So It Blew

    Wake up in the morning (feeling like P. Diddy...) to a large and colorful sign taped to the toilet : CALL DAD.  Me old one died some 20 years ago, so I figure to call Chief at work.  Before I do, I notice that someone has...rearranged all of the kitchen appliances : toaster and coffee pot are in odd places, and one of the countertops is (gasp) cleared.  I have been up coughing all night, and my eyes will not/cannot open fully.  I think all my ribs are broken.
   I call Chief, who cannot talk at the moment - but to say " don't touch anything, don't cook anything !"  All I want is coffee and to be given just one reason to go on living.  Fuck me.  Apparently, the coffee pot "blew" this morning, the plugs are sparking all over the kitchen, the world is going to hell in a hand-basket.    I listen to all kinds of information and semi-instructions re: finding an electrician, how we gon' pay for it, etc.  I listen for a long time, and just pause and respond "so it blew ?"   I cannot move past the coffee pot.  Chief likely wants to kill me (again/still)  as I am no help and just thinking about coffee.  Do I have to get dressed to get some ?  Where is the closest brew ?  Do they deliver ?  What about a new coffee pot ?  What about all of my broken ribs ?  So it blew ? (The last time this happened, (the pot, not the blow) - I was seen charging into my local Walgreens, standing right inside the door, and shouting : "Coffee pot - NOW !".  Neanderthal, yes - but effective.)
   We "have" no electrician, the house is totally haywired,  PG&E has even said the house will burn down sooner than later (show-offs - what do they know ?), and we have a... list of electric issues that we just keep absorbing and working around : no kitchen light, no bedroom light, most plugs are 75 years old and don't hold for shit.  We still operate with "fuses" - and there is a fussy and detailed system of which electrical things can be used simultaneously.   Also, no doorbell - but I kind of like this.  Anyone worth having over knows to just yell in the street or pick up the damned phone.  I don't need to hear from anyone else : the "no doorbell policy" really appeals to the people-hating part of me.  Trick or treat this, motherfuckers.  I don't think I'll tell anyone it's been fixed.
   So we call our MOST EXCELLENT plumber for an electrician referral.  "Eddy" is there in 10 minutes.  We threaten him immediately (our plumber told us to : "..tell him to give you a great deal or I'll have his legs - I will come for him."  This was awkward, but we did it.)  And by 'we', I am f referring to myself and the  MOST EXCELLENT husband who has appeared at the door with 2 huge cups of coffee.  (Both for me !)   Like an angel from the clouds. Turns out he did this more for the electrician than for me : "You sick and without coffee ?  I wouldn't wish that on anyone..."  True dat.   Chief also knows I HATE being the girl who has to entertain repairmen - hate it.  Really don't like it.  Never have.  Not expecting to anytime soon.
      So, Electrician Eddy is very nice (and easy on the eye !)  He is quick, efficient - and changes 4 fixtures and fixes the damned doorbell at a ridiculously reduced price.  Word.  He suggests that I can wash the light fixture glass thing "..when you are feeling adventurous."  I take this as a comment on my housekeeping - and let him know that I have had enough excitement for one day, thank you.  He shows us just how close the house is/was to burning down.  I stand chastised.  And kinda girly.  "So, do I still need a new coffee pot ?"  I'm nothing if not focused...
       People I don't even know give me...The Stare.   Uncanny, really.
   So I wrote a check to Eddy, drank my coffee-to-go, and am running around flipping light switches on and off.  I think I know exactly how early man felt when He discovered fire for the first time.  I am happy with our new electrician.  I now cherish him as I do my plumber.  They are Israeli - the latter, a former member of the Israeli army.  Uzi- toting guys.  Handsome.  Nice.  Effective.  Fair.  Each one "one guy, one truck.  Let me know if you need them.  They will be there in 10 minutes.


        Let there be light.  But..really - it just blew ?

One Of Ours

    So there is some guy on the Bay Bridge this morning with bombs or guns and his poor child or suicide or upset and decides to act like the Asshole of the Century and the bridge is closed and everyone is all het up.  The Bridge would be pretty crowded with un-vehicled people if we all took this action when things weren't going our way.  I feel that utter lack of coping skills has become a huge societal issue.
    I get a text from my sister, Aunt, to this effect  : " Some nut sac on bridge.  not one of ours.  i repeat.  not one of ours."  This is a ...larger issue, wherein we are...relieved that it is not a direct blood relative.  Entirely possible, potentially messy.  Anything goes with a family chock-full o'nut sacs : bombs, hangings, death threats, overdoses, jail, cop chases, 5 point restraints - wicked shit.  But almost commonplace.  To the point of just needing to identify any nut as "not one of ours."  Enough crazy will wear you down.  Or out.  Or make you want a DNA test.  Now that is one test I would study for...
     The more... global among us would posit that yes, the nut sac on the bridge this morning is, indeed "one of ours" - he is a tortured human being on the brink of disaster and what, if anything, drove him to such desperation and ass-holiness ?  We are all related in this big family of man.  His pain is our pain.  He just acts his out on the bridge with weapons.  And his innocent child (this is where he loses all sympathy points : leave the kids at home when bent on self-destruction, you grandiose selfish beast).
     Like it or not, we exist in 1 million little communities of one.  We can live our whole lives, really, never having to make human contact, if we so desire.  Progress has resulted in a global reduced attention span, a grossly magnified sense of entitlement - and the utter inability to take a curve ball.  If something takes longer than 15 seconds, I won't wait !!  If a solution isn't immediately apparent - I won't think !!  If something is upsetting me emotionally, I won't reflect and react normally !!   I can't draw on my store of strength and inner resources because I have none !!  Not a one.  Matter of fact, I refuse to feel pain, inconvenience, irony, frustration, or despair.  If I start to feel upset, I'm taking you all down with me.
       We have lost one of the coolest things (besides my favorite, the opposable thumb) that sets us apart from the "lesser animals" - empathy, and the ability to actually communicate with one another.  Didn't Marvin Gaye tell us that"... we are all sensitive people...so much to give..."  Electronic communication  requires no personal responsibility : the ultimate hit and run.   When we do it with cars, we get in trouble.  But we can say any damned thing we want, as long as we press "send" afterwards.  When early man gathered in the local square to commune, you can better believe they weren't just calling each other whores and then running away.
   Don't get me wrong - I hate people just as much as the next guy.  But I still have the emotional equivalent of the opposable thumb.  I DO want to put the "human" back in "humanity".  Otherwise, all we are left with is...."-ity".  So the freak on the bridge, as Aunt so shrewdly pointed out, wasn't "one of ours".
     But he was one of ours.

It's Hell Everywhere (7/21/10)

Basically,      With all of the ghastly events occurring in the world today, anything else heinous in our own lives pales in comparison.  It is human nature (with the exception of the sociopath) to feel guilty for being the asshole at the party with no shoes who basically complains loudly over the guy with no feet.  I totally get it.        I strongly believe that one man's heinous is another man's traffic jam.  I learned when Missy was 4 (aka only on the planet for 48 months) that a person's shit is a person's shit - and to quantify it is an exercise in futility.   (Missy's teeny hospital roommate was in for, like, a heart transplant - Missy, a mystery virus.  Should I have just manned up and been happy it wasn't a transplant and let it go at that ?  Crazy, right ?  It was still my baby in the bed - and it was off the heezy..) Are we only allowed to be devastated when a flood washes away our entire family, rips them from our very arms ?    How fair is that ?       What about the lesser-known trials, the daily wars, the times that truly try men's souls.  I can't imagine living in Indonesia and staggering around through the rubble, covered in mud and shit - and I bet they can't imagine being stuck for 5 hours on Interstate 580 in Oaktown, either.  If they had a choice, they would so opt for it taking them 5 and a half hours to drive home from The Valley in the blazing heat.   Me, I would have rather been up to my eyelashes in rubble and ruin than sit through what is now referred to The Jam of July.  "First I was afraid, I was petrified.." (Gloria Gaynor - "I Will Survive").     I'm doing a steady 80 mph on the open road returning from the San Joaquin Valley in California - taking the windmills at a merry clip - knowing I'll be home by noon at this rate.  The more I drive, the further I get from the stifling heat.  I have mad tunes, a bottle of water, and a tube of Mentos.  Can you say "road ready" ? I continue to book along, well pleased with myself and the world at large.       Up ahead - a little blip of a road stall ?  One of the highways biggest mysteries: why does traffic suddenly halt for no real reason ?  I adjust myself accordingly.  I'm heading into Oaktown now - pretty much the home stretch.  The FasTrak is itching to beep.  What's this ?  Do I see brake lights all the way to Canada ?  What can it be ?  As luck would have it, and unbeknownst to me, I was driving smack right into a heaping helping of Indonesian mud and rubble and shit...     Long story not even remotely short : there was a wild shooting spree on 580 at midnight-ish early last Sunday morning.  I was on the road 10 hours after this event.  If there was a sign warning of what was to come, myself and 600,000 other drivers did not see it.  ( Maybe it was on those Amber Alert boards - but  they usually say something totally gay like : "Click It Or Ticket !" and I just can't be bothered.)   A car trip on a Sunday morning of less than 100 miles took almost 6 hours.       It was hell.  War is hell.  It became my war.    To leave a bit after 10 a.m. and not arrive home until almost 5 p.m. is something that should never have happened to me.  In the blazingblazing heat.  I think my absolute disbelief, denial, and absurd behaviors (s) are the only things that kept me alive.  Some things I did to help pass the time include (but are in no way limited to) : 1) See how many car lengths I could let stretch in front of me before I coasted ahead.  No gas pedal,  and as little brake as possible was my goal as I nervously watched the car 'heat needle' inch up up up. 2) Begin a rousing round of  "Really ?  Really ?" whenever someone had the bright idea to get in front of me.  Even an amoeba would realize that nothing short of spontaneous human combustion (henceforth, SHC) would make any difference in the shit-storm we were trapped in.  Really. 3) Experimented with the Mentos : bite and chew ?  Let dissolve?  Saw sideways with the teeth ?  Enjoy it on the sublingual ?  Stick it under my upper lip and talk with a British accent  (i..e. "I say, can you show me the way to Carnaby Street, luv ?") 4) Obsess about the meager amount of water I have : if I save it for the radiator, it will be like pissing on an inferno - the car will blow more water than I can put in.  If I drink it all, I am setting myself up to die in the desert and will have to drink my urine like OJ in 'Capricorn One'.  If I drink the last hot hot sips, I can use the bottle for something else... 5) To wit - a drumming implement !  I am moved by what seems to be a karmic iPod shuffle mode: as I hear, back to back, the songs "Misery" (Green Day) and "Slow Ride" (Foghat).   I know, right ?  I belt out a heartfelt "Misery" and perform an awesome drum solo for the ages on the dashboard to "Slow Ride".  It's on... 6) The loud singing, drumming, and gyrating seems to be passing the time as I wring the sweat from my hair.  I decide to try and involve the others.  By this time, a few people are walking around, and I blast Kiss, and urge them to "..rock and roll all night, and party every day".  It sure n beats the inevitable SHC. 7) Don't think for a second that it is all singing and sweating.  Occasionally, I will scream "FUUUUUCCKKK!" loud and long.  I occasionally and dramatically hold my empty water bottle/drumsticks out the window to warn the others that Trudy is out of water. 8) I begin to engage those without air conditioning.  I wave to the ones I continue to inch past, and ask things like : "So, how you doin' ?  I'm at 3 hours - how about you ?  I heard it was a shooting - I hate to be rude, but how long can a shooting take ?"  Seriously. 9)  I make a statement by either a) having my hands on top of my head while "driving" and b) using only my middle fingers on the steering wheel.  That'll show 'em ! 10) I call out for my Mom.  Loud.    Close to 3 p.m., and i start to see flashing lights about 1500 miles ahead.  At last, some visual reason for this hell.  Suddenly, a sign says (get this) "5 left lanes closed ahead".  Zounds.  600,000 cars (I don't lie - this is an estimate for 580 traffic on a Sunday) are being funneled into one bitty little exit.  Oaktown being the cesspool it is, there are no "officials" to maybe direct traffic off the freeway and onto Grand Ave.  Nooooo - 600,000 cars are leaving the freeway to a traffic light that lets THREE cars go per cycle.  Really ?  (I say my last "really?" as I am one car away from blessed escape -  and some crack whore won't let me merge : "Really ?  You are seriously not going to let me in ?  Are you insane ?!"    So now, for all intents and purposes, I am lost in Oaktown.  I call Chief and whimper.  He says follow everyone else, they'll lead you back on to the freeway.  They don't.  I drive and drive and suddenly I am in a ghost town of a nabe with, like, door and sash places, public storage, storefront Baptist churches...Mommy !  I call Chief back - tears are imminent.  I am going to die in Oaktown I and I look like hell.  What if I get hooked on crack ?    Does our heroine make it home ?  Apparently.  I was like a race car at a pit stop : I needed food, water, coffee, a shower...  Chief had several Dasani (water of choice) on ice, and a pot of chili on the stove.  The computer area looked like a newsroom traffic desk - he had all kinds of maps pulled up.    I felt like a soldier after a siege on Pork Chop Hill.  I was twitching, I still felt like I was moving - I was even sweating in the shower.  Being in the car now makes my blood run cold.  I invariably start singing and shouting and banging around.  My butt hurts.  I feel light as a feather every time I am going over 1 MPH. Good times.    So, you see - it IS hell everywhere.  My hell, your hell, the hell of the Indonesian (hey - I liked their first album..).  I was pushed to the absolute limits of sanity and endurance.  Not in the jungle, dodging pungee sticks - but on an American interstate highway.  The only thing ripped from my hands was my sanity, dignity, and sense of purpose  I live to tell (and tell) the tale.  My right arm is blisteringly sunburned.  My brain hurts.  The Mentos are gone.  I am a soldier.

More Than Just Baseball

  Some guy on KNBR last night (yes - I can find it on my dial and even listen to it - the interview with Tim Lincecum's father was life-changing...) referred to the latest World Series Giants as "more than just baseball".  He is right, and I am not quite sure why.  All I know is that it became everything to us, and now it is over and it is still everything to us.  And by "us", I guess I mean "me".  

     But truer words were never spoken : this whole month or so hasn't just been baseball for The City.  Baseball is pretty self-explanatory.  We get it.  Men live for it, women love it (ed. note - it's the boys), kids want to BE it.  Championships and series' are very exciting - but The Giants are different.  Somehow.    It's not just baseball for us : it's sex (you've seen some of these boys, right ?)  and hope and history and miracles and love and pride and dope and orange and black and faith and trust and tears and parades and confetti and screaming and being brought to our knees by....more than just baseball.

     Entire days and nights were scheduled around The Game (s) - how much can I get done before the National Anthem ?   I can TiVo (the whole thing !) the pre-game, but I want to be seated for the first pitch.   I actually felt rushed on Travel Day - so much to do before we had to play again.  I even seriously considered resting my pitching arm for a full 5 days.  My kids know that, during this post-season - I will not respond to any of their needs unless there is blood or fire involved.  Walk it off, Missys - pop a  Red Bull.  The Giants are playing.

   The pre-game energy in The City was palpable - we are all wearing Giants gear and admiring the festooning of the world in team sprit as we scooted around town smiling and chanting.   I'd wear a nut cup if I thought  a) it made any sense whatsoever, and b) would aid The Team in any way.    People who usually hate and fuck with and tailgate and flip off and begrudge one another are now all teary eyed and saying "Go Giants!" to each other.  How does this happen ?  And why ?  And does it happen like this anywhere else ?

   There was almost a hush over The City.  But could we call it a hush when, just barely under the surface, lay exuberance and giddy-ness and hysteria and just overall emotional overload ?  It felt like night was day.  There is a God, and he favors us.  The planets have never been aligned so perfectly.  There was a national election - we did not care.  If Timmy Lincecum or Brian Wilson or Buster Posey or Aubrey Huff or Cody Ross weren't up for office, it just didn't matter. ( Republicans taking over ?  What.  Ever.  Just don't fuck with the Giants.)  I think I even wrote them in for a few select offices.  I demand a recount.  

    There was nothing we couldn't do.  There was not a Giants pitcher we wouldn't do.  We all feel entitled - like we are part owners of The Giants.  Like actual shareholders, only more fun at parties.  Like some cocky sons-of-bitches.   MY team.  MY players.  MY ballpark.  MY Lincecum.  Step off, bitch.   We know their pets' names, their shoe sizes, their underwear preference, their middle names, their high schools, their training regimens, their odd habits, their hairdos.  We ARE the San Francisco Giants.   Fact.

   And to those babies who say that if we didn't watch every game we are fake Giants fans and how dare you and...well, most of us remember chilly nights at Candlestick where the gate was, like, 213 people and a cheap bleacher seat got you right behind the dugout and....I know, right ?  One million of us stood on Market Street last week to honor a team we are madly in love with.  

           The courtship is irrelevant - the love is there.  Oh fuck yeah.

Suffragette City

    Had to take a few hours off from the World Series of Baseball to exercise my God-given right to vote in these United States.  That's a lot of Americana happening all at once.  Dizzying.  I should have voted on Friday - as that was a travel day for the Giants and I coulda gotten a lot done.  So me and Chief dusted off the old absentee ballots and grabbed our pens and proceeded to change the world.
   I like voting in my living room, frankly.  I'm sure women of the 1920's or whatever would frown on this, but it's comfortable, and there is opportunity for real political important dialogue-ing with fellow party members..   You can also do it while watching TV.   I know that people fought and died for this right, and far be it from me to be all reverent and shit while throwing in my big big 2 cents.  I have a fantasy where they don't even count most of the votes - especially the perennial "absenteers"who race the ballot in just before the polls close even though they've had it for months...
   Overheard in the polling place/our easy chairs last night : "What I if I wrote in adorable Giants pitcher Timmy Lincecum for every office ?  What if a lot of people do it and he wins ?  That'd be awesome."  "I'm voting 'yes', because it's taxing someone other than me."  "I'm trying to figure out how this one will inconvenience me personally..."  "I'm getting bored - can we hand in blanks and still get credit ?"  "I've had it with the double talk - I'm just gonna pick one...shit."  "These propositions look identical : let's vote 'yes' on one and 'no' on the other - they won't be expecting that."
    Other things that come into play for me during voting season : the names of the candidates (anyone with a really irritating name gets a 'no' from me), their backers (SF politics were so easy during Willie Brown's Reign of Terror - just said a bunch of "no's" to all of his slimy-ass "yes" votes.  Voting took, like, 5 seconds back in the day.)  One hard and fast rule is casting a vote for "Starchild" for whatever he is running for.  This year, its the school board.  I will see Starchild in office or I will die trying to elect him.. her .
  I DO take this right seriously.  Democracy (and the oft'-underrated opposable thumb) is what separates us from the lesser beasts.  I believe all of the "if you don't vote, don't bitch" cliches.  I like to pretend that every vote does, indeed, count - but that mine counts a little more.  My old friend Anthony put it best : "There is a God, and he favors me."
   So, look for the delicious and talented Tim Lincecum to hold a few major offices in San Francisco.  Also look for my daughter, Missy - a write-in (and shoo-in, if you follow the tweets) for District Supervisor.
    It all starts with just one vote.  Mine.

America's Passed Time

Is it apple pie ?  Or Chevrolet ?  I always get confused.  There seems to be a bit of the baseball around as of late, and I have had a (poor man's) ringside  seat (or is that in boxing ?).       My little black and white 14 inch with the rabbit ears has been tuned to the local channel where "my" team is a big deal.  I have enjoyed watching them with the professional sports savvy and keen eye of the expert.  I wonder about baseball's infancy : what was Abner Doubleday thinking ?  Okay, here's some piles of cloth bundling that we scatter around this open field and then here's a stick and a much smaller ball.  One guy throws it, one chap hits with the actual stick , this guy runs and slides, this other fellow catches it.  What about the fatter men with big Hannibal Lecter masks and dark suits ?  There is major squatting and an inordinate amount of spitting (really - who has that much saliva, especially in the days of eschewing actual mouth cancer and swapping the Copenhagen for a wad of Bazooka... ).     Unbeknownst to even me, the radio broadcast of my local team seems to be a very distinct and ingrained part of my upbringing.  Even 40 years later, I swear it actually sounds like the very same announcer.  He must be, like, 112 years old.  I have realized that the sound of the Giants on the radio is a bit soothing to me, almost hypnotic.  My sister, Aunt, does not recall it the same way, which adds to our theory that everything and nothing are happening at the same  time.  Once served up, slices of childhood are so different for each...child.        I have terms running through my head, with the sound of the crowd in the background : high and inside, he was caught looking,  runs/hits/errors, benches cleared (new, an instant favorite), the one-two pitch, full count, it's a pitcher's game, the go-ahead run is on first, RBI,  check swing (a fave), slider, tying run on second,  the change-up pitch, 3 up/3 down, swing and a miss, he's outta there.  Don't get me started on groin pulls (does that ever happen to women ?)  And "bye bye baby", the ultimate old Giants call.  I also very much enjoy "the bags are loaded" ' (rich old ladies always come to mind, like Missus Howell on Gilligan's Island).  I tend to say that the bags are loaded even when there are "no men on".  I love any mention of the bags.     Baseball has been very very good to me.  Actually, that's a lie, but I like to say it in a vaguely Dominican accent.  Baseball is not like any other sport : the spitting (come on, already with that noise), the chewing (that old bitch of a Phillies coach chewed his gum so much and so cow-like , it damn near RUINED the National Anthem for me one night....old bitch...), the testicular adjustments (and constant re-adjustments - the ball handling is over the top), the tugging of the shirt sleeves at bat, the appearance of their butts (some are quite nice, most look pudgy and lumpy - I think it's the uniforms.)   For Christ's sake, they wear belts - so civilized...debonair.  It's kind of like firefighters-vs-cops - the former are more likely to be handsome and fit.  The latter, more bloated and Republican.  Baseball playahs = cute, football players = kinda gross.  I'm just saying.  Football offers a sometimes tighter butt, but you are left to wonder if they are commando under the skintight slacks... I prefer the mystery of baseball pants.  More women like (love) baseball than any other traditionally "male" sport.  It's the boys.  Football has too much bad press - men zoned out on the couch all Sunday long... piles of grunting fatties laying simultaneously on one ball...unseemly.         Baseball is so much more appealing, somehow.  My 88 year old mother is a Giants fan - is giddy over the Pennant - and is likely gearing up right now for Game One.  Baseball is right.  We get it, we like it, it makes its own kind of sense. It's the boys.  Imagine someone spitting and nut-fondling while in a mad chewing frenzy on, say, a golf course or something.  They'd lock his ass right up !  And with good reason.  We love our Giants.  I assume they love us, too.  Orange and Black : it's not just for Halloween anymore.           "Fear the Beard" Wilson,  Pablo "The Panda" Sandoval  Cody Effing Ross - say what ?   And, a moment of awed silence for our own, kinda freaky but so cute Tim "Fuck Yeah !" Lincecum.... Fuck yeah.

Fill 'Er Up, Then

So,

    I go to gas up on 19th and Santiago (which, at $2.99 is a steal compared to 29th and Taraval at a whopping $3.17 -don't they think we shop around ? )  I used to gas at the latter, as I could get Mentos for .79 - but Target (not Coscto, as you might assume) has the best Mentos price at .49.  Word.

   So I pull up behind some teeny tiny woman in a big-ass truck who seems to be buying gasoline for the first time.   How cute.  I can wait - I prefer to pull to the front pump and let someone pull behind me - it's more efficient - I don't cotton to gas pump leap-frog.

   Tiny Woman can't hardly reach the gas cap, and when she does, she does not seem to know what to make of it.  She swipes her card 12 times and looks confused.  She wrestles the nozzle (2 hands !) into the deal, and it slips out a couple of times.   Clank clank.  I give a hopefully-friendly shrug to the vehicle behind me "hey, do you see this, too ?"  She hits pay dirt, and fusses endlessly trying to "lock" the nozzle in place.  (Myself, I prefer to hold onto it manually and lean against the car casually like a teenaged boy filling up his Mustang with a packa smokes rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve.  Uber-causal.  I figure that gas pumping is a singular activity -  just do it.   You don't need to involve any other part of your life : pump the gas.  Don't catch up on correspondence or make sweet love to your Blackberry : pump the gas.  Plus, I like to play with the pump toward the end and see if I can get it to stop on a random number of my choice.

     I start to fiddle with my car - trying to figure out whether the peeling shit on the side is paint or fossilized rubber.  Suddenly, our Little Gas Gal pulls the nozzle out of her mega-truck -  still locked in place !  My hand to God - she wields that thing like an actual garden hose and she's spraying all of the neighborhood kids during a heat wave !  She fucking-well sprays the entire joint with GASOLINE.  It's like BP in the Gulf all over again.  This will go on for months - and I have a ringside seat !   I need to call Obama !

     I give her a look that I hope says a mix of "you've got to be kidding, look what you've done now, and I've never seen anything so pathetic in all of my 50 years on the planet".  She goes to  "explain" it to the Kiosk Worker - and I sidle through and say "$22 on #3, please."  I scurry (I am now pulled in front of the offshore-drilling site, and want to get out before the whole place blows) and (not for the first time, I've done this before, unlike some) prepare to pump my gas.  It gives me 25 cents worth, and shuts off.  I sputter, and assume that The Spill has shut down all pumping stations.  In the tri-state area.  I scurry (again) back to the Kiosk, where the Worker is overwhelmed and talking in 2 languages.  She surveys the spill ("..oooh, lady - that so much !") - runs to get buckets of absorbent pelleting, and orange cones.  Meanwhile, I stand at pump #3 while my $22 is registered in Pump #4.

    All I really wanted was a few gallons of goddamned gas.  I want service, dude. Harried Bilingual tells me "..I cannot - can you drive to #4 ?"  Yes, I can - but my gas cap is on the wrong side, so I it takes some maneuvering.  What's this ?  While I am turning the car all about, some old man just pulled into #4 where my money waits to be spun into gas ! 

    I approach his car - he looks wary.  I wave and try to look non-threatening - no dice.  I mime rolling down the window.  He has electric ones - so I mime pushing the window button.   After seeing that my threat level to him is a yellow, I explain the situation to, and he mumbles about "..the price of petrol", and backs up.

      I fill up, and go to get my change - and tell everyone in line what has occurred and that it is her first time ever pumping gas.  I allude to the place blowing shy high...  Then, the Kiosk Clerk (clearly "off book" on this one, and completely addled) asks ME (the obvious Fire Marshall in the group) : "Do you think if she starts up her car it will blow up because of all the gas ?"  I feel like the captain of a ship : all lives depend on me and my lightning-fast decision.  I say : "you're asking me ?  They call it an "ignition" for a reason : I suggest you ask a firefighter, not a customer."

          I just wanted a few gallons of the petrol.