harder than this past fall, when I averaged 60-65 hours a week. Harder than almost two years ago, when I averaged 75-80 hours a week. Harder than full-time school on top of full-time work. This is full-time work, on top of full-time work, with intensive training. In order to excel at both places, I will be doing homework and research whenever I'm not at work. Oh, and I still have to eat, sleep, wash my clothes, and run errands.

If this all goes through, and I hope it does, I have a couple of weeks to get organized. This basically means that I need to get my eating habits under control - so actually eating every now and then - and get my room together, organized, clean. Get my bed put together. Get my desk properly set up to accommodate plenty of books, papers, and whatever else applies. I need to cultivate habits to encourage consistent patterns of taking good care of myself without having the time to think about it. I need to set a schedule for myself. I need to actually use the planner I got.

I do love to work hard. When I don't take good care of myself, I can't work hard. I'm kind of taking a big risk here. It's a big investment of time and energy. I'm going to have to work hard just to set myself up for success well enough so that I can get up every day to bust my own ass. So I guess this part of my life is called working harder.

Positivity.

When did I get so serious? Not to mention so depressed, and so depressing... The more I read over that last post, the more I realize I am being torn apart by the conditions of my life. I used to be so happy. Anyway... I'm going to try and focus on the positive things in my life. I used to be so good at keeping myself happy. So, a list of things that make me happy, even here:

-The first sip of the first cup of hot coffee each day.
-Having sand in my shoes.
-Absolute silence on the Cape.
-The combined smells of my shampoo, conditioner, face wash, and body wash.
-Gorgeous fall foliage.
-Crawling into bed between freshly laundered sheets.
-8:16 AM, my favorite time of day.
-Bad, and I mean awful, jokes. Puns.
-Running in Brookline.
-Pirates.
-My hair.
-Cooking something new.
-Smiles from strangers.
-Watching clouds and stars through the skylight over my bed.
-Hearing my phone start playing John Mayer's "Daughters" - which means a family member is calling.
-The moment when I put on my tie and my black apron each day, and clip a Sharpie to the top of my apron.
-The smell of my freshly baked brownies.

Misery loves company.

The manager I was working with tonight at Chipotle let it slip that I get moody starting between 7 and 8 PM and stay that way for the rest of the night. He said all of the managers had noticed it (no one had said anything to me), and while I had also noticed I am more and more frustrated starting around then lasting through close, it is moderately embarrassing that everyone has noticed it, talked about it behind my back, and refused to say anything to my face.

7 or 8 PM:
-Everyone else on the floor has taken a break. I will be the last person to take a break, around 8:30 or 9. Meanwhile, if I stand still for any period of time, or try to take a quick 5-minute break, someone starts yelling at me to ring up a transaction, check the lobby, collect baskets, watch the line for them, etc. And they wonder why those of us who are trained on cash hate being the shift cashier...
-The dinner rush has just ended, or will be ending soon. I'm sick of people telling me "no" when I ask for sides of salsa or guac, and I'm cataloging in my mind how many times I or the line screwed up on customer service. I'm also just sick of seeing people and doing the exact same thing hundreds of times.
-By this time, most times I'm working at Chipotle, I've been awake since around 4 AM, and I have worked around 12 hours so far that day.
-I'm starting to think about the rest of the night, which means anticipating having to clean bathrooms (my least favorite thing ever), and cleaning up the lobby after the dinner rush, so running around sweeping, wiping tables, cleaning baskets, filling ice, stocking the drink station, and ringing up every customer.
-I'm also starting to think about going home, which includes crying throughout the 20-minute drive home as I remember that I won't see my family for months and am, for the most part, very alone here. It also means I start calculating how much sleep I will get, which is usually 4-5 hours, maximum.

So yeah... not that those are excuses... I am usually a nice person. But there are valid reasons for my apparent bitchy-ness. More importantly, the fact that this is showing, when I'm a naturally happy person, means more than just me being bitchy sometimes. It means I am really that miserable. It has been six months since I saw my father and sister, and eight months since I saw my mother - and that time was only for an hour. My dog is dying, and I am not there to spend time with her as her energy fades. I hate the taxes I pay in this state, and I hate knowing that they will probably go up. I hate knowing that as hard as I work, I earn very little money. I am frustrated by the knowledge that I work my tail off - often on little or no food, because I can't afford more - and it doesn't seem to make a difference or garner much respect from anyone. When did hard work lose its value? I hate how mean people are here and the fact that everyone seems to think that's okay. I hate that I can't afford some important things, like body work, new brake pads, and new tires for my car. I am sick more often than not. I don't have many friends; the ones I do have don't have much time for me. I am finding less and less willpower to go into work and give great service for eight hours when I know there will be at least one or two people who will flip out on me over something, whether it's the wait time on a drink, the quality of brewed coffee, or the length of the line.

Seriously, how do you people live like this? How are all of you so miserable all of the time, and why are you so anxious to spread it around? How many times do you have to shove me down to make yourself feel better?

What is more frustrating than anything else is that the whole reason I'm still here is that I believe the managers in my Starbucks district are more devoted to my development than any managers for whom I have worked. And yet... because I work 70 hours a week, I can't take advantage of this opportunity like I could if I just had one job. But if I just had one job, I couldn't pay bills in order to stay here and take advantage of the opportunity. Getting to the point where I will be promoted to the next level while I work 70 hours a week seems like some Sisyphean task God put in front of me to make me want to kill myself. I've been working 70 hours a week for three months, and I can't imagine continuing like this for nine more months while I watch myself utterly fail at trying to be a good, well-developed Starbucks manager. With recognition being rare and the wages I get paid, I have never felt so worthless in my life.

I'm not sure how or why I keep going. I just do.

Back in black!

I am proud to announce that as of Wednesday, October 15, 2008, I have a Coffee Master's black apron that I am now permitted to wear, as I have been deemed a Coffee Master by my regional director. Actually, to be exact, I own HER black apron. She was impressed with my coffee tasting, and after I asked why it was so hard to get a black apron, she gave me hers. Someone who has been with the company for fourteen years was that impressed.

If I had known she was going to sit in on that tasting, I would have had time to work up some nervousness. But... I didn't know... so I just said and did what came naturally to me... and she loved it.

My next challenge shall be... blind coffee tastings. Which coffee is which? Can I tell the differences between coffees of two different regions without knowing which is which? Can I tell the differences between coffees of the same region without knowing which is which? I know I can lead a coffee tasting and rock it with my coffee knowledge. Now, let's see how well I really know those coffees.

Wearing that apron for the first time this morning was very exciting. The thought of it actually got me out of bed on time. I was so excited about it last night that I had a hard time sleeping. Like a little kid on Christmas Eve.

I'm telling you... this is the start of something big.

Singing baristas!

So, Sunday at Starbucks was a little insane. Okay... we got massacred. Seth started throwing up and had to go home, and the line just got longer and longer. I was working the bar, experiencing a bit of a throwback to my days at the downtown store. I reached my barista zenith there, sometime during the colder months. I remember barring by myself on a Sunday, and Dave Matthews Band music was playing, and it was like everything slowed down enough that I could just kind of watch my hands working. Time slowed down, and I was going insanely fast. Almost everything I was doing was automatic. Nonstop line for hours, nonstop line of drinks for hours. I miss that.

Anyway. By the time Zoe came in, we were still busy, but it was slowing a little. At that point, the other Diana, Gail, and I were losing our minds a little. So... I started singing. Then, Zoe joined in. Then, Gail joined in. We went through an entire Beatles set, to Alanis Morissette, the Pretenders, Prince... we finished with "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." Then, I threw up, so I left.

A customer on Monday morning who had been in on Sunday approached me and started to say something about Sunday. I immediately apologized, saying we'd gotten slammed, were understaffed, and started to go a little nutty. Her reaction was, "No, it was great, I loved it! You were singing some of my favorite Beatles songs!"

Really??

Zoe and I don't have the greatest voices, but it helped lighten the mood, and we were having fun... so we're going to make this a regular thing. Singing baristas when we work together. We're building a list of songs now, with lots of the Beatles, Prince, even the Talking Heads ("Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?"). So, um... come see the singing baristas. And get a Clover.

Life at one thousand miles per hour.

I realized how fast things are passing me by today. I can't believe it's already almost October, and I haven't taken a real vacation in ages. I've worked 42 consecutive days as of tonight. It doesn't look like I will have a vacation until January, maybe February, and who wants to take a vacation then? I can't afford to go anywhere tropical.

It seems like every minute I'm not working, I'm doing something for work, or I'm moving heavy stuff, like furniture and boxes. I can't believe my hair is already in need of a haircut again. I can't afford one anyway. I don't remember the last time I actually did my hair; I've been just washing it and then running out the door for months now. Somehow, it looks nice most of the time. My body has gotten into the annoying habit of aching really badly every time I move a limb later in the day, which is seriously slowing me down at work. I'm starting to wonder if the way I schedule myself makes me slightly masochistic. If I could have anything, I would just ask for a hug from each of my parents and my sister. I'd kill to be ten years old again, with my mother yelling at me to finish my milk at the dinner table while I feed things to the waiting dog under the table. Things I want to keep up with - world news, reading, cleaning my room, having clean clothes - have fallen by the wayside. I never feel like I have time to think anymore. One of these days, I'm really, truly going to have some time off, and all of the things that have been stuck in some corner of my mind are going to hit me all at once. Like driving too fast and then hitting the brakes hard, an ugly pileup of cars that is an insurance adjustor's nightmare. Like a ton of bricks.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to make these great strides toward moving forward with Starbucks, and the extra work is eating up what little time I have to myself. I can't believe someone who had never had regular coffee before working for Starbucks now has her arms wrapped so tightly around a coffee company and its whole bean offerings that the smell of unadulterated coffee beans is a huge comfort that soothes my tired mind. It's the first thing I notice when I walk into my room. I don't know that the me of 7 years ago - about when I first became a Starbucks customer - would recognize me now at all. Coffee addict/connoisseur, workaholic.

I'd better get to sleep. I need to be up for my first cup of the day in five hours, and ready to serve a thousand cups in six hours.