I am sad to report to you that John and our alarm clock have now parted ways. It was not an amicable split. In fact, it was a woman who came between them. That woman was me.

This morning I woke up at (what I thought was) 7:30 and my heart damn near stopped beating. Why? Because I need to be at work at 7:25 am and there's no way in HELL that I can be late. I screamed to John, "JOHN! It's 7 fucking 30!" as if screaming would make time stop. John slowly rolled over and then recoiled at the sight of the time as if it were a snake about to strike him. Truth be told, I was about to strike him too!

Luckily, I am married to one of those annoying people who set the clocks ahead by 15 minutes than the actual time. Typically, I don't need this type of "crutch". I'm one of those people who say that if you're fifteen minutes early, you're late. I'm always early... Heck, I was born 6 weeks ahead of schedule!! Most people hate people like me, I can live with that; as long as I can continue being early. Most of the time I do not like John's 15 minute trick, however, today I loved him for it and I will be keeping this "fail safe". I also loved his quick moving as I was shouting out for help to assemble my wardrobe quickly as if he were part of my fashion pit crew. I was out of the house by 7:21 am. I got to work at 7:23 am ( I live thirty seconds from work...I could walk there...if I wasn't incredibly late).

Whew...

So yeah, because John has gotten all touchy feely with the alarm clock's on/off button in his sleep, they are no longer allowed to stay together on the same side of the bed. The affair is officially over. There's a new sheriff in town...who doesn't even like the snooze button. Good luck ol' Johnnyboy! (Only kidding, I'll still hit snooze for ya!)

Of course, of all days, today would be the day that a photographer came to my room to take my picture for an awards ceremony that I'm involved in (because I'm a winner!!!). Greasy hair/passion filled hair (read: cum from the night before...brushed out as I pulled out of the driveway) pulled into a pony tail? Check. Fairly bad outfit? Check. A Winter's worth of fat? Check. A roomful of 17 and 18 year olds watching me blush as I stand in front of them posed artificially? Double check.

My life is glorious, is it not?