Check Your Squeamisness At The Gate


image

There are many, many, many things I’ve been forced to do since moving here. While most are exciting, new and rewarding, there are a handful that are miserable, revolting and horrid. Come to think, I can count more in favor of the latter at the moment. Here’s a quick list of the awefullness ( I know, it’s not a real word ) that I’m subjected to:
* The removal of rotting turkey carcass that is dripping in maggots and stuck in a bramble bush of all things.
* The removal of a half rotten, mummified piglet from the VERY top of it’s living mother’s birth canal.
* Revival of stillborn piglets via mouth to snout resuscitation.
* Numerous recoveries of departed chicken bodies.
* The discovery of partially developed and slightly decomposed chic embryos who’s eggs have fallen from the nest.
* Rescue missions involving dead baby blue birds who’s mother has died and is rotting in the nest on top of said babies.

I told you. Check your squeamishness ( another ” Brie” word ) at the gate.
You can see why I’m afraid to wake up most mornings as one never can tell what’s waiting on the other side of the door it seems. Just last week for example, I lost one of the weaner piglets due to the extreme heat. Of course it was me that found her, but luckily Paul was home and took over the sad job of disposal. I guess I should have clarified with him just exactly HOW the dead piglet was put to rest and have made a mental note to do so in future, as this morning I had a terrible flashback to grade 11 English when we had to do a book report on “Lord of the Flies.” (You know where I’m going with this already, don’t you?) As horrifying as the above list may be, nothing tops walking outside in a gentle rain only to come across the decapitated half chewed on head of one of my beloved piglets. It glared at me in paradox with a sick sort of snarl on the half that was decipherable, but at the same time was winking at me as if to say “ha ha! Jokes on you!”
And truly, it is. ; (

Advertisements

Dirty Jobs


Once upon a time in an office far, far away was a young woman who quite enjoyed her job. While the office space itself may have been somewhat cramped, she had the pleasure of working with a lovely group of people and spent many a morning looking forward to seeing them. She wore beautiful clothes and had shoes to die for. Her coiffeur was always stylishly turned out and her makeup; impeccable. When seen galivanting about town, one couldn’t help but notice the confident bounce in her step. Then one day she had a nervous breakdown, bought a farm and spent the remainder of her days looking like shit and too busy to eat anything but cereal out of the box. To her utmost horror and dismay she once pulled into Save On parking lot wearing, wait for it….
gum boots! No more was she the bouncy and confident one, but rather a hideous, slimy, slithering thing who had stooped so low that she now wore baseball hats rather than bother with her hair! ‘Tis a sad tale I speak of, no question. Thankfully, the character in the story bares no resemblance whatsoever to myself, although there may be some tiny parallels. Like, teeny tiny. For instance, tonight especially, I wonder what I’m doing, exactly. One of the piglets is sick and I’ve seen enough death on the farm to be fairly certain he won’t make the night, although I hope I’m wrong. Paul goes to his own dirty job in the morning which leaves me with the downright filthy vocation that I willingly, I repeat, willingly chose. WTF? A death on the farm is bad enough, but what’s worse is being the one that has to find it, feel bad about it, and lastly, figure out what the hell to do with it, if you catch my drift. This all takes place before 9am on a good day and I can’t help but think that I could be seated at a computer, sipping coffee, and complaining that my feet hurt, rather than play my current role which can consist of a multitude of disgusting, sad and just plain gross tasks.
Mind you, disgusting, sad, and just plain gross are also words one might use when summing up my previous jobs ( you know, the ones that actually resulted in a paycheck.)
So my next question is; is it possible to farm in shoes to die for, or will I die farming in shoes that kill me?
If you catch my drift.

Dirty Jobs


Once upon a time in an office far, far away was a young woman who quite enjoyed her job. While the office space itself may have been somewhat cramped, she had the pleasure of working with a lovely group of people and spent many a morning looking forward to seeing them. She wore beautiful clothes and had shoes to die for. Her coiffeur was always stylishly turned out and her makeup; impeccable. When seen galivanting about town, one couldn’t help but notice the confident bounce in her step. Then one day she had a nervous breakdown, bought a farm and spent the remainder of her days looking like shit and too busy to eat anything but cereal out of the box. To her utmost horror and dismay she once pulled into Save On parking lot wearing, wait for it….
gum boots! No more was she the bouncy and confident one, but rather a hideous, slimy, slithering thing who had stooped so low that she now wore baseball hats rather than bother with her hair! ‘Tis a sad tale I speak of, no question. Thankfully, the character in the story bares no resemblance whatsoever to myself, although there may be some tiny parallels. Like, teeny tiny. For instance, tonight especially, I wonder what I’m doing, exactly. One of the piglets is sick and I’ve seen enough death on the farm to be fairly certain he won’t make the night, although I hope I’m wrong. Paul goes to his own dirty job in the morning which leaves me with the downright filthy vocation that I willingly, I repeat, willingly chose. WTF? A death on the farm is bad enough, but what’s worse is being the one that has to find it, feel bad about it, and lastly, figure out what the hell to do with it, if you catch my drift. This all takes place before 9am on a good day and I can’t help but think that I could be seated at a computer, sipping coffee, and complaining that my feet hurt, rather than play my current role which can consist of a multitude of disgusting, sad and just plain gross tasks.
Mind you, disgusting, sad, and just plain gross are also words one might use when summing up my previous jobs ( you know, the ones that actually resulted in a paycheck.)
So my next question is; is it possible to farm in shoes to die for, or will I die farming in shoes that kill me?
If you catch my drift.