A couple of weeks ago, one of the batteries in our wireless alarm system chirped its death song in the early morning hours. Don’t they always. . . ?
Dearly Beloved yanked the battery from the offending device and went back to bed. The next morning he began opening drawers for batteries in a size I knew we didn’t have, I reminded him that we have a service contract, which includes changing batteries. He consented to call them, but added, “Okay, but I’m having them do that one only.”
So, Venus asked Mars what the heck was the reasoning behind that crazy statement. He said, “Because I don’t want them roaming around my house.”
Sometimes it’s like living with Earl in the Pickles comic strip. Just call me Opal.
When the repairman did come, DB met him at the door and ushered him to the chirping station. The guy changed the battery and said, “Now, there are some more that I should go ahead and replace while I’m here.”
“No, that’s the only one,” DB informed him.
The repairman held out a piece of equipment he was carrying and said, “This sensor says there is another weak one here in the hall. . . .”
Once again, DB jumped in with, “No, THIS is the only one in the hall.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I hollered from the sunroom, “There’s one at the far end of the hall.”
DB shook his head. “That’s just a motion detector.”
The service guy shrugged, “Well, it has a battery that needs replacing.”
DB turned to me and asked, “Where is it back there, anyhow?”
I explained that it was at the top of the built-in bookcase, behind the gnomes.
That, of course, gave Himself a chance to interject a smart crack about the gnomes, which he knows darned well I didn’t buy. They were part of a collection that my mother assembled over the years. She liked them, large and small, and kept them displayed on a long table in her living room. After she tired of dusting them over the years, she simply covered the entire table with a sheet. It looked like a gnome morgue.
My gnome inheritance is high on a bookshelf so that I can’t see the dust.
I’ve digressed here. Back to the repairman, who’d replaced the second battery and headed for the main panel to see what else might need his attention. The monitor indicated the playroom battery. Of course, DB was there at once to “enlighten” him that it was a mistake–that wasn’t labeled properly. I yelled out, “The playroom is down the basement stairs.”
That battery now replaced, the service rep came back into the sunroom to ask me about the location of others. DB hurried in to tell the guy that he surely didn’t want to ask me because I’d be sending him all over the place, up the chimney, under the house, etc. He was saying all of this with a big smile and laughter in his voice. Nevertheless. . . .
I shook my head and told the repairman not to feel bad, that DB followed the cable people. the HVAC guy, and any other service personnel around so that he could tell them how to do their jobs, too.
The man looked at DB and said, “Oh, I remembered you as soon as I drove up. The last time I came to this house, I was sitting out in my truck getting my work order ready when you came to the front door and yelled, ‘What are you doing out there? You can’t get anything fixed sitting in your truck!'”
He smiled at DB and said, “I got out of my truck thinking to myself, ‘What have I got here? Is this guy for real? I was pretty cautious even coming in until I saw you grinning.”
They began talking about sports and DB, mouth still running, followed the guy out to his truck now that all weak batteries had been replaced.
Over the weekend he was complaining about his aging cellphone and how he needed a new one.
“You were just in the mall, buying Good Egg Son a birthday present. Why in the world didn’t you go in the Apple Store and pick one up while you were there?”
He shuddered. “Because it’s a mall.”
Sheesh! I surrender.
What is it we need here? A butler?
Does Apple make house calls?