Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Gas Not Included

I drove to work. I drove home from work. I drove to the restaurant. I drove my manager to the bus stop from the restaurant. I got gas on the way back.

I noticed, when I got in my car, that I smelled like gasoline. "Hmmm," I thought. "I must have stepped in some. My cuffs are long. I will switch jeans when I get home."

I get home and switch jeans. My apartment STILL smells like gasoline. Five minutes later, two neighbors knock on my door. "Can you smell that?" they ask. I say that I think it's me, and the downstairs neighbor--who is fabulously gay--picks up my abandoned jeans and sniffs.

"JESUS, honey," he says, "what did you do? Bathe in it? Roll around in it? Did you shoot a porno at the gas station?"

I throw my jeans, shoes, and belt outside.

Five minutes later, my apartment STILL smells like gasoline. I realize that some of the windows I have opened for ventilation are directly over my jeans, now outside. I close these windows and open other ones.

Ten minutes later my apartment still smells like gasoline. I run out to my Jeep to see if she is leaking gas. I can't smell a darned thing.

Back inside, I also throw my coat outside.

Twenty minutes later, the smell seems to be dissipating.

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