I am free from the tyranny of Charter communications! Liberated from the drudgery of cable modem!! In the end, it was ridiculously anticlimactic. I called Charter and was immediately connected to someone who spoke English and apparently resided within the continental United States. When she asked me if they could do anything to keep me as a customer, I had a sincere desire to say if she gave me her dedicated number so I could call her with my problems, I would consider it. But I didn’t and within minutes, I was no longer a cable subscriber.
Now on to the realities of my life. We do not set alarm clocks. Tim and I are very good about waking up exactly when we need to; I don’t know why, it’s just a gift. Unfortunately, it’s a fallible gift.
My bladder is my alarm clock. I cannot sleep more than 7 or 8 hours without having to get up and go to the bathroom. This morning, the alarm malfunctioned, and I got up at 5 to relieve myself. As I groped my way back to bed, I thought blearily about going and working out on the treadmill. Considered coming out to the computer and playing Pogo. As I snuggled under the warm covers, I sleepily reassured myself that I would not fall asleep. And if I did, I wouldn’t go into a deep sleep.
The next thing I knew, Tim was shaking me frantically. “Get up, it’s 6:50,” he screamed. The goddess gets on the bus at 7:00, so this presented something of a logistical problem, since she was neither awake nor dressed. For half a second, I considered driving her, then remembered that it was Josh’s piano day and I had to drive him. Dammit!!
I flew out of bed, up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. She has been sleeping in the guest bedroom on a narrow couch we moved up there. I don’t know what the appeal is, but she can sleep in the driveway for all I care, as long as she sleeps!! I shook her awake and forced her off the couch. Threw her nightclothes across the room and jammed her clothes on to her body.
Of course she mewled with each new layer. “I hate this shirt,” she grumbled as I forced it over her head. “These pants are too tight,” she moaned despairingly.
“You’ll be fine,” I snarled at her, biting back the urge to tell her to lay off the cheez-its. I hustled her down the stairs and threw her at Tim, ordering him to put her shoes on her feet while I packed her backpack.
“I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttttttttttttttttttttttte these shoes,” she wailed at him. I smirked to myself as I quickly stuffed things in her backpack. I scribbled down the names of the books she had read, threw it in her folder, and zipped the whole thing shut.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to prepare myself for the next step. I have thought of a new torture method the FBI can use. It involves six year old girls with long, snarly blond hair and combs. Any self respecting terrorist confronted with this scenario will collapse to the ground and immediately give names, dates, and locations.
Luckily, we get her hair cut short before school begins each year, so there’s not quite as much to brush. By the end of the school year, this scenario might have a different ending! I sat down beside her, grasped a hank firmly, and began brushing. She twisted her head and howled, but I did not let go. I worked my way around her scalp, holding on for dear life as she bucked and screamed. I was the more determined, however, and a minute later, I handed her a headband and we were ready to head out the door.
Yes, I am that good. I got her up, dressed, and out the door in ten minutes. She didn’t have any breakfast, but I gave her a couple of swigs of Diet Coke to get her motor going. June Cleaver could take lessons from me!
Don’t think I am going to set a clock tonight. Now it’s a challenge! And may the best bladder win!!