As I was driving myself to work yesterday, after I dropped my daughter off at daycare, I decided to swing into the gas station to fill up (price of gas went down!!) and most importantly get a cup of coffee. I had just under ½ tank of gas, so I wasn’t running on fumes, which is usually the case when I pull into the gas station. The coffee was much needed as my husband has been getting up much earlier than normal (which means so have I), and also because I needed a little lift in my eyes (can’t wear eye makeup due to the stupid rash under/on my left eye that won’t go away…well I could wear makeup on my right eye, but that might look funny don’t you think?)
Here’s how my day was kicked off:
As usual, I put the hose in my tank first, then I stick my credit card in the pump (not actually in the pump, but in the designated spot for credit cards…I’m not THAT stupid, although I had some concerns this particular day). I select the grade of fuel that I want as I was directed by the co
mputer screen. Nothing happens. I am tired, I want coffee, and I don’t have much time before I need to be at work. Not enough time to dink around with an uncooperative gas pump…I Need COFFEE!!! So I am slamming my hand on all of the possible buttons available, one of which was green (green means go, perhaps pushing this button would make the gas GO). It was a help button. I am not a big fan of ‘help;’ I prefer to learn my lessons the hard way, that way I remember them – usually. Sometimes. Okay, I’ve probably remembered two of my hard learned lessons. But that’s not the point here. I looked like a fool and the last thing that I wanted was to draw attention to myself. I, however, did not realize that the green button was a ‘help’ button until I heard a voice above me (and it wasn’t God. The way the morning was going, I think I would have been afraid to hear what He had to say). “What can I help you with?” the voice says. “I put my credit card in, the hose is in my gas tank, I am pushing the button but I am not getting gas!!!” The cashier decides to come out and get a closer look at the idiot who can’t pump her own gas. Ms. Cashier quickly and simply fixes the problem (put the hose back in the pump and wait for the lights to flash before removing it, duh!) and returns to assist the large crew of morning customers (this was prime pre-work stop-at-the-station time). I had a good-sized audience.
I set the nozzle at slow flow (heard that’s the most efficient way to pump your fuel) and follow the cashier inside while making fun of myself (it’s just what I do. I like to make fun of others as well, as long as they will make fun of me in return. However in this situation I was the only one deserving of fun making). She at least humored me with a fake laugh.
Got my coffee, going back to my car, the man at the pump next to mine is standing there staring at my car and then glances at me (matching me as owner of the mess) and then back at the car. It wasn’t until I was standing in a puddle of gas rubbing my hand on my car under the gas tank wondering why it was wet that I noticed that the fuel dripping out of my tank wasn’t from the kickback of the nozzle’s auto-stop. That was when I realized what had happened and I turned back around to ask the wonderful, kind, courteous, generous gentleman what the hell his problem is that he can’t STOP the pump when he is there watching it overflow; but he was driving off. I was tempted to chase him, but refrained. Back inside to tell the cashier she needs to get some sand (or the fire department) for my disaster (this would have been a more appropriate time to press that green ‘help’ button. I, of course, didn’t think of that. Instead, I went inside and stood in line. Dimwit.). Ms. Cashier asks me how much I spilled. I wasn’t there, but judging from the dollar signs rising up with the fumes off of the ground, I would guess about $20-$30 worth. Don’t ask this butterbrain to do the math.
At this point, I am late for work, covered in gasoline fumes, exhausted, dealing with day 3 of a headache and strongly considering taking up smoking. I got a car wash instead. And GUESS WHAT!?!?! They gave it to me for F R E E! Woopdeefreekindoo.
I resented that cup of coffee so much that I couldn’t take the first sip until it was cooled off. That first sip is what gets my adrenaline going. The anticipation of how hot it is going to be and if I am going to burn my tongue and if I am going to take too big of a sip and really burn my tongue, that gets my blood flowing. What’s the point in even drinking it if I had already taken half the fun out of it.
I have let stress get the best of me and have been a big butterbrain since I started my new job, and it seems like every day, my butter has melted a little more. I think that this was the grand finale. Actually, the grand finale was when I was sitting in the car wash watching the big roller come down towards my windshield, envisioning it not stopping at my windshield but just crashing right through, all while crying like a little pre-school girl who just lost the fight for the best toy in the bin.
***I must have cried it out, because after lunch today I came back to work and let everybody see the goofy, annoying twerp that I generally am.
Here’s how my day was kicked off:
As usual, I put the hose in my tank first, then I stick my credit card in the pump (not actually in the pump, but in the designated spot for credit cards…I’m not THAT stupid, although I had some concerns this particular day). I select the grade of fuel that I want as I was directed by the co
mputer screen. Nothing happens. I am tired, I want coffee, and I don’t have much time before I need to be at work. Not enough time to dink around with an uncooperative gas pump…I Need COFFEE!!! So I am slamming my hand on all of the possible buttons available, one of which was green (green means go, perhaps pushing this button would make the gas GO). It was a help button. I am not a big fan of ‘help;’ I prefer to learn my lessons the hard way, that way I remember them – usually. Sometimes. Okay, I’ve probably remembered two of my hard learned lessons. But that’s not the point here. I looked like a fool and the last thing that I wanted was to draw attention to myself. I, however, did not realize that the green button was a ‘help’ button until I heard a voice above me (and it wasn’t God. The way the morning was going, I think I would have been afraid to hear what He had to say). “What can I help you with?” the voice says. “I put my credit card in, the hose is in my gas tank, I am pushing the button but I am not getting gas!!!” The cashier decides to come out and get a closer look at the idiot who can’t pump her own gas. Ms. Cashier quickly and simply fixes the problem (put the hose back in the pump and wait for the lights to flash before removing it, duh!) and returns to assist the large crew of morning customers (this was prime pre-work stop-at-the-station time). I had a good-sized audience.I set the nozzle at slow flow (heard that’s the most efficient way to pump your fuel) and follow the cashier inside while making fun of myself (it’s just what I do. I like to make fun of others as well, as long as they will make fun of me in return. However in this situation I was the only one deserving of fun making). She at least humored me with a fake laugh.
Got my coffee, going back to my car, the man at the pump next to mine is standing there staring at my car and then glances at me (matching me as owner of the mess) and then back at the car. It wasn’t until I was standing in a puddle of gas rubbing my hand on my car under the gas tank wondering why it was wet that I noticed that the fuel dripping out of my tank wasn’t from the kickback of the nozzle’s auto-stop. That was when I realized what had happened and I turned back around to ask the wonderful, kind, courteous, generous gentleman what the hell his problem is that he can’t STOP the pump when he is there watching it overflow; but he was driving off. I was tempted to chase him, but refrained. Back inside to tell the cashier she needs to get some sand (or the fire department) for my disaster (this would have been a more appropriate time to press that green ‘help’ button. I, of course, didn’t think of that. Instead, I went inside and stood in line. Dimwit.). Ms. Cashier asks me how much I spilled. I wasn’t there, but judging from the dollar signs rising up with the fumes off of the ground, I would guess about $20-$30 worth. Don’t ask this butterbrain to do the math.
At this point, I am late for work, covered in gasoline fumes, exhausted, dealing with day 3 of a headache and strongly considering taking up smoking. I got a car wash instead. And GUESS WHAT!?!?! They gave it to me for F R E E! Woopdeefreekindoo.
I resented that cup of coffee so much that I couldn’t take the first sip until it was cooled off. That first sip is what gets my adrenaline going. The anticipation of how hot it is going to be and if I am going to burn my tongue and if I am going to take too big of a sip and really burn my tongue, that gets my blood flowing. What’s the point in even drinking it if I had already taken half the fun out of it.
I have let stress get the best of me and have been a big butterbrain since I started my new job, and it seems like every day, my butter has melted a little more. I think that this was the grand finale. Actually, the grand finale was when I was sitting in the car wash watching the big roller come down towards my windshield, envisioning it not stopping at my windshield but just crashing right through, all while crying like a little pre-school girl who just lost the fight for the best toy in the bin.
***I must have cried it out, because after lunch today I came back to work and let everybody see the goofy, annoying twerp that I generally am.
Our good friend Paul.
