I come from one of the only two states in the nation in which it’s illegal to pump your own gas. I didn’t know about the little switch on the gas pump handle that makes it hold there to a faster or slower pump rate.
Pre-paying for gas was a foreign concept to me. It is no longer. I feel enlightened. Why gas costs half a dollar more per gallon when you have to pump your own, rather than pull into a station at which a gas attendant does it for you, is beyond me.
“Pump number 3, $40 dollars worth.”
I was running on reserve, warning light on, and all, so I had to get gas pronto.
The good news is that on our errand run, we got a new log splitter maul that was better than the one that broke, and a couple of bags of groceries that we needed.
I swore I was going to drag S through Wegman’s one day, and I did so. He was as awed about the place as I was. It’s the place to go for fresh fish, and other animal flesh. I’m a little less awed about their selection of fresh produce — they were totally out of cilantro.
Next time, maybe they will have it. I should have grown it in my garden.