Alarming

My husband doesn't always empty his pockets before depositing his clothes into the laundry.  Just like most husbands, he forgets about the items he shoved in there, which could be something as simple as a random hall pass or his cell phone.  When I am doing the laundry, I do not take the time to go through any pockets, because I feel that my laundry responsibilities do not include that particular job.  Unless I feel something heavy when I am grabbing clothes to throw in the washing machine, what was in the pockets stays in the pockets.  As a result, Larry's car key, with the security remote, went through the washing machine.  I found it when I pulled his shorts from the dryer.  I put the key with Larry's wallet and when Larry came downstairs I informed him that his car key had had a bath. Then I forgot about it completely.
Until 11:46pm. 

Since I am on Mom Alert all night, ready to wake up to take care of my son if he needed,  I rolled out of bed at the initial sounds of the alarm. Okay, I didn't actually "roll".  I fell.  I fell right out of my own bed, and my landing woke up the cats and the dog.  I was in that twilight-sleepwalking stage; I knew that I was moving around, but I wasn't completely awake. I just knew that I needed to make the bad noise stop. I stumbled in the dark to my purse, where I kept my keys.  I dug them out and pointed the alarm toward the window.  I clicked the button, and the alarm went off.  Peace.

Except that the alarm started up again.  Now I was more alert, with that "WTF?" alarm going off.  Was our car being broken into?  I was at the window; I slowly lifted the blinds, as if the car thieves might see me.  Nobody was at the car.  I clicked the button again, and the alarm went off, only to start up again!

It is downright embarrassing than a car alarm going off at 11:46pm for no reason.  Here we were, waking up our neighbors on a weeknight, with not a darn thing to show for it.  Nobody was breaking into our car, Ironman was not doing a flyby, there was no clap of thunder, and no random cats trying to take a nap on the roof.  Zane was now awake and wanting to know what that noise was, the dog and cats were thinking that it was time to get up and play, and I was a frazzled, groggy mess, trying to turn off an alarm that did not want to be silent.

And my husband slept blissfully through it all.  At least until I screamed at him to get up.  Then he woke up.  I quickly explained the situation.

"ALARM! CAR! FIX!"  

I didn't say that I was coherent.  By the time Larry was stumbling downstairs, my mind was picturing the arrival of the police for a nuisance call.  Do they arrest people for that?  Most of the people on our street are armed, would one of them start shooting?  I hollered at Larry to hurry up and take care of the problem, but he was still trying to remember how to unlock the front door.  I kept up a steady stream of 'advice'--I'm a helpful sort.

"Start the car and see if that takes care of it!"

"The manual is in the door, see if you can disable it!"

"Drive the car around the block and see if that takes care of it!"

Larry, being half awake, mumbled at but otherwise ignored me.  Because the secret to a happy marriage is ignoring anything your spouse says when they are half asleep.

Finally, the light bulb went off in my groggy head. This was all Larry's fault. 

"Take the batteries out of your remote!" 

"What?" Larry was halfway out the door.  I repeated myself.  I heard some fumbling; then blessed silence.   I heaved a sigh of relief.  I was now wide awake, and so was the rest of the house.  But nobody was going to be arrested or shot, because our alarm was off. 
 

Has this sort of thing ever happened to you?  Feel free to point and laugh and share your own tale of woe!

One Red Paperclip

Write on Edge prompt:  “I spy with my little eye” is a popular game with children, and their acute observation picks up items adults may not look at twice. This week, choose one of the 14 items in this “I Spy” game and use it in a fiction or creative non-fiction piece. This is fiction.



"We got a live one here, Sarge," Officer Jones joked as he stuck his head into Malcolm's office.  "The victim was one George Marsh, the alleged's husband of 37 years.  Preliminary cause of death appears to be beaning with a cast iron skillet."

Malcolm nodded as he stood, straightening his tie. He was anxious to begin his first interrogation as detective, and he took pains to put on a stern visage as he entered the room and sat down.

At first glance, Harriet Marsh looked unremarkable.  She was on the plump side, with a ruddy,round face, and gray hair pulled tightly back into a severe bun.   He read aloud the charges against Harriet.

Harriet nodded, and Malcolm made a notation.

"Were you read your rights?  Do you want a lawyer?"  

Harriet said, rather cheerfully. "No need for a lawyer. I committed the crime."

Malcolm scribbled her words on the paper, then put quotations around them.

"Mrs. Marsh, why did you kill your husband?"

"Well, dear, it started on Monday." Harriet's voice was a bit shrill, on the verge of mania.  "I spent all week cleaning the house, while George was away on business. It wasn't easy; I'm not as young as I used to be, but it needed to be done."

Harriet rushed on, her haste to explain herself overwhelming any caution. 

"I cleaned out all of the closets and the attic. I scrubbed the floors. I dusted the ceilings.  I polished the furniture. I swept the patio. I cleaned the cornices. I fluffed the pillows and turned the mattresses.  I vacuumed.  I scrubbed the toilets. bathtubs, sinks. The house had never been so clean, not since we first moved in. George never even noticed."  Harriet paused, her eyebrows raised, waiting.

"That must have been difficult." Malcolm encouraged, as he continued taking notes. 

Harriet beamed at Malcolm, then her eyes grew angry.  "George walked in the house and dropped his suitcase. I could not believe it.  No kiss.  No 'I've missed you' or 'It's good to be home'.  He went straight to the fridge for a beer, then to his chair to watch some TV."

"Was that when you killed your husband?" Malcolm paused to glance at Harriet. Wisps of hair had escaped from the severe bun and formed a wavering corona around her face as she shook her head.

"Oh no, George used to watch TV like that every night after work.  I was used to that."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, I was about to go back into the kitchen, when George put his hand in his pants pocket, and pulled out a red paper clip."

"And?"

"And then he threw that paper clip over his shoulder," Harriet seemed to expand, a sudden storm in the interrogation room.  She stood, indignant, her hair flying about her head, electric. "THAT MAN THREW THAT RED PAPER CLIP RIGHT ON MY CLEAN CARPET!!!!" 

Harriet threw herself across the table at Malcolm, her hands claws.