Tale of the Car Wash

Yesterday, on a sunny but cold March morning in suburban Chicago, my daughters and I ventured to the car wash.  Weeks of snow and rain and roadway salt had wrapped my car in a coat of white slushy filth, and finally I decided enough was enough.

Attached to the rear of a local gas station, it was a simple, inexpensive, stay-in-your-vehicle type of car wash.  There was no line.  We drove right up to the entrance, parted with some cash, closed all the windows, and shifted into neutral.

At the very moment our car lurched forward, propelled by--and at the mercy of--some form of mechanical conveyance, Smartypants said, laughing, "Daddy, it always rains after you wash the car."  And she was right.  Murphy's Law at work.

So this morning we were off to the grandparents' house to visit for the day.  We piled into the car, and the garage door opened to reveal a white wintry world of sleet and snow.  The frozen precipitation turned the grass white, the mailboxes white, and the concrete was a mess of slush and ice and tire tread marks.  We backed into the mouth of the lion and made our cautious way down the road.  Foul, nasty weather.

Smartypants in the back seat starts laughing.  "What's so funny?" I ask.

"Well, Daddy.  It's not raining."