Satisfaction and moral fiber.

I've been getting good feedback re: the blog! This is good news! It means the Head Cheese is less inclined to make me blog on my own time. I am currently a paid blogger. This is very rare in the blogosphere (I don't know that HC knows the rarity of it though. Let's keep that just between us). It's nice to be complimented not only because it means Colter's stock is going up each time someone clicks but it also makes me less inclined to mutter an expletive when I write a student loan check. So, thank you all for inflating my ego and validating my exorbitantly expensive private school English degree.

This isn't exactly what I thought I would be doing as I stumbled into my comprehensive exam, haggard and harrowed. Four (oh, fine, five) years of advisors, heavy text books, sleepless nights, ass kissing and paper writing culminated into me slinging lattes and flashing smiles. I sat on one side of a 30 chair conference table while the Spanish department sat on the other listening to me draw comparisons between the house featured in the magical surrealism novel, Aura, by Carlos Fuentes to a uterus and the hallways of the house to a birth canal. Not kidding. You try talking about human reproduction via general construction in Spanish. And convincing a senile Peruvian and bitchy gay Spaniard that you're worthy of a degree of higher education in their beloved native tongue. While serving up an americano I'm often asked what's next for me, if I'm ever going to go to school or if perhaps my degree is already in progress. Not only is it already in progress, been there, done that. Time of my life. I've gotten to a place within Colter that I actually get to use my degree. Well, the English part of it. The Spanish part I'm working on. Don't tell HC but we'll be opening a SoCal location soon. I'll be spearheading the operation as the gringo liaison. But as for the question askers, I guess it's hard to believe that a 20something of seemingly above average intelligence and tenacity would settle for a barista position.

Thing is, guys. I love my job. Job satisfaction is not something that's easy to come by. If you have job satisfaction, keep a hold on it. Even if you think you oughtta be making more scrilla, if you wake up and generally enjoy going to work thank da lawd (if you're into that sort of thing) and certainly keep going to work. Eventually you might get the folding chair at the folding table up against a wall with no windows and an hourly rate in the double digits! That's not entirely true. When the Head Cheese goes to get lunch I steal his rolly chair and put it at my folding table. And I get commission. All because I loved this place enough to stick it out. That and I got a little tipsy at bingo one night with the Head Cheese and told him he was crazy not to promote me and if he didn't want to give me more responsibilities and make me feel like I'm doing something I'd take my resources and enchanting smile elsewhere. No shit. Tazia was there. I doubt I would have ever acted on it but after a few IPAs it seemed like a just and impassioned tirade. Next thing I knew I'm holding a formerly nonexistent position and getting business cards printed and torturing the credit card. Never hurts to ask and being able to do something you love is definitely worth the wait.

My office job portion of the performance helps with job satisfaction in that I feel important and accomplished. Otherwise I still love being behind the counter. In a post Bailey world my favorite to work with is Brenda. Granted, she scared the shit out of me when I first met her but over time we forged a bond and I just love coming to work on Tuesday morning when I know I get to work with Brenda. Or Monday morning with Tazia. I am trying to figure out a way to actually place a blue ribbon winner on one of them and the only logical method I've come up with is for them to jello wrestle, winner takes all. I'll include a trophy and frame a piece of paper that says their favorited credentials above the paper towels at the shop. Keep an eye out. Maybe I'll put the actual bout on YouTube. Without workplace harmony I imagine life would suck and the truth is we have a pretty rad team. Hopefully you can taste the love in the crema.

Enough with the hippy dippy peace and love shit. Work is work, it builds character. If you don't love your job today you should probably still go tomorrow. We're in a recession.

Speaking of character building. Kids these days. Where is their character?! I went to the school of hard knocks for character building seeing as how I spent a significant portion of my young adulthood pushing 260. You don't go through high school and college obese without developing a work ethic and a sense of humor because you certainly aren't skating by on sex appeal in this society. I know not everyone can have a coming of age, skin thickening, heartstring tugging story about being respectful and cognizant of the value of a dollar, but still. Some of these hoodlums that come slinking up to my counter are true spectacles. One of my favorites was a 15ish year old girl recently. Not to pass judgement on her because I don't know her very well but she didn't look like she spent her afternoons volunteering at any soup kitchens. But, like I said, let's not judge. Bailey didn't look like a choir girl either and she remains one of my all time faves. Anyway, let's call this one Diamond. Diamond walks in, thumb holes ripped in her exaggeratedly oversized sweatshirt cuff, heavy lined eyes and wearing one of those fat hemp necklaces with the blown glass pendant with a multicolored shroom inside. Probably on a coffee run for her fellow student councilors. At the counter she orders a large coffee but only half full (I later find out the other half will be filled with creamer and sugar). I half fill her coffee and as I turn back to charge her I see her hand in my tip jar. She quickly pulls it most of the way out and just rests it on the rim instead. Seeing my inquisitive eyebrow raise she starts to say something. I assume to explain herself or make an excuse why it appeared that she was stealing my tip money. Instead I got the following:

"Has anyone ever, like, ran off with your tip jar?"
Completely taken aback at the thought of it I stutter, "uhh. Well. No. Err... yeah, no."
"Huh. Funny. I mean, what are you going to do about it? Chase them?" She says, her tone challenging.
Composing myself, not to be intimidated by 15-year-old moral Gumby I say, "Heck yeah, that's a significant chunk of my income right there."
"Huh. Funny," she repeats, "'cause probably whoever takes it is hoping you'll chase them and has someone here to knock over the cash register as soon as you get out the door. Then you're fucked, now aren'tcha?"
After I picked my jaw up I managed, "I guess I just hope most people wouldn't think of doing such a thing."

I had no better comeback. Well I did, but it involved shin kicking and references to the obscene lack of willingness to work amid the young punk dope scene and how when I was a kid you got up on Saturday morning to help with the chores and milk the cows and banish the pack rats from the barn. We might not have had cows or pack rats but you get my drift. Kids these days. I will certainly not be able to raise a cherub but Bubbles will also never threaten to steal a tip jar or he gets to sleep in the barn with the pack rats.

It's funny how much more than slinging lattes and flashing smiles my job really is.

Peace, y'all.