Have to get up and go to church. I do not fear God’s wrath half as much as I fear the Holy Wife’s. Besides, God has never pulled the blankets off of me and said, “Come on, get dressed.” I do not feel like it is all my fault. A cold room isn’t much of a motivator for getting out of a warm bed.

You see, it bothers the Cheap Wife to hear the furnace run. It seems that every time it turns on she resets it lower. Sometimes we can’t be very far away from appearing to be the Blue Man Family. But at least we aren’t wasting gas on something as unimportant as heat. http://www.blueman.com/ Of course, I’m exaggerating, hardly the first time, won’t be the last.

Anyway, the roads were quite slick from the five inches of snow we’d gotten. The NASCAR wife drove, because she sees better than I do, and she can get us there quicker because she is the, ahem, NASCAR WIFE. She made the two rights and left necessary to get to the main road a little faster than I would have but then she is who she is.

As we approached the intersection for the main road we had a red light. I need not remind you, it was slick. I’d apply the brakes about here, but then, I’m a careful driver like my Dad. Okay, if you’re not going to apply brakes how about at least getting off the gas pedal? Really, the intersection is coming up pretty quick, you have to be at least thinking of the increased braking distance here. You have years of experience, better make the decision about now.

Foot is still on gas. No way on God’s Green Earth are you going to stop a two-ton van on a slick road this fast. Oh Sh-t this is going to be interesting. It’s a slow morning for traffic, maybe we’ll just slide through and hit the median.

Foot is on brake. Like it matters now.

I’ve got news for you- ABS means Anti-lock Braking System, it does not mean Absolute Braking System. We brake in a perfectly straight line that does not stop. Look left, maybe nobody is coming. God is laughing.

It’s an old, beater of a station wagon coming around the curve. Slower, slower, but you can’t violate the laws of physics unless God tells you to. Crunch.

You know, the best places to hit a car are on the front fender, or a door, because those are easy to replace. The rear fenders are bodywork. We hit the rear fender behind the tire and creased it all the way to the bumper.

The other driver loses control and winds up straddling the median facing back in our direction. That must have been an interesting ride.

I get out. He gets out and seems amiable enough. In fact, he seems downright happy. It would seem a reasonable guess that he was concerned about what he was going to do with his beat up car and right there we put him in a situation where an insurance company will probably cash him out. He wasn’t angry at all. He probably thought God had smiled on him. I hope he was going to church.

After a quick exchange of information we’re off again for church. Only now we have time to make up. Dear God, when will it end?

We approach another intersection. We have another red light screaming “Come on, hit me with your best shot! Bring it on!” There’s a Caddie slowly pulling into the intersection from the right. We’re too damn fast. You can’t make the corner at this speed. That Caddie is toast. It’s Sunday Twofers. Our insurance agent is going to pass a brick.
Here it comes. Here it comes. Hard on the brakes, but it’s just a little late don’t you think? The old lady with hair as blue as her Caddy seems completely oblivious to the significant emotional event bearing down on her. Already I can imagine her bawling that she’s driven 70 years without an accident and hoped to die with a perfect record but not after today. No not after today, and NOW SHE’S EVEN GOING TO MISS CHURCH.

Straight line. Like an unerring arrow. We are the Scourge of God. Kawhump! We apparently hit a dry patch and we all fly forward like one of those drunk driving commercials. Sudden, instantaneous, Absolute Braking System. Apparently God just forgot to set his alarm. The Holy Wife looks beatific.

We make church on time. We make church because we left early. So why were we driving like we were trying to qualify for Daytona? I dunno. I don’t ask. Given a choice between blissful ignorance and very unblissful knowledge I’ll take blissful ignorance. I think it’s a seldom-appreciated key to a happy marriage. Or I’m just a weenie riding shotgun.


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