In Which I Owe My Guardian Angel A Big Box Of Chocolates Or Maybe Porn

Okay, so Pittsburgh's been wallowing in wretched winter weather of late. We dodged the blizzard bullet that hit the East Coast, but have been languishing in soul-sucking grey skies and bitter, bitter cold temperatures with a liberal sprinkling of snow and sleet mixed in because winter doesn't blow enough.

Blerg.

Anywho, this morning imagine my surprise when I opened the door expecting to be greeted with a viscous knee to the groin of merciless single digit temps, but instead was kissed by a balmy 34 degrees. Yep. 34 degrees. The double-edged sword temp: warm enough to go without gloves (yeehaw!), but warm enough to sleet (SHIT). The wet roads of my 10 minute drive weren't icy at all from my driveway through the tunnel.

Then I got to the ramp.

You know how sometimes the Universe tries to do you a solid by whispering little warnings in your ear? Turns out you should really listen to that thought flashed in your head. As I approached the end of the tunnel, this flashed through my mind:

"I wonder how the road is on the bridge."

God love her, the Universe tried to warn me. She really did, but did I listen?

As I bear left onto the two-lane ramp to town, I started beelining for the barrier. In slow motion. Why is drama always in slow motion? Somehow I remembered to steer with the skid, then I was skating towards the other barrier, then back towards the first barrier at 90 degrees, then back across two lanes towards more concrete... On the way back to the right in what was looking more and more like a perpetual ping pong game with my beautiful Rita as the ball, instinct took over and I slammed on the breaks, braced for impact and watched in silent dread as the Jersey barrier got LARGER IN MY WINDSHIELD...

Then I stopped.

Perpendicular to the road. Inches from that which would have ruined my morning along with most of my engine. At one point in this macabre ice folly, I recall looking in the rearview mirror thanking the Traffic Gods for being the sole driver on the road. I also remember thinking in my usual genteel fashion, "What the EF?!? How the hell did I not cream the car."

Clearly, my Guardian Angel loves Rita as much as I do, and couldn't bear to see her bashed to Smithereens, no matter how good their music was.

You want to know the weirdest part? I was freakishly calm afterward. Weird.

So, yeah, I owe my Guardian Angel a debt of gratitude, and (depending on its gender) a big-ass box of Godiva chocolates or a lap dance from a nubile chippie.