Beep at Me, Wouldja???

I love to shower. I love my showers so hot as to melt my skin off, or so my husband believes. Taking incredibly hot showers is one of the few personal pleasures that I still indulge in…daily. Scalding hot showers, in my humble opinion, are one of the greatest luxuries to being a middle-class American. This, however, is in direct conflict with my smoke/heat detector's opinion though.

This morning started off like any other. Wait. Not right. I was off of work. I had the day and the house to myself! I decided to take a shower so long & hot that I might just end up turning into a baked prune by the time I opted to get out. …And it was fabulous. Glorifying, that is – until I opened my shower curtain and started to dry off. The haze of the hot fog drifted from my bathroom where the door was open, and wafted into my bedroom. The smoke detector, of course, went off.

Now, see…this is a problem because my smoke detectors are wireless. When one goes off…they ALL go off. My house turned into a smoke detector rave. Loud beeping resounded through the master suite in my house (which is a Cape Cod – so, it takes up the entire upstairs). It was deafening. Here I am, soaking wet and being blasted by the heinous beeping of a smoke detector – all before 10AM. Wrong. Just wrong.

I quickly wrapped my towel around my dripping body and attempted to sprint to the smoke detector to shut it off. For those of you who know me, you know I’m a clod. Oh, I can be graceful – I typically wear stilettos, remember? My problem lies in that I attempt to do one tiny thing…and this whole calamity of errors follow thereafter. The rest below is what ensued on the day in question, Officer…

I quickly hopped over the edge of the tub, forgetting that I had removed the bathmat to wash it the day before. My wet foot hit the floor. I slipped. My loud curses were added to the incessant beeping. I picked myself up, and rearranged my towel where it would do me the most good – around my head. I NOW streaked across my bedroom to where the smoke detector is: mounted. on. my. ceiling. WTF?!?! I reach up. Just shy. DAMN! I jump. My still wet foot is probably going to slip on my stupid Berber carpet. [sigh] I quickly assess the situation, and realizing that my husband and his gangly 6’ 4” frame is not around to disarm the unwanted intruder in my morning of serenity; I need to find a way to do this myself – you know, before the neighbors call the fire department - the windows are open throughout the downstairs.

Looking behind me, I finally see something that will support my weight when stood upon, but stands the least chance of killing me in return [this whole thought pattern has already ruled out the computer chair on wheels]. Sadly, this “thing” is my daughter’s cedar hope chest. FULL of goodies (you know since I’ll never be able to afford that 13th goat). That blasted thing has to weigh close to 300 pounds. Shit. I decide to heave it over anyways…I only have to move one end about four feet.

I bend down. I grasp hold of the side handle. My towel begins to fall off my head. [Strangely your mind never seems to work properly in a moment of duress…this being no exception, I opt to save the towel amidst that beeping.] I move to salvage my turban. I bash my face on the top of the hope chest. A litany of swear words that would probably send my mother to an early grave, escape my mouth.

Finally, I get the hope chest dragged over. I climb up. I turn off the smoke detector. BEEP! “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I got a text message. I reach for my robe. Hobbling downstairs on my probably sprained ankle, with my broken ribs, what I am sure is a black eye and the giant goose egg on my forehead…I pick up my phone. My husband texted me to say, “Hope you’re enjoying your day off. I love you!” Impeccable timing as always, BJ. In my now surly mood, I have resolved to burn dinner and to punch him in the neck when he comes through the door…purely blaming my previous episode on his approval of the smoke detector location with our electrician. [sigh]