Who needs gas?

Who needs gas?

I would like to start this week’s column out by saying that I attended a shiur, or talk, about something to do with if there is a mitzvah to believe in God.

Why did I go? Because the shiur/talk was given in memory of a friend of mine. Had she still been alive, she would have been making fun of me for going to this talk, because she knew how not smart I was/am. But I went, and I brought along Husband #1 and my very smart friend who I try to walk with every night. Instead of walking, tonight she had an enlightening  and educational experience — and I was sending funny texts to Husband #1. A good and inspirational time was had by all; and tonight, I will for sure be having my nightmare about how I can’t graduate high school, even though I am already married with kids, because I have one last final to take. Tonight’s missing final will, for sure, be Torah related.

In any event, it is ironic that this talk was in memory of my friend because her name came up last week. Many, many years ago, she called me and said, “Hey Banji, you know what happens when your car runs out of gas? I do! I do! It just stops!!” It was funny how she said it and also funny because this lady was a genius and if she could forget to put gas in her car, it could happen to anyone and that brings us to this week’s adventure.

I had the privilege and pleasure of picking up my little Strudel last week. It started because Dil #1 had off from school and I wanted to spend some quality time with her (Dil #1). Which, for me, involves a meal. So I asked her (Dil #1) if she wanted to go out to lunch. Long story short, in the interim they decided to come for Shabbos, so I asked if I could kidnap Strudel on Thursday after lunch and keep her until Dil #1 and Son #1 arrived for the welcoming of the Shabbos queen. We like to keep it very formal here in Teaneck. My exact words were, “Pretty please with a cherry on top can I take Strudel home with me.” I am very classy that way. I was granted permission and so excited to further bond with my newest friend.

With over a quarter tank of gas in the car, which, at this point, probably cost $80, I began my journey to Strudel’s current homeland. Just a hop, skip, two tunnels, and several highways across this great country of ours. I arrived on time, ready to take my girls to lunch. “Take my girls to lunch,” should be filed under, “Things I never in a million years thought I would say.” So to all of you boymoms out there, ya never know!

So we went to Island of Long with all of the skinny minis, my Dil #1 included, for a lovely meal with Strudel. She looked like such a big girl when we put her into one of those wooden high chairs. And an even bigger girl when her kid’s order of mac and cheese came to the table. And since she takes after her Tatty (That means father in yeshivish) she ate two noodles and called it a day. Dil #1 and I finished our meals, I drove her back home, and then Strudel and I were off to another exciting Babka-and-Strudel day at Camp B and P (Babka and Papa).  We are driving along, following Jeeves, our Waze escort and then I happened upon the mileage/gas situation. The car had lit up and telling me that we had Low Fuel and only about 20 miles left. No problem! We were only 10 miles away! And then it went to 19 and 18 and 17 and I will skip ahead to 13. That is when I called our family’s logistical coordinator and all around great guy. You guessed it. Husband #1.

“Don’t worry, “he assured me as Strudel slept soundly in the backseat and my hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I had lost feeling in all of my fingers. You know what happens when you have less than 13 miles of gas left in your car? Three dots appear instead of a number. Visions of walking Strudel through Spanish Harlem were appearing in my head. I started to freak out, but only a little, because I had to remain calm for my Strudel. But Husband #1 stayed on the phone with me and kept telling me that if I did run out of gas, I couldn’t call 911 because it wasn’t a real emergency. He stayed on the phone with me until I made it to Route 4 and was able to get gas.

Phew, that was a close one. And I would like to publicly thank my rock, Husband #1, for being there for me and only making fun of me minimally.

Banji Ganchrow of Teaneck is greatly relieved that she still doesn’t know what it feels like to run out of gas. But has great empathy for those who do know.

read more: