There comes a time in every man's life when he bows down to God and thanks him for forcing him into a lifestyle he's not ready to accept just yet...

You're going to forget this story when I'm done telling it to you. It doesn't affect a single thing. It doesn't effect it either. You're going to feel less intelligent and you're going to feel cheated. You're going to say: "I knew Gooch was an idiot." You're going to say: "Duh?"

I just want to warn you. So, you're going to want to forget this happened. I guarantee it.



This is how our first day in our new house started:

So, if you know me, you know that I'm pretty good with stress. Not great. But good.

You know that I'm all right with tension. Again, not great, good.

You know full well that I don't deal with embarrassment at all.

And so, that's where this story starts.

Tracy and I had just finished doing the most grown up thing we've ever done in closing on our own house. And we were standing in our house — Tracy cleaning the refrigerator and me fooling around with the light switches.

And the security alarm.

And then I pushed F1.

And then. And then. Well what?

Well, of course, the alarm went off.

And it was loud. Really, really, really loud.

So I panicked.

"Oh, God. The cops are going to come. We're not supposed to be here yet." "What will the neighbors think?" "I can't believe I just did that." "The cops are going to come and we're going to have to explain that we are here a day early." "Christ, the neighbors are going to think I'm an idiot."

This is what's going through my head. Not: "How do I turn this off?" You know, the logical thing. No, I'm this nerotic idiot worrying about what the neighbors are going to think of us now. I'm the one who set it off. I'm the dork who pushed the button.

And, now, I guess, I'm the one beating myself up for something insignificant that happened about 6 days ago.

But, then again, I dare you to find someone in this world who can make more out of a 3-minute conversation than I can.

Anyway, I'm lucky to have Tracy. Very. Lucky.

Because Tracy stayed unflappable — like always. (Interesting side note about my wife, she's so great sometimes, I have to stop and think: "Why me?" I mean, I don't really know what she sees in me, but I'm really glad she does.)

She called the cops. She called the security company. She told me if I didn't stop freaking out, she'd leave the alarm on.

I paced through the empty kitchen chewing off the end of my left middle finger. Pacing so hard, I almost couldn't hear the alarm anymore. I was coming up with excuses. And, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I was coming with the story I was going to tell my friends.

"Yeah, so, that alarm system, it sure works huh?" And, you know, casually embellish upon it like always.

Well, bullocks to that.

I decided to actually do something.

And that's when I found the main breaker in the house. And, wham, silence.

Sweet, sweet silence.

And then, wham, I hit the breaker again.

Loud alarm.

Wham. Off. No alarm. Then, we flipped everything off and turned them on one by one.

Finally, having located the right switch, we were able to fully disconnect the alarm.

And silence was upon us again.

And we were able to sleep — in our first home on an air mattress after Tracy painted until 3:30 a.m. and I watched until 2:45 a.m.

That was until the alarm starting going off again. This time a quieter, more subdued beeping from the wall unit.

How do you stop this one? It's battery operated. A breaker won't fix this.

I reached for the hammer.

Sadly, it wasn't at the house yet.

So, we did the next best thing: pried that damned thing off the wall.

Tracy, unflappable as she may be at times, was right there egging me on. "Pry it harder." "Try to pull it all the way off." "No, slip it underneath and push."

And, come to think of it, those all sounded vaguely sexual.

There was no booklet for this alarm system — so maybe it hangs there as a reminder of the day I nearly went batty worrying about what people I hadn't met thought of me the day Tracy and I did the coolest thing we've ever done. But, as it turns out, the previous owner, she, um, forgot to leave it.

Off the wall it sits, silent and respectful. Pried. Blasted. Hammered. Nailed. Screwed. Lubed.

Come to think of it, that all sounds vaguely sexual.

Forget we had this conversation.