Job’s Walk of Shame

This summer I ran out of gas.  Twice.  In the same spot.  In the same week.  The first time the boys and I walked down to the gas station, bought a small gas can, bought some gas, walked back, put it in the car, then drove back to the gas station to top off the tank.  The second time, I called Katie.  I would have called her the first time but she was in Alaska, or at the airport.  Either way she wasn’t sitting home waiting to bail me out of trouble.  She drove to my house grabbed a giant gas can with so little gas in it that I couldn’t get it tipped up at an angle that would actually pour the gas anywhere but all over my brand new Keens.  They are red and look like Mary Janes and are super cute.  Did I mention I was in a skirt? Finally I thought I had actually gotten enough gas into the tank to get me the 1/4 mile to the gas station but no.  I ran out about 20 feet away.  I did eventually get the car to the gas station and later to the mall.  Katie laughed.  Job thought about taking away my car keys but settled for mass humiliation.

This afternoon Job called me.  He said, “you can’t guess what I just did!” But I could.  I knew immediately that he had run out of gas in the mommy car.  Funny though, now he is insistent that the gas gauge is faulty.  I think the only thing faulty is our ability to stay on top of things.