A few years ago I read a news story about someone doing something with a gas line in a house, and then leaving the house empty (no people moving in and out) for a few days, and then the house blew up because of a gas leak.
This has always stuck with me. In a bad way.
So when it came time to run the gas line for the new gas stove, I spent an evening beforehand online reading stories about exploding houses. Because, of course, that's the best way to spend your time if you're worried your house is going to blow up.
I mentioned this to Linda last week. At the time I thought they were going to run the gas line that afternoon, and that she might be the last person I ever talked to since both kids and Rick were out of the house for the day, leaving me alone in the explosive house. She was very sympathetic. Then she asked if we really did have a horrible accident, could she please have my ticket to Mary Poppins at the Fox, since I wouldn't be needing it.
So. This morning they finally did the gas line. And all day I kept thinking I smelled gas. But then I thought maybe I was just being a bit hyper about it. But when we got home from piano Annabeth commented that the front hall smelled like gas to her with no prompting from me whatsoever. Later I ran an errand ... and when I got back the front door was open.
When I came in the contractor said, "You've got a gas leak." Wow. He had turned the gas off, and called to have it taken care of.
Yowza. Does this mean I should start making psychic predictions? After all, when we bought the new dryer I accurately predicted that the little knob would break off within a couple of years. And now this.