So we had a fairly major power outage last night. I’m not sure when the power came back on, I think it was somewhere in the neighborhood of ten hours all told, based on where my oven clock (the only power-dependent analog clock in the house, welcome to 2003) was was when I woke up and discovered the power was back, and the fact that my TiVo reports it failed to grab Jeopardy for me last night at 7:30.
As a result, I returned home to my apartment complex after a delightful evening with friends to pitch darkness (with workers in front and back working furiously in the rain, Glub bless ’em), and was treated to the unique experience of hoofing up three flights of stairs balancing a couple board games and a dozen Krispy-Kremes. But that’s not what compelled me to write about this.
I woke up this morning, and, having no idea myself and a houseful of clocks blinking “12:00”, I stumbled out to the kitchen to acertain the time situation. My first instinct is to grab the phone and call the Time Lady. The Time Lady rules. She always knows what time it is. So I punch in the numbers. 767-anything else, right? S’what it always was. “Hi, welcome to Qwest Voicemail Services.” WTF?
Okay, traditionally it’s listed in the book as 767-8900. Nope, no go there. How about the traditional POP-CORN? Nope. I called the operator. Wouldn’t put me through due to “increased call volumes.” Um, okay. Called 411, asked for the Time Lady. She put me through to some third-party service that wasn’t no goddamn Time Lady, so I hung up,
Long story short, I live in a place where there is no Time Lady. Or if there still is, for the first time in almost 30 years, I don’t know how to call her.
This is exceptionally disconcerting.