Years ago, I had a car that had gremlins running around inside it. We'd be driving along, listening to the radio, when all of a sudden, the station would change, usually to something that made you want to drive over the edge of a cliff, like talk radio where the topic was "Foot Fungus: Friend or Foe" or the Lawrence Welk channel with special guest Hans the goat boy and his magic accordion.
No matter what buttons or pushed, or how hard you pushed them, the station would not change until those gremlins were good and ready to change it. Oh, and bonus! You couldn't turn the radio off either, so there was pretty much nothing you could do but slap both hands over your ears, drive with your elbows and knees and chant, "lalalalala, I can't hear you," until the station was switched back to something resembling modern music.
As if that wasn't bad enough, the doors would randomly lock and unlock. Running errands? Lock. Lost in a dicey section of town? Unlock. Driving down the highway? Lock, unlock, lock, unlock. Getting gas? Lock. On Tim. While he was pumping gas. With the keys inside.
And that was the end of that car.
Now, we apparently have some of those same gremlins running around our house.
Last week, I was watching TV as the dog snoozed behind the couch when, all of a sudden, one of the smoke detectors upstairs gave one long, loud beeeep, and one of the lights above the stairwell started flashing on and off, on and off.
Jumping up, I ran over to the stairs, only to find...nothing. No smoke, no fire. No reason why the lights should be flickering like in one of those horror movies where you're shouting, "Run, dummy, run!" to the ditsy girl who simply has to check it out when she knows full well that there is a revenge-seeking, mask-wearing, axe murderer on the loose and so far, nine out of her ten friends have been gruesomely killed in that same stairwell.
I turned the light off, then back on. Still flickering, but the other light on the switch was completely dead. I quickly checked the date. Nope. Not Friday the 13th. Whew. I pressed the switch again. Same result. I double checked our address. Okay, we did not live on Elm street. I went to the alarm panel. No alarm had registered. Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser.
Suddenly, the dog went on high alert. Oh no, was it Freddy, Mike Meyers, Chucky or Dracula??? Nope. It was only Tim, no axe in sight, coming home from a dinner, and Chloe happily tripped over to welcome him.
I related the bizarre incident to Tim, and he also pushed the button (both lights were now dead), checked the alarm, looked under the bed, in the closet, behind the door, and shrugged, concluding that maybe we'd had a power surge or something. Meanwhile, I slept with one eye open that night, just in case.
Two days later, the gremlins struck again.
We had a friend over with her dog, and the three of us were laughing as we sat in the basement watching the dogs tumble around the floor. Suddenly, the alarm went off again. This time, it really went off, beeeeeeeppp!!! Tim ran upstairs to disarm it while I assured our friend that it was just our friendly little gremlin and it was not really a fire...probably. Maybe. Hopefully.
A few minutes later, the front doorbell rang. Assuming Tim would get it, I didn't bother to go upstairs, and kept chatting. About five or so minutes later, Tim appeared downstairs again.
"You really should answer the doorbell when it rings," he warned me.
"Didn't you get it?" I asked, raising a brow, because surely, he hadn't expected me to run up the stairs when he was, what, twenty feet from the door? Who was he, Archie Bunker?
"I was at the store," he informed me. "I went to get batteries for the smoke detector, since I thought changing the batteries might solve the problem."
Confused, I followed him up the stairs. "Then how do you know the bell rang? Was it you? Did you forget your key? Why wouldn't you call? And anyway, you're in, so what's the big deal?" The final words died on my lips as I saw the armed police officers standing in the kitchen.
Crap. Had the house actually been on fire or broken into? Did they have Chucky cuffed in the back of the cruiser? Was Freddy's blood splattered all over my living room walls? What had I missed???
And shouldn't the dog have heard something and barked? Lassie had always barked to warn Timmy just before the dope fell into the well...again. Couldn't Chloe have at least growled, sneezed or even burped to let me know my life was about to be snuffed out?
I glanced down at the adorable muppet at my feet who was doing her doggie best to smother the officers with kisses and hugs.
"Way to go Chloe," I congratulated her. "Next time, maybe you can lead the axe-wielding psychopath to the silver before he kills us."
The police assured me though that we actually had not been in danger. Apparently, the alarm had come from the "panic" button on one of the key fobs, so they had raced over, assuming the worst.
Tim had arrived back home to find lights flashing and guns drawn, and assumed the worst.
Meanwhile, our gremlin was having the last laugh, since, at the time the alarm went off, we were all downstairs and our keys were on the hall table, upstairs. Hmmm. I wonder if we can trade in our house like we did the car?
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label house. Show all posts
Friday, November 4, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
It's All About the Fit
This past weekend, we had some friends visit from Texas. As we showed them out "new" house, they admired a pair of loveseats on the third floor. I explained that they were our former living room couches, just recovered. And what a nightmare that was.
When we moved in, I had the movers put them up in the guest room at the top of the house. Lickety-split, up they went. No problem.
About a year or so later, I had the reupholster guys come to take them out. No lickety. No split. Many problems.
Wham! They smashed the first one of the couches into the door frame as they attempted to get it through the door.
Um. I'd actually like it back in one piece, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.
Bam! They smashed it a second time as they backed up and tried again.
Hey, Braveheart. That's a couch, not a battering ram.
Slam! Okay. Three times is obviously not the charm. Let's review some basic physics here...two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. C'mon, say it with me.
"This couch won't fit through here," lead guy one complained. "What'd ya do, put these couches up here, then finish building?"
Why, yes. How clever of you to have figured it out. I actually designed the entire house around these fifteen year old, worn and stained couches. It's the newest craze. I hear Brad and Angelina have done it in at least three of their homes.
"Well, the legs must come off then," he grumbled.
"I don't think so...but how about tipping it the other way?" I offered.
"I've been doing this a long time, and the legs always come off," he informed me loftily.
Okaaayyy...
Fifteen minutes later, he was back to trying to cram the couch through the door...with the legs still on. He had, however, removed the door from its hinges.
"How about tipping it the other way?" I suggested again.
"There is no way you got these couches through this door," he huffed after about fifty-six more failed attempts to jam it through, all the while ignoring my suggestion.
And yet, there they are, in the room. Ooh. It must have been magic. Maybe the movers were just better at spells and potions than you. Perhaps your wand needs the new 10.5 upgrade. Oh, and incidentally, I believe there is a tiny speck of paint that you missed when removing it all from the door frame, but don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it on your next attempt to force the couch through.
"How about tipping it the other way," guy two suggested at this point, correctly interpreting my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as danger sings.
"That won't help," guy one groused, oblivious to the act that he was wasting the last minutes of his life complaining. "These couches just won't fit."
"Then maybe I should call someone else," I cut off his grumbling.
Suddenly, divine inspiration hit.
"Hey. I know. Let's tip the couch this way," guy one suggested.
Guy two shot guy one a look that was only slightly less malevolent than the one I was aiming at him.
One hour, four gallons of sweat, 372 curses and various scratches, dents and bruises later, the couches were loaded into the truck.
About two weeks later, a different crew brought my now, oh so pretty couches back.
Wham! Uh oh. They had sent Laurel and Hardy clones...again.
"These couches aren't going to fit through this door," new guy one determined.
"They fit through before, you just need to tip them the other way," I told him, glad the couches were at least protected by plastic.
"Are you sure they went here?" he questioned.
Hmm. Let's see. Maybe I'm mistaken as to which room I put them in. Let me think. By golly, you're right. I actually had them in the kitchen for the last year. Oh, no, wait a minute. They were in the bathroom. That's right. One was in the tub and the other one was in front of the sink. Whew. Glad you said something. Just think how odd they would look in a sitting area.
Heaving a pained sigh, new guy one and new guy two hefted the couch and tried again. And again. And again, still ignoring my advice on tipping the couch.
"Maybe try turning it the other way," I tried one last time when my door frame began to resemble Swiss cheese. I began wishing the doorway was hooked up to a buzzer like in the game Operation except instead of just getting buzzed, maybe a nice little electric shock. Say something around fifty or sixty thousand volts.
"The plastic is making it too thick," new guy one decided ripping it off. "That's the problem."
Yeah, I can understand how that extra tenth of a millimeter makes all the difference. Not. Turn. It. The. Other. Way.
Wham! Bam! Slam!
"When they reupholstered, they must have added more stuffing," he was clutching at invisible straws now...and his chest, his side and one knee.
"So, does this mean you can't get it through?" I asked, silently daring him to tell me it was impossible.
"There's no way they are going to fit," he prepared to head back down the stairs, foolish, foolish man that he was.
"So what do you suggest I do with the couches?' Because I'm getting some really good ideas on where you can place them.
"How about another room?"
"How about you take them back, restore them to their former state and give me my money back?"
Once again, divine inspiration.
"Let's tip it this way," new guy one finally saw the light and tipped the couches.
And so, the couches are happily resting on the third floor. But I've decided that when we eventually move, they are going to convey.
When we moved in, I had the movers put them up in the guest room at the top of the house. Lickety-split, up they went. No problem.
About a year or so later, I had the reupholster guys come to take them out. No lickety. No split. Many problems.
Wham! They smashed the first one of the couches into the door frame as they attempted to get it through the door.
Um. I'd actually like it back in one piece, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.
Bam! They smashed it a second time as they backed up and tried again.
Hey, Braveheart. That's a couch, not a battering ram.
Slam! Okay. Three times is obviously not the charm. Let's review some basic physics here...two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. C'mon, say it with me.
"This couch won't fit through here," lead guy one complained. "What'd ya do, put these couches up here, then finish building?"
Why, yes. How clever of you to have figured it out. I actually designed the entire house around these fifteen year old, worn and stained couches. It's the newest craze. I hear Brad and Angelina have done it in at least three of their homes.
"Well, the legs must come off then," he grumbled.
"I don't think so...but how about tipping it the other way?" I offered.
"I've been doing this a long time, and the legs always come off," he informed me loftily.
Okaaayyy...
Fifteen minutes later, he was back to trying to cram the couch through the door...with the legs still on. He had, however, removed the door from its hinges.
"How about tipping it the other way?" I suggested again.
"There is no way you got these couches through this door," he huffed after about fifty-six more failed attempts to jam it through, all the while ignoring my suggestion.
And yet, there they are, in the room. Ooh. It must have been magic. Maybe the movers were just better at spells and potions than you. Perhaps your wand needs the new 10.5 upgrade. Oh, and incidentally, I believe there is a tiny speck of paint that you missed when removing it all from the door frame, but don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it on your next attempt to force the couch through.
"How about tipping it the other way," guy two suggested at this point, correctly interpreting my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as danger sings.
"That won't help," guy one groused, oblivious to the act that he was wasting the last minutes of his life complaining. "These couches just won't fit."
"Then maybe I should call someone else," I cut off his grumbling.
Suddenly, divine inspiration hit.
"Hey. I know. Let's tip the couch this way," guy one suggested.
Guy two shot guy one a look that was only slightly less malevolent than the one I was aiming at him.
One hour, four gallons of sweat, 372 curses and various scratches, dents and bruises later, the couches were loaded into the truck.
About two weeks later, a different crew brought my now, oh so pretty couches back.
Wham! Uh oh. They had sent Laurel and Hardy clones...again.
"These couches aren't going to fit through this door," new guy one determined.
"They fit through before, you just need to tip them the other way," I told him, glad the couches were at least protected by plastic.
"Are you sure they went here?" he questioned.
Hmm. Let's see. Maybe I'm mistaken as to which room I put them in. Let me think. By golly, you're right. I actually had them in the kitchen for the last year. Oh, no, wait a minute. They were in the bathroom. That's right. One was in the tub and the other one was in front of the sink. Whew. Glad you said something. Just think how odd they would look in a sitting area.
Heaving a pained sigh, new guy one and new guy two hefted the couch and tried again. And again. And again, still ignoring my advice on tipping the couch.
"Maybe try turning it the other way," I tried one last time when my door frame began to resemble Swiss cheese. I began wishing the doorway was hooked up to a buzzer like in the game Operation except instead of just getting buzzed, maybe a nice little electric shock. Say something around fifty or sixty thousand volts.
"The plastic is making it too thick," new guy one decided ripping it off. "That's the problem."
Yeah, I can understand how that extra tenth of a millimeter makes all the difference. Not. Turn. It. The. Other. Way.
Wham! Bam! Slam!
"When they reupholstered, they must have added more stuffing," he was clutching at invisible straws now...and his chest, his side and one knee.
"So, does this mean you can't get it through?" I asked, silently daring him to tell me it was impossible.
"There's no way they are going to fit," he prepared to head back down the stairs, foolish, foolish man that he was.
"So what do you suggest I do with the couches?' Because I'm getting some really good ideas on where you can place them.
"How about another room?"
"How about you take them back, restore them to their former state and give me my money back?"
Once again, divine inspiration.
"Let's tip it this way," new guy one finally saw the light and tipped the couches.
And so, the couches are happily resting on the third floor. But I've decided that when we eventually move, they are going to convey.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Alarmed
Yesterday morning, we decided to sleep in...till 7am.
The alarm clock in the spare bedroom had other plans.
At 6am, I was pulled from a perfectly lovely dream about eating all the cookies I wanted and not gaining an ounce, by an annoying buzz coming from the other side of the wall. As I stumbled from my nice, cozy bed, Tim and the dog both rolled over, opened one eye and mumbled something about it being the middle of the night before burying their heads in their pillows again. Rat Bas@#*ds!
Now, at the best of times, after a really good night's sleep, I wake up slowly. And grumpy. And sleepy. And dopey. And unless the other dwarves are names cranky, unhappy and miserable, I have nothing in common with any of them.
As I child, I would burrow under the ninety-two blankets plus the sheepskin rug I dragged back from Ireland while my disgustingly cheerful, morning-person father stood in the doorway of my bedroom and whistled "Revile." If I could have pulled myself from the bed before he cantered happily downstairs, I would have beaten him to death with my pink and purple giraffe-shaped clothes tree. But I digress.
I lumbered into the room, trying to locate the source of annoyance without A. opening my eyes or B. turning the light on. Luckily, I was able to find the shrilling siren, but had no idea how to turn it off, which necessitated in me turning on the light, actually opening at least one eye and pushing every button until the darn thing shut up...temporarily.
Is there some reason why manufacturers have stopped putting a simple on/off button on things. Seriously. They all have buttons with symbols that are supposed to be intuitive and international, therefore easily understood by everyone. Just like some of the labels on clothing. News flash. I have NO IDEA what a triangle with a line through it means! Does a trapezoid with a zero in the center mean wash in cold water, or lay flat because if you put this in the dryer, it will come out the size of a postage stamp? Does a semi-circle with dots mean iron, don't iron or have a nice day? But I digress.
Apparently pushing all the buttons on the stupid alarm in varying combinations does not turn it off, it just resets it for an hour later. Not that it mattered, because at that point I was wide awake anyway. I briefly contemplated just throwing it against the wall until it shut up, but with my luck, the only thing that would accomplish would have been setting off the burglar alarm, and I'm sure I have no idea how to turn that off.
So much for a long, restful night's sleep.
Which was why, last night, I was so tired ad looking forward to (finally) a good night's sleep.
Our smoke detector in the hallway had other plans.
At 4am this morning, we were awakened by a short blip, then a longer beeeeeep from the smoke detector.
This time, both Tim and I sprang out of bed (the dog put her paws over her ears and retreated to the back of her crate) and ran out into the hall to find...nothing. Total and complete silence.
Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, nose twitching, I hit the lights and made the rounds looking and smelling for smoke, flames, anything.
Tim grumbled about needing to replace the batteries, tucked himself back up in bed, and nodded off again before my blood pressure had even dropped to twelve times the normal rate.
He was conditioned by our first apartment building where the alarm went off about every other night. After the twelfth kajillionth time of tromping down seven flights of stairs to mill around the lobby in our pajamas at 1, 2 or 3am, along with every other poor slob in the building, he had had enough. The next time the alarm went off, he called down to the front desk.
"Is there really a fire this time, or is it another false alarm," he demanded.
"No sir, it's really a fire in someone's kitchen," the night clerk affirmed.
"What floor is it on?" Tim barked.
"Three," came the response.
"Wake me when it reaches five," Tim snarled, hanging up.
But I digress.
I was finally able to drift off again and get a whole, solid hour of sleep before our alarms went off. Yea (read with deep sarcasm, not joy).
As I sat on the couch, sipping my decaf coffee (who needed more excitement?) and wishing I could slip into a nice, peaceful coma, I heard it again. The alarm in the guest bedroom was going off.
Tonight, I'm thinking of finding a firehouse to sleep in. It will almost certainly be more quiet.
The alarm clock in the spare bedroom had other plans.
At 6am, I was pulled from a perfectly lovely dream about eating all the cookies I wanted and not gaining an ounce, by an annoying buzz coming from the other side of the wall. As I stumbled from my nice, cozy bed, Tim and the dog both rolled over, opened one eye and mumbled something about it being the middle of the night before burying their heads in their pillows again. Rat Bas@#*ds!
Now, at the best of times, after a really good night's sleep, I wake up slowly. And grumpy. And sleepy. And dopey. And unless the other dwarves are names cranky, unhappy and miserable, I have nothing in common with any of them.
As I child, I would burrow under the ninety-two blankets plus the sheepskin rug I dragged back from Ireland while my disgustingly cheerful, morning-person father stood in the doorway of my bedroom and whistled "Revile." If I could have pulled myself from the bed before he cantered happily downstairs, I would have beaten him to death with my pink and purple giraffe-shaped clothes tree. But I digress.
I lumbered into the room, trying to locate the source of annoyance without A. opening my eyes or B. turning the light on. Luckily, I was able to find the shrilling siren, but had no idea how to turn it off, which necessitated in me turning on the light, actually opening at least one eye and pushing every button until the darn thing shut up...temporarily.
Is there some reason why manufacturers have stopped putting a simple on/off button on things. Seriously. They all have buttons with symbols that are supposed to be intuitive and international, therefore easily understood by everyone. Just like some of the labels on clothing. News flash. I have NO IDEA what a triangle with a line through it means! Does a trapezoid with a zero in the center mean wash in cold water, or lay flat because if you put this in the dryer, it will come out the size of a postage stamp? Does a semi-circle with dots mean iron, don't iron or have a nice day? But I digress.
Apparently pushing all the buttons on the stupid alarm in varying combinations does not turn it off, it just resets it for an hour later. Not that it mattered, because at that point I was wide awake anyway. I briefly contemplated just throwing it against the wall until it shut up, but with my luck, the only thing that would accomplish would have been setting off the burglar alarm, and I'm sure I have no idea how to turn that off.
So much for a long, restful night's sleep.
Which was why, last night, I was so tired ad looking forward to (finally) a good night's sleep.
Our smoke detector in the hallway had other plans.
At 4am this morning, we were awakened by a short blip, then a longer beeeeeep from the smoke detector.
This time, both Tim and I sprang out of bed (the dog put her paws over her ears and retreated to the back of her crate) and ran out into the hall to find...nothing. Total and complete silence.
Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, nose twitching, I hit the lights and made the rounds looking and smelling for smoke, flames, anything.
Tim grumbled about needing to replace the batteries, tucked himself back up in bed, and nodded off again before my blood pressure had even dropped to twelve times the normal rate.
He was conditioned by our first apartment building where the alarm went off about every other night. After the twelfth kajillionth time of tromping down seven flights of stairs to mill around the lobby in our pajamas at 1, 2 or 3am, along with every other poor slob in the building, he had had enough. The next time the alarm went off, he called down to the front desk.
"Is there really a fire this time, or is it another false alarm," he demanded.
"No sir, it's really a fire in someone's kitchen," the night clerk affirmed.
"What floor is it on?" Tim barked.
"Three," came the response.
"Wake me when it reaches five," Tim snarled, hanging up.
But I digress.
I was finally able to drift off again and get a whole, solid hour of sleep before our alarms went off. Yea (read with deep sarcasm, not joy).
As I sat on the couch, sipping my decaf coffee (who needed more excitement?) and wishing I could slip into a nice, peaceful coma, I heard it again. The alarm in the guest bedroom was going off.
Tonight, I'm thinking of finding a firehouse to sleep in. It will almost certainly be more quiet.
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