Chuckles

The other day I was thinking about this blog. There were numerous thoughts in my head:

1. I hate this blog. It’s SO boring and depressing
2. In the last few months I have started writing over 15 posts and can’t ever seem to finish them
3. I used to write things that I found funny. Actually, I used to write things that made me (if no one else) literally Laugh! out loud.
4. Why am I such a sad lou now?
5. What now?

I can’t really solve all those things. It is what it is. The last 2 years have been pretty hard on me. The blog reflects that. I don’t want to not have a blog. I have met some of the best people in the world because of it. I am not ready to hang it up quite yet.

But I do want to tell funny stories. I don’t know why I stopped. Some of it has to do with Twitter. When I post something funny on Twitter, I kind of feel like it’s redundant to elaborate any further on the subject. It’s not like I have millions of Twitter followers and millions of blog readers. It’s basically the same people. I am pretty sure they have enough of my repeating the same shit over and over (save for my sister, or Heidi).

However, I really need to just get over it, because, when I look back at my blog, I don’t want to think “What is with this whiny girl?!” I really want to think “You, my dear, are hhhiiiiiilllllaaaarrrriiiooouussss”

So, with that in mind, here is the story of the fire alarm, that I regaled my sister with today:

I have been reading some good books lately, so I have been FORCED to go to bed later, thus, forfeiting my beauty sleep. Last night was no exception. I was [finally] blissfully asleep when, at about 3:30 AMish, our fire alarm in the bedroom beeped a few times. It wasn’t the annoying, short beep that says “Change my battery! Now! Or I will drive you insane! Don’t test me!”, no this beep was the beep it makes when it smells smoke (and by smoke, I mean the person who lit up a cigarette. In Boston. It’s one sensitive bitch. “Kiki? Kiki-kins? Who’s smoking? I smell smoke. Is someone smoking within a six mile radius of where I’m standing! Stop them Kiki, stop them!” I digress).

I go into “Fire mode”. My sister makes fun of me because last time we were faced with a fire situation, I checked my door before touching the handle. Because I graduated 5th grade. Once again, I put my fire skills to use, but alas, nothing. After about 10 minutes, Michael and I decided it was an anomaly and went back to bed. Not more than 40 minutes later it beeped a few more times.

This time, I remembered that the smoke detector we bought for the bedroom was also a CO detector. Read: we were all going to die. I made Michael go find the manual (yes, I keep every manual that comes through my door), while I started crying. Like, hysterically. In my defense, it was 4 AM. I told Michael that it was OK if we died, but that I just didn’t want The Grays to die. (Although, let’s be serious, who would put up with their shit if we were gone?) Michael comes back to tell me that it makes a different noise if it’s CO, so we will live after all. Of course, I don’t believe him and I make him prove it. Which he does. Know-it-all.

We, once again, go back to bed. And sure enough, about an hour later, the beep goes off. This time, I just roll over as I mumble to Michael to take care of it. He does, by taking the batteries out.

Of course, less than a [restless] hour later, I have to get up and get ready for work. By that I mean, I slept later than I should and didn’t wash my hair or wear make-up. I am HOT today. As I was getting ready to leave the house, Michael was still sleeping. I went over to kiss him, like I normally do, and I whispered to him

“I hope you don’t die from CO poisoning. If you do, that means you will have killed The Grays and I will have to bring you back to life so I can kill you again”

I am the most loving girlfriend of all time.