There are some crazy people that frequent the craft store where I work. The customer who looks freakishly like Julianne Moore, or the woman named Betsy Bates. Or the woman with eight pure white hairs bristling from her chin and the most sulphurous breath I've ever smelled.
I decided last night that I want to work in a bar. A tasteful bar, with nice people who just get terrifically quiet if they've had too much to drink.
But maybe I'd like to work in some trashy, smoke-filled biker bar (for just a week or so, you understand). To be called "sweetheart" and bring lukewarm beers. To be the tough chick who wears too much eyeliner and breaks up fights.
It would be more interesting in a bar than at Robert's, where I'm the girl whose hair is always pulled back, a jangling neon key chain around her wrist. I answer questions and don't care about the answers. People buy frivolous nothings, and expect me to know everything about them.
I think I could handle fights and lewd comments better than I can handle wailing babies and their irate mothers, pulling out an endless stream of credit cards. In both places, I suppose it's all the same. People wasting time, wasting money, trying to fill in the cracks in their lives with some sort of rubbery cement. The people are all the same.
Bikers who go to bars should pick up scrapbooking. It might damage their reputations as tough guys, but their livers will love it.