I’m not sure if breathing while driving is still permitted in Troy, but I’m going chance it.

If I don’t stop driving under the influence immediately, I am certain to be pulled over, ticketed, fined and highly embarrassed.

My addiction is not with alcohol or drugs. Indeed, my DUI habit is far worse.

I’ve been driving under the influence of my iPhone, while occasionally sipping coffee and eating pop tarts.

All of these are potential driving offenses in the city of Troy, where Woodside’s largest campus is located.

Based on my past behavior, I am living on borrowed time. There is a patrol car with my name on it, just waiting to bust me for slurping a Slurpee.

On July 1, the state of Michigan introduced a ban on texting while driving. I would love to say I have never texted while driving. But that would be fibbing.

OK, that would be lying.

So I’ve holstered my iPhone while driving. I’ll save those emails for later. It’s the right thing to do.

But on July 29, my peril increased dramatically. The city of Troy upped the ante by passing the “distracted driver ordinance”. In addition to texting, drivers caught eating, drinking, reading, writing, grooming, operating a phone that is not hands-free, or distracted by passengers, are subject to tickets and fines.

Woof. Big Brother is sucking the final vestiges of fun out of driving.

Most of my 20-mile daily commute takes place within Troy’s city limits. My only hope is to become a “robo” driver. I’ll get in, lock my hands in the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions, and unclench only after reaching my destination.

I’m not sure if breathing while driving is still permitted in Troy, but I’m going chance it.

In fairness, the ban on operating hand-held phones is a good idea. Who hasn’t been stuck behind some joker with a cell phone plastered to his ear driving 30 mph in a 45 mph zone?

I apologize if I was that joker.

The other driving “offenses” have me baffled. Troy has many drive-through restaurants and coffee shops. Their patrons will be sitting ducks for munching- and sipping-while-driving tickets.

Frankly, I’m more worried about under-caffeinated drivers having to wait until they leave the city limits. They’ll be driving like maniacs to get to Royal Oak, Rochester, or Clawson, where coffee consumption is still legal.

The offense that has me the most concerned is personal grooming.

At first, I thought this was a wonderful idea. Finally, all those women applying mascara at 50 mph would be forced to the curb with their makeup kits.

Then I remembered I use my electric shaver while driving. In fact, I’m a serial shaver, so I’m in big trouble.

One question that has troubled me is what will our courts do with repeat offenders?

Judge: Mr. Fausch, this is the third time you’ve been ticketed for Crispy Cream consumption while driving. I’m suspending your license until you complete a Jenny Craig program and kick your addiction.

Tim: Your Honor, can’t I just install a doughnut breath-a-lizer in my car?

The next time your cell phone rings while you are driving in Troy, don’t even think about answering it. It could be coming from that car behind you with the blue and red flashing lights.

To summarize, I had driven exactly one block before destroying a mailbox and gouging a stylish accent scratch along the passenger side of the van, which I was borrowing for a test drive.

There’s no use hiding it any longer. The time has come for the Fausch family to confess our sinister past.

We are serial mailbox killers.

Our troubling behavior started innocently when planning for a family vacation to Wyoming. We needed a large vehicle to make the long drive.

I diligently searched for a used conversion van and found one for sale. The classified ad described a dream machine featuring four plush captain’s chairs, a raised roof, and rear air conditioning.

We drove to the van’s location and asked the sellers if we could take it for a test drive. They appeared hesitant, but sent their teenage daughter with us.

I never quite understood their strategy. They must have figured if we stole the van, their teen queen would quickly drive us crazy and we’d return both her and the van.

Each of the four Fausches grabbed a captain’s chair and settled in for the test drive. I confidently commanded the big vehicle around a turn, where a parked car and oncoming car met us.

No problem, I thought, I’ll just ease over to the right a bit…and completely obliterate an innocent mailbox with the van’s enormous side-view mirror. Upon impact, the teen queen gasped and my family shouted helpful driving tips.

To summarize, I had driven exactly one block before destroying a mailbox and gouging a stylish accent scratch along the passenger side of the van, which I was borrowing for a test drive.

I picked up a few random mailbox pieces and feverishly apologized to the woman whose property I just destroyed. She refused my offer of cash, saying her husband had rebuilt the mailbox a few times already. Besides, they were hit by a tornado the prior week (really,) so a crumpled mailbox was nothing.

I sheepishly returned to the van and drove 3 mph back to the house, where the teen queen ratted me out.

At that point, I pretty much had to buy the van with zero negotiating power.

Tim: I’d like to buy your van, but only if you sell it for full price.
Seller: Plus $100 for inflicting emotional distress on my daughter.
Tim: Sold!

A few years later, we moved into a new neighborhood. It was one of those subdivisions where all the houses had the same pole light and shared fancy communal mail houses.

That’s right, our mailboxes were built into little houses with shingled roofs, brick foundations and flower planters. Now that I think about it, it was kind of weird.

There was just one problem. Our communal mail house was placed immediately next to the bottom of our driveway. Or at least it used to be.

You guessed it. Deb was backing out her car and somehow managed to clip a corner of the little structure.

Initially, it appeared only a handful of bricks were damaged. Then, slowly and very painfully, Deb watched the entire structure tip over. It was similar to watching a sinkhole swallow a house.

Fausches 2, mailboxes 0.

On a good note, Deb got to know our neighbors really fast. On the flip side, the neighborhood kids all ran inside screaming whenever they saw us get into our cars.

Just when it seemed mailboxes were finally safe from Fausch attacks, it happened again.

Our son, Cory, was riding his new bike. While fiddling with the gears, he unexplainably veered off the road and smashed violently into a wooden mailbox.

It was a jolting collision that left both rider and mailbox shaken. Amazingly, Cory and the mailbox sported only modest scrapes and bruises.

This mailbox was a survivor, but what about the next one?

One day soon I expect to get a call from our daughter, Jessa, saying, “Dad, you’ll never guess what I ran into today”.

I won’t have to guess.

Billy Boombox in the car behind me just dialed his car stereo to “atomic blast” decibel level. Isn’t that nice of him to share his music. I hope his speakers explode.

All I want to do at the end of the workday is get in my car and enjoy a fast and incident-free drive home. But apparently, everyone is conspiring against me.

Here’s how my 10-mile commute looks on most days.

5:01 p.m. Leaving work and attempting to turn on Big Beaver Road. Why isn’t that Jeep ahead of me turning? Come on, you can do it. There’s an opening the size of the federal deficit. Turn! You missed it. There’s another opening. You missed it again. Arggggh. Finally you turn. Unbelievable. That took forever.

5:02 p.m. OK, it was only a minute, but it seemed much longer. Accelerating to 40 mph for one-tenth of a mile and slam on brakes. Gridlock. What is wrong with these people? Don’t they have anywhere else to be? There’s that Jeep again. The clueless driver is soaking up sunshine, acting as though he’s not stuck in this horrific traffic jam. He’s talking on a cell phone. No wonder he missed those openings.

5:04 p.m. Snails are passing me. Time to employ my first shortcut. I’ll cut through the Marriott parking lot onto Livernois. Just need this work truck to turn first. Please turn. Finally. Could you turn any slower?

5:08 p.m. Heading north on Livernois. How did that stinking cell phone showoff in the Jeep get ahead of me? As soon as traffic clears I’ll pass it, but both lanes are clogged with drivers doing 37 mph. Hello? The speed limit is 40 mph people. Can you pick it up a bit?

5:12 p.m. Turning east on Long Lake. The Jeep went straight, a fatal error. For shortcut number two, I’ll cut through the subdivision onto Rochester Road. Why is this do-gooder in front of me driving 25 mph? I know that’s the speed limit, but everyone fudges a little. Unbelievable. What’s that ahead, a speed trap? Thank goodness I was obeying the law.

5:14 p.m. Almost to Rochester. Is that a school bus? Please don’t stop. You stopped. That’s right, go ahead and put on the flashing lights and make everyone freeze. Just because you’re delivering dozens of children home safely you think you’re so important. Please take your time.

5:19 p.m. Going north on Rochester. Need to be in right lane to go east on Square Lake. Driver in front of me is turning. Are you really slowing down to 5 mph to turn? Who are you, Grandma Moses? I can’t see you behind the head cushion. I’ll catch up and give you “the look”. Oops, you are a grandma, maybe a great grandma. My apologies. Sorry for honking.

5:23 p.m. Turning north on John R. Yikes, gridlock. I’m trapped. Why is my car vibrating? Oh. Billy Boombox in the car behind me just dialed his car stereo to “atomic blast” decibel level. Isn’t that nice of him to share his music. I hope his speakers explode.

5:28 p.m. Inching forward painfully. If I can just make it another 10 feet I can scoot around these tortoises and take shortcut number three. But the oblivious driver ahead of me won’t pull forward. Wait, he’s holding an iPhone. That dude is texting. Outrageous. I have half a mind to grab my Blackberry and email the department of transportation.

5:35 p.m. Going east on Auburn. Home stretch. Is that the stinking Jeep way ahead of me? I don’t get it. Obviously, I need to add more shortcuts to my commute.

5:40 p.m. Pulling on to my street. Incoming call. Hi honey. Sorry I forgot to call about dinner. What? I need to go back to Alibi and pick up dinner? Arggggh.

Now that my car has a global positioning system (GPS) for navigation, I am the master of travel. There is no destination too far, construction-laden, or obscure.

I simply type in a target address and my system effortlessly guides me turn-by-turn. My GPS, or “Gypsy” as I like to call her, is so smart, last week I almost put the car on cruise control and took a nap.

There’s just one problem. Gypsy doesn’t like me.

Scoff if you like, but it’s true. Gypsy has become increasingly irritated with me and I think I know why. I suspect our relationship began to sour when I jokingly talked back to her after she instructed me turn right at the next exit.

“Sorry, Gypsy, I’m not feeling it,” I said. “I think you miscalculated our route.”

Gypsy wasn’t amused.

“Exit right in 800 yards,” she commanded, with more than a hint of ire in her voice.

I could tell I was getting under her high-resolution skin, so I added some mustard.

“Fat chance,” I shouted. “I’ll exit when I feel like exiting.”

I sped right past the exit. Gypsy was so ticked off she gave me the silent treatment for several minutes. After gathering herself, she gave her next directive in an icy monotone.

“Recalculating route…turn right at the next exit.”

Now I had a tough decision to make. Technically, I was adding several miles to my trip. But the chance to see how Gypsy might respond to another act of disobedience was too gripping to miss.

“Gypsy,” I said, “we can’t always take the straight path. Sometimes, a guy has to take the scenic route. You know, see the world, wander aimlessly, and explore some unmarked trails.”

At this point, I noticed Gypsy’s color screen changing ominously. It looked a lot like one of those electronic weather maps just before a tsunami devastates a small, defenseless island.

“Exit…right…in…800…yards,” Gypsy strained. I swear she was gritting her teeth, even though she doesn’t have any.

I punched the accelerator and flew past the exit.

Suddenly, a puff of smoke shot out from Gypsy’s control panel, accompanied by eerie silence. I wasn’t sure if Gypsy was about to explode, or was planning to attack. Because I had not read the GPS operations manual, I wasn’t sure if Gypsy was armed with a death ray or laser weapon, so I turned her off.

I figured I had enjoyed enough fun at Gypsy’s expense for one day. I let her rest. Maybe she’d forget about our little encounter.

A week later, it was time to call Gypsy back into action. I was anxious to show off Gypsy’s navigating prowess to my wife, Deb, so I departed from our highway route onto some back roads. We tapped in our home address and let Gypsy guide the way.

At first, our route was both scenic and accurate. With Gypsy, I bragged, we could explore anywhere without getting lost.

After a few minutes, Gypsy told us to turn in a direction that seemed to send us the wrong way.

“Probably a short-cut,” I told Deb.

Following some confusing turns, Gypsy instructed us to make a U-turn.

“Gypsy has no doubt noticed a bridge is out,” I rationalized. “She may have just saved our lives.”

Eventually, we started crossing landmarks that looked vaguely familiar. But because we were way out in the country, I couldn’t tell one farm from another.

Then we passed the same road where we started our journey. It finally hit me. Gypsy had been directing us in a huge circle for the last hour.

“Recalculating route,” Gypsy said, her voice resonating with glee. She was back to her old self, and I had learned not to mess with Gypsy.

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