fish sticks and fry sauce

Everybody has pet peeves. Some find nails on a chalkboard completely repulsive. To others it’s the sound of chewing. I've met people who hear the sound of cracking gum and it causes the hair on the back of their neck to stand straight.  My list isn't very long and tonight I hadn't really thought about my list of pet peeves, but in the interest of this entry, here goes. I am annoyed by dust, commercials, dial-up Internet, dog hair, cats, red lights, people who run red lights, very-windy-and-blustery-days, sweat, messy handwriting, and cherry popsicles. Tonight I add one more peeve to this pessimistic list: smoke detectors.

These useful home additions wouldn’t bother me at all - if they actually alerted me of danger. If the intended purpose for these inventions was accurately carried out, I don't think I would have a problem with them. I think I wouldn't even notice them, to tell you the truth. I rarely look at the ceiling. I might even venture to say, I would love smoke detectors, if they existed for their meaningful purpose.  Unfortunately, this isn't the case in my small, two-bedroom duplex. Those sneaky little detectors remind me of their awful existence weekly and this makes me hate them.

At least once a week, I am in the kitchen, minding my own business, beginning to enjoy the fact that I can make more than spaghetti and macaroni, when out of nowhere...BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

But I don't hear BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I hear, "Your pizza's burning again. HA! HA! HA!"

I don't hear, "You better turn on the fan and open a window or you'll inhale smoke."

Instead I hear, "Your cookies are roasting, and I'm going to tell the whole neighborhood about it!! Hee! Hee! Hee!"

I find myself rushing to the aide of the smoke detector, waving my towel wildly in circles, thinking, "Please shut-up, Please, shut-up! Please, oh please, oh please."

When the device finally decides to quiet its alarms, I heave an exasperated sigh of embarrassment, pull my crispy meal from the billowing oven, open a window, turn on the fan, and recline to devour the charred...something.  It’s not bad enough my dinner has turned to ash, but my pride has taken a fall as well.  Now my neighbors and anyone within hearing distance knows I cannot cook.

Maybe it’s not the detector which gives me annoyance, but rather the action which causes the detectors alarm in the first place.  If I knew what I was doing, the detector would not go crazy, and I would not get annoyed.

Tonight the detector gave out its shrill warning cry once more.  This time, I had had enough.  After a wild wave and gentle dismantling, I removed that detector from its home on my ceiling.  It now sits on my kitchen table, unaware of its surroundings and unaware that I am in the midst, learning to cook, and smoking the place to pieces.  Ahh, and for once I can sigh, smile, and eat my meal without the rest of the world knowing my fish sticks are black as night…except, of course, for you, dear Void.  You know.  And for some reason I am not annoyed by that.