Party on Garth!

I hate pumping gas. What happened to the good old days when some high school kid came sauntering out of the gas station and pumped your damn gas for you while you sat in your car wondering if he was going to clean the windshield? When I lived in Arizona there was only one gas station in the entire Phoenix/Paradise Valley area that had attendants. It was WAAAYYY over-priced and totally inconveniently located but I went out of my way to have someone pump my gas in 110 degree heat. I even tipped.

Well, I was on my way home from my stupid-ass job the other day and my stupid-ass "go get some gas, dumb shit" light and dinger went off. Now, this was a banner day for me already because I wore my favorite Ann Taylor Loft black skirt and a little flirty black twin set and heels. Yes, heels on the girl who thinks Doc Martens are appropriate footwear with anything. (They pretty much are, though. I love all my Docs because the soles are totally disaster proof. According to the bottom of my shoes I could even walk through ACID and come out completely unscathed. What a comfort! Ever since I saw "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" I have been convinced that I am secretly a "toon" and it's only a matter of time before Judge Doom finds me and throws a bucket of dip at me. I bet my Docs could walk through a puddle of dip and I would be just fine.)
Ok, anyway, I decide I better stop at the Citgo and get some gas which I know I have to pump myself and that just pisses me off. So, I do what I always do when I am pissed off...I find a way to blame Tony. So, while I am pumping one billion dollars worth of gas into my Durango I am thinking to myself that if Tony REALLY loved me he would have assumed that I was running low on petrol and gassed up the Durango the night before. After all, I cook, I clean, I do his stupid laundry...the least he could do is pump my gas! Geez!
So, in the middle of my mental tirade this 20-something year old walks out of the gas station. I give him a cursory glance because he and I are the only people there. He is headed toward his 1983 Nissan or whatever and he slows down, looks me up and down, smiles and nods his head and says, "Foxy!" (or, as my friend P spelled it for me, "Faaahxy") Then he gets in his car, looks at me again, nods his head and drives away.
Honestly, I almost died laughing. I felt like I was in the middle of a "Wayne's World" movie. Who the hell says, "Foxy" anymore? Of course, I was secretly pleased that some (probably) unemployed drunken 20 something year old driving a shitty 20 year old car thought I was foxy...but I did see the humor in the moment.
As soon as I was done pumping my gas I got in the car and called my friend L who is my old college room mate. I told her the story and she said, "Holy shit! Did you die laughing?" Hey! Wait a minute! It occurred to me that, although I did want her to think it was a funny little incident, I didn't want her to sound so incredulous! What the hell? I am foxy, right??? So I blew her off and called P who is also a college friend, but he's a guy and I thought he might back up the "foxy" thing. Well, when he stopped laughing and I point-blank asked him if I was, indeed, "foxy" he told me that I was, of course. Hey...that's all I wanted to hear.