I�m not big on setting policy, preferring the freewheeling chaos approach to life, but events of the last day or so here at the office have made me think that I need to take a more formal stance as regards who is permitted to talk to me and, more important, who is not. In that vein, I am instituting a new policy, which shall be illustrated with a sign, reading �You must have this level of social skills to speak to me.� I plan to place the sign adjacent to my desk, where approaching visitors can see it.

Because nothing in life is absolute, the sign will feature a sliding scale, which I will adjust hourly, according to my mood. At the bottom of the scale will be a little cut-out of the head of someone with minimal social skills, say, Charles Manson. Then, a little bit above that, someone slightly more savvy, say, Nancy Grace, then maybe Gilbert Gottfried. The scale will increase incrementally, moving on all the way up through Angela Lansbury and Martha Stewart, and ending with Miss Manners. I will make all decisions regarding the level of social skill of all visitors, and those decisions will be final.

This new policy stems from my irritation over two interactions with a certain coworker, whom I will call Kip. Kip, who outranks me by a wide margin, is in the top three as far as most irritating coworker, and ordinarily, my attempts to avoid him are successful. His desperate craving for approval is at apparent odds with his combative conversational style, and I long ago abandoned further attempts at communication.

Yesterday, I found myself leaving the building at the same time he did, and he made an elaborate show of holding the door for me, with sweeping arm gesture, then escorted me to the lot where we�d both parked our cars. Along the way, he told me about his life, his grandchildren, and his car, which is electric yellow and displays custom plates reiterating the make of the car. I haven�t quite put my finger on how he does it, but he has a way of making statements that seem reasonably positive, and then correcting me when I express enthusiasm. If you�ve ever seen the British version of The Office, you might recognize his contrary communication style as similar to that of the character named Keith. It�s kind of like this:

Kip: Well, we got a new puppy�a cute little thing, like a miniature dachshund.

Me, Violet: Oh, congratulations! Puppies are so much fun.

Kip: [Dramatic pause to stare at me in disbelief, followed by dry, humorless laugh] Well, I can see you�ve never owned a puppy before, or you�d know how much work it is. Man, the thing never lets me get any sleep. [extended humorless laughing and head-shaking, to indicate level of exasperation with both the puppy and my idiocy]

Me, Violet: [thinking] Fuck you, Kip, and your little dog, too!

Like that.

At any rate, the walk to the parking lot was brief, affording Kip only four or five opportunities to educate me about my own stupidity, so he stopped by my desk this morning. He uses each visit as a chance to make an entrance. Sometimes he mimes a knocking motion and calls, �Knock, knock!� Sometimes he pauses at the threshold, feigning fear of my awesome power, wringing his hands like a supplicant. Today, he abandoned those time-tested approaches and simply sidled up behind me as I was seated, leaned over my shoulder, and handed me a couple of photographs. The photographs showed a little boy holding a tiny dog. I assumed the dog was his new, irritating puppy, but the boy was unknown to me. Feeling (irrationally) that I should know who the boy was, I just accepted the photos and said, �Ohhhhh! That must be your new puppy!� Kip was silent, and, not knowing what was required of me, I said, �That must be your grandson. Look how cute he is!� Kip answered, �Yes, I am,� sounding slightly put-out.

I thought I must have mis-heard him. I stared at the pictures again. The boy and the dog stared back at me with varying degrees of bonhomie. �He�s so cute!� I tried again, and again, Kip started slightly, and answered, �Yes, I am.�

What I don�t understand about the exchange (apart from my own inclination to be polite under the circumstances) is his response. I get the sense that he was attempting to be funny, but his irritation with my compliment seemed genuine. I wasn�t sure if he was telling me that his grandson had inherited his looks, and so hence he was rightful recipient of the compliment. That�s how it seemed. Why would someone show me a picture, ostensibly to boast about the subject thereof, and then act irritated when I complimented it? Whatever his intention, the result was deeply unfunny and slightly unsettling, and so aren�t you glad that I decided to write several paragraphs about it? Yes, you are! You�re welcome.

At any rate, I need to go now, to start work on the sign. I think it�ll draw some flak at first, but people will get used to it after a while. In time, they will grow to love it, and then, when someone sees it for the first time and comments, �That�s so cool!� I will smile and nod, and answer, �Yes. I am.�

Star of the day. . .Claudia the nice hairdresser lady