Now I wasn't to be outdone by the super malls and markets jumping the gun on the holidays by lighting up even before Thanksgiving. So I went to my closet of supposedly out-of-season clothes and pulled out that red knit top with the snow people on it. Then I added the white knit hat that a friend traded me for my first book and added my large snowflake earrings.

Funny things happen when going out of the house in festive apparel. I even dared to buy gasoline for our gas guzzler. "Here's $20 on number 5," I told the pump attendant as cocky as a gambler in Las Vegas. Soon I was unscrewing the gas cap, putting the nozzle into the gas tank, and pumping away.

It wasn't long and there was a click and the $20 that I was expecting to be visible didn't appear. It was $17.95 instead. The more I clicked, the more it balked. Before I realized that I hadn't pumped gas since it cost $3.51 a gallon I heard a gushing sound - yes, the sound of gasoline pouring out of the my gas tank, onto my car, and onto the cement below. I screamed for help and the lone attendant who rarely leaves his cage began mopping up the toxic mess. I pulled out paper towels to help and then realized that I had put gasoline-drenched towels into the waste bin by the pump. I could visualize someone throwing a lighted cigarette into the gasoline soaked towels resulting in an explosion so I warned the attendant about it and made a quick exit.

Whew, glad to finally go into the supermarket to buy that yam that I needed for turkey day. Which reminds me. This year I have a sign on our lawn with a picture of a huge turkey shouting, "Next year, try ham." Nothing like a little humor to liven up our neighborhood that is suffering the noise and traffic revisions of the gas line being replaced.

Pushing my big grocery cart I made a detour to the restroom before walking up and down the food aisles. But coming out I noticed that my cart had disappeared. I saw an unattended one up by the delicatessen and a woman halfway into the aisle. I asked, "Is this your cart?" She said it hadn't been until she asked for the cart that a store employee was returning to the cart corral in front of the store.

"That's my cart," I blurted out. "I just went into the rest room for a while and when I came out my cart was gone." She politely offered me the cart so I explained that I wouldn't be so upset if I weren't on temporary prednisone that makes me hyper. (Now I have an excuse for being my usual hyper self.)

As I approached the checkout stand, I felt a heavy thud causing me pain on my instep. It was my 11/2-pound yam, which had just bounced off my foot, actually tearing some of the skin off, not from my instep but from the yam. Hurriedly I took my own groceries out to my car since the clerk, noting my holiday garb and jaunty hat, hadn't asked if I needed help. After all, the Real Age Web site assessed that my real age is 16 years younger.

For a moment I couldn't find where I had parked pointing up my sometimes short term memory but as I neared the parking lot I caught a whiff of fumes which led me right to my gasoline baptized vehicle. After driving into the garage at home, I splashed warm detergent water onto my car to quell the odor but the toxic gasoline smell is still hanging in the air to remind me that I now have to have an almost empty tank to require a $20 fill up. And that's a good thing.

Georgie Bright Kunkel is a freelance writer who invites all WWII Rosie the Riveters to meet Monday, Dec. 8 at 3 p.m. at the Northwest Room at Providence Mount St.Vincent's. Call 935-8663 to RSVP.