I ran out of gas tonight. Conveniently enough, I was near USF with an unnamed male to whom I am married and who was driving his own vehicle. And we conveniently pulled into a turn lane and called our baby sitter, who happened to be my dad. Ten minutes later my dad showed up in a convertible with my 9-yr-old son, who was hopping all over the place, giddy as snake in a rat museum. Oh, the adventure of bringing gas to your mom on a Friday evening. But it wasn’t gas. It was a gas and oil mixture, made for a lawnmower that hasn’t chewed a blade of grass in almost a year now. So, it was back to the gas station they went.
Soon enough, with some high octane imported from some far away scary country, we were on our merry way to Target again. After filling up our tank, the unnamed male got in the car and said, “Well, it’s good to have gas.”
“Depends on the context, I guess,” said I.
I know. That was dumb.