Let the Hair Pulling Begin

Photo by myself on University Place.

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Today marks the start of World War III.

This morning, Frank, an architect at my office, had a skirmish with some decorators over the conference room. The decorators had booked the room but somehow, their appointment wasn't recorded in the log book. Frank was mid-meeting in the room when a group of them swung by, surprised and insulted.

Words were exchanged and suddenly it felt like 'West Side Story', with the Jets meeting the Sharks. The flamboyant expressive decorators were riled up in a huff and we, the stolid sensible architects didn't stand a chance.

Usually, we folks get along like monkeys and giraffes in the zoo (it's questionable, however, who are the monkeys and who are the giraffes). Our personality types are on opposite ends of the spectrum - the architects draw lines on computers, abstract representations of physical spaces. Meanwhile, the decorators use itty bitty swatches of material and paint chips to describe the same spaces.

They run around chattering giddily and calling one another 'Girl' and 'Lovey', regardless of gender. We call each other by our last names and sit quietly at our desks. They dress in stylish, color-coordinating ensembles and astonishing footwear. We dress tastefully in conservative greys, browns, blacks and the occasional green. They're the disco queens. We're the nerds.

Anyway, while Frank told me what happened with the conference room, we received a group email from a teammate showing the following: multiple portraits of a cartoon character sitting calmly, before spontaneously spazzing out. Above the cartoons, the email read 'Do someone a favor. February is National Mental Health Month. Send an email to an unstable person you know.'

'Why don't you forward Them that email we just got?' I suggested.

Frank giggled maniacally and started typing on the subject line, 'Ladies, don't cry.'

'Are you trying to start a war?' I asked. 'That's like lobbing the first grenade.'

Sensibly, Frank used the backspace key. He thought a bit before typing, 'Can't we all just get along?' and hit return.

Minutes later he received the reply, 'Not on your life, suckass.'

The first grenade had been lobbed from their side. The war was on.

For more posts on the divafest, click here, here and here