Monday, June 14, 2010

It's a good thing I'm not a CEO at BP.

This blog is nearing it's fifth year of existence. That's impressive right? Five years of absent minded verbalization which may or may not have improved the planet in any way whatsoever.

The question remains. Hey Becky, are you still absent-minded?

Because the postpartum hormones that caused such a daft brain at the beginning of this blog will be five years old on Saturday and the peri-menopause hormones that caused such a daft brain after postpartum seem to be on an even keel lately. Are you still spacey Becky?

Why yes, yes I am. Thank you ever so much for asking.

Friday morning I had to go put gasoline in the fabulous mini-van, which is also five years old and still running fabulously even if it looks like the floor of a Taco Bell at midnight on the inside. I'm not the one who usually puts gasoline in the van. That's one of Justin's many duties towards the well being of this family, besides grilling red meat and replacing bars of soap in the shower. He makes sure the van's got fuel.

But since I have to drive the 120 miles back and forth to Elko to either pick up or deliver Justin, filling the tank is up to me. 

I'm a competent individual.  I can put gasoline in my tank.  Car maintenance is a not a foreign concept to me. Out of the thousands of gallons of gasoline, both cheap and up the butt expensive, that I've purchased, most of it has ended up in the gas tank of a car.  Removing my gas cap and placing a nozzle in the hole is a procedure that's almost intuitive.

However, learning how to use the new gas pumps at my local grocery store, that's not intuitive and I am not competent.

Take trying to enter your shopper's card information so you can take advantage of discount that ended up totalling an entire fifty cents out of a thirty dollar purchase.  I attempt to enter my shopper number on the little keypad...then it asks for my phone number...then my shopper number again...then for kicks I wrote a blog post and entered that into the pump....none of my info would take.  This prompted the gas attendant to leave his warm little kiosk and scan my card, an operation that took about a quarter second.

No, I did not see the scanner.  There was no neon arrow pointing to it.

At that point the pump asked me for payment which I'm only able to locate after a light next to it started to blink.  After four attempts I manage to insert my debit card in the correct direction, push the debit key, and correctly key in my pin number.  My pin number is much shorter than my shoppers card number.

Now, here's the difficult part, the part where diligence and good decision making skills are required. 

Choose a grade of gasoline.

Noticing more lights blinking on my gas choices, I lift the nozzle, tap the button for the cheap stuff which is clearly marked due to federal law, and attempt put that nozzle in the nozzle putting place.

Only...it doesn't fit. 

Which prompts the man in his warm little kiosk to blare across his speaker, "Ma'am, did you choose diesel?"

No, I did not choose diesel.  I poked the button that said I was choosing low grade cheap skate gas and that's the kind of fuel I need to come out of the nozzle if I could just get that nozzle to go...into...my...tank!

So kiosk man, who has at least two more brain cells than I've got, again leaves his kiosk to instruct me on the difference between the nozzle that is marked "unleaded" and the nozzle that is marked "diesel".  Clearly marked.  Big letters.

...then he rescans my shopper's card.

...and supervises resubmitting my payment information.

...and he lifts the proper nozzle for me, pokes the cheapo unleaded fuel button for me, hands me the nozzle and tells me that I'm ready to fuel.

To reclaim any sex appeal I might have I decided to go ahead and pump the gas myself.

Twenty nine dollars and fifty cents later I pull sheepishly out of the gas station having properly secured the nozzle, my gas cap, the gas cap cover and my seat belt.  Gas make car go zoom.

Ask me how to replace a starter motor on 78 Mustang 2, just ask, because I could tell you all about that.  Ask me how to replace a tire or change the oil or flush out my radiator.  Ask me. 

Now, ask me if I'm still absent minded.

Without that smirk on your face.

Oh, bite me.

4 comments:

  1. We have two cars. The Prius uses the cheap gasoline, getting about 50 miles to a gallon. The VW Beetle is a diesel and uses the stuff from the green pump. It only gets about 33 miles per gallon although it will get close to 50 on a road trip. I really worry that some day I'll put the wrong stuff in one of the two cars.

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  2. Well, you couldn't be an all around genius, could you? Who read that person's blog? Nobody, that's who.
    Smirking but not judging,
    I am,
    Skitzo Leezra

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  3. Hi Becky, congratulations on five years of blogging! I'm impressed. And, I like your writing.

    I ended up at your blog after googling 'bazongas' for a post I'm working on and it brought me over to a one you'd written way back when.

    Here's MY confession. Where the heck is your 'follow' button? I can't seem to find it anywhere. I wanna follow so I can come back every now and again.

    BTW, I louded out loud when I read the title Do NOT pick your nose and wipe it on the mortarboard.

    And, finally, a bit of totally irrelevant info: My brother-in-law is in the oil biz and makes it down to Elko on occasion. They live in Casper, WY.

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  4. Why hello Olivia!

    I have feed buttons but I don't have a follow widget on purpose. I dunno how you follow me without a follow button. I'll look into that.

    I'm glad you've found my bazongas. They are spectacular.

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