“Don’t buy a lottery ticket.”
That was my friend’s advice after hearing the most recent in a rather long streak of unfortunate events.
Some are too private to share, and some I want the whole world to know. Like my beloved little dog Lulu’s recent diagnosis of encephalitis, an incurable and fast-moving brain disease that has already rendered her blind in one eye.
Not even 4 years old, I got her right after my mom died and she has been the source of unspeakable joy in the turbulent years since. Now I must be her nurse, administering steroids and heavy-duty antibiotics on a round-the-clock basis.
So the last thing I needed was another gas leak.
I say “another” because, as I moved into my second home in three years at the end of December, three different gas leaks were attended to by plumbers Darrell and Scott, now good friends, and numerous workers at Columbia Gas.
The first was actually sniffed out by a friend I had asked to help me bless my new home. We prayed our way from the upstairs down, and ended rather abruptly when she smelled gas near the water heater in the basement. I couldn’t smell a thing.
The saga went on for days, culminating in a new water heater, a new meter and the front yard being dug up to replace the main gas line to the house.
When I started smelling something about a week and a half ago, I blamed the cat. She must be eating dog food again, I thought. But when I cleaned her litter, it didn’t smell like the odor that was wafting through my basement.
Maybe Chico, my German shepherd, had gas. But he doesn’t like to go in the basement, so that didn’t make sense either.
It was when I opened the door to the unfinished side, where the original gas leak was discovered, that my head snapped back.
“Hideous,” I said to myself. While I never smelled any of the other leaks, this was unmistakable. It smelled like rotten eggs, but even worse.
Not wanting to have my gas turned off again, I called the plumber, believing it was a problem with the way they installed the water heater.
Darrell was out in no time and he, too, smelled the offensive odor. “It doesn’t smell like gas,” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s strongest in this room for sure.”
I nodded and told him that not one thing had changed since the installation of the new water heater two weeks prior and so he set about to, once again, check for a gas leak.
This is when I texted my friend and told her of my latest bump in the road, and she told me not to buy that lottery ticket.
I replied, “I don’t know, I think I’m due.”
A short time later, Darrell yelled upstairs that he had found the source of the noxious odor.
“Good news. It’s not a gas leak,” he said, muffling a laugh.
“It’s over here,” he said, walking toward and pointing to a large open styrofoam cooler. “How long has that chicken been in there?”
“About two weeks,” I answered shamefully. “I was cleaning out my freezer to make room for all my South Beach frozen dinners that wouldn’t fit in my kitchen fridge. I guess I forgot it was there.”
But there it was. A chicken dated “best by Nov. ’14,” with a greenish tint, its shrink wrap plastic swollen from the gases leaking from the rotting carcass.
“Do you mind if I take a picture of it?” Darrell asked, holding his breath. “We have a meeting every Friday of small business owners and we like to share stories about what happens during the week.”
Stifling a gag, I reluctantly agreed. He said no names would be mentioned.
“Oh, don’t you worry, Darrell. A large population of Northeast Ohio will know soon enough.”
Then Darrell presented me with a bill, pointing out he was charging me only for a service call. I call it a “$79 stupid tax.”
What I find really ironic, though, is that all this happened as I was eating one of my South Beach meals and reading online the “Top 10 Early Warning Signs of Alzheimer’s.”
Maybe I will buy a lottery ticket after all. If I do, I just hope I remember where I put it.
Contact Robin Swoboda at Robinswoboda@outlook.com.