By Mrs. Singy
Thank goodness the Yankees were visiting Baltimore the night before Orioles’ Opening Day because our house alarm sounded at precisely 2:54 a.m., causing Ken and I to jump out of bed faster than two volunteer firefighters.
It doesn’t exactly help our fight-or-flight mode when the robotic voice on our system barks insistently, “INTRUSION! INTRUSION!” followed by a shrill BEEP-BEEP-BEEP, and then repeats the announcement over and over until we disarm it. Scary, because until we know exactly what set off the alarm, we imagine an intruder breaking in, and we feel extremely vulnerable (kind of how the Orioles feel when the Yankees are in town).
The dog begins wailing as the noise pierces his sensitive Rottie ears; the kids dash out of their rooms terrified out of their sleepy wits; and simultaneously, the phone jingles (the security company asks if we want the police dispatched) – all before we have rubbed the sleep from our eyes and can think coherently.
I whistle for the pooch to lead the way into the basement where the alarm system has indicated a point of disturbance, first pushing along Ken. (He’s bigger than me, and hopefully more muscular than the imaginary prowler.)
If the alarm goes off when he’s on the road with the Yankees, unfortunately I have to be the brave adult in the house; yet truthfully, it makes me a basket case to have to investigate. It’s happened – ask our neighbor Tommy who has received my 2 a.m. scaredy-cat call when a tray table mysteriously fell over loudly and tripped the alarm.
Years ago when former Oriole Al Bumbry was our neighbor, he came to Mrs. Singy’s rescue when the house alarm sounded. He found nothing but me shaking in my slippers, and offered to sleep on the couch the remainder of the night.
Ballplayers are so brave.
Announcers, too. So … Ken checks the basement slider, all is intact, and we figure the wind tripped the alarm. We return to slumber, however, mine does not come easily as I imagine all the nights Ken will be sleeping in hotels instead of in our room. Already I have the heebie-jeebies.
Couldn’t the Yankees play in Baltimore more often? After all, the Orioles are used to New York’s intrusions.