If you saw my Facebook post last night, you could be forgiven for thinking, “Wait, how did the smoke alarm wind up in the washing machine?”
Really? Are you still wondering? Here’s something you need to know about life on the Kirk Ranch.
Sometimes farm equipment, cordless drills, small household appliances and even stray ice cubes that fall out of the ice maker just after the glass is removed, must be punished for their performance lapses.
I once ducked a two-pound battery pack from a Bosch drill as it sailed off the barn roof, followed by a contrail of expletives. Its crime? Running out of power. Or say a shirt sleeve gets caught on a stray bolt, there’s no time for untangling it, the offending sleeve must suffer, being violently ripped from the shirt body, because a one-armed garment is better than an insubordinate whole one. And the ice cubes that linger in the chute like lovesick teenagers at their lockers? They earn a World Cup penalty kick into the foyer, where they can melt in disgrace.
But sometimes an appliance does its job too well, and that too must be corrected.
As I stood in the laundry room last night with a dripping, shrieking smoke alarm in my hand, I asked the man of the house what I think is a logical question.
As it turns out, he was cooking sausage, which he said was delicious despite the fact he had to make it himself (sniff) and it was burned, which sometimes can fill a house with smoke. Evidently, not just one, but every smoke alarm began wailing and repeating “fire fire” – a useful smoke alarm advance, by the way, when you finally hear the voice coming from the washing machine.
Being the efficient man he is, Sam yanked one of them off the wall, lobbed it into the washing machine and slammed the lid. Being the big-picture man he is, he forgot it was in there, even hours later when he threw all his colors and whites in and hit start.
The shrieking lasted all through our romantic dinner, during which Sam suggested I use the time to practice patience and overcome my aversion to loud, repetitive noise. (That’s a thing by the way – Misophonia, look it up). I suggested he practice getting up from the table and getting his tools out.
“I will, just let it finish washing my jeans.”
This is a long way of saying, not only am I married to a man who can capably use power tools, throw them long distances, cook sausage and wash his own clothes, but he’s a creative problem solver too.
I love you my funny valentine. Fire. Fire.