For the past three days, Husband has been convinced we have a grasshopper in the house. Idiot that I am, I bought into it.
It was a totally believable possibility. We currently have a stick bug on the screen door the size of my hand that has been hanging out there for days. A grasshopper in the house, yeah, that could totally happen. He’d hear a chirp and pause the TV and then we’d spend a few minutes hunting around the room, trying to locate the sucker, fail, sit down and the cycle would start over again. But it wasn’t a grasshopper. I know this because at 3am this morning, the sucker chirped again and Tigger the Dog went metal and it became apparent that it wasn’t an annoying grasshopper chirp at all. What it was was the damn smoke alarm battery beeping that it was low and would like to be changed. Again. I say, ‘again’ because this happened two weeks ago - read about it here. Different alarm, of course but same annoying beep at an ungodly hour. It went off, Tigger the Dog went mental, Husband got the stepladder and stamped it about the rooms trying to find the offending alarm, pulled it down, removed the battery and that was that. And I say “that was that” because I did my part; I bought batteries to replace the offending one AND all the others. I left them on the counter for him to install. He just replaced the missing one and then nothing. The rest of the batteries sat on the counter for days, moved about to accommodate food and whatever but not one battery was replaced. I mentioned that all the smoke alarms needed to be replaced, that if one had been low, they would all be low. Still nothing. I mentioned that my reader in Australia had told me that they replaced all batteries when the time changed and that I’d said we did that here and still nothing. Sure, I could have replaced them all myself but, as I told my Australian reader, I was in a stand off with Husband. I’ve been feeling very lopsided in this relationship – read about it here and here to understand why – so I just moved the batteries into the guest room and each day I gently mentioned that it would be great if he could replace them all. And he didn’t. Or wouldn’t. Same thing. Nothing was done. Even when we replaced the batteries on the scale that said I weighed 124lb and was obviously broken, and I mentioned again that the all the smoke alarm batteries really should be replaced and I brought them to him with the stool, still nothing was done. Then, last night, as I was going to bed and he heard the damn grasshopper again, I snarked that it was probably the smoke alarms and he should change the batteries. And what do you know? I WAS RIGHT!!! I like being right. It fills me with such joy, such a sense of purpose and satisfaction. But I hate, hate, HATE being right at 3am in the morning with a dog cla-clang slamming her tail against the cage walls, manically squeaking her baby and Chewbacca whining at the top of her lungs. That kind of ‘right’ festers in your semi-sleep and you end up with a sore jaw from clenching your teeth together in order to not shout “I F-ING TOLD YOU SO!” at the top of your lungs and furrowed forehead from thinking all those “IF ONLY YOU’D LISTENED TO ME…” thoughts while Husband is stamping about with the step stool trying to find the damn chirping not-a-grasshopper-at-all alarm. 'Right' at 3am is wrong. But to be clear, so was Husband. So. Very. Wrong.
1 Comment
Q.D
9/9/2015 05:09:31 am
Bahahahahahaha!!!! And I get a shout out! Brilliant finale to the story (so far).
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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