My Arch Nemesis

Hello there.

First of all, as your official stop for all American Idol news, I should let you know that the executives at FOX have officially released the news that most of us knew about a month ago – Kara and Ellen are OUT and J.Lo and Steven Tyler are IN to sit alongside Randy on the Coke-drinking, iTunes-promoting panel of judges next season. I’m no math expert, but I think four judges minus Simon minus Ellen minus Kara plus Jennifer Lopez plus Steven Tyler = a three person judging panel for next season. I’m heartily in agreement and hope to high heaven that they can finally squeeze their massive girth into the predetermined time slot this season. Who’s with me? I also think that in the spirit of J.Lo, we abbreviate all their names…RaJack, SteTy, RySea. Now that’s just good fun.

Apart from that, I should probably tell you that I should be asleep right now. Those of you that are shaking your head at your computer can just stop it right now…do you think that this is what I want? Well. It’s not. I’d rather be snug as a bug in a rug with an oscillating fan keeping me at just the right temperature throughout the night but instead I’m strangely wired. Maybe it was the sugar that I had tonight. Or maybe fate just destined that I should stop neglecting my wee little ‘ole blog. Either way, this lack of sleepiness brings me to the real subject of this post.

You might not think of me as the type of person that really has enemies. Au contraire, mi compadres. I’ve had an arch nemesis almost as long as I can remember. In a twisted way, I think I’d feel better about it if my arch nemesis was a person. But it’s not. It’s an inanimate object. Before you judge me, let me explain.

Most people who know me…well…at all…know that I’m not a morning person. When I was growing up, my parents sometimes resorted to cold water dripped on my slumbering face to get me out of bed for school. (yeah, thanks for THAT Mom and Dad…). And I sleep pretty soundly, I’m not gonna lie. Once I slept through an earthquake. True story. The remarkable part is that when that happened my bed of choice was a water bed. Now that’s skill.

That brings me to the big reveal of my arch-enemy that you’ve, I’m sure, been waiting for with bated breath.

It’s my alarm clock.

While I’m quite certain the alarm clocks original purpose was some sort of ancient torture device (Can’t you just hear the ancient Egyptians? “Ha! you think you can sleep until the sun is high in the sky! We will invent THIS!!”) I’m also very sure that it was good at it’s intended original use.

Maybe if the alarm clock was a meek-mannered, quiet, apologetic little thing, I might be able to come around to the concept. But c’mon now. It’s SOLE job is to take you from a fully relaxed state to a fully tense state in zero to thirty seconds flat. Why are we going along with that??

Chosing what alarm clock to purchase has always been a little bit of a drudgery. It seems unfair that I have to inflict this injury on myself…something about “cruel and unusual punishment” comes to mind…But. The RULES of an alarm clock are steadfast and cannot be toyed with. They are:

1. My alarm clocks need to be loud enough to jerk me out of slumberland. Some of you that heard it would probably think that it was some sort of natural disaster alarm to warn a whole city. It’s not. It’s just enough to get me to a semi-awake status.

2. My alarm clock needs to be in close proximity to my head…preferably my ears. I am not okay with the idea of putting it across the room so that I have to get out of bed to turn it off. Many a toe stub, shin slam, and scraped knee have been casualties of this method.

3. My alarm clock should not be given to breaking when flung against a wall or the unforgiving floor. (Sigh. So few companies make quality products anymore.) 

4. Most important of all, my alarm clock must have a snooze button.

You would think that the snooze button would be my friend.  Well…I kind of have an uneasy acquaintance-type relationship with this little button. The kind where you would say “hello” if you passed him in the street but not the kind where you would have a “hang up…no, YOU hang up” conversation with him over the phone.

Let me break it down for you. Basically, all the snooze button does is delay the inevitable. The snooze button is as big of a tease as my bangs were in the 6th grade. It taunts me every five minutes that the time for me to be snuggled under my covers is rapidly coming to a close—whether I like it or not.

All in all, though, the responsible adult thing to do is call a truce on the battlefield because, let’s be honest. I have responsibilities. I can’t spend the morning sleeping and the nights staying up until the O dark thirty, frittering away the working hours where I make, you know, the money that allows me to make ends meet. So, I get it. I’m not stupid. I’m just a belligerent partner in this game. And that’s all there is to it.

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