I'm heading down 52nd Street, nearing Old Cheney and am sliding to a stop noting that indeed, 4x4 doesn't do anything for you on ice.
I'm sitting. And sitting. And sitting, wondering when this ugly old car is going to grow a pair and finally pull out so the rest of us can get on our way. And Elliot is continually asking "Where Daddy go? Home?" and I'm continually saying that yes, Daddy is at home but he's going to work. "Yep" is all I hear from the backseat.
In my rear view I see this total tool cruising down the street as though its car has superbrakes and is somehow able to not slide stopping down a hill. The car gets closer. I'm watching its every move and realizing I have no where to go. I'm likely heading for an accident.
E: Momma. Where Daddy go?
A: Daddy is at ho---- Elliot this guy needs to slow down!
E: Yep. Daddy home.
A: Well, son, Daddy almost rear-ended mommy. So if you look to your left, Daddy is right over there in that guy's driveway.
Yep. It was Fred in the giant Grand Prix barrelling down 52nd Street and narrowly missed slamming the back end of my car before veering into a driveway. We gave each other a look. Mine said Seriously? What the hell? and his was something like Gee, I'm a dumbass.
Nothing more dramatic happens and I get to work. This was our exchange, via email:
A: Did we about have a little accident this a.m.? I think our State Farm agent would've laughed at us...
F: Yeah it was 80% me going too fast and 20% the crappy tires on my car. And then when I saw it was you I really panicked, because then we would have had 2 deductibles to meet, I saw $ signs flashing before my eyes. So even though I might have been able to stop in time I just turned off anyway. Then I thought it was funny.
A: I need to blog this. And, you're an idiot.