I was calmly and leisurely getting myself ready for church. While I chose pearls and impeccably made up my face, the children sat scrubbed and shiny in their Sunday best, reading peacefully to each other in the family room. I can't be certain, but I would wager it was fine 19th century literature they were enjoying. Brian was busy digesting the hot and delicious breakfast I'd lovingly prepared.
No? Not buying it?
So maybe what really happened is that I was frantic, because although it seems like every Sunday I fear I will be attending church in my birthday suit with my sopping hair dripping down my back, this Sunday threatened to realize that fear. We were late. Like, "MOM WHERE IS MY HAIRBRUSH / TOOTHBRUSH / SHOES / FAVORITE PACK OF MARKERS THAT I ALWAYS TAKE TO CHURCH / UNDERPANTS / SANITY" late. Also, I might add this was my first Sunday on crutches, which may have contributed to us being a bit behind schedule.
The kiddos gulped down Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Kelly crushes dreams with, "NO! We don't have time for Toaster Strudel today!" because I am the Worst Mom in the entiiiiiiiiire world) while Brian controls chaos so I could take a shower. Once I was "ready" (consisting of black skinny jeans and leopard flats *with inserts, Sarah*)(because that is what matched my crutches obviously) I switched with Brian so he could get ready. The kids were fully ready to go when Brian came and gave me A Serious Look.
I went to our master bath and confirmed with my gas expert olfactory skills, "Yep. That's *totally* gas."
That's when all hell broke loose.
I guess I wasn't prepared for the seriousness of the smell of gas in the house. I was all, "Hey, that's weird," and planned to go about our day. Brian reacted more along the lines of, "OHMYLANTA THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BLOW UP! GET THE KIDS OUT OF THE HOUSE NOOOOOOOOOW!" as he shut off our furnace and ran outside in his pajamas.
The kids were all, "Is our house okay? My blanket is inside! Where are Dad's clothes?!" I was a picture of calm, definitely not speaking in a too bright voice while trying to make sitting in the Ford Flex in front of our neighbors house a few doors down the street seem like a fun little excursion. Brian went to get our neighbor, and these brave souls walked into our death trap of a house to check for gas.
Within five minutes Brian stood at the drivers window, a sheepish expression on his face as he stood in his jammie pants like he was ready to shop at Walmart. (Sorry, Walmart, that was completely unprovoked and uncalled for.)
"We're okay. Come on back to the house; I have to go get dressed."
I turned around and parked in the driveway. I followed him in to get the details of how we knew our house wasn't going to explode. (And to ask a few timely questions about homeowners insurance that had been tickling my brain for, I don't know, the last five minutes.)
|Or maybe our house is just haunted?|
Apparently, sometimes leftover waste in your plumbing can release pockets of vapor as they decompose. Those vapors are as pleasant as you would imagine them to be. The general consensus is that this is what happened in our master bathroom. Which, if you break it down (a decomposition play on words?! Ridiculous!) means one thing:
Literally, our crap farted.
And *that's* how our house almost exploded.