In Threes

They say bad things come in threes. Well. Today, dear reader, was day two of what I hope is an exception to the threes rule. Yesterday, despite being hum-drum in Manhattan, was exciting at home in NJ. PSE&G discovered a gas leak in our FRONT YARD, which, quite frankly, I get to say a big told-you-so about because I completely smelled gas weeks ago while sitting on the front porch with my loyal and trusted dog. Well. PSE&G said worst case scenario, it was natural gas--the highly explosive kind that can blow your house to smithereens, literally. Most likely, though, it was methane drifting up from the sewage line. Not exactly an appetizing alternative, but utterly more reassuring than sitting on a ticking bomb.

Turns out it was natural gas. Backhoe on the front yard. My poor, loyal dog locked away in her crate, growling and hrumphing as the workmen traipsed through our house to the furnace and back. All's well now, gas line patched and front lawn sewn together, but oy.

Then today we get a call that my grampa's in the hospital, but no one knows why. And no one's worried! Just calling one another all, You know what's up? Nah, you? Nope. Absolutely grand. Phone rang for about twenty minutes straight. The doctor herself was the one to tell us, over the phone, what the deal was (all's well, again), but jeeze. I'm thinking a phone chain should be enacted, that's what I'm thinking.

Managed to slide by the utterly bad not once, but twice (!), so perhaps a loophole will get us out of the Rule of Threes. Here's hoping, dear reader. Fingers crossed.