Things change and remain the same. I am not going to be training, as I had announced. I will instead act as a regular crew chief, and I got started doing that yesterday. It will be… interesting. I also had to quickly replace someone to finish training a different group on Friday, so it was an incredibly busy week for me. I think, since I still had a choice of what I would do until 10:30 Friday, that it was spending that one further day in an airless interior conference room that made me choose the regular crew leader job. At least I should be able to get outside during the daylight hours now. And I can do some (maybe much?) of the job at home, even with driving around the county.
Janet and I went to a huge garden supply place yesterday. Everything was hideously overpriced (including the rabbit/deer deterrent/repellent we purchased), and lots of stuff wasnʼt remotely near even a Wal-Mart pricing in value, but the worst item was an Isabel Bloom garden statue. Janet loves Isabels (as we call them; I prefer the actual artistʼs original work and even more, her husbandʼs stuff). But even she was pretty grossed out by what the company is offering up in her name these days. I tried their site, but I cannot find the image(s) to reproduce here.
I have felt before that some of the statues appear to carry a pretty filthy subliminal message (and I am serious about this), but yesterday I saw one — a boy crouched down with a frog in his lap/crotch, with a leeringly delighted expression on the boyʼs face that has to be seen to be believed. I had already been leaning over to whisper in Janetʼs ear sweet nothings about the worhtlessly wealthy and their wearingly evident lack of taste, but seeing this little green imp, I said (all but inaudibly, believe me), “And that oneʼs entitled ‘Boy Humping Frog,’ isnʼt it?”
Yes, I fear I went for the alliteration and didnʼt really say humping (and the joke seems more humorous that way, still). Now I am convinced, however, that the current Isabel Bloom artists are trying deliberately to hide other content in their images (perhaps like the old Disney cartoonists supposedly did). I hope, anyway, that it isnʼt company policy to keep creating statues of children with sexually-explicit ecstatic looks on their faces (there was also a girl with butterfly held at “waist” level whose thrown-back head and juicily wild expression of bliss was possibly even more troubling than the boy and his abused amphibian). I wonder what innocent neighbors think when they visit naive and misled friends who have purchased one of these unchaste statuettes.
Regardless, it was a shockingly amusing pseudo-artistic encounter in the midafternoon.
Once, home I already had three messages on the machine and a ringing phone to answer as I headed in the door. This job is no picnic already (but then if the Isabel images are, I will pass on that).
I had better get myself to work, to work…
©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.