Last week, I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. I won’t elaborate on the details in order to protect the innocent, but trust me, it sucked.  The husband was out of town for the week on a business trip and as luck would have it, everything that could go wrong did go wrong.  The icing on the cake was the morning (3:50 last Thursday, to be exact) I was trying to catch a few precious moments of sleep, when I heard the distant, plaintive chirp of the smoke alarm.  Have you ever noticed that smoke alarm batteries only die in the wee hours of the morning? Of course, the dying smoke alarm was located on the highest ceiling of the house, which meant that I had to go out to the garage in my pajamas and get the Giant Ladder.  Normally, I never even touch the Giant Ladder–the shiny, clean 5-footer is more my speed, but there I was, in my robe and slippers, precariously perched about 15 feet off the ground …