1. Step onto the ice-glazed front steps. Slip sideways, regain footing (close!) and, in doing so, aggravate the knotted muscle spasms in the right shoulder region of the upper back–lingering pains of an ergonomically compromised dissertating position, no doubt.

2. Back out of the garage, and, because your head won’t turn to the side without sharp pain (see no. 1), smash sidelong into the garbage can that was strategically placed in a blind spot last night by Ph. Blame and cussing (an uncontrolled channeling of my father)! More blame and cussing!

3. Watch with a sigh as the garbage scattered onto the driveway and street, both of which are slickovered with the ice from a freezing drizzle that continues to fall steadily.

4. Ph. to me: I don’t know why some of that stuff wasn’t in a garbage bag. Me to Ph.: Me neither.

5. Bless his heart, he skated inside and grabbed a bag, picked up the refuse, and jumped back in the car, unaffected.

6. On the drive to his school, skid through the stop sign at the first intersection. Not a busy intersection. Nobody was looking, except for Ph., who, had I been able to turn my neck and look at him, probably was smiling a small smile at the driving anti-lesson I’d put on.