Andy’s been out of town this weekend, which means I have to be on. All the time. It means I can’t “tag” him to take over when I think I am going to explode from breaking up, yet another, argument. It means I, alone, have to be the one to drive the kids all over kingdom come and back. That’s what I did on Friday.
Grocery Outlet. Target. Home. Church. Produce Stand. Bank. Costco. Home. Middle School. Elementary School. Home. Safeway. Home. Charlie’s friend’s house for birthday party. Coleman’s art class. Home. Pump It Up for Coleman’s friend’s birthday party. Home.
I think I might have used 3/4 of a tank of gas in one day. Ridiculous.
Saturday was much easier. It only involved getting in and out of the car 4-6 times instead of 23-98. We attempted to do some yard work. Yard work at our house can be kind of lame, for several reasons, but I think that might be a story for another day.
Charlie mowed the lawn and ran out of gas more than halfway through. This required me getting back into the car with the gas can to do something I’ve never done before. Yep, 38 years old and I’ve never filled up a gas can.
This next part is embarrassing. I didn’t know how to put the gas in the can. Wait. Don’t make fun of me just yet. I tried. I unscrewed the lid, put the nozzle in the can and squeezed the handle. This was after I spilled the gas all over the outside of the can, but somehow, not a drop made it inside. How does one do this, you may ask? Good question. The gas pump mocked me by canceling my transaction several times. It was practically begging me to give up, but I knew I was better than that stinky old gas pump.
I humbled myself and took my troubles into the gas station attendant who I’m pretty sure was 13. He was wearing sunglasses. Inside. So, obviously, he was cooler than me. I explained my problem. He did not take his sunglasses off.
“Did you push the button for what kind of gas you want?” Snarky, this kid.
“Yes, I did that.” I’m not a complete idiot. I have put gas in a car before. Of course, I didn’t say that. But I wanted to, a little.
“Well, you just stick the nozzle in the can, push it all the way down so the rubber piece bends and it will work. There is an automatic shut off so it won’t overflow.” I think he knew I needed that last bit of info, after my previous spilling.
Thanking him, I headed back out to give it another go. For reasons I can’t really explain, I still didn’t get it. I was baffled that this was such a complicated task for me. Now, I was forced to humble myself once again and ask the guy filling up at the pump next to me for help. He was kind and kept his judgements to himself. Just as I was explaining my issues with this absurd gas pump, I figured it out. It couldn’t have happened just a minute sooner to save me from making a fool of myself.
“Oh, I see the problem.” I said, as if it was a gas pump error, rather than my own problem. I shyly thanked him and he went along about his business.
“You’re welcome,” he kindly replied. Although, I’m quite confident he drove straight to his destination and promptly told everyone about the poor woman who didn’t even know how to fill a gas can.
Turns out too-cool-for-school sunglasses kid was right. You have to shove the nozzle all the way in the gas can until the rubber thingy bends. Then gas comes out, and there really is an automatic shut off that keeps you from overflowing the can and drenching your shoes in the process.
And now I know. I wish this was something I would have learned back when I was in my I am woman, hear me roar days. But maybe that little part of that girl is still in there. The part that feels I have something to prove, even if I have to ask, not one, but two guys to help. I did, at one time, change a flat tire, so that’s something.
