Taking the girls to school this morning, we get in the car.
The dashboard beeps and tells me:
“Oil Maintenance Required”
Required? Like I’m taking an SAT quiz. Or I got arrested last week buying coke from a street dealer? And, I have to take a blood test?
Wait, where were we? Oh. On oil. (Two instances of alliteration there. Shakespeare.)
Then, the dashboard beeps:
Low Gas. 8 miles.
I know that, but Costco is 10 miles that way, and school is 12 miles the other way. Girls, I think we can make it. No guarantees.
(Funny thing about buying a Prius: Yeah, it gets 46 miles a gallon, but the tank is about a thimble full. You’re still at the gas station every other day. Like with your compensating-much? Hummer.)
Then, out of nowhere, the what-the-hell-is-this light (flat tire, as I learned) comes on. Doesn’t tell me which tire, just “a” tire, Shit.
So, I pull over and check. It all looks good.
We head to school.
Isabella (she’s 9): Dad, I don’t think you closed your door all the way.
Me: Why, Honey?! Why?
Iz: Because of the alarm. And the wind.
Shit. I pull over.
Me: Is everyone Ok? Seat belts? Bagel Bites? Fuzzy Bunnies? Whatever.
Me: So we’re good?
Julianna (she’s 11): Yes. Except for the gas thing…
Me: Leave it alone.
Julianna: Also, the flat tire.
Me: Alone. Leave it. Yoda. Said.
Surprise, I get the girls to school. No flats. A cheap gas station is literally a block away. Everything is good. Then, I get home.
When I turn off the car. Beeeep: Key Battery Low.
Excuse me? Keys have batteries? Since when. You are kidding me, right:
Prius: No, dude. FOB. Battery. Google it.
Shit. Why does my car hate me?