Let’s talk about cars. 

I know nothing about them. 

So I guess I’ll catch you guys next week. 

Bye. 

Yes. My car game is that bad. 

Worse, I don’t care how little I know about cars.  

I should care.  

I wish I cared.  

But I don’t. 

When I began driving, Indy showed me how to check my oil. He told me to check it before any long road trip. 

I don’t know why. I checked out of that conversation. 

Because let’s be honest. If I had any car trouble, I knew I’d call Indy. Indy would pick me up. Indy would fix my car. 

And he did. 

I ran out of gas a few times. 

OK. Many, many times. 

Indy always came for me.  

When I bought my first car, I made sure it was reliable. Staid. Boring. 

Because I knew. I knew I’d never fill the tank. I’d never check the oil. I’d never do the whatever-thousand-mile checkups.  

I don’t care about those things. They’re, um, dumb. And I am way too pretty to deal with that stuff. 

I’m just kidding. 

Sort of. 

Now, I’ll tell you that car lasted forever. I mean, forever. I only replaced it because it was stolen. 

By that time, it had sustained body damage to every surface but the roof. The rear defrost didn’t work. The gas gauge was broken. 

I don’t know for how long. I never looked at it. For all I know that gas gauge was broken when I bought the car. 

When my husband and I were dating, he talked about oil changes and inspections and gas stations. 

Sure, I said. I dealt with all of that. 

I was lying. 

Curiously, my husband thinks I fabricated a dinner with Indy to avoid going on a date with him. 

I was telling the truth about that dinner. 

I was lying about the car. 

Eventually, I came clean. I rarely put gas in my car. I couldn’t care less about the oil. I didn’t have a mechanic. I only ever got my car inspected because Indy got on my case about it and I have a pathological fear of going to prison. 

It’s why I can’t go to New Jersey. 

Still kidding. 

Sort of. 

So I let my husband take over care of my car. 

I should feel awful about that.  

I mean, I am a scion of strong women.  

Hello? Princess Leia? Marion Ravenwood from Raiders of the Lost Ark? My own mother, for crying out loud! Willie is a trailblazer. She put the “self” in self-reliant!  

And my idol growing up was Juliet Parish, a physician who led the resistance movement on the television miniseries V. 

She defeated a race of reptilian aliens disguised as humans to take Earth’s water.  

And, you know, eat its people. 

And she got to have sex with Mike Donovan. 

He was the cameraman rebel of the resistance movement. 

I love a bad boy. 

But bad boys won’t take care of your car. 

Good husbands do. 

And I don’t feel like I’m betraying my inner Juliet Parish by letting my husband deal with the car. Juliet Parish defeated an entire race of alien lizards and never once pumped gas. 

So there’s that 

Now that Indy is gone, I have no one to call if I run out of gas. 

“Do not call me,” my husband said early in our marriage, “if you run out of gas.” 

I snorted and rolled my eyes. One of the perks of being a Daddy’s girl is that your daddy will travel the globe if you’re stupid enough to circumnavigate it on an empty gas tank. 

But. 

Our kids are now driving. 

And I can’t stand the idea of my babies stranded with an empty tank. 

Also, when your kids drive you have someone to pump the gas.  

That’s great because pumping gas is the worst. Those little commercials played at the pump? No. Not entertaining. But play V: The Miniseries and I’ll pump gas all day like I’m Winona Ryder in Reality Bites. 

So I have entered a new phase of life. I am attentive to the gas tank. As I teach the kids to drive, I pelt them with questions. Do you have gas? How much? When would you as the driver, the car’s owner, fill the tank? 

I’ve become so obsessive about the gas tank, my husband approached me one day. 

Our car — the one Willie gave us — was about to go in the shop. It was recalled for, like, the 85th time because there’s no such thing as a free lunch. 

My husband emphasized the car needed just a quarter tank of gas for the dealership to replace whatever was recalled. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said, “but do not put gas in the car. Let the tank run down.” 

Got it. No gas. 

Except I didn’t get it. 

Because, well, he was talking about cars. I — I kind of tuned him out. Like that long ago day with Indy. 

So you’ve guessed the punchline. I filled the gas tank. Of course I did. The night before the recall appointment, I filled that gas tank like stuffing fills a Thanksgiving turkey. 

My husband sighed. He hung his head. His shoulders slumped.  

But he didn’t say anything. He just — he just let it go. 

Maybe Jersey will let it go, too.