Look at this greatness right here.
My name is Tricia, and I am a Starbucks barista.
It was really kind of the next logical step. I’m there all the time anyway, so let’s just make this official, right?
The boys are thrilled that I’ll learn how to make frappuccinos, and they’re impressed that I’m finally doing something with my life. Because most of the other moms have jobs where they actually go places and do things, and it turns out my kids hoped I would someday have one too.
Just so we’re all on the same page, though? Drinking there almost every day for five years doesn’t mean you have the chops to step behind the counter.
Oh, my great day, the learning curve.
There’s the machinery. The vocabulary. The recipes. The codes. The language. The coffees themselves. Turns out, I knew nothing about these drinks and from whence they came. Turns out, I knew very little at all.
One very young and cute chippy in a green apron said to me, “I just think it’s, you know, just like so great that you’re willing to try something new. You know, like, at your age.”
At my age. Apparently I’m a geriatric barista. With arthritis in my brain.
Sidenote: If you feel compelled to comment here about how you question the integrity of my faith because of the pagan goddess you believe to be the Starbucks logo, or if you want to shout at me about the horrors of the gay/straight marriage agenda, how Starbucks supports diversity and how it’s really something I should be ashamed to be part of, please take your political agenda into somebody else’s blogosphere. I’ve already heard it, and I’m simply not having that conversation.
I have a great new job and a fun new gig, and I’m so proud of my old-lady-brain for embracing it all.
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“The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino.”
– Joe Fox, You’ve Got Mail