It was a mere three days ago - Thursday. I had a few hours to kill before my sanity-preservation appointment (also known as therapy) so I thought I would take myself out to a nice lunch, do a little shopping and indulge in some much needed and well-deserved me-time. Lunch was delicious and en route to my shopping destination, I decided to stop at the gas station. I still had half a tank but this gas station has one of those super convenient drive-through car washes you can add on to your gas purchase. Because mi madre will be here Tuesday, I thought I should put on my Diligent Daughter Pants and get the vehicle washed so that when she clings to it nervously while wishing I would let her smoke in my car, it would be pleasant for all of us.
I must have been operating on autopilot because after I pulled the nozzle out of my gas tank, I realized I had just put 8 gallons of ethanol in my car. Oopsie.
I then experienced what I ruefully describe as a Moment of Girl. A Moment of Girl is best explained as a visceral, kidney-stabbing experience when you realize you are woefully unprepared to deal with the current situation and it is because you have matching x chromosomes.
My mind raced as I tried to recall everything I knew about ethanol. I remembered that it came from corn. And I think people were asking fast food restaurants for their used... vegetable oil. Shit. I was pretty sure hippies used it but I really couldn't tell you if they grew pot with it or powered their Vespas with it. As my Moment of Girl set in much like that imminent moment right before the food poisoning says hello, I realized I didn't know a goddamn thing about ethanol including whether I'd just ruined my car.
So what did I do? I called a boy. And there is nothing that cements a MoG like calling a boy for help. I could practically hear Susan B. Anthony admonishing me from the grave. Had Betty Friedan written all those love-your-vagina books for nothing? Was Gloria Steinem going to remind me that this is why I should be riding a bike?
Boy advised me to wait for him to arrive so he could drain my gas tank. After I hung up the phone, I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh, cry, or see if the gas station carried wine coolers. A few minutes later, boy called back with a mechanic's advice to top off the tank with premium non-corn-infused gas and start driving. So, not only did I have to directly disobey the directions on every gas pump about NOT TOPPING OFF THE TANK but I had to drive a vehicle that may or may not continue to operate. (I should mention here that non-operational vehicles are also MoG-inducing. Once again, I don't know a goddamn thing about cars AND there is the added bonus of rapists everywhere.)
As shopping was now off the table and driving drunk is still illegal, I decided to spend the next 45 minutes driving in hopes of mixing the old gas, corn fuel, and Mercedes gas. I stayed in the right hand lane, made only right turns and breathed occasionally. My car did not sputter, backfire or otherwise cease to operate. I spent most of that 45 minutes repeatedly thanking the Japanese people for sushi and cars.
I'm not exactly sure what the take-home lesson is here. Perhaps it was another ha-ha-fuck-you reminder of the fact that I cannot write my name in the snow with my own pee, compress unwanted feelings into a resounding belch, and never enjoy the coveted male morning ritual of showering, shitting and shaving. (This is why I will never date a boy who flat irons his hair or who has more make-up than I do. I have enough issues without involving gender identity.)
After a MoG, it is important to remind oneself of the benefits of belonging to The Cliterati. Boobs are useful and can often score free stuff. I pretty much never have to deal with scary bugs or rodents. I can wear sparkly nail polish without having to field questions about my "domestic union." And, I can order cocktails in a rainbow of colors without my virility being called into question.
But, I still need a boy when it comes to cars, home repairs, and scorpions. And that, I suppose, is the nature of the Yin... and the Wang.
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