When Marvin left, he took the clock in the kitchen because it belonged to his grandmother. In fact, if you looked really carefully you could see teensy flecks of dough in the ceramic squares, and I am not making this up. His grandma liked to bake. We didn't clean it on purpose.
So this left me with a kitchen that was like Las Vegas. "What TIME is it," I always wondered when I was in there. And since I don't have a microwave, a fact that seems to baffle most of you, there was no clock there. There is one on my coffeemaker, but since the power goes out here whenever there is a drop of rain, my coffeemaker always says it's 2 a.m.
I was in the attic recently and I found the cutest clock up there. It's white, and shaped like a teapot, short and stout, and it's all retro-looking, and I thought, Why the Sam Hill didn't I have this up there in the first place? So I lugged it down, as much as you need to "lug" a clock that weighs as much as that Pomeranian from yesterday's story, put new batteries in it, and hung it on the wall.
Then the next morning I was getting ready for work, and I thought "Geez, I'd better hurry, it's 26 after seven."
I wish I could tell you how many times I was duped by the fact that it was always 26 after seven. The stupid SECOND HAND is STUCK and then the time won't move. I have done all kinds of technical things to it, like shake it and jiggle it and smack it and it remains stuck.
I'm so irked. And you will notice I have left the clock up there. I did see another retro-looking clock I like in LL Bean catalog, of all places, and I will probably get that once I get paid, but in the meantime, who enjoys her own self with her broken clock?
"Oh, it's 26 after seven! I'd better hurry!" I'll tell myself and giggle. "Why, it's 26 after seven again! What're the chances!"
My grandmother used to say I didn't need anybody, I could just sit with myself and laugh. Here is evidence of that theory.
And yes, I did just write an entire post about a broken clock.