Hey, remember when I got to interview my new boyfriend Sterling Knight? Well, if you didn’t already know, I also got to interview some more Disney stars, Good Luck Charlie’s Bridgit Mendler and Jason Dolley. And did you know that I’m actually McMomming it up in Chicago and LA this week?
Oh yes I am.
And did you know that it’s friggin’ freezing in Chicago and that my dresses are all hanging in my closet flipping me the damn bird. Brr.
So, last week my friend Kristin came to visit me. You may have heard of her, she’s kind of a big deal. Anyway, big deal or no deal, I am an airport picker upper. I like to pick people up at the airport. And I’m not one those fucking circlers, either. I’m a proper pay-for-parking, go inside and wait kind of girl. I would never make anyone take the MARTA or a cab, unless you are my husband and your flight gets in at midnightish and I’d have to schlep all three kids out…he can take public transport.
But, anyway, while I *AM* great at picking people up from the airport, I SUCK at putting gas in the car. I hate to do it, and because of this, I kind of never look at my gasÂ gauge, and even when I do, I kind of assume it’s lying to me and I really have 50 miles more until I am actually empty. So, on my way to pick Kristin up from the airport, my van started yelling at me. And swearing. And told me that if I didn’t pull over and put some damn gas in the car I was going to be picking my friend up on foot.
So, off I pulled. In unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar SCARY territory. I should have known it was not the best of neighborhoods when pay-at-the-pump was not even an option. I should have known when I walked into the station to prepay for my gas and there was a group of at least 10 homeless people scrounging for change to buy one lottery ticket. I should have known when this very scary man with no pants on…and with no teeth in his face asked me if he could pump my gas for me. I should have known when this very scary bald lady, who, incidentally, was also not wearing any pants or any teeth started screaming “HEY!” in my general direction. About 47 times.
I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to talk on it, even though I am kind of a loser and didn’t really have anyone to talk toÂ (ps. anyone want to volunteer to be my go-to phone person when I am in a scary place?) so I had a complete conversation with myself even though there’s that whole thing about not using your cell phones while pumping gas because you mightÂ explodeÂ or something, but I was banking on that fact that it was just one of those bubba maisahs (Yiddish for old wives tale; one of my most beloved expressions) your mother tells you, like not being allowed to swim after eating and not crossing your eyes because they might stay that way.
Well, the good news is that I made it out alive, I didn’t get eaten by any pantless people and I didn’t explode from having a fake phone conversation.
And I will never let my tank get to less than 1/4 full.
I think the husband may have made this happen on purpose. He’s so magic.