Wednesday, August 3, 2011

thanks Western Mass

Ever had one of those days where you leave the house and as you are driving away you suddenly panic and check that you changed out of your PJs? Have matching shoes? Are wearing pants? Well I am working on a long string of such days right now and was thrilled this AM when I answered no, yes, and yes to those questions respectively.

I had Thing 1, Thing 2 and Cindy-Lou Who with me this morning and this trifecta could make the most composed person have a "oh crap did I forget to put mascara on both eyes?!" kind of morning. So when I got all three in the car and buckled myself in, I was feeling a bit smug about how I was doing good time-wise and hadn't even sworn at inanimate objects yet when it happened.

The sad little gas light came on.

Now I ignored the light yesterday, but don't tell my husband. If he's in the room I never admit to letting the gas dip below the quarter tank mark. It has something to do with a fuel pump going rogue and it costing a fortune and him needing to remove half of the car and backseat to fix it ... anyhoo, I was at a *wink, wink* quarter tank last night and just came home figuring I would do it today.

Oops, forgot. Smug little I-am-doing-so-good-and-am-on-time bubble pops.

So we go to the gas station and the uncoordinated symphony adding to my hurried stress begins: get out of the car, get the wallet in the back seat, get card, put wallet back, open the driver door again to pop the gas door open, remove cap, put card in, it asks for my VIP card, open back door again, get out wallet, etc... I finally get the gas pumping and have not yet totally lost any of the three attention spans in the car when I hear someone say,

"Hey, like the shirt."

I check, he is talking to me. Oh skittles, I checked the pants, did I forget to put on a shirt?! Surely the 9 year old would have mentioned something on the way out the door ... nope, I have a shirt on, and this guy isn't commenting on vomit or some other body fluid being all over it. At least not the front of it, who knows whats on the back. But it appears I am actually just hearing a compliment about the shirt. Whew.

At this point I realize I am having a silent panic attack about being topless or vomit coated and have not yet given some sort of polite reply. Check shirt again to see what I am actually wearing and see that it is a Boston Red Sox shirt. Ah yes, another fan. Cue appropriate response. It is given. Conversation usually ends here when this happens (its a very witty shirt so this isn't an abnormal circumstance). But guy at the next gas pump keeps going. He's from Western Massachusetts, where am I from he wants to know. So I answer. Tells me the name of the town he is from, big Sox fan, points to his licence plate. Super, great. This is a little more than the normal bonding we Sox fans do -- after years of living with the Curse of the Bambino and then bonding over the blessed breaking of said curse we view fellow fans as family and bond readily with "strangers" as a result. I am not bothered by this, but do need to get going as I have three kids of questionable patience in the car behind me which is nearly full of gas so I am not wanting to talk.

Then I see it.

The left hand check.

He glances at my left hand while I am talking, sees the band, and the conversation ever so politely slows down and ends.

Western Mass was hitting on me.

Wait, Western Mass was hitting on me? Me? Really?

I get done with the pump, and drive off hearing my 9 year old chattering about the importance of the aglet (its the plastic thing on the tip of your shoelace, and no, I didn't know it had a name either) and I laugh a little because one of two things just happened:

1.) Some dude from Massachusetts is driving around and is blind as a bat, so beware of a Buick with a BoSox B plate on the front.


2.) I still got it.

Personally, I vote for a combo of the two.

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