No, there is no clock. Not even on the range.

But there is an outlet in case I decide to plug something in and prove that you can convert heat into electricity or something.

P-C, that is beyond wierd. I have no explanation for the craxiness of stove manufacturers.

Damn you, General Electric! Daaaaamn yooooouuuu!!

That's it, you're demoted to Colonel!

I don't have a clock in my oven either. I use the timer in my microwave, or the stopwatch on my watch.

As a child I was fascinated by all things mechanical and electric, so I figured out the functionings of our electric oven by myself.

P-C, what model is it?

Usually found on a tag on the wall of the front of the oven when you open the door, or on the door itself when door is opened.

I think my figure skating fandom is dying out. Weird. The biggest factor is that the new scoring system is purely idiotic, but it's also like I only have so much energy to go around, and these days a huge chunk of it gets sucked up by writing and writerly activities. Which may mean I'm getting a bit too single-minded, but I'm having fun with it.

I know what you mean, Susan. Not so much about the scoring, I never understood it all that well, but about the losing interest part. I started losing interest when they started all the pro contests. It just seemed to make it even more of a popularity contest. Plus, I got tired of seeing the same routines over and over and over...

The past few days have been scarily positive. Amazing fic feedback packages and notes and emails, plus, when I went to the eye doctor I discovered that my eyes show no signs of deterioration that could be attributed to diabetes. That has been my secret dread since the diagnosis, especially with a pimply-faced nursing student doing the initial consulting and saying, as she casually shoved her glasses up, "Of course, you could do everything right and still lose your feet or go blind." If she'd had gum she'd have popped it, she was so bored.

Anyway. Old trauma, since reported to the management of the hospital.

"Fortunately", to sooth my odd phobia of things going right which only means bad things will soon follow, Hubby's holding on till his scheduled back surgery by the skin of his teeth. They say they can rebuild him, they have the technology (and if I add up all the medical bills, I don't want to see how close we are to six figures). I've not only let that bitch Hope park in the driveway, she's turned off the engine and thinking of coming inside. I think I'll make her sit on the porch for a while, just in case.

That has been my secret dread since the diagnosis, especially with a pimply-faced nursing student doing the initial consulting and saying, as she casually shoved her glasses up, "Of course, you could do everything right and still lose your feet or go blind." If she'd had gum she'd have popped it, she was so bored.

And? Wrong.

connie, that's excellent news.

I think if you're going to make Hope wait out on the porch, you should consider serving her some tea. Might make her more disposed to come in and set a while.