Wait

I'm taking a break from my list (I will catch up tomorrow) in order to let out some stress. I've been working nonstop and I'm going nuts. (Please pray for what little sanity I have). I keep wanting to take a week off, or maybe just a few days, but then a little voice in my head goes 'London, London !' and I remember that I'll sleep when I'm dead, and take time off work when I'm in London.

So. My question for you, the general public, is
WHY IS IT MY F*&$£@! FAULT THAT YOU WANT A LATTE !?!?

Customers come up to me all day long and say "Gimme a..." or "I need a...", and what I want to say is "I'm sorry, I only talk to little boys with manners" (because if you want to act like a child, I will treat you like one...thanks Dad). I think for the most part, I'm a conscientious consumer, and I've worked everywhere. I know the same stupid customers shop at Whole Foods and Le Bou and Borders and Peet's, and none of them have any respect for the person just beyond that little counter. They hate me.

I'm sorry, that's a generalisation. A few are nice;
Paul is nice, and seeing him come in and smile brightens my day.
Karen is a sweetheart. Cheryl is fabulous.
Satiya makes us laugh, and those people I met from New Jersey made me smile.

But why, WHY WHY WHY, do they insist on spelling their name to me (Dave ? Come on). Why do they order their drink whilst talking on their phones and then blame me because they got the wrong thing ? Why do they repeat the same thing fifty times like I'm deaf or something ? They assume I'm an imbecile because, rather than pushing pencils at a law office or cube-dwelling at a high tech firm, I am making their macchiatto. But I'm not stupid.

Seriously.
I was the Latimer Elementary School Spelling Bee champ in second and third grade.
I know some stuff.

They make me want to throw things. Sometimes it makes me reconsider a career in anthropology (a dream I gave up when I realised I would not get to be Jane Goodall or even Etheline Tenenbaum) just so I could work in a museum. Tuesday the seventh graders come in. Wednesday the brontosaurus loses a screw--big deal, he's dead anyway. Thursday I Windex the display cases, Friday call the fake Egyptian museum and ask why Carmen called them a "fake Egyptian museum". Saturday clean up trash and wonder how many people are here to see the illuminated Bibles those charming Benedictines made with their little monk hands, and how many just want to see the Finnish underwear exhibit.

Where is my couch ? I want to sleep for days and days, and maybe Les will offer me a tangerine, and Bessie will fuss about how dirty the cat is.