Pamplona Plaza, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson
I know that we’re not supposed to observe, much less talk about, the differences between men and women, but no place are they more obvious than behind the wheel of a car.
Okay, so the bedroom runs a close second, but I don’t want to get in to, or out of, that.
I was departing on one of my nameless and numbing errands the other day when I noticed that the arrow was pointing to E, which I’m pretty sure has something to do with the word Empty, but according to the male in my life, the Norwegian Artist, E stands for Easily, You’ve Got Three or Four Gallons in There.
“You don’t have to worry until the little light comes on, and even then there’s nothing to panic about.”
I suppose that hiking three or four miles to the nearest gas station produces no lasting harm, but all the same, I prefer spending five minutes at the pump as opposed to an hour walking in them, or in flip flops, because I’m sure that the engineers were serious when they set up the sensor to alert you when you have one gallon tinkling around in there.
Rugosa Rose, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson
One time, we were 25 miles from our destination when the Norwegian Artist observed,
“The little light’s on.”
I stiffened.
“Nothing to worry about. We’ve got easily a gallon left, maybe more.”
I’m not listening, rapidly calculating the distance to our destination (25), the miles to gallon (35) and finding a cushion of 10 to be uncomfortably thin.
“Of course, that depends upon how long the light’s been on,” he continued. “I just now noticed it, but it could have been on for awhile.”
Less than 10.
“No need to worry. What happens happens.”
Most of the time it’s wonderful to be married to an easy going man. Given that the Norwegian Artist spent two years bicycling from Alaska to Argentina, it’s no wonder he has no problem strolling to the nearest gas station with an empty water bottle, and I do, after all, have my knitting to occupy me, but I find myself staring at too many trees and not enough signs of human habitation.
Youth, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson
“Beautiful scenery.”
Indeed.
The only good thing about the situation is that Tired of Being Youngest, who hyperventilates when the needle drops off of the F, is not behind us, rapidly losing her self control. But come to think of it, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, since she could burst out with all the things that I am too wise to express aloud myself.
Body language must be pretty loud though, because the Norwegian Artist glances sideways at me and smiles.
I’m still subtracting 25 from 35, and I’m still coming up with 10, when Gracious Mercy Me Thank You God a ratty, dumpy, lean-to shack with gas pumps in front and a bored attendant slouching against the grease-grimed windows comes into view, and the Norwegian Artist says exactly what I know he’s going to say:
Wading, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson
“We’ve still got a little gas left; we could make it to a better station and save 10 cents a gallon.”
He’s joking. He must be. You’d think that after 28 years I’d have figured the man out.
And I say what he knows I’m going to say:
“You’ve got to be kidding. Do you really want to spend another ten minutes with me in this state in this car?”
The Dump, normally something I would avoid because I don’t want to catch a communicable disease, is still a Dump, but by God it’s got a working gas pump, and we’re going to use it.
As we drive off, needle pointing to F, the Norwegian Artist comments,
“We still had a quarter of a gallon. That’s eight miles worth.”
Men aren’t from Mars. They’re from some far off planet, light years beyond Pluto.
Moonlit NIght, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson
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This Woman Writes by Carolyn Henderson 
brilliant, as always, carolyn! vicki š
Thank you, Vicki. By the way, I love your Twitter name — it makes me smile.
Loved your post!
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Takes me back to the 50+ years that I spent with my Maine old-timer Artist.
Is it the artist temperment or just male-bent calculating?
Enjoying your artist and your tolerance from over here.
Hello, Bettie: I grew up with three, decidedly non-artist brothers, and I see the same disregard for the letters on the gas tank. So, based on my close experience with them, my father, and the Norwegian Artist, as well as discussions with the other females in my life, I conclude that all males have this issue.
Very scientific. Very thorough. Perhaps I should have gone into research as opposed to writing.
Glad to have a reader from clear across the country! I find it amazing how we can connect with so many people from so many different places, all while tapping on our keyboard. Welcome!
Hi Carolyn I’ve popped in here after reading your excellent post on adding pics to one’s art inventory. Just love your take on motoring with the outer planet people. I had to cope with one who always wanted to take a shortcut but it always turned out to be a long cut but he would never admit to getting lost.
Hello, Carol, and welcome to my alter ego. I am fortunate in not having dealt with the short cut syndrome as much as the gas tank one. It would be dreadful to have a combination of the two!
I’m with you – err on the side of cautious. Which is why I was horrified to discover last night on my way home that the needle was firmly on E and the little light was on. I turned around at the next corner and sweated until I’d gone the 3 blocks back to the gas station.
I hope your Norwegian artist stops to fill up before heading back to his home planet, somewhere beyond Pluto.
Pegoleg: I’m mentally with you, in that car, for that tense three blocks – worse because it’s at night.
I hope the Norwegian Artist has no plans to go back to beyond Pluto, being so content with life here on earth. How empty this world would be if all the beyond-Plutonians left!