Please. Don't Talk To Me.

At least one of my co-workers is still miffed about the kitty issue and isn't speaking to me. Oh no. Not that. The problem is that they contend our rat problem (they are plentiful lately) and a flea problem are solely due to the kitties. Despite the fact that the field across the street from us is being dug up for a shopping mall or something. Anyone ever hear of "field rats?" Anyone know why they're called that? They've got to go somewhere and we're convenient. I bet they've completely taken over the empty building across from the other side of the excavation site.

The woman who lives in the house right next door to us has two dogs and never does anything about fleas. I don't think fleas recognize property lines and refuse to cross them. But, you know, don't confuse us with the facts. And no one has stepped up to talk about it directly to me or the owner. I'm being given the silent treatment because they're all terrified and this is what five-year olds do (or maybe I'm insulting five-year olds).

Everyone is afraid to talk to me about it because

1. I can be scary when angry. I'm so calm and icy, the windows frost up.

2. My boss is on my side. I believe I've covered the "Official Torture List" in several other posts.

So some of them just aren't speaking to me. I wonder if they think that bothers me. The reality is that it's all a big drama here every single damn day. I'm just temporarily the focus of the general office-wide hate fest that constitutes my working life. Please. Don't talk to me.

In other news, Loathsome is still on the owner's shit list. I dropped by to ask Owner where I should direct a phone inquiry about a quote for a job. I asked if Loathsome should get the call. Owner replied, "You should never call Loathsome about anything." Hmm. Doesn't sound good. Still no sight of him anywhere. If he were here, everyone would be not speaking to him. Or the Useless One. (I'll get to him later. ) See? My "professional" (and I used that term advisedly) life is a rollicking adventure every day.

The Money Man is having a really good week. He loves it when there's conflict. Especially when he has a part in it. He may have gotten the kitty ball rolling when he announced to everyone that he had 50 fleas on him when he entered the small building where kitty food is stored. Oddly enough, my mom, the Foot Lady and I have never had a flea problem over there. But far be it from me to challenge that assessment. I certainly am not interested in counting the fleas on his khakis; I'll just have to take his word for it.

Tomorrow, maybe we'll cover the Useless One. Or the bizarre behavior of an old friend of mine. I seem to attract bizarre. I'm a beacon shining a light into the Land of Crazy. They flock to me like (you guessed it) rats after the Pied Piper.