Identity theft mingled with the strong scent of gasoline makes for my life right now.

Earlier tonight, Hailey and I sat down to officially set up our family budget (New Years Resolution). As we scanned through our bank statment we quickly started to notice random charges that neither of us could account for. Fifteen dollars here. Nine dollars there. I noticed one charge by FT*GRTFUN was accompanied by an 800 number. I decided to investigate by calling. I got an answering machine. "Thank you for calling Great Fun! Please leave a message." BEEP. "Yeah, while it may seem like Great Fun to randomly charge my account, could you please stop? Thanks." Confused I googled the 800 number. Suddenly, I was faced with page after page after page of links to blogs and messageboards containing posts from others around the globe who have fallen victim to said scam. I felt abused. I felt used. I felt naked.

Much like greased lightning, I called the number on the back of my Wells Fargo debit card. I was greeted by a customer service representative who apparently did not check the "I speak fluent English" box on his job application. Determined, I spoke slowly. After several minutes of "what was that?" and "Sorry, could you say that again?" my account was closed and a fraud report scheduled to be delivered.

Still I felt naked.

If only I had a nice knock-off designer suit to clothe my nakedness.

As I sat down to reflect on my victimization I thought to myself, certainly tonight couldn't get any worse that this. I was wrong.

All of a sudden, there was a loud knock on the door, quickly followed by repeated ringing of the doorbell. This was quickly followed by a flurry of bell/knock combos. Who the heck is at our door? Why are they being so obviously annoying? Do they have ANY idea that my kid is trying to sleep? Irritated, I opened the door.

Keith.

With a voice that could wake sleeping kids in China, he entered. "Hello Steven, where's my daughter?" As he invited himself in and walked passed me a potent wall of gasoline punched me in the bread basket. *cough*

Hailey: Dad, what are you doing here?

Keith: I've got to pick up a snowmobile tomorrow.

Hailey: Why do you smell like gasoline?

Keith: The darn shut off valve at the gas station was broken. *sits down on my new couch*

Instantly, the fumes transformed into headache form. I couldn't take it. I relocated to the kitchen. It was no use. The scent must have predetermined my move and thus spread into the kitchen before I could get there. I was trapped. Nowhere was safe.

Keith (yelling from the living room, despite my sleeping child): Steve, where can I store some four wheelers?

Me: What do you mean?

Keith: I need to store a couple four wheelers in your garage for a few months.

Me: Actually, we don't have enough room in our garage for two four wheelers.

Keith: Well, I'll just put them in your back yard. They'll increase the value of your house. They'll make it easier to sell.

I wanted to reply to this, but for the life of me couldn't formulate an appropriate response. Somewhere between the incomprehensible nature of that comment and the formidable stench of fuel, my mind froze.

I still felt naked.