The Price of Gas

And I'm not talking about the price I used to pay in embarrassment when Parker would rip farts in public when she was a gassy newborn. I'm talking about Thursday, and the price of having a fuel pump explode all over me while filling up during lunch. It was $3. That's how long it took me to wrestle the angry spewing snake and turn off the pump as I wobbled in high heels in 95-degree weather on my lunch hour en route to visit Parker.

I don't know how it happened, all I know is that the pump exploded and I was pissed. I cancelled my visit to Parker's school and went home to clean up, but not before telling the gas station attendant that I was "about to burst into flames," thank you very much for the defective pump, He told me his bathroom was out of order so I had nowhere to clean up. Do you think it occurred to me to wield some power and mention that I work for the agency that regulates gas pumps? No, I thought about that hours later when I was back at my desk getting high on the gas fumes steaming out of my shoes.

I went home and rinsed out my skirt, but at my desk that afternoon the fumes were really getting to me. So I did what any smart woman would do and borrowed a scented CANDLE AND MATCHES to cover up the smell of being DOUSED IN GAS. I also called Joe to complain.

Me: My legs are burning! It stinks in here and I can't breathe.

Joe: Didn't you change clothes at home?

Me: No, I just rinsed my skirt out in the sink.

Joe: I would have changed clothes.

Me: Your lecturing me now is not doing me any good.

Joe: Don't you know gas isn't water soluble?

Me: (blank stare, then shaking phone in air) I'm no scientist - don't try to confuse me! For the love of God, just give me some sympathy.

I made it to 5 o'clock without any hallucinations or impromptu vanilla-scented office fires. And somehow I even managed to write a speech about single audits and government accounting, but I have no idea what I wrote.

Guilty!

Of taking an extra can of pineapple juice at a breakfast meeting "for Parker" knowing full well I was going to drink it myself this weekend with rum.

Baby Don't Forget My Number

There was a boy I had a crush on in grade school and I still remember his phone number - 339-4840. My own phone number had a 592 prefix, and I secretly pined for a 339 one because I thought it would bring us closer and he would like me more. I could see the roof of his house from my bedroom window.

This is the same boy who regularly said, "Carrie is so very ... ugly" ala those bad Keri lotion commercials that essentially ruined my name and wiped out any hope of popularity I had in elementary school. He gave me two cool pencils in fifth grade -- I like to think he secretly liked me, too.

Today I realized that's the only phone number I know. I was filling out Parker's enrollment forms for school and when it asked for a list of names and numbers of people allowed to her up in an emergency, I could only come up with my speed dial numbers: Jody, 2. Becker, 6. Mom, 3. These are some of my closest people and I have no idea what their phone numbers are. I don't know their prefixes or area codes or what their numbers would spell out if you figured it out from the letters on the buttons. My fifth-grade crush's was HUG-0, but Joe is No. 1 on my speed dial, so there.

Guilty!

Of telling my coworkers today that the giant zit on my forhead is a bee sting.