cellio: (Default)
Monica ([personal profile] cellio) wrote2020-08-12 10:40 pm
Entry tags:

six weeks to the gallon

I had an ophthalmologist appointment this morning -- previous one got cancelled because the pandemic was in full bloom then, so I was well overdue. (Everything is as expected, fortunately.) When I went out to the car I opened the glovebox to deposit a new insurance card and, out of curiosity, checked my logbook.1

I last got gas in early March.

I do drive the car around the neighborhood every now and then; I've been told this is important for the brake rotors, which depend on regular friction to keep, I dunno, barnacles or something from building up. But I haven't really gone anywhere. My doctor's office is about seven miles from home, so by recent standards this was an expedition.


1 Yes, I keep a paper log for my car -- have since I bought my first car, having learned the habit from my father.2

2 Having recently learned how to do footnotes in CommonMark, a flavor of Markdown I had not previously used, I instinctively tried it here. Nope. I don't know what Markdown flavor Dreamwidth uses, but here I need to use <sup> tags to do that.

hudebnik: (Default)

[personal profile] hudebnik 2020-08-13 11:37 am (UTC)(link)
I don't maintain a log book, just a bucket full of gas receipts that I occasionally transfer en masse into Quicken, but I'm quite confident that I last filled the tank in early March. And the tank is about 3/4 full now. In the last five months I've driven around the block a few times, to Home Depot once, and (major expedition) 30 miles round-trip to the thrift store to donate a few garbage-bags of clothes.

Ordinarily I would be taking public transit to work almost every weekday, and [personal profile] shalmestere would be taking the car to work (since transit takes about 4x as long to get to her workplace as driving does), but neither of us has been to the respective office since March.

The last time I was at my office -- or took public transit -- wasn't even to do any work-for-hire: in early March we had mail-ordered a contrabass recorder to be delivered to the office because leaving it at their staffed, climate-controlled mailroom seemed preferable to leaving it on the front steps of our house. So I took the train in, walked through darkened halls to the minimally-staffed mailroom, claimed a box slightly smaller than myself, and took it home on the train.