March 10, 2010

Traffic Games

You may remember playing a certain game, whether it was ten years ago or ten minutes ago. It is a small, handheld plastic maze game. You shake it around, trying to make a wee little ball go in the wee little hole. However, there are obstacles in your way, making this simple game more complicated. But when you finally get that ball into that hole, the world stops for a minute and you are an unbelievable champion.

Anyway, I discovered today that this game was happening in my car. On the passenger-side floor of my car is an empty, plastic Starbucks cup without a lid. Where is the lid? I don't know, but that isn't important. There are also a pair of high heels which were thrown onto the floor in anger on Saturday night after those bastards gave me blisters the size of kittens. Don't believe me? I'll show you pictures. So, there is the cup, the high heels, many pieces of paper of varying crumpled-ness, and the final component: a golf ball. I don't know why I have a golf ball on the floor of my car.

During my morning commute, I heard, on one or two occasions, a distinctive clatter-thump. Finally, around lunch-time, while driving to meet a friend, I happened to look down and notice the golf ball rolling cleanly into the Starbucks cup, making the noise I had heard earlier. I glanced over with every turn and brake I made to see the golf ball rolling happily around the floor, dodging high heels, bouncing over paper, making its way under the seat.

By the time I was driving home, it was a game. I made wrong turns so I could correct my path with a U-turn, trying to get the ball out from under the shoe. I sped up when I could to make the ball hop a folded advertisement for pizza. If I had to suddenly brake due to Denver traffic, I quickly glanced down to see if I got the ball into the cup. With each clatter-thump, I clapped in my mind but laughed out loud, cheering on my own efforts. "Way to go, Kelli! Your driving skills are the tops!"

(I feel it's important to complement stories with a photo or two. I went digging through the kids' toy boxes because I was certain one or both of them must have the little maze toy I mentioned in the beginning, but no. And they call themselves kids. Harumph. So, instead, I'm posting this picture from when we drove to Jackson, Wyoming. It has nothing to do with the story except that it loosely involves a car. Eh, close enough.)

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