Hugo Who?

Today I committed a crime so egregious, so heinous, so horrific I think my husband will divorce me when he finds out: I purchased gasoline at a Citgo. The first time I did this I was startled by his reaction. "Do you know that Citgo is owned by Hugo Chavez!" he yelled, waving the credit card bill at me. "The guy who makes pants?" I asked innocently. "Not Hugo Boss, Hugo Chavez! The president of Venezuela!" Oh. And?

Well, apparently Republicans don't like Hugo Chavez. I've since learned that Sean Penn does. And that if I would prefer not to hear a tirade about Hugo's misdeeds, I should avoid frequenting Citgo (conveniently located a block away). Which I did. Until today.

As previously documented, I tend to wait until the very last moment to fill up the gas tank. Preferably, I wait until there is one teeny tiny drop left and then send my husband to do errands without warning him. Little did I know last time I used the car, leaving an itty bitty amount of fuel, I would drive the car next. So off I reluctantly went, cursing under my breath that pumping gas is men's work. (So is earning the money, cooking the dinner and cleaning the house, just so we're clear.)

Luckily, adjacent to the Citgo is a Shell. Unluckily, it was all fenced off like the fuzz was investigating a murder and such. The only other gas station I could think of was a good half mile away, and I wasn't even sure I had the fumes to make it to the pump at Hugo's joint.

So in I turned. I must admit I was slightly nervous. Like Hugo Chavez was going to emerge from inside the gas station and demand I wait in line for rations of stale bread. In the end, I suppose I gave about $45.60 to the communist party. It would have been less except my husband insists that I fill up his car with premium gas. He implies the car will implode if it's fed regular gas. This couldn't possibly be true, but just in case my life is in danger I buy the middle grade gas -- not the very worst but not the best either. This gives me a strange sense of victory.

I guess now that my car has died, his car is really "our" car. My precious little 1995 Miata that served me so well is sitting out back like a wounded bird slowing dying in the frigid snow. I try not to look at it through the window. I feel like I should invite it in for hot chocolate or at least pour some warm water on it and visit it from time to time. Doesn't it look dejected?

Regardless, look for me to start seeking advice on taking one's husband to the cleaners in a divorce when the credit card bill arrives. I want everything. Including the cars.

PS -- The photo of Citgo is a stock photo I downloaded online. I didn't take a photo of the gas station in 20 degree weather. I'm not that weird. I am, however, weird enough to stand in the alley behind our house in 20 degree weather to photograph my dying friend, my vehicular soul mate, my Miata.