Suburban Winter.

The first tiny, almost weightless fleck of snow drifted lazily out of the clouds and landed in front of me.

At once I turned my head to the southeast, where a mile away sat Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, and already I heard the clamor. The clash and clang of Audi SUV's banging into each other; the high-pitched profanity, cast out the open driver-side windows, while middle fingers got raised aloft by hands clinging onto iPhone 6's; and even the occasional "pop" from a pink-shaded ladies Glock subcompact ... the ruinous noise of all Lower Gwynedd's yuppie scum moms hurling themselves toward the high-end grocery stores, desperate to procure the last half-gallon of soy milk, in the event that the forecasted two inches turned out to be two yards.

.  .  .

It was less than two inches, but it turned to ice. Real ice. I watched as a white luxury foreign-make SUV — the sort always going 10 mph above the speed limit, like it's above any traffic laws and invulnerable to any conditions — glide straight into a curb when the woman driving it cavalierly passed me across the double-yellow because I was going too slow for her. I'm sure that ten seconds before she made this stupid maneuver, she said out loud, "People don't know how to drive in this weather!"

Yep. You're proof of that, sister.

I've driven half a million miles; not one accident. Not one car in the ditch. Not one ticket. Ever. But yeah, lady, pass me on the double yellow in the ice ... teach me how it's done.

Oh. You were wrong, and now you've ditched your vehicle. Unless you're driving something with metal treads for tires — like a tank — ice doesn't give a shit about your all-wheel drive. Or your four-wheel drive, or your eight-wheel drive, or your fifteen-and-a-half-wheel drive.

Just slow the hell down out there.