Parenthetical: (This is why I can't have nice things.)

So last week, I had this brilliant idea for a blog post that would detail all of the reasons that I should not pump my own gas.  More specifically:

My coat is white.
It is cold out.
It is hot out.
I'm wearing inappropriate footwear.
I could catch on fire.
The card reader might not read my card and think I stole the gas and then I could lose my license.  And die.
I might forget my zip code.
I might get gas all over my matching white gloves.
I might get gas on my actual hands.
I might hit "pay inside" by mistake, go inside to pre-pay, over-pump by 41 cents and then have to have a manager approve the transaction, after some humiliation ensues from the implication of not having $20 on my debit card (Not that that hasn't happened.  And at the Dollar General no less.).
I might also forget which side the gas tank is on, drive up on the wrong side, drive around to the right side, and still be on the wrong side.  (In my defense, I've only done that, like, twice.)
Finally, I might use my entire body to try to push the button that says "Pay Outside with Credit" and fail.  Hard.  Three times.  (Um, apparently the ice storm-Snowpocalpyse 2011-broke the buttons.  Maybe they should post a sign?)

Now, I know there are states (Oregon and New Jersey, after some intense google researching) that will not allow individuals to pump their own gas (or something, I didn't really look into it that well).  But I'm not moving to New Jersey for obvious reasons, and I'm not moving to Oregon for reasons that are even more obvious (too many people riding bikes).  So I'm stuck here, pumping my own damn gas, much to the horror of myself and the entire community.  That was what I was going to write about last week, and I decided that maybe it really wasn't that clever after all, so I held off.

Unfortunately, today I have a reasons for not only why I shouldn't pump my own gas, but why I shouldn't be driving at all (and also why I should not have nice things.) 

Today, I could not get the key out of the ignition of my car.

"What?"  You say.  You say, "Well, it must still be in gear!  Put it in park!"  You say, "Well, did you turn the key to off?"

Sadly, no.  No, I did not put the car in park.  No, I did not make sure the key was off.

Instead, I opted to panic.  OHMYGOD I can't get the key out of the ignition!  Must beat car!  Must FORCE key from ignition!  Cannot leave keys in car in parking lot of Planned Parenthood (btw, really, Indiana?  Really?  Where am I going to get my free abortions now?  Google it if you're not sure where I'm going with this.) 


I won, to say the least.  I extracted my precious key from the evil grip of the G6's ignition.  Ha!  It's because I'm a WINNER.


And then I put the key back in to start my car and get on with my day (bank, post office, general glamor).

Guess what, kids?  Key won't turn.  What the?  Why won't the?  I'm jiggling it. . . and what?  Fuck, I broke the car.

First call:  Mom.
Me:  Hey, um, so my key won't turn.
Mom:  Huh?  Did you jiggle it?
Me:  Yes, jiggled it.
Mom:  Well, here, talk to your uncle.
*shuffling*
*explanation*
Uncle:  Well, try jiggling the key.
Me:  *jiggling*  Yeah, I did that.  Nothing.
Uncle:  *proceeds with litany of other suggestions to no avail*  Call Grandpa.

Second call:
Me:  Hey Gramp.  *explanation*
G:  Well, did you jiggle the key?  It's probably just locked up.
Me:  *jiggling*  Yeah, that doesn't do anything.
G:  *proceeds with litany of other suggestions to no avail*  Well, let me think about it and I'll call you back.

Third call:
Me:  Um, honey, I'm outside Planned Parenthood and my key won't turn.
JK:  *hears "my key is stuck in ignition."  (cannot promise that I didn't say that)*  Did you try jiggling the key?
Me:  *jiggling*  Yeah, I keep trying that.  Nothing.
JK:  Okay, well, I will google it.
Me:  Okay, hold on, Grandpa's calling.

Fourth call:
G:  Okay, put the car in neutral, then go see if you can push the car-what's in front of you?
Me:  A brick wall.  But there's like 7 or 8 feet before that.
G:  Okay, see if you can push the car forward.
Me:  *uses entire very compact body to move car forward*
G:  Okay, see if you can do it while it's in park.
Me:  *cannot do it in park*
G:  Okay, well, how about if you release the steering wheel and jiggle the steering wheel to try to get it to lock.  Can you move the steering wheel?
Me:  I think so.  *uses entire very compact body to yank steering wheel all the way around dozens of times in effort to lock steering wheel*
Meantime:  get text from JK, still under impression that key is stuck in ignition, with instructions to merely wait 20-30 minutes and see what it does then.

*Hang up with Grandpa.  Jaywalk across busy street to Walgreen's, where I first draw suspicion by spending too much time looking at those Sally Hansen nail polish strips, then overhear what I think is an old man (definitely an old woman) say that society is going to hell in a handbasket.  Intrigued, I draw closer to her, only to hear that society is going to hell in a handbasket for two reasons:  1.  nobody puts their carts away and 2.  because of the nymphos.  Leave Walgreen's with magazine because I see a mechanic's waiting room in my future.*

JK's technique=fail.

Call insurance company.  No, you do not have roadside assistance, but it can be added to your coverage for only $1.90 every six months!  Super.

Call local mechanic.  Get advice.  Get tow truck number.

JK arrives.  JK is smiling.  JK thinks I am silly damsel in distress.  *very distressed*

JK sits in car for 42 seconds.  Car starts. 

"WHAT THE FUCK!??!!??"

JK says, "You just gotta jiggle the key, babe."

You have *got* to be kidding me.

Call mom.
Call grandpa.
Call poor local mechanic.

Come home.  Make meringue with real sugar and eat almost all of it with spatula.  Drink bottle of wine.  Order Chinese.  Take three hour nap.  Blog.

Am sore as fuck from all the jiggling.

Am idiot.  Am never leaving house again.

S. . .