In my last apartment (heretofore known as the Second Worst Place I’ve Ever Lived In), setting off the smoke detector was fairly common. That detector was crap. It would go off even when there wasn’t any smoke. Sometimes that happened when no one was actually cooking anything.
When roommate Kaitie and I moved out last May, it was one of the many, many, many problems that I was glad to be rid of.
The time since then has been such a blessing. No high-pitched chirping noises. No mad scramble to open windows. No searching for something to fan the detector with.
Mind you, it’s not for lack of making the apartment smoky. More than once, I wondered if the first-floor detector was, you know, functional.
Tonight, while making dinner, I found out it worked just fine. I flashed back to the days of yesteryear, when this kind of thing happened several times a week. And, just like all of those times, I let out a loud, exasperated sigh, said an expletive and took care of the situation.
Ah well. It was a good nine months.