Chirp!
Our smoke detectors, although they require emergency batteries, are wired up through the ceiling electrically and communicate with each other.
Last night, before bed, very LOUDLY, the one in the master bedroom, begins…
Chirping.
I step up to the offender, on the ceiling, right inside the doorway and test/reset it. Test beeps are fine. All units communicate.
I step back down.
Chirping.
I climb back up but cannot reach the battery.
My husband climbs up. […]
Search Results for: Laura becker
Because nothing says romance like a bread maker
The tree was dead. Completely dead. Brown, crispy, surrounded-by-a-circle-of-needles-half-naked dead. And under it was a bread maker, that he swears to this day had no ulterior motive.
Three weeks earlier, we had lugged the booty from a bridal shower in the backroom of Breadeaux up the steps to our new apartment, having just signed the lease on the second story space above the weekly newspaper where my fiancé had recently been named editor. […]
This little light of mine, I’m gonna…well, I’m not sure what the hell I’m gonna do!
This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let it Shine…but only in the way that everyone in my pew agrees with.
This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let It Shine…until the electric bill gets too high. I don’t want it to actually cost me anything.
This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna…replace it with an LED. This whole shining thing just takes too much energy.
Let It Shine! Let It Shine! […]
I’ll remember the women’s march forever
because the Sharpie is still on me
I may truly remember the women’s march forever because my Sharpie-markered emergency contact info…is still on my forearm!
I’m a prepared and practical person. So I put it there in permanent marker, in case I needed it. In case I lost my identification. In case I lost my phone. In case I got separated from the woman I went to the march with.
In case, for some unforeseeable reason I was unable to give it myself. […]
I don’t want anyone to die for me, I just want a Barbie
The moment my Dad lined the three of us up along the lip of our harvest gold and walnut couch, I knew it was a trap. I may have been seven years old, but I was savvy enough to see through “Do you know what Christmas is really about?”
“Jesus!” I proudly parroted, certain I had just saved myself and siblings from the ensuing spiel. And then he turned to my six-year-old brother. […]
