WorldWideWaterCooler

Meet Battina

She’s my Mighty Ugly doll, just hangin’ out. She’s a bit of a misfit, and has just returned from a bender in Vegas, where she was found passed out under the craps table.

I’m quite fond of her.

Mighty Ugly was an excellent time. It took me right back to those days at the Children’s Festival where we’d be parked in front of a table of egg cartons, popsicle sticks, pipe cleaners and other assorted crafting detrius and told to make a monster of some sort. I used to love that. Turns out I still do.

There are definitely things about Battina I find ugly and challenging. The pinwheel/dice thingie I stuck on her front. The star on her back. Added only for garishness. Which was kindof the point.

I do like her wacky hook-feet though!

Getting my hands dirty, so to speak, in crafting again has made me less afraid of working with the materials. I reacquainted myself with fabrics and fasteners and notions. I glued and cut and stuffed and sewed and tried some things and gave up on others.

One result was Battina.

The other? I’m a lot less afraid of crafting and creating than I was before Mighty Ugly.

I still might not ever make something beautiful and pretty. But you know, ugly’s really not so bad!

I am scared of crafting.

This is odd. Not least because of all the things one could be frightened of, I pick crafting? Really? But it’s more than that. I used to sew. I was in a 4H sewing club. I made something cute. I won AWARDS for sewing.

But that was over 20 years ago.

Today? Terrified.

When I think of crafting, I think of spinsters wearing sweatshirts with cats on them, and making toilet-paper holder dolls, not at all ironically.

I am also a perfectionist. I am excellent at following directions. You need someone to put together your IKEA furniture? I’m your gal. But put a pile of materials in front of me and say “go! create! craft!” and I freeze up, start stuttering and quickly find an excuse to go be somewhere, anywhere else.

Except, I got the teeniest bit of hubris from putting together an official “craft” yesterday. Kimli was passing out pinwheel kits in the swag bags at her talk, which came with directions and all the materials I’d need, down to a needle and thread. I dusted off my old sewing skills, and gosh darn it, I made a thing!

Perhaps I can do this after all….

So it is with great trepidation (and a tiny bit of hope) that I am taking a leap and have signed up for the Mighty Ugly workshop tonight.

I am to make a thing. An ugly thing. An ugly on purpose thing. Without directions.

This is so far outside my comfort zone, my head may explode.

Perhaps that will count as the ugly.

Wish me luck!

Was having a conversation with a friend the other day about street food (specifically kebab/donair/shwarma), which eventually lead to discussing how to pronounce “gyro” – is it hero or jai-row?

Of course it’s hero, but most North Americans start out calling it a jai-row until corrected.

By that time of course the word gyro is stuck in my head, and I’m doing this thing where I roll a word around in my mouth until it sounds ridiculous (gyro…. gyroooooo…. gyyyyyyrooooowwwwww…. gyRO!). And the inevitable happens. I start singing the song Holding Out for a Hero in my head.

Except, it’s “Holding Out for a Gyro” – and now it’s Weird Al (because OF COURSE it is), and while I’m not actually composing alternate lyrics to the song, I am directing the music video on my head:

Drunken Weird Al is careening about a busy New York City street on a drunken Saturday night, upsetting food carts of all sorts, looking for the perfect thing to soak up alcohol – nothing else will do, he’s Holding out For a Gyro.

Does anyone else do this?

And by “this” I mean direct music videos in your head, although I’d also be interested if you have drunken Gyro-hunting stories…

photo from geekgirly

My procrastination (like that of many of my brethren task-putter-offers) stems from a serious fear of failure.

If I don’t actually start this thing, I can’t fail at doing it, right? Flawless logic.

Except there’s this thing* that I’ve been wanting to do for quite some time. I made the mistake about six weeks ago of looking into it enough to see if it’s even a possibility (it is) and took the first tentative steps to see if I could make it happen. I probably could.

And that “probably” is killing me.

I have had exactly two tasks to do, to start along the road of trying not to fail. I have been putting them off for at least three weeks.

I need to get over the fear and stop procrastinating and buck up and put my nose to the grindstone and stop using terrible cliches and just do it (oops) already.

And here, internets, is where I ask for your gentle assistance.

Comment, and tell me to do it. Comment again on Monday to see if I did. Shame me into getting over myself and just getting to it. Because I am not having much luck convincing myself that without a little risk there is no opportunity for great reward.

Thank you.

*You may ask what the thing is, and I might tell you. Then again I might not. But I certainly won’t blog about it.

A break from the all-wedding all the time programming (though still a good illustration of how completely detached from reality I am).

Preamble: now that we’re on the top floor (instead of wedged in the middle) we get a great deal more birds wheeling by outside our apartment than I am used to. I am still regularly surprised by them.

Anyhow, the other day, Neil and I were watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

As with the rest of the Harry Potter movies, this one was no less able to sweep me into its crazy world of ghosts and mer-people and wizards and flying brooms.

So it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise that I was, once again, caught off-guard by a winged creature soaring past my window at dusk. And then surprised again that it wasn’t a dragon outside my window, but instead just a seagull.

The nutty thing is, once I realized that yes, I am still tied to this mortal coil and living in reality, I was COMPLETELY and utterly disappointed.

I really wanted a dragon.

In fact, I still do.

I could certainly use a bit of a pick-me-up today.

So I ask you, blogiverse, to indulge me in my wee pity party, while I present to you a list of things that suck today:

I am still jobless. Not only that, but of the dozen or so applications I’ve sent out, I’ve received exactly one phone interview (which is as far as that candidate experience went). Otherwise, no responses at all. In addition to that, at least two of the jobs I applied for were re-posted within a week of sending my application. It’s not like I wasn’t qualified, and didn’t demonstrate that in my resume or cover letter, so it’s pretty sucky to realize I don’t even merit a phone call.

And while I would normally console myself with the procurement of something pretty or shiny (say what you will about filling personal voids with material goods), the EI gods who determined that unemployed workers in BC are entitled to 55% of their earnings, up to a maximum of [insert figure that launches one into abject poverty here], have convinced me I’d rather have groceries and electricity than trinkets.

The condo we purchased, waaaaaaaay back in May 2006, that was supposed to complete in July 2007 has been pushed back. The official word from the Realtor representing the developers is that they “hope to have everyone in by December.” That basically negates the awesome mortgage pre-approval interest rates we secured for a July closing (rates right now are at least 0.2% higher than what we got – but our rates are only good for 120 days from approval) and means we get to spend an extra 6 months pouring rent money into someone else’s pocket.

I make a shitty, shitty housewife. Being at home all the time means I go stir-crazy, and also lose all concept of space and time. I rarely know what day it is, and have no idea where time goes when it passes. All I know is that all of those “things” I figured would be so easy to get done around the house, still aren’t.

There are doggy-hair tumbleweeds blowing around everywhere, there is always laundry to do, the bathrooms are shamefully filthy (think college aged male bathroom levels of icky), the kitchen sink is always full of dishes – especially today, since I overcooked the basmati rice last night and made quite a dog’s breakfast of the aloo gobi (nothing says “good morning” like a pot full of tepid water and leftover stuck-on curry bits).

Obviously none of the aforementioned are terribly tragic compared to any number of things going on in the rest of the world, but they’re certainly harshing my buzz. And I still definitely feel entitled to a bit of a mope about my situation.

So blogosphere – I implore you – give me something to smile about!

Tell me something awesome that’s going on in your world. Give me an example of the best opening for a cover letter you’ve ever seen. Leave a comment with anything funny or smile-inducing (I have tried both Knut and the hand-holding Otters – I need something stronger).

And hopefully in a day or two I’ll return to tell you something that doesn’t suck.

It all started when I was about 19 years old, and outgrew the teenaged ability to sleep and wake without much consideration for the body’s actual needs. Since then, I’ve rarely been successful at sleeping through the night.

I’m sure most of this is because of my type-A personality, and tendency toward anxiety. While I’ve done the lion’s share of the personal work needed to be, for all intents and purposes, a mentally healthy individual, the one thing that never quite stuck for very long was the ability to sleep for more than 5 or 6 hours without waking up worrying about something.

Has the dog been fed?
Did I blow out that candle?
Did I email that client?
What will my contingency plan be if the car breaks down again?
Did I lose an earring at some point?
Where is my cell phone charger?

Even if I can answer those questions, I’ll sometimes doubt the rational (and correct) answer my brain has pulled out, in favour of worrying enough that I’ll finally have to get out of bed to check on that thing I’m worrying about, just to ease my mind.

At my worst, I used to have an answering machine (instead of adopting voicemail like the rest of the 20th century) because I liked being able to call it when I thought my house had been burnt down or burglarized (rationale: if my apartment had burnt, the answering machine would be broken, or if I’d been burglarized, it would’ve been stolen and therefore wouldn’t pick up when I called it). And believe me, nothing feels like Crazy quite like getting out of a boyfriend’s bed at 3:00am and taking his keys to drive across town, because I couldn’t be convinced that I’d blown out a candle at home, and calling the answering machine wasn’t providing enough peace of mind.

I no longer do those things, but my brain is still very good at pulling something out of the grey matter and dredging it up for me to obsess about during the wee hours. I’m currently stuck in a cycle of “Sleep for 3 hours, wake up and worry for 2 hours, sleep for another hour until I have to get up and face the day again.” The prolonged lack of sleep is making me very cranky and unproductive.

So off I trundled to my neighbourhood clinic for some medical intervention. The doctor was wonderful and helpful, and presented my options :
1. Regular sleep-aids, which will leave me with a regular sleeping pill hangover and are habit-forming.
2. A revolutionary sleep-aid that would have me sleeping through the night, waking refreshed and alert, and gaining approximately 2 kilograms (about 4.5lbs) per WEEK.
3. Sleep Hygiene. Ding Ding Ding! We have a winner!

Sleep Hygiene doesn’t have anything to do with showering before bed, instead it’s a systematic way of approaching bed and sleep in order to train my body to know that the bed is for “sleep and sex and nothing else.”

(Aside: why is it that whenever I go to the clinic, and something about my sex life comes up – whether I went in to discuss a pap smear, contraception issues, or even this sleep thing (which included talking about sex, at least a little) – I get the hotty doctor, around whom I lose my words and act like a slack-jawed yokel? And when I go in for something like muscle pain or a flu shot, I get the four-million year old doctor that smells like mothballs? The universe is cruel.)

So I now have a set of rules governing my relationship with my bed:

1. I must adhere to a strict sleep/wake time schedule – EVEN ON WEEKENDS! This means that since I need to get up at 6:30am from Monday to Friday, I get to do the same thing on Saturdays and Sundays. I am also officially no fun at parties, because I’m supposed to go to bed at 10:30pm.

2. Bed is for sleeping or sex only. No TV. No Eating. No Reading. No Worrying. No “hanging out on top of the mattress” for reasons other than the two mentioned. This completely obliterates my and Neil’s rituals of watching TV or reading in bed before sleep, and having coffee (and sometimes breakfast) in bed while watching the morning news on TV. Also, Neil similarly injured his coccyx in a snowboarding mishap of his own last weekend, and sometimes laying down is the only comfortable thing for us to do. And the couch is only big enough for one of us.

3. The bedroom should be dark, and no looking at the clock when waking up in the middle of the night. I must cover the LCD display of my clock radio before going to sleep so that I can’t see that it’s 4:00am when I wake up in a fit of anxiety and further freak out about that. This has already screwed me over once: the alarm didn’t go off, and I laid in bed (in the dark room, of course) for a good 20 minutes trying to get back to sleep before getting up and seeing that HOLY SHIT I’M REALLY LATE.

Of course, there have been a few good bits:

If I can’t sleep, I’m supposed to try my best to get back to sleep – and if I can’t, I must get up and go somewhere else in the house and do something quiet – read or watch TV – until I feel sleepy and go back to bed. Usually the knowledge that getting up involves putting on sweats and finding a blanket (it’s pretty cold in our apartment at night – on purpose) and certainly does not involve having another body to spoon with, is enough to convince me to get over my damn self and fall back asleep.

I’ve noticed that when I do wake-up in the middle of the night, it’s far easier to fall asleep without the pressure of knowing what time it is, and therefore how little time I have left to get a “good night’s sleep” I have.

And I’ve certainly noticed that as inconvenient as it is sometimes to have a “bedtime” on weekends, adhering to it makes a world of difference on how well I sleep during the week.

I haven’t been all that good at adhering to the rules as strictly as I should, but when I do manage to follow them for 5 or 6 days in a row, I start to notice a marked improvement. Enough for me to be convinced that there really is something to it all, and it’s not just a scheme cooked up to make me miserable.

It still sucks that now need a very good reason to stay up later than 10:30, and that I have to take my morning coffee on the couch or at the table, instead of still mostly snuggled underneath the covers.

But I have started making some KILLER weekend brunches, and it no longer bothers me that Belgian waffles need to rise for an hour before baking. It’s not like I’m not already up.

So while I’m not all that fun at parties these days, if anyone’s interested in some sort of weekend afternoon activity, I’m SO there. Or give me a call and come by for Sunday brunch. And while you’re over, could I interest you in purchasing an answering machine?

I’m surprised I haven’t seen this on Craigslist yet, so I figured I’d put it here myself.

You: Hot, short-haired girl in grey slacks, black pumps and a black sweater, carrying take-out across the intersection of Broadway at Oak.

Me: Dude on the bus stopped at the intersection.

That was a pretty fantastic trip you took, getting the pointy toe of your shoe caught in the opening of your opposite pant leg. Even more fantastic was the fact that you managed to not quite fall on your face, or spill your sushi.

Nice recovery. Drinks?

Scene: Morning in the Watkiss/Wiederick household.

The boy has just made coffee and delivered it to the girl, who has turned on the morning news and thrown some sort of squeaking, slobbery something across the room for the umpteenth time to avoid a storm of morningdogbreath kisses.

The coffee has led to cuddling, which has led to canoodling, which has led to… well… let’s keep this one PG for the kids out there.

Suddenly, it happens.

CHAOS ERUPTS!

That goddamn Mini Wheats commercial is on AGAIN!

Suddenly both humans in the room propel themselves violently into action in a frantic search for the remote control!

The suddenly frightened dog whines and cowers behind the door.

SUCCESS!

Remote found!

Commercial Muted!

Unfortunately not before that goddamned theme song is firmly stuck in the girl’s head for the rest of the day.

Miiiiiiiiii Niiiiiiiii FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I swear, there is some crazy stuff going on today.

I should’ve realized it when, on her morning walk, the dog didn’t do her normal “I’m gonna fuck around just long enough to make you late for work” thing, and instead just went outside and got down to business when requested.

She must’ve known what was in store for me.

On the bus: An asian schoolchild. I say “child” rather than boy or girl, because I’m really not sure. Everything about this child screamed “boy” – the haircut, facial structure, body shape (I’d put him/her at about 11 years old), shirt, jacket, shoes. But! The plaid skirt and knee socks totally threw me off. Is there a reason a boy would be wearing half of a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform? Is gender-bending trendy with the elementary set now?

Ok, bus ride over. Work work work at the office. Things seem normal. I go for lunch. I’m walking East on Broadway and some guy is heading West, toward me on the sidewalk. His gait is purposeful. He’s a well-groomed middle-aged man with good hair and a strong jaw. His speech is articulate and he appears to be conducting or discussing business – or at least that’s what I can glean from his phone conversation. He’s talking on a recent-model cell phone, holding it with his left hand, the pinky of which is adorned by a gold ring. Nothing unusual about this. Unless you count the fact that he’s wearing nothing but a blue hospital gown, boxers, and runners without socks.

I was too dumbfounded to get out my cameraphone before he strode away.

A trip to $tarbucks was uneventful, except for the fact that my pumpkin spice latte tastes nothing like pumpkin or spice, and instead tastes like… ass.

I’m just waiting to see what the commute home is going to hold.

Those who knew me well last year know that it was the “Year of Excess” (or YOE if you like acronyms).

In changing jobs from Corporate Cog to Spelunking Coordinator, I managed to swing myself a 30%-ish pay increase and I was fun, fabulous, and single! So you’d better believe I was livin’ large. After all, that sounded much more fun than paying down my student loans faster.

Oh what a year it was!

An approximate count of ticket stubs, photographs, and things in my closet indicate that I:

-Acquired J’Lo (and all of her expensive repair issues)
-Attended about 18 concerts, many at major venues, most of which included acquiring overpriced concert merchandise
-Cheered my way through at least 12 NHL hockey games (and consumed an average of 3 NHL priced beers at each)
-Had my hair done monthly, at an approximate cost of n-$1, where n = the cost to sponsor a half-dozen starving African children for a month
-Acquired enough wardrobe additions to shoe and clothe those starving African children – none of which are appropriate for the new job of course.
-Succumbed fully and completely to my new mistress, the TiVo.

Then all of that culminated in a 10-day Carribean Vacation.

And just when I thought it was all over, we went to Korea.

Aah, the good ol’ days.

And now this year (and don’t all new years really start around September? I far prefer it as a time of new beginnings to January, where after the clock strikes midnight there is nothing new, it still gets dark at 4:30pm, and no more vacation until like… Easter, so welcome to the most depressing 10 weeks of the year… but I digress…)…

This year is the Year of “oh holy hell, we bought a damn house and someone’s gotta pay for that shit (along with the last of the shit Visa paid for toward the end of the YOE) and I can’t believe I’m still making student loan payments.”*

Otherwise known as the “Year of Fiscal Responsibility”, because that other one seriously got way too long.

So steps are being taken to ensure that I can still be fun and fabulous, and acquire new shoes, on a slightly more realistic budget.

And this is where you, lovely readers, come in! If you’d be so kind, please be leaving your answers to the following questions in the comments box:

1. I’m no longer so keen on paying what I do to maintain the bleach beach blonde. What do you suggest I do for a lower-maintenance colour that isn’t just my boring, basic, natural, mousy, ash brown? Note that all drug-store dyes to date have turned my hair varying shades of orange. Current regimen for those who know/care: Full head of foils alternating with top-layer-only of foils every 4-6 weeks.

2. Do you know of any amazing and fabulous and CHEAP concerts coming to town that I can not miss? Because last year I simply bought a pair of tickets to everything – and that is just not gonna fly anymore. Some strategic planning is in order.

3. What are your favourite ideas for some fun, cheap things to do around town for the boy and I to entertain ourselves as the weather gets cooler and the beach becomes a less-viable option? Wanna do a book club? Movie Night? Games Night? We’re in.

4. What are your favourite recipes or meals to make yourself? Because we’ve definitely put the kaibash on going to Chambar or Tatlow’s “because we’re hungry” or “don’t feel like cooking.”

5. What do you feel is an acceptable number of pairs of new shoes for a fiscally responsible woman to acquire over any given season? I happen to think three is appropriate – however there are others who disagree.

6. If I were to have a kissing booth, what would you be willing to pay to pucker up with yours truly? Of course, kisses will be above the neck only, 10 seconds or less, with no tongue. Downside: if Neil gets wind of this idea, the dog may have to stand-in for me. Upside to that? LOTS of tongue.

Thanks all! Best answers get the fantastic prize of…. my undying appreciation!

(What, you thought it would be a prize worth something? I wasn’t kidding about the saving money thing!)
(more…)

Today is finally (FINALLY!) the last day I’m going to move my things out of my Burnaby apartment and into the new place. The gorgeous new place in Kitsilano, mere blocks from the beach, with the gigantic deck and the friendly neighbours and the fact that nearly everyone in the building owns a dog, including us. Oh, and the fact that I get to share it all with that boy I love (/end schmoop).

However, if there is one truth that anyone ever needed to know about me, it is this: I. HATE. MOVING.

I do somewhat enjoy unpacking, as well as the fun of setting up a new place exactly how I like it, and how shiny everything is when the new abode is freshly painted and scrubbed, and my stuff gets cleaned and rediscovered as it’s unpacked and put in its official place.

Everything else though, is torture. Finding a place is hellish. Dragging my possessions across town (including renting a truck and bribing friends) is a nightmare. Cleaning the old place for the new tenants is a completely unfulfilling chore – I hate cleaning for myself, why would I want to do it for anyone else? The time it all takes is just time I’ll never get back.

But the worst part, by far, is the packing. There is a special hell reserved for the rapists and child murderers in this world – and that hell is packing up my belongings. Comedian Dane Cook has a bit about how everyone has a sound (nails on a chalkboard, car alarms, etc.) that affects them so much, it makes them feel violent enough to want to punch a baby. That is how I feel about packing.

I’m not really a packrat in that I hang on to things because I’m afraid I will need them again someday, or think they may be useful at some point. It’s just that it’s so much easier to toss them into a cupboard or closet than actually get rid of them. I’ve been doing that for four years in the apartment I’m leaving, and I’m guessing that in the process of this latest move I’ve thrown out or given away nearly 40% of my possessions – some of which I never actually even unpacked after I moved in back in 2002.

I also foolishly thought that with the trip to Korea, and the crazy work schedule I was under, packing in time to move everything all in one day would be too much, so I’ve been doing it slowly over the past month.

Of course, doing it slowly in my world amounts to doing absolutely nothing for 3 weeks, then panicking for a week, and dragging boxes over carload by tiny carload.

But today the very last of the belongings that I’m moving with me are being put in the back of the J’Lo and toodling their way into Kits.

I’ve hired a cleaner to deal with the rest of the cruft, and I hand over the keys sometime in early August (my landlord lives out of town). Then begins the (only slightly) less torturous task of finding spaces and places for it all. Fitting over 2500 square feet of two people’s belongings into 2/5 of that space is not an easy undertaking.

At least it’s all over soon you say? At least I’ll be settled and can get on with another long stint in the place that I call home? I wish. We get to do it all over again in a year when this is finished.

I’m already saving for professional movers AND PACKERS to deal with it the next time around. That is, if in the meantime, the thought of it all doesn’t drive me screaming into the ocean that I moved to be closer to, never to be seen again.

I’m sure more than a couple of you noticed that I up and disapeared mid-last week and only reappeared yesterday.

I just plumb ran out of time to tell y’all that I was whisking myself away to the middle of nowhere (just outside Vanderhoof) to a family reunion over the long weekend.

The trip was fairly uneventful, and everyone was far better behaved that anyone expected. Except me of course. I went and put my foot in my mouth within 30 minutes of arriving, and managed to say something that sounded like me calling someone fat right to her face. (Obviously I was trying to say something completely opposite.) Oops.

I think my attempt at damage control worked – and there wasn’t really any resulting drama that seemed to linger over the rest of the weekend.

There was one funny incident however, that never would’ve happened before the internet.

If you google my full name (which some family member did) one of the first results that come up is a letter to the editor that I wrote to The Peak – the SFU student newspaper – when I was still in University. It was in response to an article featuring another female student; I was disagreeing with her entire point, and the fact that she used the plight of a marginalized group that she isn’t a member of to help make it.

Turns out the point-maker I berated in my letter is my 2nd cousin’s niece.

Or, if anyone would like to do the math and figure out the relation, she is my dad’s mom’s sister’s daughter’s (dad’s cousin’s) husband’s sister’s daughter (dad’s cousin’s niece by marriage).

I don’t think that technically makes us related.

Good thing too – because after everyone had a laugh, and her aunt confirmed that she is indeed still the basket case I assumed she was in my response, the conversation dwindled and a comfortable hush fell over the crowd.

And in the silence, Neil – looking contemplative and a little creeped out – volunteered that when in university, less old and certainly less wise, he had dated her for a not insignificant period of time.

All in the family indeed. Thanks Google.

I’ve gotten mixed reactions when I talk to friends about the appropriateness and level of acceptance with which we (we being women) react to being awoken in the week hours with Ess-Eee-Ex.

The general conesnsus seems to be that they’re not really all that impressed with it. They’d rather sleep.

I strongly disagree.

Why?

The best explanation I can offer is that it’s somewhat akin to having a steamy dream, and waking up and it’s ACTUALLY HAPPENING. You know, instead of waking up spooning the dog.

What about you – are you pro or con mid-night nookie?

Time Zones man. Total Buzzkill.

So I made it home, safe and sound, though I have decided that I LOATHE both Miami International and Pearson International airports.

And the free Rum Punch on Cayman Airways is something all airlines should aspire to offer.

So I arrived in Vancouver at about 10pm last night (which is 2am Cayman time) and by the time I got home, unwound and got into bed it was about midnight. I asked the boy what time he had to get up (7:30) and set the alarm accordingly.

Fast forward to this morning. The alarm goes off and we wake up, though don’t actually get up right away. I turned on to the news to hear the weather/traffic etc. and work on getting coherent. As the clock rolls its way to 8:00am we concur that it’s probably time to get going.

Then, suddenly I notice the news is over. Why is the news over an hour early? Why is the news over at 8:00am? What the… HOLY SHIT THE TIME CHANGE!

That’s right, I completely forgot to turn my clocks forward when I got home. Understandable since I didn’t even wear a watch for most of the past week, and when I did, it sailed from EST to EDT to PDT.

Enter a mad scramble to get up, showered, dressed and out of the house as fast as humanly possible. Oops.

The chaos was compounded by the fact that, for the first time in a week, my morning routine involved a lot more than the choice between SPF 15 or 30.

Can I please go back to the beach?