My mother, Kristen’s beloved Italian Nana, used to say… TROUBLE COMES IN THREES. It’s a way of preparing yourself AFTER the first disaster, that two more are soon to follow. Mom was right again. Let me give you an example.
My husband, Lynn, and I live in a ranch style house with two air conditioners on the roof. One would never do the job, unless it was a big-ass thing that a restaurant would use. Commercial sized. Each air conditioner handles 1/2 of the house. To keep them at their prime running condition, my husband and I change the filters the first week of every month. One filter is in the ceiling of the kitchen. The other is on the other side of the house in the hallway. Changing the filters is a job for one person. He doesn’t see it that way. I have a step ladder with three steps. Yes, you read that right… three steps and he still wants my help. Maybe it’s because I rub his leg while he is on the top step. I have no fucking idea, but he needs my help. Here comes disaster #1.
I placed the ladder in the kitchen under the metal grate door in the ceiling. He climbed up the three steps, pulled down the two hooks that keep the vent in place. He lowered the vent and let it hang from the ceiling by the hinges. Then, he took out the dirty filter and handed it to me, and I handed him a new filter. When he got down from the ladder he said, “Give me a few minutes and we can do the next one.”
I picked up the ladder and decided to go to the hallway and start. I climbed up the ladder and pulled down the two latches that hold the metal vent in place but the vent was stuck…it would not come down. I got down off the ladder and moved the ladder to the side of the hallway.
He came around the corner and said,”What are you doing?”
Before I could answer him, he stood under the metal vent and it fell on his head. Technically, it should have been hanging there by the hinges. But the weight of it tore it loose from the ceiling and cut his nose before it hit the ground.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” he screamed.
“Looks like the vent fell.”
“I know that… but what did you do?”
“I undid the hooks, but the vent was stuck.”
“IT’S NOT STUCK NOW.”
“I am so sorry. It was an accident.” I apologized over and over. Blood was all over his shirt. He picked up the door and climbed up the three steps. I gave him the new filter and decided it wasn’t a good time to be playing with his leg. He continued to mumble to himself all night.
“Son of a bitch… what the fuck was she doing opening the hooks?”
“I HEARD THAT. STOP COMPLAINING ALREADY. I APOLOGIZED.”
I walked up to him with my cell phone and said,”Stay still I want a picture of your face.”
He said, “I have to work tomorrow… I am going to tell everyone you did this to me.” (He works at a golf course.)
“Go ahead…it’s ladies golf tomorrow. They will say you deserved it.”
￼The second disaster happened a few days later. Lynn put his golf bag near the garage door. Very near the door. The golf bag has two metal poles that hold it up. I opened the garage door and everything was fine. When I closed the door, I heard a snap. The door going up had moved the clubs. When it came down it broke his 4-iron. It was dangling from his bag. I had a quick thought of his injured face a few days prior. Trouble comes in threes, I thought. Shit. I peeked in the bedroom where he watches TV and he was asleep in his chair. His best buddy, Chuck, fixes clubs so I decided to call him.
“Chuck, I broke Lynn’s club.” I told him the story.
“Hell, I think that’s mine! … I’m only kidding. Did he tell you to call me?”
“No, he doesn’t know yet. He’s sleeping in his chair. I thought I would call you. Can you put on a new shaft?”
“Do you think it needs a new shaft?”
I started to laugh so hard I almost peed my pants. “Trust me… it’s in two pieces.”
“Tell him to bring it over.”
Poor Lynn was sleeping like an angel in his chair with the scab on his nose.
“Wake up… I have to tell you something. I broke your 4-iron.”
He looked at me with a blank look. I knew it didn’t register.
“I broke your 4-iron. It was an accident. I am sorry.”
“My Callaway 4-iron?”
“Yep, that’s the one.” I handed it to him. “Chuck said he can fix it.”
“Oh, my God, my face and now my 4-iron.”
“We are both to blame on this one. So don’t say one more word.”
The third disaster… A few days later he was watching the golf match in the bedroom. The usual setting. He had a variety of snacks and a favorite beverage. He keeps a golf club by his chair, too. It’s like a security blanket.
The air conditioning is on. The ceiling fan is on. Just a comfortable day for him.
I was in the kitchen talking with my daughter, Kristen, and her husband, Greg. All of a sudden we hear a big crunch sound.
‘What the hell was that?”
“Everything is fine,” we hear him say from the bedroom.
I knew he has done something bad so I decide to pursue. “What did you do?”
“I decided to take a back swing,” he said.
“I was standing under the ceiling fan.”
I looked up at the fan. I had a crystal ornament hanging from the fan… he cracked that when his golf club crashed into it during his back swing.
“Here’s how I see it,” I said. “This one was your fault.”
Thankfully, the last few weeks have been quiet around here. ￼