OK, this makes me feel very John McClane. It’s a First Alert brand OF POSSESSED PLASTIC SHIT. There are three wires connecting it to a potential death tangle crammed into the ceiling. The black one is labeled “Wire”, the Orange is “Interconnect” and the White is Neutral. Can I touch any of those? And by “touch”, I mean “grab with both hands and yank as I jump from the top of the ladder”.
There’s also a Warning, but it’s too high to read.
You know what, screw it. Who wants to buy a condo?
Dear Potential Heroes and/or My New Best Friend:
This is my smoke alarm or, more accurately, what’s left of it. Last night about halfway through the third period of the Bruins/Coyotes game (or 11:45 p.m. in non-puck time) it started shrieking about every five minutes. By 2:45 a.m., it had quickened its pace to suicide-inducing 90 second intervals.
So. I climbed on a stepladder, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and shaking with pants-shitting fury, completely ignoring the fact that everyone within a block and a half could see my naked lower half (because of bedtime, not because of the shit. The shit is figurative.) through the un-blinded parts of the windows.
ANYWAY. I smashed at it as best I could while balancing on the top rung of a ladder in worn Halloween socks. I pulled the batteries out. I inadvertently broke the casing. I might have thought about yanking some wires until I visualized the terror of my loved ones discovering my charred, Franken-socked body.
ANYWAY AGAIN. It’s STILL shrieking and I seriously can’t take it anymore. Building management hasn’t returned my calls, probably because they can sense my Angry through their phones. Is there ANY FUCKING WAY to make this stop, short of wildly bashing at the ceiling with a Louisville Slugger?
It has NO batteries, I’ve tried cutting every breaker not marked “Dishwasher” or “Laundry Room” BUT IT WON’T STOP AND SWEET CHRIST THERE IT WAS AGAIN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP AND ALSO SEND NEW SOCKS. JUST STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT
(But seriously, any ideas?)
Five of six meats are in the pot. #OperationBolognese
GPOYW: “Trapped in the Claus” Edition
Note: Yes, I’m wearing American Horror Story sweatpants and a shirt from the Target boys’ department. Restrain those boners, gentlemen. I SAID RESTRAIN THEM.
Tonight, there will be Bolognese.
Oh yes, there will be Bolognese.
… I ordered a couple of Christmas gifts online, carefully logging their tracking numbers and arrival dates into an Excel spreadsheet because that’s what lonely people do. All but one had arrived before I packed my bags, and I knew that box and I would probably pass each other on an air traffic controller’s computer screen. Sure enough, according to the UPS website, it was delivered about the time I was drinking a beverage called a Zombie and wondering whether I’d ever feel my face again.
When I got home, I expected to see it waiting for me like a loyal cardboard pet.
I looked in the lobby. Nothing. I checked my front door. Not there. I even looked to see if someone had launched it onto the balcony. Nope.
This week for Relish, I wrote about the Worst Person in the World Ever, who is otherwise known as whatever scum-encrusted human sleaze swiped an undelivered Christmas present from the lobby of my building. Read the rest HERE.
The weekend? Almost here.
The Weeknd? Already here. (Or, more accurately, HERE).
GPOYW: “I Killed The Abominable Snow Monster for His Pelt” Edition
Jesus! You just a baby
You ride a donkey
I drive Mercedes
Jesus, I’m so much better than you
I’m still not tired of this.
6 a.m. and I’m wrapping gifts. Hello, Week of Christmas Panic. I didn’t hear you come in.
Internet friends are the best friends.
Thank you, Steve, for my shiny and new and unshattered Bruins ornament!
I give it another three days before I blow the dust off this DVD case for its annual viewing. And by ‘annual viewing’, I mean ‘that night I’ll watch it alone, carefully writing Alan Rickman’s name in shredded cheese before I nuke a massive plate of Bagel Bites.’
The holidays are all about traditions.
