So I’m going down the highway, approaching the crossroad where I need to take a left at the traffic light. The light is green until I get too close to stop, then it turns yellow. Of course.

I hate going through a yellow light, because I always wonder, should I have stopped? Could I have stopped? (I mean, without slamming on the brakes.) I always second guess that split-second decision a split second after making it.

I never go through a yellow just because I’m in a hurry — at least I don’t remember ever going through just to hurry. If I go through a yellow, it’s because I think I can’t safely stop in time. But there’s no real way of knowing for sure what the safe stopping distance is, and whether I’m at that distance or past it when the light turns yellow.

And no matter how close I fear I’ve come to the light changing to red on me, there’s always one (and sometimes two) more cars who come through after me. I usually throw an “Idiot!” or “Asshole!” at the guy in my rearview mirror. I mean, come on, if I think I’ve gone through too close to a change to red, what are the people coming through after me doing?

I don’t know if anyone came through the yellow after me this time, because as I turned left, my tires squealed. What the hell? I thought.

I didn’t think I was going nearly fast enough to squeal tires in a turn. I wasn’t going particularly fast at all — I wasn’t in a hurry, and I wasn’t intentionally trying to skirt through before a red. But the squeal surprised me, so I didn’t see who was behind me. I also didn’t see who else was at the intersection — just a bunch of traffic in all lanes.

Calfgrit8 was with me in the car, and he had previously said he was hungry for a snack. So as I made the left turn, I immediately pulled into a gas station store. I parked at the side door, and we got out of the car.

Inside, we grabbed us a snack, and Calfgrit5 a snack (I knew that if we got home and he saw his brother eating some chips, he’d be upset if he didn’t have some, too). As we were walking to the checkout line, I saw a highway patrol car cruise into the store parking lot.

The cruiser rounded the store, and seemed to slow down a moment at the back of my car. Oh, crap.

If that cop was at the intersection just a moment ago, he probably saw me drive through the yellow, and probably heard the tire squeal. It probably looked and sounded like a maniac, or an asshole, was plowing through the intersection without a care for safety.

Crap, crap, crap.

That gut-wrenching feeling of getting caught being bad ran through my body. Surely I was going to get a ticket. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve gotten a traffic ticket; I was bound to screw up sometime — the odds were catching up to me.

I really don’t need a ticket right now. I don’t know how it would affect my insurance rates, and I’ve heard that points on one’s license can affect one’s credit rating. Being currently almost homeless (living with my mother-in-law), with a new house less than five weeks away, I really, really don’t need any kind of problem that would mess up our plans.

I felt the stress fill my body. I wasn’t going to cry, but depression was building up. While waiting in the check out line with Calfgrit8 talking to me, I tried to peer out the store window. Was the patrolman parked next to my car? Was he waiting for me to come out of the store and get in my car? Could I wait him out?

That last thought seemed to come out of the blue. Could I wait him out? If Calgrit8 and I just hung out in the store for half an hour, would the cop move on? Was that a right thing to do? Was it a smart thing to do? Or was it a wuss thing to do? Should I just go on out and take the punishment?

I didn’t want to take any punishment. I mean, I didn’t intentionally run a yellow light and squeal my tires. I wasn’t trying to skirt the law and cut safety. But I know cops really can’t take intentions into account when applying the law. Crap. I mean, if you accidentally crash into someone, you still crashed into someone. Not intending too doesn’t make a difference.

Then the guy ahead of us at the counter had some trouble with his payment. That ate up some time. Then a customer came in and asked for his gas pump to be reset. The cashier made an error with the action, so that took up some more time.

Then as I was paying for our snacks, the cashier playfully joking with Calfgrit8 a bit before finishing our sale. “Did anyone tell you, you look just like him?” she said to him pointing at me. She said she had a family of boys, and she chatted for a few moments with us about raising boys and how fun and silly they can be. This ate up some more time of our store visit.

It actually wasn’t until after we were walking for the exit that it dawned on me how fate had conspired to “help” me wait out the inevitable confrontation that was waiting for me in the parking lot. But when we stepped outside, there was no cop car or cop anywhere in sight.

Could he be on the other side of the building, waiting for me to get in my car and drive away? Was there some rule that said I had to be in a moving vehicle for him to stop me and cite me for a violation witnessed earlier?

Before I could start the car, Calfgrit8 had dropped something in the back seat. We spent a minute looking for it, and the whole time I was thinking, I’m wasting more time; will it be enough to out wait the cop hiding for me?

Eventually, we were ready to roll. I started the car, backed out of the parking space, and made our way to the lot exit. I didn’t see a lawman anywhere around. Where the heck is he? I knew it was too much of a coincidence for the patrolman to pull into to the store lot right after my yellow-run and tire-squeal, especially since he slowed down and seemed to look over my car parked at the store.

I still had that bad-gut feel that I had seriously screwed up and was about to be punished for it. That stress that just won’t let any other thought creep in and sooth your mind. That feeling when you’re sent to your room to wait for your parents to decide your fate before coming in to confront you like vengeful gods.

I pulled out of the store lot and onto the road to head home. I was careful — extra careful — to mind and obey the speed limit. I kept both hands carefully on the wheel, as if good driving now would wash away the stupid act from ten minutes ago.

But we made it home with no interruption. And even after that long lull, I still didn’t feel relief. It was at least a half hour longer before I felt that I was really spared the punishment for a moment of dumbassedness.

Bullgrit

Last Saturday, I had Calgrit8 with me when I stopped in a convenience store to buy a lottery ticket. On a lark, I got him to pick out the numbers for me. He wasn’t interested – he had his eyes on the candy – but he did pick out four of the five main numbers. I picked out the fifth main number and the powerball number.

The next day, I checked the winning numbers, and lo and behold, we had 3 matching numbers. That’s seven bucks!

Is this a sign? Does my son have the gift? In the three years I’ve been playing the lottery, I’ve only matched at most 2 numbers three or four times, (winning $3 and $4). I didn’t tell Calfgrit8 that his picks won.

A few days later, before the next drawing, I stopped by the store and picked up a blank lottery form. The next morning, I had both my boys each pick a full series of numbers on the form. Two chances to win, both chances using my children’s luck.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if we won the jackpot from the choices of an 8 and a 5 year old? If we won, I decided I wasn’t going to tell anyone that my boys picked the winning numbers on their first tries. What would happen if I did tell? What kind of weirdness would come up if people thought one or both of my young boys had the ability to predict the lottery numbers?

The drawing was Wednesday night. Thursday morning, I checked the web site. Nothing. We didn’t match a single number. Nothing even close.

Oh well. Our lives are probably better off without some strange future-telling magic powers complicating it.

Bullgrit

I was at work till almost midnight last night. A 16 hour day at work is enough without adding another hour at home writing up a unique post. I hope you’ll excuse me this time.

I’ll just throw out a couple of updates:

My ear is all cleared up, so I can hear normally again.

We just set the closing date for our new house: December 16.

Bullgrit

I have a mustache and goatee which I think makes me look rakishly handsome (versus the dorkishly boring without facial hair). Around this style, I shave 2-4 times a week. Sometimes 1 time a week. I just don’t like shaving.

Unless my beard has many days of growth, I can dry shave. I rarely use shaving cream any more. I just fill the sink with water, wet the razor, and zip zip zip, I’m done. Some people find this astonishing, that I can dry shave. It’s no big deal to me, I guess my skin isn’t all that sensitive, or I’m really good and the act of shaving, or I’m just really tough. *flex muscles and grunt*

Now that I’ve awed you with my manliness, let me tell you a little trick I’ve learned about keeping your razor smooth and sharp. I heard on a radio talk show, about a year ago, a metallugist say that leaving a razor wet after shaving is what wears down the edge. Drying a razor after use will keep it sharp longer.

So I started trying this. After shaving, I blow it dry with the wife’s hair dryer. The first razor I did this with lasted seven or eight months without dulling. I only threw it away because we were moving and it was a disposable razor — easier to just toss it than bother packing it. My current razor, I’ve been using since August, and it’s still sharp and works smooth.

I told a friend about this trick, and he said, “I don’t have time in the mornings to dry my razor.” Well, it only takes 10 seconds. The blow dryer is right beside me, the razor already in my hand — pick up the dryer, turn it on, blow the razor for a few seconds, and done. It’s not like I use a towel on the blades.

Disposable razors are cheap, so I’m not using this technique to save money. But it ends up saving me time and aggravation, and possibly a face nick. Normally, I don’t know a razor is dulled until I start to use it. Only after taking a stroke on my cheek, and feeling the tug and scratch, do I know it’s time to toss it and get a new razor. Then I have to look around in the bathroom cabinets for where I stashed my pack of razors.

With a razor that lasts months and months, I don’t come up on this aggravation. Since I haven’t gotten to the end of a razor’s useful life span, yet, I’ve gone about a year without having to go through that tug, cut, search routine.

Now you know. The more you know, the more you grow. And knowing is half the battle. Yo, Joe!

Bullgrit