To Sleep, Percha-FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

The high-pitch wailing of the smoke alarm woke me from the first good night's slumber I'd been in the process of having in a good long while.

It was 3:39AM

The battery in the smoke alarm had, apparently, died, and the smoke alarm, lashing out blindly (deafeningly) for vengeance, blared its squealing peal to wake the dead and dead asleep alike.

I awoke completely stupored, baffled as to the source of what I am kindly describing as noise. The cellphone? No. The alarm clock? No. Auditory hallucination...mmmm...maybe? But, no.

I roused myself as best I could given the circumstances (it normally would take a few hours of wakefulness and a cup or two of coffee before I would willingly step into battle with such a sound), stumbled to the light switch and then stood, neck craned upward, eyelids still drooping heavily, contemplating this well-illuminated rest-ruining screaming plastic banshee.

The smoke alarm was just within the reach of my outstretched arms which I had raised in the hopes of striking at the smoke alarm's battery compartment, its power source, its brain. And strike it I did, with gusto, ripping the rectangular nine-volt battery from its cradle with a gleeful smile on my face, anticipatory joy for the return to slumber I expected.

Erroneously expected, that is. For, as I ripped the battery from this monstrosity of sound, this wailing warning signal, no relief was granted, no, instead, an echo began, released from the alarm's brethren, spread throughout the house, sensing a fellow cacophonous compatriot in dire straights, a call to aid (and ears) was sounded to alert any alarm in the vicinity, or indeed, any sonic sympathizers within range, of the horror ongoing now, at 3:45AM.

The battery, the battery was not enough. No, to slay this siren, now keening its final appeals, there must be another power source found and disabled, or else, its desire for a new battery appeased, before sleep would be granted.

And so I set to work, amid its klaxon clamor, to pry the offender from its ceiling perch, and pry again, the ties that bound the thing to call, its lifeline, the wailer's wire.

Once freed, it died, the soundless source at last, empty, silent, yet whole. A quarter hour more, it would have snapped. Instead, a sort of victory for sleep, interrupted though it was by this nonsense nocturnal notice its signal sounded last at 4:00AM

And heaven help the alarm clock this morning. I'm sleeping with a hammer under the pillow.

-t

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Hard Times At Ridgemont High

Even though my company stayed well away from the short-selling mortgage-backed system-wide bankruptcy we are still feeling the pinch.

While our capital and market holdings are safe, our projected income for the next few years is going to dwindle as more and more of our clients are affected. So they have instituted a number of cutbacks in order to save some money during these lean times, like:

(a) no pay raises until further notice
(b) no bonuses for 2009
(c) all printers have been reset to default to two-sided printing, cutting our paper consumption in half (this deserves its own mini-post)

But, solid as our savings and planning may be, some folks are still getting clipped, like Roberto, a supervisor on the other side of the floor. He got the axe yesterday afternoon after chronically poor performance reviews (as told by a gossiping manager, "a habitual under-performer").

He was fired yesterday afternoon because he rolled in at eleven and missed the 9AM meeting they'd called to fire him.

Firings during a recession wouldn't surprise anyone, someone up and quitting with no notice will come as a surprise.

No. Not me. I know you were all thinking that. I may love quitting, but I'm not crazy enough to quit with zero prospects in a tanking financial climate.

There was, however, someone that crazy on the night shift!

So we were called into an emergency meeting Monday and told that an irate employee quit the night team with no notice that day and they needed a volunteer to replace him for the next five weeks.

So I volunteered, it might make a nice change of pace.

Unfortunately, they haven't told me yet if I'm going to get it. There may be other volunteers, availability may be an issue, etc. I was supposed to find out yesterday afternoon (this is an emergency fill-in, after all), but, nothing.

Until this morning a girl from the cash team shows up, out of the blue, and sits down with one of our trade guys to "train" on the trade system.

Indications point to me not getting the night shift gig.

Which is a shame, new hours (11PM-7AM), an interesting new sleep schedule (maybe 8AM-12PM, 6PM-8PM?), a new team (full of transplanted Dubliners ready for befriending), and an excuse to drink at seven-thirty in the morning ("a hell of a day at work").

It would have been only for the next five weeks, so I'd get back to regular hours before getting the insomnia-induced madness ("Every time something good happens to me you say it's some kind of madness, or I'm drunk, or I ate too much candy!"). Or, if I flourished, I could request a permanent move to nocturnal hours (like Batman).

But now, like a Superbowl victory, it looks like it's not in the cards.

-t

P.S. to those of you looking for references to Fast Times At Ridgemont High, as indicated by the headline, there aren't any, I've never seen it, and therefore have no jokes.

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Sweep Dreams: An Open Letter to the Red Sox*

Dear Boston Red Sox,

Please sweep the Rockies in the World Series. Firstly, because it would be awesome. Secondly, because these three-hour-plus games and post-game press conferences and analysis are really, really, cutting into my normal sleep schedule.

It's not bad at all during the regular season when NESN carries the games, and they start at the very reasonable time of 7 PM (EST). Then even a four hour game will see me in bed well before midnight satiated, full to the brim of good baseball and wise, thoughtful, well-produced post-game commentary by the studio team of Caron, Remy, and Eckersley.

It is bad when Fox, with their late start times, pandering to their West Coast audience, broadcasts these games. When the first pitch is thrown at 8:15 PM (EST), (or even later!) even a much quicker three-and-one-half-hour game is pushing the midnight envelope. I'm lucky to be in bed by half-past twelve, or asleep by one o'clock!

Now, as a baseball fan, I am compelled, hard-wired, you could say, to watch every pitch, every at-bat, every, single out of playoff baseball, I would continue to do so even if the series went to seven games, each one decided in not less than six hours, lasting no fewer than twenty-three innings. It would ruin me, physically - and probably get me fired - but I would do it.

But, I am asking, instead, that you, Boston Red Sox, please sweep the World Series, so as to maximize both my happiness, and my well-restedness.

Thank you,

Tom


*Thanks to Tyler for the updated title.

The Really Early Bird

I was so tired this morning ... (how tired were you?!)

...that I woke up early.

That's not a punchline. I was so tired I got out of bed an hour earlier than I needed to.

Early this morning, as I lay sleeping, birds started to sing, and the sun rose above the treeline, and shone directly into my eyes.

I sat up, looked at my clock, and realized it was already quarter past the hour, half an hour later than my alarm was set for!

I jumped up and ran into the shower, threw on some clothes, flipped on the news, and realized, too late now, than I was in fact, half an hour ahead of my alarm.

I'd been awakened at 7:15AM, not 7:45AM. My alarm hadn't even gone off yet.

So I watched J.A.G. until it was time to leave.

-t

Won't Go Home

I started this job about four months ago. For the majority of that time I've been trying to figure out what, exactly, is wrong with my coworkers.

Today I might have hit upon something important.

They have strange eating habits. They eat, like, all the time.

Ok, disclosure, it might be me with the weird eating habits, and they seem different only by comparison, but that's why you're here, to act as impartial arbiters. I'm so glad I started this blog.

Anyway. They eat all the time. Maybe I should give you a quick run down of my day, just so you know what I'm comparing them to:

Factors of Importance in Tom's Day-to-day Life:

Sleep - I have a deep affinity for sleep - perhaps a preternatural affinity. If given the opportunity I would sleep fourteen hours a day, unfortunately, work and prime time television conspire to limit me to around seven or eight hours a night. But, it's very important. So important, in fact, that I would rather sleep an extra fifteen minutes in the morning than sacrifice that time to wake earlier and eat breakfast or make a lunch. Ideally I could roll out of bed fully-dressed and showered and head out to work.

Food - In order of importance Food comes right behind Sleep. I miss breakfast sometimes, but almost never miss lunch, which I usually eat at about 12:30PM - or, about four and one-half hours after I wake up in the morning. I usually eat dinner near seven o'clock, or about six hours after lunch.

Money - If I were made of money I would never miss breakfast. In fact, I would probably have it catered. But, as I'm not made of money, on those days I do sleep late and skip breakfast I do wrestle with a choice once I get to work: buy a breakfast sandwich and coffee; or, not. It averages about fifty-fifty (though, due to recent heart palpitations, and a bout with "crazy eyes," I've been staying away from caffeine). On days I do grab something to eat it's usually near ten o'clock, which pushes lunch back an additional hour or so, because I don't like to crowd my meals.

Not Dealing With Stupid or Aggravating People - This is really outside my control. It's necessary to interact with people everyday, and there are a lot of stupid ones out there.


In general it's: Sleep a lot, work, eat lunch, work, go home, eat dinner, sleep.

So, to get back to the thing that I noticed this morning as I returned to work with my Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich and (decaffeinated) coffee.

They eat all the time - constantly.

It bothered me from the beginning of my tenure here that my coworkers never left the office. They would come in early, they would work all day, and they would stay late - much later than I was willing to stay - every day, for no discernible reason.

"Don't they have homes?" I would think to myself? "Aren't they shelling out half of their paychecks for rent on a apartment in the city? If you're paying that much for a place to live, why wouldn't you want to spend time there?"

Because that's the thing: Not only did they not leave, they acted like they didn't want to leave!

And this is what I'm struggling to understand. Presumably these people have lives outside of work. Girlfriends, school friends, roommates, hobbies, whatever. Why spend more time in the office than necessary? The work isn't exciting, it isn't rewarding, it isn't fun. They seem to hate managers as much as anyone I've worked with in the past, it's not a sense of camaraderie. I don't get it.

So, rather than try and divine a solution to this problem, I've decided, instead, to observe, try and note discrepancies, oddities, and compile them, hopeful they'll add up to something that will unlock this mystery.

And today I noticed, that they eat, a lot.

I don't mean they eat large quantities of food. I mean they eat small quantities almost constantly.

I arrive in the morning, they're already here, some munching on energy or protein bars, some with enormous cups of coffee, some with breakfast cereal in bowls and spoons they brought in from home. This goes on for about an hour and a half.

Then it's lunchtime. Lunch! At ten-thirty! Sometimes as late as eleven! Crazy! Folks, I'm not even awake at ten-thirty, nevermind hungry for the second meal of the day!

They eat lunch. Some go out to local eateries (designated by the day of the week, "Qdoba Thursdays," "Wendy's Wednesdays")

Mid-afternoon, an hour or so after lunch they run out "for a snack." And down to 7-11 they go for Cracker Jack, or those gross taquitos things, or assorted Frito-Lay chips.

Then they start to eat dinner! Start.

They have Tupperware containers, or Ziploc containers, or Gladware containers full of chicken and rice, or spaghetti and meatballs, or turkey, peas, mashed potatoes and gravy.

And they eat a little of it, then reseal it, and put it back in the fridge for later.

It's now about four-thirty. They work for an hour, take their dinners out, heat them up, and keep working while they eat!

We're now at least an hour past quittin' time! They're just settling in!!Why????

I don't understand. I get up, eat three (ish) meals a day and want to get out of work as soon as humanly possible.

These guys, it's like they're camping out! GO HOME, YOU LOSERS!

-t

Forty-six and counting

I've developed a new system for tracking sleep-debt. It's sort of like keeping track of birthdays. A way to communicate how tired you are.

First, imagine an ideal period of sleep and waking. For the purposes of this example we'll say you're awake from 8AM to 10PM and asleep until 8AM. Every day this happens you've neither earned or lost any sleep time, you're starting from zero.

That's 10 hours of sleep and 14 of awake time. Good to be well-rested.

So, anyway, the system rates how tired you feel. Let's say you sleep until 10AM instead of 8AM. When you wake up you've gained two hours of sleep, or, you're negative two hours tired.

On the other hand, if you stay up past your 10PM bedtime, until 11PM, say, you've lost an hour of sleep, so even if you wake up at 8AM like you would on a normal day, you're one hour tired.

If you go for a week waking up at 8AM and going to bed at midnight, you're losing two hours of sleep per day, and not gaining any. If you sleep until 2PM on Saturday you've regained six hours, but you're still four hours in the hole.

Of course, it's cumulative, so if you've spent the last three weeks going to bed two hours too late, waking up an hour too early, only getting back three hours on the weekends, and today waking up an extra hour-and-a-half earlier to drive your stupid brother to school because "It's raining" you're now forty-six-and-one-half hours tired.

Except you're not you, you're me.

46.5, and it's only Wednesday. I now have to sleep for almost two days straight to break even.

This wouldn't be such a problem if they let me sleep on the job.

-t