It is not even noon, but over the last four hours, my house has been bursting with activity.
A wonderful fellow from the Water Department came over first thing to investigate whether we were suffering from sewer gas emissions. My husband and I had torn the place apart looking for what could be producing the smell, ruling out mice carcasses, a very pungent brand of Ethiopian coffee beans I enjoy, and decomposing grass clippings on the garaged lawn mower. However, the strongest odor was near the basement ejector pit. We feared the worst.
To my relief, sewer gas and its cousin, the dreaded back-up, were ruled out, but then the Fire Department was called in. A pack of well-trained men zoomed over, thankfully minus their sirens, brandishing meters to test for carbon monoxide, burning rubber substances, and other noxious gases. This equipment registered something human noses could not pinpoint, and an acronym I cannot recall. The diagnosis, though welcome, was as gross as the odor. Beneath my front stoop, something had died; and its skunk-funk smell is flowing directly indoors.
The prescheduled cleaning crew kindly waited until the fire truck departed. More kindly still, they agreed to complete their short shift of work, despite my lack of vanilla candles or gas masks.
The rain poured down, yet my windows remained open. I phoned my insurance representative. Our predicament is not covered. I called the trapper who had come two days before. He advised we needed a DOA, an excavation to remove the odor perpetrator, which will not be cheap. No surprise. As far as I can tell, a thousand is the new hundred. Perhaps I am showing my age.
The disaster and restoration company man called back, and he has an air scrubber for rent, if only he can find someone to bring it by.
Though my Facebook persona is beautiful, full of flowers, travel, pets and golf, this is Real Life. (c)
