It’s official–I am a hor. And no, that’s not a spelling error, and no, I didn’t hit my 60th birthday and decide to use my feminine wiles on an unsuspecting and soon-to-be appalled clientele–no, ‘hor’ is short for horologist. And what is a horologist? I hear you ask. Has Mydangblog suddenly earned a certification in the art of telling people that a random constellation assigned to their birth defines their character, and that I’ve started providing daily reports about very specific things that will happen to them–and the millions of other people also born in that month? Of course not–that would be insane. But I AM crazy–crazy for clocks. And if you know anything about me at all, you know that I’m obsessed with clocks. I have OCD, and I find great comfort in being surrounded by clocks, not sure why, because all the explanations on the interweb don’t seem to apply to me–I don’t have a fear of time passing, I don’t obsessively check the time, and I don’t compulsively count things. (I DO have what’s known as ‘magical thinking’ about clocks, but it only applies to the digital number 3:33, because at 3:33, the clock in our bedroom, which projects onto the ceiling, looks like 3 spaceships having a battle, and if I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s usually around 3:30, so I wait until 3:33 to see the space battle, whisper Pew Pew! to myself, and it puts me back to sleep.)

At any rate, at last count, I have over 56 clocks scattered around the house, and only about a tenth of them actually keep time. But lately, I’ve had a run of luck.

First, if you recall, there was the antique mantel clock that I retrofitted with a battery pack–it runs like a dream and is currently sitting in pride of place in my bathroom. Then, 3 weeks ago, I came across a beautiful gingerbread clock at Value Village for only twenty dollars. It didn’t work, so I was planning on selling it in my antiques booth as ‘clock decor’. It was taking up room on the kitchen island so I brought it into the dining room. It stayed on the dining room table, dormant as a bear in winter, until I needed to clear the table. I put it at the back of the sideboard. A little while later, I could hear a faint sound, a sound that was both exhilarating and soothing at the same time. I approached carefully–the gingerbread clock was RUNNING!

Me: Ken!! Ken!! The clock is working!
Ken: What clock?
Me: Don’t come any closer! Tiptoe!

Of course, Ken completely disregarded my instructions and clunked his way into the dining room, but it was fine–the clock didn’t even seem to notice, and kept right on ticking. A few minutes later, it began to chime.

Ken: Is it really 8 o’clock already? It doesn’t seem that dark out…
Me: Shhh. Just give it some…time, hehe.

Despite my best efforts, the gingerbread clock loses about 20 minutes an hour, and chimes out random numbers, but that’s just fine because I GOT IT TO WORK.

And then, a few days ago, I was at the Mennonite Thrift Store (Mennonites dress like the American Amish, but they have cars and cellphones), and right by the till, there was an antique Sessions clock, just sitting there, as though it was waiting for me. It was very cheap, and there was a sign on it that said, “Pendulum package and key inside.” So I bought it, because who doesn’t need another clock, especially one that’s almost 150 years old?

I got it home and set it on the counter. It seemed to be a little overwound, so I took the back off and manually started the pendulum. I did this several times. Suddenly, the pendulum continued to sway back and forth, and the next thing I knew, the clock was chiming–and not only was it chiming, it was keeping THE CORRECT TIME. I kept it on the counter for two days, where it continued to keep perfect time. Then, Ken and I went out grocery shopping, and when we came back, IT HAD STOPPED. I almost cried. But I was never one to give up–I moved it to the dining room, the scene of my last success, and kept manually trying to restart it. Finally, I sprayed the innards with WD40–EUREKA. And now it sits on the dining room table, and we all tiptoe around it, and I’m scared to move it in case it stops again. Temperamental little b*tch. But it keeps perfect time.

And you’re probably now thinking, Isn’t this supposed to be a humour blog? This isn’t that funny, her going on about some stupid clock. But it IS funny. Because I’m a hor. A hor for clocks.