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New Address!

I think I was surprised to find  that I actually like blogging, so I am going to continue!

From now on I'll post on this address:
http://livingsimplyandfreely.wordpress.com/
It will give me a bit more freedom and is just a better template.

So follow me there!

Outsmarted By Starbucks

Today I decided to treat myself with a chai from Starbucks. 

I went in and waited in the obnoxiously long line.

Seriously. How long does it take to decide between poppyseed or a multigrain bagel?

I get up to the front of the line and barista looks at me, anticipating my order.

I explain that I want a chai tea latte, made with skim milk.

She makes eye contact with me and asks, Grande?

For those readers who are not Starbucks frequent visitors, that is coffee shop talk for medium size.   

I stop and think for a second. My default size is tall (a small drink), and ordinarily the barista asks me "what size?" so I make the active choice to say 'tall.' There is no temptation, only habit.
However, she specifically asked me if I wanted a grande, so the idea was in my head. Now I wanted a grande. Before the frugal side of me could regain control, I felt myself nodding my head and smiling.

“Yes, grande sounds good.”

 That’s how the game is played. I used to be a register girl at a Cici’s Pizza. They would play the same game. 

Cici’s Pizza is an all-you-can-eat $4.99 buffet. Can’t get much better than that, all the food you want and for only five dollars? 

A lot of times people would come in so excited about the low prices, and then ask how we still managed to make a profit from our salad, pizza, pasta, and dessert buffet. It was my job to smile and shrug and chalk it up to the magic of the Cici’s Gods. 

In reality almost all of our profit came from the beverages.  

Beverages are profit traps for restaurants. It only costs a restaurant a few cents for a standard fountain drink, but what does a customer often pay? At Cici’s it was a $1.79.
That’s about $1.50 in profit every sale. Bring in a few hundred thirsty customers, and now it’s a few hundred dollars.
 Oh, but that’s not all.
 People who came to eat at Cici’s could get a clear water cup for free (clear cup because then we can yell at people who steal our precious coke. That was my favorite part), or they could pay $1.79 for a red drink cup.
OR if they wanted to only pay fifty cents extra, they could buy the FANCY SMANCY STYROFOAM TO GO CUP. It held thirty-two ounces of fountain drink goodness.
Let me tell you, 32 ounces is A LOT of drink. As a register girl, selling these cups were key to success. Regular drinks were profit traps, but these to go cups were gold. Styrofoam is dirt cheap and essentially these cups were pure profit.
Little known fact about me, I am crazy competitive. Once I was hired as a register girl, I was going to be the best register girl. This meant I would put on my winning smile, belt out that “Hi welcome to Cici’s,” and sell those to go cups without fail.  

Not to toot my own horn (Toot. Toot.), but I became awesome at selling to go cups. I developed tricks, like holding the cup right under the customer’s face as I asked them if they wanted to buy it. They saw it, they wanted it. 

Or I would stack the cups in pretty formations, they just looked so much happier and like a luxury item. 

I also started to stereotype customers depending on their likelihood to buy the cup, it isn’t exactly PC, but is surprisingly accurate.

•  Parents with children hardly ever bought to go cups, probably penny pinching. The few that did probably felt guilty because their three-year-old child tore down my carefully constructed cup display.

•   Elderly folk often turned down the upgrade, normally with an exaggerated, “OH babycakes, I can’t handle something that big.”

• Single men – almost always bought the cup. Probably were free from the controlling women in their life and decided to splurge a bit.

• Men were much more likely to upgrade than women and often if she did, she would assure me that it was for iced tea.

• If a group of friends came in and all paid separately the bandwagon effect almost always decided what would happen. If the first person bought a drink or a to go cup, almost everyone behind them would follow suit. The same unfortunately applied if the first person only took water, I knew immediately to throw in the towel. We are such followers.

• Teenage boys were my favorite to prey on, They often had mom and dad’s money and so were fine spending it. It also helped that as a sixteen year old girl I would often turn my flirt on and develop a good banter before proposing the inexpensive upgrade. 95% success rate.

 I should have gone into marketing. I’ve got this down. It worked too, I could read people and knew exactly what to say to get them to upgrade their beverage. I was easily the best register girl at selling Styrofoam cups (Toot. Toot.)

Standing at the Starbucks counter waiting for the barista to swipe my card for my now $4.15 beverage (Outrageously high for any drink. I’m on a mission to find a homemade chai recipe, any suggestions PLEASE send them my way!) , I realized that I had fallen prey to the EXACT mind game I used to play with the people who would come in for their buffet.

Somehow I had been stereotyped (what about me told her that I would buy a grande? That I was a college student? Short? White? Wearing cowboy boots?), and she took her shot, and in my moment of vulnerability, succeeded.

As soon as I walked away I realized this was against my better judgment. Simple marketing ploys had overcome my desire to be frugal. For a moment I resented that Starbucks barista, she had used her skills for evil and took my extra money and forced me extra calories. Then I realized that it was all part of the game, I once too used my skills for evil and pulled fifty cents out of many innocent fingers. It wasn't all the barista's fault. It was the system. It was my responsibility to be above the mind tricks.

Today I was conquered, but not next time, Starbucks. I will have ownership of my purchases and my chai. Even if you outsmarted me this time.

A Story a Staple

I was walking to work one day and was waiting at one of the many crosswalks I stand at on a daily basis.
I casually put my hand on the pole and felt a plethora of bumps under my hand.

Naturally, I jumped back about two feet thinking an army of bugs was coming to get me.
I looked around to make sure no one saw.

At second glance, I realized they were staples.

Hundreds and hundreds of staples. 

They're on almost every wooden pole in Nashville, but never have I looked closely at it.
Why would I?

Once I did, my gears started to turn (that's a really silly saying, it suggests I am a machine, which I am the farthest things from).

Each one of these staples held up a flier. Maybe it was announcing a concert, a symphony, a game, or a sale. Maybe it was a lost dog, cat, or parakeet. Maybe the flier was a person looking for somewhere to live, or a person looking for someone to live with.
Every staple once held a story that someone wanted people to know about. That's why it hung on a pole for all to see. The story isn't still there, but the staple is. It's the residue from the concert, lost dog, or homeless student.

I wonder how the concert did. Did the flier really help that apartment vacancy get filled? What about the restaurant opening, did they find a new server?
I'll never know, but there is a staple to tell us there was something.

I feel like right now in my life, I haven't even put my flier up yet, I don't have anything so important that the whole world needs to know (ironic from the girl keeping a blog?)
My goal is to figure out what my flier would say, but I once I do hang it up, I better make it worth it while it's there, because eventually all there will be left of it is a staple.

Hopefully, my staple has a cool story behind it.

Who is God's Mama?

I was working at the after school program and most of the kids were intently working on a homework and coloring sheets. 
All of a sudden, I hear my name. With these kids, I hear my name too much; and if I don't reply, no worries, they'll say it five more times just to MAKE SURE that I didn't miss them. Sometimes I want to ask the kids to call me another name, like Pam or Bob, just to give my name a break.
I approach the table, and first took the marker away from the six year old who had began writing his name across the table is red ink. 


He started to pout. I didn't really care, he'd get over it in a few minutes anyways.

"Ms. Sarah, who is God's mama?" One of the boys asked. 

My attention whipped to him, this would clearly be a little bit harder to handle than the marker on the tabletop.


"Yeah, and if someone is God's mama then who is God's mama's mama?" One of the other boys asked, jumping out of his seat and into my face, making sure that I saw him.

My first reaction to all of this was amusement. Mostly because I remember at about eight years old having my mind BLOWN with the the same questions. It didn't make sense. Everything alive comes into being because there are two parents that have a baby: people, dogs, cats, and even mosquitos (that is until you hit sophomore biology, and then asexual species just messes with everything you thought you knew about the world). 

So how on EARTH can the father of our world not have parents?

Then I thought about it. To an adult, it's a humorous question, the thought of a mother God taking care of our God, but for our human frame of reference, it's a completely rational question.

Kids are smart.

Religion is such an interesting topic. I don't know if it's where I am in life or if it's society as a whole, but in my life, it is extremely taboo. 

Don't talk about it with kids. 

Don't talk about it in school. 

Don't talk about it in work. 

Don't talk about it with your friends.

Don't step on anyone's toes: religion and politics are things that should NOT be discussed.

Why? 

This child had an honest question and it sparked enough in me to write this entire post.

It's all about how it is discussed.

One day, I hope to be as fearless as that child was to ask those questions and try to find the answers to my own.

Real Personhood

When did I become a real person!?

This weekend was a test of my independence. This was my first time without the security of a college campus or the watchful eye of my parental dynamic duo. I was a free bird. 

Over the course of the weekend I learned a few life lessons about Real Personhood.

1.) Real People pull themselves up by their bootstraps


Real People have to make due with what they have. If something goes wrong they have to figure out how to fix it.

For example: when we figured out that the house I am moving into did not have space to keep two mini fridges, we found somewhere to store them. The night before we moved out.

I'm impressed with myself too.

And it's alive.

Or when it's raining and you have to bike home from a coffee shop with your laptop: 

Real People ask the barista (I want a job that makes me sound so fancy for pouring coffee) for a plastic bag to wrap your computer in.

It helps when the barista is attractive, as mine was.

Is it a baristo if it's a male?

Mom! Look what I did!

Or while we're talking about bikes, when you have a backpack AND a purse, it's really hard to ride with both on your back. So, Real People use their intuition and innovation to create a solution.

It took three struggling rides to figure this one out.
It's tied AROUND the handle bars. Out of my and the bike's way.
I should patent this and stop working so hard.

2. Real People have to ask for help

This is the life lesson of the weekend. 

I learned that I do not enjoy asking for help, because it makes me feel vulnerable. 

It must be one of those lessons you don't learn until you realize that you have overcome it.

Because, I also learned that I will never be able to do anything by myself. 

I am so thankful I have friends that help me out when I need it. 

3. Real People Grocery Shop

The people in my life have been so great about teaching me most of the skills I need in life:

• How to read and write
• How to say 'please' and 'thank you'
• How to drive a car

My question for all of you adult mentors:

Where was the lesson on how to grocery shop?!

I'm not asking how to find the bread or milk. I got that part down.

I'm asking WHAT ON EARTH DO I BUY TO SUSTAIN MYSELF?

I just couldn't handle it.

How do you walk into a grocery store and see aisles and aisles of products and know how to choose the golden items?

How do you make a grocery list when you don't even know what you need?

Why does everyone else in a grocery store look like they know exactly what they are doing and I am the only one who is lost?

I quickly realized also, as I was stumbling through the grocery store, wondering why ON EARTH the yogurt and milk were not located next to each other, that grocery shopping forces you into various Real People behaviors.

If forces you to send texts to your best guy friend that suggests middle aged married couple status:

For the record: wheat does not mean just wheat bread.

There is wheat with fiber enhanced, 12 servings of grain, 15 servings of grain, extra vitamin,  or WHOLE grain wheat bread.

All of it makes my choice very complicated.

My second grocery shopping induced Real Person behavior was when I signed up for my very own Harris Teeter membership. 

My name, my phone number, my address. 

My keychain has aged 10 years
in the past week.

Oh, and no worries. 

Miss Shannon at the register made sure to let me know JUST how much I saved with my purchase.

And I am  excited about my $2.31 in savings.

Thank you, trusty VIC card, for buying me a tea.

I'm not sure I'm ready for Real Personhood, but I guess I better be ready for it. 

These life lessons are just coming by the day now.

That counts as an adventure right?

The Party

My body hurts. A lot.
I'm not sure if it's because this is the first time I've actually used my body (other than to walk, type, talk, and breathe) in months and I'm out of shape, or I'm just getting old. I'm not sure which one is worse: one is completely my fault and takes work to fix and the other I have no control over, but I can use as an excuse.

Anyways, I'm working to run every day, which I've been impressed with my ability to keep up with. Although every day I want to cry at how out of shape I've let my body become. It's a work in progress. One sweaty morning at a time.

(Ain't that just appetizing?)

This week I also volunteered to help set up this event for the graduating seniors called The Party (creative right? Top twenty institution with the brightest minds in the nation, and that's all they can come up with).

Basically it's a chance for the graduating seniors to come with their families, listen to a not so fantastic band play oldies music, and have a few drinks. By the end of the night, the dance floor was populated with just enough embarrassingly intoxicated parents that a lot of our campus experiences start to make sense.

Thirteen undergraduates and I have been working for three days in the heat alongside the real tech guys (who actually do real labor) to prepare this event. Our task essentially is to set up hundreds of tables and chairs and assemble dozens upon dozens of centerpieces.
At first I was dreading the experience, it sounded monotonous and hot.
I could not be happier that I did it. It turned out to be three of the most peaceful, fun days I have had in a long time. We spent all day outside, doing tasks that didn't require much thought, but just allowed me to be outside, talk to some new people, and enjoy the fresh air.

It turned out beautiful, there is something truly to be said for seeing hard work come together to make a tangible product.

This is the final product.
Unfortunately it was dark before I thought to take a picture.
Every one of those lights passed through our hands.

One of the aspects of our job was at the end of the night we had to strap on blue plastic gloves and go through all of the glasses and separate through the paper and plastics for recycling. 

Part of the job was we had to pick out all of the used straws, of course they are not recyclable. This is also the reasoning for the necessity for the plastic gloves.

The party ended and our team of fourteen jumped into action. 

About seven tables into our project a disheveled girl, heels in one hand and mascara streaking down her cheeks, approached me. 

She explained, while exhaling red wine aroma into my face, that she had lost her wallet and that she was helpless without it. (Somehow this wallet was connected to her ability to graduate and get married?) 

I calmly offered to assist her in her search for her lost possessions. We walked together to look for her wallet. By the time we had reached the end of the lawn, I knew her boyfriend's name was Marcus and he was a good driver and that he drove a blue car. She doesn't like the blue car.

The wallet was under the first table I looked under.

She squealed. I was happy she was so happy.

All of a sudden I was in her arms, never met this girl, but she was hugging me. Just don't touch this poor girl with my spit covered blue gloves.

She stepped back and asked for my name. Did I have a Facebook? 

She pulled out her iphone and found me right away, I was impressed with her motor skills. 

I also have a new Facebook friend. 

She squealed again. Other recyclers started to look. This was getting awkward. 

She went in for another hug. 

Then she grabbed my hands. Guess she doesn't care about my blue spitty gloves.

"How many years do you have left?" She asked loudly. Most of the lawn was looking in my direction now.

Two.

"You are going to have a FANTASTIC two years! And I am NOT just saying that because I am drunk (not at all), but because I feel it in my BONES." She said, giving my head a pat. A little weird, but I took it.

Summary: Working for The Party (should that be copyrighted? Someone may take it) was a fantastic experience full of good people, food, and days of being outside. 

The best part? I received a visit from the red wine psychic and discovered that I have good things coming my way.

Overall, I think I can chalk it up to a productive week.