Was it 11 days without blogging? I am not sure where I went wrong with karma recently, but I must have missed something big.
Last night, I met my friend for a run (okay, some running - more like slow jogging along with walking and chatting, but it was better than sitting on the couch all night watching the last few shows before the writers strike affects me). I picked her up at her house, and as we were pulling out of her neighborhood, she peered at the gleaming light on my dash. She shifted in her seat and said, "Um, do you want me to drive?" I replied, "Why, 'cause my gas light is on? No, it is totally fine. The park is only 2 miles away, right?" Squeaky hamster wheels spinning in my head... okay, 2 miles to the park, so 4 miles total... plus the 20 miles from work to get here... plus the 7 miles from my house to work... hmmm... I think the light was on yesterday, too. How many miles did that total? Whatever - we should make it. We are going for exercise, so if we get stuck, we could always walk back to her house.
If you think this story is going to end with us running out of gas, you have been misled like a hopeful prom date who thinks his investment in a corsage is going to pay off with the big jackpot. We went for a very nice run/jog/walk, and I delivered her home safely.
With my careful math (thirtyish miles?), and lack of memory on how long the light was on before I sort of started keeping track, I thought it best to stop and fill up before trying to drive home. Responsible, no? I pulled into the first gas station. Did you know that gas is a hundred dollars a gallon? I think I pulled into the most expensive gas station in a 200 mile radius. But, beggars can't be choosers, so I hopped out and set to giving my horse a tall drink.
I was yapping on the phone with another friend when I heard the "you are now broke" click of the pump. Upon opening my door, I saw the side of my car drenched and the ground soaked with pungent expensive liquid. I hung up on my friend (but I think I told her I was alive and not to worry before hanging up).
I glanced at the financial damage on the tiny screen, and my vivid imagination wondered if I would blow up like Derek Zoolander's friends. But then I remembered I was not a male model, nor was I toting an open flame near the pump. And then I got PISSED. Really pissed. My car (just washed a few days ago) had gas all over it... and I was CHARGED FOR IT.
So I marched myself into the "station" part of the gas station. A beautiful slice of Americana hustling Doritos and Marlboros, but it was the only place with bright lights on in the area. So, I went into the bright light. I explained to Devindar what had happened, and he (reluctantly) followed me out to my car with two orange cones. He motioned for me to move my car so he could put the cones down (which again made me flash back to blowing up in a gas station parking lot, but again I remembered that I am not THAT stupid).
After moving my dripping million dollar baby out of the kill zone, I reassessed the damages, and realized that the digital screen was notioning (notion is a noun, so this isn't technically a word, but I think it should be, considering all the legit words I have to put up with - like monies - that I don't think should be words) that I would be charged $69.12 for this incident. Oh no he dih-int... I reached for the receipt, but of course there wasn't one. In an effort to offset the global warming effect of their gasoline peddling, Chevron decided to save a few trees, and didn't bother printing out receipts. Al Gore would be proud of their environmentally friendly transactions.
I could feel Teen wolf taking over... you know what they say - you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can't take the Jersey out of the girl. I checked for a full moon, but it was only a slight sliver in the sky. Perhaps my experience was more akin to the Hulk, then, as I was instigated by anger. My hair poofed out, my nails were instantly fake, and I had a sudden urge to visit the mall. But first, I had business to take care of... where is Vinnie when you need him?
I told the attendant that I would like to be reimbursed for 2 gallons of my purchase due to the pump malfunction (the name of JJ's next scandal - you saw it here first). He stared at me, and I realized he did not understand a word I said. I asked him if he understood me, and he walked away from me... back to the motherland of pork rinds and Miller Lite. I followed him, of course. I asked him if he understood, and he said he could not give me any money. I tried to reason with him, but since he could not understand me, my thoroughly logical argument was for naught.
After insisting that he could not give me any money, I asked to talk to a manager. He said that the manager was off that day. Of course he was! So I said, I don't care, call the owner. Get me someone. He tried to evade me some more, but I said that I wasn't leaving until I talked to someone. I knew he had contact numbers - gas stations get robbed all the time on TV, wouldn't their owners want to know about it?
After numerous misdials on his part (or fake dials, I'm not sure), I finally spoke to Pam, the assistant manager. I explained to her about the pump malfunction, spillage on their premises, and the discrepancy between the amount of gas pumped on the receipt (I requested a copy when I went inside) and the amount of gas my car holds. 18 gallons max in my car. 19.869 gallons on the receipt. So, I would like 2 gallons worth of gas reimbursed. At $3.50 per gallon, that is seven dollars. (Quick math - stay in school, kids - those skills actually DO come in handy.)
She couldn't authorize such a massive refund, so she had to call the owner. When Glenda called back, she tried to argue with me. Apparently gas stations do not follow the "customer is always right" policy. I had to restate my case to Glenda. She offered me one gallon because all she heard was 18 gallons and 19 gallons. I explained to her that I was rounding up - 19.869 is practically 20, yielding a difference of 2. Then I went Jersey on her when she wouldn't give me my seven dollars. Really? Was that going to put her out of business? Finally, Cody came on his shift, and was able to refund me seven dollars, per Glenda the wicked witch's orders after I wore her down. Ironically, the only way he knew how to open the register was by authorizing a car wash.
What was it, karma? I rescued a bug and let it out of the house last week. Isn't that enough? Or did that just cover last week?
Oh, and P.S. - nobody ever apologized to me for the pump malfunction that left gas all over the side of my car!
Names have not been changed to protect the not-so-innocent