New day

It’s Monday.

Which for many means the dreaded start to another work week.

For me, Monday is the only day of the week that I have the opportunity to sleep in, an opportunity that I typically forgo in order to get in a refreshing swim with a couple of great girlfriends.

Today, however, I opted to be a bit more responsible than usual and decided to work toward the completion of the two paper deadlines looming ever nearer as April slips stealthily from my grasp.

But when the alarm sounded at 7, blaring NPR, I merely groaned and rolled over, allowing myself “just five more minutes.” Which of course turned into 10, then 15.

“Screw it.”

I gave up and reset my alarm for 7:45.

That came far too quickly, but after another 10 minutes of listening to “Colorado Matters,” I finally pried my body from my bedsheets.

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Ready to get in a quick workout before I settled in to the hum-drum of paper writing.

I glanced at my watch to see what time it was. 7:15 it read.

“What?”

I checked the clock over the stove. 7:15.

I grabbed my phone. 7:15.

Amazing! It’s like getting a second daylight savings time! One whole hour added to my day and I didn’t even realize it!

(OK, so maybe the time on the alarm simply got desynchronized because of all my fickling with it this morning, and thus the extra hour is really due only to my own blunder … but I’ll still take it.)

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Plea from a nube Twitterer

I did it.

I signed up for Twitter … again, actually. I think I have some other alias flitting around in the Twitosphere, but I couldn’t remember the password.

But back to my point: I’m on Twitter. Dun, dun, duuuuun. I feel like I need some fanfare going on in the background. Like a gong. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone follow you around with a gong, which they would bang whenever you needed to add a little emphasis to whatever you just said? I think that might come in handy …

Psssttt … whoever you app-making people are. That idea’s worth millions … I’d like a cut though.

So yes, being on Twitter. My question for all of you Twittering powerhouses (Yes, I’m talking to you, Fish, Mike, etc.) is this:

How much is too much? At what point are you just launching needless comments into Cyber Space, effectively clogging it up for the rest of the more restrained Tweeters? Are we talking one every 30 minutes? Every hour? Once a day?

Anyone have any wisdom?

 

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Getting old

It’s 5:07 on a Friday night, and I’m already making plans to be tucked into bed by 9.

What does that say about me?

(I’m using the fact that I’m getting up early to go backcountry skiing as my excuse, but let’s be honest here, 9 on a Friday is pretty pitiful.)

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Keeping tabs

Last night when Mike and I went out to dinner at Pasta Jay’s, I noticed he was staring off into space for a minute.

“What’re you thinking about?” I asked.

To which he responded, “Math” and went on to explain how he’d been working on a single, tremendously involved problem all day, how he’d gone down one rabbit trail searching for an unknown only to realize he should have been focusing on a different aspect of the equation.

I shook my head, amazed at how brilliant this man sitting before me is. And how patient. How anyone can have the fortitude to spend the whole day on a single analysis is beyond me.

When the bill came later on, Mike, like the Southern gentleman that he is, gave the waitress his credit card for her to run it through the machine.

She returned a few moments later with the “merchant copy” for him to sign and a pen. He looked at the numbers and hesitated. Five, 10, 15 seconds … I glanced at the $33.30 sum and said, “Six bucks and 60 cents is 20 percent.”

He smirked at me and began to add. He wrote something down, looked up at the ceiling, looked over at me, back down at the paper, up at me. He scribbled something out and rewrote something different.

“I miscalculated,” he said.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Mike is a genius … most of the time.

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Feminist rant for the day

I was just stood up for an interview because the woman I’d scheduled to meet had to take care of her son after the school called her saying he’d gotten a concussion.

I’m just wondering how often this happens to journalists when the interviewee is a male …

Just a thought to chew on.

If you disagree and want to speak your mind, I’d welcome any comments.

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