Snow And Broken Cars

Well, we have been thoroughly snowed. At least a foot, maybe a foot and a half and still falling. It was ankle deep this morning when we plowed through the first time; our tracks were almost filled in by the time we got home two hours later.

I hate winter.

Then, to add to the joyousness of this pre-Christmas slop, though we could barely get the car open this morning much less get the little bugger to run, on the way home the belt came off inside the car and Dad couldn't get to it because the hood was frozen shut. We made it home without power steering. Barely.

Dad is downstairs stoking the woodstove. He has already soundly cursed the car, the snow, and humanity in general, and soon he will bless the tree like he does every year with a pile of curses.

I love Christmas.

Everyone's kind of tired and angry at each other; this is also a pre-Christmas tradition. We all snipe at each other for days before Christmas and then plaster on smiles for the next 48 hours, enough to make our faces crack. Some of the smiles are genuine; most of them are directed at relatives while we pray to heaven above that this year they won't be the jerks they usually are.

This prayer, alas, goes unanswered.

One thing more: Mom apparently has told no one in church I'm going to England. This is going to make things interesting next weekend when everyone finds out and then attempts to waylay me to find out where I'm going, what I'll be doing there, when I'm leaving, how long I'll be gone, if I'm going alone, and what side trips I'll be taking when I am there. Then I have to hear the "Someone I know/I went to someplace close to England/other side of the planet and the accompanying travel disaster/experience/reminder directed at me, in an effort to help.

I will never remember all of this advice from everyone trying to help out. They mean well. I just won't recall any of it when I'm digging my nails deep into the arms of the airplane seat, trying not to think about all that ocean beneath the plane...

Anna is playing that remarkably annoying, perpetually pain-in-the-ass stuffed musical Santa Claus. Have to go rip his sound box out.

Cheers,
Bec