The Two Stupidest People on Earth Live in Our House

Seth, beneath the "spear of death."

Allow me to cut to the chase--that would be me and Seth.

The "why" is where it gets scary (Tom and Charlie, stop reading now so you'll still take us seriously, if you still do....or ever did....oh, forget it).

I discovered the benefit of "white noise machines" years ago in a continuing effort to cope with both the decibels and nightly chain-saw impressions of one Mr. Snore-y McSnorererson, aka Seth.

Before those who know me start to defend Snore-y by indignantly announcing that I, too, am a snorer, allow me to say that while this may be true (although unlikely since no dated footage exists), Seth swears he is not bothered by my snoring (nothing--including nuclear testing--can be heard over his, anyway) while one single snore of his is enough to work my last nerve to the point of, well, ka-pow.

My little machine has a bright green light which, when it's on, illuminates the entire eastern seaboard and by which Mr. Magoo could perform successful neurosurgery or cut a diamond or...well, you get the idea.

On Seth's side of the bed is a telephone. It has a red blinking light that is so bright that it could keep ships from crashing on the rocks of a jagged coastline in a deep fog on a moonless night.

We have spent hours in earnest conversation over why these things would be designed with such bright lights that, by the way, cannot be turned off. "What, Seth, were they thinking?" I snivel nightly as I drape a  sock over the beacon by my bedside. "I don't knoooooowwwww," he will snivel back as he positions a magazine over the beacon on his side. This has, literally, gone on for years. Years.

About two nights ago, Seth--who, by profession, deals successfully with huge and expensive machinery and problem solves daily--turned to me with a face that appeared to have just spotted Jesus having toast in the kitchen, "Why don't we put a piece of duct tape over the lights?

I--who, while not the sharpest tool in the shed yet have successfully learned to program the DVR and did not need the accompanying CD to learn how to use our coffee maker, looked at him and said, "WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!!!!" 

Down he pranced to the duct tape storage section of the garage and snipped two cunning little squares of tape and, voila---blessed darkness. Simultaneously, of course, we realized that we should have thought of this most obvious solution on day one, not year six and have been taking to each other like Granny Clampett and Jed ever since: "Well, dad-blast it, Susan, what in tarnation kept us from figgerin' this out years ago?"  "Dang it, Seth, I just cain't figger!  Could it be we are idiots???"

Well, yes. 

Only idiocy would have prompted us to gleefully snap pictures of Seth standing directly beneath a giant icicle hanging from our roof that had dripped its way into a "spear of death" or cause me to step directly into the biggest hairball in the western hemisphere, mere seconds after commenting, "Wow, that is the biggest hairball in the western hemisphere.

So, Tom and Charlie, if you've read on, don't worry. They say that often a gene will skip a generation....