What's a girl to do?

Despite my well-documented distaste for household chores, I seem to spend a good portion of my day puttering around my apartment doing those dastardly tasks. Most of it is routine upkeep-- stuff that is as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth. But the time I spend this stuff adds up. Soon enough it seems that these daily cleaning rituals seem to edge out those non-standard housekeeping duties-- stuff like polishing my 8 dozen pairs of shoes. Inevitably, those tasks end up on my to do list.

Ah, the to do list. The list which always seems to get longer before it gets shorter. It's a list I refer to on special occasions, usually when I'm procrastinating big time. And I know I'm not alone on this, everyone's list is infinite and unending. Right?

So, don't hate me for this ladies and gentlemen: I have finished my entire to do list.

I'll spare you a detailed account of the joys and wonders involved in painting the numbers back on my stove and oven dials, or repairing a broken lamp. But every errand has been run, every odd job is complete and every action item requiring follow up has been followed.

It took weeks to get through these things. True, none of the items on the list were particularly momentous. While I am glad I finally bothered to weed out the bad seeds in my sock drawer, I hardly believe it's contributed to any of my life goals.

As much as I'd to attribute my recent success of sloughing through ye ol' "To Do" to a cocktail of delicious caffeine and anti-depressants, I think the discerning mixologist would recognize this as boredom. And maybe a little bit of proactive procrastinating. Which is to say, without these things hanging over my head, I have no excuse when it comes to doing those things that will contribute to my goals (and will maybe bless me with health insurance).

Guess there's nothing left for me to do but go out and live life.

Running Out of Gas

Despite the fact that I am able to pack in an impressive 12 hours of sleep each day (who needs mornings?), this blog is not about running out of gas in the colloquial sense. Mama Crow is quite fond of the colloquial use-- a descriptor of the level of sleepiness that comes between tuckered out and zonked-- so if you want a story about a nap, maybe I can get the two of you in touch. This is my story about running out of gas in my car.

Not one week prior to this event, I was driving along and thinking about how I had yet to get a flat tire or run out of gas in all my years of driving. I knew it was about time for one of these things to happen, so perhaps I was subconsciously tempting fate or concocting some sort of preemptive strike. I wasn't about to go jab a nail in my tire, but flirting with the life cycle of the fuel light seemed like a decent idea. I thought about what I might do if I were to find myself in this sort of automobile emergency situation and ruefully remembered the many, many years that had passed since I earned the Auto Maintenance Badge in Girl Scouts.

Testing the limits of the fuel light is not a new story for me. I am one of those that has faith in few things other than the fact that the E on my dashboard stands for Enough. Or at least, "Eh, we'll make it this time." So my fuel injector is probably shedding a few tears about this. No worries. It's not capable of real emotion.

Once, on a late night road trip through New England my lax fueling instincts caused a bit of tension. One of my more Type A friends was at the wheel and started freaking out because we were in the middle of rural Massachusetts with just half a tank of gas. In her eyes, we obviously needed to find a service station PRONTO. I remember leaning in looking over at the fuel gauge from my spot in shotgun and telling her, "What are you talking about? We won't need gas for another 2 states." Not my most sensitive of moments, but I've lived with a Type A person long enough to realize that whatever I said wasn't going to allay her fears.

So, on Thanksgiving morning, I hopped into my car (it's called Pony as in "Ride the White Pony" or "Daddy Bought Me a Pony" which is only partially true) intent on going to the zoo. The Oregon Zoo was offering free admission on Thanksgiving, so even though my orange fuel light had been on for two or three days and the MAX is a short walk from my house, I wasn't about to pay for a light rail ticket. I was going to drive. I justified this maneuver by stopping at my friend's house to look after their cats on my way home.

So, I go up to the zoo (my favorite exhibits were the bats, the hippos and the baby elephant) and wander around for a couple of hours before feeding, watering and giving pets and playtime to my friend's two cats. I cruise home and round the corner for the primo parallel parking spot in front of my building. Then, with a slight shudder, I'm out of gas. No fanfare, or electric bells of congratulation. Just a few more lights flashing on my dashboard. I turn on my hazards, roll down the window and laugh on of those guttural, throw your head back and end with an ironic sigh sort of laughs that accompanies incidents akin to running out of gas in front of your own house.

I got out of my car, and pushed it up parallel to the truck ahead of the empty spot. I turned the wheel (now with a new admiration for power steering) through the window and backed into the spot. Some dude on his cell phone watched me the entire time, laughing and loudly narrating my plight to his friend. On my way into the building, I waved at him and said, "Thanks for your help!" This cued him to come over and ask if I needed help or something. Uh, maybe five minutes ago, buddy.

In true crowcrastinating form, I left the car parked there overnight. I didn't have any place I needed to go and I had a Feast for One sitting in my fridge waiting to be cooked. The next morning I walked the 2.5 miles to my friend's house to look in after the cats, stopping to ask if I might borrow a gas can at another friend's house at the midway point on my walk. While I was with the kitties, my friends returned from their trip a day early and I took out my keys in order to return the set to their apartment.

I walked back home, stopping for a cookie and to pick up a gallon of gas in a red plastic tub for half of the journey. I walk up to my house when I realize I don't have my keys. I call my friends, but they're tired from a 20 hour train ride and can't find them. I think about back tracking, but I'm tired and hungry. I need another solution.

For security purposes, I probably shouldn't detail the ease and faculty involved in climbing in through my bathroom window. Let's just say, it would have been substantially more difficult had I not accidentally left the window unlocked.

To end, Pony's back in the saddle again. My keys were located. I have a lovely collection of bruises on my stomach from the window frame. And this Thanksgiving, I was thankful that I ran out of gas so close to home.