Three blankets, sweat pants and a fleece zipped to my ears. Layers like a Grands flaky biscuit.

Why? Because the smoke detector at my place is more sensitive than a chubby pre-teen girl.

Like any good Texan, the temperature dips below 60... the heater blazes. (My work amigos - the one's who've braved gnarly Connecticut winters - get a real chuckle out of this).

Which brings me to Friday night. Oh, hi cold front. The walk from car to front door is akin to trudging down the frozen food aisle. I go straight for the thermostat, jabbing the up arrow until it hits a toasty 78. (Electric bill, be damned. I need warmth. And fast).

Then I smell it.

A pungent, smoky whiff.

And I know exactly what's coming.

Mmmmm. The fire alarm. Issuing intolerable, ear-splitting screeches. Well past midnight. For the second time this month. (First was after burning an omelette. Neighbor of the year).

As one squawking smoke detector turns into a chorus of screaming smoke detectors, I panic. Arms flailing. Waving kitchen towels and cracking windows. Visions of firetrucks and fire sprinklers unleashing liquid fury.

I'm in the middle of shoving my coffee table underneath the original clanging culprit in the hallway so I can rip it straight off the ceiling when.... all goes silent.

Bullet. Dodged.

Giddy with relief.

Except for not really. Because now I'm scared to touch my heater. And I have to sleep with socks on my feet. (Pet peeve). And I realize that's the most action I've gotten on a Friday night in, well...