After I was through injuring the man to whom I am legally and spiritually bound til’ death do us part (or at least until one of us scratches up the cash to retain a halfway decent divorce attorney), we both leaped out of bed to rescue our offspring and escape the hellfire that was most certainly engulfing our home as we slept.

Except that it turned out that there was no fire. The spousal unit and I conducted a quick inspection of our vast estate and turned up nothing more incendiary than an old gas can corked with a dirty rag atop a pile of newspaper next to the water heater. We shrugged. He went off to get the ladder. I stayed inside to calm a semi-hysterical toddler and a parakeet with a nervous disorder. Apparently our smoke alarm had gone off just for the hell of it.

Within five minutes everyone was back in bed.

Within ten minutes the alarm was going off again.

Within fifteen minutes we were in bed once again.

Within twenty minutes the alarm was going off again.

Within forty minutes we were in bed once again, but with both eyes open and a ladder at the ready.

Within fifty minutes the alarm was going off again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Within an hour we were searching the internet for the number to the White House because it became obvious that somehow, somewhere, the signal between our home and Gitmo had been confused and we were now being subjected to a program of sleep deprivation that had originally been intended for some prisoner named Husain.

This continued throughout the night and by 10AM the next morning both my husband and I were twitching. Our daughter had shut herself into a closet that didn’t have a smoke alarm inside. The parakeet was close to cardiac arrest. I decided to call the fire department.

Within ten minutes a fire engine was parked at the end of our driveway and several hunky  very professional young men in uniform were crowded into my kitchen, climbing ladders, inspecting wires and otherwise puzzling out the mystery of our wayward smoke alarms. Also, they were incredibly hot, er, thorough.

Dude! Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I wondered as a particularly well-toned member of the department bent over to retrieve a battery he had dropped. He stood up. I tossed another battery onto the floor.

After an hour of checking batteries and poking around the attic space, not a single problem was located.

“These alarms? Sometimes they’re just sensitive.” One of the guys said. “Give us a call if you have any more problems.” He flipped his card onto the counter and tipped us a wink before inviting my daughter to tour the fire engine parked out front. She played with the plastic souvenir helmet they gave her. I drooled. My husband ran inside and began dialing the phone.

“Hello, is this the Victoria’s Secret customer service line? Yeah, yeah… my wife and I are experiencing technical difficulties with one of your bras…”