bad things happen in threes

They say bad things happen in threes. My confirmation-biased brain tends to look for these patterns based on some old superstition my grandmother probably told me, which was also handed down to her. In retrospect, maybe this makes me a living, gigantic beacon sending signals into the universe, practically asking for these things to happen. I’ve also decided that there are rules to this. The three bad things must somehow be balanced. For instance, they’re usually at the same severity level for you to notice. And if the first two are minor inconveniences, then the third will be a whopper to compensate, as if to put you in your place in case you feel like whining about life. I have many examples regarding the general feeling of existential dread, and I should probably let this working theory go. But stay with me.

It started last Saturday when we were suckered into a deal where we could upgrade our phones. We had some unreal amounts of store credit, and Apple covertly kills all their phones after 2.5 years, so you have to upgrade anyway, amirite? {They said they don’t do that- sure, sure.} Of course, everyone’s phones had glitches. So the store people hated us since Jamin was all, “Guess this is me now,” spending a total of eleven hours in-store, waiting, and working on the issue in tandem. Receiving a working phone by lunch on Monday was a minor inconvenience. We’re not sure the sales associate was paying attention since he told us he “Had a gig to get to and hoped this wouldn’t last long.” {Welcome to Nashville, where everyone’s a musician.} This was right before things went horribly awry because he pushed the wrong button or something.

In the meantime, people sent me texts that went straight into the ether, and I was incommunicado. Apologies to everyone involved; I was not ghosting you. I was just driving around with my laptop opened to Messenger like an inexperienced Uber driver, hoping no one needed anything. It felt like something straight out of 1996 when I couldn’t stalk my kids on life360, and I had to pick up my youngest without texting. We had to find each other by actually paying attention the old-fashioned way. So, someone hurry up and award me one of those ‘roughing it’ badges from Girl Scout camp since it felt like living in Stranger Things and I basically have bat sonar now. 

Next, our oldest’s car broke down, but it happened at 1 am on Wednesday morning as he was coming home from a {very late, please make it stop, I think it’s time for college so I’m not so exhausted anymore} movie with friends, and it turned into a whole thing. 2k later, we’re just glad it happened before college, but also, happy birthday; you get a new alternator and more necessities for your used-but-usually-very-dependable car. Combined with the youngest’s football practice at 5:30 am the next morning after that 1 am roadside call, and we were cooked, as the kids say nowadays. Yes, I am elderly. 

Why am I telling you all this? Champagne problems, but it sets the scene for our already exhausted state and my working theory, playing a big role in our reactionary response below.

The third event occurred that Wednesday night. We hadn’t caught our collective breaths, and I’d hit a creative-energy, general-will-to-live exhaustion wall after that previous night. I was settled under the covers, ready to go just before ten, already pushing my limits. I’d preset the morning coffee, and Jamin mentioned letting the dogs out again right before bed since they seemed restless. I nodded and was nestled under the covers, already dozing. Blissful sleep.

Moments later, I shot up out of my drowsy state, to chaos. Fitz trotted into the bedroom with Rigby on her heels. Jamin yelled, in a half-dazed pursuit and slightly panicked tone, “What is that?! Hey, WHAT IS THAT?”

I could see nothing of note, but Fitz was sneezing and convulsing. Her sister was following out of morbid curiosity. Clumps of foam flew from her mouth. Saliva was being sprayed everywhere, and I’d learn later that she’d already made a panic lap around the house like a living, shaking doggy sprinkler—wiping. Spreading… This substance was everywhere.

Absolute pandemonium ensued. Cue record screech. I have a list of things that can happen to a house that is, of course, a level below natural disasters + actual danger {see: tornadoes, fire, flooding}, but they rank like this in my list of legit concerns and fears: 

1. A septic leak or backup into the house {Gross. Kill it with fire. Absolute top fear.}
2. Bed Bugs {Gross. Kill it with fire. I check mattresses everywhere I stay.}
3. Skunk
4. I’m sure I can think of more, but these are my top three. I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Did you know that Tennessee is a prime area for skunks? I only thought I knew the depravity that is that smell. I have friends whose dogs have been sprayed by skunks. One mistakenly thought it was a gas leak until she understood the real issue and ensuing trauma because it smelled so different up close. My sister’s dogs have been sprayed three times now, and she attests the same: it smells different when it happens to you. I guess with a large yard like ours, we should consider ourselves lucky that it hadn’t happened—until now.

We were so disoriented at first, and that’s the point of a skunk. Well done, freaking Pepé Le Pew. I read that their only real natural predator is the Great Horned Owl because they can’t smell all that well. We weren’t even sure what was happening for the first few seconds. Jamin thought the smell was an electrical fire. There was none of that general confusion where you step outside and question, {read it in your best SNL Church Lady voice} “Is that the marijuana, or is it skunk?” whilst sniffing the air in an uninvolved nature. When it’s in your house, it’s burning rubber mixed with spoiled eggs and a rotten corpse. It brings you into the moment and also splits your senses because you can no longer function. And it was do or die because this was now all over our house. 

When it happened, Fitz ran to safety inside in a blind panic, bowling over Jamin and Rigby to seek shelter. There was a small delay, and by the time she’d taken a convulsing dog-sprinkler house lap, we all lost our minds with the resulting carnage. She basically had a sneezing, gagging fit, and we were trying to catch her to figure out what on earth could be wrong.

We all just kept yelling, “WHAT is that?” in panicked confusion. At some point, you think our collective intelligence would figure it out, but we still didn’t think it smelled like a skunk. Our oldest woke from a dead sleep and stood at the top of the stairs to witness it all. He thought Fitz had rabies because of the running-with-foam combo. I didn’t know skunks could make a dog foam at the mouth, so we were just alarmed. By then, it was too late because that smell was everywhere—on our rugs, on our hardwood floor, on the corner wall. At some point, she even grazed a basket of clean laundry sitting on the floor {I found that one later}. Jamin coaxed her back outside and immediately ran water into her mouth and on her face, where she’d taken most of the hit.

We Googled a quick cleaning solution for Fitz {thanks to Aiden’s first Aid kit since all the stores were closed, and worked with what we had. While Jamin got her settled and made sure she was, in fact, still possessing her sight and the rest of her faculties, he washed her down. Did you know Dawn + Baking Soda + Hydrogen Peroxide {keeping it out of the dog’s eyes} is probably the best thing out there? I’ll never NOT have this stock-piled in my home again. I had no idea a skunk could have an effect like that on a dog. I’m still not sure anything worked, but it was something.

In the meantime, the inside looked like a panic-cocaine version of that scene from Mary Poppins where they clean up and mark their efforts with a rousing song, except instead of a poised and beautiful Julie Andrews, I ran, yelping commands in a choked voice with nothing but a ratty t-shirt, and puffy eyes. I’m pretty sure I did an awkward granny panties flash, so the kids can add that to their growing list of traumas they’d like to forget. Opening the windows felt like imminent death and would only let more of it in. I had an immediate headache. TMI, but it was so bad that one of our kids tossed their cookies. All three dutifully followed shouts and commands in between gasps for air and gagging noises. They knew that it came down to survival, and we had to get the oil off the floors and everything else. But hey, props to us for working as a team when we all just wanted to cry.

We slept with the windows open that night despite the summer heat. Fitz was sequestered to the pool room since we don’t have a garage, and besides learning a very hard lesson, is fine otherwise. I have never used so much Swiffer, Bona, baking soda, Febreze, Wallflowers, Clorox wipes, and candles in my life. We’ve changed out the air filters, and we’ve probably given ourselves some obscure lung disease with our odd concentrated assortment of random perfumery. The smell was in our sheets, and when I opened my water bottle to take a sip the next day, it was in there, too. It’s like a game of surprise to see where it will pop up next. Bathroom vanity? Check. Pantry? Check. Now, it’s just a waiting game. 

That next morning, that football 5:30 am wake-up time was almost the end of us. I guess it was the perfect, perfunctory exclamation point to a really exhausting {in all the best ways} summer. 

So, in case you’re wondering, I feel like we’ve paid our dues in the land of bad luck and threes. I will toss that salt, knock on wood, and turn around hopping on one foot whilst patting my head and rubbing my belly chanting the alphabet backwards, if never to experience that again.

Cheers to smelling like a Grateful Dead concert whenever we leave the house. And I guess I can now realize I survived one of my top three home fears and lived to tell the tale. {No worries, there are other lists. You should see my true crime one.}

We all just hope Fitz learned her lesson. At least she didn’t bring the skunk to the door.