See that little thing there on the wall, next to the air con unit?
I’m angry with it. Very, very angry.
A while back we replaced our regular smoke detectors with a fancy new smoke alarm: Nest. Not only does it detect smoke, but it also detects carbon monoxide. It’s connected to a smart phone app, meaning we can check it even when we’re not home. We even get a monthly status overview via email.
And it gives me a heads up before it goes off. A nice female voice says Heads-up, there’s smoke in the hallway. I know this, because one day when I was cooking, I’d forgotten to turn on the kitchen fan and smoke seeped out into the apartment, and she was nice enough to warn me about it, instead of just blaring off the siren.
It’s all very high tech and we feel much safer than before.
It also performs self-checks to see that the system is up to date. At middle-of-the-night-o’clock in the morning, apparently!
Hence, the anger.
I was up really late because I was in a writing flow, and since I’ve been in a slump lately, I wanted to take advantage of it. After I decided enough was enough, it took me an hour or so to unwind, before I finally fell asleep.
Only to be woken up TWO HOURS LATER by the beeping fire alarm, who also blinked its lights as if it didn’t have a care in the world.
I had no idea what was going on, it didn’t sound like a regular THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE-warning, so I woke up my husband (who didn’t wake up because he’s deaf on one ear and if he sleeps on his hearing ear, he can pretty much sleep through anything. But don’t worry—he won’t sleep through the real thing!) and told him about the beeping.
After a few minutes’ detective work, he realized it was just the check up. Everything is fine, he said and went back to sleep like nothing had happened.
I—on the other hand—could not sleep. Waking up from the fire alarm got my heart pumping and adrenaline rushing through my body. I tossed and turned and tossed a little more, but it was no use. After a couple hours, I gave up. Instead, I got up to help a writer friend with a thing, thinking a little work would tire me out, and maybe I’d be able to go back to sleep for an hour or two at least.
After I was done, I crawled back into bed. And that was when the husband decided he wanted to cuddle and scooted really close. I mean close like I only had the tiniest strip of bed left for me to sleep on. Not that I’m complaining: I love cuddling, but all I wanted to do right then was go back to sleep, so an inch or two of space wouldn’t have hurt.
Just as I felt myself starting to drift away…my husband’s alarm went off!! It was time for him to wake up for work. And since he was still sleeping on his hearing ear—guess who had to listen to the alarm and poke him when he didn’t wake up?
You guessed it. Me!
And it wasn’t like he jumped out of bed and started his day. Oh no, he’s a snoozer (so am I, btw) so exactly nine minutes later we repeated the process.
That was when I gave up.
So, here I am. Mrs Grumpy Writer, who got exactly two hours of sleep last night. And while I’m very grateful that I clearly wake up when the fire alarm goes off, I’m going to put in a request with the husband that he reprogram the time for the self checks.
Say, like for two in the afternoon, instead of seven in the freaking morning?
And now I’m gonna take a nap on the couch. Do not disturb.