Telling Time

One thing I am not good at is telling time on an analog clock.

I never learned to do it properly, and I used to shrink in fear in school that someone would ask me and I wouldn't know. I remember the day we learned to say the time in French when I was in seventh grade--I sat there staring at the clock, terrified that Mr. Gregoire would call on me.

I am better at it now, but it still takes me a few seconds to figure out. And I still get it wrong.

For example, yesterday at Costco I dropped off a printer cartridge to be refilled at the photo desk.

The clerk told me it would be ready in an hour.

I looked at the clock on the wall.

Me: So it will be ready at 2:10?

Clerk, speaking slowly: No. 2:10 is in 20 minutes.

Me, staring desperately at the clock: Oh. Of course. Duh. 2:50!

Clerk: Yeah.

I felt pretty dumb.

Snip Snip

At 8:30 p.m. on Saturday I looked at my freshly shampooed Zeke.

Me: Zeke. What is up with your hair?

I ran my fingers through his hair and shreiked.

Me: Zeke! What have you done!

Victor: I think he cut his hair with scissors.

At 8:40 p.m. on Saturday, Jeremy had the clippers out and Zeke was getting his first ever buzz cut. It's a short 3 on top and a 1 on the sides and back.

At 12:30 p.m. on Sunday, Zeke was insisting we call him Soldier during lunch.