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| Damn you hooligans!! |
Last night, as Dr. H and I were peacefully attempting to sleep off our first-day-back-from-vaca exhaustion, we were startled awake around 4:45am by a thunderous crash. "What the hell!?" he says. "This can't be for real" I reply. Already accustomed to the occasional garbage truck or screaming college coed late at night, we knew this was something new... and ongoing... and f'ing loud. We clicked on the sound machine and I popped in my ear plugs. Reverse beeping, asphalt dumping. Now I'm out of bed, opening up the terrace door, observing in horror a full-fledged construction scene four stories below. I'm pissed. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken from deep slumber (and who is now stuck in bed with a tossing and turning husband). I needed to take action. I needed to complain!!
As I spelled out my street address to the lady on the other end of my 311 call (who sounded exactly the way you'd expect someone working the pre-dawn shift at 311 to sound...) I thought to myself "holy crap, I am that crazy lady!" I'm that lady calling to lodge a complaint, demanding an explanation, snapping pictures with my cell phone and mentally drafting a heated letter "to the authorities" while I attempt not to foam at the mouth. I think this makes it official folks, I'm old.
Duuuude! That is some UNAUTHORIZED NONSENSE! I'm glad you called 311. When I first moved here I watched the entire public access channel special on "the uses of 311." Nailed it!
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