Darling "Kidde" brand Carbon Monoxide Detector, I'd totally forgotten you were there. What a surprise, then, to awaken to your deafening screech! What a treat to actually sleep through an hour of your shrieking while integrating it into a dream in which I'm trapped in a cave with about 500 different smoke detectors, carbon monoxide detectors, radon measuring devices from 1961, and am trying to figure out which one is making that noise. Silly me, it was just you, Carbon Monoxide Alarm!
What does this mean? Of course it's easy to jump to the conclusion that the batteries are low and I'm not dying a slow death from poisonous gases. But something tells me that the Kidde Carbon Monoxide Alarm exists for a reason. And I can only rashly jump to the conclusion that that reason is that the demolition site I like to call my country estate is emitting some sort of hazardous situation that is killing me softly with its toxic fumes.
What is going on: BookExpo happened, where I autographed trillions of books, Jewish Book Council Author Two-Minutes-In-Heaven Talent Night happened, some parties, some Seattle friends, a strange urge to write fiction (indulged yesterday when I also woke early, not to an alarm but possibly from the emerging onset of carbon monoxide poisoning that caused me to bolt upright at 4am). Radio interviews. Jackhammering outside. Nerves.
My publisher, Workman, threw a fairly magical party on the roof of Rockefeller Center. There's a reflecting pool up there. I may never see the city so regally again.