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Monday, January 3, 2011

A Hard Day's Night

I was going to kick off 2011 with a post about how great Jack is doing, his Christmas, and heck, maybe some New Year's Resolutions talk.  But I think I'll just opt for his trip on New Year's Eve afternoon for his first ever Krispy Kreme doughnut in Mobile, AL.  Behold the fuzzy iSnapshots, ye dogs!

Step 1:  Sizing Up Your Victim (Note Proper Attire)

Step 2:  Taking the Plunge

Step 3:  Evaluating the Situation

Step 4:  The Verdict

But that's about all I'm good for today on that front.  Sugar highs for everyone, and we all lived happily ever after in 2010.  But my 2011 brain is addled with lack of sleep and a respectable headache.

Because everything goes down at 3 in the morning.  You parents all know that already.  It's a dad gum axiom.    And I'm convinced that people get committed to the looney bin based on things they did with completely lucid intentions in the wee hours.

This beep wakes me up this morning at just before three o'clock.  Like a loud one.  Like a piercing, smoke-detectory kind of one.  I drifted on back to sleep indifferently.  40 seconds later, it returns.  BEEP.  No way in tarnation am I going to - in the middle of the night, mind you - mess with that trickiest of electronic noisemakers, the aging smoke detector.  No sirree.  Nope.  BEEP.  Not me.

An hour BEEP later, I've drifted to sleep approximately BEEP 90 times (thanks, math!) only to be stymied BEEP each time by Old Smokey.  Nearing 4 o'clock, I grab BEEP the robe and hoof BEEP it down to the kitchen to BEEP grab a chair, and bump loudly back BEEP up the stairs.

I fiddle and BEEP tug and twist on the ancient device, crud and dust and unspeakable other cooties and detritus falling out in BEEP my eyes, but the chair's really too short and I can't get any leverage.  I'm also too far away for it to hear me breathing frighteningly elaborate threats.  I start fantasizing about a certain famous fax machine's violent end.  The big guns are coming out. I BEEP tramp down to the garage, and yes...  up comes the ladder.

Yes, the ladder, a real ladder.  I did it.  I've got my robe pockets stuffed with screwdrivers, 9-volt batteries of undetermined age and BEEP a whole lot of hate for a small electronic device.  I climb up there and grab hold.  It.  Will.  BEEP.  Not. Budge.  I hear Jack stirring through the door.  Did I mention Old Smokey is directly outside Jack's room?  And that I'm approximately 4 feet from the location of The Sheetrock Incident? I get down from the ladder and just sit in my office chair, staring pure, melting hatred right up at the red light.  My eyes are also a glowing, incandescent red.  And BEEP then I notice something.  There's another smoke detector about two feet from the one I'm picking a fight with.  I BEEP listen closely.  Old Smokey, Sr. is BEEP innocent.

Junior gets a jab about BEEP his questionable parentage (I'm assuming smoke detection devices are male) as I try to figure out how to liberate him from the ceiling.  Looks like a simple twisty job.  No problem.  I twist firmly, and it comes BEEP right off...  Now, I'm being completely honest here, and I'm not exaggerating one bit.  I kid you not BEEP, at the precise moment I twist the battery powered smoke detector off the ceiling, the alarm system goes off downstairs.

RWRWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

It is 4 in the morning BEEP.  I am standing on a ladder holding a (mostly) dead fire detection device.  150 feet away, all hades has broken loose in my kitchen because BEEP I've apparently ripped the space-time continuum.  I glance BEEP at the batteries in the detector.  They're the most arcane camera batteries I can remember, having only seen them once in my entire life, years ago.  No chance of replacing those.  The Phoebe Bouffay Solution is also out (no garbage chute nearby).

If that baby wakes up, it is game over.  If Majesty wakes up AND SEES TOOLS AND A LADDER, it is supremely game over, dude.  Because there's no 'splaining at 4 in the morning.  None.  Things make sense intuitively, or they do not.

And this sooooo fails that test.

I hit Mach-7 as I go Jesse Owens Scramjet to the kitchen and batter the 'Chime' button into submission, while ripping out the two weirdo batts from Junior.  Sweating, breathing hard, still loads of withering hate in my eyes for that (now completely dead) hunk of junk - I threw it in the garage and slammed the door - I wait for the crying.  The doors opening.  The search for... well, for me.

And I hear nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.

How nobody in the house woke up through the clatter is one of the great mysteries of my life.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Happy New Year!!!

Courtney Squillante said...

Ha! This story made my day!!!!

Donna said...

Hilarious- and I'm tired just reading that story. And I LOVE Jack's VERDICT face- too precious!