General

Maybe I’m reading too much “chick lit” these days. That wouldn’t be a hard case to make. Staying up past my bedtime to finish the latest from Red Dress Ink has become more habit than guilty pleasure. (I will admit it’s not hard to do with a 10:30 bedtime. I treasure my beauty sleep.)

Did you see that? It’s further evidence that chick lit is taking over my brain. What’s beauty sleep, and why do I need it? I’m 23—far too young for wrinkles, but not old enough to be past acne. I never gave too much thought to my appearance until recent years. I think my attention to name brands and high heeled shoes began somewhere between reading The Devil Wears Prada and enrolling at the University of Alabama.

I know what you’re thinking—Tuscaloosa, Alabama, isn’t exactly New York or Los Angeles, or even Birmingham (our state’s largest city, which is incidentally more fashion forward than Yankees expect). Tuscaloosa may not be a fashion mecca, but the girls there would convince you otherwise.

Usually I blame it on the Greek community and the sorority girls that always seem dressed to kill. But the problem runs much deeper than that.

Look at Alicia. We’re both second year master’s students at the university. Alicia doesn’t have a Greek bone in her body, which is more than I can say for myself. (I briefly portrayed a sorority girl as an undergrad at Florida State. In my defense, the Greek community there is significantly more relaxed than at Alabama.)

Despite Alicia’s “independent” status, she’s a self-declared shoe horse. Maybe she exaggerates a bit—I’ve seen her closet and it’s not exactly overflowing. But she knows that shoes can make an outfit, and she refers to her favorite Italian shoe designer simply as Enzo—as in Angiolini.

So we’re not sporting the latest runway styles—like I said, this is Alabama, not New York. And if you want to know the truth, I’m almost strictly a Gap girl. We’ve got stores like Arden B and Bebe in Birmingham, but it’s not like I can afford them. (Did you miss that I’m a grad student? Hello, federal loans!) The Gap—outlet, that is—is more my speed. Besides, I’ve only got something like 99 points to accrue on my Gap card before I “earn” a $25 reward certificate.

Like I’ve said, I’ve been reading too much chick lit. Listen to me, rambling on about shopping when you probably don’t care a bit. (At least I didn’t bore you with the details of how I bought a killer pair of red slingbacks in Atlanta last week…)

So I’m not a fashion plate, though these Sophie Kinsella books have me thinking like one. I’m fairly fashionable most days, though I love sporting my hot pink Converse All Stars that I think lend me some sort of granola-like street cred.

I left the house this morning—er, afternoon—with those clumsy basketball shoes completing what can best be described as a grad student uniform. Those shoes are partially hidden by my paint splattered jeans (Gap, of course), which are paired with a black T from my favorite Tallahassee barbecue joint and a white long sleeved thermal shirt (also Gap). With my curly hair in a messy bun and my glasses lending an air of intelligence, I like to think I look the part of an introspective writer. (Or at least a cross between said writer and preppy college student.)

That’s the weird—yet appealing—thing about life as a journalist. There’s a creative element to the work. We’re wordsmiths, striving to communicate the latest information in an eloquent but straightforward manner. If we play our cards right, we get paid to review whatever tasty morsels of pop culture we’ve recently consumed.

On the flip side, we’re also business people. We dress up for interviews, and those of us on salary put in the 8-to-5 in bustling corporate buildings. It’s a strangely satisfying dichotomy.

Today I’m somewhere in between. I work two days a week as an intern at a local magazine—a job I love, despite no opportunity for advancement. It’s my second internship in as many semesters, and I just know deep down that they’ll prove helpful in the long run. I’m two months and three days from graduation, and my job hunt is in full swing.

Because I have gotten in the habit of viewing my life as a fluffy girl novel, I see the whole thing through rose colored glasses. (I even have such a pair of sunglasses in my sensible sedan!) Great things await, though I admit I don’t know what they are.

I suspect that one such thing may be seeing my name in print in my favorite mag du jour. I wrote something like three book reviews and two CD reviews, and the next issue has already been shipped to subscribers. If I knew how soon I’d have a copy in my hands, I’d be counting down the minutes.

Truth is, I never tire of seeing my name in print. I’m not sure if that’s a journalist trait or a me thing, but it’s true—not terribly modest, but very true. (I already rushed to the bookstore to see if their shipment had arrived less than 24 hours after it was sent. Optimistic, sure. But the crates of new magazines were still being unloaded. I have plans to check back in several hours.)

See, that’s another characteristic of these books I’ve seen rub off on me. My inner monologue has become terribly self-involved.

I don’t like to think I’m a selfish person, though I know it’s sometimes true. But I’ve been something of a loner lately. When it’s just me and my adoring (and adorable!) calico cat, it’s easy to see myself as the main character in some terribly mundane movie.

I ought to be more like the friendly Starbucks barista who just brought a venti ice water to accompany my grande latte. It was an act of kindness that would earn her a bit part in the movie of my life, at best. But her thoughtfulness and friendly conversation deserve more, don’t they? I suppose there’s consolation in knowing I’m just an extra in her life story.

…what? It’s redNECK girl? Well dang.

I still remember the day I fell in love with coffee. It wasn’t all that long ago – only in March of 2001. During a week-long mission trip to Philadelphia, I was assigned to a group of coffee crazies. We stopped at Starbucks at least once a day (sometimes more).

The atmosphere of the coffee shop was alluring, but I had never gotten into the bean beverage itself. With as much time as we were spending in those shops, I felt I needed something to drink.

Finally, a friend walked me through choosing my first Starbucks experience. “Try the caramel frappucino,” she said. “It doesn’t have much coffee in it, and it’s really sweet. I think you’ll like it.”

Um, yeah.

A monster was born.

Or began to evolve, at the very least. Later that trip I tasted a caramel machiatto, and thereby learned that hot coffee is also good. I began to dabble in home creations (Coffeemate Cinammon Vanilla creamer) and local coffee shops (Aristotle’s – bad coffee, great atmosphere; Javaheads – great coffee, poor atmosphere). Trips to the northeast were Starbucks treats. The closest we had to Starbucks was the Barnes & Noble “proudly serving Starbucks coffee” Cafe. It’s not the same.

During one of those NYC coffee jaunts, my aunt and sister spotted Peter Gallagher in line behind us. I was busy ordering my coffee (or caramel apple cider, as I believe it was that day). When I turned around, we had a very pleasant exchange about the play he was starring in, which we’d seen only days before. It was my first “famous person” coffee sighting, but it wouldn’t be the last.

My little brother doesn’t get out much – he’s eleven. So when I made a Starbucks run to get some writing done, I decided he should tag along.

I think I passed the coffee shop-a-holicism on to him, and at an early age. 🙂 He thought it was the grandest thing – he got a kiddie hot chocolate and a snack of some kind. But don’t you worry – he also likes to sample whatever I’m having that day. “Mmmmm – but I won’t have anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to stunt my growth.”

It’s become something of a sibling tradition. When I’m in town, I always try to take him for coffee. It’s also at this Starbucks that he decided he wants to be a barista when he’s of age.

Whenever my sister (Cristin) and I visited Birmingham, we made numerous Starbucks runs with our aunt. Cristin has been in search of Taylor, her latte boy, for years. (She would actually ask at each location if the barista’s name was Taylor.) She never found him, but she decided that Ricky the Mocha Boy would do.

When I spotted Ricky at the Starbucks that Alisa and I favored, I had to send Cristin a text message! Alisa and I made many a Sbx run (from 60 miles away) to use the gift cards her friends gave her before she left California. We chose the Vestavia location because it was closest, but its friendly baristas and open board games were also perks. I remember fondly an afternoon we spent just before I left for the summer… we played that board game for hours while we waited for a movie in the nearby theatre. It was an emotional day – but isn’t every emotion best accompanied by coffee?

I received the Starbucks award this summer from my fellow interns based on my love of coffee. A group of us met daily over French Roast and conversation. It was the perfect beginning to a morning, because there’s always time for a couple cups of coffee and friends. 😉

I also enjoyed several cups of coffee at the Starbucks nearest our apartments. Jeremy and I would spend reflection nights first with Jesus, then discussing whatever was on our minds. Lara and I picked up French Roast stickers here. Heather, Jesse, Elis, John and I gabbed over coffee on a very rainy day. I even stole a bit of alone time here – a rarity during a summer project!

In fact, I have memories attached to most Starbucks I’ve visited. (That may be due to my oddly detailed memory.) It’s oddly soothing to hold a cup of coffee in your hands, and therefore something I try to put into practice often. In fact, I’m sipping a homemade cappucino as we speak…

Honorable mention Starbucks:

Who could forget Popular Genius Starbucks? It’s not every day your roommate drags you to the least convenient Starbucks near Nashville to see if a cute band guy is working.

I was interviewing Tara Leigh Cobble at Starbucks when another celebrity sighting occured. Martina McBride walked past on her way to Smoothie King. She’s much harder to recognize without those digitally-enhanced blue eyes.

This Starbucks is half the reason Alisa and I hate Jackson, Miss. The other half is because Mississippi simply isn’t that interesting in the first place.

I promise you, I went to this site yesterday and he didn’t even have a link to Melbourne. Maybe he’s there right now, updating his site with the latest Starbucks information.
It seems the Starbucks where Amy, Megan, David and I spent a rainy Melbourne day is one of the few this guy hasn’t visited.

I owe Mark a little credit for a great idea. His journey through Starbucks is a fun read and includes many details more significant than mine.

Subtitle: For Alisa (because she’s wrong) and Megan (because her imagination failed)

When it’s right, it’s right.

It’s no secret that I’m picky, and therefore no surprise that the search has lasted this long. I struggle with grace; where is it appropriate to extend mercy instead of demanding perfection? Are my expectations too high? But everyone says when it’s a match, you’ll know.

I made a command decision today. I walked down the aisle with confidence, and the decorum demanded of the occasion. I stepped toward the official, a smile on my face. My head was held high.

I bought a pair of shoes.

(So I prefer a stiletto to a stacked heel, and I still love the pointy-toed trend. But I think these are slightly off-beat and way more practical. Besides, they’re Brazilian, and we all know that Brazil produces quality.)