One of the biggest complaints I have about my job is how physically demanding it is. Playing with flowers is all well and good but processing them involves lifting several hundred pounds, three times a week. After putting them on a cart and hauling them to my department, they must be chopped and put into buckets of water then carried to where they need to be, usually either in the cooler or on the sales floor. If we ever meet in person, be sure not to miss my right arm (affectionately nicknamed “Ol’ Choppy” and endowed with a voice that can only be described as “the crazy prospector”), which is quite the specimen of manliness. It rivals Arnold Schwarzenegger’s. Or Madonna’s. As we approach Valentine’s Day, every florist’s nightmare, the work multiplies greatly.

Why, then, internet conspirators (that’s right, you are all accomplices), did my boss just hire me an assistant who has been described as a “sweet lady in her early seventies”? I hope to god she’s been taking her Once-Monthly Boniva like Gidget The Flying Nun recommends and whatever that drug is that brags about “I don’t have to go right now” because there’s only room in my department for one pair of Depends and I’ve already cornered that (admittedly disgusting) market. Gonna take ol’ Betty Ann out and see what she can do.