Saturday, June 09, 2007

The House Is On Fire

The last two weekends I've shown complete disregard for my Saturday morning training schedule by staying out all hours on Friday night. Last night, however, I vowed to get serious about training and go to bed at a reasonable hour. My social activities were limited to dinner with Jillian with a J and going to a play that ended at the very reasonable hour of 10 p.m. I was home by 10:30, and tucked in by about 11:15, not to mention mentally prepared to run the prescribed 8.4 miles on Saturday morning.

I fed Memphis right before bed, and vaguely recall her starting to pester me again when I heard sirens and saw red emergency vehicle lights outside my window. The BP* is located on the side of the building, so I don't have a view onto the street - I could just see the glow of the lights, and hear some action outside. I kind of ignored it for a while, then thought it sounded pretty close to home, so I threw on shorts and a t-shirt, and made the executive decision to phone DLang (2:30 a.m. logic: If my run is going to be wrecked tomorrow, his can be too!). I started to tell him that I thought something was going on, and gave him the play-by-play of my observations (flashlights in the backyard, someone thumping around on the roof). When I heard someone outside my apartment, I told him I'd call him back.

Seconds later there was a knock on the door, and I opened it to find a member of FDNY's finest! Now, I've had my fair share of fantasies involving a firefighter on my doorstep, however, none of them ACTUALLY involved fire. The hallway was quite smoky and I wondered, if I passed out, would he have to carry me downstairs? Because that would be awesome. Unfortunately my flirting capabilities were constrained by the thought that my apartment building might really be on fire, so instead of asking him if he'd like to come in for a glass of wine, I only managed to ask if I needed to leave the apartment. He said the CO levels were high and that that would be a good idea.

Moment of self-discovery: When my apartment is on fire my hands are really shaky, which means you shouldn't ask me to hold your martini.

I called DLang back to tell him we were coming over, then herded Memphis into her carry case, grabbed her litter box, my computer (I'm going to WWDC in SF next week, and my Mac is my only cred, yo), clothes for running, and headed out. On the way downstairs I passed about a dozen other firemen (note to self: try for more specific visualization in fantasies - i.e., firemen but NO FIRE), one of whom asked me if I have a CO detector in the apartment. Truth is, I don't know. There's definitely a smoke detector, but I don't know if it's dual-purpose, so I said no. He said, "Oh, you get a spanking for that." Well, hello Mr. Fireman! Now you're talking!

Once outside, I stopped to take a couple of pictures - unfortunately the best one just looks like there are a bunch of ghosts outside the apartment. (Next time I'm going to take some selfies with the men in uniform - I'm sure they'd be flattered, right?)

The moral of this story? I should continue party it up on Friday nights, because if I go to bed early there will just be a fire and I'll end up sleep-deprived and sucking at my run, anyway.

*Bachelorette Pad


Lisa said...

I'm busting a gut over here! I like the spanking bit.

Why didn't I hear any of the hurly burly? I guess I was nestled in snugly. Darn on the lack of running sleep though!

Garth said...

I once went out to a bar on a Friday night and when I came back there was a burning couch in my driveway, leaning up against a wooden garage. So I called the fire dept, grabbed a couple of beers and sat on the picnic table to watch them put out the fire. Good times.