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The fine print...
For someone who takes great pride in navigating solo with just the right amount of skepticism, savvy, and sass—I never cease to amaze myself whenever a “blonde moment” takes hold. The blame lies with my mechanical ineptitude, wracked with trepidation. The mere thought of tackling the most mundane of tasks rattles me. I stand to be corrected for a couple of exceptions, having recently assembled an upright lamp and oscillating pedestal fan.
Nevertheless, a blonde moment in the making:
Possessing the proverbial memory of an elephant: I can still recite Avogadro’s number, ingrained in my mind since high school chemistry. Right! Big deal that I know the calculated value of the number of atoms and molecules in a gram mole of any chemical substance.
My point?
I will also never forget the trauma I experienced as told in the archived memoir, “Alarmed,” whereby the smoke/carbon monoxide detector on my office ceiling sounded off “Low Battery” at 12:11 AM, necessitating I call the emergency number to get a maintenance man on the scene ASAP because:
With my arms stretched taut overhead, I managed to twist off the base from the beast in a counterclockwise direction, Next, I slid open the compartment to remove both batteries. My delight in stifling “Low Battery” was short-lived. To my horror, the device began to chirp! Instead of holding down the reset button to drain any juice—I pressed it. The first time resulted in three long beeps and “Fire, Fire!” The second time, a rapid succession of beeps ensued with “Warning! Carbon Monoxide!”
The nightmare persists!
Approximately a year after that harrowing experience, I intended to become pro-active by asking Management to send someone in Maintenance over to replace the old batteries. Tongue in cheek—not just any batteries—two AA Duracell 10-yr. babies!
Déjà vu! Upon my arrival back home from Walmart with a sleeve of these modern marvels, I happened to see the same kindhearted maintenance man who put my detector out of its misery. Based on the courage of my convictions, he offered to take care of that for me right away. In fact, he used a marker to write the projected date of expiration on the underside of the alarm.
If I thought I could rest easy—not a chance! Puzzled why a battery-powered candle had extinguished itself only two days after I had replaced the old with new 10-yr. batteries, I delved further. Heh, heh! You’d think a writer who edits her own work with an eagle eye would have caught the memo on the package: “Guaranteed 10 Years”—and in fine print—“in storage”!
I’ve got until the end of next August to confess a blonde moment.
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That darn alarm sounded in the wee smalls! Wish it had happened at a more reasonable time past noon...
I don't have "a man around the house," so I rely on three or four brunettes to handle all of the technicalities that today's houses have. I must say that they certainly do have struggles and I am very sympathetic because I find that computer software can give me fits even with all the instructions right in front of me. But then I'm blonde, they tell me, too.
I admire any woman who can live and work so independently as you do. And especially when you can write about the comedy in life the way you do with so much humor and humility.
One minor technical technicality. Unless you were at your office after midnight still slogging away on your lesson plan for the next day, I believe that after 12 noon, the time changes to p.m.
Ron
Sandie