Let the record show that Farmer H has been working three days a week. The middle days. Which leaves him a grouping of FOUR DAYS together, a perpetual four-day weekend, to deal with issues around the Mansion that are the duty of the husband.
It's not like I'm asking him to scrub our clothes on a washboard down at his creekside cabin. Nor even wipe his own butt, apparently, from the looks of the toilet seat at 3:00 a.m. Thank the Gummi Mary I turn on the light. In fact, I even pick up the mud from his clodhoppers that he sprinkles so liberally through the kitchen and living room. No. I just want my cars to run, and my Mansion to be safe. Like...if his wiring from 19 years ago causes flames to lick up the walls...I want to be notified.
That's what a smoke alarm is for. Perhaps you've heard that batteries in smoke alarms should be replaced twice a year. Apparently, Farmer H was out of the loop. I don't see him switching out the Evereadies or the Duracells at Daylight Savings Time and its end. Around here, we wait until the smoke detectors tell us they're ready for changing.
Perhaps you've heard a smoke alarm ready to be changed. They're quite vocal. Insistent and persistent. That's a hard one to miss. CHIRP...CHIRP...CHIRP. It's like Chinese water torture for the ears.
The kitchen smoke alarm declared that it needed changing on Tuesday at 8:40 a.m. I'm sure of that time, because I heard it from my bed. Which, let the record show, is NOT in the kitchen. In fact, that smoke alarm woke me better than an alarm clock. I could not go back to sleep. Had to get up BEFORE 9:00!!! Oh, the snoozemanity!
I know Farmer H heard the cry of the smoke alarm that evening. After all, he had to stand right under it to dish up his Poor Woman's Chicken and Dumplings that I had made for him on Sunday. I think. All the days run together for me now. And even if he'd been concentrating on piling up a towering bowl of chicken and dumplings, I'm sure Farmer H would have heard the CHIRPING while sitting in his La-Z-Boy watching some auto auction or junk-finding show. I was certain he would change the batteries.
At 3:00 a.m. when I went to bed, Smokey the Detector was still chirping. I could hear him from the bedroom. I'm pretty sure that even with his head under the quilt, inhaling the gushing air of his breather, Farmer H could hear him, too. I thought maybe he was just tired. Having worked one whole day this week. And that he'd switch out those batteries before he left for work the next morning. While he was rested and fresh, you know.
I guess Farmer H wasn't all that rested. Or fresh. Smokey the Detector kept on CHIRPIN'. He might have made a good tattoo back in the 70s. As a buddy to the Keep on Truckin' guy.
Wednesday, I blatantly mentioned that the smoke alarm seemed to need new batteries.
"Uh huh. I know."
"We have some, don't we?"
"Yeah. You have a whole drawer of them."
Well then. He would do it that night. Before bed.
But he didn't. Nor Thursday morning before work. Or after. Smokey the Detector didn't get a changin' until FRIDAY NIGHT. I saw the battery package in the wastebasket when I came up at 3:00 a.m. and found my birthday card on the counter. Did I mention that it played Celebration when I opened it?
That was kind of ironic, was it not?