When
I started this blog, I had envisioned a "Julie/Julia" kind of thing
(if Julia Child had been a hen keeper and Julie the recipe blogger were me
writing about raising, not macerating, chickens). But that would also mean I'd
have nothing other to do than come home (early, one would presume) from my day
job (the sun rarely sets in this vision), and spend my evenings playing with,
taking photos of, doting on and caring for "the girls" which means feeding and watering
them, occasionally raking out the run, collecting and washing the eggs and mucking their little coop wearing my rubber boots from LL
Bean and pearls around my neck, then writing about it all in a romantic light, well into the wee hours of the night while I lounge on the bed wearing only sheepskin slippers to warm
my feet and my doting boyfriend’s flannel shirt, while he looks on, lovingly,
encouragingly even, and continues with his crossword puzzle.
Right.
You see, my "day" job consists of
10-12 hour days, much of which is behind a computer screen up to 7 days a week, juggling (and
missing) e-mails and dodging as many phone calls as I dare, running from
meeting to meeting at which I am required to take notes, losing said notes a
thousand times over but pretending to get them out to the appropriate groups in
a timely manner, managing a brood of 40+ women who more or less are expected to
run their own show but who I have to monitor to make sure they are completing
required paperwork and meeting deadlines, ordering food and (believe it or not)
picking up after others, cleaning the bathroom, making coffee, all the while
being PECKED TO DEATH by the reminder notices that pop up in Outlook, letting
me know how many days past due I am on every item....yes, I did just make the
analogy of an unruly flock of chickens that I must take care of/feed/water
(coffee) listen to and serve, at work. Needless
to say, I'm not usually in the best of moods when I arrive home, nor do I have
the energy, to wax poetic about the girls, who surely do deserve a little more
attention at this point, as does said boyfriend who by this time, is getting a little grouchy.
Yet
somehow I think the home crew, who I would much prefer being able to take care
of (except for the fact that $2.50 for a dozen eggs is pretty slim pickings and
there're no medical benefits) understands that I like and need their company (boyfriend included).
The "girls" run up to me excitedly squawking about their day, giving me quizzical looks
and hunkering down in front of me for the obligatory pat, ruffling their
feathers and showing off in front of one another, pecking at my shoes and
waiting for the corn scratch that they know I’ll throw to them. So easy to
please. If only they didn’t crap everywhere. Wait a minute… I get that at work too.
