Tonight's sore throat has nothing to do with the pissy weather. Not this time. Tonight's sore throat is courtesy of the Boss (and his girlfriend), who decided that 5:00 pm on a Friday night was just the best time to fax me a four-page letter to type.

I lost it. They've had all day to ask me to help them with their little project (which is only marginally related to true company business, but I'm used to that, since I deposit the Boss's ex-wife's alimony check in her account every month and don't complain about that). All day? They've had all week, and most of the month if you want to get down to cases.

If all this rigmarole we're going through with the bank and the property consultant and the accountant (and somebody called "escrow," whoever she is) were going to make me rich, I'd be hoppin' on board like a flounder. But it's going to make the Boss rich, or it's going to make him bankrupt. Either way, it's just extra work for me (unless it really does make him rich, and he leaves it all to me instead of his three daughters, eight grandchildren, and one ne'er-do-well son, a long shot at best).

Besides, he's going to outlive me (and possibly his grandchildren) anyway. I just know he is.

So I howled at the invisible moon and raged and cussed and threw my back out again, and all for nothing. I typed their stoopid letter, but I hung onto it for 45 minutes before faxing it back. I hoped to avoid any further revisions that way. So far, so good — except for the sore throat, but that's just an occupational hazard, like paper cuts and phone calls.