i'm back. i stink. my car is ruined.

Awkward Samantha is back, and awkwardness is hitting with a vengeance.

Yesterday evening after work I noticed that I needed to stop and get gas on the way home.  Years ago, I would never have dreamed of letting the gas needle dip below ¼ of the tank, but I am now lazy and I let my gas light come on before I look in the direction of a gas station.  I know, it’s a little careless.  But I hate stopping for gas, especially in the winter.

To get home I have to drive down this sketchy street (New Bern Avenue, for all the Raleigh-ites) to get to the highway.  I hate this road because, it never fails, there are always at least 3 people that will cross the 4-lane road in the dark in heavy traffic.  It’s truly like real life Frogger.  I don’t know if they are really eager to get somewhere or are just suicidal, but either way, I will likely hit one of them one day (God forbid). 

There are 3 gas stations that I can go to.  All of them are small gas stations (not a major-name station) and there are always men lurking around the stations like zombies and scaring people with their presence.  I’m not making this up.  It’s SKETCHY.  So, I pulled up to get some gas and get home!  I stuck the nozzle in my gas tank and pushed down that little God-send stopper thingy that holds the trigger for you so that you can avoid getting a disease from the gas nozzle handle and  hide in your car from the zombies. 

Here are some other details you need to know.  I was in a hurry.  I needed the tank to fill supernaturally quickly so that I could run to my family’s house (out of the way) and pick up my new puppy girl Hattie May where she was spending the day.  Then I needed to run home and clean the house because my sweet Grammy was coming over for dinner and wanted to meet Hattie May for the first time. 

Because I was in a hurry and completely sketched out from this gas station, I decided I would only let the tank fill halfway and then I would leave it at that.  When the tank was halfway full, I got out of the car and grabbed the nozzle to stop the gas from flowing.  But, when I grabbed that little trigger to make the little stopper thing release, it would not release.  It was completely stuck and the gas was still flowing with a fury.  So I squeezed it again.  No luck.  I had no idea what to do at this point, so I tried one more thing.  I pulled the nozzle up from the tank about an inch so that I could try to jiggle the whole nozzle.  When I did this, the gas was pumping so hard and so fast that the entire nozzle shot out of my car and hit the ground, the stopper thingy was still stuck, gas was still pumping, and it was squirting upward all over me and my car like a monster water hose!   

From afar, it probably looked something like the scene in Zoolander where the guys have a gasoline fight.

I was completely drenched.  My first reaction was to cover my face.  Gasoline had squirted into my eyes and mouth.  Eventually, I guess the gas station attendant saw this and cut the pump off.  

It was like I jumped in a pool of gasoline.  There wasn’t a spot untouched.  My clothes were soaked.  My skin was covered.  My shoes were filled to the top full of gas. 

This man that was parked beside me walked to his car from inside the store and he saw me standing there horrified and dripping wet with the gas nozzle still laying on the ground.  He walked over and put the nozzle back into the pump for me and gave me a hand towel from his truck to dry off.  He told me to go inside and wash off because it was not good for me to have gasoline on my skin. 

I thought about it for a second, looked over in the direction of the gas station, and then lied.  I told him that I had a change of clothes in the car and I would just change in the car.  I know, lying is bad.  But it only took one look at this gas station to scream “danger zone”.  The bathroom probably looked something like this:

Yeah, that’s not happening.  I would rather the gasoline burn off my top layer of skin than go anywhere near that.  Plus, this seems like the kind of place that would have a peephole. 

Not.  Happening. 

Even if I were to go in and rinse off, I would not only leave a trail of gasoline all over the floor, but I would have to put on the same gassy clothes and drive home in them. 

I thanked him for his assistance and got into my car.  I drove away from that gas station horrified and embarrassed, and with the complete realization that this would truly only happen to ME. 

Then I thought about my car.  I don’t want to have this car forever.  At some point I will sell it.  I decided that it would be better to take the gasoline covered items, at least the dripping ones, and move them to one area in the floor. 

I’m just going to say this plainly:  I had to drive home in my skivvies in 5:30 bumper-to-bumper traffic on a major highway. 

This just added insult to injury.  I was now humiliated. 

I ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS bring a jacket everywhere with me.  I am cold natured to the extreme.  If I don’t have a jacket in my arms, I have one somewhere in my car.  Exceeeept now.  I had nothing.  Oh, except for my Bible sitting in the seat next to me.  That made me feel really great. 

It also was really upsetting that these were my best work pants.  About a month ago, my sweet and darling husband was teasing me because all of my pants were too big.  I don’t like spending money, and I’m not very good a shopping.  So I just pinned all my pants at the waist to fit me and I wore the same pants I always have.  It wasn’t until my husband told me that I wear “mommy pants” that I decided that it was time to go shopping.  I found one pair of dress pants that fit me well and bought them.  I love them.  Those pants were the very ones that I happened to be wearing when the gas pump decided to go exorcist on me.  Thanks.

I was also really annoyed that in addition to picking up my dog and cleaning the house, I now had to take a long shower to get rid of the smell of gasoline that covered me and my car.  I was having a really good hair day and I was looking forward to having my hair styled nicely for the occasion. 

The smell was intoxicating.  I had a headache from the fumes, and I had to roll with the window down… in winter… in my skivvies.  I felt like one of those mall fountain statues in the winter with icicles covering them.  I was a Samcicle. 

I called my husband crying.   He was so nice to me.  At first I thought he was joking when he said “yeeeeeeeah, we’re not letting you pump gas anymore.  You’ll have to let me know when it gets close to empty and I’ll fill it from now on.”      But he was serious. 

Then, the bottom dropped out. 

When I was almost home, I realized something awful.  Yesterday when my stepdad offered to come and pick up Hattie May to take care of her for the day, I was so excited.  We don’t have an extra house key so I left him my garage door opener for him to get into the house.  My garage door opener is the only means I have to get inside the garage.  I realized that I was not going to be able to pull inside the garage and walk into the house unseen.   I would now have to get out of the car and make a mad dash to the front door and unlock both of our locks.  It was not going to be a quick and easy process, and I was likely to be spotted and judged by our neighbors. 

………………………………………………. there are no words to explain my horror!  Well, there might be, but I don’t use those words….

I made it inside.  I left all of my clothes and my shoes laying in the driveway.  The more that I grabbed and touched them, the more I embedded the stench of fumes into my skin.  I decided that I was enough of a victim today that I needed to be babied.  I would leave my clothes right there in the driveway for my husband to come home and find and wash out with the water hose.  I didn’t care if they blew away.  I didn’t care if bugs crawled in them.  I didn’t care if they were stolen.  I didn’t care if they laid there for 5 years and crusted over in our driveway.  I was not dealing with anymore stuff.  I was done.

I had to scrub my skin 3 times with the strongest soap that I own.  I couldn’t tell if I still smelled gas on my arms or if the smell was just under my nose!   

When I finished, my stepdad was kind enough to bring my puppy home to me so that I could make our house presentable.  Luckily, Grammy was running behind and I got the house looking guest-worthy.

Icing on the cake:  When Grammy finally made it over, she got out of her car to give us a hug, and she stopped and said aloud “I smell gasoline!”

………………………………………………GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!

PS – the smell is still in my car and my favorite pants are still in a ball somewhere.