Changing smoke detector batteries and other life threatening events

I must be the only person in the world, who after changing the battery in a smoke detector, has a moment of personal pride similar to how the Egyptians must have felt after building the pyramids. Not only was I having a personal high five moment, having extricated the old chirping battery, without drawing blood I might add, but now I had to risk it all and head to the “special replacement battery drawer” to see if Lady Luck's smile was still upon me. Usually when I find the time in my busy schedule to replace things like batteries in smoke detectors, I am greeted, upon opening that special drawer where I keep my meticulously arranged spare batteries, with the fact that I have every size of battery, except the one that I need, in this case a 9 volt. One day, not long prior to the smoke detector malfunction, when I really had a gap in my day planner, I tested those remaining batteries, and found that many had exceeded their expiration date by months, and were ready and waiting to give me the battery version of “the finger” at some future date when I needed them the most. It gave me a good chance to clean up and clean out another now expired household item that when properly used could possibly and probably save my life. In this case, no need for clean up or clean out, I didn't have the proper battery. And so another trip to Costco for a $2.00 item that will, most likely, cost me $100+ in items I didn't know I needed upon checking out.

And speaking of checking out, I must be the only person in the world who would perpetrate bodily harm on the designer of the checkout register's scanning glass at my local Stop and Shop. Now in my continuing effort to be voted Husband of The Year, I do most of the food shopping since my lovely bride, the former Miss Massachusetts, works. Rumor has it that she continues to work so that she won't have to be home here with me all day. I know that rumor to be false since every weekend she is doomed to a life of companionship. Although she does do an awful lot of shopping on Saturdays and Sundays.

But I digress.

I now know, after two years of retirement, where all the items we usually purchase are at Stop & Shop, so I can get the hell out of there in mere minutes, no matter what the length of our shopping list. I mean I'm at 78 rpm and the rest of the other shoppers are at 33 1/3. (You younger blog readers, ask anyone over 60 what those last numbers mean and they will explain it to you.) And now, here I am, shopping complete, at the self checkout register. No waiting for me while an over indulgent housewife checks out 35 packages of yogurt, in the 12 items or less lane. No sir, not for me. I'm flyin' solo at self checkout and proud of it. Kind of like Lindbergh must have felt when he first viewed Paris from the air. And, sad to say, that's when the music stops for me at Stop and Shop. That's when I take my first item and swipe it over the glass, a minimum of 300 times, while rotating it like it a Rubik's cube, only to have “The Sounds of Silence” by Simon and Garfunkel playing in my head from the lack of beeps, honks and chirps of the checkout machine. Oh, it must be that particular item that has a defective bar code.....let me try another item.......another 300 swipes...............bupkus. This is supposed to save me time, not get me to the nuclear point where I'm about to fire an orange 100 miles per hour at the customer service booth. Eventually, I calmly but deliberately push the “Help” button on the checkout screen. I have to admit, for someone who is really, really looking for a no holds barred, knock down, drag out, death match fight with a 85 lb. customer service girl, they usually respond in a matter of seconds. I'm sure they respond quickly to all the people who press the help button, not just the 258 lb. jerks who look like they are going to exude steam from the top of their heads like a cartoon character. Again, I calmly but deliberately explain that nothing is beeping when I scan my items and the 12 year old, listens responsively, then reaches under the machine and takes out a bottle of Windex. She sprays the glass, wipes it off and then triumphantly declares that that should solve all my problems including explaining to me how Bill Clinton just got voted Father of The Year in 2013. Of course my next item could have a bar code created by my 6 year old granddaughter with crayons and it would beep and honk and give off noises like hitting a slot machine jackpot in Las Vegas. The point of this entire rant is what the hell are people scanning that so fouls up the glass that it won't scan for the next buffoon like me that follows? I mean everything that I scan is wrapped in plastic or bagged in plastic or triple shrink wrapped in plastic so much so that it takes me at least five minutes to unsheathe the item when I get home. What the hell are they scanning that drips, drools and fouls MY scanner? Maybe when my day planner permits I'll go “ghost recon” at Stop and Shop and nab the pesky culprits. No need to thank me, just doin' my job.

Also, you didn't ask but I thought I'd mention that I must be the only person in the world who thinks it's crazy to listen to the news, or read about it for that matter. Have you ever gone away for a few days, sans media outlets, and come back and felt like you really missed out on how many drive by shootings there were or many hooligans were killed at a soccer game in some woefully under capitalized European country? I gave up on TV news from major networks or local stations completely. (“Moscow in flames, missiles heading our way. Film at 11. Now back to you Carmelita with that wonderful weekend forecast.”) What really is there to gain. As they say, “5,000 planes that land safely every day, even the ones landing in Sheboygan, aren't news.” Inquiring minds really do want to know what happened to a member of the Kardashian family that day, just not mine.

Until next time........................