What’s That Smell...?

I'm back home Sunday night from a five day vacation visiting the In-Laws in Idaho. Flight was nice and uneventful. Cab ride smelled like wet socks. Apartment smells like gasoline. Kitties need to be fed...

Wait. The apartment smells like gasoline. That's weird. Did I leave a gas can out, or something? No? Why the hell does my apartment smell like gasoline? Maybe one of those propane tanks in the closet downstairs sprung a leak or something. I check those out. Nope. It doesn't smell like propane, stupid...it smells like gasoline. Or exhaust smoke. Uh oh...I hope that's not carbon monoxide. Do I feel light-headed?

I check on all the kitties...they're alive, and pissed off that I'm not feeding them. Later, friends, later.

I guess I'll ask the downstairs neighbors if there was some kind of gas leak while I was away. A gas leak shouldn't smell like gasoline (plus we don't have any gas appliances in our place), but maybe they spilled gas in their house, or something. Or they're planning on torching the place for insurance money. Either way, I should speak with them.

I knock. No reply. I knock again, louder. No reply. Crap. All their lights are off, but I think I can see a flicker from their TV set. I walk around the yard...there's no smell of gasoline or exhaust anywhere. I walk by the garage, and put my ear to the door.

I can hear the sound of a motor running.

Dammit.

Dammit.

That's not a good noise.

As I scramble back upstairs, I create the scenario in my head. Originally there was a couple living below us, but the guy hasn't been around for a couple of months. They probably split up. The woman had been living their alone, but just couldn't take it any more. In despair, she got into her car in the garage, turned on the engine, and was sitting there now.

Meanwhile, I'm upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with the cats. They're still hungry. Doody is laying on his back in the living room. Frenchy is meowing at me from the kitchen. No time. Got to save a life.

I call Erika, who's still at her parents' house in Idaho. "Hi. Sorry, I can't talk right now because I have to call 911 to let them know the girl downstairs is sitting in her car in the garage with the motor running." "The cats are fine." "No, babe, I can't stay on the line...I've got to call 911." "I'm fine. The flight was fine. I've got to go. I'll call you back."

I head back downstairs. I call 911 on my cell phone (the fourth time I've ever called 911... I'm always afraid that they're going to think it's a prank call). "Hello, I just got back from a trip, and my entire house smells like gasoline." "Okay, but I live in a townhome, and I listened through the garage downstairs, and I heard an engine running." "I don't have access to the garage -- it's only being used by the downstairs unit." I give them my name, address, and telephone number. They say that they're sending over police and the fire department. I hang up. Then I scurry back upstairs because the phone is ringing.

It's Erika again. "No, I have all the windows open -- the cats are fine." All three cats are now by the open window, spying (as they always do) on birds. "Yes, I'll get them outside...I'll put them in my car until this gets figured out." "I'll call you back when I have more news."

Downstairs. In desperation, I pound on the door. I hear noises. The door unlatches. Through the door I hear a male voice, "What's up?"

"Um...hey, what's up? Is there...uh...I just got home from vacation..."

"Right on..."

"And...um, my entire apartment smells like gasoline. Is...was there a gas leak or something while I was gone?"

"Oh, it does? Well...I just got a motorcycle, and it's got a leaking fuel gasket."

"It does? Is...is it running or something?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I heard the sound of an engine in the garage."

"Nope, nothing's running. We have a washer and dryer down there."

"Oh." I'm dumbstruck. "Okay, cool...I just thought a car was running, or something."

"Sorry about that...I'll go take care of the smell."

"Oh, no worries. It's cool. Have a good night."

Dammit. There are about to be at least three emergency vehicles pulling into my driveway to investigate a leaky fuel gasket and a washing machine. Dammit. I call 911 back.

"Hi, this is Tyler. Um...I just called a couple of minutes ago about a car running in our garage?" "Yeah, yeah, that's me. Well, it turns out it was just a motorcycle with a leaking fuel...thing...in the tank. There was a fuel leak." I look down the street and see a firetruck navigating around the traffic circle at the end of the block, lights flashing. "So, they were home, and it turns out there's no problem." She tells me that they're going to cancel the call. "Okay, thanks."

The firetruck gets about 20 feet from my driveway, then flips its lights off, and hangs a right past our apartment. I go upstairs. The place still reeks of gasoline. The cats are still planning on assassinating birds (somehow) through the window screen. I feed them, and scoop the box.

As I'm taking the crap out to the garbage can, the guy is there, covering up the bike with trash bags. He points to the leaky valve/o-ring/motorcycle doohicky. He tells me that he has almost completely lost his sense of smell, so he didn't know that it was so bad. I tell him that I actually called the cops, because I thought they were dead. We share a good laugh. I drop the poo in the garbage can and bid him good night.

I call Erika back, and explain everything. She's still sorta' freaked out, as are her parents. I assure her that everything's fine. I'm fine. The cats are fine. We're good. It just stinks in here -- I'm going to air out the apartment. She's glad everything's all right, and reassures me that I did the right thing by calling 911. I'm still pretty embarassed.

After I hang up, I log on to MySpace, and I realize that I really should blog what happened tonight...so...

My First Girlfried, Part Two: The "Relationship"

This is a continuation of an earlier blog here. Normally, I say that "this is the first part of a continuing series," and then promptly never actually write the second part. But this time...I did it. A second part. Booyah.

As far as I was concerned, the hard part was out of the way. I had asked a girl to be my girlfriend, and she'd said "Yes." Awesome. Now, generally, news of a new relationship was something to be shared with the masses. And share I did.

That night, I casually brought it up to my mother and sister...who seemed pleased, but ultimately uninterested. My mom asked me about her...and I mentioned that she played flute in the band. And that she was pretty. And...yeah. Blonde. And...um...I dunno'. There was a long silence, and eventually, mercifully, the subject changed.

Myself and May...back in the day...

So, my breaking news turned out to be a bit of a bust. But I was undeterred -- now I decided that I had to tell all of my friends at school. The only real problem with that idea was that I really didn't score any of those "good" friends until late in the 8^th grade, or so. And I didn't really see much of my elementary school friends any more...so I had to share the news with the people I was closest to: my Home Ec table. These included Jessica Simpson (not the Jessica Simpson...but a reasonable facsimile), a kid named Jaurdey who was born in Kuwait, and someone else whose name, face, and personality escapes me at the moment. The conversation where I broke the news pretty much went like this:

Me: So, I'm going out with May Jensen.

Jessica Simpson: You are?

Jaurdey: Who cares? (Jaurdey didn't like me very much)

Jessica Simpson: How long have you guys been going out?

Me: For about a week now.

Jessica Simpson: That's the girl with the huge bangs, isn't it?

Me: Yeah, they're…I think that's her.

Jessica Simpson: Wow…that's great. What do you guys do for fun? Does she let you surf on her bangs?

This was met with gales of laughter from the entire table. Well...at least, from half of the table. Of course, in retrospect, it really wasn't that funny of a joke...or even a remotely well-crafted dig. To this day, I'm not sure if she was making fun of me, or May. But, either way, Jessica Simpson's (something about typing out that full name just makes it better for me...I don't know why) wisecrack did the trick...and I was shamed into silence for the rest of the class period.

not

On Monday of the following week, I was heading to my English class, and I happened to be walking next to a girl that was heading in the same direction...someone I knew from the class we were headed to. I'll call her Jennifer, because every other female at my junior high school had some form of the name Jennifer, so the odds are pretty good that that was her name. Anyways, I had been feeling pretty confident around the lady-folk as of late, and I decided to strike up a conversation:

Me: So, I'm dating May Jensen now.

Jennifer: You are? I hadn't heard anything about that.

Me: Yep, we're dating. We've going on for almost a week.

Jennifer: That's weird...she hasn't mentioned anything.

Me: Well, I asked her, and we're dating...so...I'm pretty sure we're dating.

Just then, I saw May approaching the two of us, walking in the opposite direction. I seized my opportunity:

Me: Hi May.

May: Hi Tyler.

And we passed each other. The fact that May had said Hi to me was all the evidence I needed...and I basked in it. Jennifer lapsed into an indifferent silence, but I think my point was well taken.

So, after two weeks had gone by, I realized that those two glorious words were all that passed between myself and May. Not much in the way of a "relationship." At that point I decided that it was time for me to take it to the next level. Yes, I needed a full-on conversation with the young lady. I would need to suppress all my fear of the opposite sex, but I would do it. I had to do it. And to hell with Jennifer and Jessica Simpson – they'd be eating their words when I totally started holding hands with my woman all over school.

So I scouted around to find out where May "Hung out" before first period. I couldn't find her, so I asked around. I was pointed in the direction of the bus loading area, near the front of the school. The crowd around there was pretty thick, and a little more "popular" than what I was used to, but I tried to look as casual as possible. I found May in one of those massive "talking circles;" facing in. I didn't personally belong to any circles myself – I usually wound up sitting in the cafeteria, either finishing up my homework, watching my fellow nerds play Magic the Gathering©, or reading a fantasy (or sci-fi) novel by myself.

But here I was, peering creepily from a distance at May, as she chatted with her friends. Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself, I made my way over to her and stood awkwardly behind her, trying to look as casual as my terrified mind would allow. She didn't notice me. I stood there for about a ten-count...willing her to look over at me. I imagined her eyes locking with mine...followed by a warm smile...or maybe an embrace of some kind...then maybe I could get her phone number so I could call her. Or something. Even a friendly look would be fantastic. Of course, I didn't want to get my hopes up too much...but damned if she wouldn't turn around.

I decided that the time for action had come. I was a man now. A man with a girlfriend. No more sissy bullcrap -- it was high time that I started acting like a boyfriend. I tapped May gently on the shoulder. She turned around (finally), and looked me in the eyes:

Me: Hey, what's up?

For a fraction of a second, I saw her blue eyes widen in surprise. Or alarm. Or fear. Or…something. Then, without saying a word, May right back around and continued talking to her friends. It was as if I wasn't even there. I had become invisible. I really didn't know what to do. Do I tap again? Suddenly, overwhelmingly, I felt my face flushing with embarrassment. Little beads of sweat formed on my brow line, and I realized, very quickly, that I was way, way, way out of my element.

So I did the only thing that made any sense to me...I melted into the crowd and returned to the safety of the cafeteria. I didn't feel sad, or angry, or anything other that a cutting sense of humiliation. From what I can tell, I'd been pretty stupid...I'd actually gone and thought that I had a girlfriend, going so far as to tell a bunch of strangers that I had "hooked up" with someone. But in reality, I'd just been fooling myself. There was no girlfriend. There was no relationship. It was either a misunderstanding, or an especially cruel practical joke. Either way, my confidence was shattered. I slunk back to the den of the "unpopular smart kids." These were my kind of people. Of course I never really considered myself a real nerd (then again, my sordid history of Dungeons and Dragons, Sci-Fi fandom, scholastic achievement, and lack of athletic prowess would beg to differ), but I did enjoy their company. They were some of the funniest, least discriminating people I knew, and their unbiased friendship kept me going whenever I'd try and fail at being popular.

So, I don't know if it was that episode, or some other aspect of my life (parents divorce, big brothers moving out, a general feeling of social alienation), but I didn't have more than a sentence-long conversation with another female until the summer after the 9^th grade, where Derek Roger and Jeff Pohl taught me how to talk to women (first big realization: don't be terrified of them) at a Lutheran gathering in San Antonio. Which means that, women-wise, Junior High was a complete and utter wash.

I don't remember ever talking to May…or even being in the vicinity of May ever again. I transferred out of 7^th grade band at the end of that trimester (to join the 9^th grade "symphonic band")…and when that happened all my entire schedule shifted (so I didn't have to deal with that clarinetist, or Jennifer, or Jessica Simpson, or Jaurdey, or any other person whose name started with a "J"). I don't even recall her being at my high school, though my yearbook seems to have a difference of opinions on that one.

As for me…well…I ended up winning in the end after all, I suppose. I married a super-smoking-hot former high school cheerleader who is very kind, and has an amazing sense of humor (in fact, I can guarantee she would have come up with a better dig than Jessica Simpson did)…which is pretty cool. I don't know what happened to May. She's got a MySpace account, but like all good people that you're curious about, but were never really "friends" with, it's "Private."

15 years later...my first girlfriend and my sexy self...

Robots In Disguise

So, I just got finished watching that Transformers movie...and (sorry Korby) it was not good. In fact, it was pretty much the "opposite of good" in my mind. Double-in-fact, I go so far as to put it in the loathesome category of, what I like to call "Michael Bay Movies." There are only a couple of other films in there...but trust me, it's not a category you want to be in.

In fact, it was so bad, I spend the last 2 hours "Photoshopping" this fake movie poster, which uses the actual poster from the movie...with a few pretty hilarious changes:



See what I did there? Man, I should have been a graphic designer (yes, Kellie, this means I'm after your job -- be scared).

However, this posting is not a movie review, because people who write movie reviews (or even people who have opinions about movies) are stupid, ugly, and smell like Corn Starch. No, I realized watching this movie that I needed to add two more phrases to my "list of phrases I'd like to be able to say before I die."

First up:

"Let's get the hell out of here!"

Because it implies not only immediate danger, but the fact that you're the only one who recognizes the danger. And that...is awesome.

Secondly:

"Take the shot."

(and I'm talking in the sniper-y fashion, not the inspirational basketball coach-y fashion) This is because, if I'm issuing this order, not only am I talking to a sniper, I'm freaking in charge of a sniper! How awesome is that!? The answer: "15 Awesome."

One final piece of business...there were 29 damn people who looked at my blog today. Did I miss something? I mean...God bless all of you wonderful new people...you make my life worth living. But...I mean, the last thing I posted was some retarded story about how I'm a total scaredy-cat wiener...and it was, like, 7 days ago. Did I get hurled onto digg.com or something? Because, if so...awesome (yes, if you can't tell, I like that word), and how can I start making money off of this? Do I need to start selling t-shirts, or mugs, or Tyler Rhoades lapels, or what? I'm willing to listen to suggestions...