Saving lives, one party at a time

This weekend away in Tejas with the famed Stephen Brockway was much needed.  It was a blast.  Mr. G and I had a great time.  Booze was flowing, weather was mostly fantastic (aside from some minor hail, 24 hours of non-stop thunder and lightening, and freezing cold rain for our last day there), and the crawfish boil exceeded all expectations.  The Jerry Springer style breakup we witnessed even provided some comedic entertainment (but probably not to the poor couple).  All in all it was a great trip.

Except for that part where the house almost burnt to the ground and I saved everyone's lives.

After a full day of of booze, sun, crawfish, et. al., the four of us (myself, Mr. G, Mr. Brockway, and Mr. Kyle--Mr. Brockway's lovable, albeit republican, roommate) went to bed.  I had no idea how intoxicated the three men were.

I woke up at 3:45am to the sound of the worlds.loudest fire alarm.  You know regular house fire alarms?  And how they are loud but not as loud as say, a fire alarm in a school or public building?  The fire alarm in this house was even more insane than a school fire alarm.  There were at least 3 different pitches.  Lights flashed.  I lost hearing in my left ear due to the sound of this alarm.  I expected a fully armed SWAT team to propel out of the air at any second this alarm was so intense.

Not only was the worlds loudest fire alarm going off, but the house was completely filled with black smoke.

I immediately jumped out of the bed I was sharing with Mr. G.  I assumed he was right behind me, and as I ran blindly* out into the hallway, I expected the other two manly men to be out there helping to figure out what the hell was going on.

(*Please note, it is important to remember that I am almost legally blind without my contacts in.  Because I am 67.)

I stumbled out into the living room, and through the smoke and my lack of vision I was able to determine two things: 1, nobody else in the house was awake and 2, something on the stove was engulfed in orange flames.

I immediately ran over to the stove and grabbed the pot that was on fire.  I turned off the gas and threw the pot into the sink, dumping running water over it.  At this point, the alarm is still going off at an insanely loud volume, and I cannot tell due to my lack of vision if the fire is completely out or if I am missing something.

I spot Stephen lying on the couch, fully clothed, leg hanging off the side.  I run over to him, amazed that he has continued to sleep through all of this, and start yelling and screaming at him to wake up.  Nothing.  I start hitting him, slapping him, shaking him.  He FINALLY wakes up, and I yell to him "YOU CAUGHT THE HOUSE ON FIRE!!  HELP!!!!" and run on to the next room.

I burst in to Kyle's room.  "KYLE!  WAKE UP!!!"
"huh?"
"KYLE!  THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!  HELP!"
Silence.  No answer.  No help.

Onward to the last room, I run to save my beloved, and maybe, at this point, get a little assistance in confirming that the fire is out, calming my nerves, getting the alarm to turn off, etc.

"MR.G!  WHAT THE FUCK!!! GET UP!  DON'T YOU HEAR THIS ALARM?  THE FUCKING HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!"

Mr. G's perfect response?

"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO HEAR ANYTHING OVER ALL THIS NOISE?!?!"

And he laid back down and went back to bed.

It turns out, I did get the fire completely out.  Doors were opened and fans turned on, and the smoke cleared out and the alarm stopped.  My heart was pounding.  Not so much with fear or adrenaline at this point, but with anger that the three men drunk bastards had slept right through this huge commotion.

Come Sunday morning, none of them even knew what had happened and that I, she-rah woman, hear me roar, had saved all of their drunk asses.  Not a damn clue.

Signing off,
Super Granny