Gas. And My Feelings. In One Post.

I am at the gas station.

Note: I hate getting gas. For my car, that is. Actually, I hate getting any type of gas, but that's beside the point. I hate nozzles and I hate gas fumes and I hate guessing what side the tank is on and I hate jockeying for position and I hate locking the hose mechanism and I hate worrying that the hose mechanism is going to pop loose and spew gasoline everywhere and I hate wondering did I screw on the gas cap? and I hate checking to see that I did.

I am at the gas station, concentrating.

The man getting fuel at the pump behind me laughs. He's talking about my dog, who is hanging out the window, sniffing the air for signs of dog doodle, probably.

I believe it, he is saying, I believe it.

I don't know what he is talking about. Maybe he is drunk. I smile politely. At the drunk. At the gas station. What is wrong with this picture?

But it wouldn't take much, he is saying. Your dog could get all C's and still be smarter than my kids.

Oh! I get it. My bumper sticker!



He honks and drives away. I am amused.

Note: When I arrive at my destination, I alight from my vehicle to see that gas cap door is open. Sigh.

I hate getting gas.