2016, 2017, 2018, 2019: Me to Himself: “Himself … What exactly is that blue light near the garage?”
Himself: “It’s a light. It’s blue.”
Me: “But what …?”
Himself (again): “It’s a light. It’s blue.” Subject closed.
January, 2020: Last night, we hosted a Thai dinner party. We’d never given a Thai dinner party, before. Himself, who as usual, took on more than he should have, rushed around the kitchen making rice and two types of curried chicken. Our guests fried the naan; Thai Coconut Prawn soup burbled on the stove.
A light haze hung in the air when suddenly …WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
Himself, who wears double hearing aids, calmly stirred the chicken as he called: “The timer says your soup is ready, Nicole!”
Allow me to take you into our kitchen to tell you what happened next.
Always calm in a crisis, I say: “You idiot! That’s not the TIMER! That’s the SMOKE ALARM!”
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
Because he doesn’t hear well, Himself has no idea how loud the alarm is. In fact, I’ve never heard it louder: WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
I run around the living room with a towel, trying to fan the haze out the open door: WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
I pull my “I don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies …” routine, but Himself is cooking Thai and overseeing the guests frying naan, and says “DEAL WITH IT!” through gritted teeth.
He gives our guests a look that says: “Nothing to see, folks! Move along! Move along!” Unfortunately, they want to.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
An ever-so-jovial alarm company guy phones: “Everything okay over there?”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE ALARM!” I scream.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
Our guests have the look of frightened animals, afraid to move, wanting everything just to go away. The naan and our moods darken.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
“Ho-kay … Well, you’ll sort it out. Gimme your name and password. Ho-kay …” concludes the alarm company guy. Click!
“HELP ME, HIMSELF, HELP ME …!”
“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?”
Dragging the ladder into the living room. I recall how Himself twists some thing-a-majig to stop smoke alarms. So I do. Easy-peasy.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
Until this moment, I have no idea there’s a second alarm in the laundry room - this one, ear-splitting. I can’t disconnect it.
The WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! is now joined by a GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! sound like an electric bullfrog; a sound so loud I’m certain every neighbor on the block will call the police, the fire department, an ambulance, or all of them.
Panicked, I run outside. The sound and an urgent blinking are coming from the blue light near the garage. All the more reason for the neighbors to rush to our aid. Naturally, not one of them budges from the comfort of their TV sets. Perhaps they, too, wear double hearing aids.
“CALL THE ALARM COMPANY!” Himself yells from the kitchen.
I do. A soothing computerized voice says: “Welcome to Blankety-Blank! Always there! Proud to be serving you!” The voice repeats this in French. By the time a live agent comes on the phone, I could have died from smoke inhalation.
And then I hear a soft, calm, lilting musical voice. I don’t remember exactly what this woman says, but it’s something like: “What may I do for you, Miss-Mrs.?”
“I CAN’T GET THE (WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!) ALARM SYSTEM TO STOP!”
“Do not worry. I will help you. Push the hashtag key, then the asterisk key, then the … key, then the … key, now the … key … and the … key. Ahhh! There you are …”
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!
Our guests shift nervously in the kitchen. I sense they yearn to go home. With false bravado, I shout: “WON’T BE LO-O-O-NG!”
“HOW LONG?” Himself yells.
“NOT LONG!” I lie.
I tell the disembodied musical voice that: “THE ALARM IS STILL -”
“Do not worry. I will help you. Push the asterisk key, then the … key, then the … key, now the … key … and the … key.”
Different numbers than those of moments ago. “Now enter your code number.”
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!
“THE ALARM! “THE ALARM!” I scream.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!
“Do not worry. I will help you. Push the reset button.”
“The reset button … the reset button …” I study the alarm panel. “There’s no reset button …” Apparently the guy who installed our system forgot to label it.
“Do not worry. I will -”
“GIMME THAT PHONE!” Himself wants to take over.
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” he yells into the phone, and to me: “I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING SHE’S SAYING!”
“GET YOUR HEARING AIDS CHECKED!” I shout.
“WHA-A-AT?” he booms.
Meekly, I say: “She told me to push the reset button. I can’t find it.” My lower lip starts to quiver.
Reading both those lips, Himself pushes an unlabelled button. The WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! instantly stop. So, as I quickly discover, does the intense blinking of the blue light.
Guys know these things. It’s in their DNA. Fluffy-brained women like me really don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
