DST

This semester has comprised of many early mornings and even more late nights. I can probably count on one hand the number of times Andrew has gone to bed before midnight. I can also probably count on one hand the number of times Andrew has slept in past 8:00. Or 6:00 for that matter. In short it has been mass chaos and this past week has been the worst.

He sheds his suit right before going to bed and leaves it crumpled up on the floor so he can step right back into it the following morning. He's had presentation after presentation, paper after paper, project after project and everything culminates today in what shall hence and forever be called "mega-presentation/paper/project day."

What is mega-presentation/paper/project day? I'll tell you.

It's a twenty-five minute powerpoint presentation followed by an open Q&A session explaining the five "phases" of a project with an accompanying 10-20 page paper per phase. That's what mega-presentation/paper/project day is—a whole lot of work.

When Andrew rushed through the kitchen yesterday, pecking me on the lips on his way to the office, and exclaiming, "Man, I'm so busy!" his sister asked if he had procrastinated. No, no procrastination here. Just business. Andrew put the girls to bed last night shortly after I left for the theater and he didn't even notice when I came home (at 10:45 PM). Seriously. He was working that diligently. It's like he's not even here. I am so happy for the end of the semester. No, really.

Anyway, we went to bed late last night after he had finished with everything he could finish and this morning...he slept in. Big time. He woke up when he should have been gone. So he jumped out of bed, into his suit, and out the door before I could even say "Good Morning!"  

After he was gone I got the girls up for the day, rushed Rachel to school, took out the garbage, ate breakfast, and then checked my email. There was a short message from Andrew:

So during one of our practice presentations just now, I was presenting and suddenly felt something crawling down my leg. It was freaky. I rushed through and finished my part to discover that it was a dirty white sock.

That email alone proves the chaos that reigns in our household but even funnier was the subject of his message: DST.

DST is a family joke—it stands for "dirty sock treatment." Andrew's dad has long-standing tradition of threatening to rub his dirty socks on his children's faces. And sometimes he does rub his day-old socks on his children's faces. And sometimes when they come home to do laundry he puts his socks in with their clothes so that they have to come back home again to give them back to him.

So Andrew just gave himself the DST. I wonder whose sock it was...