“What’s this?” The Captain tossed his hat and coat by the door and picked up a folded pink paper from the table.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. Cupid left it for you.”
“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose.
“Maybe Cupid was having a bad day.”
“It smells like gasoline.”
“Well if Cupid didn’t have to pump her own gas, it might smell like meatloaf.”
“We’re having meatloaf? Did you put the little heart made out of catsup on the top?”
“We don’t have any catsup. I was going to the store when I ran out of gas. At the gas station the note fell out of my pocket and blew under a pickup truck. When I bent down to get it back, I spilled gas on it.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad day. Why don’t we go out?”
“Because we’re having meatloaf. It’s your favorite.”
“But we don’t have any catsup. What did you put on top?”
“Strawberry jelly.”
“Oh.”
“That’s all we had that was red.”
“Maybe I should read the note.”
“Well, I was kind of annoyed by the time I finished it.”
“I see.” He tossed the note in a bowl on the table and touched it with the lighter we keep handy for starting the grill.
Hungry flames and the smell of burning gas flared and then receded.
He grinned. “Hottest love note I ever got. Let’s go eat.”
“Can we take your car?”
“Okay,” he put his arm around me and grinned as he guided me toward the door.
“But we’ll have to stop for gas.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label gas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gas. Show all posts
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Two Cents
As a cost conscious individual whose retirement funds are tied up in the spiraling gasoline market (I still owe three monthly installments on the tank of gas I bought before the bust), I am always attuned to ways of saving money. I’ve found as I’ve traveled through the express lane of life that there are certain factors that clue you in to the road most likely paved with full-priced, economically unstable gold-plated bricks. Keep your eye out for these and grab the next exit toward the coupon-cobbled road of the thrifty and impoverished. This road is often paved with copies of McDonald’s dollar menu.
Always pay attention to product descriptions:
Medication is a specialized treatment that costs not less than twenty-five dollars per designer colored tablet and causes side effects which include, but are not limited to, drooling, drowsiness, hives, death, and poor fashion choices.
Medicine is a couple of aspirin. Without the easy-swallow buffered coating. Side effects: dropping twenty bucks on fashion magazines and makeup at the drugstore at time of purchase.
The department store that advertises a fashion pant is offering up a pair of slacks painstakingly pieced from delicate fabric made of handwoven alpaca wool. The material is priced per square inch on the same rate of exchange used to determine the value of real estate in Beverly Hills. Likewise the word “trousers” used in describing women’s clothes indicates payment in large bills or barrels of crude oil.
On the other hand, a pair of pants, while seemingly twice as much commodity for the money, is often found on the clearance rack at WalMart for ten dollars. Elastic waistband is complimentary. To say the least.
Another important factor to remember is advertising. If a restaurant advertises a lunchtime taco special at the drive-through, you can feed your entire office with a coupon and a twenty dollar bill, with extra salsa to spill on your upholstery. However, if a restaurant is located in a grove of trees on the outskirts of the shopping district, boasts no windows, is barely visible due to subtle lighting, and has an advertising campaign passed by word of mouth over cocktails at the country club, you could book a cruise for a week of summertime fun in Los Cabos, before you afford one of their shrimp.
Likewise, keep in mind that any beauty product advertised by a film star is likely made from the antennae of Guatemalan butterflies and is priced by the gram.
But any product advertised by Paris Hilton is cheap, which in this case is not the same as inexpensive. Choose wisely or risk being followed home by paparazzi with disposable cameras demanding a cleavage shot or an outraged Chihuahua in a tutu trying to serve papers for emotional distress.
Remember that the educated shopper can always find the good buy. And now that the price of gas is coming down, you can save for that hamburger you always wanted. Or afford to give the snotty waiter offering you the dinner special--a glass of water and an olive--at the fancy restaurant a piece of your mind--your own two cents worth. Plus tax.
Always pay attention to product descriptions:
Medication is a specialized treatment that costs not less than twenty-five dollars per designer colored tablet and causes side effects which include, but are not limited to, drooling, drowsiness, hives, death, and poor fashion choices.
Medicine is a couple of aspirin. Without the easy-swallow buffered coating. Side effects: dropping twenty bucks on fashion magazines and makeup at the drugstore at time of purchase.
The department store that advertises a fashion pant is offering up a pair of slacks painstakingly pieced from delicate fabric made of handwoven alpaca wool. The material is priced per square inch on the same rate of exchange used to determine the value of real estate in Beverly Hills. Likewise the word “trousers” used in describing women’s clothes indicates payment in large bills or barrels of crude oil.
On the other hand, a pair of pants, while seemingly twice as much commodity for the money, is often found on the clearance rack at WalMart for ten dollars. Elastic waistband is complimentary. To say the least.
Another important factor to remember is advertising. If a restaurant advertises a lunchtime taco special at the drive-through, you can feed your entire office with a coupon and a twenty dollar bill, with extra salsa to spill on your upholstery. However, if a restaurant is located in a grove of trees on the outskirts of the shopping district, boasts no windows, is barely visible due to subtle lighting, and has an advertising campaign passed by word of mouth over cocktails at the country club, you could book a cruise for a week of summertime fun in Los Cabos, before you afford one of their shrimp.
Likewise, keep in mind that any beauty product advertised by a film star is likely made from the antennae of Guatemalan butterflies and is priced by the gram.
But any product advertised by Paris Hilton is cheap, which in this case is not the same as inexpensive. Choose wisely or risk being followed home by paparazzi with disposable cameras demanding a cleavage shot or an outraged Chihuahua in a tutu trying to serve papers for emotional distress.
Remember that the educated shopper can always find the good buy. And now that the price of gas is coming down, you can save for that hamburger you always wanted. Or afford to give the snotty waiter offering you the dinner special--a glass of water and an olive--at the fancy restaurant a piece of your mind--your own two cents worth. Plus tax.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Camping's Out
Several years ago, Bill and I agreed to take our two boys on a camping trip. The boys, who owned more electronic equipment by the age of two than I have in my entire life, felt that they had been rudely neglected and possibly abused because they had never been camping. They’ve never skinned a chicken either, but that’s beside the point.
“And don’t argue the whole way.”
Bill and I exchanged a knowing look. “Okay,” we agreed. The last time they caught us in a discussion of escalating proportions, they locked us in the bathroom together overnight.
Early one summer morning, we arose in peace and harmony, swallowed our body weight in coffee, threw ourselves into the car and drove in silence and numbed goodwill for several minutes.
“Hand me the map,” my husband said, extending one open hand while juggling his travel mug, aspirin bottle, and steering wheel in the other.
“Map?” I asked, eyeing him quizzically.
“You didn’t pack a map?”
“If I wanted to pack something I couldn’t read, I would have just brought along War and Peace in the original Russian.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested lining the bed of his truck with dotted swiss, jammed his foot down on the brake, and squealed into a gas station.
“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”
“Mom, is this an argument?” A puffy face blinked sleepily at me over the back seat. His mouth was ringed with chocolate milk and PopTart crumbs, and his hair looked like a weeping willow in a windstorm.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Pop just needs a map to find difficult locations like Asia or our mailbox.”
The boys exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a fight.”
Coffee in hand and map accordianed across the dashboard, we resumed our trip. “How much farther?” he asked, guiding the car steadily around a mountain curve. Some people just can’t be taught. I consulted the map and lifted my gaze.
“According to this, about a quarter of an inch.”
“Never mind,” he answered steadily, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “Where do we go at the junction?”
“The Shady Rest Hotel?”
Snarling, he lunged abruptly for the map, drowning any final shreds of civility in a flood of hot coffee.
“Don’t overreact,” I said soothingly, blotting up caffeine with the Northeast section of Macon County. “I was kidding.”
My husband regarded me with the same intense stare I’ve observed on the faces of cheetahs watching sickly gazelle stragglers on Wild Kingdom. If he had one, I would swear I could see his tail twitching.
“Look,” I purred, wringing out the map. This chocolate drip is the campground. That potato chip grease is where we are now. All we have to do is follow this dotted line across those squiggles and we’re there!”
I don’t understand how some people can live with themselves the way they speak to other people who are trying to help.
“How was I supposed to know those squiggles were the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“As long as you have the entire map of the United States unfolded in the front seat, try reading the legend.”
“Okay, but you know I get sick if I read in the car.”
“One quick peek won’t hurt anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Later, when we finally found a service station with equipment to clean the upholstery, I heard the boys talking behind the gas pumps.
“Do you think we’ll get there alive?” one voice asked.
“I don’t know, but if we do, we’re gonna lock ‘em in the bath-house.”
“And don’t argue the whole way.”
Bill and I exchanged a knowing look. “Okay,” we agreed. The last time they caught us in a discussion of escalating proportions, they locked us in the bathroom together overnight.
Early one summer morning, we arose in peace and harmony, swallowed our body weight in coffee, threw ourselves into the car and drove in silence and numbed goodwill for several minutes.
“Hand me the map,” my husband said, extending one open hand while juggling his travel mug, aspirin bottle, and steering wheel in the other.
“Map?” I asked, eyeing him quizzically.
“You didn’t pack a map?”
“If I wanted to pack something I couldn’t read, I would have just brought along War and Peace in the original Russian.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested lining the bed of his truck with dotted swiss, jammed his foot down on the brake, and squealed into a gas station.
“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”
“Mom, is this an argument?” A puffy face blinked sleepily at me over the back seat. His mouth was ringed with chocolate milk and PopTart crumbs, and his hair looked like a weeping willow in a windstorm.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Pop just needs a map to find difficult locations like Asia or our mailbox.”
The boys exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a fight.”
Coffee in hand and map accordianed across the dashboard, we resumed our trip. “How much farther?” he asked, guiding the car steadily around a mountain curve. Some people just can’t be taught. I consulted the map and lifted my gaze.
“According to this, about a quarter of an inch.”
“Never mind,” he answered steadily, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “Where do we go at the junction?”
“The Shady Rest Hotel?”
Snarling, he lunged abruptly for the map, drowning any final shreds of civility in a flood of hot coffee.
“Don’t overreact,” I said soothingly, blotting up caffeine with the Northeast section of Macon County. “I was kidding.”
My husband regarded me with the same intense stare I’ve observed on the faces of cheetahs watching sickly gazelle stragglers on Wild Kingdom. If he had one, I would swear I could see his tail twitching.
“Look,” I purred, wringing out the map. This chocolate drip is the campground. That potato chip grease is where we are now. All we have to do is follow this dotted line across those squiggles and we’re there!”
I don’t understand how some people can live with themselves the way they speak to other people who are trying to help.
“How was I supposed to know those squiggles were the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“As long as you have the entire map of the United States unfolded in the front seat, try reading the legend.”
“Okay, but you know I get sick if I read in the car.”
“One quick peek won’t hurt anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Later, when we finally found a service station with equipment to clean the upholstery, I heard the boys talking behind the gas pumps.
“Do you think we’ll get there alive?” one voice asked.
“I don’t know, but if we do, we’re gonna lock ‘em in the bath-house.”
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Credit Pays
Men are from cash only, women are from Visa. If you can’t drive it, put a refrigerator in it, or watch the Super Bowl with automatic stop-and-go action on it, men want a one-time transaction. Women want a receipt.
Paying cash may have been an option in the olden days when you could get gas without taking out an advance on your paycheck, but these days you need to pursue a line of credit just to buy breakfast cereal. A transaction to fill up your gas tank could very well involve the question, “Fixed or variable rate?”
And why is it men carry on like the TV remote just went belly-up if they have to go to the store with us to buy a pair of pantyhose, yet if they’re off to shop for lawn tractors, we have to pack a lunch? Once they get into a discussion of horsepower with the garden man at Home Depot, we can sneak off for a cut and perm, have a rendezvous with the pool boy, and still be back in time to hear them say, “But will it handle the hills?”
A man copes well with important, life altering purchases, like a home in the suburbs or a clever multipurpose tool that can do everything from buff his golf balls to pick his teeth, and that comes with a sleek leather holster that clips to his belt. Men are especially fond of gadgets, and have a particular love for the ones they can attach to their bodies for display purposes. My husband looks like he’s wearing a Batman utility belt when he leaves for work every day. But the first time he calls me Alfred and slides down a pole to get to the breakfast table, we’re through.
Paying cash may have been an option in the olden days when you could get gas without taking out an advance on your paycheck, but these days you need to pursue a line of credit just to buy breakfast cereal. A transaction to fill up your gas tank could very well involve the question, “Fixed or variable rate?”
And why is it men carry on like the TV remote just went belly-up if they have to go to the store with us to buy a pair of pantyhose, yet if they’re off to shop for lawn tractors, we have to pack a lunch? Once they get into a discussion of horsepower with the garden man at Home Depot, we can sneak off for a cut and perm, have a rendezvous with the pool boy, and still be back in time to hear them say, “But will it handle the hills?”
A man copes well with important, life altering purchases, like a home in the suburbs or a clever multipurpose tool that can do everything from buff his golf balls to pick his teeth, and that comes with a sleek leather holster that clips to his belt. Men are especially fond of gadgets, and have a particular love for the ones they can attach to their bodies for display purposes. My husband looks like he’s wearing a Batman utility belt when he leaves for work every day. But the first time he calls me Alfred and slides down a pole to get to the breakfast table, we’re through.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Driving Bigfoot
It’s traumatic enough to teach a teenage boy to drive without having to do it during a period of time when oil sells for more per barrel than the movie Titanic grossed during its entire run—including endorsements, action figures, and Leonardo DeCaprio’s autograph on a commission check. When my son put his size 72 foot (appendages on the accelerator may be larger than they appear when peeking through my fingers) on the gas pedal, he burned $27.50 of premium unleaded and left a skid mark in my driveway composed of the entire collection of Commemorative State Quarters. At the stoplight he revved the engine and the smell of burning presidents filled the air like fake butter scent at a movie matinee. Counting the meager stash left in my wallet, I couldn’t help hoping he caught on quickly to the concept of three-point turns. Besides, I needed to get to the bank before closing time. I wanted to take out a loan to teach him to parallel park.
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