Tomorrow marks the three month anniversary of my new apartment. So far, our landlords have been wonderful to myself and my new roommate, my roommate and I haven't killed each other yet, and not once have I been late and/or unable to pay my rent and utility bills.
Tomorrow, I need to tell my manager that I'm quitting. I've thought about it long and hard. I've discussed it with my therapist and my friends. Everybody agrees that while it is a wonderful place to work -- hell, I think its a wonderful place to work -- that it isn't the place where I should be working. I need to get out of the coffee business for a little while.
I'd like to get out of the customer service business altogether, actually, but that's kind of impossible right now ... maybe later. Maybe when I'm published. Maybe when I'm dead.
Wish me luck. I'll post again tomorrow with the results.
~Emily Grace
About Me
- Emily Grace
- Emily Grace Lamontagne is a young woman currently residing in Southern Manitoba. She's passionate about writing, reading, and the arts, and she has an unholy love of tea. She works as a Starbucks Barista and moonlights as a writer.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Decisions, decisions ...
I've been given a pseudo-ultimatum. Not necessarily "do this or we'll fire you" but more of a less-than-friendly "we need to know what your plans are so we can plan for replacing you." Kind of makes you feel like you don't have any worth, you know?
Everybody is an employee at one point in their lives. The replaceable, unimportant facet of a corporation with a million other replaceable, unimportant facets. A job that needs to be done, a person to do the job. To them, the corporate overlords for lack of a better term, you aren't a person, per se. They can't afford to view you as one. They need to be concerned about costs, productivity, and customer service.
The lower-downs -- the store managers, the shift supervisors, the baristas -- they've got a more humane view of things. They see the replaceable, unimportant facets as more than replaceable, unimportant facets and make a more human connection. These human connections make work as an employee more tolerable and less like toiling under the overseer's gaze.
The customers ... they are hit-and-miss. Some days, you get the customers who treat you worse than they treat their garbage simply because they are the customer and they are right. And every day, you get your regulars -- the people who have seen you grow from a new hire to an established member of the employee group, maybe even see you gain a bit of seniority while you're at it. Most of the time, though, the crap customers outweigh the warmth the regulars offer.
I love my job. I love my customers, even the bad ones, because I feel safe standing behind the counter with my green apron on over my neatly ironed black collared shirt.
At least ... I used to.
With the re-emergence of my anxiety issues, I've hit a downward spiral. A downward spiral that has been obvious, which has only made things worse. I don't like it when my flaws are so noticeable that people comment on them, from innocent inquiries as to my health and the health of my family to flat-out statements that I'm grumpier and not myself, and haven't been for at least a few weeks.
Weeks.
I let myself slip for a few weeks without realizing it. I've usually got a tight iron grip on my emotions and I have so many methods of diversion to keep people from actually seeing how small and fragile I actually am. For a few weeks, though, I've lost my grip on those defenses that have gotten me so far in my life. And because I lost my grip ... well, that was the first part of this little pity-fest.
I like my job. I really do. I get to meet so many interesting people and hear so many interesting stories that I usually don't notice the little things that usually bother me about my coworkers or my job in general. Lately, though, those things have been getting to me and with the request of a formal plan of "staying or going and when" has gotten me thinking: What's actually making me happy?
It isn't customer service. I can get the same type of human interaction by going to a bar in a low-cut dress and no underwear, I really don't need to be harassed by men and women who think that they own me because they're forking out six bucks for a coffee and a piece of bread.
It isn't the free coffee. Seriously, I'd rather just drink Nabob at home every morning. I don't need a gourmet drink every other hour just because I work there. Do you know how many calories are in a Caramel Macchiato?
It isn't the coworkers. I'm not even going to get started on this one.
It isn't the managers. Well, I should say assistant manager. And again, I'm not getting into it.
Well ... why am I still there? Obviously, the situation isn't healthy for me. With the re-emergence of my anxiety disorders and my slowly slipping defenses, my position isn't what's best for me or for the few gems of customers we serve every day. But I still love my job.
I don't know why, I just do.
But as much as I love my job, I love being sane more. And my current position is slowly chipping away at that precarious pedestal I'm crouched on.
On the other hand, my position is offering me stability. Set shifts. Constant and complete control over my routines. The ability to have a life without needing to plan it around my shifts. Stability is something that I crave, because stability is healthy. Stability means safety.
So, September First is my "deadline." I hate calling it that ... it makes me feel like I'm being forced into a corner with no way out. Which I am, in a way. I told them it would take me at least a week to decide what my plans would be for my employment, so they took the minimum and ensured that I'd have an answer when it was convenient for them -- since they are always looking five months ahead, and all.
If I leave, they won't be hurting for staff. They won't have a hard time finding somebody to fill my place.
If I stay, I risk more powerful and more debilitating anxiety attacks, but I'm guaranteed my place. I'm also being told by my therapist that I need to either quit or go back on my anti-psychotics, which would prevent me from working more than four hours at a time anyways.
Decisions, decisions ...
~Emily Grace
Everybody is an employee at one point in their lives. The replaceable, unimportant facet of a corporation with a million other replaceable, unimportant facets. A job that needs to be done, a person to do the job. To them, the corporate overlords for lack of a better term, you aren't a person, per se. They can't afford to view you as one. They need to be concerned about costs, productivity, and customer service.
The lower-downs -- the store managers, the shift supervisors, the baristas -- they've got a more humane view of things. They see the replaceable, unimportant facets as more than replaceable, unimportant facets and make a more human connection. These human connections make work as an employee more tolerable and less like toiling under the overseer's gaze.
The customers ... they are hit-and-miss. Some days, you get the customers who treat you worse than they treat their garbage simply because they are the customer and they are right. And every day, you get your regulars -- the people who have seen you grow from a new hire to an established member of the employee group, maybe even see you gain a bit of seniority while you're at it. Most of the time, though, the crap customers outweigh the warmth the regulars offer.
I love my job. I love my customers, even the bad ones, because I feel safe standing behind the counter with my green apron on over my neatly ironed black collared shirt.
At least ... I used to.
With the re-emergence of my anxiety issues, I've hit a downward spiral. A downward spiral that has been obvious, which has only made things worse. I don't like it when my flaws are so noticeable that people comment on them, from innocent inquiries as to my health and the health of my family to flat-out statements that I'm grumpier and not myself, and haven't been for at least a few weeks.
Weeks.
I let myself slip for a few weeks without realizing it. I've usually got a tight iron grip on my emotions and I have so many methods of diversion to keep people from actually seeing how small and fragile I actually am. For a few weeks, though, I've lost my grip on those defenses that have gotten me so far in my life. And because I lost my grip ... well, that was the first part of this little pity-fest.
I like my job. I really do. I get to meet so many interesting people and hear so many interesting stories that I usually don't notice the little things that usually bother me about my coworkers or my job in general. Lately, though, those things have been getting to me and with the request of a formal plan of "staying or going and when" has gotten me thinking: What's actually making me happy?
It isn't customer service. I can get the same type of human interaction by going to a bar in a low-cut dress and no underwear, I really don't need to be harassed by men and women who think that they own me because they're forking out six bucks for a coffee and a piece of bread.
It isn't the free coffee. Seriously, I'd rather just drink Nabob at home every morning. I don't need a gourmet drink every other hour just because I work there. Do you know how many calories are in a Caramel Macchiato?
It isn't the coworkers. I'm not even going to get started on this one.
It isn't the managers. Well, I should say assistant manager. And again, I'm not getting into it.
Well ... why am I still there? Obviously, the situation isn't healthy for me. With the re-emergence of my anxiety disorders and my slowly slipping defenses, my position isn't what's best for me or for the few gems of customers we serve every day. But I still love my job.
I don't know why, I just do.
But as much as I love my job, I love being sane more. And my current position is slowly chipping away at that precarious pedestal I'm crouched on.
On the other hand, my position is offering me stability. Set shifts. Constant and complete control over my routines. The ability to have a life without needing to plan it around my shifts. Stability is something that I crave, because stability is healthy. Stability means safety.
So, September First is my "deadline." I hate calling it that ... it makes me feel like I'm being forced into a corner with no way out. Which I am, in a way. I told them it would take me at least a week to decide what my plans would be for my employment, so they took the minimum and ensured that I'd have an answer when it was convenient for them -- since they are always looking five months ahead, and all.
If I leave, they won't be hurting for staff. They won't have a hard time finding somebody to fill my place.
If I stay, I risk more powerful and more debilitating anxiety attacks, but I'm guaranteed my place. I'm also being told by my therapist that I need to either quit or go back on my anti-psychotics, which would prevent me from working more than four hours at a time anyways.
Decisions, decisions ...
~Emily Grace
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Summer from Hell
I've just survived the worst possible summer that a lower-middle-class girl can possibly survive in a suburban/rural town in Southern Manitoba. Between landlord issues with my old landlords and my anxiety issues popping back up, it has not been a fun time.
But I'm determined to fix my life. I am determined to fix myself too.
I've made myself a daily list of tasks to complete. Things that might be common to you, habitual, I haven't had the luxury of holding onto through all the chaos of the last twelve months. Things like eating breakfast, combing my hair, putting on my makeup, cooking dinner after work ... but I'm getting my habits back. I'm still paying rent on a regular basis. I haven't fucked that up yet. I'm still earning a paycheck. I might've fucked that one up, but I can still fix it.
Here's hoping. I'm going to start blogging again regularly because this makes sense to me. It helps. Nobody's reading this, but to be able to put my problems on a page and detach myself from them, look at them logically ... it helps. Therapy writing.
I'll be updating Tea and Tales and Doing Nothing But Drinking Tea on a more regular basis as I work on my publishing goals, so keep an eye out for my announcements and updates on the review blog and the posting blogs. And last but not least, keep me in your thoughts and minds as I try to work my way back into normal society.
~Emily Grace
But I'm determined to fix my life. I am determined to fix myself too.
I've made myself a daily list of tasks to complete. Things that might be common to you, habitual, I haven't had the luxury of holding onto through all the chaos of the last twelve months. Things like eating breakfast, combing my hair, putting on my makeup, cooking dinner after work ... but I'm getting my habits back. I'm still paying rent on a regular basis. I haven't fucked that up yet. I'm still earning a paycheck. I might've fucked that one up, but I can still fix it.
Here's hoping. I'm going to start blogging again regularly because this makes sense to me. It helps. Nobody's reading this, but to be able to put my problems on a page and detach myself from them, look at them logically ... it helps. Therapy writing.
I'll be updating Tea and Tales and Doing Nothing But Drinking Tea on a more regular basis as I work on my publishing goals, so keep an eye out for my announcements and updates on the review blog and the posting blogs. And last but not least, keep me in your thoughts and minds as I try to work my way back into normal society.
~Emily Grace
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