A Lesson in the Mechanics of Carbon Monoxide Detectors

My roommates and I had a small problem with the carbon monoxide detector in our house last night. Ann was in the midst of fixing Todd's birthday dinner (lasagna and homemade strawberry cheesecake; living with a couple is actually working for once in my life) when the first round of shrill chirping started up. In minutes, it crescendoed to a no-holds-barred, earsplitting cacophony. Tana (Ann's saint bernard) went nuts. This continued every ten minutes for an hour and a half. Instead of thinking "wow, the detector must be going off for a reason," we opened up the windows and I pulled the 9 volt out of the damn thing.

Fast forward to 11:30 p.m., when Ann and Todd returned from the late show of "Be Kind, Rewind." Ann climbed into the basement for whatever reason and about passed out. Gas smell. STRONG gas smell. I called the emergency number for NorthWestern Energy. They told us to wait outside for the tech guy, so we dangled our legs off the bed of Todd's pickup. I played mandolin until the cold and my E-strings teamed up to slice open the tip of my index finger. The tech pulled up half an hour later and walked into the house, armed with beeping boxes and geiger counters all labeled "Randy." I followed him all over the house while he stuck rods and cables in flus and vents. He looked increasingly more pissed with every test, every readout. Finally he told me we didn't have a leak, didn't have a problem at all. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, head hung low, and he lectured me on how we needed to keep fresh batteries in the CO detector and relocate it so the exhaust from the oven and steam from the shower wouldn't monkey with the sensor. Talk about feeling like a total ass.

In other news, I had a job offer last week. A flat-out job offer. Regional and county reporting for an independent daily in Montana; not such a bad gig. But the position is open now, meaning I'd have to take it right after graduation at the latest. Not kosher. Especially since I've ironed out my plans for my trip to Europe this May/June. Fly into Edinburgh, Scotland, to visit/drink with/sleep on the couches of old friends from my study abroad for a few days. Then a ferry to Ireland with Trevor (fellow idiot American from said study abroad) and five days of rental car camping. Hopefully more of the same near-fatal shenanigans of our past adventures. Next, Luxembourg and Vienna (fellow Bismarck High School speech nerd Amanda is currently working in Austria). Two weeks of pure, unadulterated awesomeness with people I haven't seen in far too long. Translation: tempted by the prospect of a salary position in my field straight out of college, and appreciative of the interest, but more tempted by the prospect of a summer without any journalistic endeavors at all. Am I totally whacked?

Finally placed my call to the Sylvan Learning Center for an interview today. My freelance story is due April 1, and I have little to no material for it. Something tells me my priorities are slightly misplaced. On the upside, played Sorry! for nearly two hours last night. Classic boardgames will never die.

Horseshoes with pine trees

Found myself in a very odd position today. Bent at a 90 degree angle around the trunk of a sizable pine sapling, my stomach playing pin-cushion for needles and small branches. Guess I misjudged my last turn at the base of East Rim, a steep powder bowl at Whitefish Ski Resort. I laughed it off, but my ribs are a tad sore and I've discovered the beginnings of a saucer-sized bruise near my stomach, a few inches left-of-center. Damn, playing horseshoes sucks when you're the horseshoe.

The first weekend of spring break has, so far, been as refreshing as I could have hoped and more. Skiing, family time (which I only seem to get in five-day installments six times a year), and a river of free beer. Great when the folks pick up the tab.

Forgive me a random interjection, but kid-siblings should be banned from prom. Em told me earlier last week that she found a date for the BHS prom, a sad state of affairs for a brother whose sole purpose in life is defending his baby sister. Now how am I supposed to screen this kid from afar? Trust the parents to the job? Ha, not good enough. And watching her shop for prom dresses online breaks my heart. This time next year, she'll be the one spending a college spring break skiing with the family. Who gave us all permission to grow up?

Lots on the docket for the upcoming week. (A reminder to myself) Two freelance stories, two research papers, 15 pages of original non-fiction writing, at least three books. Throw in fishing, skiing, drinking and I have no idea how the Hell I'll survive. Spring break? Psh-a. Try spring overload. What happened to dreams of Fort Lauderdale, or skiing in Alaska? Gone and gone.

Oh well. I guess my biggest concern right now should be that I miss Al, the tap-man at the Kettle House taproom, more than I've missed my own mother at times. Symptom of a disease? (Mad ellipses)

I remembered a joke a few weeks back, one of those jokes I used to tell on boy scout trips in middle school. These two Norwegian immigrants, Ole and Sven, are plowing their field near New Salem, N.D. Several furrows into the job, their horse drops dead in his tracks. Sven turns to Ole, stunned.
"Ole," he says in that Hollywood slow-talk we Dakotans have been so unfairly stereotyped with. "Dat horse der, he jus' dropped dead right in his tracks."
"Ya," Sven replies. "Whatcha think we should do 'bout plowing dis here field?"
The two agree that a new horse is in order, as neither feel too inclined to yoke-up and grit through the lash. They trudge to town only to learn of a mass horse shortage. Seems the equines, having successfully joined a labor union, went on strike. Ole and Sven are about ready to call it quits and head to Kroll's Diner for some fleischkuekle when they stumble on a decrepit looking donkey with 10-foot-long ears. Desperate, they settle and deem their new steed Ant.
Ole and Sven have nearly finished plowing the field when they see a thunderhead rolling across the prairie from the direction of New Salem Sue. Lighting. Hail. A microburst. They drive Ant toward the barn, only to find that his ears are about two inches too tall to fit through the door. Their Swedish neighbor, Leif, watches all this from the fence.
"Hey, neighbors," he shouts. "Got a problem?"
"I'll say," Ole answers. "Dat der donkey, he jus' won't fit inta tha barn. His ears is just too long, doncha know?"
"Nah, all you have to do is dig some of the dirt away from under the door and he'll slide right in."
Proud that he's helped his neighbors, Leif retreats to his house for some tuna and lefsa. When Leif is gone, Sven bursts out laughing.
"What's so funny der, Sven?" Ole asks.
"Oh, Ole," Sven replies. "Dat stupid Swede. He tinks he's so smart. It ain't the LEGS that are too long, it's the EARS."

Yeah, I know. Lame. And drawn out. But I'm guessing if you're reading this blog you don't have anything better to do than read stupid Ole and Sven jokes. So I wasted three minutes of your life. Suck it up. What do you want me to do, write a sonnet?

Work is painfully slow tonight. For those of you who don't know, I'm the entertainment editor of a certain illustrious rag of a student newspaper. My reporters filed their stories on time or earlier tonight, and I'm now rocketing through page design. Helps that I only have enough material for one page. Ideally I'll be out of the newsroom and at James Bar by midnight. Ideally.

I always promised myself I wouldn't be one of "those guys," the ones with blogs. I blogged professionally for four years, a paid gig that pretty much funded my a.m. Finnegan's runs and tobacco pipe habit freshman year. It wears on you. So we'll see how this goes. Maybe I have more to blog about now. Lord knows the last few weeks have presented endless fodder for ego-driven rants. Studies, the job, changes in the social atmosphere. But perhaps for now I'll leave you with Ole and Sven and Ant. Hell, if that joke doesn't somehow relate to my life right now, I don't know what does.