I reminded myself that alarm clocks are tools to help us, our friends. This thing with its demonic red digits watching us sleep night after night keeps us from being late to work so we can continue paying our mortgages and making large donations to our local gas stations. (I myself am apparently sponsoring Pump #5’s college tuition.) It’s not the clock’s fault we program it to sound off at 6:30 AM -- at a time when the only part of our brain that actually works is the part controlling our ability to chuck that little bastard out the window.
I started pushing buttons hoping to find the kill switch. One button turned up the volume so that the beep-beep-beeping swelled into a horrible blaring that I doubted could be reproduced without attaching a kazoo to a leaf blower. I also managed to start the radio. The scrambled AM station howled, brokenly, like a rabbit someone forcibly taught to gargle. (Do any of them volunteer?) Eventually I found the Alarm Off button inside a secret panel and under a sticker saying, “Removal of this sticker is a violation of Federal Law.”
Silence fell over the house, except the slight rustling of covers. Tonya sat up with the blanket pooled around her, and without a word, she smacked her clock for good measure before thumping back down onto the pillow. Her clock incidentally was not set to go off.
Before she decided to smack me, (because husbands occasionally beep for no reason) I left to begin the morning rituals.
At 4:00 the next morning, my clock decided to start ticking.
My wife rolled over and asked, "Hezzlemumf?"
"It's okay," I said. "Go back to sleep."
"Did you water the sofa?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay, then. And chuck that little bastard out the window."
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Through clenched teeth, I whispered, "You're a digital clock. Digital clocks do not tick."
It ignored me. Which, of course, was highly unusual behavior for an object that might live on one's nightstand.
4:05, tick. 4:09, tock. 4:11, tick again.
Let me make the official announcement that I like repetitive noises in the same way most people like setting their hair on fire. I went through all the obvious defenses: put my pillow over my ears, put my pillow over the clock, unplugged the clock, and even tossed it under the bed. This was all as ineffective as one might predict. That is, it succeeded only in rousing my wife up enough to sing the first verse of "I'm a Little Tea Pot."
I slipped out of bed just about the time my wife began to describe her handle and her spout. I paced through the house, grumbling and getting all steamed up about ticking. Then, I had an idea. An evil idea.
Under the kitchen sink, I found an oddly vast variety of dishwashing soaps and a hell bent for leather camel cricket that seemed intent on going a couple of rounds with my little finger. I also found an empty spray bottle. I filled it with water and then wrote on the side with a Sharpie.
Back in the bedroom, I sat the bottle in front of the clock so that its little demon digits lit up what I had written.
Immediately the ticking stopped.
The next morning my wife and I sat at the table. "You didn't sleep well," she said.
I shook my head.
"I thought so. Me too. I kept dreaming that I was the new spokes model for Lipton."
I shrugged and sipped my coffee.
"Oh, and I have a really stupid question for you," she said. "Why did I find on your nightstand a spray bottle marked 'Tick Spray'?"
I grinned and pled ignorance. My wife agreed with me far too easily.
I started pushing buttons hoping to find the kill switch. One button turned up the volume so that the beep-beep-beeping swelled into a horrible blaring that I doubted could be reproduced without attaching a kazoo to a leaf blower. I also managed to start the radio. The scrambled AM station howled, brokenly, like a rabbit someone forcibly taught to gargle. (Do any of them volunteer?) Eventually I found the Alarm Off button inside a secret panel and under a sticker saying, “Removal of this sticker is a violation of Federal Law.”
Silence fell over the house, except the slight rustling of covers. Tonya sat up with the blanket pooled around her, and without a word, she smacked her clock for good measure before thumping back down onto the pillow. Her clock incidentally was not set to go off.
Before she decided to smack me, (because husbands occasionally beep for no reason) I left to begin the morning rituals.
At 4:00 the next morning, my clock decided to start ticking.
My wife rolled over and asked, "Hezzlemumf?"
"It's okay," I said. "Go back to sleep."
"Did you water the sofa?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay, then. And chuck that little bastard out the window."
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Through clenched teeth, I whispered, "You're a digital clock. Digital clocks do not tick."
It ignored me. Which, of course, was highly unusual behavior for an object that might live on one's nightstand.
4:05, tick. 4:09, tock. 4:11, tick again.
Let me make the official announcement that I like repetitive noises in the same way most people like setting their hair on fire. I went through all the obvious defenses: put my pillow over my ears, put my pillow over the clock, unplugged the clock, and even tossed it under the bed. This was all as ineffective as one might predict. That is, it succeeded only in rousing my wife up enough to sing the first verse of "I'm a Little Tea Pot."
I slipped out of bed just about the time my wife began to describe her handle and her spout. I paced through the house, grumbling and getting all steamed up about ticking. Then, I had an idea. An evil idea.
Under the kitchen sink, I found an oddly vast variety of dishwashing soaps and a hell bent for leather camel cricket that seemed intent on going a couple of rounds with my little finger. I also found an empty spray bottle. I filled it with water and then wrote on the side with a Sharpie.
Back in the bedroom, I sat the bottle in front of the clock so that its little demon digits lit up what I had written.
Immediately the ticking stopped.
The next morning my wife and I sat at the table. "You didn't sleep well," she said.
I shook my head.
"I thought so. Me too. I kept dreaming that I was the new spokes model for Lipton."
I shrugged and sipped my coffee.
"Oh, and I have a really stupid question for you," she said. "Why did I find on your nightstand a spray bottle marked 'Tick Spray'?"
I grinned and pled ignorance. My wife agreed with me far too easily.
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