My alarm clock is broken and for someone who loves to snooze, like I most certainly do, this is a tragedy.
I snooze my alarm every morning. Eight times.
It’s my thing. It’s cute and adorable and part of my charm.
And, thankfully, there’s usually no one around to be bothered by it. (Unless I work at six. Then Hubs is bothered by it, but he thinks it’s cute and adorable and part of my charm. Really.)
But now the damn thing is broken. Well, that’s the assumption one comes to when one’s alarm clock just… stops.
Two days ago, I overslept and was late to work. (Granted, I’m late to work everyday, but it’s cute and adorable and part of my charm.) Everyone assumed I was up late on New Years Eve, but truth be told, I was in bed by eleven. Hubs was asleep on the couch. I tell ya, we really know how to celebrate.
I’ll have to use my cell phone until I can figure out a replacement. This really is a tragedy, because using my phone means concentrating on hitting the right button (snooze, not dismiss) when I should be concentration on hitting the pillow. The concentrating wakes me up and I miss out on my beloved morning ritual that is The Snooze.
Then I’m cranky. But it’s cute and adorable and part of my charm.