Day 343: Good Sarah-Marie-Ten….

Hey there adoring fans (Becky Anderson)!

Here’s a fun bedtime story for you.  Saturday night, I went to the gas station to pick up my evening coke zero.  I know, I know, I keep saying I’m going to quit, but this aspartame filled nectar of saitan has a hold on me.  What’s that?  You’re not concerned about my coke zero addiction?  You’re more worried that I spend my Saturday nights going to gas stations instead of going to some fabulous Sex and the City type escapade where I arrive at the opening of some posh nightclub with my super rich gal pals and accidentally slip and fall and my vagina lands of Harry Connick Jr?  Well, no!  I like to spend my Saturday nights walking my dog in the park under the slight buzz of chemically made sweeteners.  Anywho, back to my good samaritan story.  Oh crap!  I gave it away.  It’s a story about me being a good samaritan, or atleast trying to be.  So, after I handed the cashier my dollar fifty to pay for my devil juice, a young lady walked into the gas station in a slight panic.

Panicked-Young-Lady: “Is there anyone here who could change my oil?”

Nigerian-BP-employee: “No, the shop is closed.”

Panicked-Young-Lady: “Well, is there anyone that could check my oil?  I don’t know how.”

Nigerian-BP-employee: “No.”

Extra-panicked-Young-Lady: “Please.  The light came on and I don’t know what to do.”

Extra-annoyed-BP-employee: “No.”

Me: “Giiirrrrllllll!  You don’t know how to check your oil?”

A-little-offended-that-I-put-on-my-black-voice-when-I-shouted-“Giiirrrrlllllll!”-but- willing-to-forgive-me-because-she-was-still-a-panicked-Young-Lady: “No, I have no idea how to check it.”

Me-returning-to-my-normal-boring-white-voice: “Well, I know how to check oil.  Come on, let’s figure it out!”

Relieved-over-my-kindness-yet-still-peeved-at-Nigerian-BP-employee-because-we-all-know-he-knows-how-to-check-oil-Young-Lady:  “Oh my god!  Thank you so much!”

So then, Ruby, my coke zero, and I headed out to have a looksy under her hood (giggity giggity goo!).  I marched over to her car, thinking mostly of how proud my Dad would be of his daughter for knowing how to check oil, and only slightly about how this would be the perfect trap for me to be kidnapped and sold into human sex trafficking.

As we opened the hood, I began to doubt myself on my knowledge of the task at hand.  I haven’t checked oil since I don’t know, 2001?  And even then it was on my ’91 Ford Escort.  This engine looked completely foreign to me.  Back in my day, you saw an entire ugly engine when you opened your hood of a car.  You propped said hood open with an old broom from your trunk because the real propp-y open-y thingamajig broke years ago when you were necking on the hood with your 10th grade boyfriend.  This fancy new car had a cover over the whole dang engine!  It took me 5 minutes to find the pull-y out-y dip-sticky thing, but finally, I did!  Look at me now dad!  I pulled out the pull-y out-y dip-sticky thing and wiped it clean with some dunkin’ donuts napkins, put it back in, and pulled it out again (giggity).  No oil.

Triumphant-me: “You need oil.”

Dumbfounded-Young-Lady: “Oh jeez.  Ok.  What kind of oil?”

Wind-blown-out-of-sails-me: “Ummmmm….crap…hold on…I have no idea…. Let me call my Dad.”

Dad: “Hello?  What’s up”

Daddy’s-little-girl: “Well, a stranger here in Harlem, asked for my help, so I came over to their car to see what was the matter.  Not sure what the make is, this ally is very dark.”

Dear-old-Dad: (smacks forehead)

Me: “I checked her oil, and I think it’s out.  What kind of oil does she need.  It’s a normal sized car.”

Dad-who-I-should-probably-mention-is-a-truck-driver-and-knows-a-lot-about-cars: “I’d say probably z100, or 92Q, or Mix106.5 (I don’t really remember what kind of oil he said, so I just substituted Baltimore radio stations of the early 90’s for the purpose of this blog post).”

Me: “Go get some 99.1WHFS!”

Young-Lady: “Ok!”

3 minutes later…

Me: “Ok, dad.  We’re putting it in the car….wait a second, should it be spitting at us?

Dad:  “Is the car running.”

Me: “yes.”

Dad: “Turn it off!!!!!!”

Me-as-if-I-was-in-a-scene-from-Die-Hard:“Turn it off!!!!!  Run!!!!!  It’s a powder keg!!!!  We’re all going to die!!!!!!”(and then proceed to hang up on my dad in hysteria).

Young-Lady: “Ahhhhh!!!!  I can’t!!!!  I just got the battery jump started!!!  I’m supposed to leave it running!!!!  What are we gonna do????”

Panicked-and-confused-Me: (calling my dad back)  “Are we going to explode????  Did I almost just kill us???”

Dad: “No.  You’re just not supposed to put oil in a running car.”

Me-who-should-have-paid-more-attention-to-my-Dad-when-I-was-16-when-he-taught-me-how-to-check-oil: “She just got a jump start so she can’t turn it off.  And I just crapped my pants.  Is crap flammable?”

Dad-who-is-constantly-in-awe-of-how-his-daughter-has-survived-this-long: “No.  Just fill it up with a quart and she should be fine until she gets where she needs to be to turn it off.”

And that’s just what we did!  The end.

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