Two thursdays ago I had to work the dreaded 1-11 shift. This shift is not as bad as the horrid 10-8 shift in which you cannot accomplish anything either before or after work. This shift, the 1-11 is dreaded because I can sleep in somewhat late (9 am is late people!) and still get something done before actually having to go to work. Still bad, because I hate working late, but at least I can run some errands.
So this particular thursday I had a few things to do before heading off to my wonderful job-
My objective: Get ready for work, return movies to video store, pick up dry cleaning, get gas (the meter is almost on empty) and then go to work.
My 'borrowed from my parents because I am too poor to afford a car payment, or car insurance, or hell, let's face it, anything but my mortgage,' 1993 850 GLT Volvo, whom I lovingly refer to as Yeti, had other plans.
Yeti's objective: Sit in garage until Sabrina's prissy ass is ready to go, start up totally normal not giving the slightest inclination that anything is wrong, drive to video store, die in video store parking lot.
Eff.
So, since I am a 26 year old responsible adult who is determined to make it on her own in this world, the first thing I do is call my Daddy. The conversation went something like this-
Me: Hi Daddy!
My Dad: Hi? (note the questioning tone preparing for the inevitable)
Me: So Yeti just died in the Family Video parking lot and it won't start and I have to be to work in 30 minutes and I don't know what to do! *sniffle*
My Dad: When is the last time you put gas in it?
Me: ...
My Dad: (sighs) Call you mother, there is a gas can in the garage. From now on, fill up your tank before it gets to 'E' which stands for empty. If that doesn't fix the problem, give me a call.
Me: Ok, thanks Dad.
Eff again. Calling mom.
The moral of the story: Cars need gas to make them go.
Who knew?
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