Not so long ago the entire family was dining together, and the discussion turned to the inability of my wife and daughter to get up without hitting snooze repeatedly. I remembered that the oldest boy once had a Nickelodeon alarm that played the Nick theme song (from the 90's) and then launched into an alarm blare like a battleship klaxon. I remembered it was annoying.
My daughter quipped that "No, I had the most annoying alarm ever, and it looked like you", pointing at me. I could only laugh because it was true. She only sort of laughed.
Here is some background.
My mother went to work full time when I was in sixth or seventh grade. It was my responsibility to get up and go to school. My brother wasn't going to get me up any more than I would have dragged him out of bed. I learned early to put my alarm across the room. I had to get up to turn it off, so why bother going back to bed? It was effective. I still get up without a snooze. Thus, my patience with chronic snoozers is limited.
When I went to college, I pledged a fraternity. Pledges lived in the house. One of the duties was to wake up everyone in the fraternity. Wake-up calls started at six and ended at 10 AM. Everyone was entitled to three calls every morning, the last call you had to insist the sleeper was sitting up with feet on the floor. There were no exceptions, no matter what the sleeper said. Now, we had a small pledge class, so the pool of those on wake-up call duty was limited. Most guys served one day every week or two, depending on class schedule. Usually two guys did the duty, 6-8 and another 8-10. Classes started at a little after 8, so no one would miss an early class doing calls.
I had the misfortune of no classes on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday before 10:30. That meant every MWF I had wake up calls from 8-10. It sucked. Some guys did calls every two weeks, I was doing it three times a week. I became good at my responsibility. I knew the problem sleepers -- the ones who cursed, who begged, who fought. I knew the guys who would refuse to be "dragged". I had a duty, and I did it with ruthless efficiency.
The next semester, again by chance, I had no classes before 10 on Tuesday or Thursday. Again, guess who got screwed? At least one other brother had the same schedule, so the burden was shared. I spent a lot of time my freshman year waking up the 70+ brothers in the house.
Anyway, years later, when it came to get my daughter out of bed, I took the same approach. I would shake her the first time until she responded. Fifteen minutes later I shook her until her eyes were open and she could answer me. The third call I was relentless, shaking her and talking to her until she answered, sat up, and put her feet on the floor. In the fraternity I was done at that point, with my daughter I stayed until she was completely up and out of bed.
Yes, I was an annoying alarm clock. But she got up.
It is a chilly 16F outside this morning with a threat of flurries. Winter is upon us, I believe.
I am back to work after the long weekend. I took yesterday off to see the wife through a colonoscopy. All is good with her.
Some of you are insanely curious, so here it is; "D" none of the above. I drove down to the gas station and got a cup of black coffee Sunday.
The wife has the house transformed into a Christmas wonderland. There are five trees of varying heights, counting the one on the porch (4'). The big one is the 9' one we got last year. The stairs are wrapped in lighted garland. The dining room and family room each have little skinny trees (6' / 7"). I will try to get some pictures later in the week.
Now I have to get caught up on nearly a week's worth of emails.
Have a great Tuesday.
Yes, that is the indomitable Esther Williams.
I woke up in a good mood. Then the Keurig refused to make coffee. It won’t even make hot water. Nothing. I think the bleeping pump has died.
Now I’m faced with going out and buying stupid coffee from the coffee shop. They opened a new Starbucks in walking distance. I could get some exercise and coffee in one fell swoop. I could drive a little further to the Donut shop. I could sit here and complain.
Choose your own adventure. I will tell you tomorrow what I did.
It is a bittersweet day. I won’t belabor the point. Today is my grandson’s sixth birthday.
Later this afternoon the wife and I will go down to the cemetery and smile and cry. We will celebrate the life, not the death.
He is, I know, in God’s arms.
I do have plenty to be thankful for. While I usually fill these pages with sarcasm, bombast, and complaints, I appreciate you more than I can say. Thank you for letting me in your life a few minutes each day.
Now get off the interwebz and watch a parade or some football. Eat something!
Here it is on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Work has been slow, and I expect today to be a real snooze fest. I’m torn, I need to call a customer, but I know the last thing on his mind is talking to a widget salesman on the day before a long holiday. Maybe I’ll call late morning and hope for voicemail.
It is my hope I can wrap things up in time to get the outside lights up before dark. If not, I can work on it during the day tomorrow. I am quickly heading towards the “heck with it” stage. I just can’t get in the holiday mood this year.
It not just the holidays. I started writing a new story. I’m four chapters in, have the balance of the tale outlined in a broad sense, but I have no motivation to do the actual work. Frankly, this story is better than my last one, but that makes no difference. I guess I’m at the why bother stage. I spent hundreds of hours on my current book for about 25 books sold. A follow-up effort will likely garner fewer readers. I cannot see working that hard for a vanity project. I can spew my nonsense right here with a modicum of effort.
Boo hoo, boo hoo.
How about some righteous rock and roll? After the holiday I will start playing Christmas music, despite my Jewish readers. So maybe you should listen to this today.
Back when they rocked instead of singing power ballads. Of course there is nothing like being lectured to by rich musicians.
Have a great Wednesday.
I was not long out of college and working as a management trainee at an injection molding factory. The factory is long-closed and the OSHA statute of limitations, if there is such a thing, has long expired.
It was my lot that week to spend some time on the graveyard shift, that 11-7 time slot no one likes. The factory had a range of presses, from 50 ton to 2500 ton machines. Some of the molds were quite large, all were very heavy. Cranes crossed the factory ceiling, not construction cranes, but the overhead machines that are ubiquitous in nearly every factory.
There was one particular mold technician, maybe in his late thirties, who was eccentric, to say the least, but he was a wizard at his job. He could set up a press, wave his fingers over the controls and make the mold spit out perfect, repeatable parts every time. But he was batshit crazy.
Big heavy 4x4 boxes that originally held raw material were used to collect scrap and recycling - plastic can be reused - and one of these boxes was at the foot of every press. I was walking along when I heard a thud. I looked down to see a quivering screwdriver embedded in the side of the box right beside me. Crazy mold tech Marty had thrown his screwdriver like a knife into the side of the box. He grinned, pulled it out and walked off. I learned he did this all of the time and could famously launch his screwdriver from 20 or more yards away with unerring accuracy.
It was late in the week, in the doldrums that hit around 4 AM, that I finally saw his famous act up close. Over the roar and pound of the presses, I heard laughter. I looked up to see Marty flying above my head.. He took the hook from an overhead crane, and fastened to the back of his belt and raised himself up fifteen feet above the machines and was slowly transversing the factory floor like an Industrial Age Peter Pan.
The plant manager called me in to ask if I had seen the flying on the crane. I asked what would happen. “Ah, Jose (he always called me Jose), he’ll have a couple of days at home. When he takes his meds he’s a good worker,” he said. “Besides,” the plant manager grinned at me, “We would all like to do it if we had any balls.” He glared at 23 year-old me. “Don’t get any ideas. Your ass will be fired.”
It did look like fun.
It is a short work week. That is a good thing. But it is still Monday.
I spent all afternoon raking and bagging up the ankle-deep leaves in the front yard. As I padded past the front door with my coffee, I noticed the yard is covered again this morning. While not a solid layer, there are plenty of bleeping leaves on the ground. It is also spitting snow. Imagine I typed a bunch of cartoon curse word symbols right here. You know, @&$#*!.
I made beef and noodles for dinner last night, and because I live in the Midwest I made mashed spuds to go with them. The best part is I have leftovers for lunch. Sure, it’s a carbapalooza. Sure, it’s bad for my blood sugar. Sure, I don’t care.
For the first time in a long time, there will be no immediate family Thanksgiving this year. Daughter and her family have other plans. Youngest is feasting with his girlfriends’ family. The wife and I will motor north to spend the holiday with her family. I’m cool with that. Unfortunately, that means no turkey leftovers to nibble on over the weekend.
So it goes.
Happy Monday.
There are far, far worse ways to spend fifteen minutes or so of your Sunday.
BTW, was there ever a musician more into the tambourine than that guy?
No more bad seventies music videos, at least for today. My strength is returning from my covid spell. Better yet, the wife is finally feeling better. The projects around the house have been in suspension for the past week. Stuff still needs to be put up on the walls, the new rug put down, and finding a place for all of those Barbies and toys.
Outside, the leaves are ankle deep in the front yard. I still have limbs from the lilac bushes to cut up into small pieces. The front gutters are overflowing with leaves.
We need to go to the grocery and make a Walmart run. I will take another test to make sure I’m not infectious, but there is zero chance I’m wearing a mask. If you are worried about my germs, go ahead and mask up. I don’t care. Just don’t wear it in the car, driving by yourself. You look (and are) foolish if you do.
Overall, it is time to start digging out the Christmas decorations. That means rearranging all of the stuff we just put into place! We have so much to do, all without overtaxing our weakened systems. There is plenty to do.
And a decided lack of energy to it.
Ha ha ha now you have it.
BTW, is that the most Seventies of seventies videos?
I know there is an East Chicago (in Indiana), but on the “old east side”? I guess they mean the friggin’ lake? The song writers were clearly from the UK and geographically challenged.
That one will really get stuck in your head. BTW, why does The Godfather get all the “greatest movie of the seventies” hype? Did the critics even watch BillyJack?
Of course that is a joke.
BTW I am getting better, very tired.
The wife is really sick.
It is confirmed. I have the covid. My earlier hyperbole aside, that explains why feel like crap. I have slept probably 17 of the past 24 hours. While it isn’t the “we are all gong to die” panic the government tried to foist upon us, it isn’t the sniffles either. Mostly it feels like a solid case of the flu.
For all who served. The song dates from the civil war.
