Girly Girl’s Lament

This may look long, but I know you read fast.

I’m predisposed to happy.  I go with the flow.  Maybe a little drama for humor’s sake, but I truly am a contented, happy person.  So when a smoke alarm started beeping due to a low battery I was just mildy annoyed b/c was 6:30 on a Saturday morning.  

I staggered downstairs to the kitchen; but the beeping was not coming from the kitchen.  It was coming from the downstairs bedroom.  I walked in the room looking for the alarm I never knew was there.  I slowly crained my eyes up, further and further only to see the flashing light at the very top of my 18 ft high cathedral ceiling.

Because smoke at 8 or 10 feet isn’t a concern?  We have to wait for it to waft up to the rafters of a two story home before it is “alarming”???!!!

I started processing my options. My ladder barely allows me to change the lightbulbs in the ceiling fan; so that won’t work.  It’s too early to call anyone for help.  I couldn’t shut the door to the bedroom because Chloe’s litter box is in the bathroom of that bedroom (did you get that?). Might as well go back to bed.  I pulled the door closed just enough for Chloe to get through it then went back to my room upstairs; shut my door and pulled a pillow over my head. 

I could still hear the beeping. 

I turned the radio on hoping music would drown out the noise. 

Found myself humming along so I switched to talk radio and well, was asleep in no time.

(Random conclusion; If my professors had sang their lectures, my grades would have been much better.)

I digress.

I got back up at the planned time and put the word out for an extension ladder and a friend w/ no fear of heights.   One of my friends came over with her ladder and my (tall) neighbor came over to help.  He reached the alarm but he couldn’t get it apart to remove the battery.  After struggling with it for a while I thanked him and let him go.  At least the beeping had finally stopped for some reason; so we decided to let it go.

Oh, alas, but it had NOT!

The beeping returned around 1:30am Sunday.  By now I was cursing the builder’s name and seriously considering calling him on the phone to share the joyous music with him. I resisted by reminding myself he probably owned a gun and obviously knew where I lived.  So I just turned the radio back on and grabbed the extra pillow.

By the time I left for church I was having Prozac cravings.  After lunch I stopped by the Fire Department.  I do NOT like being the ‘damsel in distress’ but I was desperate.  After a few questions as to the layout of the house, they decided they could come over with a ladder and help.  I figured they’d throw a ladder in the back of one of their trucks and drive on down.

Oooohhh NOOOOO.  My eyes were big as saucers when I saw BIG RED in my rear view mirror.  

Dear Lord, can that thing even fit on our little road?

I’ll have you know….yes, yes it can.

3 firemen (for my single friends, let me clarify; 2 were older than my Dad and the 3rd was married.  So you can drop those hopeful, raised eyebrows.) anyway, the 3 firemen came in with a 24ft ladder (by now I’m taking not-so-discreet photos with my phone camera.  I’m cracking up at the big production.  They were able to fix it with little trouble. And not so subtly told me they liked sweets.  (I’ll be taking desert down to the heroes of Ladder 28 this week.)

Feeling relieved and a little giddy I decided to pick up a screen door for the patio so I could take advantage of the beautiful cool breezes on this lovely Sunday afternoon.

Bought the door, confirmed installation procedures w/ the Home Depot guy and drove home. 

According to the directions only a Phillip’s head screwdriver was needed.  However, a phillips head, a flat head, a knife,  2 spoons (don’t ask) and one hour later, that dang door isn’t sliding. 

It is at this precise moment I start to cry.  I’m refusing to call my Dad b/c I want him to know he’s more than a handyman to me.  I don’t want to keep using him for stuff like this.  And even though I know he’d come over as soon as he could; it’s time for me to do things myself.

Then it begins; wrestling with God.

“If I had a man in my life, this wouldn’t be a problem!  I’d have someone to help me!  A partner that’s SUPPOSED to help me with things like this.”  

“If you’re going to keep me single forever, you’re going to have to equip me a little more!”

“Ok, I’ve got this independent thing down for the most part.  Now do your part and show me how to fix this stupid door!”  

The internal war ensues.  The struggle to be an independent single woman because of my pride and there’s no other choice vs. the option NOT to be.  It would be nice to have the option of being a woman in need.  I wonder what’s it like to have someone say “Honey, let me help you with that”? 

Don’t get me wrong; I know marriage is NOT about what the other person can do for you.  Just allow me this weak, sleep-deprived moment of raw honesty.  Most days, I will tell you there are certainly worse things than being single. 

But the truth is somedays it stinks.  

I should have seen this pity party coming.  The enemy loves to come in after a spiritual high.  I was just thanking God for the opportunity to minister to some hurting girl friends. Encouraging them in their journey, telling them they are valuable, priceless women simply because they are God’s creation. Their value isn’t based on what they do or don’t do; whether or not they are in a relationship or are good at being in one.  

Nor is it based on their ability to reach 18ft high smoke alarms or installing screen doors. 

God is good.  It’s nice to know I’m not alone. 

I know I’m not alone b/c of the sudden scratching noises in my attic. 

Guess I’ll call Critter Control in the morning.

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