- Saturday, 8:40 pm: Friend in Europe getting all huffy about our saying “the” time change as if we didn’t know other countries change time other weekends or don’t change at all.
- Saturday, 11:30 pm: Going around the house verifying that the only mission-critical clocks that don’t change time on their own are the mantle clock and the clock my aunt and uncle gave me for graduation back in the 90s.
- Sunday, 1:42 am: 28 people simultaneously making joke tweets about Vladimir Putin having a stroke while on a clandestine visit to Iran instigates the final, complete collapse of Twitter.
- Sunday, 1:59 am: We gather around the radio-controlled clock to see it self-adjust its time.
- Sunday, 2:04 am: We wonder when the radio-controlled clock is ever going to start self-adjusting.
- Sunday, 2:07 am: We have better things to do than worry about this.
- Sunday, 12:14 pm: OK but the radio-controlled clock has to adjust itself sometime, right?
- Monday, 12:10 pm: Adjust the answering machine that somehow asks for the time of day, and day of the week, the year, but not the month or day because ?? ????? ?? ?????? ?????????.
- Monday, 2:57 pm: I take the radio-controlled clock outside to the garage in the hopes it gets better radio reception out there and finally adjusts to the right time.
- Tuesday, 11:20 am: I manually adjust the radio-controlled clock to the correct time and feel bad about the whole situation.
- Tuesday, 2:10 pm: We notice the radio-controlled clock has adjusted itself back to the wrong time when we weren’t looking somehow?
- Thursday, 5 – 8 pm: We find the instruction manual for the radio-controlled clock and find we seem to be doing it right but it’s still on the wrong time.
- Friday, 4:08 pm: I get around to changing the time on that clock from my aunt and uncle.
- Monday the 14th, 9:15 pm: The radio-controlled clock is on the right time now.
Reference: The Grand Emporiums: The Illustrated History Of America’s Great Department Stores, Robert Hendrickson.
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Another Blog, Meanwhile 
Shatterday, 8:12 You accidently call your own phone number and someone answers claiming to be J. Nebus, and you decide to add “Last Salute To The Commidore” to your Dash Rambo list of episodes you’re still mad at, then Harlin Ellison complains that you’re not living your life the way he wrote it.
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You know, I don’t hate Last Salute to the Commodore. Trying to think of a Columbo episode I am angry at and it’s not coming to mind.
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