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2006-09-29 - 10:43 p.m.

Island of the Swiss Cake Rolls

We recently hired a new assistant farm manager, which brings the total back up to 3. We went for more than a year without filling the position.

I'm fairly certain that my Irish goofball buddy (he who scribbles on my paperwork and stuffs tissues in my typewriter) was threatening to quit if he didn't get some "foickin' help already."

He not only took on the last guy's responsibilities as second in charge (and does a MUCH better job), he had to take care of all his usual shit as well.

So basically, while Lumbergh is chewing off his skin because we spend TOO MUCH MONEY ON SODA AND CRACKERS, the farm's gotten away with (la LA la!) having two guys do the job of three for 13 months.

On the other hand, our farm agreed to be the venue for quarterly meeting of local group of women -- that we have no affiliation with -- the other night. Why they requested our farm, I have no idea.

My co-worker was sent out by the farm manager to buy/put together autumn centerpieces for the tables. Tables we weren't even supplying. For a meeting that had nothing to do with us. Yet, farm manager wanted to "make it nice," even though we weren't hosting the fucking event. Grand total: Three hours of shopping and arranging over $60 for mums, orange foil and scarecrows-on-a-stick.

What did Lumbergh have to say about this? I do not know. What farm manager considers public relations, Lumbergh considers "are you fucking kidding me?" They are frenemies. I'm sure they'll come to blows and I would love to be there during the next budget meeting. But if I were there, I'd be asked to take notes.

FM: "Look, we need to spend a certain amount of money on things for appearances and public relations..." (BAH-BLING)

Lumbergh: "And we do. For causes we sponsor. But $60 for centerpieces for a group we aren't even connected with? C'mon." (CHA-CHING)

All I know is now that the stud fee checks are rolling in, it's never enough for Lumbergh. We get five checks for one stallion on a certain day (oodles o' money), but he's pissy because people haven't sent enough checks for the other stallion.

Hey, BONEHEAD. The payment due date isn't till next week.

So.

Chill.

The.

Fuck.

Out.

I believe I'm going to have to write a song called "Cheap-Ass Bastards" or "Remember, Plastic Forks Cost Money" to convey these trials and tribulations more poetically. Something blues-y with some harmonica.

Lumbergh wants the moolah.

=dah-na-na-na-nah=

It's never enough.

"Can you believe how much dough we spend on this stuff?"

I got the blues...the CHEEEEEEAP-ASS BASTARD blues....

Or something like that. You know, I'm certainly no P-Diddy. Diddy. P. Puf. Puf Doodle? Whatevs. I am so not UP on the lingo.

The manager at the McDonald's near work sure isn't. He greeted me the other day at the drive-thru window with "Hey, what's the dealio?"

He was white, overweight, dorky. I was confused. And so embarrassed. I looked off in the distance (certainly he wasn't addressing a customer that way!)

The he handed me my drink. "Ya know, 'the dealio'? I was trying out my..."

"Street lingo?" I interjected.

"Yeah!"

"What's the 'haps in the hood' and all that?"

"Yeah! Right...I'm just keepin' it reals."

"Of course. You're 'representing'"

"Yeah! That's it! I'm representing!"

"Well, good for you. Stay cool, man. Be what it is." (Can I have my fucking food now, you moron?)

"Yeah!" (handing over my bag and feeling really GOOD about himself. Way too good. I mean, what the FUCK?)

McDonald's seriously needs to get their customer service shit TOGETHER. They're all urban on their paper bags and all, but that does NOT mean I want to be greeted with ghetto talk when I pick up my Chicken Mcwhatnots.

Hell, if I'd seen the guy a million times and we "knew" each other the way only a drive-thru fast food whore and a fast food worker can REALLY KNOW each other, it'd be, ya know, "coo."

But I'd never seen this guy before in my life. He'll probably bounce around to every goddamn McDonald's in Kentucky before they decide to fire him, or transfer him to Detroit to get his ass kicked through his lungs FOR REALS.

Now that, my friends, would be FLY COO.

And now, back to the original topic of this post:

The new assistant farm manager.

He's a nice guy and all...he's learning the ropes and I delight in showing him things like how to work the copier and where the cheap pens are located.

But here's the deal(io): He adopted a puppy a few weeks ago.

I AM IN LOVE WITH HIS PUPPY. His name is George. He's some English Spaniel something mix-o-roo. He's only a few months old. He was terrified of everything at first because his previous owner was locked up and someone set him loose and he wandered the streets for weeks.

He's still scrawny and bashful, although us girls feed him dog biscuits from the big red biscuit can in the kitchen whenever he comes in the office. George LOVES the kitchen now. And, I believe, he loves me.

I bought him a little brush at Walgreen's and I get all the tangles out of his curly ear flaps. I suspect he likes me mostly because I feed him biscuits on the side, but when he sees me, he runs to me. And he follows me around.

But I don't ALWAYS give him biscuits. I try to kiss him lots and scratch him and let him know he's safe and loved (the ol' dental floss at Halloween trick).

Of course, his new owner loves and cares for him lots, but he can't snooogle with George on the clock because 1) he's a guy, and 2) he's trying to make him a "work dog", so I
swiftly undo all the training and turn George into a big melty marshmallow.

I now center my workdays around:

1) Lunch at 11.

2) George's (possible) mid-day appearance in the office.

3) George's (more possible) 4 pm or after appearance.

4) Getting the hell out of dodge.

If Rosie would give me some love lately, perhaps I wouldn't feel this NEED for George so strongly.

Whereas Rosie is "Ugh. I'll get to you later, but carry me to my food bowl first", George is "Hi HI HI! It's you! There YOU ARE! Can I go home with you?"

But he's only spastic when he's been locked up all day. Otherwise, he's tired, gets a biscuit and some mellow love, and lays down, on the blanket and pillow (bought and meant for Rosie by me, but redistributed after her "eh" antics), under new guy's desk.

Needless to say, George's owner thinks I'm a complete nutball. Although I believe he's jealous when George rolls over and lets me scratch his tum.

Meanwhile, I've been re-connecting with stinky-but-sweet black lab Molly, who LOVES leftover potato and gravy scraps from KFC.

Then I come home to my two babies! Oh my goodness. Dems love the lovins.

As far as I can figure, I'm trying to center my life about animals, and nibs.

Once I learn how to make cheese and beer, fuck people, ya know?

It'll be all good on my island.

Oh yes.

Jealous? Bring the Swiss Cake Rolls and I'll see what I can do. *wink*