I thought I'd take a second while waiting for the plumber (yes, there's delicious poop water in my laundry room again.), to tell you a little story about what happens when one forgets to fill up her gas tank and the inevitable circumstances that generally follow such a rookie mistake.
I'd like to preface this story by letting you know that the gas gauge in my car is actually broken. It's husband and I's fault for purchasing the vehicle in this condition, but as it was a great deal and shoving two babies unbuckled into the back of a sports car that technically doesn't have a backseat is generally frowned upon anywhere other than the Appalachian mountains, we decided to take it home. We considered the convenience of actually knowing how much fuel we have in our car a minor sacrifice for the the spaciousness we were about to acquire.