Any given night, I usually get at least 6 solid hours of sleep, sometimes even 8. But apparently, my miniature box fan is currently in its death throes and, as a result, commenced a ridiculously high pitched shrieking right about 7 in the AM this morning. Not ok.
After my heart rate slowed down to something resembling normal, I peeled my eyelids open and stared at the wall, willing the sad little motor on this contraption that, before I rescued it from my gramma's closet last year had remained unopened in it's original packaging since the year I was born, to speed back up to normal and stop emulating a squealing banshee. No such luck. Forcing my body into movement normally unaccustomed for another three hours, I padded over to negotiate with the fan from hell, picking it up and shaking it only to have it squawk at me louder. Really, little fan? Do we need to have words? Because it's a bit too early for Jenn to be formulating grumbling sentences. All I want is to be able to crawl back into my groggy oblivion serenaded by beautiful white noise and not have you sound like a herd of dying cats. Now is that too much to ask? I think not.
The solution appeared to be lying little fan on it's back so that it blew air up to the ceiling, which kind of defeated the purpose; however, my lovely humming motor sound was back which meant I could, once again, sleep like a baby. Maybe I can eke another few months of life out of this bad boy after all. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
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