Betwixt politics and silliness lies reason...theoretically.

Ok, ok, so I had a major episode of extreme mental incompetence on Sunday. I own a very heavy vehicle - NO, not an SUV - a short, squat, wide heavy thang. I call it Chester. Well, Chester and I had gone for a jaunt to buy groceries, etc. When I had left, it was merely raining...kinda. You know, vague drops but more like a mist. Ye olde vehicle is only equipped with rain tires, good ones, but not for snow under any conditions. See where this is going?

Forty-five minutes into my adventure, I realized it had, in fact, begun to snow with earnest. I am talking BIG thick flakes, not the wheedly little round sleet bombs that anger most skiers. I scrambled to get the groceries into the back o' the vehicle and tore up the road in a vain attempt to beat the dreaded accumulation on our driveway.

"Driveway" is actually a grave misnomer for the two-pronged gravel and gumbo road one must brave to reach our home in the sky. Think of it as extreme skiing, backwards, if you fail...which I did last year when it snowed...like this...down a forty+-degree incline...backwards, for fifty or so yards. Get the picture?

Eventually, the dreaded accumulation came into view. "Crap," with an "s" had been my first thought; soon followed by, "I'll shoot the curve and take the shallow road to the garage and park." Silly former surf betty me. Silly silly..dumb. Shooting the curve, you see, meant taking the longer, less steep route...which nonetheless had a somewhat steeply inclined lift curve not unlike a bike racing track.

To shoot the curve you had to hit the gas on the gravel to gain momentum, then slide-ass all the way around it before hitting a gravel hole where you could hit the gas again. I had done it before, but this snow was super wet sticky.

I shot the curve ok with a bit wider margin on the fishtail than usual. That is when I am convinced I had a mini-stroke or time travel event that precluded me from actually participating in the very silly event that transpired next.

Now I am at the crest of a very, very small incline in which dear Mel left the rut of the century. Not wanting to high-center on the rut, I steered slightly...left. I always go right...ALWAYS. Nope, like I said, stroke or time travel event occurred then because someone else had to have been driving to make that assinine decision.

You see, to the left meant I rode the narrow (as in a few inches) margin - grass covered margin - between the road and the dropoff into the mini horse pasture. It was surrounded by one of those cool electric tape fences with electric wire below and staked in by those steel fence posts with prongs on them...green as I soon found out...green posts.

I barely touched the gas when the rear tire slid into the rut causing the front tires to slide...LEFT over the edge. I took my foot of the gas, didn't touch the brakes and began turning the wheel to compensate for the leftward spin...which worked...but tossed me off the road. I had a serious "Oh s..t" moment, and vaguely recall saying that as the horse fence was soon...under me...holding the vehicle up. It had high centered on a clump of sod on the edge.

I had my Vans on, which are like snowboards. Upon exiting the vehicle and proclaiming "S..t!" again, I promptly hit bottom, literally, and skied on my ass halfway down the rest of the hill...UNDER the fence. Ish.

Needless to say, at the end of the debacle, my husband was able to pull me out and I returned home sodden, dirty, and very amused...but only because the car was fine.

I suddenly understood how Tom DeLay could smirk and announce, "The Democrats did not win, the Republicans lost" with such conviction. I had not had an accident that was my fault, the road got in the way. DeLay logic at its best. I am SO embarassed.