I've got a serious tweeting problem.
Only it has nothing to do with Twitter.
"Tweet ... tweet ... tweet!" was the sound I heard when I walked in the door to my home last Tuesday. The house backs up to woods, so I'm used to nature noises outside (and smells; regular readers might remember my skunk funk fiasco last October).
Only this one didn't sound like it was outside. It sounded like -- where in the world is this coming from? -- it was inside. Maybe up in the attic? No, it sounded like it was coming from one of the bedrooms.
How on earth would a bird get inside while I was at work? And if one did manage to get in, wouldn't cats Kate and Pippa take care of it?
Kate? Absolutely. She's overexcited and a busybody, always eager to get her paws into things. Her sister Pippa? Never. She'd rather -- yawn! --stay in bed, laze and -- stretch! -- watch her daytime teevee. They both take after me.
With Kate at my heels -- and Pippa on her back with Judge Judy -- I poked my head into different rooms trying to isolate the noise that squawked about every minute.
"Tweet ... tweet ... tweet!" Nope, must not be in here.
"Tweet ... tweet ... tweet!" Nope, must not be in here, either.
"TWEET ... TWEET ... TWEET!" Well, must be in here. Kate's ears perked up in agreement.
It was not a bird chirping in the front bedroom -- the one with the tall vaulted ceiling.
It was the low-battery signal on the smoke detector chirping in the front bedroom, practically at the very tippy top of said tall vaulted ceiling. I've lived here nearly two years and I had never even noticed it. There was no way I could reach it, even if Kate got on my shoulders, as she volunteered to do.
I went to retrieve a step stool. "Why in the world would anyone stick a smoke detector up so high?" I asked Kate, who was trotting faithfully behind me.
She didn't answer, but her quizzical look did: "Why in the world would anyone not bother to check the smoke detectors in nearly two whole years when you're supposed to change the batteries twice a year, lady?"
"Go watch TV with your sister," I told her.
Even with the step stool I couldn't reach the noise source.
"TWEET ... TWEET ... TWEET!" it taunted.
"BLEEP ... BLEEP ... BLEEP!" I cussed back.
I'd have to go get the big ladder.
I searched all around the garage for it. As if a woman who can't get around to changing batteries in her smoke detectors actually has the foresight to buy a ladder.
I'd have to buy a ladder.
Well, I'd have to buy a bigger vehicle to accommodate a ladder. And then I'd have to buy a ladder.
"Don't buy a ladder," my boyfriend said while on his way to a meeting, promising to bring over a ladder and handle the problem right after work -- the next day.
"TWEET ... TWEET ... TWEET!"
I'd just have to wait. At least I could close the door and muffle the chirping sound.
"Tweet ... tweet ... tweet!"
The chirping noise was totally for the birds, I concluded, asking "Isn't that right, Pippa?"
"Sleep ... sleep ... sleep!"
The next day, my boyfriend called on his way to my home, ladder in tow. I would soon hear the beautiful sound of silence.
There was just one issue. One giant 18-wheeled issue. A mishap involving a truck carrying frozen pizzas led to a four-hour "pie-l" up on Interstate 30 that prevented him from heading my way. I'd have to endure it for yet another evening.
"Tweet ... tweet ... tweet!"
As I write this, he's -- save for any more pepperoni casualties -- on his way to address the persistent peep, check detectors and replace batteries. Finally there will be pizza mind in my immediate future!
Sweet ... sweet ... sweet!
Tweet me to an email:
jchristman@arkansasonline.com
What's in a Dame is a weekly report from the woman 'hood. You can hear Jennifer on Little Rock's KURB-FM, B98.5 (B98.com), from 5:30-9 a.m. Monday through Friday.
Style on 08/15/2017