I was listening today to a fellow peon here in the palatial headquarters of my benevolent employer talk about her lost youth. From what I could pick up, she was one of those girls who went to Mexico on spring break. And now, predictably, she has kids, drives a white luxury SUV and the people at Starbucks know her name.
"I've gotta change my life, you know? I've gotta do something," she was saying to a coworker. "I think this spring break -- the whole spring break -- I'm going to sleep on the couch."
Continuing with the "Tales From A Suburban Office Complex" theme, they (the ubiquitous "they") came to test our fire alarms today and a very large man showed up at my cubicle corral and recruited a coworker and me to help him out.
"See that box over there?" he asked, pointing to a small red box, attached to a pillar, that has the word "FIRE" written on it.
"Yes," we said dumbly -- belying the fact that we are employed to spend all day correcting English.
"I'm going to go down stairs and set it off. Would you mind watching to make sure the little light flashes?"
"Sure," we said, excited to have been trusted with such a responsibility.
We were going to make sure that the light flashed! If the headquarters of my benevolent employer should ever burn to the ground, perhaps someone will stumble from the flames and proclaim, "Thank the Sweet Baby Jesus In The Highest for that flashing light! It saved my life!" and my coworker and I will be able to exchange high fives.
I'm not exactly sure why this particular box needs a flashing light, though. It is smack dab in the middle of the building, which strikes me as a bad to place to be when the whole thing is aflame. Why not use a flashing light to lure people to the door?
Nonetheless, for about 10 minutes my coworker and I stared at the little red box, doing no work and waiting for the light to flash.
"MWEEEEEEET! MWEEEEEET!" said the alarm.
My coworker and I confirmed to one another that the light was indeed flashing and that it was doing so quite impressively, as far as light flashing goes. We could barely stay in our seats as we waited for the large man to return so we could tell him all about the flashing light.
But he never came back.
As my coworker finished up his shift for the day, he looked about someone despondently.
"He never came back," he said, his heart clearly broken.
Know what I hate??? People who use excessive punctuation!!!
OK, let's see here... 129 complaints in a year; that's once every three days. So, I can completely understand why police were happy to see the Midtown Live night club burn to the ground. But that guy who communicated to fellow officers, "Hey ... LOL," should be punished. Not for being insensitive but for being a dork and using chat language. Imagine if they used that all the time:
"OMG!!! Code 10*!!!"
They just won't let you have any fun in Spring Grove, Pa.
*Code 10=SWAT alert; 1145=attempted suicide; 5150=crazy person ---- I did those from memory; I used to work an assignment desk in San Diego and spent all day listening to police radio. My favorite code was 1115, ballgame in street.