So, my wife managed to crash the car again today. Honestly, at this point, I’m starting to think our insurance company has a dedicated hotline just for her. She’s not a bad driver, per se—she’s just… let’s say, enthusiastically unpredictable behind the wheel. Every time she gets in the car, it’s like watching a high-stakes game of bumper cars, except it’s real life, and I’m the one paying the deductible.
Anyway, today’s adventure began innocently enough. She was running errands, something about picking up groceries and stopping by the dry cleaner. I should’ve known something was up when she texted me, “Parking is the worst invention ever.” But before I could even respond, my phone rang. It was her, and her tone was a mix of outrage and panic. “I’ve been in an accident!” she blurted out. “But it’s not my fault this time, I swear!”
By the time I arrived at the scene, the police were already there. My wife was standing next to our car, arms flailing as she passionately explained her side of the story to the officer. The other driver—well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly in a position to argue. She was fired up, her face flushed, and her words were coming out so fast I could barely keep up.
“He was on his phone! Can you believe it?!” she exclaimed, pointing accusingly at the other car. “And, to make matters worse, he was sitting there, casually sipping on a can of beer! Who does that while driving?!”
The officer, a tall guy with the kind of calm demeanor that only comes from years of dealing with chaotic situations, was doing his best to keep a straight face. He glanced at the other car, then back at my wife, and took a deep breath. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully, like he was defusing a bomb.

“Ma’am,” he said slowly, his voice steady but with the faintest hint of amusement, “he can do whatever he wants… in his own living room.”
It took a second for the words to sink in. My wife froze mid-rant, her mouth hanging open. I looked past her and finally noticed the other “car” she had hit. It wasn’t on the road at all—it was parked in a driveway. And not just any driveway, but the driveway of the house she had apparently mistaken for a parking lot. The guy she was yelling about? He wasn’t driving. He was sitting in his recliner, watching TV, phone in one hand and a beer in the other, minding his own business. Until my wife, in her infinite wisdom, decided to turn his quiet afternoon into an episode of Cops.
The officer couldn’t hold it in anymore and let out a small chuckle. Even the guy in the recliner raised his beer in a sarcastic toast. My wife, on the other hand, looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. “Well,” she muttered, crossing her arms, “he shouldn’t have been sitting so close to the road.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent filling out paperwork, apologizing to the very confused homeowner, and trying to explain to our insurance agent why our car now had a dent that perfectly matched the shape of a mailbox. As we drove home (with me behind the wheel, of course), my wife sighed and said, “I guess I’ll stick to driving in parking lots from now on.”
I didn’t have the heart to remind her that parking lots were where this whole mess started.
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