Yule be sorry

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. The sweater my wife was wearing was the worst yet. It had tiny bells that made a tinkling sound whenever she moved the slightest, and miniature lights sewn into the already luminescent scene of Santa’s sleigh running off the roof of a house that rivaled the Griswold’s in the movie. The lead reindeer had a red lightbulb bigger by a factor of ten than the rest for a nose, and if you pressed on a spot on his antler, it would sing “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” and blink in sync with the song. The kids in the back seat were sporting matching red and white sweatshirts with Thing 1 and Thing 2 printed on them, and they were poised to ask me if we can go home yet. We haven’t even arrived. I stare them down in the rear view mirror and they go back to their phones.

As for me, I was already sweating and regretting my decision to put on the sweatshirt I wanted to wear underneath the sweater my wife put out for me. The color explosion of wrapping paper clad boxes in glitter wrapping paper under the illuminated tree had to have been a blend of polyester and fiberglass. It choked me right at the spot under my Adam’s apple and reminded me it did so every time I had to force a swallow of my own saliva. The sweatshirt was soft and comfortable underneath, and I couldn’t wait for the big reveal at the contest when I take off the sweater and show off my Grinch sweatshirt.

Bah, humbug. Hehe.

I can tell we are close because my wife’s ‘helpful’ comments on my driving are coming in three minute intervals now. I concentrate on my breathing to push through. Could I have gotten an epidural before this road trip? Oh well. We must be there, her voice went up two octaves and twenty decibels. She is staring at the GPS on her phone saying ‘It’s right HERE!”

I am driving at a pace that would make a tortoise impatient trying to find the driveway. There is a car six inches off my back bumper revving his engine like it is going to go over the top of us. Suddenly, there it is! A sign made out of what must have been the top of a shoe box and drawn with a brown crayon is taped to a mailbox and points the way. I tap the brake to give the guy behind me the glow of the brake lights, he honks and tells me with sign language that ‘I’m number 1’ and I make the turn.

Two things became obvious right away. One, the driveway was recently cleared of snow. I can see the smooth clean cut path towards the now visible house. And two, the county snow plows have made at least two passes since then and pushed the equivalent of an avalanche into the driveway at the street. I have time to ponder this as my cars front end is suddenly a foot higher than its back end. The sound of the guys’ horn that was behind us fades into the distance and his laughter is now drowned out by the sound of my front tires spinning uselessly against the snow.

My wife is on the phone apparently oblivious to our predicament. She is talking loud enough to be heard in the house without the need for the phone and I can hear the sounds of ‘merriment’ coming from her speaker. “No, we’re here! Well, almost. We are in the driveway, well, almost. He got stuck. What’s that? Oh no, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

This last part was said as she shoulders her door open leveling the snow to the height of the floorboards. “Come on kids, we can make it on foot.” And she is standing in the cleared driveway kicking and brushing the snow off her jeans. The kids can’t open their doors, but they do manage to unlatch both of them before climbing between the front seats and out the front passenger door behind their mother. I see thing one and thing two hopping towards their mother staying in her footsteps through the deepest section, and then they are gone. All three of them gone. They didn’t even close the front door. I try to reach the handle but it is wide open and well out of reach. The door chime is practically singing “Joy to the world, the door is open.” I am beyond mad. I am so far past Grinch level frustrated anger that I am not thinking straight.

I slam the car in reverse and gun it. The sudden change in momentum and with less weight from less people and the front tires find a tiny bit of purchase in the tracks they made in climbing mount snowplow. The car lurches back about two feet.

Two things become obvious right away. One, the front of the car is no longer a foot higher than the back, and two the front door passenger side was still open and level with the snow, so when the car settled down, it dropped into the snow and attempted to bring it along for the ride. I’m pretty sure I bent it backwards a little.

In my head I hear Chevy Chase’s voice doing the scene from Christmas Vacation after he gets his ‘jelly of the month club’ corporate gift instead of his much needed bonus. I take out my anger on my steering wheel. Now my hand may be broken as well. I put the car in park ignoring that the back end is about a foot out in the road. I open my door and get out to go around and inspect the damage to the passenger side door.

Say, did you know there was a storm ditch here? Wow, I must have just missed it pulling in, because I went straight down into it getting out of the car. Don’t think my ankle is broken, just a little sprained. Hard to tell, being numb now and all. Let me just lay here and catch my breath so I can get up out of this ditch and get the emergency shovel out of the trunk so I can clear the driveway enough to make it up to the house with the wife and kids and the house full of family in loud obnoxious blinking sweaters.

Maybe I will just lay here a moment longer.

Wait a sec, is that a snow plow I hear?