Last week I mentioned that we had a bit of a rodent problem in our house, and that my good friend Mike Hamilton has absolutely insisted upon fixing it, despite my objections in the name of health and hygiene. Well, the argument escalated to near manic levels on Thursday evening when Ham enlisted the help of other well-meaning souls and convinced them all that A) We were living in a heap of detritus and mayhem and B) That this was somehow, inexplicably, MY fault. This sort of blame shifting is nothing new to me as I have lived the last 20-almost-21 years of my life with Jody Dailey, whose main objective in life is to rustle up as much sympathy for her pathetic plights of fancy (whatever they may be) by turning the accusatory spotlight onto her inflammatory-but-most-often-more-innocent-than-she-seems sister. This I am used to. This has been happening since the dawn of Jody's life, or at least since she learned how to point a finger and say, "SHE did it!"
Oh, hey Jody. You read this blog, huh? Heh. Well. YOUR REBUTTAL, Counsel.
At any rate, the conversation on Thursday hovered strictly around the idea that, by not allowing people to stick evil death sandwiches in the attic opening in my room thus luring the rats to my side of the house only to die, rot, and infest my quarters with maggots, I was somehow not only living in squalor but ALSO having significant Trust Issues.
But then the next day, I discovered this:
You'll want to enlarge that pic to get the full idea of what I'm dealing with here.
The ensuing conversations have gone a little something like this:
(Read bottom to top, in case you're not privy to the time-stamp order of The Good Book and/or any fwded email message on earth)
I have a feeling we're not ONLY battling rodents anymore.