“Did you eat a lot of paint chips as a kid?”
Me neither. But I did accidentally huff a lot of gasoline Friday.
It started off like any other day in the Murphy household, we stumbled into full awakeness-osity-full-ment (Yep, I made up that word. You can make up any word by adding -ness, -osity, -full, -ment, or my favorite, smushing them all together into one long word ness-osity-full-ment.) I took Yadi for her morning poo walk and talked to called my mom who informed me that she thought they were coming over for the day. I have no plans. I’m game.
They drove over (As far as I know, no snacks were involved this time) and my dad announced that he was going to get my bike “up and running.”
Ah, the bike. How I love my bike. I had a scooter but decided that it was not the right fit for me in St. Louis. I decided this after most of my fellow motor vehiclists tried to knock me off by passing me in my own lane. So I bought a cruiser and an engine kit, handed it over to my dad and waited for the finished product.
The moped, henceforth known as Bike, in my head, would be a perfect fit for me, because if I broke down, or ran out of gas, I could just pedal home. I have enjoyed the Bike for a few summers, only running out of gas once (four miles away from home and when I was in the worst shape of my life) pedaling home and promptly throwing up my Rice Krispie Treats cereal all over the nun’s Morning Glories.
So when my dad said he was going to get it up and running I was pretty excited. He adjusted the carburetor (See, I know all the terms) poured the gas/oil mix in and aired up the tires. He then took the bike for a ride around the neighborhood, probably making the residents think that there was an out-of-control weedeater on the loose. I was starving so I decided to wait until after lunch to go on my inaugural ride of the season.
We went to my favorite Chinese restaurant and came home. Immediately upon opening the door we were assaulted with the very distinct, very STRONG smell of gasoline. Uh-oh. I ran downstairs and saw that the bike had a flat tire and was tipped over, spilling gasoline all over the concrete floor.
I was convinced for a split second (or ten minutes) that the Village was behind this. They were plotting against me. This was payback for playing Loretta Lynn to drown out their ribcage-jarring tuba tunes. After a few rants and raves and some verbage that included several very loud utterances of “It’s on,” and “If they want to play that way we will,” and “I’ll have Immigration Services here so fast it’ll make all forty of their heads spin” I realized that they would have to be stupid to do this to THEIR OWN HOME.
We got a 5 gallon bucket, filled it with laundry detergent and scrubbed the concrete floor. When I say “we” I mean my seventy-one year old dad brushed it around towards the drain while I stood there and alternated between fuming some more about the neighbors and telling him that he couldn’t wear those shoes upstairs because I was convinced that Yadi would like the smell of gasoline, lick his shoe and immediately fall over dead. Such is my positive train of thought in times of crisis.
After we (Read: He) got most of the gasoline down the drain I took the cat litter that I bought for icy occasions and swathed the damp floor with it. By this time the smell permeated our nostrils and I started seeing little Oompa Loompas everywhere.
Google says to put out vanilla extract to get rid of the smell of gasoline fumes. So there are currently little saucers full of vanilla extract at various places in my home. And I am convinced that in the morning I will wake up with armies of ants and other creepy crawlers feasting on the sweet sticky substance, carrying it back to their Queen who will plump up nicely, realize her own strength and powerfulness-osity-full-ment and lead an all out mutiny over me. My mom says this will not happen. We’ll see.
My mom also kept saying that I shouldn’t stay here because it was dangerous. I should not be fed these thoughts because she probably meant that I shouldn’t stay here because I might get a little nauseous.
All aboard! Take a ride on Jenn’s Train of Thought and listen to her inner monologue. We will be making stops at “Crazy” and “Paranoid” Please have your tickets ready:
‘Ok. So I shouldn’t stay here tonight. Is Yadi asleep? She looks like she’s drifting off. I don’t think I should let her close her little eyes. What if she doesn’t wake up? Aren’t you supposed to keep people awake so they don’t slip into a coma? Wait, that’s if she bumps her head…and is human.
“Yadi! YADI!” I yell, nonchalantly, as she opens her eyes, gives me a withering look and puts her head back down on her paws.
Whew. Ok so she’s safe…for now. But what if the gas fumes cause her to be brain-damaged? I’m not sure I could handle a special needs dog. Wait, I think I already do handle a special needs dog. What if the fumes do damage to my already low brain cell count? I don’t think I can afford to lose any more.
Is that an Oompa Loompa over there?
Get a grip, Jenn! Now is not the time to panic!
I feel weird. Am i high? Is this what it feels like to be high? I don’t feel voraciously hungry so…..I don’t know.
Seriously, is that an Oompa Loompa? No, that’s just the tower fan my mom brought in to evenly distribute the odor. I can’t let the dog stay here. I have to send her home with Grandma and Grandpa. (Yes, we refer to them this way and Yadi knows who they are. I convince them to take her.) It’s too late for me, but I can still salvage what’s left of her little doggie brain.’
And those are the thoughts that lead me to send Yadi home with my parents and sent me off to a friend’s house so that I could keep my remaining brain cells.
It’s almost a week later. I can’t smell gasoline. I don’t have ants.
But I’m still seeing Oompa Loompas……