(You choose) Bright as a button/Button your lip: Pushing the boundaries of blog titles

 I am a responsible, highly-capable, intelligent adult.

 I am a responsible, highly-capable, intelligent adult.

 I am a responsible, highly-capable, intelligent adult.

Maybe if I repeat this mantra fifty times or more, I might be able to convince myself that it's true. After the hypnotic hum of one hundred repetitions, maybe you'll even begin to believe it too.

...

Nah.

Why is it, that when I fail at the most basic of human tasks, I must do it in front of a witness? I am no stranger to pumping gas. In fact, I feel that my strong background in fueling up combined with my stored-up bank of relevant extraneous fun facts almost qualifies me as expert-status. Think Marissa Tomei's gripping courtroom testimony on My Cousin Vinny:

PROSECUTION:   Your Honor, I object to this witness -- improper foundation. I'm not aware of this person's qualifications. I'd like to voir dire this witness as to the extent of her expertise.

JUDGE:  Granted.

PROSECUTION:  While the Court is well-aware that you are a barely-hanging-onto-your-job 4th grade teacher oddly obsessed with convincing 9-year-olds to believe that writing daily haikus and identifying prepositions will be instrumental components of becoming successful adults, what qualifications do you possess that would lead us to the assumption that you are an expert in the subject of pumping gas?

AMY: I have been pumping gasoline into my vehicles since I was 16-years-old. (Laughs, winking at the jury.) So, I guess you could say, I've only been pumping gas for about 5-years!

PROSECUTION: Let the records show that our witness cannot perform simple math calculations. She is clearly MUCH older than stated. Let's assume, based on her posture, swollen ankles, squinty eyes, and swinging underarm fat, that she is on the far side of fifty.

AMY (indignant): Your Honor! It was just a little joke! (She shifts to sit ram-rod straight, arms clenched tightly to her side, ankles crossed) I'm 53!

JUDGE (scolding): Is justice a joke to you, Ms. Mosiman?

AMY (head lowered, ashamed): No, Your Honor.

JUDGE:  Proceed.

PROSECUTION:  Now, Ms. Mosiman, if you could explain, beyond the basic refueling skills that EVERY automobile operator possesses, your expert-level qualifications.

AMY:  While for "starters," (chuckles, glances at stern face of judge before continuing), I began my elevated journey of getting gas with an '82 Ford Granada. Each time I stopped for gas, I would have to pour a bit of dry fuel into the fly-wheel carburetor.

JURY (murmuring)

PROSECUTION: (momentarily stumped by this startling revelation) Why would you do this?

AMY:  My father told me to.

BRAD (in the gallery, slaps hand to his forehead and slides down in his seat)

PROSECUTION: (speaking as though to a child) And WHY would he have told you to do that?

AMY:  To put off having to pay for a new fuel pump. The dry gas works to prime the engine.

PROSECUTION: (falters a bit but then recovers) Have you ever run out of gas?

AMY:  (nodding) A lot of times.

JURY (murmuring)

BRAD (in the gallery, nods as well, slides down so much that he can now barely be seen)

PROSECUTION: Was there ever anyone with you?

AMY: Yes.

PROSECUTION: Who?

AMY: (looks down) My children.

COURTROOM GALLERY erupts with incessant talking. How could she! Didn't she think about the babies? She calls herself "a mother?!?"

JUDGE bangs gavel: Order!

PROSECUTION:  The Prosecution would like to call Brad Mosiman to the stand!

Brad Mosiman is sworn in and then gives his account of the countless times his wife has run out of gas including the humiliating story of when she once called him and, when he asked her where she was, she told him to look out the living room window where he could see her parked an 1/8 of a mile away up the road. 

PROSECUTION:  Your Honor, I believe that the evidence shows that Ms. Mosiman should be excused as an expert-witness and I would further contend that, as a result of what we've learned here today, her license to operate a vehicle should be immediately revoked.

JUDGE:  Hold on. I am interested in what Ms. Mosiman said were her "fun facts" pertaining to petrol replenishment.

AMY:  I don't suppose that my knowing not to smoke or use my cell phone while gassing up count as "fun facts?"

JUDGE shakes his head.

AMY:  How about my knowing never to gas up with a green-colored pump handle?

JUDGE: Case dismissed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am also what is known as a Gas Pump Princess. For a decade or more, these delicate, slender fingers have rarely touched the bacteria-laced levers that trigger the fuel dispenser. Brad Mosiman, my ethanol enabler, stands staunchly between his true love and the tank...refusing to let the fumes find their way to his fair bride. Only when our Tops points are set to expire, doeth my knight falter in his convicted quest.

OR

I was driving up to the airport with Savannah to retrieve Sydney and Doug. We stopped at the Pepsi store and, while Savannah raced in, I decided to purchase some petrol. How hard could it be? 

"Mom, what are you doing?" Savannah asked as she approached. I was carefully cradling the pump nozzle to my chest, skipping over the long hose like a jump rope. Face, bright red, I confessed, "I can't figure out how to open the little gas door." "Did you push it?" Savannah asked, ignoring me as I immediately broke out into the Salt-n-Pepa song. I shoved the little door angrily. "Yes!"

Savannah moved me out of the way and re-traced my steps along the journey of "Reasonable Places to Put a Gas Door Release Mechanism." "I think we have to call Dad," she finally said after we'd inadvertently popped the hood, depressed the windshield washer solvent, and triggered the horn. I reluctantly called Brad who tried to start us on the journey to nowhere again. "Is Savannah Face-timing me?" he asked before disappearing from my phone. She showed him the vehicle and then, confused, he asked again, "Did you push the fuel compartment door?" Frustrated, I used both hands for dramatic effect and the door effortlessly popped open. Savannah was about ready to kill me. "Thanks, Dad," she told my husband graciously before turning back to me.

"Why are you just standing there?" she asked. I was stupefied. "There's no gas cap," I reported, still cradling the pump nozzle. Using her hip, my exasperated daughter nudged me out of the way, grabbed the nozzle, and breached the rubber O-ring. "I think I'll drive us to the airport," she suggested gently, handing me my Pepsi. I climbed passively into the passenger side as she worked to re-close the hood. Our eyes met as her fingers felt to find the latch. "Mom, is the van still on?" "No," I assured her, "I pushed the button." Savannah hopped into the driver's seat and jabbed the button emphatically. The radio immediately stopped. So did the engine.  "This button?" she asked me. "Did you push THIS button?" 

Humming the song, I turned to her, "I just can't put my finger on why I have so much trouble pushing buttons." 

"You are REALLY starting to push my buttons," she said, pulling out into traffic.

"Do you know what kind of car has a belly button?" I asked her.

Silence.

"An Audi."

"Drink your Pepsi."