A few weeks ago, we were awoken early by a shrill beep followed by a silence long enough that I thought I'd imagined the noise. Kaya, who hates the sound of fire alarms, immediately came over to wake me up and cower by the bed. The second beep assured me that yes indeed, our alarm was low on batteries. I got up and removed the fire alarm from the ceiling, stumbled sleepily with it to the kitchen only to discover that it had no batteries in it. Confused, I went back to bed.
BEEEEEEP.
Then I remembered that we also have a carbon monoxide alarm in the bedroom. I pulled out the foot stool again to retrieve alarm number two from the ceiling. A very anxious Kaya followed me to the kitchen as if to make sure that I pulled all the batteries out of that awful, shrieking thing.
We finally replaced the batteries last week. Last night as I lay in bed unwinding from the day, Z noticed the comforting green light of our now functioning carbon monoxide alarm.
"At least we know we won't die of carbon monoxide poisoning during the night," he commented.
There was a pause as my mind whirred. Then I began to laugh.
"I wonder how many times you'd have to fart to set off the carbon monoxide alarm?" I asked. "Could you hot box a room? What about if you farted directly onto it?"
Laughing, we traded fart stories until we fell asleep. Aaah, true love.
(This post dedicated to my dear friend Kevmo. For some reason, talking about farting onto carbon monoxide alarms made me think of you.)
1 comment:
I'll have you know that I hardly fart at all anymore unless I don't combine my food properly. I do still think that farts are very worthy of humor, however...
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