Woman Without a Country

Oh dear. Something truly awful has happened. This post is mostly for the benefit of my cousin Kelly. Because it might be THE VERY LAST POST ABOUT MAV.

Today I went to Arby's for lunch because it's close and it's not Burger King. I'm down to the wire on my studying so I must be very protective of my time (blogging doesn't count) -- no more driving all the way to Paradise Bakery for their Crumbled Bleu Cheese Salad. Mmmm....now I'm hungry for that. Great.

Anyway, I was in the drive-through line and that_guy_from_Mav knocked on my passenger side window. Which is freaky, right? I mean, Mav and Arby's are right across the street from each other, but don't you think it's a little weird that he saw me from inside the Mav, walked across the street and knocked on my car window? Because I kind of do. Of course, I clearly wasn't supremely freaked out because I rolled down the window.

As it turns out, last week I forgot to pay for $32 worth of gas! He recounts the story to me, remembering that he'd said "Hey Beautiful!" (!!?!?), and they'd recognized me from the surveillance tapes. So he paid for the gas, they didn't call the police and I didn't have to suffer the humiliation of having uniformed officers show up AT MY DOOR. Oh my gosh. How would I explain that to the members of my ward? Our houses are all packed in tight and it's a lot like seventh grade around here -- rumors abound and everyone knows everything by the end of 3rd period. Or Sunday School, whichever. I would have totally come up with something so scandalous, just to keep things lively. Something even more scandalous than being a drive-off. I have lots of ideas, but I think my mom sometimes reads this, so I'm going to keep those to myself.

So Mav Guy* wouldn't let me pay him back, I really did try. I went over there after I got my roast beef deliciousness and tried to give him money but he said....

"You'll have to pay me back in another way." (eyebrows dance, eyebrows dance)

What? For $32? You're not getting much, you can bet on that.

Now I'm thinking I'll have to implement a self-imposed exile from my very own Mav, because it's going to be all awkward and weird. This is NOT going to work for me.

*He has a name, and I know it because he wears a nametag, but there is no way I'm telling you people. You might go to that Mav. I will tell you that he ISN'T the really tall, skinny guy with lots of scary tattoos who drives an Altima with "KORNLVR" vanity plates. Also not the dad-type who is super-friendly and says random things about the weather or the price of milk. Also not the younger, dark-haired one with the perpetually grounchy face who must live close because he walks to work. I know, I know -- I know too much about these people.