Gas pains

We have early front-runners for Parents of the Year. I followed them into a gas station recently.

Dad was driving a blue, compact car with enough dings to make you want to check the nearest customer service window. Mom sat in the passenger seat, with Junior and Sis in the back seat. Sis sat directly behind Mom on the same side of the car as the gas tank (more on that in a bit).

Anyways, I got out of my car and started filling up. Actually, that's not true: I had to punch in answers to approximately 8,429 questions before I could start pumping gas. No, I don't have a reward card, Yes, I think Christina Aguilera on "The Voice" is looking like a blond Snooki, No, I don't want a car wash, Yes, this is a credit card, No, I really don't want a car wash.

Adding to my misery was the crappy music blaring in my ear from a speaker directly next to the keypad. Because paying $4 a gallon isn't enough, I was stuck listening to "Hotel California." Show me a gas station where paying is simple and there is no music playing, and I'll ask how you built your time machine because we must be in 1957 or 1964.

Once I correctly responded to the pump's final question (No, I don't think those buttons make you look fat), I was ready to go. And that's when I saw Sis, out of the family car. I'm guessing she was in middle school, or one of those girls in elementary school who dwarfs over every boy in her class. She was wearing a pink tutu over black tights and an old T-shirt.

It's been a while since I did a plie, but I don't think you wear a tutu for rehearsal. Maybe she was asserting her independence and wearing whatever she wanted. We've all been there; Jason Segel has told the story of wearing a cape when he was a boy, and, thankfully, I've burned all the pictures from my Kriss Kross phase in 1992. So I wasn't going to blame the parents for Sis' fashion decision.

I will blame them for what Sis was doing outside the family car - filling the tank. Maybe she drew the unlucky seat closest to the gas tank and therefore had to pump the gas. Maybe she insisted on pumping the gas the way she insisted on wearing a tutu. Whatever the reason, pumping gas would seem to scream "direct parental supervision." Yet Mom and Dad remained firmly planted in the car, staring out into space.

Dad was in such a trance, in fact, that he forgot to turn off the engine. The only time I've ever seen gas poured while a car is running is during an auto race, and even then the guy doing it and everyone around him wears a flame-retardant suit.

So, to recap, we have an underage girl in a tutu pumping gas into a running car five feet away from me. I was alternately watching my pump and trying to memorize the license plate on the family's car for a police report or call to child protective services.

Then I noticed Sis watching her pump and nozzle, giving a little extra squeeze when the gas shut off. That's when I realized she's done this before. So, Mom and Dad, for making your daughter your own personal gas attendant, you are slam-dunk finalists for Parents of the Year.

Sis closed the gas tank and hopped back in the car. The family drove away, probably back home so Junior could change the car's oil and rotate the tires.