<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/"><channel><title>Ramen on Gromet's Plaza Archive</title><link>/authors/ramen/</link><description>Recent content in Ramen on Gromet's Plaza Archive</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-us</language><lastBuildDate>Tue, 23 Oct 2007 00:00:00 +0000</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="/authors/ramen/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>7 AM Alarm</title><link>/stories/2007/10/23/7-am-alarm/</link><pubDate>Tue, 23 Oct 2007 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>/stories/2007/10/23/7-am-alarm/</guid><description>&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;7am Alarm&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;The alarm went off at 7am (as usual for a Tuesday) and my wife Julie began nudging me to get up. Tuesdays were always the worst: meetings throughout the day with so-called superiors discussing the latest problems with our programming of the previous week. Grudgingly I swung my feet out of bed and onto the carpet beside our bed.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;“Make sure you shave today dear,” Julie snickered from the bed. I was too tired to give her a dirty look. She knew she didn’t have to get up until noon. Her nursing job dictated some odd working shifts and she took full advantage of rubbing it in when I had to get up several hours before she did. Accepting my fate I stood up, stretched, and made the journey to the shower.&lt;/p&gt;</description></item></channel></rss>