A Tale of Two Smoke Alarm Battery Replacement Procedures

My smoke alarm ran out of battery power today. This is the second time this minor, yet exceptionally annoying, event has occurred since I lived in my own apartment. The first time the ridiculously loud beep in annoyingly-spaced intervals (you know, just often enough not to be ignored and but with just enough time between killer beeps for you to think the problem cured itself) presented itself was around 11:30 PM one weekend night in April's and my apartment in Charlotte. While all smoke alarm battery replacement situations begin in the same way, with the same "What is that? The dying pterodactyl noise? Oh crap, the smoke detector! Make it stop!" or something like that, the events that transpired in an attempt to resolve the situation could not have been more different.

Smoke Detector Battery Replacement Adventure of May 2010:

I'm sitting in my apartment in Winston-Salem watching Grey's Anatomy with Guinness (well, I was watching, Guinn was licking his butt) when the annoyance started. I immediately got up, moved a chair under the beeping device, unscrewed it from the ceiling and removed the battery. I took note of the voltage and quickly jumped in my car and drove to my local Food Lion to get the necessary replacement. Upon returning, I placed the 9V into its place and went back to watching Grey's. The whole process took eleven minutes. The end.

And now for the tale of what happened the first time...

Smoke Detector Battery Replacement Adventure of February 2010:

It it the night of the epic Post Uptown Around the World Party thrown by myself and six of my friends incorporating four apartments, four countries, lots of shenanigans, and the losses of many guests' dignities. I am standing in my apartment, Mexico, with some stragglers who did not get their fill of Tecate and Tequila. I'm wearing a cocktail dress, a sombrero and aviators. Its nighttime. I'm indoors. I channeling Garth Brooks on the Piña Colada front and jigging to "Vamos a la Playa" because "a mi me gusta baila" when that all-too-familiar beep becomes audible over the techno-Mexicano music. I freak. IT IS SO ANNOYING! I immediately grab a wobbly stool stolen from my basement in Michigan and also the 1970's and enlist the nearest boy to help me get that thing down. I rip it from the ceiling, tear its battery heart out, and happily return to my personal fiesta.



Approximately thirty seconds later, the impossible happens. It beeps. It FREAKING BEEPS. It has no battery and is no longer attached to the ceiling, so how on EARTH is it still alive? Freak out part two ensues. Without thinking, I grab it from the counter and throw it out on to the balcony. Problem solved; back to the party. Later, April comes in and informs me that the device is no longer beeping and can re-enter our apartment. I am skeptical but agree to let it come inside so long as it is buried somewhere where any future noises will not be heard.

Fast forward to the the next day. April and I are watching episode six for the day of the O.C. when I glance at the ceiling. OH YEA!! I had forgotten about the smoke alarm adventure of the night before. Maybe because it just hadn't seemed that important at the time, or maybe because the events of Mexico were followed by even more ridiculousness in Russia, Ireland, and good ol' America, but neither April nor I had any idea where we had eventually decided to bury it. We needed help. Needless to say, the text messages and phone calls made in an attempt to obtain any information regarding the hole in our ceiling and our missing smoke detector were extremely humorous at the least. Most of the text recipients were already in Russia, some saw the original rip from ceiling and exile to balcony tirade (a few of which felt that informing me that it was no longer attached to my ceiling and that gaping hole with cords hanging down did actually exist was somehow new information to me), and one remembered my acceptance of the beeping spawn of Satan back into my life, but no one actually responded with helpful insight. It was to remain a mystery.

In the end, April found the smoke detector a few days later in her stack of jeans. It sat on our counter for three weeks untouched as we basked in our laziness and inability to walk next door to the CVS to get a replacement battery. Finally, almost a month after the fateful beeping began, we were once again living under the protective shield of a fully-juiced smoke detector. The end.




No one can say I've never learned from my experiences or matured in any way ever again...