Nearly Wordless Wednesday 11/30

Hello, Back of Couch. Take a memo.

It has been a few weeks since Daylight Saving time kicked in, and I have finally managed to reset all of the clocks in the house. Yes, it did take us this long. Thank you for asking. I am now taking suggestions on resetting the 16-year-old cat. She has a standing appointment with the living room couch upstairs at 5:45am, but something has gone awry, as she now appears to be set for Greenwich Mean Time. I seem to have misplaced the instruction manual for the cat-clock. Here’s what I have learned the hard way.

1) Cat-clocks do not come with snooze buttons.

2) Cat-clocks do come equipped with claws, therefore a search for a snooze button is inadvisable.

3) Cat-clocks are unbelievably loud and persistent at 1:30am. And 2am. And 4:30am.

4) If anyone in the entire house wants to sleep, the cat-clock must be allowed to win.

Too Tired To Think of a Title

Daylight Saving Time started. So exciting. Or it would be if I hadn’t squandered mine. Yesterday Squish woke up at an ungodly hour, and I made the deal. If dear husband would get up with him, I would let him have Daylight Saving Sunday to sleep in. He could enjoy that extra hour. That’s right. I made a deal with the devil, and I am paying. (to my husband, so the rest of you look away, please: No, sweetie. You’re not the devil. The devil is who must have made me so sleepy yesterday that I was willing to tinkle away this once-a-year gift. Go back to sleep. I love you!) Okay, you guys can read again.

So here I sit at this early hour, hanging out with Squish and waiting for my coffee to brew. Speaking of hours, can you tell me what hour it actually is? I have no idea if my husband messed with any of the clocks yet, so I couldn’t tell you the time. And waking him up to ask him would kind of violate the sanctity of Sleeping In Sunday. I could look at my computer’s time stamp, but I can’t remember if we ever downloaded the patch for the new DST. Oh, well. Life is an adventure, and I do like living on the edge.

I could listen to the radio to see what time is it. I could. Except that all the stations I can tolerate are national once. Their time-check’s involve the generic phrase “It’s now twenty past the hour.” Darn you, NPR, for your inability to commit! Which hour? Do  I just get to pick one? Actually, I might be okay with that one. I pick 4am. That way I get to whine about how early I was up but have lots of extra time.

Phoebe is no help. She has a stomach clock with atomic accuracy. Within 10 minutes of feeding time, she is dancing and yipping, waiting to be fed. Either way, she should have sounded off by now. Apparently a day of holding the couch down has left her so exhausted she doesn’t care about food.

Not being blessed with any kind of linear thought process,when it’s left up to me, I am not sure when to get everyone up. Yes, I am that stupid. An hour extra. Does that mean that I need to get everyone up earlier? If I mess it up, will we get to church as everyone else is leaving? Or will we be there so early that we’re alone in the parking lot? Maybe I should aim for the middle to cut our losses.

I give up. This makes my head hurt. I’m going back to bed.Wake me in the spring.

Sleep well, little man. You don't have to wake for an hour. Or two hours? Or should you already be up? Poop. We're going to be late. Or really early. I can't win.

Another Rude Awakening

I need five more minutes. Or coffee.

It’s early. Really early. Coffee’s not even finished yet. Please don’t talk to me. I want to go back to bed, but that’s just not in the cards for me today. Ugh.

I’ve not been sleeping well, so I’ve been a little lazy recently. My husband sets his alarm for “before-the-stinkin’-rooster” and goes out for a run, carefully resetting the alarm to give me another half an hour of sleep. 39 minutes, if I decide to hit snooze. And there I was yesterday at the sound of the alarm, stumbling out of bed, tripping over shoes, trying not to brain myself on the dresser because we decided it would be ever-so-smart to put the alarm clock on the other side of the room. There was no question that it was a “snooze” day. I reached out my well-trained alarm-stopper to smack the snooze bar, only to discover IT WASN’T THERE!

I thought I wad having a dream at first, a bad one. Like needing to potty and can’t find a toilet, but noisier. If I don’t get the alarm off in time, the baby is wide awake, and that blessed nine more minutes’ shut eye is out the window. I smacked around on the top of the clock in desperation, thinking that the magic button was playing a trick on me. If I hit it hard enough, it would reappear with a big “SURPRISE!” Where was the frickin’ button? Was it my husband’s new running partner? WHERE DID THAT BUTTON GO?”!

I hit it just right, it seems. Because the radio came out. Loudly. Very, very, very loudly. And it only goes off WHEN YOU PUSH THE SNOOZE BUTTON! Squish snorted and turned over in his crib over in the corner. Even in my sleep deprived state, I realized if I gave in to my deepest desire and pounded the stupid alarm into a pile of dust with a hammer, I would probably wake the baby. So I did what I had to do. I unplugged the whole clock. Standing there with cord in hand, I realized I had just kissed my extra bit of sleep goodbye. As if I could sleep after that trauma anyway.

My husband admitted later that the clock had broken on him that morning. I feel very let down now. Alarm clocks shouldn’t break. And that one was special. It had been his grandmother’s. If a clock can’t handle 25 years of someone beating on it every morning (sometimes 3 or 4 times a morning), they just shouldn’t sell it at Wal-mart. That sucker should have lasted until retirement. I am bitter.

I forgot about the stupid clock until last night before bed. My husband had replaced it with a different model that he had bought for his office. I took an instant dislike to it. No more softly glowing red numbers. These puppies are fluorescent green and are so bright the bedroom looks like a landing strip. And it doesn’t sound like our old alarm. Instead of a gentle “beep-beep-beep” at middle C, I woke thinking someone was stepping on a bag of cats.

I don’t know where any of the buttons are. I can’t turn on the radio or set the time. But I will have to learn it all fast. I’ll have the kids help me run some snooze drills today until I know that clock so well I can work it in my sleep. Because that’s the actual point.

But look at me. It’s just now shower-time, and I am finished writing for the day. Look at me being all productive and stuff! Rather than beat on the new clock this morning, I decided to go ahead and start my day. Rather than hitting snooze, I just turned the thing off. At least, I think that’s what I did. I guess I’ll know in a few minutes!