I pulled into the gas station to fill up Ethel (the mommyvan). A chore I no longer dread. As it’s so much easier to see what I’m doing, with no tears flying from my eyes.
What with the reduction in gas prices and all.
And so while killing time pumping gas, and with clearer eyes, I gazed at the pump. Since I only had one child with me, I didn’t have to press my face against the back window to yell at the 3 of them to quit messing with each other. Much to the enjoyment of other gas pumping patrons.
And while gazing at the pump, my eyes came to rest on a set of instructions. Interesting. I’ve never known the gas pump to come with a set of instructions. I thought since I was there, I’d read them.
And make Fiddledaddy proud. Especially after the great gas grill explosion of ‘08. If you’ll recall, I’m not one who reads instructions. A factoid which continually makes Fiddledaddy’s eyes bug out.
Oh, the instructions came with the usual, “pay, select grade, lift nozzle, pump gas, yada yada.” But off to the side, in smaller print, was a sign that read “Failure to heed this warning can result in death. Or worse.” (I’m paraphrasing.) My interest was piqued.
And underneath that came very specific instructions about grounding yourself. As in, when you get out of your car, you are to touch the metal on your vehicle BEFORE you touch the pump. To rid your body of static electricity. Otherwise, a spark could occur, and a spark around a gas pump = BOOM! The end.
And furthermore, if you should need to climb into your vehicle for any reason (like to swat at your children) and then get back out, you needed to touch the metal on your car again before touching the pump. To discharge the static electricity.
And this all makes sense to me, especially since the children have all discovered that static electricity is an excellent means of inflicting pain and torture on a sibling. And get away with it by calling it “science.” I know. Shocking.
There was a bit more printed on the gas pump. The spiel about not using your cell phone while pumping gas. But, I already knew about that. One day, while I was pumping gas, Fiddledaddy called me on the cell phone. We chatted for a bit, and he asked, “Where are you?” “I’m pumping gas.” “WHILE YOU’RE ON THE CELL PHONE?” “Um, yes.”
And then his head exploded. I could sense it with my finely honed feminine instincts.
Now the cell phone remains holstered, inside of Ethel, when I fill ‘er up.
And I know all about grounding myself. It’s called a mommy time out. And it may or may not involve a small glass of inexpensive Port.
Like I always say. “Safety thirst first.”