Two days ago, after filling the gas tank on our aging Pontiac, I noticed that the cab of the car smelled like gasoline.

At first, I thought maybe I had spilled some in the cab. Of course, this would have been an incredible feat of contortionism since all the doors were closed and the gas tank is located towards the back of the car.

Then I thought maybe I had tracked some in on my shoes. But no, my shoes didn’t smell like gasoline. It was a bit of a mystery.

When I got home, I mentioned the awful smell to DH. He immediately began sniffing around the car. His nose led him to the engine.

After popping the hood, DH said the smell got even worse. He had me turn on the car and then immediately screamed, “Turn it off! Turn it off!”

Apparently, there is a hole in the gas line and it was shooting gas into the engine. Oops.

So, the consensus was that we wouldn’t be driving the car anytime soon. Which, of course, puts a crimp in all family-centered activities. Like taking kids to school. Grocery shopping. Doctor’s appointments. You get the idea.

Yesterday, though, I get a phone call from DH asking…pleading, really…that I bring his wallet to him at the child care center. He’d locked his keys inside the truck and would have called AAA but his wallet was sitting on my dresser.


I reminded him that the car could explode at any moment. He said he’d take the risk. Gee, thanks, sweetie.

So, there I was. Driving as slowly as I possibly could. Terrified that little bits of WAHM and small baby would be raining down on unsuspecting cars on the road. I could just see it now, the papers headline would be “Exploding WAHM Halts Traffic”.

I eventually did make it to the school. Without exploding.

And I made it home. Without exploding.

But I’m definitely not driving my car again until DH fixes that hose. I’d hate to end up as a bad headline in the local paper.