Pumping, and not pumping, gas

My regular readers (Hi there, both of you) will know I have a thing about pumping gas. I seriously dreaded leaving New Jersey because you aren't allowed to fill your own tank in the Garden State.

When I first moved to Delaware, I thought I'd get used to doing it myself. So far, I have managed to snooker someone else into pumping for me every time. I've now developed a real phobia about doing it.

Then I drove to Massachusetts, with my partner in crime, BG. BG not only can't pump, she can't even drive. On the way, as is inevitable, we had to stop for gas in some godforsaken place in upstate New York.

Park car. Check. Open gas tank. Check. Get out credit card. Check. Okay so far. Then I fumble with the gas cap--I can't get that sucker open.

An older man sees me and BG struggling futilely with the gas cap. He comes over to "show" us how to do it. He opens the cap, filled the gas tank, and then demonstrates how to close it. We thank him profusely.

He leaves with a jaunty, "Good luck, girls!"

So far, so good.

In Lenox, I remembered, there is a full-service gas station, complete with attendant. I stopped there and got the attendant to do the dirty deed.

On the way home, I had to go through New Jersey, so I got a full tank pumped for me. Pure bliss--my vacation was a success.