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Friday, January 09, 2015

Did I Make the Mistake of My Life?

Jean Sexton wonders:

What have I done? How did I get here?
Did I make the mistake of my life moving to Texas?
It appears that I did. Not only does this place not get any rain (nothing grows without hours of watering by hand every day) but the peaches in the farmer's market don't smell like the peaches back home. None of the barbeque is properly done (pork, with vinegar-based sauce) but everybody thinks that cow meat covered with some glorified concoction of ketchup is actually good. Speaking of vinegar, nobody in Amarillo seems to understand that you're supposed to include it in a wide variety of things (such as deviled eggs and potato salad) and in fact virtually no one includes vinegar in anything. I live among heathens!
Every day working for Steve Cole is April Fool's day. If you think the endless pranks he played on me during the Origins trip were just to make the drive go faster, think again. He's like that at home all the time. I never know when he's serious about anything. He casually remarks about some extremely controversial blog he posted, knowing that I don't want him upsetting the customers who don't agree with him. An hour of checking later, I find out that he hasn't posted anything, anywhere. He sends me full-page Captain's Log articles that are nothing but his political and religious rants about just about anything, but I find out that he already deleted them before I could explain to him how it would hurt the company to publish such things.
He is constantly organizing the players and customers and staff against me, feeding them product information that should only be released by marketing. I got 24 emails demanding that I give Steve Cole the password to our page on Facebook because he asked people to do that during one of his appearances on TalkShoe, which, by the way, was never authorized by me. He doesn't need to be talking to customers at all, but rather letting me handle it.
How he treats my dog, Wolf, is even worse. He thinks he's the "grandfather" of Wolf, assigned to spoil the grandchild with treats that he has no business eating, such as roast beef sandwiches, meat sticks, cheese pizza, or porkchop bones. I thought he was taking Wolf to the dog park (which would at least get Steve some exercise) but I just found out today that he has been taking the dog to Walter's Cafe where Wolf gets a bowl of beef stew. (Steve claims that Wolf is his allergy-testing dog who makes sure there are no onions in his food. Somehow, the cafe owner let's him get away with the "service dog" exception.) No wonder Wolf won't eat his kibble!
Clearly, I should have taken that offer from the CIA!