All my stupid revolves around cars

By Gina Angostura
NH Mirror Staff

OK, I was never a Boy Scout.

Maybe I should have been, then I would have been prepared.

But the day caught me unawares, as it so often does. I had two things on my mind: a facial I had scheduled and the birthday party at work.

They put me in charge of birthdays at my office, mainly because that’s a job I can do and not screw up too badly. Plus no one else wants to do it. It’s a pretty responsible job, too. I have to buy cards and pick up a cake. I also have to make sure I keep paper plates, plastic forks, candles and matches at optimum levels. If you don’t have matches, then you have to go through the hassle of asking one of the staff smokers to borrow a lighter, which they’ve invariably left on their desk, so they have to go back and get it, wasting valuable cake time.

So that day, I stopped at Shaw’s for the cake, ran to the office and dropped it off, then took off for the salon. So efficient!

It took me a while to find the place as I had never been there before. And you know those salons, the women get all huffy when you walk in 5 or 30 minutes late.

But at this one, the women were really nice, and the facial was lovely and relaxing. So I’m all chill as I’m driving back to the office, except then I realize I’m late for the party, and all I can think is: Must … have … cake.

So I launch into driving mode, calculating how long it will take me from where I am on the highway, and the road ahead becomes like that grid in the movie “Tron,” all neon and video-gamey, and I swerve around the obstacles trying not to get lasered.

That’s probably why I didn’t notice the blinking light on my dashboard signaling that my gas supply was low. It’s too bad it wasn’t a video game, because then I would have been picking up fuel pods as I drove over them, and I wouldn’t have come to a dead halt on Canal Street, about three blocks from my office.

In situations like these, a single woman must rely on her wits. Unfortunately, mine had left for the Caribbean.
Of course, I’d forgotten my cell phone, charging at home, my shiny new car charger sitting idly in the cigarette lighter socket.

And, of course, I was on a hill. I tried to push the car over to the curb, but I couldn’t manage it. I probably could have if I hadn’t pulled a ligament in my foot on the treadmill at the gym the week before and was having trouble even standing on it. My new motto: Exercise is Evil.

Two men jogged by, and several stared at me from their cars until finally a woman stopped. She couldn’t help me push, but lent me her cell phone. Meanwhile, a female cop stopped, thinking we’d had an accident. She couldn’t push either, so she called for backup. Finally, we moved the stupid hunk of gasless metal 5 feet to the curb. I won’t tell you how I lost my keys twice while sitting there. That would make me look like a complete idiot.

Finally, my coworker Nat – who is making me call him my Knight in Shining Armor even though he wears a Red Sox T-shirt every day – showed up with some gas.

Neither of us could figure out how to put the nozzle on the can. Two college educations and no sense at all.
Anyway, it all ended well. My skin felt wonderful, even if my hands smelled like gas for the rest of the day.

And as God is my witness, I’ll never run out of gas again. At least until the next time chocolate silk cake takes its place in my brain.

Does your misery love company? Send Gina an e-mail at singlecynic@thenhmirror.com.