I like to think of myself as being pretty mature. Pretty responsible. Pretty "together".
Then Tuesday happened.
I "cleansed" this week. Fruits, vegetables, chicken, that's it. Day one I was hungry. Like eat an entire display cabinet of doughnuts hungry. But I'm allowed chicken, lucky girl. Post-work-ravenous-cooking ensued the second I walked in the door. I suppose I was a little too aggressive with the chicken, because next thing I know the smoke alarm is ringing. Ringing like round one at a UFC match.
Being all of five foot three I look up at my cavernous ten foot ceiling where there sits the culprit. Mocking me. As I start scrounging around for something to annihilate his existence, his pitchy jeering stops. I think he knew I meant business.
About an hour later, I decide to take on one of my cavernous walls and paint. Roller ready, paint poured, floor covering....covering the floor, I pick up the paint holder to carry from the kitchen to the living room. Wouldn't you know it, when you don't pick up full plastic painting trays by the fullest point, they spill. And not just spill, catastrophically splatter down the dishwasher and abstractly cover the floor. I think it was attempting to look like a Van Gogh painting. Unsuccessfully.
Half a roll of paper towels later, I paint for about fifteen minutes, get bored, and clean up. Next up in my string of successful apartment-dwelling moments, setting up the WIFI (pronounced wih-fee, New Girl style). I've got about 1,324 outlets in my apartment, I know approximately what half of them are for. There's one in particular in my bedroom that has a foot long, snake-like cord coming out of it with a red button on the end. Looking for the phone jack....I wisely think that if I push that red button, one will appear.
It was the panic button. And the fire alarm has nothing on the panic alarm. This was akin to a marching band that only played foghorns
into bull horns
on a Sprint Center sized speaker system.
The control panel was barraged by blue painters tape. Picture me lacerating through the tape in attempt to punch in the four digit passcode about 42 times, only to discover that it doesn't work. Amidst the blaring alarm I run across the hall to my neighbor, who I have never even seen before this fine fine evening. The frightening red button in my room not only set off my alarm, but hers too, so she's in Power Ranger mode ready to face the attack.
She opens the door, not to a six foot five karate master, but to a sniveling blonde midget in painting clothes having an anxiety attack. I calmly and rationally asked for her assistance, and by that I mean partially coherently begged for help. Between the two of us, we could not soothe the savage beast that is the alarm. So we begin running up and down the stairs rapping on doors looking for someone, anyone who knows what they're doing, to no avail.
In the frenzy, we both begin to realize that the tragically-awful-horrible-vicious-noise has stopped. The freedom began to register and I refrained from dancing, for the sake of my new-neighbor-friend. I know, one heckova way to meet my neighbors. I go all in when it comes to meeting people. I think neighborly love is best fostered through crises.
And then I had wifi!