Bringing Up Baby

There are many people who subscribe to the school of thought that our birth order greatly influences our personality. I have not spent a great deal of time looking into this, but my mother has. According to her, I definitely embody many of the stereotypical “oldest child” traits. I’m not here to argue with that idea, but it makes me think about I came to be the oldest child.

Obviously, I was the first child born to my parents, plain and simple. However, for almost the first three years of my life, I was not the oldest; I was the only.

For most two-year olds the concept of “baby” is a bit one-sided. I hadn’t met many of them, and I certainly hadn’t been allowed to play with one.

So when my parents started talking about “the new baby,” I really had no idea what to expect.

The only “baby” I was well acquainted with was the beat-up doll that I carried around with me everywhere. It used to belong to my mother and I called it “Baby Jennifer.”

Although I didn’t really know what a baby would look like, I gathered that they were cute. This made me wonder if they were anything like kittens, something that I also found to be cute.

All confusion aside, the date quickly came when my mom was due to deliver this “baby.” I don’t remember much about this time, but I do remember what we were doing when she went into labor.

As a child, most of my good friends came to me courtesy of the fact that the women my mother was friends with had children my age. Fortunately, we all got along very well and would play for hours while our moms sat and chatted over refreshments. I really don’t know what they ate and drank, but I always assumed it had something to do with Hostess Cupcakes.

Somehow, my mom and a couple of her good friends ended up getting pregnant in very quick succession. This meant that our play times were supervised by increasingly larger mother-figures.

On the day that the “baby” arrived, we were out at the house of one of these pregnant women (she was carrying twins) who was due about two months after my mom. I spent the time playing with her other two daughters and generally having a grand old time.

Whilst we children continued our merriment, up in the adult world, things were starting to happen. Basically, my mom went into labor. A hasty decision was made to leave and go to the doctor. Sounds simple, right?

Well… not really. As a child, I was quite attached to my social play time. At this point in my life, I was still technically an only child, so any interaction with other kids was a big deal to me. I was also a bit stubborn at this phase of life, but to be fair, I was still in the “terrible twos.”

Perhaps you can guess where this is leading. My mother came to fetch me for our quick departure and I did not react well to her unwanted interruption of what I’m sure was an intense game of My Little Pony or Sylvanian Family.

Not only did I become quite irate, I had to be forcibly carried (kicking and screaming) by my 9-months pregnant in-labor mother. Nice.

The rest of this day is a bit of a blur from me, probably because I took a while to come out of my super-charged rage episode. After that, I was likely quite worn out, so I am not sure how much I noticed that my mother did not come home from the doctor’s office and that I had to spend some time at the neighbors.

The baby, who turned out to be my brother Michael, arrived around 5 p.m. that day. Talk about your easy deliveries – go into labor in the morning and pop out a 10 pound baby before nightfall. When my grandfather called to speak with me about my new brother, I managed to carry on a successful argument with him over the name of said new sibling. It was the first of many debates that would teach me an important truth: sometimes kids are smarter than adults. My grandfather insisted that we had named the new baby Matthew, but obviously I knew better (and I was right).

My first interaction with my new brother and true confrontation of my loss of only-child status came with our visit to the hospital. I was accompanied by several relatives, including my father. The hospital in our small town was not large, but it did boast multiple floors, which meant that it had need of one of the most fascinating pieces of equipment known to most 2-year olds: the elevator.

Upon our arrival, we all rode up to the baby floor in the elevator and my father let me push the buttons. Not ALL of the buttons, mind you, just the one he told me to push. While this was not ideal in my mind, it had to be enough under the watchful eyes of so many adults.

When we finally made it to the room where my mom and new brother were waiting, I was picked up to see what all the fuss was about. I’m pretty sure I was happy to see my mom, but I do not really remember registering any strong feelings of interest in the wrinkly little red thing she had in her arms. If THIS was the baby I had been hearing so much about, it would really need to get a lot more interesting for me to focus attention on it at this point.

Anyway, after our brief introduction, I was placed back on the floor and promptly ignored. Rather than wallow in self-pity at the fact that I now found myself demoted to second cutest child, I opted to ditch the boring baby-love session and find my own adventure.

After casually exiting the hospital room, I wandered away down the hall and approached the only item of real interest to me since entering the building. Obviously, this was the elevator. Once I had carefully ascertained that no adult supervision was imminent, I boldly pushed the call button. When the doors opened and I still was not being pursued by a grown-up, I decided to walk right in to the unoccupied chamber.

As the doors slid closed, I pondered the switchboard. Normally, I was restricted to only pushing one button and it was always the one that my parents told me to pick. This time was different. I had no one telling me what to do, and I was free to push as many (or all) of the buttons. So I did.

When the doors opened again, I was on a new floor. I decided to check out my entertainment options in this new location, so I wandered down the hall. As there were still no adults in sight, I decided to check out the scenery a little more closely. From my brief perusal, the only familiar item appeared to be a drinking fountain. Feeling a bit parched from my journey, I decided to demonstrate my working knowledge of drinking fountains to the invisible hallway audience.

It is at this point in my story that an adult reappears in the form of my father. I’m not really sure how upset he was, but it was apparently entertaining enough to warrant a photograph of me by the drinking fountain that turned out to be too tall for me to reach. I don’t have a copy of that picture here, but I have recreated it in this artist’s rendering:

This shall be the conclusion of my faithful retelling of the day that represents the end of my solo reign as top banana in my family’s child pecking order. The ensuing adjustment period had occasional rocky periods involving pacifiers, My Little Pony and hair rollers, but I eventually learned to accept the fact that I was a big sister. I also learned how to exert my continued dominance in our sibling dynamic that continues to this day.

Loverly Advice

WARNING:  Please do not be misled in thinking that the tone of this blog entry is angry or overly bitter.  My intention (as with most of my entries) is to be a bit sarcastic.  Although there is a legitimate grain of truth in most of what I am saying, I wish to emphasize that this is illustrative and hopefully instructional.  It is also NOT specifically directed at any one person. 

Just to warn you, this entry is going to get personal. Not in a bad way, hopefully.

In case you have not been able to pick up from my blog entries to date, I am single. In my situation this means that not only am I unmarried, but I do not have a boyfriend, am not “seeing” anyone nor do I appear to have any possibilities on the horizon for dates.

Please note that I am not saying this to inspire sympathy, so if you already went there, get yourself out. Believe me, as a 30 year-old female in the midst of friends who are mostly all married and starting families, I am well aware of what people think of my situation.

Normally I would not be drawn to write about this subject, but I was inspired by an interesting comment that my mother relayed to me over the weekend. She had been speaking with a friend of hers and they fell on the subject of marriage or lack thereof. My mom’s friend told her that her sister knew a woman now in her 40’s who is still single. No matter how many times she has been set up on dates or other similar ilk propitiated by well-meaning friends and family, nothing has really clicked.

Thus far, the story is not that inspiring, but eerily familiar. The next step in the conversation is what brought me to this entry. Apparently, the conclusion was that the reason all the attempts to create romance failed was that this woman simply did not really want to be married.

At first, this statement really irritated me. It seemed to be a non-single person’s attempt to explain a single person’s apparent failure to find a mate. Most likely, this non-single person has tried on numerous occasions to set up their single friend with people that they deemed to be high quality, or at the very least, of a certain age and still single.

After I had time to think about it, I started to realize that it is not all their fault. It really just shows how ignorant non-single people can be about the intricacies of dating. Once you are “settled” and do not have to worry or think about finding a date, your instincts for the game almost completely disappear.

In the interest of spreading awareness to the world and to benefit people like myself and this 40 year-old spinster, I am going to give you non-singles some helpful advice.

1. Do your homework. If you’re itching to play matchmaker, make sure that you are well acquainted with both of your set-up subjects. This is extremely important. It is not sufficient to know only one of your subjects as this leads to a major imbalance in the pre-date information exchange. When I am approached by someone that wants to set me up, I always ask important questions, and if my yenta-of-the-moment does not have ready answers, I cannot proceed.

Examples of answers to know: How old is he/she? Where does he/she live? How long have you known him/her? How do you know him/her? Have you spent time with him/her socially? At work? Why do you think I would like him/her? Be specific.

2. Vocabulary. There are certain words and phrases that all singles have been subjected to by almost every non-single they have ever had to speak with about their love life, or lack thereof.

“It will happen when you least expect it.” This is the king of all trite statements and it is completely USELESS. If you learn nothing else from this entry, remember to NEVER use this phrase EVER AGAIN. It is in no way constructive and is solely based on the person’s selective memory that their own special someone magically appeared when they were in no way shape or form seeking a romantic partner. This is pure baloney and you know it.

“You should really join a [insert lame club here].” The location or type of club can changed based on religious affiliations, athletic abilities and/or hobbies, but in the end it is all the same. Yes, SOME people do meet future life partners at such events or group meetings. But if you join solely with the intention of meeting your future spouse, there is a great likelihood that you will be disappointed and that you may lose enthusiasm for the religion/sport/hobby that you once loved.

“Have you tried online dating?” Anyone who has been single for more than six months in this century has probably at least checked out an online dating site and possibly even tried one if not several of them. Online dating is big business, and it places dating firmly into the same category as online shopping. You can pick and choose your way through different pictures and profiles, selectively choosing your favorites. You can even communicate with several people at once, thereby hopefully increasing your odds of finding a quality person amongst the riff-raff. The behavior that would make you a cad in real life is perfectly acceptable in the virtual world.

Again, I realize that this method has worked for some. However, it does have the high probability of destroying your faith in humankind just as easily.

“See that guy/girl standing over there? He/she is cute! You should date him/her!” Really? REALLY??? I sincerely hope people are joking when they say these things.

3. The whole “picky” situation. For some reason, people seem to think that singleness is somehow a function of being overly picky. This would conversely suggest that people who settle down early in life have no standards whatsoever. How does that sound? I thought so. Compatibility is a strange and mysterious subject. If there is any phrase that I do put some faith into, it is “you know when you know.” If we all knew if or when this moment was to occur, there would be no need to waste time dating people who were wrong for us. It doesn’t come down to being picky or not.

To conclude, let me remind you that I am coming to this subject with a spirit of hopeful understanding. Yes, I am single. Yes, I do hope to someday be in a happy and loving relationship like so many of my friends and family. In the meantime, I am living my life and doing what I want and need to do to take care of myself and my own happiness. If I want your advice or judgment, I will ask you for it. I will even consider going on a blind date with that “perfect” guy you have for me, provided you do your homework. 

When the going gets tough...

Even though I don't think that my lack of entries this week have raised anyone's ire, I still feel like I should apologize.  My time management seems to have gone out the window lately, and I had planned to give a list of excuses, but that's lame.

Instead, I will give you some good news!  My car was finished this week, so I am once again driving my own very special little Toyota.  It was so wonderful to pull into the lot and see my very own car waiting for me with all its cracks and dents repaired.  Perhaps it is a bit lame that I was so excited, but I won't deny it.

Other than that, life has been pretty normal.  I have a group presentation due for my Management class this week that includes a Power Point presentation.  Let me just say that I find Power Point presentations equally useless on both presenter and presentee ends of the spectrum.  I would rather watch golf on TV than be in the same room as a Power Point show.  Unfortunately, my course grade is dependent on this presentation, so my options are limited.  As it is a group project, my teammates are also dependent on my participation, so I cannot in good conscience avoid participation.

On a happier note, this weekend is one of meetings with good and long-time friends.  Tonight I met my favorite blog-reading newlyweds (and marathon runners), Rox and Bill for dinner.  We shared stories, quoted South Park (at least Bill and I did) and ate good food.  I really hope that they weren't locked out of their B & B due to our extended conversation!

If you know me outside of this blog and spent any time with me this week, you probably noticed that I have been a little bit crabby/tense/psychotic.  While part of this can definitely be chalked up to PMS, I am afraid that I might be in the midst of a mid-semester break-down.

In my former educational experiences (especially high school) I was a bit particular about my grades and GPA.  College mellowed me out a bit, but my unexpected good performance so far in grad school has set my personal expectations a bit too high.

After laying awake for many nights troubled over all the impending doom hanging over my head, I finally remembered something that my summer class professor told us: grades don't matter to future employers.  Apparently, for most places looking to hire MLIS grads, the most important part of the qualification is that you have a degree and that it is from an accredited institution.  Getting a grade lower than an "A" will not disqualify you as an applicant!!!

In order to make this work for me, I have adopted a mantra that my dad likes to use that he learned from Bill Murray's character in the movie "Meatballs."  IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER!  When I am stressed out about beating the grading curve, I will repeat this phrase (out loud or in my head).  It will become my mantra.  I will use it to remind myself that once this course is done, I will never have to repeat it and can move on to classes that are really interesting to me.

OK, now it is quite late and I still have some online searching to do, but if you happen to see or speak to me in the next 7-8 weeks, be sure to remind me of my new slogan.  I'm sure I will appreciate it.

Battle of the Bugs

Alright, so I started a blog entry about this topic a week ago, but I didn't find it to be very inspiring in its original layout, so I have ditched that article and started afresh.  Hopefully this will work out better.

This past week has been a bit of a rough one for me and my overall sense of well-being.  On Wednesday, I had a small car accident in which no people or animals were hurt.  Basically, I rear-ended someone at the breakneck speed of less than 5 mph.  You would think that this would not be a big deal, and for the other car, it wasn't.  His minivan had nary a scratch on its back bumper.

Sadly, the same could NOT be said for my car.  When we pulled over to examine the damage, I think that the other driver actually felt sorry for me when he saw the HUGE crack in my front fender.  After refusing several times to take any of my insurance information, he left me to begin the long process of phone calls that eventually led me to missing a day of work while I filed an insurance claim, brought my car to the repair shop and obtained a rental vehicle.  I could go into more depressing details, but as this incident is not to be the focus of today's entry, I will hold off on that for now.

As everyone is well aware, the fall season is fully upon us.  Leaves are changing color and the need for air conditioning has ceased.  As far as I know, we here in the Twin Cities area have yet to experience a full overnight freeze, which explains why my allergies have not yet fully abated.  It also explains another troubling yet unsurprising phenomenon:  boxelder bugs.

If you are familiar with these insects, you may be able to tell where this entry is going.  Boxelder bugs are a common insect in MN, especially during autumn.  Technically speaking, these creatures fall under the category of "True Bugs" and have the scientific name, Boisea trivittata (see this Wikipedia article for a mini-description:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boisea_trivittata) Here is my artists rendering:

I have been familiar with Boxelder Bugs for a very long time, most memorably dating back to my childhood visits to my grandpa's farm.  Images of entire walls and floors covered in these nasty little creatures come to mind quite vividly to this day.

After my childhood farm traumas, I actually saw very few Boxelder Bugs in my lifetime.  Until I became a homeowner and was reintroduced to their creepiness.

One of the amazing skills of the Boxelder Bug is their ability to creep through small spaces or cracks in window sills or siding to enter indoor living areas.  For some strange reason, in my small townhouse, the primary place of entry appears to be my upstairs bathroom.  My first experience with this came about several years ago in a very memorable fashion.  I was actually using my toilet, which is situated right next to the window, when one of these guys came crawling out from behind my window shade.

Being surprised by the presence of an insect is never a pleasant experience.  If this happens to you while seated on a toilet, it is even worse.  Unless you have planned ahead, you will likely not have a swatting utensil within easy reach.  Thankfully, I survived this encounter and was able to use it to formulate a disaster plan for the future.  I now keep a single flip flop shoe in the cabinet next to the toilet in my bathroom.  It is a decision that has paid off numerous times in the years since this first encounter.

While I have been able to successfully address the presence of Boxelder Bugs in my home environment, I have not always been able to dominate them as well in other places.  For instance, the workplace.  For some reason, this year has been terrible for insects in the office.  I work in a open space with plenty of windows and other surfaces for insects to hide and land.  Although I have made a valiant effort to seek and destroy as many Boxelder Bugs as possible, there always seem to be three more for every one I kill.

I should perhaps pause for a moment to explain something about the structure of a Boxelder Bug.  If you have never had the unfortunate duty of disposing of one of these creatures, you may not understand the magnitude of the exercise.

Although they have been gifted with wings to fly, they are not very quick to escape which makes the hunt rather simple.  Unfortunately, the simplicity of the squishing does not continue from that point.  Boxelder Bugs are apparently filled with a yellowish and stinky fluid that is immediately released upon squishing.  I am guessing here, but I surmise that this fluid also causes a noticeable popping or cracking noise upon squishing as well.

Therefore, while you may rejoice in the fact that you have successfully eliminated another one from your living or work space, you must also face the prospect of a messy and smelly cleanup effort.  Trust me when I say that it is nothing like cleaning up a smashed spider, fly or wasp.  It is way juicier.

You may be asking at this point whether or not it is worth it to destroy Boxelder Bugs.  Are they really that much of a nuisance?  I mean, they don't bite and they aren't highly destructive.  Seriously, can't we live and let live?

The answers are as follows:  yes they are, and no we can't.

Here is why - if you let one go, you will soon find that the situation is out of control.  These things like to congregate.  If you need an example, I will give you one.

Several years ago, I found myself back in my hometown for the wedding of one of my best friends at the end of September.  It was a wonderful weekend and everything with the wedding went almost completely as planned.  The only snag was a $5 parking ticket that I received from leaving my car parked in one spot for more than two hours in downtown while we were getting our hair and nails done.

I wasn't too upset about the ticket, and I followed the instructions for payment.  To make sure that this was taken care of before I left town, I enclosed my money in the provided envelope and went to the city administration building to drop it off.  As it was a Sunday, the offices were closed, but they did have  drop slot located on the south side of the building.

If you read the Wikipedia article, you may have noticed that Boxelder Bugs, you may remember that they like to gather in sunny areas on the sides of buildings.  It should now be obvious where this example is leading.  I parked my car and approached the building, envelope in hand.  As I neared the drop slot, it became quite obvious that the Boxelder Bugs of Willmar had come together in order to make my drop-off as traumatic and dramatic as possible.

As I stared in fear at the black and orange-red wall covering on the brick of the building, I eyed up the small slot in the wall and planned my strategy.  I opted for the quickest method of running, dropping and running again.  Screaming a little as I ran, I completed this mission as quickly as possible and spent the next few minutes outside my car carefully inspecting my clothing for any stowaways that could potentially surprise and accost me on my two hour drive home.

Maybe you think that this wasn't a scary example.  Trust me, if you had to do it, you would understand.  Just pray that you never have to experience it.

So, to conclude, I continue to anxiously await the first freeze of the season.  Not only will it cause great relief to my allergies, but it usually significantly decimates the Boxelder Bug population for the season.  In the meantime, I shall continue my private crusade to remove them from my home and workspace.  There really are some things work fighting for.

I've got your strategery planning right HERE...

So just to let you know, I AM working on an entry about the only thing I hate about autumn, but like a genius I went and drew the illustrations on my parents' computer.  Which is at my parents' house.  Which is not where I am right now.  Boo-urns.  You shall simply have to wait for it.  Actually it may be a blessing in disguise as I feel like the entry was getting a little wordy and tangent-y.

Basically, right now I am in high-procrastination mode.  I have just completed the required textbook readings for my Wednesday night class and SHOULD be diligently reading the articles with my highlighter in hand, but instead I am on the internet.  This is not because I hate school or libraries or books. This is because I have an aversion to corporate/management jargon.

So far, we have endured the discussion on "leadership" and "team-building."  This week we are learning about "planning" in its many diabolically inane and banal incarnations.  It isn't that I don't think plans in general are useful.  I PLAN to brush my teeth before bed.  That sounds like a good plan to me!  I just get a little crazy at the fact that these chapters could effectively be summarized in two pages, but in order to create an entire textbook that can be sold to students for $40, the authors insert all sorts of ridiculous filler.

On a side note, have you ever noticed how words lose all meaning when you're reading something that is of no interest to you?  You're required to read it and know the content on some level, but you swear if you ever have to turn around and spout this nonsense to someone for your livelihood, you will run off and live among the Crab-people.

Whew!  Thanks for listening to my rant!  Just know that this is for a REQUIRED course in my graduate program and that I am not taking this by choice.  I do think that my professor is a lovely person who genuinely feels that the subject matter is worthwhile and wants us to engage with the discussions.  So what if most of the discussions devolve into people complaining about their own workplace/management horror stories?  We've all been there and done that.

Now that I have successfully procrastinated for about half an hour, I shall check Facebook one more time and then trudge back to complete my reading for the evening.  To help you understand my mood, I will leave you with a self-portrait illustration.  Please note that while I would love to spend the time drawing the details of my pajama t-shirt, it is just too busy of a design.  I shall verbally summarize it by saying that it contains a picture of a race car that is driven by some guy I have never met named Danny Bayer.  Hey, it was FREE!

Smoking in the Guest Room

Now that I am 30 years old, there is no avoiding the fact that I must call myself an adult. While this label may be permanent, my behavior does not always match up with the requirements of the title.

Part of being an adult for many people is having your own home. As regards this benchmark, I can safely say that I have accomplished it. For six years, I have owned my townhouse. I still think it is a wonderful place, although I’ve grown weary of living in an outer suburb when it comes to driving.

I have many stories of the challenges and rewards of home ownership, and I shall perhaps share more in the future, but I was reminded this weekend of an episode from approximately one year ago that definitely merits a blog entry.

In my opinion, one of the requirements of being a responsible homeowner is a basic understanding of fire safety. In elementary school I was taught the time honored tradition of “Stop, Drop and Roll” as well as the usefulness of touching door handles before opening them and knowing your escape routes. One of the other facets of my training was in the language of smoke alarms and smoke detectors. In my opinion, these two names are interchangeable, so please do not get all picky on me if I mix them up throughout this entry.

One of the key pieces of information relayed to me in fire safety was to always check the batteries on your smoke detectors. When my house was built, the smoke detectors were hard-wired into the electrical of the house with battery back-up. Over the course of six years, I have had to replace a couple of the batteries. The common procedure for these devices is to produce a short but loud “CHIRP” whenever the battery is getting low. Unfortunately, something in the programming makes sure that this starts around 3 or 4 a.m. each and every time.

If you would have asked me a year ago how many smoke alarm/detectors I had in my home, I would have confidently answered “THREE.” One in my kitchen, one in my bedroom and one in the upstairs hallway.

In mid-August of 2009, I was awoken at 4 a.m. (on a work night) to the loud and unavoidable sound of the low-battery chirp. From past experience, I knew that it could be temporarily disabled by removing the battery and pushing the big button.

The only barrier to this solution is typically figuring out which of the devices is actually in need of attention. You would think this is an easy task, but it is not. Typically, the only device that can immediately be eliminated from the choices is the one in my bedroom as it is the closest in proximity. As for the other two, the openness of my hallway/loft/stairway creates an odd echo that makes the decision a bit more challenging.

At 4 a.m., my mind is not operating on all cylinders. On this morning, I decided that the chirping was coming from the upstairs hallway unit. I performed my usual treatment for the symptom and returned to bed, vowing to remember to pick up new batteries at the store later in the day.



Strangely, the chirping did not cease after I addressed the problem, but I dealt with it my turning up the velocity on my fan to drown out the noise and went back to sleep.

When I returned home from work that evening with a new battery in hand, I figured that my problems were over. There was no chirping as I entered the house, so I went up to the device in question, replaced the battery, and figured I was done.



Imagine my surprise when once again around 4 a.m. the chirping commenced. I groggily muttered some obscenities to myself and concluded that I must have misheard the noise before and that it was the kitchen device instead that needed replacement. Luckily, I had the foresight to purchase a two-pack of batteries, so I simply replaced that one immediately.

My frustration was not to be relieved by this act. Even after replacing the battery in the kitchen, the chirping continued. Again I cursed that I must have purchased faulty batteries and decided to purchase new ones later that day.

The next 24 hours should be somewhat predictable by now. I came home with new batteries and again replaced them in both detectors to no avail. I then turned to the Internet for assistance. Some in-depth Google searching and manufacturer inquiries later, I concluded that perhaps the units themselves were worn out and needed to be replaced. I consulted my Facebook friend resource as well, only to hear confirmations of this notion.

Perhaps a normal person would have immediately gone out and purchased new smoke detectors. For some reason, I did not do this, at least not right away. Instead, I went to Target and purchased a larger and noisier fan.

Now I shall try and explain my logic for this choice. I considered the fact that it could indeed be the actual smoke detectors that were wearing out, but I was afraid that the real solution would be far worse. It is possible that the constant ringing in my ears was affecting my sanity, but I feared that something had gone haywire in the actual wiring of my house. If this was true, it would require the expertise of an electrician. I had no idea what that would cost, but I was definitely not up to spending serious cash on the problem… yet.

So instead, I opted to simply drown out the noise, much in the same way that my father avoids strange sounds coming from his car by turning up the volume on his radio.



While this proved a decent solution for sleeping, it did not help much for general living time. I had just started grad school last fall, and concentrating on homework assignments was proving difficult.



Again, instead of addressing the problem, I elected to spend more time during the week at my parents’ house.

After about a month or so of avoiding the issue, I decided to be an adult and take action. I ventured forth to my local home improvement store and purchased two detectors from the same manufacturer as my originals. Before I did this, I also verified with my association manager to make sure that I definitely had to have my devices hard-wired into the house. She said yes, so I purchased the proper type and came home to contemplate my next move.

I knew that installation would probably be a bit tricky and I didn’t want to take any chances. All of the instructions stressed the importance of making sure that the power to the wires was completely shut off. To do this, I had to perform a process of elimination procedure using my circuit break box and a flashlight. Once I knew how to cut off the power, I cautiously set to work on the installation. It was a bit of a messy and nerve-wracking job, but after making a total mess of myself, I turned everything back on, and the indicator lights lit up.

At this point, I sincerely believed that my problems were over. I had acted like an adult and tackled my own problems all by myself. Honestly, I thought I deserved an award.

Unfortunately, the universe did not agree with my sentiments because almost immediately after this whole bag of shenanigans was complete, the chirping resumed. I swear, my head nearly started spinning. I sat down on the floor, nearly in tears. I was defeated.



In my despair, I decided again to wait a while before calling in the professionals. I retreated back into my fan-noise blasting room and vowed to never leave except for bathroom emergencies. Actually, I just spent a lot more time out of my house for the next month.

About two or three months after this whole hullabaloo started, I was looking for some Christmas decorations that I knew were in my guest room closet. Once I located the item I needed, I packed up my boxes again and made for the door of the bedroom when I happened to glance up. If you haven’t already guessed where this is going, here is the big climax: there was another smoke detector on the ceiling. Chirping.

In case you cannot follow this turn of events, here it is in a nutshell: I am an idiot. Contrary to my original belief, I have FOUR smoke detectors instead of three. From the beginning, it was always my guest room device going off. I needlessly replaced two other smoke detectors and purchased way too many batteries. And a large room fan.

I suppose that I could look on the bright side and say that I learned some new things and now know that I can do basic wiring, but it still feels like small consolation. Essentially, I created this problem through my own faulty assumption. And we all know what happens when you assume things, right? (I’ll let you answer that question on your own.)