My Alarm Clock Hates My Guts

I'm not joking. I feel like when I set It at night, I'm pulling the pin out of a hand grenade and setting it next to my bed. Or else that my worst enemy sits up on the window sill each night and plots ways to get to me. I don't think I sound paranoid, because I'm pretty sure you all feel the same way. Think about it: I'll be asleep all soundly, restoring all of my rods and cones, unconsciously preparing myself for the coming day...when all of a sudden this obnoxious beast penetrates my peaceful slumber and jarringly jolts me back into reality. Pure evil.

What's worse is that It seems to know when I'm most comfortable. Now I realize that it is I that set the alarm, but it seems like no matter what time I set It for, two minutes previous to that time I find my "sweet spot" - you know, when your bed is the perfect temperature, your pillow is cushioning your head just right, your blankets are tucked just so around you...then, two minutes later, IT rousts you out. It's cruel.

My alarm clock has this annoying feature where the longer you let It go before hitting the snooze, the closer together the Beeps. Or, as they sound to me, the Mocking Laughs. So It goes off and It sounds like this:

Ha (pause) Ha (pause) Ha (pause) Ha (pause) Ha
Ha(pause)Ha(pause)Ha(pause)Ha(pause)Ha(pause)Ha(pause)Ha
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Hates my guts.

My alarm clock is not the first or only inanimate object to hate my guts. When I was 9 a ride-in Fisher Price Power Wheels Barbie car hated me so much that It tripped me and broke my arm. When I was in high school, my best friend's sliding doors had it in for me and tripped me, causing me to sprain my toe. (I had to be on crutches for a week.) Some stranger's car hated me so much It crashed into me when I was 18 and messed up my foot. (More time on crutches.) Even just a few weeks ago one of the pews at church loathed my very existence to the point where It tripped me. Twice. Two weeks in a row! My stairs despise me and like to trip me as I walk up them as often as They can. I know some of these might be attributed to me being "Clumsy," but it's not like I walk around in a blind daze. These things really detest me! They have a club. And I don't mean "a heavy stick, usually thicker at one end than at the other, suitable for use as a weapon; a cudgel." I mean, "a group of persons organized for a social, literary, athletic, political, or other purpose" (that other purpose having been elaborated upon above).

A number of electronic devices abhor me as well. They get me in a different way. As mentioned in a previous post, I have super-human hearing, which means that I hear the high-pitched sqeals given off by TVs, radios, light bulbs, etc. They're all determined to drive me mad. Again, I'm certain that no one thinks I'm paranoid, since I'm sure that you all feel the same way and have certain things that hate you. Right?

Role Reversals

For some reason as I was growing up, a lot of typically "male" roles fell to me. Or maybe they didn't fall to me so much as I chose to do them. One of my favorite things to do as a child was to sit in the garage with my dad and hand him tools while he worked on one of our cars. He would have W4 Country on in the background, and to this day I feel a need to turn the radio on to 102.9 FM when I'm doing a project in the garage.

Growing up I was often called on by my sisters to kill spiders, by my dad to help build shelves or drawers, by my mom to lift things, and by the whole family to pack up the truck for vacations. I know what a flapper ball is and what it does; I know the difference between a Philips and a flat head screw driver; I know how to use a drill press, a blow torch, a random orbit sander, a jig saw, and a plethora of other tools both electric and manual. I can program the VCR, and am the household go-to for minor (emphasis on minor) computer problems. This evening, I fixed a leaky faucet by replacing the stem and springs.

Here is my question: Does this make me less feminine?

I am also a painter, I love to decorate, I LOVE shoes, I enjoy sewing and know how to use a sewing machine, I like to cross-stitch, I giggle when I come across a cute boy and know how to use my feminine wiles to gain the upper hand...

Here's my next question: Does being able to do the typically "male" jobs listed two paragraphs above make me more threatening to guys?

I'd be interested to hear your answers to both of my questions, and I have a little something to say, too. First, despite the fact that my sisters call me the "man" of our sisterhood, I think being able to do jobs or projects that men usually do and to be able to correctly use typically masculine tools is empowering to a woman. If I need something fixed or built, I just DO it! The toilet is running? Nope, not any longer. The fan belt in my car is squealing? A little belt dressing'll fix that. Need a shelf put up? Get me a level, a stud finder, a cordless screw driver and we're good. Of course there are things best left to a professional (or my dad), but it feels good to be able to tackle a project, get down and dirty, and get the job done. And my small hands often give me an advantage, too! If I happen to be listening to Backstreet Boys or the "Hello Dolly" soundtrack while I do these jobs, who's going to complain, really?

I think I'll leave the answering of the second question up to you. I like to think that any man comfortable with his masculinity wouldn't be threatened, but fall madly in love with me because he's met his ideal woman and can now proceed to spend all the money he would be spending on repairs on lavishing me with gifts. I mean, on um, helping homeless puppies.

P.S. I love this Norman Rockwell painting of Rosie the Riveter. Man, she's got huge guns! I also think it's interesting that she's got a halo and that her foot is resting on a copy of "Mein Kampf." Ah, Normy, always throwing in the little details.

Elizabeth's blog is funnier than mine.

Yeah, it's pretty much true. Stink! Is it my fault that my life is so boring that all I have to blog about is wearing my boots to the library? (It is my fault, in case you were wondering...) You might have noticed in Elizabeth's blog (grumble grumble) that I also attended the "Mr. Pretty Legs" competition at the Saline Celtic Festival and was, in fact, photographed with the winner. "Why not blog about that, Katherine?" you might ask. Well, Elizabeth already did, and it was really funny! How can I follow that? It'd be like the first contestant voted off "Last Comic Standing" having to follow the Last Comic Standing! (Did that make sense? It did to me, but then things don't always go down on paper...er...computer...the way they are in my head.) I also happen to be the co-chair of the Wee Folks Island Committee for the aforementioned festival (maybe I should blog about the fact that I always type "festical" instead of "festival" and have to go back and correct it...not the greatest typist...). I s'pose I could blog about that. Maybe I should blog about how much I love Optical Illusions...take THAT, ELizabeth's blog! I also could blog about the radio DJ who said this afternoon that they were going to play a song that was, and I quote, "an HNL... a 'Hole Nother League'!" Huh?! Stupid bad grammar on the radio.

My point in writing this post is...um, because I'm bitter about not being funny? No. Okay, maybe a little. It could be that I have some unresolved issues and should see a therapist. Or an acupuncturist. Or a cruise director. My real point is that I made a realization this evening when spewing milk out my nose as I read Elizabeth's blog entry: I don't entertain my audience enough. I promise you, my faithful reader, that I am going to DO INTERESTING THINGS! And then blog about them. If they happen to be funny interesting things, all the better! If I do nothing else this summer, I will entertain you, and live each day as if my blog depended on it.

On a side note, I pulled a muscle in my thigh from riding my bike. May not be interesting or funny, but it's true.

I wore my Wellingtons to the Library

I thought about titling this post, "Some people think I'm crazy." Then I realized that this is a phrase that is true most of the time, and isn't singular to the incident that I am about to relate, so changed it to the title above.

This evening I had to go to a meeting for the Saline Celtic Festival, which is being held this coming weekend. I am the co-chair of the Wee Folks Island Committee, and needed to be there for the final walk-through to make sure that everything is set up as planned. As it rained quite a bit this afternoon, and the walk-through was to be at Mill Pond Park, where the Festival is being held, I wore my pink plaid Wellington boots to keep my feet dry. I was not alone in this thinking, and was pleased to see other Wellie-clad people there, too. The meeting was a little dull, but we got done what we needed to get done, and had a few laughs to boot (no pun intended).

When the meeting was over I went straight over and paid a visit to my grandmother, who had had knee surgery this morning, and stayed for a few minutes with the rest of my family who was there. She was reading when we arrived, which reminded me that I'd had a hankering for a good Agatha Christie novel for quite some time now. The Saline District Library (one of my favorite places) closes at 9, and it was about 8:43 when I left my grandma's. I knew that if I were to make it before close, I wouldn't have time to change out of my Wellies, so I went straight there. I figured there wouldn't be that many people there right before close, and I knew right where Agatha's books were (I'm there a lot). I thought about going in the back entrance, since the mystery section is close to it, but realized I'd have to wait in the check-out line anyway, so what's the point?

As I was walking up to the front doors, a woman saw me, looked quickly away and smiled. The only way I can think to describe her smile is like this: when you see a small child who has obviously dressed him or herself - shirt on inside-out, bathing trunks instead of shorts, shoes on the wrong feet, mismatched colors - you don't want the kid or their parents to think you're laughing at them, so you look away and sort of smile to yourself. That's what this woman did to me. I chuckled to myself as I produced several more looks of this nature on my journey through the library to the mysteries. I was so amused that I took a picture or two to document the occasion.

I have to admit, I felt like a little kid as I stood in line to check out my books. Like I was Junie B. Jones, or Lilly with her red cowgirl boots and Purple Plastic Purse. (If you haven't read any of their books, I highly recommend them!) I couldn't help but smile to myself. I think I need to wear my Wellies out in public more often!


In case you were wondering, this is one (of the three) Agatha Christie books I checked out. I'll let you know how it turns out! (Or, as we seasoned Agatha readers like to say, I'll let you know "who dunnit.")

I tried to wash off a bruise

Have you ever done that? I had been doing a lot of projects outside and around the house and got a little dirty. When I was washing up, I kept trying to get off this one spot, but it wouldn't come off! I thought maybe I'd gotten some stain on me or something (I'd been staining doors in our garage), but after several seconds of painful scrubbing, I had a blinding realization. It was a bruise! A bruise! Can you believe that? Yeesh! Some injuries have all the gall. What's next? Scars diguising themselves as grape juice stains?