Isaac's first car crash

**editors note -- this post was revised 9/12 to include, um, Isaac in it**
Yesterday afternoon Dada suggested we go drive by a house allllmost in our poor-house price range, you know, just for kicks. We piled the family in the car, with me behind the wheel, and headed off. Not one mile down the road, two old biddies decided to gently careen their hunk of junk Honda into our beloved Jeep. I was just minding my own business, driving straight towards a red stop light in the left lane; in the right lane, Biddy Driver took "red stop light" to mean "change lanes without signalling and make sure you place the nose of your car into that lovely green Jeep's side". Don't worry, no one was hurt in either car. We couldn't have been going 5 miles per hour. With the red light firmly in place, Dada got out and screamed at the ladies, whose car was now straddling two lanes. With nowhere convenient to pull over on a shoulderless, crowded road, we drove a little ways to a park with a nice big parking lot, where we all got out. And then the fun REALLY began.

We exchanged information and all that official crap, and then, to the biddies' extreme horror, I whipped out my digital camera and started taking pictures of the damage. This newfangled tek-know-low-gie would surely be the death of them and their insurance policies, they were clearly wondering. Meanwhile, Isaac and Dada had great fun galavanting all around the park, picking up sweetgum balls and trying to spot squirrels.

Here is what Biddy Driver did to our beautiful Jeep (yes, it's minor, but the ugly scratch...):



Here is what Biddy Driver did to her 10-year-old Honda:



After everything was taken care of, I wrote down my version of the story (from hereafter known as THE TRUTH), and asked Biddy Driver for hers. It changed about 3 times in the scope of 10 minutes. First she was trying to merge, because she was in a merge lane (she wasn't); second, she was in the left lane behind us going straight the whole time and had no idea how this could have happened; last, she was in the right lane and our Jeep had been swerving to get into her lane. Now, I would swear on my toddler's and unborn baby's lives that my story is exactly what happened. I know for a fact that I was minding my own business and staying in the confines of my designated lane when Biddy Driver took it upon herself to make our cars touch each other. However, each time when I tried to call her on her changing story -- "You just said you were 'merging', ma'am" -- the biddies in unison would loudly protest "Oh, no no no I didn't say THAT." The damage was pretty minor to our car, but her car will evidently require some work, and to protect ourselves, I called the cops to make an accident report. I was pleased that, when the cop finally did come, my story was completely matter-of-fact (I was here, I did this, they ran into me), while Biddy Driver's was all over the place with lots of "I think"s thrown in for good measure (I think I was here, then I think this happened, and then we just must've done this). Because we had to depart from the scene of the accident, we had no witnesses, and because it's Biddy Driver's word against mine, it will be no-fault. We do need to take care of the scratch on our car, with it being relatively new, which makes this suck; on the other hand, this is great because in no way, despite her best efforts, can we be liable for what she'll have to get done to her POS.

I was willing to chalk it all up to Biddy Driver just not paying attention, and then misremembering what had happened, until my bulldog husband with his special hearing skillz revealed a more sinister side to the story. When Biddy Driver suggested that she may have been "merging", Biddy Passenger pulled her aside and told her to shut up and not say that. Later, when pressed by Attorney-in-Training Michael, Biddy Driver said by "merging" she meant "our cars colliding, you know, coming together." As opposed to what all other people with drivers' licenses mean when they talk about merging in a traffic situation. In trying to lighten the situation with the biddies, I asked them where they were from and they in turn asked me where in Washington we had moved from. When I said Seattle, Biddy Driver put on a knowing smirk and said, to my face, "People are very different out there." Clearly meaning that I, being "from" there, am different, meaning never ever like her and therefore in the wrong. Michael also caught Biddy Passenger suggesting to Biddy Driver that "that's what you get when somebody's driving like a tourist" behind my back. You know, because I'm "from" Seattle and we don't have roads there. And of course these biddies didn't want a police report: "You can just Bond-O that scratch right out", Biddy Passenger says. You know, because we want some stinkin' Bond-O on our newish, beautifully maintained Jeep.

While I tried to write this off as another chapter in the Stuff Happens book, this was all very depressing for Michael, who was witness to comments suggesting that these ladies were not just confused about what happened, but KNEW they were lying. I haven't been in an accident since I was 17, and then I got into three. All of them were my fault; in none were there witnesses. Did I try to weasel my way out of them? Of course not. I stuck around for police reports without complaining and fully admitted my guilt upon request, because, dern it, it was the truth. When you damage someone's property, you fess up and do the right thing and help them as much as you can. Evidently these old biddies just wanted to flex their dishonest muscles yesterday because they knew they could get away with it. And unfortunately, they did.