If you missed yesterday’s post you should check it out. This one will make a lot more sense then.

Scene:  6:00am. I’d been asleep for a little over five hours. I needed at least two more to function, three to function in a pleasant manner, so I’m still snoring away like a drunken sailer with a deviated septum.

The first time Phoebe startles awake and barks loudly I vaguely wave my hand her way and shush her.

The second time I find her in bed to pat her back into sleep.

The third time I figure something might actually be up. I look over to see Gracie standing, gazing at the door, tail wagging in anticipation. If I’d been at the eight hour sleep mark this might have been my first clue that something was up, but after days of Phoebe freaking out I figured she’d heard a noise.

That’s when I heard the doorbell.

Scene:  6:05am. BrightSide and I tumble toward the bedroom door while I wonder which one of the kids wandered outside at the crack of dawn and got themselves locked out. Has this ever happened before? No, but again, all I had to work with was five-hours-of-sleep brain. It’s kinda laggy.

Gracie tries to shove her way past my legs and as I grab her collar I glance out the window to see a man standing in the yard. Now it’s 6am Daylight Savings Time so it’s still dark out there. This doesn’t bode well. While I flip Gracie around Phoebe scoots out the door and heads for the basement. Cue medley of cries until both dogs are safely tucked back into the bedroom. Five-hours-of-sleep brain finally thinks hey, I should probably take out my retainer, I might have to reason with the earliest door to door salesman ever to walk the face of the earth.

We turn on the porch light because duh, DANGER, and open the door to find a police officer standing on our front walk.

I’ll say that again for those who tuned out: I WAS STANDING THERE IN PJs, SLEEPY HAIR, AND ZERO BRA WITH FIVE-HOURS-OF-SLEEP BRAIN TRYING TO PROCESS WHAT THE POLICE WANTED WITH US.

That’s when we learned a neighbor walking their dog called them to check on us because they heard an alarm going off. That’s right, they heard the possessed smoke detectors in the trash can and called the cops. Upside: neighbors don’t want us to die in a fire/carbon monoxide fog. Downside: I feel like an idiot telling this officer that he’s responding to a trash can. He was nice about it, though.

After a vain attempt at going back to sleep (remember that if you see me in real life today) I gave up and made some coffee. Just as I was ready to start writing my post T-man says hey, you guys know those alarms are really going off, right?

No. No, I didn’t.

Five-hours-of-sleep brain had assumed someone heard the low battery beeps and called 911 out of an abundance of caution when in reality our rolling trash can was going off like someone had set fire to the garage. Crap.

Scene:  7:30am. BrightSide is pulling smoke detectors out of the trash while I search for something to help. Lo and behold, like manna from heaven, there’s a small sledgehammer under the garage bench. I have no idea why we have a sledgehammer, but using it sure seems like a great idea right about now. Which is why, if you drove by our house early this morning, you would have seen the two of us in the driveway beating the crap out of small plastic devices.

Dead. Deader than dead. But just for good measure I think I’ll send those to a dumpster far, far away.