My water cooler is loud. REALLY loud. Like, annoyingly, high-pitched loud. Worse yet was my wife's complaining about it (which was annoyingly high-pitched and loud in its own way). I hatched a scheme, a plan to rid myself of this agony. I would force the water cooler to cycle itself on and off, depending on when we were likely to be around to hear it. But how to accomplish this -- an incantation? Magic spell? Perhaps prayer? None of these seemed particularly promising to a cynic such as myself. Then it hit me -- a timer! Yes! A Timer! But where could I find such a magical device that could be adjusted to my every whim, tailored to my family's random, chaotic lifestyle? Such a contraption would need to provide individual settings for each and every day -- not to mention holidays, daylight savings time, and the occasional vacation. I searched the Amazon for the perfect item to meet my various requirements, but nothing fit my bill. Each time an item came close to the promised land, I found its Achilles heel: this one was too expensive, that one didn't include a grounded plug, this other one had poorly-phrased reviews. While the electronic models provided the most flexibility, I was concerned about the intellectual acumen required to put these devices into action. At this point, I made a fateful decision: I settled. That's right - I chose the timer that didn't meet all of my needs, but had a plurality of the functions I required - a grounded plug, 7-day individual settings, compact design, simple "programming" ... yes! This was the one! I was quickly falling in love, and not just because of the low price. One Click and two short days later, and it was mine. I could barely contain myself as I hacked open the package, pricking myself on the plastic clamshell shards. Trembling, I attempted to press down the tiny, roach-piano-like keys that would force my hell-breathing H2O dispenser to quiet itself, in somewhat-convenient two-hour increments. Press. Nothing. Press harder. NOTHING! Pull up. Oh. Duh. Should have read the miniscule instruction sheet provided in a convenient folded-up bundle in the bottom of the package. My fingers flew around the dial, becoming more nimble as they went. Off, off, on, on, off, on, on. Off, off, on, on, off, on, on. It was like a symphony. And then, before I knew it, the programming process was over, seemingly before it started. The moment had arrived. Trembling (I think it was caffeine this time), I plugged the timer in, then attached the offending device to the side-mounted receptacle. I would have preferred the receptacle to be on the other side or perhaps the bottom, but this was no time to quibble. I stepped back and waited expectantly. This being an "off" time, the water cooler was now blissfully quiet. I was no longer forced to suffer the whine that had been the bane of my existence since our old, sweet, quiet water cooler had died and been replaced by this abomination. But I digress. Let's just say the water cooler, now being off, was quiet. I sat down, savoring the feeling of accomplishment. But something was gnawing at me, chewing at the corners of my self-satisfaction. What was that new noise? That faint, grinding, mice-in-the-walls-playing-dice noise? I searched frantically, hoping to find the offender was a fly trapped in the screen, or perhaps a slowly leaking bag of sugar. I didn't want to do it, but I had to: I put my ear down by the timer. And found a new hell.
