fate with a twist

“If given the opportunity to glimpse into your future, would you take it?” I ask my twelve-year-old brother on a lazy afternoon. The question pops into my head on occasion, and I am always intrigued by the answers I receive.

“I’d only want to see it for a minute, for peace of mind,” he responds, as if he’s thought of his answer before. “Then, I’d want to immediately forget it.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I reply. And it’s true. Many times in my life I wonder if I’m making the right decisions, if my efforts to build the life of my dreams will be fruitful. I contemplate how certain moments in my life fit into a greater plan. Like my five-year-old self on Christmas Eve, I’d love the chance to peek at my present before it’s time. But then again, why ruin the surprise?

NOVEMBER 2010 - CHICAGO, IL

At the Bean

I am travelling on business and my boyfriend, Adam, decides to meet me for the weekend. It has been several years since either of us has visited The Windy City, and we spend the entire first day soaking up the sights. From Sears Tower to Millennium Park, there is not one inch of downtown we don’t cover.

That evening, as we walk to dinner, I realize how amazed I am by this city. The buildings are so tall; it’s as if they bend down to embrace the bustles of people on the sidewalks below. Each passer-by shares this moment in time. From near and far, they are united for mere seconds on a single block.

As we approach the restaurant door I pause for a moment to gaze across the street.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” I say aloud.

We enjoy a quiet dinner, and continue our weekend. Monday morning arrives and it is time to return home.

Two years later, and my business trip that November seems a lifetime away. I have changed jobs twice since then, and moved to the very city I came to love in 2010. Memories from that weekend like Navy Pier and the old Marshall Fields are now a part of my everyday life. But I would have never imagined re-living such a simple moment as my walk to dinner.

NOVEMBER 2012 – CHICAGO, IL

It’s Friday morning and I arrive at the office for the first time. My team has just moved to a new building in the city, and I am settling in and unpacking my desk. I spend the morning connecting my computer and gathering office supplies, and it is almost lunch time before I stand up to look at my view. As I approach the window, it’s as if I've stepped into A Christmas Past. There, across the street, is the very restaurant I had pensively stared from just two years before.

My mind races to the lazy afternoon with my brother.  While I absolutely believe I have a place in God’s plan, I cannot say with any certainty whether I accept the concept of destiny. Call it fate or call it fluke, but I have literally stared into my future. And, exactly as I’d have preferred, I didn’t know it. Life goes on and I begin to see more of the full picture. As it turns out, the trials and elbow grease along the way are worth it, and it’s moments like this I understand that I am where I’m meant to be. 

The Pursuit of Friendship- Part Two

JULY 1997- MARIETTA, GA

The summer after 4^th grade is coming to an end, and I am enjoying a typical afternoon at the neighborhood pool with friends. Still the shy and reserved version of my childhood self, it isn't often that I reach out to people I don’t know. The neighborhood kids and I are swimming to the deep end to play a game of shark, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Hello,” I hear her soft English voice as I turn around. “My name is Emma. I’ve only just moved here, but I wonder if you’d mind if I join your game?”

In such a simple moment, our inseparable friendship begins. From attending early morning band practice to mapping the neighborhood on our quest for the ultimate trick-or-treating; from sleepovers to science projects, we are partners in crime. We become the definition of best friends.  

The end of my 9^th grade year I receive terrible news. Emma’s parents have decided to separate, and she will be moving back to England to live with her mother. Devastated at the thought that I will no longer have her down the street, I am comforted in knowing that my family had been discussing a move to Texas. We'd likely relocate in the next year, so her news only costs us a few months.

The years pass, and our friendship continues to grow despite the distance. I visit Emma in England and Atlanta, and she comes to Dallas. Between visits we have regular phone calls, and it’s as if nothing has changed at all. Until the day it did.

DECEMBER 2006- SOUTHLAKE, TEXAS

I am half way through my shift at Starbucks, when I see a familiar car in the parking lot. It is my mom and brother. They walk somberly toward the door. They come inside and tell me they need to talk right away.

“What is going on?” I say, “I can’t just walk away from the counter.”

One of my coworkers pulls me aside. “It’s ok, go with them.”

My heart is racing as I walk to the car, but nothing can prepare me for what I am about to hear.

“Trish, Emma's dad just called. Emma’s been in a terrible accident.” My mom says, struggling to maintain her composure. My ears continue to absorb her words, but my heart already understands the truth. Emma is dead.

The next few weeks are some of the hardest of my life. I am caught in a tornado of grief, sorrow, and anger as I prepare to travel to England for our final goodbye. Emma’s funeral comes and goes, and my mom and I begin our journey home in the days before Christmas.

Emma Louise Jobson

January 28, 1988 – December 3, 2006

“Did I ever tell you what Emma’s mom said to me before they moved away?” My mom asks as we fly back to the States.

“What is that?” I say, grasping to every memory of her life that I possibly can.

“The day they left for the airport, Sarah turned to me,” she says with a pause, “’Don’t worry about the girls’ she said, ‘they’ll be friends until the end.’”

“I knew from the beginning that was true.” I reply.

For some time after her death, I turn to my cell phone on the days I need her most. Pausing the world, I listen to the last message she’d ever leave me.

“Hello, it’s Emma, I thought while I was in America I’d call you for a cheap chat…” it begins. She goes on to say what a great time she is having with her Dad, and how she’d be around the house for the afternoon if I could call her back.

Even in the simplest of messages, her voice is  a comfort to me. It reminds me that I am both honored and blessed to have had such a wonderful companion through these seasons of my life. Together we traveled through the end of childhood, into our teenage years, and began our lives as young adults. Emma was a compassionate, loyal, and relentless source of support in my life. She will always be one of my most beloved friends.

Years pass, and I no longer have the voice mail saved. But the memory of her hello will stick with me the same as it did in 1997: forever. 

Emma and I - December 2004

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

                                                                                                  -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

the definition of happy

OCTOBER 2012- CHICAGO, IL

This afternoon, my dear friend Nicole and I get to talking about life. We have come to realize that very little in this world is easy.

View from the top.

I am a dreamer. From the time I can remember, I have envisioned myself living in a big city with a lifestyle you could take straight from an episode of Sex and the City. Moving to Chicago this year made me feel like it’s all beginning to come to fruition. But it’s very different than I would have expected. I have learned that money does not grow on trees, and living in a city as great as mine is expensive. Work is often stressful, and at the end of most weekdays, I have little time to enjoy anything but sleep. Picking up and leaving my mom and closest friends has been more difficult than I would have expected. I miss them every single day.

But after 9 months spent building my new life, I love what I see. Each day I try to learn something new about my job, and what it means to be a strong employee. I strive to take the next step in my career. I am making new friends, and understanding how to be a better one myself. I am learning both who I am, and who I want to become.

I have come to believe that the key to happiness is to stop expecting it to look like you thought it would. Sure, life is not perfect. But I have a job that I love, a bright-eyed boxer, beautiful apartment, and a killer support system near and far. And at the end of the day, who could ask for anything more?

The Pursuit of Friendship: Part 1

APRIL 2012-CHICAGO, IL

It’s Saturday night, and Daniel and I sit in his car outside of my building. Completely stumped, I cannot understand how our 5^th date has come to an end without so much as peck on the cheek or a touch on the hand. He can’t possibly be interested; why does he keep calling?

I have known Daniel for a couple of weeks by this confusing evening.  He checks in at least once a day, and has started calling me pet names like “honey” and “dear”. After hours on the phone and marathon-length dates, I cannot get past the fact that when it comes to romance, we are still at the starting line.

“Goodnight, Daniel,” I say with a forced smile as I slowly get out of the car. “I’ll see you again soon.” I walk to the door and take a quick glance back. Daniel, still in the driveway, waves goodbye. A feeling in my gut tells me this is the end. I walk inside, whole-heartedly convinced this will be the last time I see him.

The next morning, Daniel tactfully explains that he is not looking to date. While my inner voice wants to scream “THEN WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME OUT?!” my calmer, more rational side manages to muster up a response. I tell him that I appreciate his honesty, and would prefer us to go our separate ways. I explain that I am looking for something very different, and don’t think a friendship with him would be good for me.

Two weeks later I find myself in the middle of corporate chaos. I am working from home on this particular Tuesday, and am face to face with crisis. The day has been impossibly busy. By the time I look up from my computer, the sun is beginning to set. In a brief escape from my tunnel-vision, I notice a piercing stare from my beloved pooch. “You poor thing,” I gasp. “Gabby, I am so sorry! Do you want to go outside?” I reach for her leash and my blackberry as Gabby prances to the door. I have hardly looked at her since early that morning.

Walking around the block, I am amazed at how quickly the day has gotten away from me. What time is it, anyway? I wonder to myself, looking at my phone.

6:15-- my heart skips a beat as I read the numbers. But why? Is it because it is now 12 hours since I have left my apartment? Am I late for a conference call? Do I have somewhere to be? I frantically check my calendar. Nothing….

And then it hits me: my parking had expired at 4. I race down the street. This cannot be happening right now, please, let my car be there.

I continue to run as Gabby trails behind. Four more blocks and there it is: an empty parking spot. Sure enough--my car has been towed.

Breathless, exhausted, and now sans car, I begin to panic. I look down at my blackberry and remember the one number I have saved. I can easily go back home for my personal phone. I think. But who am I kidding? Four months in my new city, my only two friends are at work. Almost without me knowing, my fingers begin to dial. Rrrrring, rrrrrrrring….

And then he answers.

“Just when I was ready to give up…” says the voice from the other end. “…where have you been, stranger?”

“Daniel, I am sorry to do this to you, but I need a favor. I am having the worst day…” I say, tears welling in my eyes.

“Hold on,” he replies without hesitation. “I’ll be right there.”

Friendship

Minutes later, Daniel arrives at my front door. “It’s going to be okay.” He says with a hug. “What happened?”

I tell the story, but my mind is somewhere else.

“What a day,” he says, as he opens the car door. “But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

And as it turns out, we did.

In the midst of my most stressful, awful, day, I stumbled upon something wonderful. I found a true-blue, there-when-you-need-him, 100% friend. 

The most life-changing impulse purchase I've ever made

SEPTEMBER 2010- DALLAS, TX

It's a quarter 'til noon and I'm scarfing down the last bite of my frozen dinner. Before I return to the day's tasks, I take a quick break on Facebook. Among the hundreds of updates, one post catches my attention: a picture of a teary-eyed puppy with a caption that reads "SAVE A LIFE TODAY". Despite my better judgment, I click on the link. My local animal shelter faces extreme crowding, and unless enough dogs are adopted today, many will be put to sleep.

Admittedly, I have wanted a dog for some time. Researching breeds for the past couple of months, I decide that a boxer is the dog for me. My demanding work schedule leaves little time for potty training, and my tight budget means that a purebred puppy is out of reach. Still who can resist that headline? I feel compelled to help, even if my bargain is against the odds. I offer a hesitant negotiation to adopt a dog if the following (very unlikely) pup is at the shelter:

Gabby's first picture. (I was still calling her Trixie) 

1. A purebred female boxer

2. She must be older than 6 months (this reduces the adoption fee by 50%)

3. She must be potty trained and up to date on all shots

4. She must be neutered and healthy

5. She must be available today. After all this, I have to help with the Facebook post!

I visit the shelter's web site and discover that adoptions are open until 5:45. It's going to be a close call, and I return to work. The end of the day arrives, and I head straight for the shelter. I pull into the parking lot at exactly 5:15 and race to the door.

"Good afternoon!" I hear from a friendly voice behind the counter. "How can I help you today?"

"Hi there," I respond. "I saw your post on Facebook about your crowding issue and I'd like to see if I can help."

My little party animal

"Oh certainly," the woman smiles. "But we are almost out of time. Adoptions close in 30 minutes. I can hardly expect you to make a decision that quickly. Would you like to come back tomorrow?"

"Actually, I know exactly what I'm looking for," I say, as I rattle off my list.

Remember:

-purebred female boxer

-older than 6 months

-potty trained and up to date on all shots

-neutered and healthy

-available today

"You're never going to believe this," she laughs. "Follow me." The woman leads me down a long corridor of barking and howling dogs. Young and old, big and small, breed after breed. Many of the kennels are packed 3 dogs deep. Wow, this place is crowded. I think.  We reach the end of the row and I am face to face with my fate. There she is: 8-months old, all her shots, healthy, "potty trained", and neutered yesterday.

Gabby and I during a walk in Chicago

"She was surrendered two days ago by her previous owners, and just became available today," the woman looks at me with a satisfied smile. "Her name is Pixie. Would you like to meet her?"

"Gladly," I reply. "But I hardly need to. We can go ahead and call this a done deal."

Two years and two name changes later, Gabby (formerly Pixie and Trixie) has secured a permanent place in my heart. Shamelessly enthusiastic, she wears her heart on her sleeve. Her propeller-like tail wags her entire body when I walk through the door. Outgoing and playful, Gabby never meets a stranger. The world is her oyster, and she's been known to strut down the sidewalk on our evening walks. Gabby has taught me patience, sacrifice, and unconditional love. She has been my companion through 3 moves, and her outgoing nature has even made me some friends. Despite the many carpet stains, chewed belongings, and veterinary bills (she is VERY mischievous), I have never regretted my split-second decision to bring Gabby into my life. While I'd like to think I found her one day in September, Gabby knows the truth. She found me.

Keeping me company while I work

to judge a book by its cover

JUNE 2012- CHICAGO, IL

Friday night and I am heading home from my third date with Nick. We are waiting for the train after an evening in the suburbs. I am having a great night and feel like we are really starting to develop a connection. Although I’ve only known him a short time, I admire Nick’s outlook on the world. Optimistic, ambitious, and compassionate, he challenges me to think about a situation from every perspective.

While we are waiting, I do a quick survey on the crowd. I notice an unusually dressed man sitting on a bench. He appears to be in his sixties, but his attire is more typically suited for a mid-20s rocker. His long white pony tail is tucked under a black leather hat. His hands are covered with the kind of skull-and-cross bone rings you find in a gumball machine. He wears a black vest with khaki shorts. His swollen feet pour out of his hiking sandals. I give him the once over. What a strange outfit. I think to myself. I glance over at Nick for back-up. Surely he notices too.

We board the train, and the unusually dressed man sits across from us. Nick takes me by the hand and points in his direction. The man’s head bobs up and down as he struggles to stay awake. He must have had some night. I think, satisfied I am not alone in my observation.

At the next stop, the unusual man gets off the train. He begins to pace the platform as we pull away. The man slowly drifts out of sight and Nick leans into my ear.

“Poor guy,” he whispers. “I wish I had given him some money”.

“What?” I say, judgment oozing from my mouth.  “Why would you do that? He looks like he’s been out all night.”

“Trish, he probably has.” Nick calmly replies. “He appears to be homeless, and my guess is that he has diabetes. Did you see his swollen feet?”

I am stunned at how quickly I have expected the worst in a stranger. How could I be so harsh? The clothes on his body could have been all he owned; his sandals, the only thing his tired, swollen feet could fit into. He could be out at 2 am because he has nowhere to go, and sleeping on the street is too dangerous. So what he has a crazy outfit? My quick-glance judgment blinded me to his potential need. I am left ashamed at my lack of compassion.

“I feel terrible,” I admit to Nick. “I didn’t even think of that.” I sit quietly in my seat as we continue home. My mind races across the many cries for help I could have missed. I make a silent promise to default to compassion, and remember a time I could have easily been dismissed.

OCTOBER 2011- LONDON, ENGLAND

The team on our last night in London

The whirlwind of my business trip in London had come to an end. After 5 days with no sleep, countless presentations, and a six-hour time change, I had reached my breaking point. Naturally, when my wake-up call comes at 6:30, I sleep through it. Fifteen minutes later, another call. Sometime around 7:30, I awake to a banging on my door. It is hotel security. They have come to check on me since I have ignored their many attempts. I assure them that I am alright, but my sleep-deprived sub-conscious prevents me from knowing that I am just 30 minutes away from missing my ride to the airport. I return to my bed.

I awake again at 8 to a ringing phone. These people will not let up. I think, half asleep. This time, it is my co-worker calling from the lobby. “Where are you?” I hear from the phone. This is when it hits me. I am going to miss my flight. “Give me 10 minutes.” I answer back and immediately drop the phone. I hear a faint “Wait, Trisha…” coming from the receiver, but I have no time to chat. I begin frantically tossing my belongings into my suitcase. Still in my clothes from the night before, there is not enough time for a shower. I manage to change and wash my face before rushing out the door.

I arrive in the empty lobby, frantic.

“Have you seen my friends?” I shout to the front desk.

“Do you mean those blokes?” I hear from across the room. I glance out the front door and see a cab pulling away.

“Oh no!” I cry as I sprint out of the hotel. “They have my passport!”

I run down the street yelling after the cab. The car comes to a stop as I open the door.

“We are so sorry; we waited as long as we could. Thank goodness you are awake!” My boss says as she hands me my passport. “You’ll probably need this. Brad is waiting for you in the lobby. He’ll take you to the train station. See you at the gate!” They drive away.

Pathetic and sweaty, I wander back to the hotel. I check out as my coworker, Brad, calls a cab. We arrive at the train station and he sends me on my way.

“Have a safe flight.” He says. “And do you have sunglasses in your bag?”

Confused and very tired, I ignore his last question. I walk to the platform and find that the benches are all occupied. I drop my bags on the ground, and take a defeated rest on my suitcase.

Paddington Station

“Is there anything I can do to help you miss?” I hear from a concerned but calm British accent behind me. Wishing for just one moment of peace, I turn from my hunched over position and am face to face with the shocked gaze of a train attendant.

“Oh, thank you,” I reply, “I’ll be okay, just waiting on my train to the airport.”

“You mean that train, miss?” He points behind me just as its doors are closing. “Not to worry” he says as he sprints toward the moving locomotive.

The attendant reaches the train just as it begins to depart. Panic strikes as I leap from my suitcase and run toward the doors.

“Oy! Oy!” he shouts. “Stop the train!” The doors open, and he extends his arms for my bags. He promptly crams my luggage into the sardine can of a storage area, and walks me to passenger seating.

“Could anyone spare a seat for the lady?” he says as he reaches for my arm. Yeah, right. I think to myself. There is no way anyone on a crowded train is willing to stand for 45 minutes so the girl who held it up can rest her feet. I scan the passengers and notice the same concerned stare.

“Gladly,” says a voice from the back. I am in awe as I move toward his seat. “Thank you so much,” I reply. The attendant looks me in the eye, gives a kind touch and says “Have a safe journey miss.” We depart the station and I take a sigh of relief. I reach into my bag and search for my makeup, hoping to mask my fatigue. It is only now I begin to understand the many concerned stares. Covered in sheet marks and mascara, my face looks like a sad clown. While I had managed to splash a few drops of water in my rush out the door, I had not considered the fact that my eye makeup was not water proof. With all of the running (and London’s extreme humidity) my scraggly ponytail would suggest that I had endured a tornado. I look down to realize that my shirt is on backwards and inside-out. I spend the remainder of the ride freshening up as best as I can, grateful that so many people had come to my help.

While the many dilemmas I find myself in may not be life or death, a helping hand always makes a difference. If it weren’t for the security guard, taxi-driver, Brad, or the train attendant, I would have missed my flight. I could have easily been written off as a stranger in a crowded train station, but the compassion of others came to my rescue. Months later, as I miss an opportunity to lend the same helping hand, I can only take it as a lesson learned. And vow to be that compassionate stranger at the next chance I get. 

The Art of Grocery Shopping in the Wrong Part of Town

My consistently empty fridge rarely escapes a visitor's scrutiny. While I typically stock a carton of eggs, some frozen green beans, and at least one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, if all of the grocery stores in the world suddenly shut down tomorrow, I'd be very hungry. Reflecting on this personal habit, I have come to identify its three root causes:

Cause #1:

I do not enjoy cooking alone. I am much more likely to plan a meal in advance when there is a roommate, boyfriend, or house-guest in the picture.

Cause #2:

I have no idea what I want to wear to work tomorrow, let alone what I will want to eat for dinner next Thursday. Which lands me in the not-so-efficient pattern of stopping at the store on my way home from work.

Cause #3, my latest and greatest excuse: 

Enduring a grocery store trip in the city is a major feat. I live on the 17th floor of mid rise apartment, and I typically park 7-8 blocks from my building. That means that to unload my bags, I must endure the following:

1. Park my car in the loading dock

2. Borrow a bellman's cart from the lobby

3. Load my packages onto the cart

4. Wait for the freight elevator

5. Weasel the cart into the elevator, go to my floor, and maze to my door

6. Unload the cart into my apartment, put groceries away

7. Wait for the freight elevator

8. Maneuver the cart back to the lobby

9. Drive 7-8 blocks to an open parking spot

10. Walk back to my apartment

But what happens after the store is only half the battle.

CHICAGO, IL - JANUARY 2012

Days after moving into my apartment, I decide it is time to stock up on those essential items you forget about until you step foot into an empty home. Apartment hunting in 8-degree snowy weather means speedy decision making, especially when a nice hot toddy is waiting back at the hotel. My furniture and boxes are still in a storage unit in Dallas; so things like q-tips, plates, even a pen and paper are a thousand miles away. After several pit stops at the convenient store in my building, I am tired of the high markups. I ask for suggestions on a super store. The handful of people I talk to all have the same response. The one Super Wal-Mart in the city is allegedly too far and too dirty to justify any savings.

Determined and frugal, I type "Wal-Mart" into my map system and discover that it's only 6 miles from home. Easy. Why had people made such a big deal about this? I wonder to myself as I approach my car, knocking the snow off my boots. Ten blocks and 25 minutes later, I am beginning to understand that 6 miles in a city like Chicago is no small feat. The snow is still falling making traffic even more difficult than usual. After 45 minutes in the car, I arrive at Wal-Mart. 

In the 15-parking-spot walk to the door, I encounter a dance off, a high-school hang out, and a domestic dispute. Never a shortage of sights in a Wal-Mart parking lot, I think. I enter the store to find out exactly what kind of neighborhood I am in: a rough one.

I quickly realize that my neighbors' advice could be justified, and develop a strategy to get in and out as quickly as possible. Instead of doing the major stock up I planned, I get a couple of essentials that I would not want to carry down the street. I b-line to the checkout and where I am ignored by Keisha, an associate picking at her neon pink acrylic nails. I say hello twice before she looks up from her manicure. She carelessly begins to scan my items, throwing them to the end of the bagging area. She continues throwing and stuffing, throwing and stuffing, scuffing her feet and smacking her gum the whole time. I look at the bags and notice that she isn't separating them on the rack. Instead of going through the trouble of opening a bag, she is shoving each item somewhere until it weasels its way into place. She recklessly pulls a stack at each turn and places it on top of the carousel. I am now building quite the plastic bag collection and smiling to myself at the scene. She reaches for my next item: a bottle of wine.

Keisha inspects the bottle before heavily returning it to the counter. She lifts her finger shaking it in a zigzag across her body.

"Girrrrrl you know you can't pay for this with your food stamps card, nah-uh." she declares.

I look at her in disbelief, trying not to laugh.

"Oh okay," I respond. "Could I use my debit card?"

Keisha agrees, and finishes my transaction. I trek back to my car and return home to my barren fridge. Maybe next time, I think to myself. 

Starbucks: It’s more than just coffee.

Anyone who has ever embarked on a job search knows what a learning experience the interview process can be. As someone who began working at age 15, I’ve had a decent amount of interviews. Each one teaches me something about myself, and what I have to offer the world. My most educating interview of all occurred during my recent search, at a marketing agency in Dallas. While I didn’t end up working there, I learned a great deal from my two phone and six face-to-face interviews with the company.

DALLAS, TX – OCTOBER 2011

It is the morning of my first round of interviews and I am feeling good. Power suit: check. Power heels: of course. Portfolio: flawless. Now how is my hair? I leave the house and hop in my car. Here is the best part: my potential new office is 0.3 miles from my home sweet home. Yes, I still drive. You see that’s the interesting thing about living in Dallas. No matter how near the final destination, you never walk. Months later, living in Chicago, I cannot imagine driving somewhere that is only a couple of blocks from home. Probably because parking in the city is a nightmare. Once you find a spot you will do everything in your power to avoid moving your car. But that’s another story for another time.

I arrive at the office and am taken to the executive conference room. I sit alone at a very long table. I unpack my portfolio and organize the work samples I plan to distribute. My first interviewer enters the conference room and we begin to talk. Scott and I get along right off the bat, and I am feeling good about the company overall. Coming from an international business, I am nervous about the idea of transitioning to a local agency setting. But as I learn about the position I can see myself doing well here. Interview two begins and ends, and I’m half way there.  I am alone in the conference room for a quick breath.

Moments later my third interviewer, Jim, enters the room. He is carrying a stack of papers and I stand up moving in for a handshake. He extends his arm and begins to speak. It takes me a moment or two to realize what is happening.

“Bonjour, Trisha. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Je ma’appelle Jim. Comment allez-vous?”. He says, very quickly and with a perfect accent. I am certain my eyes are bugging out of my head. I am paralyzed and my brain struggles to transition to French. I can literally feel the wheels turning inside my head, but thankfully, they’re moving at mach speed.  It must be the adrenaline.

I quickly respond and tell Jim that I am pleased to meet him as well. I ask him how he came to speak French so beautifully and we exchange a brief re-cap of our studies. He spent several summers in France and currently speaks with his wife at home.  I have studied the language since 7^th grade, but rarely am able to practice. I would love the opportunity to be exposed it more often. He tells me that when he saw French listed as my minor he could not wait to speak with me, if just for a moment. We comfortably transition back to English.

Jim graciously motions for me to return to my seat, and places his pile of documents among my samples. I peek at the papers as he spreads them on the table. Beneath his handwritten scribbles, I notice something familiar. It is an article from the Dallas Morning News announcing that popular home store, Wisteria is upgrading to an expansive retail space from its humbler roots. At second glance, I see a piece from the Washington Post on the hottest summer trend: the Suzani print. Then I see it, my LinkedIn profile. Wait a second: these are all me!

Lesson one: anything you say or do in this world can now be accessed with the click of the mouse. Upon further investigation, I realize that each paper on the table is a piece of my professional past. In his collection were articles I had written for my college newspaper, posts from my first blog, press releases from my previous employer, and of course, my professional profile. My first impression with Jim had been decided before I entered the room. His impression runs deeper than the lines on my resume and the samples in my profile.

“I think you are a talented professional and I am very impressed with your resume.” Jim compliments. “I would like to ask you though: why did you omit your experience at Starbucks? I understand that it differs from the rest of your history, but I will tell you: a person with experience in the food industry can do anything.”

Jim explains his belief that the fast-paced, customer-oriented nature of food-service work strengthens your ability as a manager, an employee, a member of a community, and most importantly, as a human being.  While I hadn’t previously thought of it in this light, my conversation with Jim in that empty conference room opened the floodgates of self-evaluation. This comment will stick with me for the rest of my life.

KELLER, TX – JUNE 2006

It is my belief that sophomore year of college rivals early adolescence as one of the most formative and emotional times in a person’s young life. High school drama and college applications behind, I find myself face-to-face with declaring both a major, and who it is I want to become. Stuck in a course load of general classes in subjects I find boring and useless, I am starting to get restless. Unable to visualize the finish-line, I look for summer work to fill the time until graduation.

Under the guidance of my mother (I’m telling you this woman is a genius), I apply for a position with Starbucks. Two and a half years later, when I lock the doors behind me on my last day, I am forever changed. No longer the shy, timid girl who self-consciously approached the espresso bar on her first day; I leave confident, empowered, and smiling. Among many things, Starbucks taught me three key lessons that I had not fully-grasped until my conference room questioning.

1. Never stop learning.

Whether it’s a new technique for frothing milk, pleasing a high-maintenance customer (we all know how complicated Starbucks orders can get), or coaching a new employee, each day at the job is an opportunity to learn. This is true in any world. Seek out the opportunities to learn and you’ll be amazed by what you absorb.

2. Build a strong team.

Working the bar during a morning rush at Starbucks is as fast-paced and exhilarating as driving in a NASCAR race. While the stakes are not as high, you can still crash and burn (trust me, 180-degree water running down your arm literally burns). A strong team is essential behind the bar and in the office alike. No one person can ring up a line of customers, clean restrooms, re-stock Splenda packets, make 15 double-chocolate chip fraps with extra whip cream and a double-tall soy, no foam, 143-degree, 2 raw sugar latte all while smiling and chatting with a customer. It takes a team to build the total experience.

3. Kindness is contagious (and can even get you a date).

Proven time and time again, one smile can make a difference. Starbucks employees are groomed to be friendly, engaging, and customer-oriented, even at 4am. This is part of the reason people spend so much time at this iconic coffee shop. Do you ever wake up in the morning and think “Dangit! I have to go to Starbucks today!”? Absolutely not. If you’re anything like me, you get out of the house, hop in the car and think “Woah, this is going to be a long day. Better grab a Starbucks.” We could all just as easily make a pot at home. But the experience of buying a Starbucks coffee is more enjoyable.

While I am happy to share the lessons I’ve learned, I must also explain the caveat. Kindness can sometimes get you a date, but it will not necessarily be a good one.

SOUTHLAKE, TX – JULY 2006

My Barista Days

Here I am, a month into my green apron euphoria. Perfumed with caramel sauce and hopped up on espresso (free coffee on the job:  another reason baristas are so perky) I say hello to a customer as he approaches the register. We exchange witty banter as I take his order, and I ask his name so I can write it on his cup.

“My name is Brandon,” he says. “What is yours?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Brandon. I am Trisha.” I smile.

We continue to talk, and I learn that Brandon lives in the area and would like to get to know me over dinner the upcoming Saturday. It’s a little forward for a cup of coffee, but I agree. We smile and say goodbye, and I meet him a few nights later at my favorite Mexican restaurant. We spend the evening laughing over chips and salsa, and the night is going well. We take a walk through the park, and he asks me out again for Thursday. We decide to go see a concert, and he tells me that he will pick me up at 7:30.

It is Thursday evening and I arrive home to my parent’s place after work. I am staying with them for the summer, and will admit, am a little nervous about my 24-year-old date picking me up from their house. I may still be a teenager, but I certainly don’t want to wear it on my sleeve. My mom and I are talking at the kitchen table, sharing stories from our days. Our gossip is boldly interrupted by what sounds like an 18-wheeler pulling into the driveway. The roaring engine comes to a halt, but the motor is still running. I peek through the blinds out the window.

“Oh no.” I exclaim. “Mom! What time is it?”

“6 O’clock, why?” she answers, running to the window.

“Holy cow. He’s an hour and a half early.” I interrupt.

“And he’s driving a monster truck!” She laughs in disbelief.

While it wasn’t monster-truck certified, Brandon’s ride was pretty hard to miss. For the car-lovers: he had a lifted, 4-door, Dodge Ram with an extended cab and diesel engine. For those of you like myself: this thing was big, loud, and very hard to get into gracefully. There was literally a ladder on the side of the door. Panicked that he is approaching my house when I have not even showered, my mom rushes me upstairs and agrees to entertain him while I get ready.

Well isn’t this just a 19 year-old girl’s dream? Your date and your mom sitting in the living room looking through family albums? Note: this did not happen, like I said, my mom is the best.

Ugh, cannot stress. I think to myself. I better get ready quick.

In the shower, it all starts to hit me. Who shows up an hour and a half early for a date? Does he really think that truck is cool? Why is the engine still running? What am I going to wear?

Thirty minutes later, I am feeling rushed but ready to go. I run down the stairs and into the living room to find Brandon and my mom sitting on the couch. I say hello to Brandon, and thank my mom. She looks at me with this “I might have seen a ghost!” expression on her face.

“Where are you two going tonight?” she asks. “What time should I expect you home? Are you going anywhere after?”

I answer her questions, but still feel some tension in her mood. I walk Brandon to the door, and sneak back to talk to my mom.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine, just had a bit of an odd conversation while you were gone. Are you sure you want to go on this date?” she answers.

“Wait, why, what happened?”

“We’ll talk about it when you get home, but call me if you need anything. Anything at all, call me.” she says.

While I probably should have read between the lines and suddenly “come down with something” Brandon and I leave for our date. We have a decent-enough time, but I cannot get my mom’s comment, or the fact that the guy shows up 90 minutes early because “he was just sitting at home bored” (yes, that was his actual reason) out of my head.

After the concert, Brandon takes me home. We say goodnight, engine still running (I later learn that you’re not supposed to turn diesel engines off if it’s only for a short time?). I unlock my front door, and feel it opening before I can turn the handle. Sigh of relief: mom is on the other side. Now I finally get the full story of the conversation that happened before our date.

It turns out that Brandon had explained to my mom that he anticipated this to be a late night, and not to worry. Since he’d have to be at work early the next morning, he went ahead and brought a change of clothes in case I asked him to spend the night. At my parent’s house. Did everyone read that?

AT MY PARENTS HOUSE. 

Who says something like that to a girl’s mother? I cannot understand. Add it to the list of things I've learned: expect anything. Now how about including that on a resume?

you gotta laugh

I am ten years old. My mom and I decide to spend the weekend together at a hotel near the mall. Shopping, chick-flicks, and mother-daughter bonding are all on the agenda. But the forecast is snowy, and when we arrive at check-in the staff is panicked. You see, Georgia, my home state, never experiences much of a winter. There was the great blizzard of 1991, but since then, the snowflake count totals around three.

The impeding storm gets a great deal of media attention and is beginning to put a damper on girls’ weekend. I soon realize that our picturesque getaway would be more like a Picasso than the Degas we had imagined. We walked to our room to discover no cable and no coffee pot. What kind of place is this? No coffee for mom? We are in trouble.

Despite the setbacks, we venture across the street and spend the day at the mall. We leave that evening to find Marietta, Georgia transformed. The city is covered in snow and it is hailing golf balls. Determined as she is, my mother insists we attend Mass. Her Nissan Quest is covered in ice, so we attempt to scrape the windows. Her seven-year-old minivan is falling apart. No heater, no defroster, and no way we would be able to drive more than a few feet with full visibility. Still we endure. I roll down the window and scrape the ice with my gloves. My mom thinks this is a good idea and follows suit. But instead of scraping, she continues to drive. Here we are, two crazy girls in parkas cruising down the street in the middle of a blizzard with our heads out the window. Half-way to church, we pull into an empty parking lot. The storm wins and we are never going to make it. Unable to breathe through the laughter I look over at my mom’s frozen eyelashes and chattering smile. She too is cracking up.

My life is filled with these stories. Above all things, I have learned to laugh. Fourteen years after the windowless blizzard, I am making an effort to find comedy in the every day. Even this past weekend…

JUNE 2012- Chicago, IL

“Oh you’re just around the block?” I say into the phone. “I’m looking forward to meeting you too. You’ll probably see me in a minute. I’m the one standing on the corner, next to the cop car…. Wait, that sounds bad.”

The evening is off to a great start. I almost forget this is the first time I am meeting Steven face to face. Despite my awkward introduction (see above), the tall, handsome, and 29 year-old accountant and I share laughs as we walk down the street. One perk of online dating: screening before meeting. You’ll get the occasional resume-style profile. But much like the corporate world, not all interviews end with a job offer.

At first, I don’t even notice that we seem to be walking to no particular destination. But two hours and three miles later, I ask him where we are going.

“Oh, you want to go somewhere?” he questions. I look at him, confused.

Do I want to go somewhere? I think to myself. The guy asks me to meet up for “a drink, maybe a bite” at 7:30 on a Saturday night on Michigan Avenue. I show up wearing wedges and a mini dress and go on a 3-mile hike before I find out he doesn’t have a plan.

“Well, we’ve been walking for a while; it might be nice to stop.” I reply, feeling the beginning of blisters on my feet. So we continue on, and head into the first stop we see. We immediately turn around. Too crowded, he claims. Five blocks later, we pass another spot. No go: too loud. The next two places are too uptight. What are we playing here? Gold-i-locks and the 3 bars? Note to men: this is why you make a plan before the date. We continue walking. Finally, when I’m almost certain my feet are going to fall off, he does it. He picks a location: the bowling alley.

Do we bowl? No, he doesn’t bowl. Believe me, the question in your head is the same as mine. But we sit at a table and order drinks: one vodka tonic (him), one vodka soda (me) and a giant glass of water (I was parched). The drinks arrive. Before I can unwrap my straw, he chugs the vodka tonic and orders another. This is when it starts to get weird.

We continue talking and I learn that Steven is a Freemason and an executive officer at his lodge. He tells me that he aspires to be a kind and caring individual, but it has been a battle for him most of his life. When I ask him to elaborate he explains that he often “wants to punch people that push the close-door button on the elevator more than once” and has “real trouble” stopping himself from yelling at passengers who do not move to the back of the elevator but are travelling to a high floor. Sounds like high-rise issues. He sarcastically claims that since our waitress is clearly busy he will go to the bar and get his third drink himself. He returns to the table, two cocktails in hand. Before I can thank him for refreshing my still-full glass, he chugs one of them in a few gulps and slams the empty cup on the table beside us. Double-fisting on a first date: this cannot be good.

Moments later, he transitions to the topic of religion. He shares his view on God’s omnipresence, and goes on a 20-minute tangent about how he believes a higher power to be literally present in the glass he is drinking out of and the table we were leaning on. After the next vodka tonic, he returns to the bar and closes his tab. He arrives back at the table, says “I’m not a big drinker, I’m ready to go”. Steve leads the way out of the not-too-crowded, not-too-uptight bowling alley and I hobble behind. We say goodbye and go our separate ways.

Now it’s midnight, and I am walking down Michigan Avenue alone. Where did this guy come from? I couldn’t help but laugh. How could one person have this many bad dates under her belt? For camaraderie, and to forget the throbbing pain that is coming from my feet after my high-heeled-half-marathon, I call my girlfriend to share in my hilarious misery.

I tell her the story of the night, and after asking me if it is possible that I have been Punk’d, I say to her “You know, I really should start writing this stuff down”. The next day, I tell the story to my best friend. Her and her mom both agree: write a blog, they encourage me. So here I am.

People often tell me that my life could be a sitcom, and I’d like to believe I wrote it that way. What is life if you can’t laugh? While some stories will be more comedic than others, they all have a place in the plot. So here’s to a happy ending.

For the curious, here is a map of the hike. No, I am not exaggerating.