It’s not a fire . . . b#@ch! (Or, “How a very hot shower turned me into Jesse Pinkman”)

So, I had kind of a bad morning. Nothing terrible happened; definitely first world problems, but still not good. I live in a “charming” old house. In addition to its old house charm, it has old house issues, which I’m pretty sure I’ve covered in past blog posts – sliver-prone wood floors, bizarre and malfunctioning fixtures, ugly kitchen cabinets, peeling plaster, and plumbing issues that have created permanent psychological trauma, just to name a few. (I didn’t even write about the recent basement flooding as it was simply too painful to rehash.)

Another issue is lack of ventilation in the upstairs bathroom. Unless you count the nearly century old windows that you can pretty much feel the wind whistling right through at any given moment. Unfortunately that doesn’t provide enough ventilation to keep the whole second floor of the house from steaming up when someone takes a particularly hot shower. That “someone” is always me. I can’t help it; I love hot showers. Anything short of nearly scalding is too cold for me. And, while our house is desperately in need of updates in almost every possible area, the one exception is safety. The architect in the house is nothing if not life-safety-oriented. We have top-notch smoke and carbon monoxide detectors in nearly every room, hallway, nook, and cranny.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for safety. But the combination of zero bathroom ventilation and my penchant for super hot showers makes the upstairs hallway “smoke detector” actually a “steam detector” disguised as a smoke detector. On an ideal day I remember to take the thing down before I get into the shower. On a good day, I don’t bother taking it down, but firmly close the bathroom door, which generally (but not always) prevents the steam detector from going off. On a not-so-good day I forget taking it down AND closing the door, and it begins going off once I’m out of the shower and mostly dried off.

Today was not an ideal day. It was not a good day, nor was it a not-so-good day. Today was a bad day. Today I neglected to take the steam detector down and I forgot to firmly close the bathroom door. As a result (and because the steam detector hates me), it started going off about halfway into my shower when I was all soapy and covered with shampoo and home alone. 

This is a new-fangled “smoke” detector that not only emits eardrum-bursting, head-splitting alarms, but alternates the evil sounds from hell with an obnoxious female voice that periodically declares, “Fire. Fire. Fire.” Despite being subjected to the most irritating, panic-inducing sounds in the world while in a vulnerable situation, I stayed calm. I rinsed off as quickly as I could and then gingerly stepped out of the charming old claw-foot tub – that desperately needs refinishing – so as to avoid injury. (Did you know that the most common place in the home for serious injuries and even deaths is the bathroom? That’s right; safety first, people!)

Once I felt confidently not-so-much-dry-as-non-slippery, I raced through the deafening cavern of sound that was my hallway into Chester’s room to retrieve a kiddo-sized chair on which to stand to reach and remove the blaring device. Typically once removal is achieved, I wrap the wretched thing securely in a t-shirt, a jacket, a pair of jeans – any clothing item that is definitely not mine and toss and/or stuff it angrily into a closet that is also not mine. I hate its small electronic guts and I will have it nowhere near me.

Typically removal is quick and easy – one small twist and down the steam detector comes. Today was not typical. I twisted . . . nothing. I turned . . . nothing. I pulled . . . nope. I twisted, turned, and pulled in all manner of twisting, turning, pulling combination, but it would not budge. At all.

I spent a good 15 minutes standing naked, wet (but not slippery) and progressively angrier on a tiny toddler chair attempting endless variations of twisting, turning, and pulling before a strange thing happened . . . I inexplicably turned into Jesse Pinkman from Breaking Bad. I think maybe it was the annoying female voice saying “Fire, Fire, Fire” every few seconds that especially pissed me off, but I started yelling at the smoke detector like I was in a life or death argument with Walter White about who lost the keys to the RV meth lab . . .

“Stop. Stop, stop, stop . . .” I begged. “Stop it . . .

. . .

. . . Bitch!” (It felt surprisingly good to throw that in, so I really went for it.)

“STOP!!!! . . . .Bitch!”

“Come down . . .Bitch!”

“It is NOT a fire . . . Bitch!”

“It’s a shower . . . Bitch! A SHOWER!!!”

“NOT A FIRE . . .

 . . . BITCH!”

And suddenly . . . silence. It worked! My steam detector speaks Jesse Pinkman! I was bewildered and thrilled and also now deaf, but who cares because it finally stopped. Sweet Jesus, Vince Gilligan, and Aaron Paul, it stopped! 

I can’t wait to try speaking Jesse Pinkman to other malfunctioning household items. Sink clogged? “Unclog, bitch!” Bam, unclogged. Toilet overflowing? “Stop overflowing, bitch!” Done. Furnace not working? “I need heat, bitch!” Ask and you shall receive. Based on this morning’s experience, I’m almost certain this will work.

I suppose it’s possible that my horrible smoke detector finally stopped blaring for some other reason. Like maybe the steam finally cleared up enough for it to stop detecting it? Or perhaps it screeched itself out and just quit from sheer exhaustion? Possibly, but I think it’s far more likely that my smoke detector is a big Breaking Bad fan . . .bitch.