He pumps my gas for me.
(That is not a euphemism for anything either, Mr. Dirty Mind.)
And not just when I need to get gas and he’s in the car and I whine enough until he says “Oh, I’ll pump for you.” No, no.
He will take my car to go get the gas and then bring my car back. He loves me that much.
He also knows that I will run that thing down to empty before I stop for gas. I know when my gas light comes on, I have about 50 miles left (the car salesman told me that) and unfortunately, I even have a little “How many miles are left on this tank?” gauge.
I’ve run it down to 25. At that point, it just starts blinking at you, begging you stop somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t know why I hate stopping so much.
This bad habit of mine did cause a bit of a scare when we had Arctic Blast 2010 in November. I sat on the freeway for almost two hours with my heat blaring, watching my gas needle drop. Using my wisdom and intelligence, I concluded that if I turned off the butt warmers and the heat, I would save gas. But then Todd called to check on me and I told him I was freezing because of this brilliant logic and he said “Um. The alternator runs your heat. Not gasoline. If you’re engine is running, you’re using gas. Heat or no heat.”
Well, okay fine!
I turned the butt warmers and heater back on and was nice and toasty on my long drive home.
Our forecast has a “slight chance” of snow for Wednesday. You know what that means. Arctic Blast 2010, The Sequel. I’m not working on Wednesday (thank gawd) but, in any event, Todd took my car to the grocery store yesterday and gassed it up.