Jot.

You’d think at almost age 37 that I would be smart enough to follow my instincts. When I woke up this morning, feeling remarkably refreshed and centered, I had five or six topics to write about in my blog swimming around in my head. I remember thinking, “Yeah, that’s true!” “Why is that?” “If it could only be that way.”

Here it is lunch time. I sit down in front of the PowerBook to throw out my latest dialogue upon the masses and … nothing.

I think in titles. If I were to write about trains, I’d probably title it “Petticoat Junction.” If I were to write about wigs, I’d probably title it “Green Acres” (let’s see if you can follow that train of thought). I remember tossing around some damn witty titles this morning. I even amused myself to the point of giggling out loud. I remember saying to myself, “I really should write these down so I remember them later today!” Did I follow my instincts and write them down? Of course not. I pride myself on my steel trap memory. I can recite to you every license plate number that has adorned any vehicle I have owned. I can recite to you the license plates from 30 years ago of my parents, my grandparents and my aunts and uncles. What I was thinking about this morning? Not a clue. I think my steel trap is rusting.

Wait, I remember something about scents. Smells. There was to be discussion about … damn. Maybe it was just Earl and I sharing the bathroom.

That being said, I do think there is something humorous about the word “jot”. Jot. J-O-T. It’s a funny looking word to me. It’s a funny sounding word to me. You’d think that since I find something so trivial so amusing, I’d remember to do it.

I’ll have to jot myself a note to remind myself to jot notes down.

Bad Timing.

Here it is the first Monday in April and I’m once again suffering from my self titled affliction of “Bad Timing”. For innocent bystanders, I’ll say it laymen’s terms.

Its once again “Daylight Saving Time”.

Golly I hate the time change every April. It just feels so unnatural to me. Now I have to travel to the Central Time Zone as much as possible to feel in sync with my body’s natural rhythm. To many, this concept doesn’t really make sense, but my body just knows when it’s the wrong time. For example, as I type this, my body is screaming 7:30! 7:30! 7:30! I look at the four clocks within eyeshot and they all scream 8:30! 8:30! 8:30!

Why do I resist this?

For the next few days I’ll go to bed when I’m not tired, wake up when I am tired, eat when I’m not hungry and well, you get the idea. All this just for a few extra minutes of daylight. I’d rather fly to Sydney, Australia and back and suffer from a serious case of jet lag instead of going through this one hour adjustment that we must endure.

Local folklore says we do this for the farmers. What a crock of bull poo. The farmers hate the time change as much as I do, as Bessy and her friends don’t like the change in schedule. Chickens get cranky and hold back on the eggs. Milk production actually goes down. I don’t blame the livestock one bit. If I could let out an indignant “moo” with any sort of meaning I probably would.

I can’t fight it. I can’t go around pretending that it’s only brunch time when it’s lunch time. I can’t get to work late. So I have to comply.

But I won’t like it.