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.