Warmth.
Sun.
Numbers starting with a 5...even some starting with a 6.
Dear lawd sweet baby cheezits can I get an amen?
Now, that being said, I must purge these horrid thoughts, because when weather begins to warm, the freaks thaw out and start scurrying through my life like cockroaches.
First it was the women bundled up in winter coats and hats on a 57 degree day grumbling that it was too chilly.
Then, it was the grocery cashier regaling every person within earshot about her memories of the blizzard of '73. With a friendly reminder to not get too happy about a beautiful sunny day. I nearly slammed her, face first, into my pork shoulder roast. The thought of grinding her nose into raw meat gave me even more pleasure than having the first window open in my house since early October.
And that was yesterday. Today, the cockroach scurrying multiplied like any good vermin infestation tends to.
Though there were very few people who were able to actually voice a complaint about the weather, the freakfest did not stop coming through the doors.
Obviously, people have been cooped up in the house way too long, and no longer know how to behave in public.
Why should I be the one feeling like a fool when I respond to the endless mumbling going on throughout the store? I was responding, attempting to help the person who appeared to be speaking every time I was within earshot, but it soon became clear she was having a very lengthy conversation with the other personality residing in her brain.
It also felt like a warm summer day when I had to reach for the large bottle of sea salt spray, making a round through the store, squirting as I went. How can one person smell so bad that they leave a wave of putrescence wherever they have stepped?
Why do three young adults need to stop and rest while walking down the street? They're young and healthy, but apparently so tired that they need to take a small siesta on the doorstep of an attorney's office before venturing across the street to our store. And once inside our store, one was so obviously exhausted that the toddler sized chair was the only place he could muster enough energy to check his phone. Yes, yes, tweeting is tiresome work, I know.
But all was not lost, as a truckload of designer clothing made its way into our store. By the time it was unloaded, I had a counter and floor completely covered in piles and boxes. As I began to neatly pack it away for future pricing, I got the joy of all joys in my life...the Curious George's. It's not enough that we have an entire store packed with beautiful things hanging on racks, displayed on shelves, and at fingertip reach everywhere you look.
No.
They all wanted to see what was in the boxes.
Touch touch touch.
Pick up.
Admire.
Exclaim "what is this?!!!"
Exclaiming over items I have not even looked at yet. I, who works there, has not touched, folded, viewed, or inspected them. But please, Nosy Rosy, Curious George, by all means, reach your grubby little paws into my boxes of merchandise and help yourself.
GET YOUR FILTHY FUCKING HANDS OFF THAT SHIT.
Though I was mentally screaming each and every time, I politely said, OVER AND OVER, "Please, I can not have you touching merchandise that has just arrived in the store."
In which I got the ever-so-famous response of "I"m just looooooooooking". Yes, in the whiniest tone imaginable.
MENTAL SIGH. "I haven't even looked at it, and I'M an employee, so again, I need you to not be looking through those boxes, please."
And then, of course, the slightly miffed, nose out of joint, haughty sniff, walk away like I've just asked them to lick me where I pee.
HOWEVER....
Regardless of the cockroach shenanigans, it was a GLORIOUS day. I may have worked under the harsh lights of buzzing fluorescents, but that sun was shining into my dark little soul. I washed my filth-mobile with no worries of doors freezing shut. I opened my sunroof for the drive home. I soaked up that blazing sun like a cat in a window. Scurrying little cockroaches be damned.
When the cockroaches invade, shut your eyes, turn your face to the sky, and soak it in. Life's prescription for joy...spring.
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