Dear Reader,
I know on an objective level that Stanley Bennett Peterson and Duane D. Pearsall are great men. The invention of the home smoke detector marked a turning point in the history of fire safety and has saved countless lives.
At 5:46 this morning, I could have cheerfully killed them both.
The relentless, malevolant, high-pitched beep of a dying battery punched through my sleeping defenses and directly into my brain. Confused I lurched out of bed, stubbed my toe on the nightstand, and hopped around swearing, which was punctuated every so often by a sadistic beep.
Now awake and seriously annoyed, I located the culprit emitting that sanity destroying sound. It was the smoke detector just inside my bedroom door.
I made the following discoveries while trying to deal with the problem:
- I did not know where my housemate Ms. Melinda kept
the tall ladder. (I do now.)
- That removing the dead battery from a smoke detector does not stop it from beeping. (Seriously, scr*w whoever came up with that feature.)
- While I do know the general location of where Ms Melinda keeps the spare batteries, it turns locating a 9V battery in an overstuffed junk drawer is a surprisingly difficult thing. Especially by feel in the darkness because I didn't want to
turn on any lights and risk waking my housemates. (The point was moot, Ms. Melinda is a light sleeper and the alarm had already woken her.)
- I do not have a career in any kind of home improvement. (Surprising exactly no one.)
- I know a lot more swear words than I thought I did.
Long story short-ish, there is now a new battery in the unholy devil device.
And though I am
tired and grumpy and have one sore, throbbing toe, at least I have a funny story to share in this week's newsletter!
