Punching In

I have one of those jobs where you have to punch in. Every morning as I come in, and every evening as I leave, I insert this card into this clock machine that sucks it in, stamps the time, and spits it back out. This is to ensure that I am coming to and leaving work at the agreed upon hours: 9:00 am to 5:00 pm.

The machine has a certain sound. Although only a table-top appliance--which I could throw maybe 20 yards if I wound up and got a running start--it seems to take pleasure in it's authority of time stamping. It's smug and self-important. It, and it alone, determines if I am early or late. It seems to take pleasure in this authority.

Although a very simple device, this mechanical boss provides great motivation to arrive before 8:59 and to leave later than 5:01. Although work is only a 5 minute drive, some mornings I have found myself speeding and talking under my breath about slow drivers, all the while worried about what smug look the time clock will give me if I jam my card in at 9:01.

There's room for two weeks worth of punches on each card--one pay period. It's happened on occasion that I've come in on a Monday morning, grab my time card from it's slot, run it through the machine, only to find out that it was a new pay period and hence time for a new card. Well, by then it is too late and the clock puncher has already printed over Monday's time from two weeks ago. Oh great--how is Sherri supposed to know what time I got there on Monday two weeks ago? Will she call me into her office? Will I get a written reprimand for failing to use the time clock correctly?

So last night I dreamt that I was standing in front of the time clock in a stupor, repeatedly inserting my time card into the machine. Each time I would put it in, the machine would dutifully stamp the time and spit it back out. Being in a stupor, I would insert it again, the machine would again stamp the time and spit the card out. Soon, the little box for Monday's time-in from two weeks ago was just a blot of ink.

As I've thought about the dream, I've found it particularly interesting that, while the clock does sound authoritative, it really is rather stupid. I mean, it doesn't know that it's printing over the previous time. I even have to push a button to tell it that it's morning or afternoon. And the digital clock (the official time-keeper) and the analog clock on the face are not even connected. You have to set them separately. It probably doesn't even know that my paycheck isn't even calculated from it's markings--I fill out a separate time sheet for that. And yet I am still a slave to it, which I suppose justifies it's smugness and importance.

Occasional Brown Spot

Mom warned me about the upstairs washing machine. It works very well except for the occasional brown spot on a white article or two. She says it comes off if you scrub it with the stain remover, which is really inconvenient for such a modern convenience. So I was thinking about what would cause that--not all the time, but just an occasional brown spot.

That night I had a dream. A little bit of brown shoe polish had gotten stuck in the folds of the rubber gasket around the door. Occasionally, a bit of polish would get up into the load and make that occasional brown spot. The fix was easy--clean the shoe polish out of the rubber gasket.

But it was only a dream. In reality we still don't know what is causing that occasional brown spot. Oh, the little inconveniences of modern conveniences.