Like a rolling stone

Today I had intended to make like a rolling stone, but instead I seem to be gathering moss. It started this morning at the Starbucks in my hotel, where I went through my daily chai-ordering ritual: I pronounce my name and the cashier mispronounces it; I say it again and she finds another way to mangle it; I either say it again or give up and accept the cashier's christening. Then the cashier conveys my order to the chai-maker: "Grande chai for Miss Bev" (or Beth or, this morning, Mauve), and the chai-maker writes on the cup a name that may or may not correspond with the moniker selected by the cashier. Then there's a moment of suspense as I wait to see what name the chai-maker will bestow upon me. Yesterday, through some bizarre conjunction of celestial objects, the cup said Bev, but Thursday it insisted on Beth, certainly the most common and forgiveable mangling of my name.

This morning my cup called me Moss. Nothing against Moss--I like moss, really; some of my best plants are moss--but how can I roll through the bookfair resisting booksellers' attempts to stick stuff on me if I resemble Moss?

I sat for a while at Starbuck's contemplating this dilemma before I finally tossed the cup in the can. Goodbye, Moss. This Bev is rolling.