I need a title for this post.
Last month I treated myself to a girls night out for my birthday. I went with Lena and Jodi (who does not have a blog) to see my friend Jay perform at the Improv. The night started out kind of rough. For instance, we went to the Yard House to have a drink or two before the show and the hostess was all “It’s a 45 minute wait.” So we were all “we’ll just sit at the bar.” And she was all “There aren’t any tables available at the bar, BUT! You can go to the lounge in the back. There are sofas there you can sit on.” And Lena goes “do you serve there?” And the hostess was all “Yes. We do.” So on our way there, we stop a waiter and ask him if we’re going the right way. “We’re looking for the sofas?” I say. “Yes, they’re at the VERY back.” as he points to the verrrrry back. We get there and I see a bench right next to people who are eating and turn to Lena.
“Is this it?” I ask.
“No. They said sofas. In the back.”
But I didn’t SEE any sofas. So Jodi sees a door that goes outside and says “they must be out here.” And I’m like “but, that’s an alley. I mean, HELLO? There’s a bike chained to a tree?” And Lena’s all “but they said in the very back!” So, we walk out the door, to the alley (where there is a bike chained to a tree, you guys.) And we see some wicker sofas, stacked on top of each other, WITH THE CUSHIONS STACKED ON TOP OF THE SOFAS.
We had been mislead! And humiliated!
After we finished being outraged about that, we walked to a little mexican place down the street. I wasn’t really hungry, I mostly just wanted a glass of wine. So I had a great idea. “Let’s just order appetizers and wine!”
Lena and Jodi agreed.
I chose the appetizer.
“We’ll have the spinach dip and chips.”
Lena and Jodi were a liiiiiittle bit on the “WTF” fence about spinach dip at a mexican restaurant. But they went along with it.
Until the spinach dip was served.
basically, they had put spinach in a bowl with sour cream and mixed it. It was AWFUL.
Lena tried to turn things around by talking about fun and exciting things, like “diagnosing her rash.” And I tried to get the party started by talking about things like “not getting diabetes.” Oh, and also? “googling goiters.” And my friend Jodi, who had never been out with the 2 of us together, was like “What just happened to my life here?”
We left that restaurant feeling a little… hungry? Ashamed? Ready for a good laugh? (Not at our expense?)
Jay didn’t disappoint. The show was GREAT. But the best part of his act (Besides the part where he thanked me for coming? And then MENTIONED MY BLOG? AND TOLD PEOPLE TO READ MY BLOG?) was the stuff he did about kids. He told hilarious stories about his son that were completely familiar and true to my experience with kids.
He told us he was writing a book.
A book about kids and what weird (but wonderful) creatures they are.
I tell you this because last night, he posted this on twitter:
I immediately thought of Stefanie. She once needed a title for her book, asked her readers for suggestions and they came through for her. So, I responded with the following.
(Not sure that the *wink* was entirely necessary. But, it’s in the past. I’m letting it go.)
And so, here I am, posting this on my blog, asking if you want to help Jay name his book. Leave comments here and I’ll send him the link to this post.
It’s About Trust, Stupid.
A few months ago, someone pointed out a comment made about me on another blog. I don’t remember the exact words, nor do I care to go try to find it, but it went basically something like this:
“Can we talk about bloggers who favor one child over the other? Like, I didn’t even know Y from Joy Unexpected HAD two sons because she only talks about her daughter! I feel sorry for her boys, because clearly her daughter is her favorite!”
From what I remember, someone jumped in to defend me, but that comment was quickly followed up with something like “No, she’s a wacko who clearly loves her daughter more. I mean, have you seen her flickr account? Almost all of the pictures are of her daughter! The proves that she loves her daughter more!”
After 7 years of blogging, after numerous hateful emails/comments, after entire posts dedicating to mocking me, I’ve learned to ignore assholery on the internet. I don’t think that every negative comment directed at me is assholery. Sometimes people have valid points, however, most people who have valid points don’t find it necessary to leave comments like “Your husband is ugly and your fat! No wonder you’re sad!”
Anyway. My point being that I’ve learned to not react when I read Mean Things about myself on my blog or elsewhere. It may sting when I first read it, but I take a deep breath and remind myself that it isn’t really about ME, but about the other persons issues. However, this particular comment (or should I say “accusation?”) was most definitely about me.
And IT PISSED ME OFF SO HARD.
Do you know why?
Because it couldn’t be farther from the truth.
It is the opposite of the truth.
Liiieeessss.
The reason I don’t write about my boys much here anymore is BECAUSE I love them so very much.
Let me explain.
I started this blog 7 years ago. My boys were 7 and 11 years old. And oh my God, they were so hilarious. Most posts on this blog were about them, about funny things that they said or did. I would point you to my archives, but I’m kind of ashamed of how awful my writing was when I first started this blog. There were some really great stories I had to tell of those wonderful little guys who loved to talk about farts, boobs and balls. But then those boys started to grow and so did my audience. I had to start thinking about how the stories I told about them could affect them in real life. I began to feel as though some of the stories were not mine to tell. I even went so far as to delete and or put posts in draft that I thought were out of line to have ever told in the first place.
As Andrew approached his teenage years, I began to worry about losing his trust. I never wanted a story I told her to betray his trust in me.
Some of the things that he said or did were worth sharing on this blog because of the entertainment value, but they weren’t worth risking losing his trust.
So I stopped telling his stories.
Same with Ethan.
I told myself that I’ll always write about my feelings about my sons, I’ll always right about experiences that I feel are worth sharing and yet, at the same time, do not betray their trust. I make sure that every thing I write here is something I’d be comfortable with if one of his friends from high school stumbled across it. Any story that I write here now is something that I feel they could read and would not feel betrayed in any way.
Writing posts about my love for my children, or my struggles with learning to let go as they grow older will never be off limits. But most day to day stories of their life will be, because of their ages. I’m not saying I’ll NEVER write about my boys. There are things I believe are okay to share. But, being a teenager (or a tween) isn’t easy and I don’t want to do anything to make it harder on them.
I don’t ever want my sons to be afraid to tell me something for fear it will be blog fodder.
I am telling this story now because the other night The Teenager walked into my room and asked me if I had posted something about him having a girlfriend on facebook.
I hadn’t.
But, I had mentioned him having a girlfriend on a blog post.
And apparently, someone from my Dad’s church (Hi, You!) reads my blog. That person approached my son after church and asked him about his girlfriend.
It could have been an awful situation. If I hadn’t carefully thought that post out, if I hadn’t written it knowing he could read it if he decided to log onto my blog. Or that a friend from church could possibly find it and read it. I told him that yes, I had mentioned a girlfriend in the post, then proceeded to tell him what I had written in the post. He wasn’t upset with me at all, because what I had written did not betray his trust. Nor had I written anything in that post that I wouldn’t have said in a room full of people with him standing there. However, what had just happened confirmed what that choosing to limit what I write about my boys is THE RIGHT CHOICE for me and my blog.
Can you understand now why I am so careful about writing about my boys WHO I DO NOT LOVE ANY LESS THAN MY GIRL?
I feel as though my daughter’s stories still fall into the “okay to share” category. Because she is 5 and honestly? Who is embarrassed to read stories about what you did when you were 5? Who hates your parents for telling stories about funny things you said/did in Kindergarten? I mean, my parents have pictures of me standing buttass naked in my grandma’s front yard in a photo album that THEY SHOW OTHER PEOPLE. I think it’s hilarious. Wouldn’t be so funny if it were pictures of 16 year old me naked, right?
I suppose I can understand someone who just started reading this site questioning why I write more about my daughter than I do my sons. I hope that this post helps clear things up a bit. And if after reading this, you still believe that I LOVE MY DAUGHTER THE MOST, well, you’re kind of an asshole. An ignorant asshole.
NYSee
Last Wednesday I took a 5 hour plane ride to New York City. I had the best time I’ve ever had while in NYC. I have a lot to write about it, mostly because I never want all of the Little Things that made this trip The Most Wonderful. Unfortunately, when one takes time off of work to go play in NYC, one pays for it up the butt when they return home and try to catch up on all of the work they missed. So, until next week (when I hope to be caught up) I leave you with my favorite photos (so far) from this trip.
Bonus: Because RICH!
Hopefully this is as bad as it gets.
When you have a child entering The Teenager Years, people like to tell you about how awful it is. How much hair you’re going to lose from the stress. How much you’ll want to slap the shit out of your once adorable little child because they will talk back! How scared you’ll be when you’re not home because they could be doing drugs! Or impregnating girls! Doing Graffiti on abandoned buildings! I understand those are all very real possibilities. I watched my own parents struggle with a son addicted to drugs. (He’s clean AND a minister now, so it all worked out.) To say I was dreading these years is an understatement. I was TERRIFIED.
My oldest is now 16 and guess what? It’s been easier than I ever imagined.
Until he went and got a girlfriend.
It’s not that he’s doing anything awful. He’s not. If he’s not home on the weekends, he’s at church, practicing with his band from youth group. Or at the movies with friends from church. He doesn’t talk back much more than any kid his age would. He’s never raised his voice to me. He’s never lied about where he’s at.
But the phone. Oh my God. THE PHONE.
He’s on the phone from the minute he gets home from school until the time he goes to bed. I have to fight with him to do homework because he’s too busy laying on his bed with the phone attached to his head. And if he’s not on the phone with her, he’s chatting with her online.
Monday night I had HAD ENOUGH. His father had told him to get off the phone at 8pm. At 9:45, The Middle Child came out of the room, annoyed that he couldn’t sleep because The Teenager was still on the phone. “Mom, can you PLEASE tell him to get off the phone?”
I was PISSED.
I walked down the hall, slammed his bedroom door open and told him to hand over the phone.
“When will I get it back?” He asked.
“Not tomorrow, that’s for sure.” I said.
He didn’t say anything back, but he did let out a Very Loud Sigh.
“That’s what you get for not obeying your parents.” I said, while looking up at him. Damn Teenagers, growing taller than their parents.
I fully expected him to start begging for his phone that morning. His argument would be something like “but Mooomm, what if I need to call you for something after school?” And my argument would be “not my problem. You should have thought about that before you disobeyed me!”
I was pleasantly surprised when the morning passed without a single mention of his phone. “He’s a good kid.” I thought to myself. “I’ll give him his phone back when he gets home from school.”
Just after school got out, I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. It was The Teenager. “Mom” he said. “You’re going to be so mad at me.”
My heart dropped.
He continued.
“I took my phone this morning.”
!!!!
“What? Why would you do…”
“BUT MOM! Let me finish! I got it taken away. My teacher took it away. You’ll have to come to the office to get it.”
He’s had his phone since the beginning of his Freshman year (he’s a junior.) That has never happened. It was as if Jesus said “I’ve got this one, Mom.”
Thank you, Jesus.
Tony thinks we should pick it up without telling him we did so. I think we should leave it there for at least a week. It’ll be there when I’m good and ready to pick it up.
So, yeah…Teenagers.
Writing While Sobbing
I had a wonderful relationship with my Grandpa. I have vivid memories of the times that I spent with my him as a child. There is one in particular that I think back on when I start to miss him.
We’re driving down the street in his car. I’m in the backseat, standing up. I have my arms around his neck. “I love you Grandpa” I say, as he’s cruising down the street. “I love you too, Y.” He says back. The wind is blowing my hair all over the place. If I close my eyes, I can feel the wind on my face. I’m smiling from ear to ear as we talk and sing and laugh.
That memory is in stark contrast to the last one that I have of my Grandpa.
I walk down the hall and see him laying on his side on his bed. His belly is hanging over the bed, filled with fluid that his heart could no longer pump through his body. His face is swollen to the point of being unrecognizable. His entire body was blue and he was talking short, labored, quick breaths. It took my brain a minute to process the magnitude of what my eyes had just seen. My Grandpa, a man once so full of life, love and laughter, was slowly suffocating before my eyes.
My knees got weak, my heart started to pound as I glanced around the room. My aunt, grandma and brother were all there in the room.
Finally, I was able to speak.
“OH MY GOD.” I screamed.
“He’s FINE.” My aunt said with this smirk on her face, insinuating that I was overreacting. I wanted to punch her in the face. I literally had to refrain from physically attacking her because clearly, he was NOT fine. And clearly, she wanted him to die. She didn’t want me acting up and doing something crazy, like, you know, call 911 for help. Because then they may try to do something crazy, like, you know, KEEP HIM FROM DYING.
I knew in that moment that would be the last time I’d see my Grandpa alive. I knew that my Grandma (and my Aunt) had made the decision that this was it. That all of his suffering would soon be over if we just all stood there and watched him die from lack of oxygen to the brain. (what had happened was my grandma had given him pain medication for a fall he had a few days earlier. She gave him the pills every 4 hours as the doctor had instructed, but his kidneys had given out and wasn’t able to process the medication. He wasn’t getting oxygen to his brain the way he should have been. So maybe using the term “suffocating” isn’t medically the correct term. BUT HE WAS BLUE. AND WASN’T GETTING ENOUGH OXYGEN TO HIS BRAIN. NOT OKAY.)
I went outside and called my sister, who was on her way to his house. “We have to do something to help Grandpa.” I said. “This isn’t right.”
As soon as my sister arrived, she made it clear that we were going to call 911 and we did. Honestly? I can’t remember who called, but I can remember the HELL that broke out after the phone call was made.
My aunt was upset that we called.
And so she lashed out at all of us. She accused us of not loving him because we didn’t visit him as often as she did. Keep in mind, she lived 5 minutes away. We lived more than an hour a day. She could walk to his house if she wanted to. She screamed and shouted at us. And we screamed and shouted back. “How DARE YOU SAY I DON’T LOVE MY GRANDPA.” I shouted. “SHUT UP, SHUT UP RIGHT NOW.” My sister shouted.
It was ugly, probably the most ugly thing I’ve witnessed in my entire life. There was my beautiful grandfather, laying on his bed dying. And those he loved the most were throwing around accusations and screaming at each other. How awful of her. How awful of all of us.
I’ll never forget the sight of my grandfather, strapped half naked to the gurney being carried out the door of his mobile home. I’ll never forget how I wanted to turn away because it was too painful, but couldn’t because I knew it would probably be the last time I’d see him alive.
It wasn’t.
I saw him again at the hospital. After they had given him the oxygen he desperately needed. He was no longer blue, his color had returned to normal, as had his heart rate. But his brain had been damaged.
I held his hand, squeezed it tight and said “I love you, Grandpa. I love you so much. Thank you for being my Grandpa. I love you. I love you.”
He tried to respond. He did. He muttered, but he couldn’t form the words. I like to think I know what he was saying. “I love you too.”
I never wanted my last memories of him to be what they are.
I wish more than anything that my last memory could have been the week before, when I kissed him goodbye after spending the day with him for his birthday.
“I have to go now, Grandpa” I said, as I leaned in to kiss him.
“Already?” he said.
“Yes. I have to get things ready for tomorrow. The kids have school and I have to work.”
“Oh, I understand how that is.” He responded.
“I love you, Grandpa. Happy Birthday.”
“I love you.” He said, in the precious way he always did.
I kissed him, had the kids say their goodbyes and I walked out the door. I thought it may be the last time I’d see him alive, but I suppose I had hope that it wouldn’t. I do wonder, if I had even thought it would be the last time, why I didn’t say more? Why I didn’t stay longer? Why I didn’t hug him tighter? Why I didn’t kiss him a thousand times over?
It wasn’t the last time I saw him alive and yet it was. Because the last time I saw him alive he was brain damaged, he was unable to talk. He was unable to return my hugs and my kisses.
And I’m still sad about it. I’m still angry about it.
But I’m not the only one who’s angry. My grandma is angry too. She’s angry that we called 911. She told me this the other day. “Grandpa didn’t want to die in a hospital.” she said. “But Grandma! He was suffocating! It wasn’t fair to let him die in pain like that.” She snapped back with something about how awful that hospital was and how the bed they put him in was too small for him and if we had just “let him be.” he could have died in peace in his own home.
I haven’t been able to process her anger about this. It was the first time she’s said it to me and my God, it hurt. I never meant to go against my Grandpa’s wishes, but I also never wanted to see him suffering. I’ve always thought we did the right thing in calling for help that day. But what if I was wrong? What if he wasn’t telling me he loved me in those last moments I had with him in the hospital? What if he was asking why I didn’t just leave him be to die there in his bed?
I can only remember ONE TIME in my entire life that my Grandpa got angry with me. It was when I dared to wear jeans to church. “That’s disrespectful!” He shouted. “Go change into a dress!” I still remember how devastating it was to my little self. This man adored me, I could never do any wrong in his eyes. Until that moment. I had done something that angered him and I never wanted to do it again. And I never did.
Or did I? Was he angry with me on the day he did for what I had done?
I’ll never know the answer to that and it is killing me today.
The Day I Turned 38
I woke up at 5:30 to a kiss from my husband. “Happy Birthday, Mama.” He said, as he caressed my butt cheek. He can’t help it. He loves my butt so much. I said thank you and went back to sleep. At 6:15, The Teenager woke up to get ready for school. Normally, I’d be up and working already. But it’s my birthday, so I took the day off. He walked over and said “Happy Birthday, Mom.” And then, he kissed me on the forehead. It was the most precious thing, because he’s very reserved with his emotions. So the unexpected kiss got me RIGHT HERE in the heart. As he walked away, I thanked him and then I cried. BECAUSE MY SON KISSED ME ON THE FOREHEAD. Ethan and Gabby woke up shortly after and both wished me a happy birthday. Ethan’s wish came with a hug and a “let’s go out to dinner!” Gabby’s came with a beautiful handmade card that said “RRSW Y AHAFFAB” Which she explained means “Happy Birthday, Mom. You’re the best Mom in the world and I love you so so so so so so so so so much.”
I only told you that story so that you would know that’s “It’s my birthday today!”
Normally, I don’t like to make a fuss out of my birthday. I don’t walk around drawing attention to it. I’m not all “hey, everyone! It’s my birthday!” But when someone pointed out that this year my birthday falls on 09.09.09, I went All Nerd and was like “I’M GOING TO TELL EVERYONE IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” because 09.09.09 is awesome.
So, guess what, everyone? It’s my birthday!
A few people have asked me if I’m doing anything special and the answer is no. Not today. I love my husband, but he’s The Worst at Planning Things For My Birthday. For instance, he just called me right now and goes “so, what do you want for your birthday? I need to know so I can take the boys after school to get you something.” That’s pretty much my birthday every single year. And every single year I’m like “why did you wait til the last minute to get me a present” and every single year his answer is “I ran out of time yesterday.” Because, you know, the day before the birthday is THE ONLY DAY OUT OF THE ENTIRE YEAR that he can go shopping for my birthday present. It’s not a big deal though, really. I stopped crying and being sad about it around the 8th year of our marriage. I just accepted that was how it’s going to be. And I started reciprocating. This year, I drove to Target the day of his birthday and bought him a CD and was all “Happy Birthday!”
We’re good at marriage.
So. Yeah. It’s my birthday. And there’s really nothing else to say about that. Except that I think you should write me a poem.
No. Seriously. You should.
I’d like to give a shout out…
I’ve been neglecting my blog again.
Not purposely. Just overwhelmed with work, kids, LAUNDRY. You know, life.
Until I have a few minutes where I can sit down and concentrate on writing, I think you should go read the blogs that I am currently in love with.
Sesame Ellis– (My photography hero.)
Oh Joy (preeeetty things)
Mommy Melee (because I appreciate good writing.)
Better Now (Beautiful woman, beautiful soul. Oh and Beautiful boyfriend. OMG.)
Bonus: Because you need to laugh…
videogum
I hope you visit at least one of these blogs and man, it sure would be nice if you left a comment. Everyone loves comments.
Letters
I walked past her room to put a load of laundry in the washer.
She was sitting at her desk, writing something on a piece of paper. She had a Very Serious Look on her face as her hand moved quickly across the paper.
It’s not uncommon for her to sit quietly at her desk and write things or color. But I could tell that was she was doing was important. I walked into her room, knelt down by her desk.
“What are you writing, Mija?”
“I’m writing a letter to Opa, even though I know he’s already dead.”
Even though it’s been 10 months since he died, it still feels like a punch to the gut to hear the words spoken out loud. He’s dead. My Grandpa is dead..
“What does the letter say?” I asked.
She looked directly in my eyes and said “thank you for loving me while you were alive, Opa.”
I was speechless. One of the things that I worried most about after he died was that she would forget him. That she would grow up not knowing how much he loved and adored her. I didn’t worry about my boys, they are old enough to remember. They had so many more years with him than she did. They KNOW without a shadow of a doubt how much he loved that and what an amazing man he was. I am grateful for that. But I was sure she’d forget him, being only 4 years old when he passed.
That little girl hasn’t forgotten her Opa. She still thinks about him, she misses him. But more importantly, she still knows that her Opa loved her. And oh my God, did he ever love her.
He loved us all. We were incredibly blessed to have his love for he was truly the most wonderful man.
Her letter to him gives me hope that even though he is gone, he will ALWAYS be wonderful in the eyes of my children.
Hosed
On Thursday night, I was supposed to go to LA for Stefanie’s book signing event. (Speaking of her book, have you bought it yet? It’s hilarious and you will love it. You really should go buy it.
I’ll be honest. I wasn’t looking forward to driving out to LA. But then, I never look forward to driving into LA. The traffic, the assholes. The paying for parking. However, pretty much everything that is worth going to is in LA, so as much as I hate driving out there, I will always do it. Especially to support a friend.
I chose to dress just a little bit fancy. Black pants. White blouse. Pretty red pumps. I accented with a new black necklace and earrings. (That I bought at 40%, plus an additional 20% markdown with a coupon! At Kohls! That right there is some FANCY for you.) I took a little extra time on hair and makeup. Since Stefanie stopped drinking, she’s become really judgmental about looks, so I wanted to look to extra nice for her. SOBERS!
As I was walking out the door, I have to be honest. I was feeling good about the way that I looked. Not in a “I look so hot” way. Just a “I sure aint hating the way I look” way. That never happens to me. It felt kind of awesome.
I realized as soon as I started the car that I wouldn’t have enough gas to make it to LA, so I had to stop on the way to fill up. I knew there was a gas station about 20 minutes out that I could stop out that wouldn’t take me out of the way.
As I waited for the tank to fill up, I noticed that my car was FILTHY. So filthy that my son had decided to scrawl his name across the back window. Normally, a dirty car doesn’t bother me much. I just tell people “I have THREE KIDS! I don’t have time to wash my car!” Or something lame like that. It drives my husband crazy. But not crazy enough to wash it for me, apparently. (Not entirely true. Every 6 months or so, he’ll become disgusted with my car, tear it apart and give it a good cleaning. I promise him every time that I’m going to “keep it clean from now on every single day!” but that never happens. I HAVE THREE KIDS!) Anyway, as the gas was pumping, I went looking for one of those squeegee things that people clean their windows with as they pump gas. I found one right next to me. I was going to step over the hose to get to the back of the car, but it was just a little too high. So, I had the MOST BRILLIANT IDEA EVER. I would lift the hose up, the way you do when you’re cutting in line at Disneyland, do you know what I mean? I thought I’d lift it up, and crawl underneath the hose that was PUMPING GASOLINE INTO MY CAR.
As soon as I lifted the hose and ducked down, the hose came out of the tank and BEGAN SQUIRTING ME ALL OVER MY BODY! Like a hose!
I hadn’t even considered that the hose coming out of the tank when I pulled on it. WHOOPS!
I screamed “OH MY GOD!” Because I had just been hosed down with gasoline! No one came over to help. I imagine they were too busy pointing and laughing, like “HA HA! U tried to duck under the hose that was pumping ur gas! U lose at life!”
I froze for a minute, expecting my entire body to burst into flames, because, you know, I WAS DOUSED IN GASOLINE. My hair, my neck, my my shirt, my pants, my shoes. Once I realized I wasn’t burning up (YET!) I jumped in my car, picked up my cell phone and called Lena.
“You’re not going to believe what just happened to me!” She was all “What?” And I was all “ha ha ha ha gasoline ha haa ahha all over my body ha ha ha hahaa GAS!” She goes “Y, I can’t understand you. Are you okay? What happened.”
I took a breathe, afraid to breathe TOO hard because WHAT IF MY WARM BREATHE CREATED HEAT, WHICH CREATED A SPARK, WHICH WOULD MAKE ME BURST INTO FLAMES?”
I told her what happened and she was like “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that happening to anyone.” And I was all “I bet it hasn’t.”
We laughed and then I almost cried because I couldn’t go to the event after all. I told Lena I thought about still driving out there and she was all “that’s not a good idea considering you’re HIGHLY FLAMMABLE.”
We laughed some more.
Then, she says “don’t change the channels on the radio and Oh! You shouldn’t be on the cell phone!” And I went exactly like this “okay. Bye.” and hung up on her.
The ride home was terrifying. I wanted to roll my windows down because the smell was so awful, but I was honestly terrified of igniting into flames. I thought of someone someone accidentally throwing a match into my car. Or someone tossing their cigarette out of the car only for it to land in my lap. So I kept the windows up until I started to get lightheaded from the fumes. Then I’d open the windows for a quick second and roll them back up again.
The 20 minute ride felt like 2 hours.
I got home and within 5 seconds my husband could smell the gasoline. He did laugh a little and say things like “wouldn’t have made more sense to just walk around the other side of the car?” But mostly, he was just glad that I was safe. I had to wash my hair exactly 6 times to get the smell out. Clothes were put through the laundry twice. Shoes still smell like gas.
And that is the story of how I doused myself in gasoline and almost died while trying to support a friend.
As @SaracasticMomLC said on Twitter, thank God I wasn’t drinking an Orange Mocha Frappuccino.