Get The Clock

In the beginning, there was this picture:

I mean, who doesn't like a picture of dead sisters, pleasingly arranged in a geometrically balanced fashion?

Then Beth, in a moment of genius, made this work of art:

and gave it to me for my birthday.  When I opened my present, I was so stunned by the rush of beauty and symbolism (time waits for no one...life is never truly centered...your other sisters didn't get you presents because they are deadbeats...where exactly is the best place to hang up a clock with dead people on it?...), that I just stood there and blinked at her for a minute. Truly, the glory of the dead sister clock is a lot to take in all at once.

My moments of shock and awe cost me, however.  Beth measured my reaction on the BES (Beth Enthusiasm Scale) and found me wanting. Before I knew what was happening the clock had been repossessed and no amount of protesting could convince her that I was worthy.  I felt the loss sorely, but it didn't matter.  The clock was gone.

The summer flew by and we returned to Atlanta and moved into a new house. Unpacking the boxes and setting out our things, I couldn't shake the feeling that it just wasn't right.  Sure, the place looked nice, but kind of...tame.  It needed something. Something personal. Something interesting. Something quirky. Something exactly like a dead sister clock.

I called Beth:
Me: "Beth, forgive me.  I was wrong. I love the clock. I need the clock. Send me the clock."
Beth: .......
Beth: "No. Way."

What could I do? I wanted that clock, but I'm on the other side of the continent. So I did what I do a lot lately when I need a fixer. I turned to Rachel. Now, Rachel isn't much of a liar but she can snucker like nobody's business. Plus she was headed to California for the holidays. As I drove her to the airport, I looked at her earnestly:

"Rachel. Return with honor, and my clock. And if you have to pick one, get the clock."

 Skillfully, Rachel wrangled an invite to stay at the Lawrence house. With a few well-placed questions and keen powers of observation, she was able to triangulate the exact location of the clock, wait until the coast was clear, grab it off of the laundry room wall and stuff it into her suitcase.  Then she loaded her suitcase back into the car so Beth wouldn't notice it was ticking.

I am happy to report that the dead sister clock now hangs in a place of honor in our hallway.

I know it's time to get up in the morning when the little hand is on dead Claire. And all is right with the world.