Outatime

So a while ago my wife and I got what is basically the perfect clock for our living room. It matches the color of our furniture rather well, and it is just the right size for our wall, and it contains European, not Roman, numerals. However, it recently stopped performing its most basic, and only, function, which is telling time. The hands no longer make their day-and-night trek 'round the circumference of their dwelling. Instead, the clock, as may be said, now displays the correct only twice a day. Changing the battery yields no results. I'm no horologist, though I do enjoy singing from time to time, and I fear the repair of our timekeeping apparatus is beyond my humble abilities.

Thus, I decided to phone the number on the back of the clock, which one is, apparently, to do in lieu of returning the clock to its place of purchase. I was told by a friendly voice on the other end to do, however, exactly that. So tonight I brought it to Target and asked if I might exchange it for one that, well, works. My request was twice denied, and rather than attempt a Peter-scale hat trick with subsequent managers ever higher on the corporate food chain, I accepted reality and vacated the store, proverbial tail between my figurative knees.

However, a noble spirit embiggens the smallest man, and this small setback only served to compel me to pursue the matter further. And, thanks to some sage advice from one of my wife's friends, Step Two will involve what my friend Jon refers to as a "Strongly-Worded Letter." Such techniques have a rather high success rate, so I am ever hopeful we will end up with a working clock soon enough.

Tomorrow we leave for Nashville for our nephew's baptism, and less than 48 hours after our return on Sunday we will be on the road to Lincoln for Thanksgiving. 'Tis the season, my friends, and the season is good.