v. funny, world.
Smart writers always include disclaimers. Good people lie, good people make bad decisions, good people will disappoint you. Good people, it turns out, can break your heart if given the opportunity.
So I've been dealing with that for the last several weeks, but the Universe was not through with me just yet. On Wednesday night, I got into the airport late and went to the rental counter to pick up my car. I'd reserved a compact car and the clerk asked if I still wanted that class. Yes, I said. I want something small. Okay, she said. I am going to put you in an HHR.
At this point, two thoughts ran through my mind simultaneously: one, an HHR is not small and two, that's what my most recent paramour drives. I had, myself, driven it for the first time just weeks earlier. Eff. But the clerk was nice, it was late on a holiday evening and I didn't want to give her a hassle, so I signed the contract and headed to the garage.
Where I found my car, in stall 91, to be the exact same make, model AND color as his. Haha, Universe. Haha.
But no. That wasn't the end of the funny jokes to be played this weekend. When I went to return the car less than 48 hours later, my aunt was about 10 minutes behind me as I needed to refill the gas tank before she picked me up, carless. I got lost on the way to the airport, losing a few precious minutes. When I finally arrived at the last gas station before the airport, I was woefully behind schedule and didn't want to keep my aunt waiting any longer than necessary.
It was at the precise moment that I realized the neighborhood around the airport is not exactly the kind of place you want to be friendly to your neighbors and yet, I could not figure out how to open the tank. There was no button in the car, no button on the key fob, no lever to pull, no little indentation in the tank cover for manual use. Nothing.
I spent more precious time searching for a way to open the tank and panicking because I could not figure out how I was going to get gas in the car, avoid the 6.99/gallon fuel charge and not totally inconvenience my loved one. After several minutes of exploration, it dawned on me that the only person I know who drives an HHR, let alone knows how to open the tank, was the paramour. And for a few minutes, I was convinced I was going to have to call him to ask how to get some damn gas in that car.
Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed and I found the manual, which told me that all I needed to do was press on the rear of the gas tank door and it would open automatically. Press. Press. Press. Press. Nothing. The door was not moving. Thoughts of having to call the only HHR owner I know were flooding my mind again when suddenly, I slipped a nail under the cover and was able to wedge it open.
Crisis, as they say, averted. But Universe, you are ON NOTICE. No more harshing my mellow, please.
So I've been dealing with that for the last several weeks, but the Universe was not through with me just yet. On Wednesday night, I got into the airport late and went to the rental counter to pick up my car. I'd reserved a compact car and the clerk asked if I still wanted that class. Yes, I said. I want something small. Okay, she said. I am going to put you in an HHR.
At this point, two thoughts ran through my mind simultaneously: one, an HHR is not small and two, that's what my most recent paramour drives. I had, myself, driven it for the first time just weeks earlier. Eff. But the clerk was nice, it was late on a holiday evening and I didn't want to give her a hassle, so I signed the contract and headed to the garage.
Where I found my car, in stall 91, to be the exact same make, model AND color as his. Haha, Universe. Haha.
But no. That wasn't the end of the funny jokes to be played this weekend. When I went to return the car less than 48 hours later, my aunt was about 10 minutes behind me as I needed to refill the gas tank before she picked me up, carless. I got lost on the way to the airport, losing a few precious minutes. When I finally arrived at the last gas station before the airport, I was woefully behind schedule and didn't want to keep my aunt waiting any longer than necessary.
It was at the precise moment that I realized the neighborhood around the airport is not exactly the kind of place you want to be friendly to your neighbors and yet, I could not figure out how to open the tank. There was no button in the car, no button on the key fob, no lever to pull, no little indentation in the tank cover for manual use. Nothing.
I spent more precious time searching for a way to open the tank and panicking because I could not figure out how I was going to get gas in the car, avoid the 6.99/gallon fuel charge and not totally inconvenience my loved one. After several minutes of exploration, it dawned on me that the only person I know who drives an HHR, let alone knows how to open the tank, was the paramour. And for a few minutes, I was convinced I was going to have to call him to ask how to get some damn gas in that car.
Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed and I found the manual, which told me that all I needed to do was press on the rear of the gas tank door and it would open automatically. Press. Press. Press. Press. Nothing. The door was not moving. Thoughts of having to call the only HHR owner I know were flooding my mind again when suddenly, I slipped a nail under the cover and was able to wedge it open.
Crisis, as they say, averted. But Universe, you are ON NOTICE. No more harshing my mellow, please.
posted by Alison Inaz @ 6:28 PM
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