Read this: http://www.coloradodaily.com/news/2008/nov/30/cup-of-values/
Gasp!! I know, right?!?!?! Now read this:
Dear Busy, Multi-tasking Grad Student,
On Monday, you shared with readers your troubling experience at Vic's coffee shop on campus. To your dismay, the barista refused to serve you until you were finished with your cell phone conversation, in accordance with a sign behind her. My response to your eloquent, yet slightly misguided, piece comes from the opposite side of the counter. Currently I work as a server at a local bar and restaurant, and before that, as a grocery store cashier for two years. I have had my share of "busy" customers on cell phones and have refused every single one of them service until they can look me in the eye, give me their full attention, and take care of business.
Now, don't get me wrong...I'm a student, too. I understand all about being busy and the necessity of multi-tasking--as you said, it's like a full time job. But did you ever stop to think that maybe we service workers are busy and multi-tasking at our jobs, too, and that your trying to have two conversations at once might throw us off our schedule? We are trying to provide you with the best and fastest service possible and in order to do that, we need to have a clear line of communication. If you're not ordering a straight cup of black coffee, the picky little extras and specifics you want get lost in between the " 'Hey Mom, oh my God, I'm soooo busy, let me tell you why' stories." So if you want complete, satisfactory service, you have to throw us a bone, too.
And beyond quality of service, its about human decency. I'm not going to lecture you on etiquette--because you've already stated pretty clearly that Emily Post is no friend of yours--but I am going to remind you that we're people, too. We stand around in that coffee shop, that restaurant, that grocery store, often for eight hours at a time, serving one "busy" patron after another and all we expect is a little respect. But honestly, if you don't even have the same level value system of us lowly cashiers, that's pretty sad.
And if you can afford half an hour to write an opinion piece for the newspaper, you can afford three minutes to have a polite, cell phone-free interaction with the barista.
So pour that in a cup and drink it...after you've hung up your cell phone first, of course.
Sincerely,
Busy, Multi-tasking Waitress
AKA a lovely girl on the other side of the counter
( http://www.coloradodaily.com/news/2008/dec/04/pour-this-in-your-cup/ )
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
After the Whipped Cream Cleared
Ok, you all know the drill. The plates start at Turkey Junction and make their way around the table acquiring a sweet vegetable dish and then a savory vegetable dish, maybe some offhanded comment about how full it is, and then when all the plates have arrived at their rightful owner's lap, it's time--let the round-robin divulgence of thankfulness begin. All eyes are on you –hungry eyes (insert Patrick Swayze joke here)—you can feel a lump building up in your throat and the sweat start to form in heavy beads on your brow. This used to be so easy but now you're torn in an age-old inner conflict: Dark Truth vs White Lie. You just heard your cousin (along with half the table before her) say she "...is thankful for her wonderful family and friends…" accompanied by staggered sighs of semi-feigned praise. You want those same sighs, you really do, but—and I love you family, I love you friends—you finally got extended cable and you are really really thankful for DVR. Or, even simpler, you're a month behind on some pretty important car maintenance and you're just thankful the damn thing even made it all the way over the river and through the woods. So what do you do? Do you expose yourself as the slightly more shallow (or realistic) relative or do you go with the flow and receive acclaim as a golden child, going on about world peace? I advocate for the former—do something different this year, be the one to break the mold. Because let's face it, those old standard issues have become cliché and a bit hollow; I found myself muttering "I'm thankful for my family and friends" under my breath as a calming mantra while trying to fight for an appetizer and then again as I was pushing my way through the fuss and drama in the kitchen. So here, in retrospect, I find it necessary to pave the way and offer my personal thanks from Thursday.
I am thankful:
-that no one noticed I made the mashed potatoes with almond milk instead of cow's milk.
-for being in the minority in my pro-white meat family, dark meat is way better and it's all mine…
-that, in light of past years, we had store-bought pie instead of a homemade one.
-that, also in light of past years, we went with six bottles of wine instead of just four.
-that I got shooed out of the kitchen just prior to cleanup.
-I got enough leftovers to last me until I can afford to go grocery shopping next.
-that now Thanksgiving is over I can demonstrate my love (obsession) for Christmas music unabashedly, with unbounded enthusiasm. Sorry roomies.
-for my family and friends. Ok, I had to add it, but they deserve it and there's a story behind it. During dessert, in an epic whipped cream-eating battle with my youngest brother I felt a laugh bubbling up mid-turn and couldn't recover. I spewed a large (gigantic) mouthful of whipped cream across the table and blasted my family, the centerpiece, wine glasses and all other unfortunate matter in my wake with a blizzard of aerosol shrapnel and after the initial shocked silence, I was honored with applause and amusement rather than being shunned for the rest of the evening, so thank you, thank you, thank you.
Gratefully Yours,
Stacy
Friday, November 7, 2008
Ode to The Farmer’s Market
We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a dear friend. The Boulder Farmer's Market took its last breath on the first of the month and will not resurface until next April. For those of us who dutifully attended each and every Saturday morning gathering, it will be a great loss of unmentionable magnitude. A gap in the day that serves as a constant reminder of our past jollies by the creek—a happy crowd, a multitude of restaurants offering up their local fare, the makings of a new favorite recipe, the free samples…Oh, the free samples! A cornucopia of granolas, fresh-pressed apple juices, an abundance of olive oils dips with plenty of bread to try them all, and cheese for every type. Indeed, the end of the Farmer's Market signals the beginning of the cold, dreary days ahead. Winter months that won't be brightened by fresh, organic produce; instead, Chilean imports will have to suffice—and I don't quite know how I feel about jet-lagged fruit. Our last ditch effort at homegrown joy exists in our miniature herb gardens on the window ledge over the kitchen sink. So now we must sit and wait out the next five and a half months of agony, sighing as we mindlessly test grocery store cucumbers for ripeness and trying to enjoy our overly seasoned, herbed dinners, with a small glimmer of hope twinkling in the back of our mind. For the Market will return, triumphant in the spring and we will realize that absence does in fact, make the heart grow fonder.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Graduation Schmaduation
Apparently one of the side effects of graduating college is whiplash. Within six credits of attaining my B.A. in Art History I suddenly find myself overwhelmed by "well-meaning" family and friends questioning my next move. Everywhere I turn I am deflecting a spray of curiosity that is rapidly turning into a pain in the neck, literally. It's becoming increasingly difficult to politely maneuver my way through the "friendly" fire of said interrogations. Euphemisms only get me so far in explaining my "transitional" phase. "I'm currently working on a project to expand my knowledge of human social interactions in public settings involving libations" ("I'm working at a bar until further notice so bug off") doesn't work as often as I'd like it to. I wind up spending more time steeped in pragmatics and semantics than I do developing a career, and to what end? If it was really as easy as typing "Being Awesome" in the Craigslist job search bar, I would obviously already be very rich and very successful. (Side note: I actually tried that and some of the results were 1. Telemarketer, 2. Valet Parker, and 3. Mobile Group Piano Teacher) But it's not and a little trip down memory lane should serve as a thoughtful reminder, o ye judgers, of your own trials post-college and pre-adulthood. If you come to my bar, maybe we can commiserate over a beer.
I don't want to get all sappy and rousing with a proclamation of self-love, but I feel it's appropriate in ending this post to mention that I believe in myself and my process and I'm getting closer every day. It's about the journey, folks, not the destination. So bug off (no euphemisms necessary here).
Salutations,
Stacy
Emoticons are emo Decepticons (ha)
The other night in an IM conversation, someone made my emoticon cry. He was almost inconsolable—he went from a simple colon-parentheses :( to a colon-apostrophe-parentheses :’( in a matter of seconds…poor guy was distraught over his inability to afford a cat named Winky. Sad day.
A bit much? Yeah, I realize I have a problem, but the first step is admitting it…I am addicted to emoticons and will go so far as to say that sometimes I even abuse and overuse them. But is it really that serious of a crime? I think not, and please let me explain.
Verbal communication is a frightening frontier for me. My brain (due to its abnormally large size) moves too fast for my mouth and I stumble over words, can’t get out complete thoughts, and constantly find myself wishing I had cue cards. I cringe every time I hear my cell phone ring, especially if I don’t recognize the number (although this is partially due to the fact creditors and I are on a first name basis) because I am painfully aware of this kind of struggle awaiting me.
Hence, my texting frenzy. Seriously, FRENZY. My parents—yeah, yeah, they still pay my cell phone bill, come on, I’m a struggling artist—had to support my texting addiction by extending my limit to infinity. My PR is 1800 texts in one month which equals out to about sixty a day and means that I have a lot of friends. Or one very annoyed one. My unwavering commitment to text messaging has forced my mom to learn the ways of SMS, as well as the lady I babysit for, my old boss, and several other unfortunate souls.
For the most part it seems like I have my issues under control, right? I have adapted to an alternate means of communication and take responsibility for my “habit”. Here’s the problem: I am sarcastic (sometimes overly so, sorry) and that doesn’t always come across in written communication. I need a way to soften the blow of my facetiousness to avoid sounding brusque, and emoticons are just the ticket. They’re so ingenious! Little punctuation faces that transform the tone of a message with the tap of a key. Granted, sometimes I go overboard. I have been known to compose my own emoticons to convey an unrepresented emotion and sometimes I send text messages with a lone smiley face, no words… :-O (gasp!).
But I’m not hurting anyone. Rather, just the opposite! With emoticons I can still be the hilarious, sarcastic gal I am instead of coming off like a b!+<#. I want be able to maintain a personal tenor in all my interactions and my biting sense of humor is key in that objective. So if I have to sacrifice a little decorum and restraint for personal touch, then so be it.
<3 Stacy
A bit much? Yeah, I realize I have a problem, but the first step is admitting it…I am addicted to emoticons and will go so far as to say that sometimes I even abuse and overuse them. But is it really that serious of a crime? I think not, and please let me explain.
Verbal communication is a frightening frontier for me. My brain (due to its abnormally large size) moves too fast for my mouth and I stumble over words, can’t get out complete thoughts, and constantly find myself wishing I had cue cards. I cringe every time I hear my cell phone ring, especially if I don’t recognize the number (although this is partially due to the fact creditors and I are on a first name basis) because I am painfully aware of this kind of struggle awaiting me.
Hence, my texting frenzy. Seriously, FRENZY. My parents—yeah, yeah, they still pay my cell phone bill, come on, I’m a struggling artist—had to support my texting addiction by extending my limit to infinity. My PR is 1800 texts in one month which equals out to about sixty a day and means that I have a lot of friends. Or one very annoyed one. My unwavering commitment to text messaging has forced my mom to learn the ways of SMS, as well as the lady I babysit for, my old boss, and several other unfortunate souls.
For the most part it seems like I have my issues under control, right? I have adapted to an alternate means of communication and take responsibility for my “habit”. Here’s the problem: I am sarcastic (sometimes overly so, sorry) and that doesn’t always come across in written communication. I need a way to soften the blow of my facetiousness to avoid sounding brusque, and emoticons are just the ticket. They’re so ingenious! Little punctuation faces that transform the tone of a message with the tap of a key. Granted, sometimes I go overboard. I have been known to compose my own emoticons to convey an unrepresented emotion and sometimes I send text messages with a lone smiley face, no words… :-O (gasp!).
But I’m not hurting anyone. Rather, just the opposite! With emoticons I can still be the hilarious, sarcastic gal I am instead of coming off like a b!+<#. I want be able to maintain a personal tenor in all my interactions and my biting sense of humor is key in that objective. So if I have to sacrifice a little decorum and restraint for personal touch, then so be it.
<3 Stacy
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
It wasn't this hard for Forrest...
OK. Long time no see, sorry. Let me make it up to you--here's a post!
Lately I've been doing a lot more running (if you've been checking out my calves recently, you already know that). As I've expressed in past blogs, running is good for stress release, "me" time, exercise...but I've also started to notice that all comes for a hefty price--running is dangerous! Allow me to expand upon these "Perils of Running:"
There are approximately three ways to end a successful running career. 1) Death by starvation/lack of nutrition 2). Death by overwhelming thirst 3). Death by crazy Boulderites in cars. Let's review, shall we?
Pedestrians--which I will define to include runners, various types of walkers (mosey-ers, walk-of-shame-ers, walkers of great intention), and cyclists, even though they technically don't fit into the 'ped' category--have a lot of forces working against them. Those in the gravest danger are those exercising because they are usually too focused on shin splints to be aware of their surroundings. The first two troubles I listed are on the shoulders of the 'peds' themselves. After a few longer runs last week, I realized the benefits of packing an energy bar and mapping out runs based on water fountain locations (seriously--the library and parks are always good bets). The third hazard is the worst because it warrants double duty on peds' parts. Not only do we have to watch out for cars, we have to make sure they are watching out for us. The drivers here tend to be absolutely nuts and irresponsible to boot. This is what I assume the Boulder Driver's Ed licensing test looks like:
1. If you are making a left turn and the white pedestrian light is on, who has the right of way: you, the left-turning motorist, or the grandma crossing the intersection?
correct answer: You, obvi. Old people are slow, screw that. You have places to be, things to do.
2. When making a right turn on a red light, look left and then:
correct answer: Gun it! Oops, was that a cyclist?
3. When approaching a flashing pedestrian crosswalk, the motorist should:
correct answer: Speed up so you don't have to wait it out. Same goes for when you hear sirens, I think. And trains.
The vision portion goes something like this: "How many fingers am I holding up?" "What color is the wall?" "Okay, great, you passed."
Lately, my runs have turned from pleasant mental escapes to Rated R for Language flicks. I am constantly on the look out for idiots behind the wheel and when I find one, I'm very vocal about it. But in all sober sincerity, every runner needs to consider the following: Stop at every intersection to look both ways, regardless of whether or not you have the right of way. Avoid running during rush hour when motorists are even more stressed and tired. Be responsible for the driver's actions.
And as for the other side of the fence, motorists--please! Give us a break! I don't want to have to wear full body armor on runs; the last time I put on wrist guards and knee pads was for a birthday party at Skate City and that did not go over well with my peers. Don't subject me to that kind of humiliation.
later gator,
Stacy
Lately I've been doing a lot more running (if you've been checking out my calves recently, you already know that). As I've expressed in past blogs, running is good for stress release, "me" time, exercise...but I've also started to notice that all comes for a hefty price--running is dangerous! Allow me to expand upon these "Perils of Running:"
There are approximately three ways to end a successful running career. 1) Death by starvation/lack of nutrition 2). Death by overwhelming thirst 3). Death by crazy Boulderites in cars. Let's review, shall we?
Pedestrians--which I will define to include runners, various types of walkers (mosey-ers, walk-of-shame-ers, walkers of great intention), and cyclists, even though they technically don't fit into the 'ped' category--have a lot of forces working against them. Those in the gravest danger are those exercising because they are usually too focused on shin splints to be aware of their surroundings. The first two troubles I listed are on the shoulders of the 'peds' themselves. After a few longer runs last week, I realized the benefits of packing an energy bar and mapping out runs based on water fountain locations (seriously--the library and parks are always good bets). The third hazard is the worst because it warrants double duty on peds' parts. Not only do we have to watch out for cars, we have to make sure they are watching out for us. The drivers here tend to be absolutely nuts and irresponsible to boot. This is what I assume the Boulder Driver's Ed licensing test looks like:
1. If you are making a left turn and the white pedestrian light is on, who has the right of way: you, the left-turning motorist, or the grandma crossing the intersection?
correct answer: You, obvi. Old people are slow, screw that. You have places to be, things to do.
2. When making a right turn on a red light, look left and then:
correct answer: Gun it! Oops, was that a cyclist?
3. When approaching a flashing pedestrian crosswalk, the motorist should:
correct answer: Speed up so you don't have to wait it out. Same goes for when you hear sirens, I think. And trains.
The vision portion goes something like this: "How many fingers am I holding up?" "What color is the wall?" "Okay, great, you passed."
Lately, my runs have turned from pleasant mental escapes to Rated R for Language flicks. I am constantly on the look out for idiots behind the wheel and when I find one, I'm very vocal about it. But in all sober sincerity, every runner needs to consider the following: Stop at every intersection to look both ways, regardless of whether or not you have the right of way. Avoid running during rush hour when motorists are even more stressed and tired. Be responsible for the driver's actions.
And as for the other side of the fence, motorists--please! Give us a break! I don't want to have to wear full body armor on runs; the last time I put on wrist guards and knee pads was for a birthday party at Skate City and that did not go over well with my peers. Don't subject me to that kind of humiliation.
later gator,
Stacy
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
One Fish, Two Fish, Really Badly Dressed Fish
Today I had a few interviews in Denver and one landed me in the Starbucks at a busy corner on the 16th Street Mall. Because of my impressive time management skills I was twenty-five minutes early, and rather than whip out my crocheting again (that's just for you, Ty) I decided to participate in one of my favorite sports; people watching.
People watching is (in keeping with the sports motif) a whole other ballgame in Denver. In Boulder, one expects a large ratio of Class A Weirdos to Normal Joes. Just a week ago, on my daily cappuccino walk, I passed a tall man with flowing blond locks wearing a brown leotard, a hot pink long-sleeved belly shirt, and brown tights in lieu of pants (no joke) and I didn't even bat an eye.
In Denver there is a lot more (possibly too much?) normalcy so the occasional crazy is hard to walk by without a double take.
So while I'm sipping my tea gawking (literally, jaw open) at the guy with the stuffed parrot on his shoulder, I can't help but notice how meticulously dressed he is--for a pirate.
It was at that point my people watching transitioned into fashion policing and I would like to offer awards to the best and worst dressers on the corner of Tremont and 16th:
Worst Dressed: The lovely gal (she looked like a 'Wanda') in the 'Waiting to Exhale' puffy paint shirt and fanny pack. Brava, brave lass.
Honorable Mention:Yikes, all the women I saw in long floral skirts with socks and running shoes.
Mr. Congeniality: His adorable smile momentarily distracted me from his painfully wrinkled khakis. Painfully.
Best Dressed: Me, of course. And my new Internship Director (Brownie points, anyone?) And the cute lady with the smart bob, bright red sweater, and khaki skirt. Thanks for keeping it simple and classy.
Shoot, I should be a black-bar wielder for Glamour magazine, seeing as I'm such an authority on fashion...Watch out all you fashion faux pas-ers, here I come... :P
Forever and ever and ever,
Stace
People watching is (in keeping with the sports motif) a whole other ballgame in Denver. In Boulder, one expects a large ratio of Class A Weirdos to Normal Joes. Just a week ago, on my daily cappuccino walk, I passed a tall man with flowing blond locks wearing a brown leotard, a hot pink long-sleeved belly shirt, and brown tights in lieu of pants (no joke) and I didn't even bat an eye.
In Denver there is a lot more (possibly too much?) normalcy so the occasional crazy is hard to walk by without a double take.
So while I'm sipping my tea gawking (literally, jaw open) at the guy with the stuffed parrot on his shoulder, I can't help but notice how meticulously dressed he is--for a pirate.
It was at that point my people watching transitioned into fashion policing and I would like to offer awards to the best and worst dressers on the corner of Tremont and 16th:
Worst Dressed: The lovely gal (she looked like a 'Wanda') in the 'Waiting to Exhale' puffy paint shirt and fanny pack. Brava, brave lass.
Honorable Mention:Yikes, all the women I saw in long floral skirts with socks and running shoes.
Mr. Congeniality: His adorable smile momentarily distracted me from his painfully wrinkled khakis. Painfully.
Best Dressed: Me, of course. And my new Internship Director (Brownie points, anyone?) And the cute lady with the smart bob, bright red sweater, and khaki skirt. Thanks for keeping it simple and classy.
Shoot, I should be a black-bar wielder for Glamour magazine, seeing as I'm such an authority on fashion...Watch out all you fashion faux pas-ers, here I come... :P
Forever and ever and ever,
Stace
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