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.

Apparently, all the other dads were in the military or prison. Those are the only plausible explanations for me coaching soccer.

Goooooooooooooooal!

By now you’ve heard the word “goal” shouted, stretched and emoted with more passion than a woman giving birth. Why? Because someone kicked a ball into a net.

Soccer Stadium under construction in Cape Town

As I write this, 32 teams are competing for the 2010 FIFA World Cup Championship. On July 11, after 64 games viewed by a total audience of 600 million, one team will emerge as kings of the soccer world….until 2014, when we’ll repeat the whole process again.

Personally, soccer has always baffled me. The mere mention of soccer caused me and all my middle school friends to groan.

Gym Coach: Listen up. Today we’re playing soccer.
Tim: Can’t we play a real sport?
Gym Coach: Fausch, you just earned yourself 25 laps.
Tim: I hate soccer.
Gym Coach: Make it 50 laps.

For the next 20 years, I managed to avoid soccer until my son Cory played in a pee wee league. I figured, how painful could it be? He’s the one playing.

This is the soccer stadium the pee wee players use.

As it turned out, watching a dozen seven year olds follow a ball around the field was hilarious. I immediately understood why people called it magnet ball.

The ball would be placed in the middle of the field for the opening kick. Players from both teams would run at the ball and miss badly, tumbling like dominoes to the earth. For the rest of the game all players from both teams would form a scrum and kick the ball in three-foot increments, rarely advancing it anywhere near the net.

It was even better when it rained and all the boys turned into little mud puppies.

A couple years later, somehow, despite my best efforts to become invisible, I was drafted as an assistant coach for Cory’s team. Apparently, all the other dads were in the military or prison. Those are the only plausible explanations for me coaching soccer.

My main duties were shagging missed shots and leading the boys in drills I had expertly learned three minutes earlier. With such a high level of coaching skill, it was no wonder the team went undefeated.

I just needed to get through one last game and my coaching career would end peacefully. That game happened to be against the only other undefeated team in the league. So even though there was no official league championship, every player and coach from both sides suddenly realized this game meant “something”.

And just to make sure we realized the game meant “something”, parents, grandparents, siblings, half cousins, and weird neighbors showed up to support each team in huge numbers. When the referee failed to appear (he probably ran away), a dad from the opposing team volunteered to referee the match.

Immediately, the parents on our sidelines began to grumble. With the score deadlocked at zero at halftime, the parents developed several conspiracy theories on how the completely biased enemy-dad-referee would cause our team to lose.

With less than a minute in the game and score still tied at zero, “soccergeddon” unfolded. It started when two boys got tangled up and fell.

The referee ruled that our player had fouled their player, which just happened to be his son and the best player on their team, and awarded him a penalty kick.

I never knew what soccer hooligans looked like until that moment. When our team’s parents realized the call, they turned ugly. Bad, bad names were shouted from the stands. Fists thrust into the air. Family heritage was called into question.

The poor referee’s son then made the penalty kick and won the game for his team. I feared the worst.

Standing on the sidelines, I turned to see a mob of parents leaving the stands with blood vessels popping. It was eerily similar to the climax scene in the original Frankenstein movie when the villagers gather with torches, sticks and pitchforks in order to kill the monster.

They marched en masse to the middle of the field, where they confronted the referee-dad, who fearfully defended his call and possibly his life. In the nick of time, our head coach intervened and convinced the parents we could survive this travesty of justice.

Bloodshed was narrowly averted…and then we went and ate pizza.

Fortunately for us, there are no style points in road rallies.

Last month, Deb and I were invited to join the Faith Builders adult fellowship group (AFG) on its annual road rally. As nonmember guests, we decided the only way to show our humble appreciation was to decisively cream the competition.

OK, “cream” might be an exaggeration. And it’s true that as two of six people in our car, we were just one-third of the team. And I suppose the fact that Deb and I may not have technically solved any of the riddles does take away from our winning legacy.

And yet we like to think that each member of our team, which included Dave and Diana Brown and Terry and Karen Sykes, contributed according to our unique gifts.

From the front seats, Terry and Dave deftly handled the driving duties and sprinted to collect the answers to the road rally clues. They even had time to pose for photos.

From the back seats, Karen and Diana brilliantly deciphered anagrams and word puzzles, adding valuable points for our team.

From the middle seats, Deb and I …well, we had great intentions of using our gifts to help the team, but those crazy child-proof locks proved too much to overcome. According to Terry, the locks were “broken”.

Despite being locked in the SUV, we did provide helpful insights to our team, like these driving tips.

Terry: Which way should I turn?
Tim: Go left to M-59.
Terry: M-59 is to the right.
Tim: Exactly!

While I provided flawless navigation, Deb worked feverishly on a Bible crossword puzzle, right up until she turned green from car sickness. For the last half hour, Deb valiantly stuck her head out the window in a selfless attempt to avoid upchucking into our road rally envelope. Now that’s putting the team first.

We may not have been the flashiest team, but we did manage to finish the race without injuring ourselves or requiring a police escort. Fortunately for us, there are no style points in road rallies.

As we reflect on the race, we are convinced this victory was truly momentous. We expect ESPN to show up with a film crew any day. There are even rumors of a reality show.

I must mention that organizers Lisa Rife, Idy Kiser and Joy Sykes did a marvelous job of planning. Unlike other road rallies, this one was low on torture and high on fun. After embarrassing ourselves in a public park, ice cream parlor and garden center, we appropriately returned to a feast of Alibi pizza and awesome desserts.

Perhaps you are wondering about the spoils of our victory. Each team member received a stunning championship trophy. I am planning to build a trophy case one day to showcase mine, but for now I’ll use an empty jelly jar.

Every trophy deserves its own case

In addition to the trophies, we will receive sweatshirts with the Woodside logo, complements of Faith Builders AFG teacher John Sykes, who owns a sports apparel business. I’ve wanted a Woodside shirt for years but was too cheap to buy one. Thanks to John’s generosity, I’ll finally sport the Woodside colors.

Now that we’ve cleaned up with the Faith Builders class, Deb and I – and possibly the rest of our team if we can convince them – will be visiting all of Woodside’s AFG s.

We’ll be in touch soon to find out the dates for your parties, potlucks, and special events…especially if prizes are involved.

Only three players try to score in the wrong basket this week, so there is measurable progress.

Upward Basketball just concluded another season. If you have yet to view an Upward game, you are missing a rich experience. The season is eight weeks of raucous fun where kids learn basketball, sportsmanship, and the Bible.

My perspective is that of a referee for first and second graders. The little guys and gals are a hoot. Each week these beginning ballers make me laugh, blow my whistle in a fruitless effort to restore order, and occasionally cry (more on that later).

In the spirit of Sports Center, I’d like to share my favorite highlights from Upward’s 2010 season.

Week 1. Teams resemble armies of confused ants swarming a discarded grape, trying to push it into their respective anthills. The little ants clearly hear their ant coaches, who are furiously shouting instructions, but can’t process the information. Mostly, they keep dropping the grape. I call 21 traveling infractions and 19 double dribbles.

Week 2. The second week’s games are painful slow-motion replays of week one. Players are only slightly less stunned-looking. Coaches are wondering if God is punishing them. It is 8 a.m. and the stands are populated with a mixture of unshaven dads and coffee-deprived moms. Only three players try to score in the wrong basket this week, so there is measurable progress.

Week 3. I referee two girls’ games and am shocked at how disciplined they are compared with the boys. They can dribble and actually pass the ball to each other. A few even score. The games resemble real basketball. The girls’ parents are enjoying themselves, slapping high-fives, and proudly pointing out their offspring. At the boys’ court, parents are slumped in their seats, secretly hoping their neighbors are not watching.

Week 4. I get the girls again and I’m thrilled because they commit few fouls. At this age, the girls are polite and avoid contact. I love refereeing this age group because I’ve seen fifth grade girls play and, frankly, they terrify me.

Week 5. The other refs claim the girls’ games, so I brace myself for a ton of whistle-blowing. But amazingly, the boys have transformed. Nearly all can now dribble the ball, and they only take a few extra steps. Most have figured out they have to be within 10 feet of the basket before shooting their air balls. I look deep into the eyes of their parents and see the glimmer of hope.

Week 6. The boys have improved so much that the Upward Cheerleaders can now generate real smiles from parents, instead of the painful grimaces displayed during the early weeks. Parents excitedly record over the first few games on their camcorders.

Week 7. I referee a game featuring a team of semi-pro second-grade boys. The game starts with the semi-pros setting picks, fast-breaking, and calling out plays. Despite having some talent, the other team doesn’t know what hit them. I am shocked by the improvement since week one. Their parents are surfing the Web looking for college scholarships.

Week 8. Each year there is a special moment when the smallest, scrawniest kids score their first basket. Sometimes the coaches even lift them up so they can score. However it happens, it always brings tears to my eyes. The kids thrust an arm into the air, their teammates cheer, and their family celebrates. It’s a scene you rarely see in competitive leagues, but it happens all the time in Upward.

For many kids, this is their gold medal moment. Now excuse me. I seem to have any something stuck in my eye.

The makers of Spandex send you a cease-and-desist order.

My New Year’s resolutions are easy to remember because they are the exact ones I set last year…and for the last two decades.

The problem is my resolutions haven’t been all that resolute. In fact, some might define them as resolve-free. They seem to follow a similar pattern.

Jan. 1, 2009: This year I’m going to eat better, exercise more, and shed a few pounds. I am completely passionate, iron-willed and ferociously dedicated. I will attack with a vengeance, starting tomorrow.

Jan. 2: Today I made great strides by posting my resolutions on Facebook so everyone can hold me accountable, starting tomorrow.

Jan. 3: I deleted my resolutions from Facebook because they could be misinterpreted as bragging. Instead, I’ll blog as I achieve them, starting tomorrow.

Jan. 4: Unbelievable. I get a sore throat just when I was ready to start on my resolutions.

Jan. 1, 2010: This year, I’m going to eat better, exercise more, and shed a few pounds.

Hopefully, you are enjoying great success with your fitness resolutions. But if you are unsure, here are 20 signs to tell if you are failing miserably.

*All the personal trainers shout “dibs” when you enter the health club.

*The readout on your StairMaster keeps flashing the word “weenie”.

*The makers of Spandex send you a cease-and-desist order.

*The guys in the weight lifting area keep asking if you were sick as a child.

*You skinned your knees…while running on the treadmill. (Yes, that was me you saw falling at LifeTime Fitness…twice. Don’t ask.)

*When you swim laps, the lifeguard from the family pool keeps jumping in to rescue you.

*While recording the stats for your body mass index, your trainer says, “Well that’s a first.”

*You hear audible groans every time you walk by a scale.

*Six months into your club membership, the entry clerk still hands you the first-time visitor application form.

*You stop at Dunkin Doughnuts five times a week to “carb up”, but manage to actually exercise just once.

*The Dairy Queen staff welcomes you by name.

*You see a very scary picture of yourself posted at local fast-food restaurants.

*Your nutritionist performs an intervention.

*During your annual physical, your doctor gathers the entire staff to discuss your cholesterol. They all listen intently until one nurse shouts, “I win the pool!”

*You get a sympathy card signed by everyone in your fitness class.

*Your personal trainers keep getting fired for poor performance.

*Your health club invoice shows you spent more on smoothies than on dues.

*Your Dancercise instructor asks you to take the class online because you are scaring the other students.

*When showing your children your high school yearbook photo, they ask, “Who’s that?”

*Your treadmill freakishly phones 911 whenever you use the heart monitor.

Hopefully, you are not experiencing any of these failure signs. But if you are, don’t despair. There are only 11 more months until 2011.

I was hoping I misunderstood the voice. Maybe it actually said, “Don’t buy the pie”.

A few weeks ago during a Get Real program, Woodside celebrated the triumphant conclusion of our first “Biggest Loser” contest. I attended the program in order to cheer on the participants for their incredible weight-loss and fitness-building efforts.

I didn’t anticipate leaving with a challenge of my own.

Apparently, in addition to exercise, contestants were asked to eat “healthy” foods.

While I completely enjoyed the stories of biking, walking and calisthenics, all the talk about eating right was eating at me.

So during the Q&A time, I posed a simple question. Is it really so bad to indulge in an entire box of Cheez-Its every so often, like twice a week?

I was sure the fitness leaders would cut me some slack.

They didn’t.

In fact, their words were cutting: “If God didn’t create it, why would you want to eat it?”

Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback. “Because it tastes cheesy good” seemed a bit lame.

So as the fitness gurus talked up the benefits of almonds, fruits and vegetables, I debated the ugly truth. My name is Tim and I am a Cheez-It junkie.

For years, my motto has been, “I run to eat”. In my warped world, running a few miles gave me a free pass to eat as much junk as I could consume. I was convinced exercise would counteract all the mountains of Cheez-Its, gallons of soda, and tons of Twizzlers I ate.

But after the Biggest Loser program, I heard a voice whispering inside my head, “Don’t buy the lie.”

I was hoping I misunderstood the voice. Maybe it actually said, “Don’t buy the pie”. Actually, that’s just as bad because I love pie too.

Either way, I was convinced I could exercise my way to good health and still eat junk. It was simple physics. To prove my point, I would run a few miles and measure the results.

After locating our severely neglected treadmill, I removed a thick layer of dust and started running. Five miles and 45 minutes later, I hit the stop button.

Yes sir. No doubt this run had burned thousands of calories. Justification was at hand.

But the calorie counter told a different story. Unbelievably, the run had burned a measly 500 calories.

OK, all was not lost. Maybe I had overestimated the calorie-burning impact of exercise, but I was confident it was enough to justify my Cheez-It habit. I could probably chow down an entire box, maybe two, for each run.

But according to the nutrition facts provided by dietfacts.com, 13 big Cheez-It crackers pack on 150 calories. So that means a five-mile run would allow me eat a total of …43 crackers.

Just 43 stinking crackers? That’s like a warm up snack for my main course of Cheez-Its.

The whisper inside my head suddenly turned into a shout. It was time to confront my compulsion.

So here it is. In 2010, I pledge to:

*Just say no to those wonderful cheese snacks for an entire year.

*Sell my Kellogg’s stock because Cheez-It sales are about to plummet.

*Buy more pie. Hey, it’s OK. They’re filled with fruit.

For some reason, moisture always leaks from my eye sockets at the climax of this film. I suspect some type of allergy.

My favorite Charlie Brown cartoon character is Linus van Pelt, the soft-spoken, thumb-sucking, blanket-clutching brother of tyrannical Lucy.

I only wish cartoonist Charles Schultz would have introduced us to their parents. This van Pelt family would have been a hoot. I would tune in every week to watch their reality show.

I’m a Linus fan because of one scene in the A Charlie Brown Christmas. Leading up to the scene, Charlie is mocked mercilessly by the other characters after bringing home a pathetic Christmas tree. Linus sets the gang straight by focusing on the true meaning of Christmas.

In a monologue that surely must anger the politically correct (PC) cops, little Linus shares the Christmas story simply and beautifully, quoting directly from the Bible. He boldly states that the Savior was born.

Take that, PC police. You don’t mess with Linus.

Other Christmas classics take a different route. Miracle on 34th Street, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, A Christmas Carol (Scrooge) and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, all tell the story of outcasts and losers, scorned by their communities for a multitude of perceived sins.

In each case, the lead character eventually is redeemed and shockingly, Christmas is saved. These stories are classics because man’s redemption is the most compelling story ever told.

Where have we heard that before? We know where the writers got their inspiration, but for some reason Jesus is omitted from the credits. The PC crowd must be elated.

While these Christmas stories forget to credit God, the film It’s a Wonderful Life does better. Jimmy Stewart plays George Bailey, the hard-lucked everyman who allows the needs of others to derail his own dreams of travel and adventure.

George hits rock bottom when the Bailey Building and Loan deposits go missing and he takes the blame for someone else. In his darkest hour, he becomes suicidal. His wife and family pray on his behalf.

Fortunately, an angel is dispatched from heaven to help George realize the value his life holds. Broken and confused, George prays and asks for help. Renewed, he joins his family and friends for an inspired Christmas celebration.

For some reason, moisture always leaks from my eye sockets at the climax of this film. I suspect some type of allergy.

OK, I admit it. I get emotional thinking about George’s redemption. And while this film falls a bit short by not referencing Jesus, heaven, angels, and prayer are central to the plot. I’m guessing the PC crowd fast-forwards through these scenes.

In the days leading up to Christmas, our PC culture will saturate us with messages that say giving cool presents is what it’s all about. Store clerks will be mandated to say “happy holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”.

In response, I plan to get my “Linus” on. How about you?

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.

There is a good reason why God put certain body parts on the inside. They are not designed to see the light of day, much less pose for glamour shots.

I spend much of my free time trying hard not to act like an adult. But I have a valid reason. As a male, I am genetically designed to avoid responsible acts like bed making, bathroom cleaning and especially preventive healthcare.

That’s why I’m proud to have completed my first full physical. Seeing a doctor when I wasn’t even sick represented a breakthrough in responsible behavior. So clearly, this was Deb’s idea.

Getting a physical when you turn 50 is something of a right of passage. Those of you who have traveled this road before me know exactly what I’m talking about. The rest of you need to visit my physician, Dr. Strangeglove.

Personally, I’m not a big fan of medical offices. The white uniforms, stainless steel, and sterile instruments give me the creeps. And those anatomy posters traumatize you into submitting to any crazy test your doctor might order.

Tim: “Doc, I felt great when I arrived. But after spending 45 minutes in this holding cell with these posters showing clogged arteries, rotting livers, and alien growths, I am absolutely certain I have at least five diseases.”

Doctor: “Excellent.”

This is why men won’t go to the doctor. We prefer to live in peaceful ignorance.

If doctors were truly serious about getting guys to visit them, their offices would look like “man caves”. The walls would be plastered with sports memorabilia and flat screen TVs showing ESPN. And there would definitely be a cooler stuffed with free drinks.

Most of my tests were pretty simple, but one unnamed procedure produced a heavy dose of fear and loathing. Let’s just say it took a lot of intestinal fortitude on my part.

This procedure required me to fast for about 15 hours. But I had a brilliant strategy to help me ignore the hunger pangs. I took a long bike ride to Metro Beach.

That turned out to be a really stupid idea because there were at least 2 million people barbequing every food known to man. The incredibly alluring aroma of grilled steak, pork chops, and chicken tortured me.

My fast went really slow.

Next, I was required to drink 64 ounces of Gatorade and two powerful products found only in the pharmacy.

With my stomach pretty sour from the bike ride, gulping this fluid was akin to a snake swallowing a watermelon. I thought for sure I was going to burst.

Fortunately, the concoction turned out to be incredibly effective. In fact, the next time we have a clogged drain, I’m skipping the plumbing department and heading straight for the pharmacy.

It occurred to me this concoction was so potent it could put an end to war as we know it. Instead of spending billions on military equipment, we could just pump a few thousand gallons of this stuff into an adversary’s water supply. They’d be rendered totally useless in a few hours. Not-so-sweet victory would be ours.

My favorite part of the procedure was the anesthesia, which worked wonderfully. If only doctors could prescribe it for home use. Wait, someone tried that recently and it didn’t work out too well.

My least favorite part of the process was the photos. That’s right. After the procedure is complete the doctor presents your guest driver (Deb again) with some lovely images as a take-home gift.

This was just wrong.

There is a good reason why God put certain body parts on the inside. They are not designed to see the light of day, much less pose for glamour shots.

Fortunately, my results were good so I don’t have to repeat this test for 10 years. I can’t wait.

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.