The turkey’s done.

Or maybe the pacemaker battery needs to be replaced in the guy who somehow accidentally got sealed in our wall. Accidentally.

In either case, something’s beeping in our kitchen. Every minute. Like clockwork. For four whole days now. Did I mention it’s every minute? Like clockwork? For four whole days?

In those four days, we have torn everything out of the cupboards and inspected every electronic thing we can remember owning. It’s not the smoke detector. It’s not the carbon monoxide detector. It’s not the microwave. It’s not the stove. It’s not the oven. It’s not the fridge. It’s not the icemaker. It’s not the dishwasher. It’s not the toaster. Because I bought that toaster before beeping had been invented. We don’t have a disposal. We don’t own naughty toys. And we certainly wouldn’t keep them in the kitchen if we did, you unhygienic perverts. I can’t imagine it’s any of the lights. Because who would make lights that beep?

We thought it might be the cordless phone because its battery can hold a charge for about as long as Larry Craig can stick to a story. But we took the battery out of the phone and we still had beeping. Every minute. Like clockwork.

Everything else electronic in the kitchen is stored unplugged or de-batteried: The waffle maker. The coffee maker. The digital cooking thermometer. The dirty-word censor. The truck that we keep in a constant state of backing up.

If I were the type of person who lived in a Poe story, I could blame the beeping on the dismembered Vulture Eye™ Barbie® I buried under the kitchen floorboards. But the kitchen has a tile floor. And I could never hurt Barbie®. Besides, you can’t prove anything.

If I were a conspiracy theorist, I could blame the beeping on the aliens. Or the Warren Commission. Or the 100% heterosexual fundies who nevertheless can’t stop talking about gay sex as though maybe they really really really want to know what goes on in our gay household.

If I were a Luddite, I could throw all our appliances to the curb in the hope that they would take their beeping with them.

But I’m a creature-comfort-loving denizen of the 21st century who firmly believes that troglodytes have yet to learn how to use electronic monitoring devices. So we just keep on beepin’ on in our little slice of heck.

And beepin’.

And beepin’.

And beepin’.

And beepin’.

And beepin’.