When I was 16 and a recently licensed driver-wannabe, my parents, in their one foolish moment, decided I could drive - for the first time ever - on my own. To a basketball game, in my cheerleading uniform. In a January ice storm.
We lived on top of a hill and so, when I pulled the old 6-cylinder '89 Olds tank onto the road, pushing on the gas pedal as I would on any regular day, I seemed to make it down the hill in record time. Only the bottom of the hill was a curved bridge with a house at the other end.
Hello bridge curve... hello ice... hello spinning car and not-the-road. Hello screaming in my head, hello life before my eyes... hello porch. Goodbye porch. Hello stranger's living room.
There was no one home, and I was fine, so I ran across the street to call my parents. "Um, mom? Uhh... I hit a house." An hour or so later, Olds still sitting pretty
Irony of all ironies: about 5 years ago, I ran off the road in yet another snowstorm. My car wouldn't move out of the ditch, but a lovely man stopped to pick us (that would be me and The Fabulous Miss Wiener) up. Who is this lovely man, you ask? Why, the very same man who lived in the house that I hit a decade earlier. Yes, he laughed... awkwardly.
*note: we live in a small town - so small that there is no concern about getting into a car with a complete stranger on a snowy Sunday morning in your church clothes. There's a good possibility you actually know the stranger by 6 degrees of some sort. See? It's true!