Tomorrow, I start my training as a Barista! This all happened at about 5 PM today. The Barista position was posted in the EDR and I left word of my interest about 1 1/2 weeks ago. Negotiations were conducted via email between the Food and Beverage Manager and my Front Desk Manager, interrupted by their opposing days off, as to how much I would work for each department. The Front Desk lost out on the original agreement of a 50/50 split today when Scott (F&B) revealed his true intentions of having me work 30 hours a week. I'm suspecting that I may just be working a lot of hours in the next month and a half, getting pulled between the two departments. However, due to the difficulty in getting a barista job without experience, I think the month and a half will be well spent training needed for getting future coffee house jobs and a step in the right direction for determining if we ever want to get a coffee shop of our own.
I have a lot to learn and it appears I'll have 2 days to learn it. For starters, I have the bad habit of mispronouncing "barista" - not "bar -ee - sta", like the Italians would say it, but I say the "i" more like the i in "it". Also, I have stubbornly refused to learn the sizes of the drinks throughout the years, insisting on ordering my coffees in small, medium, or large (usually small). Is it odd that, although I love a good cup of coffee, and cafe au laits, and lattees, I usually can't drink caffeine because it gives me a headache, and yet I want to be a barista? The other barista that works the days I won't drinks tea, so I guess not.
Alex is busy telling me about his evening motorcycle ride, so I must go. (Note that he hasn't been a guest writer yet.) We have many stories left to tell - my birthday evening, our trip up the Beartooth Highway, our trip to Cody - that I'm hoping to get caught up soon.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Weighing the years
This Sunday is my 39th birthday. For some reason, it is weighing heavily on me this year. I'm counting the days down until I'm just one year shy of 40. I would have thought I would have waited for next year, when I'm really turning 40, to be full of the awareness of another decade passing by, but I guess I decided to ponder on this issue this year.
Perhaps this is similar to my 26th birthday. During my 25th year, I'd gotten married, bought a house, and was "stuck" in a job I didn't particularly care for. 26 came with the realization that I had bills and responsibilities, listened to NPR, and was now officially a grownup. 30 passed with hardly a glance - I'd made goals to accomplish by the time I turned 30 (except for marriage - I hadn't made plans for marriage, expecting to gradually grow into spinsterhood), but I had already accomplished them by the time I turned 26.
So, here I am at 39, in another round of unusual work circumstances, slowly winding down the summer season of work, looking forward to leaving our cramped dorm room, but wondering what's next. While you all, except the Oregon Coasters, are likely experiencing the Dog Days of August, Fall is already in the air here with cool evenings, cool mornings, and afternoon rain showers, reminding us that just 2 months remain until we are adrift again, looking for work and looking for the land of Real Summer.
Perhaps the real number that's weighing on me is 50 - in 2 months, Alex turns 50. Since he has always claimed that he's going to live to be 100, he is definitely at his mid-age. I've already decided that October is going to be a month of birthday parties - 1st at YNP, 2nd will likely be in AZ with Alex's family when we pass through after our tour of Colorado and New Mexico, then the last one back in Oregon. I have yet to plan any of these, our indeterminate plans after October 11 (our end date with Xanterra) making it difficult to set a time frame for the parties, but I think Alex's induction into AARP is a perfectly good reason to have birthday parties all month long.
In the end, Sunday will likely pass just like any other day. Alex and I both have the morning shift, starting at 6:30. I'll get off around 2:30 and wait for him to wrap up his food prep for the day, usually around 4:00. If we're not too tired, we'll have an early dinner and go for a hike. Perhaps Alex will buy me a beer later on. Since we both report for work Monday morning, we'll call it a night early in the evening. If I'm lucky, Alex will remember to wish me a "Happy Birthday." :-) Then, I'll look forward to next year, when 40 will come in like a lamb.
On a side note, I've known my birthday was going to be on a Sunday since May 23, my father's birthday. When I was a child, living in Ohio, I made an astonishing discovery while writing my family's birthdays on my calendar - all 5 members of my immediate family have their birthdays on the same day of the week. Since they all fall after February (think leap year), this was not only true for that one year, but it happens year after year. As a child, I thought it was very special. As an adult, I still find it rather unusual. I was thinking about it again last night and rhetorically asked myself, "What are the odds?" Later (while in bed trying to go to sleep, which seems a reasonable time to be working on mathematical problems, right?), I realized I know what the odds are - 1 in 16807.
Perhaps this is similar to my 26th birthday. During my 25th year, I'd gotten married, bought a house, and was "stuck" in a job I didn't particularly care for. 26 came with the realization that I had bills and responsibilities, listened to NPR, and was now officially a grownup. 30 passed with hardly a glance - I'd made goals to accomplish by the time I turned 30 (except for marriage - I hadn't made plans for marriage, expecting to gradually grow into spinsterhood), but I had already accomplished them by the time I turned 26.
So, here I am at 39, in another round of unusual work circumstances, slowly winding down the summer season of work, looking forward to leaving our cramped dorm room, but wondering what's next. While you all, except the Oregon Coasters, are likely experiencing the Dog Days of August, Fall is already in the air here with cool evenings, cool mornings, and afternoon rain showers, reminding us that just 2 months remain until we are adrift again, looking for work and looking for the land of Real Summer.
Perhaps the real number that's weighing on me is 50 - in 2 months, Alex turns 50. Since he has always claimed that he's going to live to be 100, he is definitely at his mid-age. I've already decided that October is going to be a month of birthday parties - 1st at YNP, 2nd will likely be in AZ with Alex's family when we pass through after our tour of Colorado and New Mexico, then the last one back in Oregon. I have yet to plan any of these, our indeterminate plans after October 11 (our end date with Xanterra) making it difficult to set a time frame for the parties, but I think Alex's induction into AARP is a perfectly good reason to have birthday parties all month long.
In the end, Sunday will likely pass just like any other day. Alex and I both have the morning shift, starting at 6:30. I'll get off around 2:30 and wait for him to wrap up his food prep for the day, usually around 4:00. If we're not too tired, we'll have an early dinner and go for a hike. Perhaps Alex will buy me a beer later on. Since we both report for work Monday morning, we'll call it a night early in the evening. If I'm lucky, Alex will remember to wish me a "Happy Birthday." :-) Then, I'll look forward to next year, when 40 will come in like a lamb.
On a side note, I've known my birthday was going to be on a Sunday since May 23, my father's birthday. When I was a child, living in Ohio, I made an astonishing discovery while writing my family's birthdays on my calendar - all 5 members of my immediate family have their birthdays on the same day of the week. Since they all fall after February (think leap year), this was not only true for that one year, but it happens year after year. As a child, I thought it was very special. As an adult, I still find it rather unusual. I was thinking about it again last night and rhetorically asked myself, "What are the odds?" Later (while in bed trying to go to sleep, which seems a reasonable time to be working on mathematical problems, right?), I realized I know what the odds are - 1 in 16807.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Oh Bozeman
I firmly believe that Alex is much more generous than I am, so when one of his Colombian co-workers asked for a ride to the airport to return home, he readily agreed. (I think I would have been more reticent - maybe not, I guess it depends on the co-worker.) So Sunday after I got off of work, we packed up the truck with Y's luggage and 2 of her friends and headed into Bozeman. I fell asleep during the 1 1/2 hour ride, waking up as we entered Bozeman to Alex saying, "I think something's wrong with the truck. It feels like the transmission is slipping."
We made it to the mall where Y wanted to do some shopping for gifts to take home, only to find out that the only store still open was JC Penny's. It's a small mall in a small town, so it closes early on Sundays. Y and her friends went off shopping while Alex and I tried to figure out what to do with the truck... and the extra passengers who were planning on getting back to Yellowstone that night. We thought we'd be able to drive the truck to a hotel for the night and to a repair shop in the morning, but definitely didn't want to risk getting stuck on the long lonely roads between Bozeman and Yellowstone in an attempt to get back. While we were discussing our predicament, K and some other Xanterra employees just happened to walk past on the mall sidewalk. Now, really, what are the chances of this happening? While Alex ran after K to ask him to take our extra passengers back with him, I called work to let them know we wouldn't be coming in on Monday. Both departments were kind enough to work something else out so we could stay in Bozeman and take care of the truck, although I'm not sure how either of us would have been able to show up for work as K's car was full with his new passengers.
With Y finally finished up shopping at JC Penny's (note to self, we are not compatible shoppers with Y, so if we're ever in Colombia, do not agree to go shopping), we started to drive out of the parking lot on our way to the hotel. Unbelievably, the transmission completed its death throes just as we pulled out into the middle of an intersection. How do the flashers work? Aagh. Alex and I jumped out of the car and started pushing. Suddenly, another man appeared, who had jumped out of his car, and helped us push the truck into a parking space. We were distracted and he went back to his car as soon as we were parked, so "thank you" to the anonymous man who helped us get out of the intersection.
What to do now? Y still wanted to do more shopping, but there was no way we were going to get her there. At this point (8 PM), I was very hungry and getting very grumpy. We'd already found out that the Holiday Inn had a shuttle to the airport, so I suggested to Alex to call to find out if they would come pick us up. Fifteen minutes later, we were in the van to the hotel which is conveniently located across the street from Walmart (Y's shopping) and Applebee's (my dinner). After a night in the hotel and getting the truck to Bozeman Transmission in the morning (once again grateful that I still pay for AAA every year), what's the moral of the story? All the good things that happened:
We made it to the mall where Y wanted to do some shopping for gifts to take home, only to find out that the only store still open was JC Penny's. It's a small mall in a small town, so it closes early on Sundays. Y and her friends went off shopping while Alex and I tried to figure out what to do with the truck... and the extra passengers who were planning on getting back to Yellowstone that night. We thought we'd be able to drive the truck to a hotel for the night and to a repair shop in the morning, but definitely didn't want to risk getting stuck on the long lonely roads between Bozeman and Yellowstone in an attempt to get back. While we were discussing our predicament, K and some other Xanterra employees just happened to walk past on the mall sidewalk. Now, really, what are the chances of this happening? While Alex ran after K to ask him to take our extra passengers back with him, I called work to let them know we wouldn't be coming in on Monday. Both departments were kind enough to work something else out so we could stay in Bozeman and take care of the truck, although I'm not sure how either of us would have been able to show up for work as K's car was full with his new passengers.
With Y finally finished up shopping at JC Penny's (note to self, we are not compatible shoppers with Y, so if we're ever in Colombia, do not agree to go shopping), we started to drive out of the parking lot on our way to the hotel. Unbelievably, the transmission completed its death throes just as we pulled out into the middle of an intersection. How do the flashers work? Aagh. Alex and I jumped out of the car and started pushing. Suddenly, another man appeared, who had jumped out of his car, and helped us push the truck into a parking space. We were distracted and he went back to his car as soon as we were parked, so "thank you" to the anonymous man who helped us get out of the intersection.
What to do now? Y still wanted to do more shopping, but there was no way we were going to get her there. At this point (8 PM), I was very hungry and getting very grumpy. We'd already found out that the Holiday Inn had a shuttle to the airport, so I suggested to Alex to call to find out if they would come pick us up. Fifteen minutes later, we were in the van to the hotel which is conveniently located across the street from Walmart (Y's shopping) and Applebee's (my dinner). After a night in the hotel and getting the truck to Bozeman Transmission in the morning (once again grateful that I still pay for AAA every year), what's the moral of the story? All the good things that happened:
- When I called into the front desk in the morning to talk with Natalie, a Bozeman resident, to find out about taking public transportation back to YNP, the first thing she said was, "I'll come get you." Which she and her roommate, Sarah, did right after they got off of work.
- Calling into work to let them know of our troubles and having both Carol Anne and Tim say, "We'll work it out without you."
- Checking in at the Holiday Inn at the reduced Xanterra rate and having them pick us up at the mall, take Y to the airport at 4:30 AM, give us toothbrushes, toothpaste, extra lotion, and a comb, getting free breakfast, then having them take us back to the mall the next day, all given generously and without question.
- The nice man who helped us at the interstection.
- Getting to ride the free Bozeman bus system - we were well out of walking distance back to town at the transmission shop, but grateful to be able to get back into town for lunch, dinner, and a nap in Lindley Park.
- Meeting the mechanic and having him remind us of a friend from Oregon. He was recommended by the tow truck driver and seems as forthright and honest as our mechanic in Tillamook. (I've realized there are some really hard things about moving that include finding a new mechanic and finding a new hairstylist - I never knew how troubling it is to have a bad haircut until I got my 1st haircut here.)
- The good fortune of having someone appear right when you need him to so he can literally take part of the "problem" away with him (K giving our 2 extra passengers a ride).
Unfortunately, we can't make the bill for the new transmission disappear, but so many people made this situation a lot easier.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Bikers in Yellowstone
I am not a biker, in any sense of the word, or in any manner of the bikes we own. Yet I persist in the belief that I am a biker - or at least I could be a biker.
Part of the problem, as I tell Alex, is that I'm not a "wind in my hair" type of gal. Each time we take out the motorcycle, Alex attempts to get me to wear one of our 3 faceless helmets, but I always opt for the full face one, blaming my contacts or eyeglasses - "I don't like the wind in my eyes," I say. Alex, being a good sport, has braved a few cold winds for me, content to wear his half helmet and protection glasses.
Yesterday, I attempted, once again, to be the other type of biker - on my bicycle. Despite it's lack of use, I love my bicycle. Alex bought it for me to meet my own special criteria. It has shocks, a wide padded seat and upright handle bars so I can sit up while I'm pedalling. My bicycling posture incites me to hum Miss Gulch's tune from the "Wizard of Oz." The only things I'm missing are the basket and the dog. I have fantasies of living close to work and riding the trusty bike to work everyday, but have yet to have had that reality. In Oregon, there was the rain. Of course, the rain is a good excuse to not do a lot of things. (I just finished reading "Sometimes a Great Notion," which has great descriptions of the Oregon coast rain. However, despite Ken Kesey's adept prose, it's difficult to comprehend the insidious grasp of the rain on the mind without living there.) Here, on the roads filled with tourists, riding the bicycle is taking one's life in one's hands. We left many of our possessions at home, but the bicycles are items, when I'm wondering how we still have so much stuff with us crammed into our room, the truck and the trailer, that I think would have been better left at home.
Still, I was feeling adventurous yesterday and we had the bicycles out of the trailer due to hauling the motorcycle into Bozeman to have a tire replaced (another one of my quandaries - if you have a motorcycle, it seems to me it should be ridden, not hauled around in a trailer, but here we are hauling it around in a trailer). I strapped on my helmet, put on my biker shorts and gloves and headed up the road. I had a destination in mind, but I still had to go up the road past the Hot Springs and all the tourists. Huff, huff. It was part way up the hill towards my destination, when I was breathing heavy, getting dry mouth and realizing I was not coordinated enough to navigate tourist traffic and drink from my water bottle at the same time (here's jealousy for the bike riders that can ride with no hands downhill while guzzling from a water bottle), that it dawned on me that I really am not a bike rider. In high school, it was merely a substitute when I couldn't be running due to injuries, so I didn't do it. Plus, I still have that childhood fear of hitting a rock and flipping over the handle bars, accentuated by sitting atop a tall seat on a large bike. I have fat tires designed for off-road travel, so this really shouldn't be a problem, but this fear creeps in on every downhill. Fortunately, my bike has many low gears, so I huffed my way up the hill to my destination - a 5 mile dirt road that encircles Bunsen Peak. I reviewed the bear warnings and ventured down the road, only to come upon a very long downhill. What goes down must come up, right?
"This really would be a lot more fun with Alex," I thought. Plus, it was nearly time for lunch.
Part of the problem, as I tell Alex, is that I'm not a "wind in my hair" type of gal. Each time we take out the motorcycle, Alex attempts to get me to wear one of our 3 faceless helmets, but I always opt for the full face one, blaming my contacts or eyeglasses - "I don't like the wind in my eyes," I say. Alex, being a good sport, has braved a few cold winds for me, content to wear his half helmet and protection glasses.
Yesterday, I attempted, once again, to be the other type of biker - on my bicycle. Despite it's lack of use, I love my bicycle. Alex bought it for me to meet my own special criteria. It has shocks, a wide padded seat and upright handle bars so I can sit up while I'm pedalling. My bicycling posture incites me to hum Miss Gulch's tune from the "Wizard of Oz." The only things I'm missing are the basket and the dog. I have fantasies of living close to work and riding the trusty bike to work everyday, but have yet to have had that reality. In Oregon, there was the rain. Of course, the rain is a good excuse to not do a lot of things. (I just finished reading "Sometimes a Great Notion," which has great descriptions of the Oregon coast rain. However, despite Ken Kesey's adept prose, it's difficult to comprehend the insidious grasp of the rain on the mind without living there.) Here, on the roads filled with tourists, riding the bicycle is taking one's life in one's hands. We left many of our possessions at home, but the bicycles are items, when I'm wondering how we still have so much stuff with us crammed into our room, the truck and the trailer, that I think would have been better left at home.
Still, I was feeling adventurous yesterday and we had the bicycles out of the trailer due to hauling the motorcycle into Bozeman to have a tire replaced (another one of my quandaries - if you have a motorcycle, it seems to me it should be ridden, not hauled around in a trailer, but here we are hauling it around in a trailer). I strapped on my helmet, put on my biker shorts and gloves and headed up the road. I had a destination in mind, but I still had to go up the road past the Hot Springs and all the tourists. Huff, huff. It was part way up the hill towards my destination, when I was breathing heavy, getting dry mouth and realizing I was not coordinated enough to navigate tourist traffic and drink from my water bottle at the same time (here's jealousy for the bike riders that can ride with no hands downhill while guzzling from a water bottle), that it dawned on me that I really am not a bike rider. In high school, it was merely a substitute when I couldn't be running due to injuries, so I didn't do it. Plus, I still have that childhood fear of hitting a rock and flipping over the handle bars, accentuated by sitting atop a tall seat on a large bike. I have fat tires designed for off-road travel, so this really shouldn't be a problem, but this fear creeps in on every downhill. Fortunately, my bike has many low gears, so I huffed my way up the hill to my destination - a 5 mile dirt road that encircles Bunsen Peak. I reviewed the bear warnings and ventured down the road, only to come upon a very long downhill. What goes down must come up, right?
"This really would be a lot more fun with Alex," I thought. Plus, it was nearly time for lunch.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Hooray for Public Libraries
Once again, I am sitting with my 1 hour guest pass at a computer in a public library - this time it's the Bozeman Public Library, a beautiful building full of books and public art. When asking Natalie, one of my co-workers at the front desk, how she liked Bozeman, her permanent home city, one of her first comments was, "It has a great library." I was very impressed by her comment as I wasn't sure 20 year olds spent a lot of time at libraries anymore. I'm happy to have been proved wrong!
I may be using more of the library system as Xanterra keeps threatening to start charging us $30/month to use the Internet system at our dorm, despite having promised us free Internet and computer access (which never materialized) as part of our employment benefits. Sigh. I'm sure you all know me well enough that rather than pay the $30/month, I'll end up driving to the Gardiner library during their open hours. I'd like to find out if they have books on Yellowstone to loan out, anyway. I keep plotting to make my blog postings more frequent, but, alas, this may make them more infrequent. Perhaps I'll start a handwritten journal again and pull my blogs from there.
Here's hoping for more postings from the dorm room.....
I may be using more of the library system as Xanterra keeps threatening to start charging us $30/month to use the Internet system at our dorm, despite having promised us free Internet and computer access (which never materialized) as part of our employment benefits. Sigh. I'm sure you all know me well enough that rather than pay the $30/month, I'll end up driving to the Gardiner library during their open hours. I'd like to find out if they have books on Yellowstone to loan out, anyway. I keep plotting to make my blog postings more frequent, but, alas, this may make them more infrequent. Perhaps I'll start a handwritten journal again and pull my blogs from there.
Here's hoping for more postings from the dorm room.....
Monday, August 2, 2010
The sounds of Yellowstone
Chirp, chirp of the pika, a small hamster like animal, daring us to find him among the talus. Introduced to us by Ken who takes special trips to Sheepeater Cliff to watch out for them.
The strange call of the elk, mother to calf, calf to mother, enticing us to look for them up in the hills.
Falling asleep to the Screech, screech! of the Screech Owl nesting somewhere in Fort Yellowstone.
The grunting of the bison, who are nearing rutting season, which seems to be driving the young males crazy. The older males strut about the herd, already picking out their mating partner, while the young males run around in circles, occasionally doing some experimental head butting, preparing for the fights to come.
"Step away from the elk," blares the Park Ranger's bullhorn, warning visitors that it is not okay to pet the elk, much less try to sit on them.
High pitched whistles coming from the yard. Is it a bird? No, it's a "whistle pig", otherwise known as an uinta ground squirrel.
The thrum of an overloaded washing machine, which apparently only bothers me as Alex drifts off to sleep mid-sentence in his book at 10 o'clock at night. (Ah, to be a heavy sleeper.)
"Squawk, squawk," chatters the magpie, sitting in a crook of the aspen outside my window. Is he talking to me?
Thanks to Alex's careful conditioning, I look up from my post at the front desk everytime I hear the distinctive rumbling of a pack of Harley-Davidson motorcycles driving by the hotel.
The strange call of the elk, mother to calf, calf to mother, enticing us to look for them up in the hills.
Falling asleep to the Screech, screech! of the Screech Owl nesting somewhere in Fort Yellowstone.
The grunting of the bison, who are nearing rutting season, which seems to be driving the young males crazy. The older males strut about the herd, already picking out their mating partner, while the young males run around in circles, occasionally doing some experimental head butting, preparing for the fights to come.
"Step away from the elk," blares the Park Ranger's bullhorn, warning visitors that it is not okay to pet the elk, much less try to sit on them.
High pitched whistles coming from the yard. Is it a bird? No, it's a "whistle pig", otherwise known as an uinta ground squirrel.
The thrum of an overloaded washing machine, which apparently only bothers me as Alex drifts off to sleep mid-sentence in his book at 10 o'clock at night. (Ah, to be a heavy sleeper.)
"Squawk, squawk," chatters the magpie, sitting in a crook of the aspen outside my window. Is he talking to me?
Thanks to Alex's careful conditioning, I look up from my post at the front desk everytime I hear the distinctive rumbling of a pack of Harley-Davidson motorcycles driving by the hotel.
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