I hate the East Bay. I always have and I always will. There is no point in going there, other than for the rare Berkeley trip or some type of live entertainment. Otherwise, I avoid that hell hole like the plague. I'm from Marin. We have no need to go over there, and when we do, we're shocked and appalled. Admit it. You know it's gross.
As I was housesitting for Judy for the past few days, I drove her to the Oakland Airport. Judy drives a big Audi station wagon, and it was running out of gas. So, having dropped Judy at her gate, I got on the freeway, and sat through hours of traffic looking for an exit with a gas station. Finally, I pulled off the freeway into the ghetto and found some independent gas station with no name, yet packed with shady looking drug dealers and cars stripped of their paint.
I've driven Judy's car a million times, but because I am an idiot, I couldn't figure out how to open the gas tank. An elderly man, wearing a dashiki and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Nelson Mandella, came over and helped me out. Turns out, you just pull it open and unscrew the cap.
I threw my credit card in the machine and went inside to get a Snapple. I guess I was inside for awhile, because as I emerged from the Quik Mart, I discovered that the pump had put $57 worth of gas in that damn Audi and was still going. Noooooo!
I ran up to the pump and, without thinking, just pulled it out. Gas flew everywhere, landing primarilly on me, covering my cashmere sweater, my favorite jeans, and my leather ballet flats. I'm talking a lot of fuel, here.
Not only did the entire gas station turn to look, most likely prompted by my screaming, but they all started to snicker. Turns out, the snobby bitch in the Audi can't pump her own gas.
My humilliation was compounded by the fact that I had to drive the rest of the way home, still in the dead locked East Bay traffic, with every window down as I was convinced I'd pass out from the overwhelming fumes.
I hate the East Bay so fucking much.