11/7/14. The post where I learn some things about my new car.

11/7/14: am resigned to the fact that I may never sleep horizontally again.  While I feel like I am on the tail end of this thing, I have officially entered the coughing stage.  I mean the hacking, wall shaking, "sounds like I live in a shanty in London in the 1800s" kind of coughing.  The kind that causes my co-workers to follow me around with cans of Lysol.

My patient, long-suffering husband came to my office this morning and hung my art.  Because he's the BEST.  For the rest of the day, everyone complimented me on how good they looked.  Of course, these are the same pieces of art I've had for years, but he arranged them in a way that is much more aesthetically pleasing.  Now, all I have to do is unpack about a dozen boxes and my office will look like it is inhabited by a grownup.

A few days ago, the weather turned much cooler.  My friend, a former convertible owner, asked me if I had heated seats so I could still drive with the top down.  No, I told him, my patient, long-suffering husband's new car does, but mine does not.  I assured him that because it was a two-seater, the heater worked very quickly and I would still be able to drive with the top down on cool days.  That same day, I rode with my patient, long-suffering husband and got to use his heated seats.  They were wonderful.  I mentioned that I wished my car had them, too, and he expressed surprise that it did not.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon.  I ran an errand in my car with the above-mentioned friend.  After a few minutes, he said, "Yes, you do."  "Yes, I do, what?"  "Have heated seats. The controls are right here."  Well, what do you know?  I'm disappointed that I haven't had a chance to read through the owner's manual yet (or at least, the interesting parts), but I suppose taking a thorough look at the car would be a good start.

Today was a sunny day, so I rode everywhere with top down and a toasty warm bum.  Even to my patient, long-suffering husband's concert, which was in a town approximately 30 minutes away via toll road.  A toll road which has no gas stations for at least 20 miles.  When I started the trip, my gas gauge read about a quarter of a tank.  I wasn't sure if I had a low fuel indicator light, so I have been watching fairly carefully.  I learned that my car does in fact have such a light.  I also learned that when the light comes on, the gas gauge almost immediately swings to "empty."  Well, this is disconcerting.

I gritted my teeth and kept driving, glad that my AAA membership was up to date.  At the first possible chance, I pulled into a gas station and completely filled my tank.  It took a little over 11 gallons to fill it up, and it holds...well, to be honest, I don't know how much it holds.  More than 11 gallons, I hope.  Yes, I should really crack open that owner's manual.

Lots more to say, but I'm worn out from the day, so I'll try to finish up tomorrow.  In the meantime, I'm off to bed, to "lie down," or at least to recline a little.