I don't believe that I should be allowed out of the house without an escort. And I don't mean an attractive woman dressed in a red dress, pearls, and heels -- I mean without adult supervision.

Let me explain. This morning I had an appointment out at Desert Orthopedics for a trivial bit of minor surgery (stitch removed, see here).

Before going to bed, I made a mental checklist of the things I needed to do to achieve my arrival: (1) take a shower (one does not want to offend in the cramped quarters of a procedure room), (2) drive to nearest gas station to gas up the van (gauge says "very low"), and (3) get to the van early enough to de-ice the windshield so I can get to the place without, you know, actually running into anything.

I took my shower, shaved, got the windshield clear and -- instead of heading westbound to the nearest gas station -- I drove down Portland toward Desert Orthopedics.

I totally forgot about the dire condition of the fuel level.

At the corner of Olney and 3rd, I ran out of gas. I tried to turn right onto 3rd and maybe make it to the Shell station at 3rd and Greenwood, but no. Van died right there in the right lane, right on the corner.

SO THAR I WAS. I tried a couple of times to get the engine started to complete the turn but no.

I called AAA, they dispatched a truck. I called the doctor's office, explained my plight and re-scheduled.

It was cold in the van -- about 25 degrees. I was dressed warmly, so I wasn't suffering.

Other drivers accommodated me: they pulled around me as needed to turn right. One fellow pulled up behind me and honked. I opened the door, walked back to him, gestured toward the four-way flashers blinking on the back of van and mouthed "I'm out of gas," through the window.

His expression said that he got it, felt foolish. He backed up, pulled around me.

A mere ten minutes after I placed my call to AAA, a Consolidated Towing truck showed up. The driver put a gallon of  gas into my van's tank, and the engine started up right away. I proceeded to the nearest gas station and I bought a tankful of delicious, sweet fuel.

I chalk this whole experience up to boneheadery.

Like I say, I need supervision.