#slice2013 21 of 31

Wow I cannot believe there are only 10 days left. March has felt so long but I do not feel as if I have been blogging for anywhere near 20 days.

My family just recently traded in our Volvo for a Honda CR-V, which I am extremely thankful to have to drive. Anyway, the other day I noticed with a shock that my tank was running on empty. I got home and told my mom and she decided that this was the perfect opportunity for me to learn how to pump my own gas. So this is the story of my gasoline mishap.


"Mom!" I call as I walk into the kitchen. I put my keys into her hand, "My tank is empty. Next time you go somewhere, can you take my car instead of yours?"

She looks at me in the way that only a mother can. "Alright, but you're coming with me."

I groan. "Mom. It's, like, 25 degrees out. Can't you teach me when it at least hits 70?"

"No."

Defeated, I walk upstairs.

A half hour later she calls up to me that she's leaving to pick up my sister and I'm going with her. I reluctantly trudge down and we walk out to the garage together. It's freezing. We get to the car and she immediately goes to the driver's side. You're kidding me. Not only is she making me fill up my tank of gas in 25 degree weather, but she's also driving. Hello, I have my license. I don't say anything though and slide into the passenger's.

We go to the gas station first. She pulls in and parks it right next to the nozzle, rolls down her window and hands me a credit card. I take it and give her a dramatic sigh. She smiles.

Once I get around the car, she begins to call directions. "Alright, I just opened the gas tank right here." I stick my head inside the car to see what she's talking about. "Now take the regular nozzle. No! Not diesel! Diesel ruins your car! Yes, that one."

I pick it up and watch as a couple drops of excess gasoline fall from its nozzle. Disgusted, I wipe my hand on my pants.

"Okay, now carry it over to the gas tank and now unscrew the cap on the gas tank. You see it?" I nod and begin to unscrew it. "Alright, good. Now just put the nozzle into the tank and pull up on that metal clamp." I do what she says.

After what seems like an eternity and a half, the tank is full and the machine stops. I remove the nozzle, screw the gas cap back on, close the latch, put the nozzle back on the holder and swipe the card. Mom nods in approval and I happily walk back around the car, blowing warm air on my hands.

I get back into the passenger's seat and stick my hands under my thighs trying to warm them up.

I crinkle my nose. "Ew, mom, it smells really bad."

"Larkin, did you get any gasoline on you?"

"No!" I exclaim, "You watched me the whole time!"

She takes one of my hands out from underneath my nice warm thighs and smells it. Her face is not too pleasant. "You have gasoline on this hand. Don't touch anything." I offer up the other hand just in case and her face is even worse this time around. "Just hold them both in front of you and don't touch anything."

Unfortunately, as I discovered later that night, the gasoline had not just gotten on my hands. Instead, the smell was all over every piece of clothing that was on my body due to my strange need to wipe my hands off on any surface available. My mom's car smelled like gasoline for a solid couple of days. Thanks to this experience, I have officially developed a slight phobia of gasoline pumps.