Frustration

Dear Jack,

Right now I want to rip out my eyes, dangle them in front of a rabid dog, and see what comes of all the blood, gore, and decimation. *sigh* There are times when I really hate being management. As a mere peon, one can be slightly rude, or say things like "I don't know, allow me to get the manager for you." When you are the manager, there is no such reprieve.

Take, for instance, the fact that I just spent the last hour showing a couple around the inn. They had already booked separate rooms for this evening and tomorrow evening in order to "see more of our quaint establishment." That's fine, no big deal, happens all the time. BUT! When they got here, the wife saw that there was a bathtub with a handheld shower instead of a walk-in shower. She threw a hissy fit and demanded to see other rooms that were available. So, being the kind, patient, professional that I am, I showed them around to other rooms in which no one was staying this evening. Three rooms later they finally decided to stay in the same room which they had rented for tomorrow night.

My patience level has gotten dangerously low. This is how weekends work. I have just enough patience to go from Friday morning at 11am to Sunday afternoon at roughly 3pm before I start losing it. That is on nice, relaxing weekends in which guests are the pleasant people that I'm sure God intended them to be. In busier, more combustible weekends my patience level has been known to take severely damaging beatings that end in tears for my staff (they are the only ones who can here me bitch, because if I said exactly what I wanted when I wanted to to guests, I would no longer be employed).

This weekend is going to be a doozy.

Not to mention this new play has caused a crisis of conscience and self-doubt. I know I'm a decent actress, but it's a nice thing to actually hear from a director on occasion, and all I'm hearing from him is that I need to project. I AM TALKING PLENTY LOUD, GET A HEARING AID!

Blah.

I need a vacation.

Always,
John