Today we're all in our office together. The angst is palpable, out-smelling the scented candles and basket of cinnamon infused pine cones (!!!??? It's exactly what I envision Martha Stewart shitting at Christmas).
The heat is cranked up to 90 in here. I'm usually cold, but this is
ridiculous. Susie needs to get a Italian woman's merkin or something that will keep her core warm without risking Gena's hair care products bursting into flame. Gena's
face is perpetually pink and sweaty. I think she is actually panting. Susie ignores it and sits at her keyboard in her green sweater, like a praying mantis, punching at her keys.
Gena is agitated that her plants are dying. She's spritzing them with water every 15 minutes. I warned her when she moved her Fred Meyer's flora into this office that I am the curse of vegetation.
"Seriously, point that creeping vine in another direction if you don't want to see it curdle and crisp."
She didn't and now it has. Maybe its not me, though, maybe it's the raydon or legionaires disease saturating the heating/cooling system…mold spores…or whatever else keeps this huge building condemned when we aren't in it. I've cheerfully suggested this and Susie now looks like she's crying over in her corner. She's calling someone and hunching over her headset. I can hear whispering but not words. When I make my calls I speak loud enough to make the others wince. I don't want secrets between us.
I wonder about the mouse traps that still line the halls. I think I'll put cheese in one tonight. I bet the only thing I catch, though, is Craig. And the last of Susie's will to live.
I have a feeling you’re going to end up being a lot like “Granny” on Beverly Hill Billies. The way you embrace the life of all of our Lord’s creatures and beings. It’s remarkable and inspiring. You complete me