Not Fun, and Scary to Boot

Friday morning was errand-filled, as many Fridays are. Had a Dr. appointment in the morning, then I needed to get the car's oil changed. Couldn't easily find daycare, so the Little Man was along for the ride.

The Little Man has been displaying his rapidly developing personality by having a very, VERY strong opinion about most things lately. Naturally, the opinion of hanging in the waiting room at the Dr.'s office and in the office itself was a resounding "Forget This!" No amount of cleverly packed snacks or toys could appease him, and I ended up with "that" kid in the waiting room (you know, the one who throws multiple tantrums as the old ladies look down their noses) and having to ask the Dr. to repeat herself several times in our appointment. Not fun. So not fun.

After promising myself to try much harder to find daycare for any future appointments, we got to the car and I noticed that the low gas light was on. I remembered that it had gone on after work the day before, so I thought I'd better fill up at the nearby station. When I drove into the Shell station, though, I saw that the price was $.12 - Twelve Cents! - higher than I had seen elsewhere in town. I was headed in the direction of the cheaper gas anyway, and my car had only dinged the "hey, I'm getting low on gas" and not the "look, I'm really, REALLY running low here" ding, I drove by the expensive pumps intending to fill up elsewhere and headed toward the highway.

Naturally, I ran out of gas. After 15 years of fine-tuning, my fill-up tactics of filling up at the last second, but never too late, had failed me. Also, my trusty car had failed to deliver the special ding to let me know it really, Really was time. I was robbed.

And scared. It's a terrible sound to run out of gas - first the loss of acceleration, then the last gasping sounds of a good car fighting the good fight and losing. And the place where my car coughed its last gasp was, naturally, in a busy intersection. Busy as in 4 lanes of traffic, right before the entrance to a highway. I managed to limp my wheezing car into the right-hand turn lane so cars could still get around, but it turns out I should have blocked the lane because I got tired of counting the semis that passed mere inches from my car. In addition to the traffic, it was in the high 8o's and it got toasty in the car fast.

I swallowed my pride and called Mr. Me. He was working from home and had an appointment himself 30 minutes after I called, but he promised to come to our rescue with a gas can as soon as he finished a work call. I then wracked my brain and called four or five other friends that lived or might have occasion to be in the area, but no dice. As I sat there in my hot, hot car with the sound of traffic and the sound of my babbling (thankfully, not screaming) child in my ears, I looked around to see if there was any hope of taking the baby and walking somewhere without getting squashed flat (none!). The only sign of gas I could see, off in the distance across the highway, was for that damn Shell station with its expensive gas. It was peeking up through the trees, mocking me. Sigh.

After an hour - AN HOUR - of sitting by the side of the road, exactly 5 people (including one cop) had stopped to check with us, which was a rather higher percentage of good Samaritans than I had expected. What with work, obtaining gas, and my substandard directions, Mr. Me arrived 5 minutes after my mom who had come from another town (she was headed in my direction anyway). I haven't been so happy to see my mommy since my dad forgot me at piano lessons when I was 10. The Little Man (now naked after drenching himself with his drink) and I went to sit in her nice, cool car while we waited for life-saving gas.

Can I just say that I've been successfully converted to a quarter-tank filler?