My job ruined my backup plan

You learn something different at every newspaper you work at, at least in terms of writing and reporting. HOWEVER, the one thing that is a constant lesson in every newsroom I've ever worked in- all nine- is that you learn where the nearest coffee place is, otherwise you are ruined.

My backup plans of becoming the world's foremost female barrista at a tiny cafe in Italy, capable of sight steaming the perfect 212-degree latte, foaming the perfect 15-degree tilt capuccino, brewing the perfect Cubano... have been completely unhinged by my new penchant for entirely artificial cups of coffee.

Why is it that reporters can be trusted with national secrets, the duty to watch over the political process, the duty to be accurate and find heartfelt personal stories, but we cannot be trusted with real milk?

Every day when I got up and went to work at the third largest newspaper in America, I walked to the coffeemaker and poured myself a soupy mix of undercooked water and grinds because old Betty couldn't get hot enough to brew a cup of regular coffee-- so someone thought in their infinite wisdom to increase the amount of grinds in order to increase the strength. Next, because the national health policy reporter told me that it was a bad idea to drink it black, I would add a good four-second pour of powdered creamer and two packets of pink chemical sweetner-- both of which were most likely created by someone perfecting chemical warfare. That was my ``coffee,'' and I would drink three in the morning and maybe one or two in the afternoon.

Today, at a significantly smaller, less well funded newspaper, I poured myself three cups of coffee brewed in what looks like a metal Gatorade cooler and has been welllll seasoned on the inside like an iron skillet. I waged my chemical warfare on the paper cup, and I drank it with little hesitation and no real protest.

I will never be a renowned barrista. I've sold my soul and my backup plan for a caffeine fix.